The Haigerloch Project

For instance, that thick file he was apparently studying so meticulously. How was the suspect standing in front of him under mounting tension, for a time that must seem eternal to him — how was he to know that the file contained only four unimportant items pertaining directly to him? The only four documents found on his person. His Ausländer Kennkarte—his Foreigner Identification Card as a Swiss technician born in Zürich, his work permit and war-service exemption, his Führerschein—a valid driver's license issued by the Stuttgart authorities, and a soiled and wrinkled envelope, worn in the folds. The envelope was addressed to Sigmund Brandt, Poste Restante, Postamt Hechingen, Deutschland, and was postmarked Zürich, 18 Jan 1945. It had been opened by the censor and resealed with the standard strip of paper bearing the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht—the Army High Command eagle insignia — and the word Geöffnet—Opened. It contained a small snapshot — Agfa film, he noted — a middle-aged couple smiling uncertainly in front of some snow-capped mountains, and a rather banal letter from concerned parents trying hard not to show their concern and failing miserably. Rauner put it aside with a small gesture of contempt. He had, of course, no way of knowing that the letter actually had been written by a smashing-looking, twenty-four-year-old London Mole with a forty-inch bust and a pedantic handwriting….

The other papers making up the bulk of the impressive “file” were simply irrelevant circulars and routine orders. Strictly for show. The ashen-faced young man standing before him, watching him with fear-filled eyes, meant nothing to him. Absolutely nothing. Just one of the many fish caught in Harbicht's net. A nobody — with a shiny film of sweat on his pale face. The trick was to make him feel special. Singled out…

He finally looked up.

“Your name is Sigmund Brandt!” he barked, more an affirmation than a question. It was one of his theories. If you ask your question as a statement, it tends to give the impression that you know a lot more than you do. Someday, he thought fleetingly, he might write a handbook of interrogation.

Sig shied like a nervous horse. “Yes,” he said.

Rauner sat up ramrod straight. He glared at Sig.

“Yes, Herr Offizier!” Sig said quickly. What was it Dirk had said? Cringe…

Rauner referred to the file.

“You are a native Swiss?”

“Yes, Herr Offizier.”

“Born in Zürich?”

“Yes, Herr Offizier.”

“You are a — scientific technician?”

“Yes, Herr Offizier.”

Rauner had run out of knowledge. He bent over the file. He made a show of shuffling a few of the Spapers. He frowned. He gave a quick glance at Sig. He returned his attention to the file. He pretended to think.

Sig was getting increasingly uneasy. What the hell was in that damned file? What did the man know? How could he be sure to tell the interrogator just enough, without giving away something the man did not already know? Or holding something back he did know? He could feel the beginning of panic building in him. How could he cope?

“Your work is strictly technical?”

“Yes, Herr Offizier.”

“Describe it.”

“I — it has to do with electrolytic plating, Herr Offizier. I—”

“What else do you do?” Rauner shot the question at him.

Sig started. What else? “Nothing, Herr Offizier That is all.”

Rauner smiled a thin, unpleasant smile. “Really?” he said.

Deliberately he returned to the file. He turned over a sheet of paper and began to make a note on it.

It was going well, he thought, the man was thoroughly cowed. Give it a few more minutes. He doodled. It was a doodle he did quite often. It started out being a fish — and invariably turned into a grotesque phallic symbol. He crossed it out.

Sig was watching the officer. What did he mean—What else? My God! He knew. He knew about the unloading job at Haigerloch! That must be it. He had been caught in the first lie. Would the officer put two and two together? How could he get out of the lie? What could he say? He felt cold sweat trickle down his sides from his armpits. The SS officer looked up and gazed at him in silence. That damned accusing silence. He returned to his note. What else did he already know?

Rauner pushed the file aside.

“Very well, Herr Brandt,” he said, “suppose we leave that — for the moment!” He liked the phrase. It hinted darkly at some vast, secret knowledge in his possession, knowledge that would be brought to light at a later time. “Suppose you give me a little more specific information about yourself. Where do you live, Herr Brandt?”