The Haigerloch Project

The thoughts raced in Sig's mind. Did the officer know about the Storp house? Or at least on what street it was? If so, why had they not raided the place? Or had they? Were they going to? Waiting until the rest of them were all there? His mind whirled. He was incapable of thinking clearly. He only knew he could not tell the officer where he lived. About the Storp house. Even if he condemned himself with another lie. He could not take the chance. What, then? Where? Frantically he cast about in his seething mind. The town. The tour of inspection Dirk had insisted he make. On the lady's bike. To get information. Yes. He'd passed several large camps. Housing foreign workers.

“Arbeitslager Drei,” he said. “Work Camp III, Herr Offizier. It is a camp for foreign workers.”

Rauner nodded impatiently.

“It is the one near the plant with the three tall chimneys, Herr Offizier. Between Haigerloch and Hechingen.” Thank God he'd used his eyes. Thank God, Dirk had made him do so.

“I am familiar with the camps, Herr Brandt,” Rauner said curtly. Enough of that. “Where do you do your work?”

Sig searched his memory. What had he seen? One plant. Large tanks had been in evidence. Plating tanks? What had been the sign on the gate?

“Speziellfabrik A-II,” he said. “Special Factory A-II, Herr Offizier.”

Rauner looked at him. He frowned slightly. He looked incredulous.

“Really?” he observed. He returned to the file. He began to look through it. He had no idea what they did at Speziellfabrik A-II. It was not in his province. For all he knew, they made potato dumplings. But it was time for another little pressure pause. Let the suspect's own brain besiege itself with a host of questions to every one he asked. Let the doubts ferment. If the fellow did have something to hide — let his own imagination create misgivings as to what really was hidden from his interrogator. Let the subject do his own wearing down….

Sig felt utterly lost. He knew with irrefutable certainty that even if his lies were accepted right now, once they checked them out he would be lost. Then — then they would resort to torture to wrest the truth from him. He had no illusions. How long could he resist? Would he scream a full betrayal of his friends when the first fingernail was ripped out? Or would he have the courage to kill himself before being put to the test? It would have to be — soon…. If only he could be sure that Dirk and the others had taken off as soon as he was caught. But— damn him! — he knew Dirk would make every effort to complete his self-imposed mission, whatever the odds against him.

… He would have to endure. The mere thought of the ordeal that most certainly awaited him was enough to make his stomach knot convulsively and his legs tremble.

Rauner glanced at the man standing before him. He noticed the beads of sweat pearling on his forehead. Good. It was working. Now to tighten the screws a little.

He stood up. Casually he picked up a rubber truncheon lying on his desk. Deliberately he tapped it in the palm of his hand. He was gratified to see his subject's eyes follow every move, flinching imperceptibly with every tap. He felt almost kindly toward the poor bastard. The fellow was reacting exactly as he had hoped. He had a fleeting thought that vaguely disturbed him. The man did not act at all like a trained enemy agent. More like a scared, bewildered peasant. He dismissed it. It would spoil his fun.

He walked over to the prisoner. He circled him in silence.

It was all Sig could do to stand still Every inch of his flesh tensed in anticipation of the blow he knew would fall. Where? His head? His arm? His back? His — testicles? His entire body shrieked to protect itself. The sound of the soft taps as the truncheon hit the officer's fleshy palm was the only sound in the world to him. Tap — tap — tap—

Suddenly the tapping stopped. He waited without daring to breathe lest he should miss it. Let him hear the tap. Now. Please, God, please!. No sound. He shivered uncontrollably. Now—the blow would fall….

But nothing happened.

The officer came around to face him.

“One more thing, Herr Brandt, before we conclude our little talk — for now.” He walked to his desk. He pushed a button. “Someone I should like to have take a look at you, Herr Brandt!”

Sig chilled. Someone? Someone who might identify him? Dirk? Oskar? Gisela? Had they picked up one of them. All? What would he do?

He heard the door open behind him. No longer could he control himself. He turned around. He stared.

Two SS guards pushed a man into the room. He was in a wheelchair. He had only one leg — held stiffly out, encased in a heavy cast. On his forehead was an ugly purplish bruise. Sig had never seen the man before in his life.

“Well?” Rauner snapped.

The man in the wheelchair stared at Sig. He nodded his head.

“Yes, Herr Obersturmführer,” he said. “Yes!”

Rauner waved his hand.