"He doesn't care at all about ancestry! No more than I do. In fact he seeks unusual people. That's why he befriended Ernst, who was a foreigner in America. How I wish that friendship had not led to--" Quality spread her hands. What an irony, that Lane had introduced his friend to his fiancée, and so had lost his fiancee.

 

"Ja. So Herr Dowling is a good man, and he will be disappointed when he meets you again. At that point he will need another woman."

 

"I fear he will," Quality agreed.

 

"Would he consider a German?"

 

Quality stared at her. "You can't mean--?"

 

"I need security. I need a good man. One who does not care about pedigree. Herr Dowling well need a good woman. I can be a very good woman, for the right man." She inhaled.

 

Amazed, Quality assessed the prospect. "Lane does like--he would be interested in a body like yours. I was surprised when he became interested in me, because I am not--" She shrugged.

 

"Your body is slender. Your face is beautiful. You are a lovely woman, overall. But perhaps it was something else he saw in you."

 

"My religion," Quality agreed. "I am a practicing Quaker. A pacifist. I--some of us use a variant of the language, at times. He was intrigued."

 

"He is a pacifist?"

 

Quality laughed. "Not at all! That was part of--of what was going wrong between us. He became a fighter pilot. He was fighting in the Battle over France, shooting down German bombers, when I last heard from him. Surely in the Battle over Britain, too, later. But then I was arrested, and our correspondence was lost."

 

"I am a Nazi. But I would change. However I needed to. For a secure position. For a good man. The kind of man whom you could once have loved, for I respect your judgment. Does this disturb you?"

 

Quality shook her head. "I have learned to be practical, in the past four years. Every person must do what she has to, to accomplish what she has to."

 

"You would introduce me to Herr Dowling?"

 

"If I meet him again, and if you are there. Yes, that much I would do. But Lane--he is not one to be reeled in like a fish, any more than Ernst is. He would not reject you because of your nationality, but he would not necessarily accept you. And for all I know, he has already given up on me and found another woman. He may believe I am dead. So this is purely speculative."

 

"A dream," Krista agreed. "But I need a dream, now. I fear Germany is--the war is turning--the Russians are fighting back--there will not be much security in Germany. So if Herr Dowling comes, perhaps he is for me."

 

"Perhaps," Quality agreed, beginning to believe. "His hair is the same color as Ernst's, and his blue eyes do match yours."

 

"Ah! That is ideal! The hair, the eyes--perhaps it is fated. If you will tell me about him, it will help."

 

"Gladly." Quality remained bemused by this development, but she was wickedly tempted by the notion. If she could in effect give Krista a man to replace Ernst, and give Lane a woman to replace herself--what a precious solution! It was preposterous, yet a worthy fantasy.

 

So she told Krista about Lane Dowling, practicing her German, and Krista responded, practicing her English, and suddenly the day was fading and Krista had to go.

 

But she came again when she had time, and they talked further. Krista was insatiably interested in everything about Lane, and Quality was glad to tell it, in this way expiating some of her associated guilt.

 

The following month, Krista had another surprising proposal. "It is hard living alone. The expense gets worse, and it is lonely. You are also alone. I could share with you."

 

Quality had been refusing to think about what would happen when her diminishing supply of Deutschmarks ran out, and the rent would be due on the room. Ernst had been away a month now, and if he did not return soon, her situation would become dire. Krista had proved to be a pleasant companion during their dialogues.

 

So it was that Krista moved in with her, and paid the rent, and bought the groceries. They were not sharing; Krista was covering it all. Quality had no choice but to accept.

 

Krista was away in the days, at her employment. Quality did the shopping and housekeeping. It worked much as it had with Ernst, even to the sharing of warmth in the cold nights. But it wasn't the same.

 

***

 

Early in March Quality got sick. She felt bloated, and she vomited, but it didn't help. As the day progressed, she improved. But the following day it happened again.

 

"We can't take you to a doctor," Krista said. "He would report you. They are required to."

 

"It's mild," Quality said. "It must be minor."

 

But it continued. Every morning she suffered, and every evening she was all right.

 

Then Krista stared at her. "Gott in Himmel! That is morning sickness!"

 

Quality was appalled. "It can't be! I am too thin. My periods have not returned. Only very irregularly."

 

Krista shook her head. "You are not thin anymore. You are a beautiful figure of a woman, slender but full. Your periods are gone because you are with child."

 

"No!" But her protests were in vain. She was pregnant.

 

***

 

Late in March Ernst reappeared. Quality was alone, with Krista away at work. He swept her into his embrace. "I have missed you so!" he exclaimed. "I knew there wasn't enough money. I must pay off your debts."

 

"Oh, Ernst, I have so much to tell thee," she said.

 

By the time Krista returned, they had made love and she had told him. She wasn't certain whether he was stunned more by Krista's involvement or the news of the baby.

 

The meeting between Ernst and Krista was somewhat strained, with neither knowing quite how to proceed. Quality had to take the initiative. "We are all friends. We knew each other well. We have no secrets from each other. Ernst was with one of us and now is with the other. We shall eat, and listen to records, and sleep."

 

"Sleep," Ernst repeated, looking warily at the bed.

 

She hadn't thought of that. The bed held two, but was too small for three, however they might be arranged.

 

"I will sleep on the floor," Krista said. There was some debate, but that did turn out to make the best sense.

 

Ernst had to go next day. He gave them money, enough to pay for the room for two more months and to reimburse Krista. "This thing that you are doing," he said to Krista. "I have no way to thank you."

 

"Just remember that had things been otherwise, I would have been good for you."

 

"Better than I knew," he agreed.

 

Then he was gone. Krista turned away, in tears. Quality felt the burgeoning guilt again. However brave a face the woman put on it, she had loved Ernst, and the loss of him hurt her in more than a practical sense.

 

They agreed that Ernst had seemed reticent about his activity on the Eastern Front. They knew that the fighting there was savage. They concluded that they were probably better off not knowing the details.

 

Two months later Ernst came again, with more money to sustain them. Quality was now five months pregnant.

 

"It is difficult," Ernst said. "I can not be sure when I will return. Quality must go to a Liebensborn home where they will take care of her and the baby. Then it will be all right."

 

Quality did not dare ask why he was in such doubt about returning.

 

"We will wait here two more months," Krista decided. "If you have not returned by then, I will take her there. You will be able to find me, here or at home. I will tell you where she is, then."

 

He nodded, looking pained.

 

Then he was gone, and they settled in for the duration. He did not reappear in two months, and the money was running out again because of the extra food Quality had to eat.

 

Krista explained the nature of the Liebensborn Foundation, literally "Well of Life." "It is to foster a higher birth rate for Aryan children. There are several maternity homes for the mothers of SS children, married or unmarried, to use at little cost. They provide care before and after birth. It is the best possible place to have a--" She hesitated, evidently not wanting to speak of an illegitimate baby.

 

"We are married before God," Quality said, touching the swastika. "In my religion the marriage consists of a simple declaration by each party, in the presence of the Friends Meeting. We exchanged vows."

 

"And he gave you his most precious possession. I understand. But the state does not recognize it."

 

"True." Quality sighed. "It would have been better not to have a baby. Yet how can I protest, when it is his?"

 

"When it is his," Krista echoed, turning away. Quality was chagrined; she had forgotten how Krista herself would have wanted to have Ernst's baby.

 

Now it was time. "We must do it," Krista said. "We must take you to the Lebensborn home. Now, while it is safe for you to travel."

 

"But I am a foreigner," Quality protested weakly. "I am not German."

 

"You are a fine Nordic specimen, and so is he. You have papers. That is the kind of baby they want. They will take care of you."

 

"But what of you, here alone?"

 

"I think my job in Berlin is almost over. The war goes badly. I think it is time for me to go home. But I will visit you as often as I can, until he returns."

 

Quality hated to leave the room where she had loved Ernst. But Krista was correct: for the sake of their finances and the baby, she had to do it. They would leave the name of the home with the hotel manager, so that Ernst would be able to find her without having to search out Krista.

 

Yet she had a dire foreboding that he was not going to find her. Because he might be in more trouble than she was.

 

 

Chapter 12

Götterdämmerung

 

It had been a fool's paradise, he realized: the hope that he could simply cut off his connection with Heydrich and give his loyalty to Admiral Canaris. The Abwehr, with all its faults, remained a far better working environment for him, ideologically, than the RHSA. Even those aspects that were distasteful, such as the apparent attempt to use their section, Abwehr II, as a vehicle for the assassination of a French general, could be set aside when he was home with Quality. They had also uncovered the "Red Chapel" (Russian Orchestra) network of Russian agents operating in Germany. The Admiral had been absolutely furious that German soldiers could be involved in any such treason, and livid when one of them turned out to be an officer in Abwehr II itself. That had almost involved Quality, when Major Stumel suspected that she represented a contact subverting Ernst. But he was innocent, and further investigation had clarified that. It had nevertheless been a close call; had they thought to check Ernst's possible connection to Heydrich, they might have found another kind of traitor.

 

But trouble had come from the other side: Kaltenbrunner had done his homework and traced down the far-flung agents Heydrich had sent out. Now Ernst had to report to the man personally, before being shipped to the front.

 

Kaltenbrunner turned out to be a large man, with a body like that of a lumberjack. His face was angular, his neck thick, his chin square and his eyes small. His fingers were discolored, for he was a chain smoker. He spoke with a thick Austrian accent, and was missing several teeth, which hardly helped his appearance. He also drank excessively, Ernst learned. Yet it was evident that he had a fine analytical mind, and was fully as ruthless as Heydrich, without Heydrich's cultured side. Heydrich could be subtle and even, according to Quality, charming; Kaltenbrunner would never be either.

 

The interview was perfunctory. It seemed that Kaltenbrunner had wanted to meet Ernst merely so as to be able to recognize him thereafter. If he knew about Quality he clearly didn't care; perhaps he intended simply to ship Ernst far away and let those left behind fend for themselves. It was an effective punishment for those who had had the temerity to support Heydrich. But he couldn't stop Ernst from taking accrued leave time, when whatever unit he was in was not in a state of emergency. Ernst would return to help Quality in due course. He had to.

 

He was sent to the General Kommissariat "White Russia," well back from the front line. But it turned out to be a long train ride to Minsk, though endless snowy forests. Even when he managed to get leave time, it would require days to return to Berlin, assuming he could get transport. Ernst's hope of returning within a month faded, and he was depressed.

 

There were other officers traveling to this and other destinations. Time was on their hands, so they played cards and talked. Some of them had been on duty at the front, and from them Ernst received evil news. It seemed that the war was not going nearly as well as the Berlin newspapers had suggested. The initial victories of 1941 had been followed by a temporary setback in December, as the Russians counterattacked near Moscow and took advantage of the savage winter to force a retreat. When the weather eased in 1942 the German advance had resumed, but by the Führer's directive not toward Moscow but to the south. Progress had been made, of course, but this was nevertheless troublesome, because the Russian capital, so near to capture, remained functioning. Now the Russians were organizing, and real trouble was developing. The great German Sixth Army was surrounded and under siege in Stalingrad, and the winter was taking its toll, as it had the prior year. "If only we had knocked out Moscow, the hub!" one officer exclaimed. "Headless, the Russians would have given up the fight. Now there is mischief we never should have had to face."

 

"Mischief?" Ernst inquired.

 

Several others laughed. "You do not know of the partisans? Ragtag bands, but vicious. They roam the countryside, striking from hiding. Never do they stand up to fight like men, but they take many lives in their sneaky way. A man can never be sure he won't get a bullet in his back."

 

Which accounted for why Kaltenbrunner had sent him here, instead of to the front line. He would be more likely to die dishonorably. What a contrast to his work in the Abwehr, and his nights with Quality! He was proceeding from relative Heaven to relative Hell. But he intended to survive, because he had to, to protect Quality. The thought of her alone in Berlin saddened him, but she could manage as long as he provided her money.

 

At last the train reached Minsk, where Ernst was met by a driver who took him to Major General Curt von Gottberg's unit. "Exactly what is occurring here?" Ernst inquired as the car moved along the snowy road.

 

"Antipartisan action, sir," the driver replied. "We have to clean them out, or they will clean us out."

 

"But surely there is not be serious partisan activity this far behind the front line," Ernst said, knowing better. "In Berlin, we were told that this area was secure."

 

"Sir, the truth is that we control the cities and towns, and they control the countryside. They are getting stronger every day. Of course that doesn't get put into the Berlin newspapers."

 

So it was worse than he had feared. "But we came as liberators. We lifted the Communist yoke. They welcomed us."

 

"That they did, sir. At first. Then the Einsatzgruppen started in killing all the Jews and Gypsies any anyone else they chose not to like, and burning homes and fields and taking the food away, and that made for great recruitment for the partisans. Now we have a real problem."

 

"You don't approve of the Führer's policies?"

 

"I didn't say that, sir!" the man said quickly. "I just think that maybe if they had been a bit more subtle, the people wouldn't be rebelling, and our life would be easier."

