‘Sorry, sir,’ said one – the man I’d spoken to before, ‘but we did like you said. We were on our way down to the prison with the prisoner, but when we stopped at the checkpoint near the Kommandatura the field marshal – who was in a passing car – saw us and more importantly he saw his Putzer, Dyakov. Dyakov told him some story about how you’d tortured him in retaliation for the field marshal tearing a strip off you in the officers’ mess the other day. At least that’s what I think he said. Anyway, the field marshal believed him and he was absolutely furious about it. Never seen him looked so pissed off. Turned the colour of beetroot. I’m afraid he countermanded your orders and made his escort drive Dyakov straight to the SSMA; then he asked where you were. We told him you’d gone back to Krasny Bor and he said that if we saw you before he did we were to place you under immediate close arrest and take you to the Luchinskaya Tower.’
‘Where the hell’s that?’ I asked.
‘It’s in the wall of the local Kremlin, sir. Not a very nice place at all. The Gestapo use it sometimes to soften up their prisoners. Sorry, sir.’
‘Tell Voss,’ I said. ‘Tell Voss that I think that’s where I’m being taken to now.’
One of the other field policemen handed back our orders and waved us on our way.
A few minutes later we arrived at a round corner tower made of red brick. From the outside it was a forbidding sort of place; inside the forbidden had become downright proscription: damp and smelly, and that was just the entrance hall. The cell where I was to spend what remained of the night was through a heavy wooden trapdoor in the floor and down a series of slippery stone steps. It was like descending into a story by E.T.A. Hoffmann. At the bottom of the steps I realized I was on my own, and when I turned around I saw the corporal’s boots exiting through the trapdoor. It was the last thing I saw. The next moment the trapdoor dropped with a loud bang that was like a meteorite hitting a mountain top and I was plunged into darkness I could have cut with a knife.
When I’d got a hold of myself, I slid down the rest of the stairs on my backside and then stood up. With eyes straining to see if there was something more than my own poor self, and hands outstretched in front of me lest I come upon some wall or door, I looked one way and then the other, but there was only darkness visible. Plucking up what remained of my sorely tested courage I gulped down some of the cold damp air and called out. ‘Hallo,’ I said. ‘Is there anyone down here?’
No answer came.
I was alone. I had never felt more alone. Death itself could not have felt much worse. If the purpose of my incarceration was – as the kennel hound on the bridge had put it – to soften me up, then I was already feeling pretty soft. I couldn’t have felt softer if I had been made of cream cheese.
I sat down and waited patiently for someone to come and say what was to become of me. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came.
CHAPTER 14
Monday, May 3rd 1943
They released me a couple of hours before the court proceedings, so I might wash and eat something and put on my uniform and consult with Judge Johannes Conrad, who had kindly agreed to defend me. We met in an office at the army Kommandatura, where Conrad informed me that I was charged with the attempted murder of Alok Dyakov, who was also the principal witness; that von Schlabrendorff was to prosecute; and that Field Marshal von Kluge was presiding over the court by himself.
‘Can he do that?’ I asked Conrad. ‘He’s hardly impartial.’
‘He’s a field marshal,’ said Conrad. ‘He can pretty much do whatever the hell he wants in this theatre. The Kaiser had rather less power than Von Kluge commands in the Smolensk Oblast.’
‘Doesn’t he need two other judges?’
‘Not really,’ said Conrad. ‘There’s no legal requirement that there should be two other judges. And even if there were they’d only do what he told them anyway.’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t look good, you know. I think he really means to hang you. In fact he almost seems to be in an indecent hurry to do so.’
‘I’m not really worried about that,’ I said. ‘There’s too much evidence against his Putzer, Dyakov. As soon as that comes out this whole thing will collapse like a paper house.’
I told Conrad what I’d learned about who Dyakov really was and that Colonel von Gersdorff and the NKVD file on Major Krivyenko he had spent all of Saturday translating would prove everything I said.
‘The colonel and I have been working pretty closely on this one,’ I said. ‘He’s just as keen to prove Dyakov is really Major Krivyenko as I am. There’s no love lost between those two.’
Conrad looked pained. ‘That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but Colonel von Gersdorff hasn’t been seen since the commandant’s dinner in the officers’ mess at the department store on Saturday evening. And no one seems to know where he is.’
‘What?’
‘He received a message while he was at the dinner, got up and left and hasn’t been seen since. His car is gone, too.’
I swallowed uncomfortably. Was it possible that Krivyenko had already murdered the colonel when he’d tried to shoot me? That would certainly have explained why he was so confident of remaining at liberty.
‘See if you can find out an exact time that the colonel left the department store dinner,’ I said.
Johannes Conrad nodded.
‘Then I need you to send an urgent message to the ministry of propaganda.’
‘I already did that,’ explained Conrad. ‘Dr Goebbels is in Dortmund right now. Unfortunately communications and rail links there have been disrupted because of an RAF bombing raid the other night. The heaviest since Cologne, apparently. And our own local communications have been disrupted by a new Russian offensive, in the Kuban and Novorossisk sectors.’
‘I’m beginning to understand Von Kluge’s indecent haste,’ I said. ‘What about the War Crimes Bureau? What about Judge Goldsche? Did you manage to contact him?’
‘Yes. But there’s not much consolation there, either.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m afraid Judge Goldsche’s hands are tied,’ said Conrad. ‘As you know the bureau is just a section within the legal department of the military High Command. He takes his orders from the international law section of the OKW and Maximilian Wagner; and Wagner – who’s been ill anyway – well, he takes his orders from Dr Rudolf Lehmann. And I’m sorry to tell you this, but Lehmann is unlikely to do anything at all. The politics are delicate here, I’m afraid, Gunther.’
‘So’s my neck.’
‘You see, recently Lehmann wrote a memo to the Foreign Office arguing that the perpetrators of French war crimes against German soldiers should be a matter left to the French courts. He also ordered a stay of all executions in France, in order to improve relations with the French government. Neither of these went down very well with some of our more senior generals in Berlin, who felt that Lehmann had overstepped himself and that these were matters for local army commanders, most of whom dislike lawyers at the best of times. And that’s not all. Rudolf Lehmann’s from Posen, just like Von Kluge; he’s an East Prussian who’s a close friend of the field marshal and owes his advancement as colonel general of the armed forces legal department to none other than Günther von Kluge. There’s no way on earth Dr Lehmann’s going to try to interfere with the way Von Kluge runs things at Army Group Centre. Not without losing his power base and main patron.’ Conrad sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Gunther, but that’s just how it is.’
I nodded and lit one of Conrad’s cigarettes. Outside it was the warmest day of the year; everyone – even the Russians – had a smile on his face as if summer was truly here at last. Everyone except me that is.