Winter of the World

Who would have the courage to make a public protest about what was going on at Akelberg? Carla and Frieda had seen it with their own eyes, and they had Ilse König as a witness, but now they needed an advocate. There were no elected representatives any more: all Reichstag deputies were Nazis. There were no real journalists, either; just scribbling sycophants. The judges were all Nazi appointees subservient to the government. Carla had never before realized how much she had been protected by politicians, newspapermen and lawyers. Without them, she saw now, the government could do anything it liked, even kill people.

Who could they turn to? Frieda’s admirer Heinrich von Kessel had a friend who was a Catholic priest. ‘Peter was the cleverest boy in my class,’ he told them. ‘But he wasn’t the most popular. A bit upright and stiff-necked. I think he’ll listen to us, though.’

Carla thought it was worth a try. Her Protestant pastor had been sympathetic, until the Gestapo terrified him into silence. Perhaps the same would happen again. But she did not know what else to do.

Heinrich took Carla, Frieda and Ilse to Peter’s church in Schöneberg early on a Sunday morning in July. Heinrich was handsome in a black suit; the girls all wore their nurses’ uniforms, symbols of trustworthiness. They entered by a side door and went to a small, dusty room with a few old chairs and a large wardrobe. They found Father Peter alone, praying. He must have heard them come in, but he remained on his knees for a minute before getting up and turning to greet them.

Peter was tall and thin, with regular features and a neat haircut. He was twenty-seven, Carla calculated, if he was Heinrich’s contemporary. He frowned at them, not troubling to conceal his irritation at being disturbed. ‘I am preparing myself for Mass,’ he said severely. ‘I am pleased to see you in church, Heinrich, but you must leave me now. I will see you afterwards.’

‘This is a spiritual emergency, Peter,’ said Heinrich. ‘Sit down, we have something important to tell you.’

‘It could hardly be more important than Mass.’

‘Yes, it could, Peter, believe me. In five minutes’ time you will agree.’

‘Very well.’

‘This is my girlfriend, Frieda Franck.’

Carla was surprised. Was Frieda his girlfriend now?

Frieda said: ‘I had a younger brother who was born with spina bifida. Earlier this year he was transferred to a hospital at Akelberg in Bavaria for special treatment. Shortly afterwards we got a letter saying he had died of appendicitis.’

She turned to Carla, who took up the tale. ‘My maid had a son born brain-damaged. He, too, was transferred to Akelberg. The maid got an identical letter on the same day.’

Peter spread his hands in a so-what gesture. ‘I have heard this kind of thing before. It’s anti-government propaganda. The Church does not interfere in politics.’

What rubbish that was, Carla thought. The Church was up to its neck in politics. But she let it pass. ‘My maid’s son did not have an appendix,’ she went on. ‘He had had it removed two years earlier.’

‘Please,’ said Peter. ‘What does this prove?’

Carla felt discouraged. Peter was obviously biased against them.

Heinrich said: ‘Wait, Peter. You haven’t heard it all. Ilse here worked at the hospital in Akelberg.’

Peter looked at her expectantly.

‘I was raised Catholic, Father,’ Ilse said.

Carla had not known that.

‘I’m not a good Catholic,’ Ilse went on.

‘God is good, not us, my daughter,’ said Peter piously.

Ilse said: ‘But I knew that what I was doing was a sin. Yet I did it, because they told me to, and I was frightened.’ She began to cry.

‘What did you do?’

‘I killed people. Oh, Father, will God forgive me?’

The priest stared at the young nurse. He could not dismiss this as propaganda: he was looking at a soul in torment. He went pale.

The others were silent. Carla held her breath.

Ilse said: ‘The handicapped people are brought to the hospital in grey buses. They don’t have special treatment. We give them an injection, and they die. Then we cremate them.’ She looked up at Peter. ‘Will I ever be forgiven for what I have done?’

He opened his mouth to speak. His words caught in his throat, and he coughed. At last he said quietly: ‘How many?’

‘Usually four. Buses, I mean. There are about twenty-five patients in a bus.’

‘A hundred people?’

‘Yes. Every week.’

Peter’s proud composure had vanished. His face was pale grey, and his mouth hung open. ‘A hundred handicapped people a week?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘What sort of handicap?’

‘All sorts, mental and physical. Some senile old people, some deformed babies, men and women, paralysed or retarded or just helpless.’

He had to keep repeating it. ‘And the staff of the hospital kill them all?’

Ilse sobbed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I knew it was wrong.’