 

Soon enough Ernst verified the extent of the problem. No Germans went into the countryside alone; they were always in military units. Even in the city there were daily incidents, as terrorists set bombs and snipers fired at military vehicles. No one ever seemed to know anything about the activities, but it was obvious that the natives were harboring the partisans. This might as well have been enemy territory.

 

The first significant artipartisan sweep in which Ernst participated was Operation Hornung. He went only as an observer, learning how it was done. "Things may not be quite as they are described in Berlin," he was tersely advised.

 

Indeed they were not. Ernst watched as the troops went out east of Minsk, surrounding the suspected area. There was the sound of firing, but very little obvious result. If there were partisans in the countryside, most of them must have managed to slip away before the cordon tightened. Only a few rifles were captured, and there were only five German casualties reported. But the men went through the houses, routing out their occupants, shooting any who tried to resist. These were called partisans, and in the course of the operation more than two thousand were "killed in action."

 

Many more were brought to a rendezvous for interrogation. They were lined up along the road, the men on one side, the women on the other. Then the translators went down the lines, addressingthe women. "Point out all the men who do not belong in your village. If you do not, your own men will be killed."

 

The women tried to balk, to pretend that they did not know which men were which. "Then they all must be partisans," the officer said. "We shall execute them all."

 

At that point the women, distraught, reconsidered, and began to point out the strangers. Ernst realized that similar scenes were being enacted in all the villages of this region. The assumption was that any strangers must be partisans. But what of men with legitimate business in the village? What of partisans who happened to live here? There was the risk of executing the wrong men.

 

"Do you want to know the greatest irony?" another officer remarked to Ernst. "Most of those translators are Jews. Jews! We are using Jews to eliminate folk fighting for their homeland."

 

In due course a number of selected partisans were marched into a detention camp, and the other men, together with the women, were allowed to return to their homes. It was evident to Ernst that if those other men had not been partisans yesterday, they surely would be partisans tomorrow. because almost any man would rather die fighting than be ignominiously executed just for being there.

 

The next day they went through a similar process at another village, continuing the sweep. The collection of prisoners grew. And the effective recruitment of future partisans.

 

After several days there were more than seven thousand prisoners. These were marched to a remote field and given spades and picks. They were required to dig large graves. Any who balked were beaten until they returned to work. The ground was hard, because of the winter cold, so the job took time, but no rest was allowed.

 

Ernst was appalled at the callousness of it, but he could not protest. He was only here to observe. If he balked, he might be required to give the cruel orders.

 

He looked at a group of soldiers who were seeming to have a party. They were drinking bottles of schnapps and vodka, and not even trying to conceal it. There were other officers in sight, but they seemed be be paying no attention. Apparently the soldiers were allowed this astonishing privilege of getting drunk on duty. Yet they did not look happy. What was going on?

 

When the graves were done, the partisans were forced to strip completely. There was snow on the ground, and they stood shivering violently, but were shown no mercy. They were required to stand facing the graves. Then the drunken soldiers came, carrying Schmeisser machine pistols. There were twelve of them.

 

"Fire!"

 

The pistols fired, in a crossfire pattern, and the bullets sprayed across the backs of the standing naked partisans. The partisans fell forward into their graves.

 

Now Ernst understood. No one liked the task of executing prisoners. It helped to be drunk when doing it. The soldiers were encouraged to drink so that they could do it. Only a few were sober. Those would be the fanatical Nazis who were satisfied to slaughter the helpless. That was no improvement.

 

Other soldiers took the spades and started filling in the dirt. There was a groan, and motion in the grave. One of the sober executioners walked across and used a carbine rifle to put a bullet through the head of the one who was incompletely dead.

 

"This is barbaric!" Ernst muttered.

 

"Not so," the officer beside him replied. "Barbarism is when they do not put the bullets in the heads of the survivors before covering them over."

 

"Or when they shoot a pregnant woman in the womb and push her into the grave alive," another added.

 

Ernst assumed that they were trying to shock him, in a kind of initiation. Later he learned that such things did occur. He was sickened and disgusted. This was, of course, why he had been sent here. His body might or might not survive--but would his soul?

 

***

 

The anti-partisan effort continued. General Warlimont, the head of the National Defense Office, issued an order stating that populations rounded up by the firing of villages which harbored partisans were to be sent to concentration camps in Poland and Russia. This was in response to the liquidation of entire villages during the anti-partisan operations. It was supposed to have a moderating effect. Ernst had already achieved enough cynicism to doubt that this would be the case. Actually, this order made it possible for almost anyone in occupied territory to be sent to a camp.

 

On March 18 there came a directive from the security office: "Generally speaking, no more children are to be shot." This, too, was likely to have no more than a cosmetic effect on policy. Ernst no longer had any doubt why so many local folk became partisans; he would have become one too, had he been a Russian resident.

 

Finally he was allowed leave time. He took the train for Germany, hoping that Quality remained in the Tiergarten room. It had been almost two months, far longer than he liked.

 

She was there! She was startlingly lovely, after the physical and mental horrors he had seen. Perhaps it was her nature, for he knew that Quality would never be associated with the atrocities of the eastern front. He swept her into his arms and kissed her.

 

"I have so much to tell thee," she said.

 

First they made love. Her body had filled out; she had not been going hungry. Yet her money should have run out. How had she managed?

 

"Ernst, I hope thee will not be upset," she said. "I am pregnant."

 

He lay beside her stunned. "Oh, Quality, in any other situation--"

 

"I agree. I did not want to be in this condition. Yet it is thy doing, and thy baby within me, and I can not help but feel joy in that."

 

And he had just had sex with her, not knowing! "I should not have--"

 

"I believe that love is healthy, at any time," she said. "I very much wanted thine at this time. I apologize for this small deceit: I did not tell thee before, so thee would not feel restricted."

 

He had to accept it. But there was another question. "How have you managed? I was so afraid you would not have money!"

 

"That is the other wonderful thing I must tell thee, Ernst, though I fear it will surprise thee and leave thee with mixed feelings."

 

"Nothing can surprise me or mix my feelings more than your pregnancy."

 

"I have a friend who has moved in with me, to share the expenses. When my money ran out, she used hers. She is the reason I am well, and not completely lonely in thine absence."

 

"A German friend?" he asked, amazed. "How can that be?"

 

"She is thy friend Krista."

 

The bottom fell out of his insecure equilibrium. "Krista! But she would hate you!"

 

"She tried to, but she did not succeed."

 

He looked at her. "I can appreciate how that is. But still--the resentment she must feel!"

 

"She is a practical woman. She says that since I have taken her man, she may take mine. She has questioned me closely about Lane."

 

"Lane Dowling!" Ernst laughed. Then as he thought about it, it began to make insidious sense. Lane did have an eye for poise and beauty, and Krista had both in ample measure. If she had opportunity to be with him for any length of time, and privacy to show him parts of her body, he would certainly be interested. He would not be put off by her Gypsy ancestry; he would find it intriguing. Still, the thing was farfetched. "How would she meet him?"

 

"If Germany loses the war, I will try to introduce her to him. Surely he will seek me, and if Krista is with me, I can do that much."

 

If Germany lost the war. Ernst had not allowed himself to think that thought before, but it was a prospect. The eastern front could at best be described as stagnant, and the German resources were being wasted fighting partisans. After what he had seen, he could no longer hope for German victory. The Russians might be barbarous, but they did not deliberately kill women and children.

 

"Then perhaps it is a fair deal," he said. "Lane is certainly a good man, and Krista is a good woman. Better than I had taken her for, since she has helped you."

 

"A good woman," Quality agreed.

 

Still, it was awkward when Krista returned. She remained beautiful, her hair still glisteningly fair. She concealed her surprise at seeing Ernst. It was evident that she still had feeling for him, but she made no attempt to impress him. She had accepted the change.

 

Actually, it was good that Krista had come here, he realized. Quality needed more than money, now that she was pregnant. Krista would see that she was cared for.

 

Before he left, he gave them all of his money he could spare, repaying Krista and providing for Quality's future food and rent. He tried to thank Krista for the generous thing she was doing, but was ineffective. He promised to return as soon as he could.

 

***

 

As it happened, he was able to return to them in two months, just before things really got bad at the front. Knowing that he could not speak for his own future, let alone Quality's, he told her that she would have to go to a Lebensborn maternity home. There at least she would be safe until the baby came, and perhaps thereafter. He hated to do it, but the thought of her fate if he was unable to return convinced him. At least he would not have to worry about her.

 

For the bad news at the front was the largest anti-partisan effort yet, Operation Cottbus. Two partisan groups had joined together and formed what they called "The Republic of Lake Palik," which extended on the southern end to within twenty miles of the Minsk-Moscow railway, and to another Moscow line in the north. There could be real trouble if the partisans started sabotaging the railways. That would interrupt the shipment of supplies and troops to the front. So this had to be dealt with, if German power in the region was to be maintained.

 

General Gottberg rounded up more than sixteen thousand men for the operation. Most of them were police from the Baltic states, or Russian volunteers. But it also included a civilian emergency force, part of which was comprised of ninety administrative workers from Minsk. Ernst suspected he knew how they felt: desk workers hauled out to the field, like himself. And of course there were the SS personnel.

 

The partisan forces were no mere ragtag bands. They now had tanks, field guns, an air strip and troop-carrying gliders under the command of a Russian Brigadier General. This had become an aspect of the front line, for that line had become dangerously porous. On the map this was pacified territory, but the map was a fiction. Ernst remembered Quality's remark: "If Germany loses the war." Out here it was unfortunately easy to recognize that possibility. The folly of not taking Moscow, thus leaving the head of the bear in place, was starkly clear. As was the folly of slaughtering the natives, for each one killed seemed to generate two more partisans.

 

Ernst had always regarded Adolf Hitler as a great man. Now even that belief was wearing thin. Perhaps if Hitler could come out here and see the reality, the policy would change. But Hitler, and Germany, seemed to be locked in to this course. In fact Hitler was giving ever greater support to the SS Einsatzgruppen, because its methods were more effective than those of the more fastidious Wehrmacht. It was like Götterdämmerung, the twilight of the gods, as the final battle loomed. The gods were destined to lose, and all things to be destroyed. Richard Wagner's music for this was beautiful, but the reality was grim.

 

Would Quality be allowed to take her books and Victrola to the maternity home, so she could continue listening to Wagner? He hoped so. She was a foreigner, but she wore his swastika, which others would misinterpret as her political statement. How could they refuse her Nietzsche and Wagner?

 

Operation Cottbus proceeded. The Luftwaffe supported it, bombing the suspect towns. It was full-scale war, and this time there were many partisans killed in true action. But for Ernst it was worse, because he was assigned to assist the notorious Dierlewanger Regiment, the one composed of Nazi party members who were convicted criminals. They were called "poachers," but there was no masking their nature. Ernst, as an intelligence officer, had to help interrogate prisoners and monitor the activities and attitudes of personnel assigned to "special details." In reality, the execution squads. He wished he could get drunk on vodka himself, but of course he couldn't.

 

As it happened, he was given no command responsibility, which was a relief. He had merely to be on hand as the work proceeded. He was in effect a spectator. But what he witnessed turned his stomach.

 

For the partisans had particular strongholds, and these were protected by minefields. It was folly for soldiers to march across those fields; if they managed to escape the mines, they would be picked off by the partisan sharpshooters. But the Dierlewanger men had a simple, ruthless solution: they routed out the women and children who were left behind in the towns, and forced them to march across the mine fields. The German troops followed, and the partisans could not fire on them without first gunning down their own families. As a result they held their fire, and watched their own people getting blown up by their own mines.

 

Ernst watched it happening, unable to turn away lest his horror be manifest. He could not help picturing Quality there, carrying his baby within her, stepping on a hidden mine and being blown apart. For each of those women were beloved by someone. He watched, and did not flinch, but his heart was turning leaden. This was the twilight of decency. What possible cause could be worth this?

 

He would have renounced it all, and fled the region, if he could. But he could not, because there was no honorable release from military service, and a dishonorable one would have cost him not only his life, but Quality's--and probably Krista's too. His own people remained hostage to his performance. So though he shot no partisans directly, and gave no orders to sacrifice women, he felt the blackening blood on his hands, that could never be washed off. He was part of the massive dishonor that was the SS Einsatzgruppen.

 

The operation began in mid May and continued through the month of June, 1943. Some fifteen thousand partisans were reported killed: six thousand in action, five thousand as suspects, and four thousand women and children used in the mine spotting. Five and a half thousand women and children were also conscripted for the labor force. Only a hundred and twenty seven Germans were killed. Thus Operation Cottbus was considered a great success. The fact that the countryside seemed to be no safer than before for Germans was ignored.

 

Yet there was additional irony. Ernst overheard the story of one person who had tried to follow a more civilized course. General Kube, Governor of White Russia, tried to win over the villagers in the region of Minsk so that the harvest would not be abandoned. Food was a real problem, and any fields that could be saved would help alleviate hunger. So General Kube's representative followed behind the troops in a loudspeaker van, attempting to drum up support. "The resistance is over. Return to your homes and work, and there will be no further reprisals. Cooperate, and we will work with you to restore your lives and bring food. You have everything to gain by peace."

 

But even as he was making his appeal, an SS colonel was giving orders to burn the village. The representative came across half-burned human bodies being eaten by pigs on the floor of a burned-out barn. Seeing the futility of his effort, he returned to Minsk and reported to the General. Outraged, Kube directed a complaint to his superiors. Nothing came of it.

 

Ernst knew exactly how the General felt.

 

***

 

In August Ernst finally got more leave time. He returned to Berlin, and to Tiergarten, but the room was empty. He inquired, and the hotel manager gave him the message Quality had left: "She is at the Lebensborn at this address." He held a slip of paper. But he did not give it to Ernst immediately. "Her account was overdue, but we did not press her for it, knowing you would make it good."

 

"I will make it good," Ernst agreed. He settled the account, and was given the address. He probably could have run down the address himself, but he did want to settle any debts, and preferred to keep the matter quiet.

 

He went there, and found the home crowded with children. In December 1942 thousands of racial German children had been forcibly removed from Poland. The maternity houses were required to be used until the children were adopted by suitable parents. Thus the nursery facilities were overflowing, for adoptions were slow. Good German families had other concerns now, such as feeding themselves.

 

Quality was there without Krista. She was now in her eighth month, her belly well swollen. She remained lovely to his eyes, and seemed to be in good health. The swastika shone at her bosom. He knew she did not accept its symbolism, but wore it only because it was his gift to her. Still, it had surely helped her gain entry and good treatment here, for the authorities would have taken it as evidence of her conversion to Nazism.

 

He kissed her chastely. "I am sorry I took so long," he said. "I settled the account."

 

"Account?"

 

"The money you owed the hotel. I paid it."

 

"I owed the hotel no money. We left when we ran out, assuming no debt."

 

Ernst realized that he had been taken. There was nothing he could do about it. "You are safe; that is all that matters."

 

"Krista went home to Wiesbaden. Perhaps thee should visit her, too. She was very good to me."

 

He shook his head. "Even if I had the time and the money, I would not care to see her alone. There is only respect between us, now."

 

"Of course." That was it. There was no privacy for any serious dialogue, and his leave was short. He had to return to the front. The truth was that there was little he would have cared to tell her about his activity. He felt unworthy to be in her company, for she was a gentle, practicing pacifist, and his hands were stained. He understood the alienation she had suffered from Lane Dowling, because now it applied to himself. He loved her, but how could he be with her?

 

He set himself to go, though he longed to remain. But Quality held him. "Ernst, what troubles thee?"

 

He shook his head. "Nothing I can speak about."

 

She touched the swastika. "Does thee wish to recover thy--"

 

"No!" For that would signal the end of their private marriage. "Oh, Quality, never think that! I am unworthy of you, but I will love you till I die. It is just that I wish things were not as they are. That the war did not exist. That all men and all women were like you. That I could be all that you would have me be."

 

She nodded. "I know thee is enmeshed in horror, Ernst. I can see it in thy face and feel it in thy hand. But this is not of thy making."

 

"It stains me nevertheless."

 

"I, too, am stained."

 

"Not in my eyes."

 

"Nor thee in mine."

 

He could not ague with her. "I will come again when I can." He kissed her again, quickly, and departed.

 

***

 

During the final months of 1943 the situation of the Germans grew desperate. It seemed impossible to eradicate the partisans, and the Russians were advancing. It was becoming obvious that the German tenure in Russia was ending.

 

This brought a new policy: scorched earth. It was necessary to destroy the ability of the land to support life, so that the partisans could not exist on it. Nevertheless, resources were diverted to exterminate the few Jews who remained unaccounted for in earlier actions. Not because they had done anything, but just because they were Jews. Hitler wanted a Jew-free Europe, even if Germany lost the war while implementing this policy.

 

Of course the partisans controlled much of the open countryside, so that it was hazardous to go out and actually scorch the earth. Troops would go out in the morning and return at night, claiming to have reduced a particular section, but Ernst knew that it was more likely that they had spent their time hiding from the partisans.

 

By the turn of the year, the Russians had advanced so far that Minsk was now not far from the front. Then the Russians broke through to the south, so that Minsk was threatened with encirclement. Retreat was mandatory, lest there be another Stalingrad disaster. The anti-partisan activity became pointless; the only concern was to extricate the German forces before they were cut off.

 

Ernst was transferred back to Berlin an April, 1944. By the look of it, few Germans would remain behind long.

 

But things were confused in Berlin, too, and he was not reassigned immediately. It seemed that the authorities were too busy trying to understand the disaster to bother with the paperwork of individual assignment. Ernst was for the moment left to his own devices.

 

Naturally he went to the Lebensborn maternity home to see Quality. She was there, working as a volunteer to care for the children which still crowded the premises. She was slender again, and in good health, and she still wore his swastika in plain sight. "But the baby--" Ernst asked.

 

"I bore a son in September," she said. "He was healthy, but they told me that I lacked the proper qualities to raise an Aryan child, so my baby would have to join the racial Germans in awaiting adoption. I was allowed to leave and fend for myself, or to remain to work for bed and board. Since I had no money, and this was the only way I could remain close to Ernst Junior, I agreed to remain. I am, it seems, good with children, and they are shorthanded, so it is a fair compromise. It allows me to remain close to Junior, who is now seven months old. I try not to favor him too much, so as not to attract attention, but he knows me. They all know me."

 

"But the child is mine," Ernst protested. "He must not be adopted!"

 

"I had hoped thee would feel that way," she confessed demurely. "Few folk care to assume the added burden of another couple's child in these troubled times, but I quail whenever a prospective couple comes to look. I am afraid that mine will be the one they choose."

 

Ernst talked to the proprietors, who referred him to the higher Lebensborn authority. His application was taken for consideration. "But you are not married," the clerk pointed out.

 

That stopped him. If he married Quality now, legally, she would be the wife of a Nazi officer--as Germany lost the war. That was no albatross to hang on her at this time!

 

"But I will marry thee," Quality said as he tried to explain. "We are already married in our hearts; the outer symbol is merely confirmation." She touched the swastika.

 

"It is no good for you!" he said. "You must be free to return unencumbered to America."

 

"Not without thee and our son," she said firmly.

 

So he applied for permission to marry. His application was taken, and lost in the shuffle. He could not marry Quality until his petition was granted, and he could not secure Ernst Junior until he married.

 

Months passed. Ernst was assigned to routine deskwork; it seemed that Kaltenbrunner had forgotten him. On June 6 the Allies invaded Normandy, and spread east toward Germany. Six weeks later Hitler was almost killed by a planted bomb. A month after that Paris surrendered to the Allies. The Russian advance continued. The days of the Third Reich were dwindling. Admiral Canaris, under suspicion, was investigated in connection with the bomb plot; Ernst was deeply sorry to learn of that. But the marriage permission did not emerge from the bureaucracy.

 

"I must do something!" Ernst said. "But if I steal you and the child from the home, we will all be illegitimate, and forcibly separated. It is time for a desperate measure."

 

"I am satisfied to remain here," Quality said. "The children need me."

 

"I do not want you here when the city comes under siege by the Allies," he said. "The bombings are bad enough; then it will be dangerous."

 

"It will be bad elsewhere too," she pointed out.

 

"Not so much in the country, away from the main bastions. If I can get you to Wiesbaden, with my family, you and the boy will be comparatively safe."

 

She caught the omission immediately. "And not thee, Ernst?"

 

"I remain in the SS. There will be no safe place for me, when the Allies come."

 

"But--"

 

"You know I will return to my family when I can. That is where you must be. I am going to try to arrange it."

 

She understood the rigors of the situation. "I will do what thee wishes, Ernst."

 

Ernst made his desperation ploy. He requested a conference with Dr. Ernst Kaltenbrunner, the head of RHSA.

 

It was granted. "I had thought you would prefer to remain beneath my notice," Kaltenbrunner said.

 

"I would have, sir. But I have a problem that perhaps you can help me with."

 

"The problem of too soft a life?"

 

"I love an American woman I rescued from a camp in Vichy France. She bore my child. I must get away from Berlin now. I will volunteer for whatever you wish, if you will enable me to take her and my son to my family in Wiesbaden."

 

"I hardly need to bargain with a man I already command. Why do you think I would do you any favor?"

 

"Because I can be trusted to keep any bargain I make, even when there is no gun at my head."

 

Kaltenbrunner considered. "Very well. I will make that bargain. Give my secretary the necessary information, do your deed when you receive clearance, and return here to wait for special assignment. When I indicate it, you will volunteer."

 

"I will volunteer, sir," Ernst agreed. He knew he was making a pact with the devil, because only the most dangerous assignments were volunteer.

 

"Dismissed."

 

***

 

Late in September Ernst was granted leave to visit his family. He went to the maternity home--and Quality and Junior were waiting for him. She had been granted permission to take her son to his father's family. There was no explanation for this odd, sudden release, but she knew it was because of something Ernst had done. He in turn knew that Kaltenbrunner was keeping his part of the bargain. But it was sure to be a hard bargain.

 

He drove her there. There was an air raid on the way, and they pulled onto a deserted road and parked under the foliage of a tree, hiding. Junior, now one year old, was sleeping. Quietly, efficiently, despite the cramped quarters, they made love. It was intensely sweet, after more than a year. Then they resumed the drive.

 

Herr Best was amazed to see them. "We feared you would never get out of Berlin!" he said.

 

"This is Quality Smith, whom I will marry. This is our son. I must leave them with you, until I am free of my commitments."

 

"Of course," his mother said. "Krista told us."

 

"Krista is here?" Quality asked. "I would very much like to see her again."

 

"She is away today, but will return tomorrow," Herr Best said. His glance at Ernst suggested that there was a good deal more he would like to say, but not in this circumstance. His family had of course thought Ernst would marry Krista, and the change to an anonymous American woman could hardly please them. But Krista had prepared them, and Quality would explain the rest, and they would be reconciled. Indeed, as they came to know Quality, they would be more than reconciled.

 

He kissed Quality, and then his son. "I will visit when I can," he promised.

 

"I know thee will," Quality murmured, managing to keep the tears from her eyes. He knew that she feared she would never see him again.

 

Then he was driving back, to face what Kaltenbrunner had in mind for him. The man had honored his part of the deal, and Ernst would honor his. But it did seem likely that his life would be in peril.

 

***

 

On October 22 Kaltenbrunner summoned Ernst. "My classmate and friend Otto Skorzeny is organizing a special mission. He needs loyal soldiers conversant in American language and custom. The mission is challenging and dangerous."

 

"I volunteer for that mission, sir," Ernst said.

 

"I commend you on your courage and patriotism." Those were the most complimentary words Ernst was ever to hear from Kaltenbrunner, though they were protocol for the situation. "You will be transferred immediately to Otto's unit." He actually shook Ernst's hand before returning the closing salute. Apparently he was pleased to be able to forward a genuinely competent man to his friend. Possibly his attitude toward Ernst had mellowed, since Ernst had performed well in his assignments and engaged in no subversive activity.

 

Colonel Skorzeny turned out to be a giant of a man, four inches over six feet tall. He was a self-assured Austrian whose face was badly scarred below the left cheek and across the mouth, but who nevertheless remained handsome. He was a legitimate hero, because he had made a spectacular rescue of the deposed Italian leader Mussolini. He had also succeeded in abducting Admiral Hrothy, the Hungarian leader who was attempting to make a treacherous separate peace with the Allies. He was forming Operation Grief, literally "Grab," for sabotage. He was assembling a hand picked group of about two thousand American-English speaking commandos to train for missions behind the Allied lines. This was to complement the German offensive in the Ardennes. It certainly seemed to be important, for Germany's situation was now desperate. The Allies were massing in Belgium and Luxembourg for an invasion of Germany itself, and if they were not stopped, the war would soon be over. The only way to stop them was to go on the offensive, but German strength was insufficient. It seemed that everyone knew this, except the Führer, who refused to receive any news of weakness or retreat.

 

Skorzeny formed the 150th Panzer Brigade and began training at Friedenthal, near Berlin. The men were equipped with American uniforms, Jeeps, and a few Sherman tanks which had been rescued from various battlefields. They were trained in the use of American military equipment, American slang, American military rank and custom, and even the American way to open a pack of cigarettes.

 

Ernst had no trouble with the language and slang; in fact he helped others to get it right. But he knew nothing of American tanks, and he did not smoke. Nevertheless, he learned to open a pack of cigarettes, and to take a puff without coughing. How anybody could enjoy such a procedure was hard to understand. It was really easier to learn to drive a Jeep, which was an efficient vehicle for the forest terrain where they would see action, the Ardennes.

 

The brigade had two main objectives. On the day of the offensive, small units would penetrate the lines under the pretense of retreating from the Germans, and commence sabotage activities. They would pose as military police and misdirect Allied units. They would remove Allied warning signs from minefields, so that the enemy would march into its own trap. They would mark and report targets for German artillery fire. They would blow up ammunition depots, cut communications lines, spread false reports, block roads, and act as scouts for advancing troops.

 

Meanwhile Skorzeny himself would take fifty American tanks and advance to the bridgeheads across the Meuse River. He would hold these crossings without challenge from the Americans--until the bulk of the German advance reached the river. Then the commandos would identify themselves to the German troops by using pro-arranged signals with colored flashlights or similar devices. In this manner the troops would cross the river without challenge, achieving a significant advantage.

 

Would it work? Ernst was doubtful. The plain fact was that the Russian front had sapped Germany's power, while the Allies were growing constantly stronger. It hardly mattered whether the river was readily crossed, or depots blown up; the enemy was simply too strong for such tricks to make a sufficient difference. Also, he doubted that many of the Operation Grab personnel would be able to carry it off; the intricacies of the American ways were too devious. So this was probably a death trap--as perhaps Kaltenbrunner had known.

 

Ernst kept his doubts to himself. He would do his best, though this type of thing disgusted him. He was becoming in effect a partisan, doing treacherous damage behind the enemy lines, and the Americans would hold him in the same contempt that he held for the Russian partisans. It was a truly terrible mission, and one which might have no escape. Obviously any of them who were caught would be executed immediately, in the field; that was what was done with partisans. So the best hope lay in doing what the partisans did: once the mission was lost, merging with the population and pretending innocence. What an irony! He had learned how to be a partisan from fighting the partisans.

 

They trained through November and early December. There were no breaks, and not entirely because of the urgency of their deadline for readiness; it was because of the necessary secrecy. There had to be no hint of of what was planned. Ernst understood the necessity, but wished he could have visited Quaity and his son. At least then there could have been one more contact, before_._._.

 

Of course they were not supposed to think of failure or death. But he knew he was not the only one. This mission was dangerous in the performance and in the aftermath. Only if it should be successful would they be heroes. Ernst simply did not believe that success was destined.

 

The German assault began at 5:30 in the morning on December 16, 1944 with heavy artillery shelling. German troops followed immediately behind, and a thousand paratroopers were to land behind the enemy lines. Meanwhile, the commandos would infiltrate undetected. Ernst was part of a three man group that made it through in a Jeep; in fact they didn't even see any enemy soldiers.

 

Once they were beyond the line, they parked the vehicle in the forest, scuffled the ground to hide its tracks, and split up, so as to achieve maximum effect. Ernst was in the uniform of an MP, the Military Police. He looked for a supply depot to destroy, but was in the wrong area; all he saw were empty trucks rushing along the road in both directions. He didn't even need to interfere with that; the Allies were already confused enough!

 

By day's end he had accomplished nothing. He returned to the Jeep and found his companions already there. One had managed to misdirect a truckload of troops, but he knew that they would soon enough correct their error, so it would count for little. The other had managed to drag fallen branches across a road so as to block it, but before he could complete the job an allied tank had arrived and bulldozed it clear.

 

In the morning they drove further on, hoping for better luck. This wonderful scheme seemed rather futile in practice, because they were almost as confused as the Allies. They heard the roar of the main German advance, and knew it would soon overtake them if they didn't get clear. That was of course pointless; they had to remain behind the enemy lines.

 

They came to a stalled American truck. The driver flagged them down. "Hey buddy--gimme a lift!" he called. "I'm outa gas, and I'm freezing my nuts off out here!"

 

"Sure," Ernst said. He had warned the others about such oddities: the Americans called petrol gas. "Hey, corporal--get down and guard the truck for him, until he gets back."

 

Their third man nodded, and jumped down, making space on the cramped vehicle for the truck driver. Ernst knew he would take advantage of the time alone to clip wires so that the truck would be unable to run even when refilled.

 

They talked with the American, and were reassured: he had no inkling of their nature. He guided them to his depot, where they picked up two big cans of gasoline and headed back. "Domn stupidest thing," the man muttered. "I know exactly how far my tank goes, but I got distracted by this damned Heine attack and forgot. Lucky thing the Krauts didn't get me!"

 

"Lucky thing," Ernst agreed.

 

They delivered the driver to his truck. He poured in the gasoline, then started it up. The engine roared into life. "Thanks, pal!" the driver called as he pulled back onto the road. "You saved my hide!"

 

Ernst turned to their third man. "I thought you were going to fix the motor." He spoke in English, maintaining the pretense even when they were alone.

 

"Too obvious. He'd know right away that I'd done it, and then we'd have to kill him, and our presence would be known. But wait until he tries the brakes!"

 

"Did you fix the hand brakes too?" Ernst asked.

 

"Of course."

 

"But if he puts in it gear and turns off the motor, he can stop even on a hill," Ernst pointed out.

 

"Oops, I didn't think of that!"

 

So they had probably done about as much good as harm, unless the driver panicked and went out of control. They were not turning out to be much good as saboteurs.

 

They drove on. "But now we know where their depot is," the second man said. "I can blow that tonight."

 

"Good idea," Ernst agreed. They were learning on the job.

 

They parked the Jeep again and split up. Ernst found a temporary military base, but there were too many soldiers, and they were too alert; he could not get close enough to sabotage anything. The point was to take advantage of the enemy's innocence and neglect. He managed to pour handfuls of dirt into the gasoline tanks of several officer's cars, so that they would in due course stall out with clogged carburetors, but he knew that was a mere nuisance, not a significant act of destruction. Finally he gave it up and returned to the Jeep for the night. He was after all a desk man; he just wasn't good in the field.

 

One of his companions joined him there; the third did not. They realized that they had lost a man. They had all been aware that this was a high-risk mission, but this confirmation was nevertheless sobering.

 

On the third day, the 18th, as they drove farther ahead of the front, they were again flagged down. Ernst noticed that one man stood in the road, while two others remained at the side, rifles ready. This was no out-of-gas situation.

 

"Hey, buddy--who are Dem Bums?"

 

Ernst nudged his companion with his hidden foot, warning him into silence. "Listen, dogface--you got something against the Dodgers, let's have it!"

 

"Not a thing, pal. You there, sergeant--where's the Windy City?"

 

"Chicago," Ernst murmured without moving his mouth. "On Lake Michigan."

 

"Mister, I wish I was back there on Lake Michigan right now!" Ernst's companion replied. "Chicago may not be much, but it's a damn sight better than this hellhole."

 

"You got that right, trooper," the man said. "Pass, friends."

 

But Ernst retained caution. "Now do you mind telling us why the damned interrogation? A joke's a joke, but I don't like being covered like that by my own side. Would you have shot me if I'd trashed Brooklyn?"

 

"No. Only if you hadn't known about it. We caught some fake soldiers, Krauts in American uniforms, sabotaging our supplies. So now we're checking all strangers. Your uniform and rank don't mean nothing; you gotta prove you're American."

 

Ernst made a show of relaxing. "Oh. Gotcha. Sorry I got my back up."

 

"Get your ass on outa here."

 

"Right." Ernst drove the Jeep on through the checkpoint.

 

"How did you know they suspected us?" his companion asked.

 

"I spent a year in America. Now we must be alert: it's not enough just to answer questions; we have to do it as Americans do. Pugnacious, insulting. If you are challenged with something you don't recognize, make a counter-challenge; that may put them off."

 

They drove on, looking for something to sabotage but still had no luck. Ernst hated the feeling of ineffectiveness but knew it would be pointless to risk exposure unless he found a target worthy of the risk. Meanwhile it was becoming evident that the German attack was faltering; there were too few troops to sustain it, and the allied defenses were stronger than expected. The commandos' element of surprise had been nullified, and there was nothing further to be accomplished.

 

"We had better rejoin our troops," Ernst said. "But we can't do it in these uniforms!"

 

His companion agreed. They drove east, toward the sound of gunfire, as far as they could without hitting a checkpoint. Then they pulled into the forest and quickly changed clothing, becoming Germans again. Then they split up, knowing that it would be easier to sneak through separately.

 

Alone, Ernst trudged back toward the line. There no longer was an easy avenue through; the line was stabilizing as the German thrust lost momentum. But it should be possible to get through at night.

 

"Halt!"

 

Ernst stopped. He had been spied--and now he was in German uniform. There was an American soldier bringing a rifle to bear. Ernst could have shot him with his handgun, but didn't try. He had never directly killed a man, and the thought of it sickened him.

 

But if he surrendered, he might be spared. He might be taken as a stray from his unit.

 

Slowly he raised his hands. He felt like a coward. Thus ignominiously did his career end. Just as the career of the Third Reich was ending. Götterdämmerung--the day of doom, when the good gods were slaughtered. It had come at last.

 

 

Chapter 13

Krista

 

Lane finally had the freedom of the continent, thanks to the understanding of his superiors. He had to find his friend, if he survived, so as to find his fiancée, if she survived. There had been no word as Germany collapsed, and now in the chaos of the war's ending there seemed to be no way to run them down through Allied or German records. He had to do it himself, his own way.

 

On May tenth, 1945, he came to Wiesbaden, which was where Ernst Best's family had been going. He would start his search here.

 

The phone service was cooperative. Yes, there were Best families here, but no phone listed for Ernst. Lane took a list of their addresses, and drove to each, inquiring for Ernst Best. On the fifteenth he found recognition. "Yes, he is my nephew," Karl Best said. "A good young man. But lost in the war."

 

"Lost?"

 

"He left his woman here with my brother's family and returned to Berlin for a dangerous mission. We have not seen him since."

 

"How long ago?" Lane asked anxiously.

 

"Seven months ago."

 

"How can I search for him?"

 

The man studied him with disconcerting lack of expression. Lane realized that to these people the British and Americans were still the enemy. They had to be polite, but they were not friendly. "Krista might know."

 

That must be the woman. "Where is Krista?"

 

"I will take you to her." The man seemed relieved.

 

Krista was surprisingly attracive despite her worn clothing. Her hair was blond, her features fair, and her figure appealing.

 

"Krista, this is Herr Dowling," Karl Best said. "He is looking for Ernst."

 

The woman said something in German.

 

Karl Best turned back to Lane. "I must translate for her," he said, with an opaque expression.

 

"Do it," Lane agreed.

 

The man spoke rapidly in German. Then Krista reacted.

 

She turned her blue eyes on Lane. They seemed almost to glow with recognition. "Lane Dowling!" she exclaimed.

 

"You know my name?" he asked, startled.

 

She spoke again in German.

 

"She says you are Ernst's American friend, are you not?" Best translated. "He spoke of you."

 

"Yes. I must find him. Do you know where he is?"

 

Again the German and translation. "I know where he worked, in Berlin. But I do not know whether he remains there. I fear he is dead."

 

"He must not be dead!" Lane exclaimed.

 

She nodded when she heard with something more than agreement. "Ja, he must not be dead. But he has not returned." The intensity of her gaze made Lane uneasy. What was in her mind?

 

"Tell me where he worked."

 

"He was in the SS. There was a special mission. Perhaps one of the other officers would know."

 

"What other officers?"

 

She shook her head. "They did not speak their names to me. I would know some by sight, however."

 

"Then come with me, and tell me who they are," Lane said. Then, as Best translated his words to her. "I am Ernst's friend. I will not hurt you."

 

"I have no money to travel," Best translated.

 

"I have money. I have a car. Just go to Berlin with me, and show me. Then I will bring you back. I promise."

 

With seeming reluctance, and something else, she agreed. "But how shall we speak to each other?" she asked through Best after a moment.

 

"We don't need to speak! But I will teach you a few words of English while we drive there."

 

She turned those great blue eyes on him again. "Ja." Then she walked away.

 

Lane watched her go. She had an interesting walk. "She's a strange one," he murmured.

 

"We are a defeated people," Karl Best said. "We are careful where we tread. Especially our young women. For a woman to go with a soldier--this has implications."

 

"I will bring her back unscathed," Lane said, appreciating the implication. "I'm--I'm not after the local women. I'm looking for my friend, who I hope will know where my fiancée is. Maybe Ernst mentioned her: Quality Smith?"

 

"He did." The man seemed to be ill at ease.

 

Lane's heart leaped at this confirmation. "Do you know--did he say--is she alive?"

 

"She is alive and well. I can not tell you more."

 

"That's enough!" Lane exclaimed. "All this time I've been afraid she was--thank you, Mr. Best! You have given me wonderful hope."

 

"I have given you very little."

 

Lane realized that the man, perhaps mourning the loss of his nephew, was taking a negative view. If Ernst was dead, how would Lane find Quality? Yet that assurance that she was not only alive but healthy buoyed him. Ernst must have found her and gotten her to safety somewhere. Otherwise how could Ernst's uncle have known of her? He would find her somehow.

 

Krista returned with a handbag. "Thank you," Lane said to Karl Best. Then he stepped to Krista, to take her bag. Evidently surprised by this minor gallantry, she yielded it, smiling. She was stunning when she smiled. They walked to his rented car.

 

"Do you know the way to Berlin?" Lane asked. Then, remembering that she did not speak English: "Berlin. Where?"

 

"Berlin," she repeated. Then she pointed her finger straight ahead.

 

Good enough. She knew the way. He could find it, using the map, but it would be easier with someone who had been there.

 

Krista guided him to Frankfurt, and then north through the mountains to Kassell. It was getting late, and he realized that it wasn't worth trying to reach Berlin in one haul. He would have to spend a night on the way. But he hadn't anticipated traveling with a woman. What was he going to do with her?

 

He would simply have to foot the bill for a separate room for her. If she enabled him to find Ernst, and therefore Quality, it would be worth it.

 

"Must stop. Night," he said. "Know place?"

 

She turned her head to look at him. "Place?"

 

"Night. Eat. Sleep. Hotel."

 

"Sleep?"

 

"Two rooms! No trouble."

 

She seemed to understand. She pointed to the side, where a road diverged. He took it. Soon it led to a hotel.

 

He parked the car and entered the lobby with her. "You have rooms?" he asked.

 

The clerk looked blank. Then Krista spoke in German, and the clerk brightened. It turned out that he would take American dollars. Lane paid, and picked up the room key. "But there are supposed to be two rooms," he said.

 

Krista took his arm and guided him away from the desk. Apparently she had told the man one room. There was no bellhop, which was unsurprising in this chaotic time. Lane was glad to make his own way.

 

It was not a perfect room, but it had the amenities, including twin beds, which was a relief. They could make do.

 

They took turns using the bathroom and changing. Then they went out to eat. Krista was now in a blue dress which accented her eyes and her figure, which was really quite good. She had combed out her hair, which was like corn silk. When he stood behind her before the mirror, he realized that their eyes matched. She smiled, seeming to realize it also. It was as if they were on a date.

 

She was very helpful in ordering food, too, because she knew the cuisine and the language. They had a good meal.

 

Something occurred to Lane. "Ernst Best--what was he to you? Ernst--Krista?"

 

She smiled again, and he realized that she was not just pretty, she was beautiful. "Ernst, Krista," she said, then made a kiss.

 

"His girlfriend!" he exclaimed, glad for the confirmation of his assumption. "That's why you're ready to go with me. To find him."

 

"Find Ernst," she agreed.

 

They finished the meal and returned to the hotel. But Lane was excited by the the thought that this woman might know of Quality. "Ernst knew Quality Smith. Quality. You know Quality?"

 

"Quality," she repeated.

 

"Yes. My--my girlfriend. You know?"

 

She seemed to hesitate. Then she lifted the hem of her dress, showing her fine leg. "Girlfriend?"

 

She thought he was asking her for sex! "No, no! Not you." Apparently he would not be able to question her about this. Not until they had a better mutual vocabulary. "Let's learn words," he said. He pointed to himself. "Man." Then to her. "Woman."

 

"Man, woman?" she asked, lifting her dress again.

 

"Oh, brother!" he muttered. Then, to her: "Forget it." he turned away.

 

"I know some English," she said.

 

Lane whirled around. "You know? You understand me?"

 

"I understand you, Lane Dowling."

 

"Then why the dumb act? We could have been talking all along!"

 

"Because a man traveling with a woman might take advantage."

 

"I've been trying to explain, that's not what I'm after! I just want to find Quality!"

 

"Not Ernst Best?"

 

"Him, too. He's my friend. But if he knows where Quality is, she's my fiancée. I have to find her."

 

She paused, evidently considering. "I must tell you, Ernst Best and I are no longer that close. Suppose your Quality has found another man?"

 

"In Germany?" he asked, laughing. "Let me tell you, she's a Quaker. A pacifist. An American. How would she find a man here?"

 

Krista shrugged. "Do the folk of different lands never get together?"

 

"Of course they do! But Quality is different. If you knew her, you'd know."

 

"You would never find another woman? From another land?"

 

"You mean if Quality found another man?" Lane shook his head, finding the question awkward. "The truth is, I last saw her in 1938. It's been seven years. I don't know whether I still love her. But I have to be sure she's okay, and if she still loves me, I'll marry her. I mean to do what is right."

 

Krista nodded. "You are a good man, Lane Dowling."

 

"I'm just doing what I have to do."

 

She unbuttoned her dress and pulled it off over her head.

 

"Hey!" he protested. "Go change in the bathroom. I already told you I wasn't after your body."

 

"I apologize. I forgot." She held her skirt in front of her and walked to the bathroom in her bra and panties. He could not help seeing how well endowed she was. All his prior impressions of her body turned out to be shy of the mark. Ernst had had good taste in girlfriends! Yet it seemed that they had broken up. What had happened?

 

Krista soon emerged in a gauzy nightgown. She chose one of the beds and got into it. Lane saw another flash of her leg as she did so. Was she trying to tease him?

 

"What happened between you and Ernst?" he asked. "Who broke it off?"

 

"He did. I was most annoyed."

 

"He found a more beautiful woman than you?"

 

"Yes."

 

"I don't believe it."

 

She glanced sidelong at him. "Believe it, Lane Dowling."

 

"Oh come on, call me Lane. We can be friends, can't we? Or at least not enemies."

 

"I would like to be friends." She smiled and lay back.

 

He went to the bathroom to strip and clean up. Then he realized that he would have to walk by her bed in his underpants, as he did not use pajamas. This was awkward.

 

Well, there was no help for it. He walked out, went to his bed, and turned off the light. She seemed to be asleep, which was a relief.

 

"You have a nice body, Lane," she said.

 

***

 

Next day they resumed the drive to Berlin. Krista wore a skirt and blouse. It was amazing what she had been able to pack in her single bag. The blouse was tight and translucent in bright light; he kept catching glimpses of the outline of her bosom. Finally he addressed the matter. "Please put on a jacket or something, Krista."

 

"But it is warm."

 

"Because you are driving me crazy. I promised to leave you alone, but the sight of you keeps reminding me how long it's been since I've had a woman."

 

"I can do that."

 

"So if you'll just put on something--" He broke off. "Do what?"

 

"You have been kind to me, Lane. You have been a gentleman. I understand your need. I can oblige it."

 

"What are you, a whore?"

 

Her face froze. Then she hid it in her hands.

 

Lane felt like a heel. "Oh, damn, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to say that. I apologize."

 

She faced away from him.

 

He pulled the car to the side of the road. "Krista, I said I was sorry! It's--I've been in the RAF, and the women--it's like a reflex. They do it for money. Of course you're not that kind."

 

She lifted her face, wiping the tears away. "I understand. I should not have spoken that way. I thank thee for thy apology."

 

"'Sokay." He started the car again.

 

Then he did a mental doubletake. Could she have--no, of course not. In his confusion he must have imagined it.

 

But his interest in Krista increased. She was becoming fascinating in more than just her body.

 

They reached Berlin in the afternoon. Then Lane remembered: "The Russians hold Berlin! They aren't letting Americans or British in. We're allies, but they haven't quite caught on yet. This is no good."

 

"But workers go in and out," she said.

 

"I'm not a worker."

 

She smiled. "But I am. Or was, before they closed down my job. I could go in. You could pretend to be a German worker."

 

"I can't speak a word of German!"

 

"Ja means yes. Nein means no. That will be enough."

 

"You're crazy!"

 

She gave him a level stare. "Do you want to get in?"

 

"Yes! But not if I get shot for spying!"

 

"They will not shoot an ally. But I think they will not stop us. All we need is some German clothing for you, and a card. I have an extra card for you."

 

"Now why do I have the suspicion you are not as innocent as you look?" he asked, amazed.

 

"I had to survive in a defeated nation. I learned how."

 

She took him to a store where he bought a typical German worker outfit. This was a lot like a Nazi uniform, which made Lane wince; it had black boots, baggy brown trousers, a billed cap, and a slightly less weathered place on the arm where the red Nazi armband had been. Obviously a secondhand outfit, though he had paid the price for a new one. Then she had him take the passenger seat while she drove. But before she got in, she adjusted her clothing.

 

"What are you doing?" Lane asked, staring. Her skirt was now drawn up to the point of nonexistance, and her blouse was open to the naval.

 

"I am arranging not to be questioned closely."

 

"You're asking to be raped instead!"

 

"In public daylight? I think not."

 

He spread his hands. "Do it your way."

 

They did it her way. The Russian guard looked down into the car as Krista proffered her card, leaning toward him. His face went slack. He passed their two cards before his face and approved them without blinking. Soon they were on their way into the city.

 

Lane shook his head in wonder. "You're some woman, Krista!"

 

"Thank you."

 

"Were you really upset when I called you a--when I said what I shouldn't have?"

 

She shot him one of her sidelong glances, half smiling.

 

Lane made a soundless whistle. This was a woman who knew how to manage men! His eyes kept straying to her body, but this time he did not ask her to cover it.

 

She drove to the building where she said Ernst had worked. "He was in the SS," she explained. "I used to date him here. But he never told me his work; it was secret."

 

"And he found a beautiful SS woman?" Lane asked jokingly, then bit his tongue.

 

"She was not SS. But she was secret from me, until I came to his hotel room in his absence. Then I found her."

 

"That must have been a hair-pulling scene!"

 

"No. I tried to hate her, but could not. He had given her his swastika, so I knew the game was lost. So I moved in with her."

 

"You're joking!"

 

"No. She was very beautiful and nice. A better woman than I."

 

"I doubt it."

 

"Believe it, Lane. Ernst has a very fine taste in women."

 

"That much I believe. I have good taste too."

 

"I believe it."

 

They parked at the building. Krista readjusted her clothing, becoming considerably more demure.

 

But the building turned out to be in chaos. Those rooms which remained tight were being used to shelter the homeless. The German SS was no longer in operation. "But maybe I can inquire," she said.

 

Krista inquired, speaking rapid German, as she went from person to person, while Lane followed somewhat helplessly Finally she found someone who seemed to know something. "He was transferred to Skorzeny's unit," she reported. "In October."

 

"Who is Skorzeny?"

 

"They say he participated in the--you call it the Battle of the Bulge. The Ardennes campaign, in December."

 

"English-speaking Germans!" Lane exclaimed. "Saboteurs! Ernst wouldn't get into that!"

 

She looked at him. "If they threatened to kill someone you loved, to make you do their will--"

 

Lane clenched his teeth. "If he got into that--if he got caught, they'd have executed him."

 

"Can you reach the American records? To see whether that happened?"

 

"Maybe eventually. But this is now. Isn't there a faster way?"

 

"If they did not kill him, maybe they made him a prisoner of war. There are camps."

 

"We'll check the camps! Where are they?"

 

"I do not know. But your people must know."

 

He looked at her cannily. "Your people must know too! You can probably find them faster than I can."

 

"I will inquire." She did, and in due course had the locations of several recently established camps for German prisoners of war. "But we cannot get into them by showing flesh," she cautioned him as they returned to the car.

 

"We don't have to get into them at all," he said. "I will take you home, as I promised, then check with the prisoner of War Information Bureau. If he's there, I'll find him."

 

"But you will need someone for the German," she said. "I will go with you."

 

He shook his head. "If I remain much longer in your company, Krista, I'll forget my promise to bring you back unmolested. I may even forget what I'm here for."

 

"You need me to get you out of Berlin."

 

"Sure, to take you home. I'll do that. Then--" He paused. "Uh-oh. Are you blackmailing me?"

 

"I would not think of it."

 

"Why are you so hot to travel with me? You don't know anything about me."

 

"I know enough."

 

"We'll discuss it on the way back."

 

To that she acceded. She got them out of Berlin in much the fashion she had gotten them in. Then they went to a hotel for the night.

 

This time the room had only one bed. "Damn!" Lane said. Then he looked at her. "You asked for this! You could have gotten twin beds or two rooms."

 

Krista shrugged.

 

"Listen, Ernst probably could've slept naked in your arms and not done a thing. But I'm not that type. You're trying to seduce me, and you have a damn good shot at succeeding. You have a loathsome disease you want to give me?"

 

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "I want nothing but good for you, Lane."

 

"Why? I mean, why seduce me?"

 

"You are a rich American. I have not gone hungry in your company."

 

"I'm not rich and you're no whore! And don't pull the tears act this time; you know what I'm talking about. You can get money from me without giving me sex. So why are you bothering?"

 

She shook her head. "I do not think you want to hear, Lane."

 

"I'll be the judge of that! You looked at me strangely the first time you saw me. What are you up to?"

 

She met his gaze. "Please, Lane, there will be real tears if we go into this. I will tell you when you are ready. You must trust me that far."

 

"I don't trust you at all! You have an ulterior motive. Are you a spy or something? What do you want from me?"

 

She spread her hands in surrender. "Then I must say it. I want to marry thee."

 

"Marry me!" he exclaimed incredulously. "We spend two days and nights on the road, and you want marriage?" Then before she could answer, he held up his hand in a "stop" signal. "There! You did it again. You said 'thee.' You know Quality!"

 

Krista bowed her head. "Now I must tell you, and take the consequence. Quality was the woman who took Ernst from me. The one with whom I roomed. I polished my English, talking with her, and I learned her ways."

 

Lane dropped to the bed, stunned. "Ernst--Quality? They would not!"

 

"They did not mean to. But she was fading in a prisoner camp in France, and he could save her only by taking her with him and hiding her in his room. Then he hit her, and--"

 

"What?"

 

"Another officer suspected his loyalty, and thought that she was a subversive agent. So Ernst knocked her down to show that he did not care for her, and after the other was gone, they recognized their love."

 

"But he would never--she would never--"

 

"Believe it."

 

He turned on her. "You--what's in it for you?"

 

"She took my man. I will take hers."

 

"In revenge? I want no part of this!"

 

"In understanding. She chose you first, so I knew you were a good man. You are now without a woman. You are hurting as I was hurting, but I can ease your hurt. I know you, Lane Dowling."

 

"You can't know me!"

 

"I know you from her. I know every detail of you. I know how you seek unusual friends. I know the weakness of thy childhood, and the strength of thy manhood. I know--"

 

"Don't do that!"

 

"I do it when I forget myself, as she does. She calls me thee."

 

"She calls you--you know where she is now!"

 

"She is with Ernst's family. They moved out of Wiesbaden, to better survive the war, but I see them often. She said she would introduce me to you, but you found me first."

 

"You could have taken me right to her!"

 

She shook her head. "You were not ready, Lane."

 

"You know I'd never touch you if I found her!"

 

"I knew your heart would break if you found her too soon."

 

"So you're just going to patch it up. Just like that."

 

"I had hoped to. If I could have had enough time with you, before you learned."

 

"You even proposed marriage to me!"

 

"No. You asked me what I want of you. I told you. That is not the same. I did not want to tell you yet."

 

"That's right! You did everything you could to avoid telling me anything! Knowing where Quality was all the time."

 

"Yes."

 

He stared at her. "That's a really practical deal, Krista. Everything all set up in advance."

 

"I am a practical woman." She dabbed at her face.

 

"And now you make with the waterworks again."

 

"I said there would be real tears, this time. I meant yours. I meant mine."

 

"Why the hell should I believe you?"

 

"Because it is true."

 

He got up and paced the floor. "Well, you got some of it right. You did hurt me."

 

She did not reply.

 

"Tell me again: exactly why do you want to marry me?"

 

"I want to marry well. There is a blemish on my ancestry which prevents me from marrying well in Germany. And Germany now is not a good place to be. When I lost Ernst--"

 

"What do you mean by a blemish?"

 

"My grandmother may have been Gypsy."

 

Lane burst out laughing. "No, really. I want to know. What's wrong with your ancestry?"

 

"You do not believe?"

 

"That doesn't matter. I don't care. What does it matter whether your grandmother had two heads? You don't."

 

"A German of quality would care. I may not be pure Aryan."

 

He shrugged. "So?"

 

"So I must marry outside of Germany."

 

"You're serious?"

 

"Always."

 

"No love, no fun, just pedigree? That's all you care about?"

 

"I care about everything. But I must not love without first being practical."

 

"That's not how it's done in America."

 

"You do not understand our ways."

 

"Damn right I don't! What makes you think I could stand having you around all the time, with your--I'll bet you're a Nazi, too!"

 

"I was."

 

"That's all I need! A Nazi wife! That's almost as funny as Quality taking a swastika!" He looked at her. "She did do that?"

 

"Yes. But she was never a Nazi. She accepted it from Ernst in lieu of a ring, because it was his most cherished possession. It is Ernst she loves, not the swastika."

 

"You know, she would do that," Lane said, bemused. "She has her own values."

 

"She is a good woman."

 

"All right! You've really run me through the meat grinder, here. I admit it. You tell me my best friend ran off with my fiancée, and you want to take her place, and you've got sex on the line to prove it. I'm going to tell you one thing, and ask you one thing, and then we'll see."

 

She waited without seeming emotion.

 

"Here's what I'm telling you," he said. "I don't regard sex as a commitment. I could do it with you without marrying you. Ernst is different. So you can't rope me that way. And here's what I'm asking you: suppose we do it, and then we discover that Ernst is dead? Who do you think I'll marry then?"

 

"I do not want Ernst to be dead."

 

"Well, neither do I! But I'm not going to leave Quality stuck here in Germany, for sure! So do you want to gamble that's he's alive?"

 

"Oh, yes! I still love Ernst, in my way. I would never wish him dead. But I have accepted my loss of him. He loves Quality, and I want him to have her. If she died, he would not marry me, he would mourn her. And so would I. And if Ernst is dead, Quality will not marry you. She will mourn him. So do with me as you wish, Lane; I have no fear of that. And perhaps you will find that you like me."

 

"You're on, sister!" Lane felt lightheaded, almost euphoric after the recent storm of emotions. This was like a dream, and Krista was as beautiful a woman as he could remember, and he needed release.

 

In a moment they both were naked. He met her on the bed, and she matched him kiss for kiss and move for move, as passionate as he. She did know him, and she catered to his foibles, fulfilling him almost perfectly. And in the throes of it, he found a strange doubt looming.

 

"God, Krista!" he gasped. "You may be right!"

 

***

 

She guided him to the present residence of Ernst's family. A woman came to the door. "Frau Best," Krista said formally, "I bring Lane Dowling."

 

The woman--Ernst's mother, looked at Lane. "I will tell Quality."

 

Then Quality came to the door. "Oh, it really is thee, Lane!" she cried, rushing out to hug him. "I have not seen thee in so long!"

 

"Krista brought me."

 

She looked up at him. "And did she tell thee, Lane?"

 

He knew already that it was true. Her love for him had diminished into friendship. Now he saw the bright silver swastika at her breast. He found it both appalling and fitting. "Yes. I--I understand."

 

"Now thee must meet my son." She turned back to the house.

 

"Your--?"

 

She picked up a child of about a year and a half. "Ernst Junior."

 

Speechless, Lane looked at Krista, who nodded.

 

Quality caught the look. "I promised to introduce thee to Krista, but it seems I am too late."

 

"Too late," he echoed numbly.

 

"The game is lost," Krista said.

 

"Lost," he agreed.

 

Quality smiled, briefly. "And how long did it take for her to conquer thee, Lane?"

 

He had to smile, realizing that there was a new game. "About two days."

 

 

Chapter 14

Rheinberg

 

Ernst lost track of the number of prisoner of war camps through which he was routed. There was such a tremendous influx of prisoners as the war ended that the camps were constantly being reorganized. Conditions were harsh, but that was to be expected; at least they were not being gunned down.

 

In April, 1945, he was transferred to a new camp on the Rhine River, only about two hundred kilometers from Wiesbaden. This was Camp Rheinberg, ironically close to the place where Neanderthal Man had been discovered and named. It was surrounded by nine kilometers of barbed wire fencing. There were no guard towers, no tents, no shelter, no water, no cooking facilities and no latrines. It was essentially open countryside. There was not even enough barbed wire to divide the camp into separate enclosures; all the prisoners, men, women and children, were crowded in together. There were, it seemed, about one hundred thousand of them.

 

Ernst observed this with despair. He had seen the camps in which partisans were confined before they were killed; this was of that nature. This was an Allied death camp.

 

Trucks brought food, but there was little organization. The prisoners had to fend for themselves, walking up to get what they could, and retreating to allow others their turns. There was little internal strife; they knew that it was pointless. All of them had one mission: to survive.

 

"But where is our shelter?" a prisoner asked querulously in German.

 

"There is none," Ernst said.

 

"But what of the Geneva Convention? Prisoners of war are supposed to have shelter, to receive mail, and be visited by the Red Cross."

 

"Did we honor the Geneva Convention on the Russian front?" Ernst asked rhetorically.

 

"But they were animals! Jews, partisans, traitors."

 

"They were captive enemies. Now we are the captives."

 

The man stared at him, not willing to comprehend the implication. "The Russians--we expected no mercy from them. But the Americans are softhearted. They are merciful to enemies."

 

"Let's hope so," Ernst said. But his experience in American captivity the past three months gave him little hope. It did not seem to matter what the nationality of the captors was, or the nationality of the partisans; the end was the same. It was in its fashion fitting: he had not helped the Russian partisans, and now no one would help him. He had merely changed sides: from outside the barbed wire to inside. That was the only difference.

 

At first he had been treated decently, but as increasing numbers of German troops surrendered, the facilities had been overwhelmed. He had been shipped to ever-larger, ever worse camps. The respect of the front-line officers for enemy officers had gradually been replaced by the disrespect of the rear-echelon corporals.

 

Some prisoners had been treated carefully: the "Wanted." This was not a good status, for those were the war criminals: the officers who had given the orders to extirpate Jews or to commit atrocities. They were being saved out for trial. Ernst was among the unwanted, which had seemed better, at first. He had hoped he would be interrogated and released in due course, but it became apparent that surrendering to the Americans had been a grotesque mistake. He had learned from the remarks of the guards and other prisoners that the American General Eisenhower, though possessed of a German name, hated not only Nazis but all things German. He wanted to destroy the German military machine forever, and the German industrial complex. He wanted a "Carthaginian peace": the settlement the Romans made on their most formidable enemy, the Phoenician city of Carthage. Total destruction. They had plowed salt into the earth so that no crop would grow there. Germany was to be reduced to a peasant economy, as in medieval times. The destruction of its manpower was the second step in this program; the industry had already been demolished.

 

Ernst sat on the ground and dug into the dirt with his tin cup. He poured cupfuls of dirt to the side and his hole deepened.

 

"What are you doing?" the nearest man demanded.

 

"I am digging a hole."

 

"But you need to drink from that cup!"

 

"First I need protection from the night."

 

The man considered. Then he lifted his own cup. "May I join you?"

 

"If you dig your share. I am Ernst." Prisoners did not bother with their last names, because their acquaintances were likely to be fleeting.

 

"I am Ludwig."

 

The man began digging. Soon others, observing them, were doing the same. Holes developed, with mounds of earth between.

 

A woman came. "May I join you? I see that you are strong men."

 

Ernst looked at her. She might have been attractive once, but she was in a sad state now. Her hair was matted and her dress was so dirty that its original color could not be told. She was thin, and there was a festering sore on one arm. "You look too weak to do your share of digging."

 

"I have a cardboard."

 

Ludwig laughed, but Ernst did not. "Fetch it."

 

"It is here." She lifted a section of cardboard about as long as a man and somewhat wider. It had evidently been salvaged from a supply box.

 

"What is your name?," Ernst asked, by that token accepting her. "I am Ernst."

 

"Johanna."

 

"But what good is that?" Ludwig asked.

 

"It is good insulation," the woman explained. "Like a blanket."

 

The man nodded, suddenly appreciating its value. "Ludwig."

 

They dug the hole as deep as was feasible, then tried it. The two men lay down at either side in their clothes, with the woman in the middle. The cardboard covered her and part of each of them. It would have to do.

 

The trucks brought food in the evening, but not enough. Ernst and Ludwig got some American K rations, but Johanna was not able to forge to the front before it ran out. There was no water.

 

Ernst measured off a third of his portion and gave it to her. He glanced at Ludwig. The man hesitated, then did likewise.

 

"I will return this favor when I can," Johanna said. She did not offer anything now; it was obvious that even sex would be no reward for them in her present filthy state.

 

"How did you, a woman, become prisoner?" Ernst asked.

 

"My husband was trying to defend our house. He shot an American in the hand. They killed him, and took me." She did not need to say what they had done with her; it was obvious that after raping her they had simply put her in with the prisoners.

 

Someone started singing as the dusk came. They joined in, singing German folk songs. It was not great music, but it engendered a feeling of camaraderie.

 

The night got cold. The people walked to one side of the compound, near the barbed wire, before hunkering down in their holes. The three of them followed to the edge, and found a crude trench with a log over it. They took turns on the log, two standing at either side of the trench to hold the third steady in the middle. They did not worry about modesty; the facility was crowded, and the line of people was long. Those who needed only to urinate did so from the sides, without waiting.

 

They returned to their hole and settled in for the night. The cardboard blanket was a considerable help, as was their closeness; now Ernst understood with new clarity how Quality had survived in Gurs. Body warmth was precious.

 

He also understood how he had helped her, in that camp. Now he was echoing her experience, and his love of her welled up and gave him strength to carry on. This, too, was fitting.

 

A wind came up in the night, chilling them despite their limited shelter. Ernst heard the moans of those who had not made holes; they had no protection at all. Those others had to huddle together in human mounds, with the associated discomforts. Ludwig, Johanna and Ernst huddled too, but at least they were out of the wind and had the protection of the walls of their pit and their cardboard blanket.

 

In the morning they went to wait at the gate, so as to be ready when the food was delivered. Soon long lines formed behind them, as others realized that this was probably the only way to get fed. But the food was slow in coming. Instead a guard signaled Ernst aside. "Speak English?" he asked.

 

"Yes, sir." The man was a sergeant, but too much respect was a better risk than too little.

 

"You look strong. You're assigned to body detail."

 

"Sir?"

 

"Any dead bodies in there, you haul them out here. You get a bonus for it." The man held out two packages of food.

 

"Thank you, sir." Enst tried not to show his extreme eagerness for the food, because he knew it would always be in short supply and would be a terrible tool for discipline. That had been the way of it on the Russian front. "Do you wish me to look now?"

 

"Get moving."

 

Ernst tucked one package inside his shirt and opened the other. He set off around the edge of the camp, just inside the barbed wire, eating as he walked. Others would believe that this was his only ration. He did not speak to Ludwig and Johanna, knowing that they had seen, and that it would be better for them if no one else realized that they were associated with a man who had food. The two of them might be denied it by the camp authorities, or other internees might attack them and him for it. Again, Ernst's experience as an observer in Russia prepared him; he had survival information. For that much, perhaps, he should thank Dr. Kaltenbrunner.

 

"Are there any dead?" he called in German.

 

To his surprise, he received an answer. He went to the man who had answered and squatted by the indicated body. It was an old man whose eyes stared unblinkingly at the sky. He must have been dying when unloaded here. "I will take him away," Ernst said. "Have you saved his things?"

 

"We would not rob the dead!" the man protested.

 

Ernst gave him a level stare. "If we do not save what we can, we will all die sooner. His things are of no further use to him. He would want you to have them."

 

The man nodded reluctantly. He bent to rifle the pockets of the dead man. There were a few coins. He offered them to Ernst.

 

"No. I am paid to do this work." He looked at the man's feet. "Take his shoes, also; they may fit someone. And his shirt." He got the shoes off and handed them to the man.

 

"This is ghoulish," the man protested.

 

"This is survival. I saw it on the Russian front. Now it is our turn. We may be here a long time. We can not afford pride or niceties." He turned the dead man over and worked his shirt off. He gave that, too, to the living man. "Share as you see fit; do not stain his memory by hoarding what you can not use. Then get in line for food; they will not bring it to you."

 

The man nodded, appalled as comprehension came.

 

Then he took hold of the dead man's ankles and pulled him along the ground toward the edge. The man's head left a trail in the dirt. Ernst keep hauling, and in due course got the body to the front gate.

 

"That's the ticket," the sergeant said. Two soldiers came to pick up the body. They tossed it unceremoniously onto the back of a truck.

 

Ernst went out again, looking for bodies. By noon he had found three. Then he took a break and joined Ludwig and Johanna.

 

"I got water," she said. She proffered her cup.

 

"But did you drink?" Ernst asked.

 

"Yes. I refilled it while I could."

 

Gratefully, he drank. The water tasted of dirt, but his thirst was formidable.

 

Then he brought out his package and shared it with the others. It was a generous ration. "It pays to have a job," he said. They had eaten in the morning, but had been given only single packages.

 

He looked for bodies again in the afternoon, and found two. He was rewarded by another extra package. He realized that the sergeant wanted to keep him healthy enough to continue this work, so that no American would have to do it. It was a fair deal.

 

So the pattern was set. They deepened their hole, and it offered protection against the heat of the day. But then it rained. The cardboard became sodden, and the icy water soaked through their clothing. The bottom of the hole formed a pool. They had to sit up to avoid the worst of it, but there was no escape. The walls of their hole collapsed. They heard exclamations as the same thing happened to others.

 

The woman was shivering violently. "We must get closer, before we freeze," Ernst said. "Joanna, we will embrace you from front and back."

 

They did so, with Ludwig behind and Ernst in front, lying on their sides with the wet cardboard on top. Slowly Johanna's body warmed, and they slept. Ernst dreamed of Quality, and that was his only comfort for the night. She had been through this, and had survived; he must do the same.

 

The next day more were dead from exposure. More men had to be recruited for hauling. In this manner Ludwig also got a job, because of Ernst's recommendation; he did not speak English, but Ernst gave him instructions, and the guards were satisfied. Johanna went alone for food and water, with better fortune than before.

 

Then the rations were cut. They weren't sure when it happened; the camp was timeless in its fashion, because there were no calendars and only a few prisoners retained watches.

 

Ernst learned why the hungry became apathetic: protest required energy. An increasing number of people simply sat in their holes doing nothing. Johanna was one of them. She had diarrhea, and it vitiated her. The had to almost carry her her to the latrine trench, and then she lacked the strength to get her clothing down. They had to do it for her. It was the same with others. The smell intensified throughout the camp, and there was the sound of weak coughing. Disease was rampant because the resistance of the prisoners was low. The death count rose.

 

They dug their trench deeper, and made a cunette, a ditch within the trench, to help drainage in a storm. Even so, the sides tended to collapse. Others were also digging, and now the camp was a network of holes with narrow paths threading between them. Sometimes people slipped on the muddy surface, and fell into the holes. The holes were so deep, and the people so weak, that this could be a serious matter; they had to have help to get back out.

 

One night during a heavy rain they heard screams nearby: the walls of a deep trench had collapsed on its occupants, burying them, and the neighboring prisoners were too weak to dig the victims out before they suffocated. Soon the commotion faded; it wasn't as if death were uncommon, here.

 

Ernst and Ludwig considered, then reworked their trench so that the sides sloped. The ones that had collapsed had had almost vertical walls and were deep. That was too dangerous. But their own trench had to be made shallower, because there was no room to broaden it without overlapping the neighbors' holes. Thus the protection against the wind and sun was less.

 

Ludwig came down with a terrible fever. He could barely stand or walk. Light red froth showed at his mouth when he coughed. "I'm done for," he gasped. "I must get away from here, so I don't spoil our trench with my body."

 

"The hospital," Ernst said. "Maybe they'll take you, now." The guards had been adamant that only those on the verge of expiration be allowed access to the camp hospital.

 

He helped the man to walk to the gate. "This man is very sick," he told the guard in English. "His disease may spread. He needs to go to the hospital."

 

The guard eyed Ludwig, nothing the phlegm and blood on his chin and shirt. "Okay. Bring him out."

 

Amazed at this fortune, Ernst walked Ludwig through the gate and helped him into the truck. "You go along," the guard told Ernst. "We don't want to touch him."

 

So Ernst rode too, as the truck bumped along. Soon it stopped. "Get him out," the driver called back.

 

Ernst looked out. "But this is just another open field!" It wasn't even that; part of it was freshly turned dirt with bulldozer tracks on it.

 

"Yeah. Unload him."

 

Appalled, Ernst hesitated. "Do it," Ludwig said. "I will die anyway. You will have more room in the apartment." He tried to laugh, but only choked.

 

"Move it," the driver said.

 

Ernst got down and lifted Ludwig down. The man lay on the dirt. Now Ernst understood about the freshly turned earth; evidently all prior visitors had been promptly buried. "Farewell, my friend," Ludwig gasped.

 

"Farewell," Ernst whispered. Then he climbed back onto the truck.

 

Back at the camp, he was uncertain what to say. Men had gone to the "hospital" before and not returned, but it was assumed that they were taking time to recover. Now he knew that they were dead. It was a dying place, a burial ground, nothing more. The same place they took the bodies which were already dead. Was there any point in telling?

 

He walked back to his trench. Johanna looked up. "I thought I would be the first of us to go," she said.

 

"Don't go there," Ernst replied.

 

She nodded, understanding.

 

***

 

The days passed. The prisoners were assuming the likeness of walking skeletons, except for their swollen bellies. Johanna herself looked pregnant, but Ernst knew that this was a grotesque parody. It was the edema of starvation that filled her belly. She was no longer able to go for her food. But Ernst was still strong enough to haul bodies out, slowly, so he still got extra rations, which he shared with her.

 

"I promised to repay you, Ernst," she said. "But I think I will default."

 

"Just survive," he said. "That is all you need to do."

 

Someone must have done something to annoy the guards, because abruptly the water was cut off. Thirst became a monster. Then it rained, and throughout the camp men lay with their faces up, mouths open, their cups out to catch more. It wasn't enough, but there was no better choice. The deaths increased.

 

Then Ernst himself got the diarrhea. At first he went to the latrine trench, but soon that became too great an expenditure of energy, and he had to do it in his trench, and cover it up. Then he became too weak to get his pants down in time, and had to foul himself.

 

"I am sorry I gave you this," Johanna said.

 

"It is throughout the camp," he demurred. "We are so crowded, there is no way to avoid it."

 

She nodded. It was true.

 

Next day Ernst managed to drag himself up, shake out his filthy trousers, and go for food. But there was a change. Bulldozers were coming in. "Move over!" the guards shouted, forcing the prisoners to crowed to one side.

 

Then the bulldozers started leveling the ground, erasing the mounds and trenches.

 

"But Johanna is in there!" Ernst cried, trying to return.

 

A guard swung around, rifle ready. Other hands caught Ernst and pulled him back. "Nothing can be done," a man said. "They don't care."

 

Numbed, Ernst watched as the section of the camp was leveled. Johanna, and all others too weak to leave their trenches, had been buried alive.

 

If the Americans were now openly killing prisoners, instead of hiding it with the fiction of a separate hospital, what hope remained for the rest of them?

 

Indeed, there was activity outside the compound. Trucks were moving, and personnel were gathering around them. Were they going to bring out the machine guns? Was the camp being closed down the easy way? He had seen it on the Russian front.

 

"British," someone said. Now Ernst recognized the markings on incoming trucks. What were the British doing here?

 

Soon enough it was known: this Rheinburg camp was in the sector of Germany to be managed by the British, and they were now taking it over. The Americans were departing.

 

Was this good news or bad news? It had to be good news, because nothing could be worse than the hunger, disease, and callousness they had suffered under the Americans. Perhaps the British would have some slight compassion.

 

Soon enough the British soldiers entered the compound. "Line up to be counted! Line up to be counted!" a sergeant called in English.

 

"Line up to be counted," Ernst repeated in German for the benefit of those around him.

 

A British soldier overhead him. The man approached. "Who speaks English here?" he demanded.

 

Was this more trouble? Or a chance to get extra rations by being of use to the conquerors? What did it matter? Ernst raised his hand, and then several others who spoke English well did the same.

 

"Come here."

 

They followed the soldier to the front gate, where an officer stood.

 

"This is appalling!" the officer said. "You are starving and filthy, and by the look of you, diseased too."

 

"We meant no affront, sir," Ernst said.

 

"We must use you to help our survey of the prisoners," the officer continued. "You will translate our questions for the internees, and give our clerks their answers. We want names, ranks, military numbers and home cities. But as soon as you have done this, those of you in worst need will be taken to the hospital in Lintford."

 

"Sir, we can do what you wish," Ernst protested. "We do not need to be taken to the hospital."

 

"We shall be the judge of that. Sergeant, give these translators food immediatly, then go with them for the survey."

 

It was done. Ernst had his first decent meal in a month. The British were formal but not callous.

 

There were repeated countings, as the orderly British got everything straight. Then Ernst, protesting as firmly as he dared, was put on a truck bound for the hospital. He did feel terrible, because the food made his diarrhea worse: now his system had something to work on. But he was not yet ready to die.

 

Then they came to the town, and to a building. Ernst stared, amazed: it really was a hospital, not a dying field!

 

The next week was something like heaven. Ernst and his companions were given food and medicine and were allowed to read and listen to the radio. Female nurses attended them. They slept in beds with clean sheets. They themselves were clean.

 

Some were already too far gone to be saved, but Ernst saw that the doctors were making every effort. Ernst himself recovered; his illness had been relatively new and slight.

 

He was returned to the camp. It had been transformed. It was larger, and there were tents throughout. The prisoners now had shelter! He saw others staring at him. He realized that he, too, had changed almost beyond recognition. He remained very thin, but he was in a clean uniform and he was reasonably healthy.

 

Soon he had spread the word: the hospital was real. After that, many more prisoners were willing to go. They had been struggling desperately to conceal their illnesses.

 

Now prisoners were being mustered out. But the processing was tedious, and Ernst was needed as a translator. It would be some time for him.

 

He did his work with a positive attitude. He had learned that the British had not realized how badly American and French prisoners were being treated, and were shocked by it. The British prisoners were being cared for and released, as they had assumed was the case throughout.

 

However, an officer advised Ernst, they had notified his family of his presence here, and it was likely that someone was coming to see him. It might be possible to advance the paperwork in his case, so that he could be released sooner.

 

"Sir, I sincerely appreciate this," Ernst replied. "But there are many here I can still help. I prefer to remain until I am not needed." This was not wholly generosity; he still distrusted the fate of those who departed without returning. The British seemed different from the Americans, like day after night--but were they really?

 

The officer nodded. Ernst was dismissed.

 

The following day he was summoned again. This time there was a British airman in the office.

 

"Ernst Best," the airman said.

 

"Present, sir."

 

"Don't you know me?"

 

Ernst looked at the man more closely. A familiarity dawned, then widened. "Lane Dowling!"

 

Then they were embracing. But almost immediately Ernst pulled back. "Lane, before we go any farther, there is something I must tell you."

 

Lane frowned. "That you took my girl."

 

Taken aback, Ernst nodded. "It was not my intention. I--we--"

 

"And I took yours. So we're even."

 

Ernst was set back again. "Krista?"

 

"Krista and Quality explained everything. I've got to tell you, Ernst, that in seven years it had thinned between me and Quality. I--I knew other girls along the way. But I couldn't let her be lost in Germany. Then, when I found out what you did, I was glad, and mad, and amazed, and finally relieved. I realized that it wouldn't have worked out with Quality. We're different types. But Krista, now--there's a woman I can relate with!"

 

Ernst had forgotten about this. Lane and Krista! But he realized that it was a good match. They were of a similar temperament. "Then there is no bad feeling between us?"

 

"Hell no, man! I saw your son. Krista's taking care of him now."

 

"Krista? But--"

 

"I pulled a string to get you released early," Lane said. "Let me tell you, it was hell to locate you! The American camps won't release any names at all, but after this one was transferred to British control, they got the names, and notified us. But they told me that you weren't ready to leave the camp yet. So Quality came here."

 

"Quality--here?" Ernst asked, dazed.

 

Then Lane took him down the hall to another office. There was Quality, just finishing at a desk. She was very like an angel.

 

She turned and saw them. "Ernst!" she cried gladly.

 

He embraced her. Then she explained. "Thee helped me when I was interned. Now I will help thee. I have learned some German, and I know how to help the hungry."

 

"It's been cleared," Lane said. "She's been deputized as an aide and assigned to you. You have been deputized as temporary staff. When you finish up here, you'll know where to go. And now I have to go. There're things to do in Wiesbaden, too." He stood up straight, and lifted his hand in a military salute. "Good luck, friend."

 

Bemused, Ernst returned the salute. Then Lane was gone, and they were walking back out to the camp to help the remaining prisoners. His life was reappearing before him.

 

The End

 

 

Author's Note

 

I realize that there will be readers who are infuriated by the last chapter of this novel. It is considered un-American to suggest that any evil could be associated with America. Nevertheless, it is true: America, too, maintained death camps where disarmed German soldiers and even some women and children were systematically destroyed through starvation, exposure and bad treatment. This information was covered up for forty years, but now has come to light, and I think sensible Americans will prefer to explore it and try to find out how to prevent it from ever happening again.

 

The source of my information is Other Losses by James Bacque, published in hardcover by Stoddart in Canada. You should be able to order it through your bookstore, unless the proprietors, like so many others, prefer to pretend that the book doesn't exist. The truth should be known, ugly as it may be.

 

According to this book, approximately three quarters of a million Germans were killed in American captivity, and one quarter million in French captivity. Only the British acted with decency in this respect. Apparently it was the determination of General Eisenhower and General de Gaulle that Germany should be rendered forever impotent, and the killing of German captives was part of the process. The Red Cross tried to protest, and the Quakers, and the British and Canadian governments, but they were barred from the camps, and mail privileges were denied, so that the prisoners themselves could not describe their situation.

 

What of the Geneva Convention? It was claimed that these were not prisoners of war, but Disarmed Enemy Forces--DEF--who had no such protection. In fact it was a gross and deliberate violation of human rights, similar to what the Nazis and Russians did. It has been easy to ask, pointedly, how the German people could not have known what their government was doing to the Jews and Gypsies. Now the question is reversed: how could we not have known what our government was doing to Germans who had laid down their arms?

 

Well, one reason is the same as it was for the Germans: we don't know because we don't want to know. Even those in a position to ascertain the truth may furiously deny it. I cite as evidence a commentary by Stephen E. Ambrose in The New York Times Book Review dated February 24, 1991 titled "Ike and the Disappearing Atrocities." It is what is known in the trade as a "killer review" of Other Losses. It describes the author's thesis, then goes on to say that "when scholars do the necessary research, they will find Mr. Baque's work to be worse than worthless." The review is, in essence, a comprehensive denial of Baque's thesis, in part and in whole. Since the reviewer is the director of the Eisenhower Center at the University of New Orleans, so should know something about Eisenhower's role in the war, this is a damning indictment.

 

However, my assistant Alan Riggs and I had read the book. I asked Alan to do a point by point analysis of the review versus the book and ascertain, as far as possible, the truth. He spent two days on the comparison and wrote up an 1800 word report. The essence was that, on the whole, the book was correct. The reviewer had two valid points: (1) That we can not at this stage know what was in the mind of Eisenhower, so can not attribute a base motive to him. (2) The author's calculation of the number of German dead was in error. As to the first: lack of information about the secret motives of a man now dead works two ways. Eisenhower managed to hide immediate news of his adulterous love affair with his driver, Kay Summersby, but later documentation pretty well establishes it. There are significant hints that he did know and approve the death-camp policy. So Ike may indeed be innocent--but there is doubt. As to the second: the error in calculation, when corrected, still suggests more deaths than the official records admit. So it was our judgment that the death camps did exist as described.

 

Then came the reader response, in the Letters column of The Book Review for April 14, 1991. The letters covered the gamut from congratulating the reviewer to authenticating the atrocities. Two were from actual prison guards at the camps, one was from a prisoner who had been at Camp Rheinburg and escaped for the same reason Ernst did--British intervention--and one was from an Air Force officer who had witnessed the condition of the prisoners. Another letter writer expressed a caution about Ike's supposedly benign character: he described how Eisenhower had ordered the forced transfer of hundreds of thousands of anti-Communist Russians, Ukrainians and other Eastern Europeans to Stalin's Soviet Union, where death and slave labor awaited them. Another letter mentioned an article on the death camps that had previously been published in a Canadian magazine, which had elicited letters from former prisoners thanking heaven that at last the truth was being told. Significantly, there was no rebuttal from the reviewer. It was obvious that he was in error. So the case seems secure: it did happen.

 

Now some background on my writing of this novel. I am known as a writer of light fantasy, but I have been moving into other areas and have been addressing increasingly serious social concerns. Thus I have written Firefly, related to sexual abuse, and Tatham Mound, about the situation of the American Indians displaced by the white man's colonization of their continent. Volk is similar in the sense that it contains provocative material, but different in other respects. It is technically a historical novel, and I expect to be doing a lot more historical fiction, but no more World War II fiction. I am headed deeper into the human past.

 

I started work on Volk in 1980, but publishers refused to take my non-fantasy efforts seriously and I was unable to place it. So I set it aside with only two chapters completed, and pursued other aspects of my career. Ten years later I took it up again, trusting that my increased leverage as a best-selling writer could enable me to get it into print this time. Originally it was a straight World War II novel, but in the intervening time the story of the "Other Losses" broke, and I realized that Ernst would not have ended up in an ordinary detention center, but in a death camp. Yet as the main character of my novel he had to survive, so he had to be in one of the camps that were transferred to the British.

 

There were other changes, because this novel, like most of mine, looked different when I was in the actual text than it did from afar, in preliminary summary. I had thought that Lane would learn that Ernst had been brutalizing Quality, and swear to kill Ernst. But I discovered in the course of research that Nazi SS men did not approve of abusing women, and could be disciplined for that sort of thing. So Ernst's terrible necessity to brutalize Quality, to prevent his superiors from realizing the real nature of their relationship, was reduced to one episode. Since Lane encountered Quality before catching up to Ernst, no desperate scene could occur with the two men. I had thought that Lane would be shot down over Germany, and be a prisoner, but with Quality already a prisoner, and Ernst destined to become one, I realized that this would be too similar. I had also intended to have a sequence in the defunct Maginot line, and had finally found a book on the subject--and then my story did not provide me the opportunity. Some other novel, perhaps.

 

Krista had a smaller part, and was going to fade out after Ernst fell in love with Quality. But the characters of novels do not necessarily resign themselves to their fates, and Krista refused to fade. So it went, but overall, the novel is similar to the one I worked out in 1980. Except that it is, oddly, less violent. I did not see reason to put in the usual dogfaces-in-trenches battle scenes when my story did not require it; I'm sure that others have done enough of that. So this novel shows other aspects of the war, and seeks other insights than mere victory and loss in battle. I had planned to make more of the German Spanish strategy, as their position would have been significantly strengthened had they taken Gibraltar and cut the allies off from the Mediterranean theater. But that is not the way history went, and this is a novel of history, not fantasy.

 

What of the major characters, after the end of the novel? I believe that after doing what they can for the remaining prisoners of Camp Rheinberg, Ernst and Quality return to Wiesbaden. They seek to do something for the prisoners in other American and French camps, but are not allowed to approach any, and indeed, it is suggested that if they wish to remain free, they need to stay well clear. They return to America with their son, and again seek to change the American policy, but are rebuffed by the layered bureaucracy and secrecy. So it is that they, like other well-meaning folk, are unable to alleviate this horror. Meanwhile Lane and Krista also travel to America, where Krista is quite pleased with the relative affluence. Both couples visit Europe regularly, and their children are bilingual. Today they have disappeared into the fabric of society in much the way my own bi-national family has.

 

As it happened, I had a tiny bit of personal involvement in some of the events of that day. I was born in England, and lived for a while in Spain. My parents were in charge of the Quaker relief effort in north east Spain during the Spanish civil war. Quality Smith is fictional, but the work the Quakers did was real. That was shut down in 1940 when my father was arrested, apparently by mistake, and required to leave the country. We came to America on the same voyage that brought the Duke of Windsor to the Western Hemisphere, after the German plot to kidnap him had died stillborn. But for that exile of my father, I might have grown up in Spain. There is more on this in my autobiography, Bio of an Ogre. I was raised as a Quaker, but elected to go my own way. Thus my choice of a Quaker lady as a main character is not coincidental; I retain considerable respect for the Quaker way. I should clarify that the Quaker "plain talk" was originally an attempt to identify with the common folk, but as time passed and the language of the common folk changed, it became a distinguishing mark. Today few Quakers use it, but in the 1940's more did. Quality's practice of using it only with those to whom she was close is my adaptation; perhaps this is the policy of some Quakers, but not of most. As a general rule, Quakers do not seek to set themselves apart; their beliefs in integrity, pacifism and the "inner light" of the individual's communion with God are firm and to my mind commendable, but there is no "holier than thee" attitude. They have silent meetings instead of church services, and have no clergy; each person finds his own way. It is my impression that where good works are being done without demand for renown or material reward, you are likely to find Quakers. Quality was very much a creature of her religion in that respect, and if she is the type of person you would like to know, look among the Friends.

 

Several people helped me on aspects of this novel. One was Frances Wagner, a correspondent who introduced me to Nietzsche and reminded me of the power of Richard Wagner's music. She also described the tour of Paris which Quality took. Another was Arne Bister, a German student who happened to write to me when I was working on this novel: In ways he seems very like Ernst Best, for he had spent a year in America, been on a wrestling team, gotten to know an American girl, and then returned to serve in the German army. Arne had help in his spot research for this novel from his friend Michael Frömmel. There was irony here, because they included detailed material on the routes and trains leading into the Wiesbaden area, establishing that one of the most beautiful trains of that time, the Rheingold, used Route 600 down the west side of the river, going on to perhaps the most beautiful train station in Germany at Frankfurt. The thing is palatial! But the route 610 on the east side that went directly to Wiesbaden was a lesser thing, used more for freight, and that was the one the Best family took. So we did not get treated to the first class ride on the train with the purple roof, and did not see the phenomenal Frankfurt station. Sigh. "It is not my fault that their estate is in Wiesbaden," Arne grumped. And a special credit to Alfred Jacob, my father, head of the Friends Service Council relief effort in north east Spain. He was anonymous in the novel, but may be known here. Helpful comment was also offered by Stan Carnarius, a family friend.

 

One additional reason I completed the novel at this time: I had the research assistant, Alan Riggs. He was to work for me a year, and I realized that this was the time to do my research novel. Because I have found that I have been spoiled by the ease and speed of fantasy, and am no longer satisfied to take the necessary time for research. There are those who spend three years in research before starting to write a novel, but in the past three years (1988-90) I have completed thirteen novels and reworked one. Three were collaborative, and one was a movie novelization, which speeded things up; nevertheless, it is evident that I move at a good clip, and I'm just not about to take years on any one piece. So with Alan's help I was able to write Volk at almost the speed of a non-research novel. Alan mentions that he had help in the library, locating references, from Dan Monkhern, Drew Wojciechowski and Peg Rombach.

 

You may wonder why I keep departing from the fantasy genre where I have had such success. The answer is that I started in science fiction and fantasy because that was what I liked and knew best. But I never wanted to be limited to it. I want to be free to write in any genre where I may have something to say. But since I have an easier time with fantasy, and make more money there, I don't step out of it unless I have special reason. Thus my non-genre efforts tend to have significant and perhaps controversial elements, as is the case in this novel. What is the point in breaking out of the barrior of one genre, only to be confined in another? I want to be known, ultimately, not merely as a fantasy writer, but as a writer with something to say, whatever the genre.

 

At any rate, I hope that it has been worthwhile for you, the reader. I hope also that those of you who object to the final chapter will do your homework before sending me angry or ignorant letters. It is not me you have to refute, but history.

 

Meanwhile, readers who want a source for all of my news and available titles can call 1-800 HI PIERS. This may go out of business sometime in 1997, however.