“Impressive, yes?” In his place of work, Halder spoke in the tone of a professional historian, conveying pride and sarcasm simultaneously. “We call the style mock-Teutonic. This, you will not be surprised to hear, is the largest archive building in the world. Above us: two floors of administration. On this floor: researchers” offices and reading rooms. Beneath us: six floors of documents. You are treading, my friend, on the history of the Fatherland. For my part, I tend Clio’s lamp in here.”
It was a monkish celclass="underline" small, windowless, the walls made of blocks of granite. Papers were stacked in piles half a metre high on the table; they spilled over on to the floor. Books were everywhere — several hundred of them — each sprouting a thicket of markers: multi-coloured bits of paper, tram tickets, pieces of cigarette carton, spent matches.
“The historian’s mission. To bring out of chaos — more chaos.” Halder lifted a stack of old army signals off the solitary chair, knocked the dust off it, and gestured to March to sit.
“I need your help, Rudi — again.”
Halder perched on the edge of his desk. “I don’t hear from you for months, then suddenly it’s twice in a week. I presume this also has to do with the Buhler business? I saw the obituary.”
March nodded. “I should say now that you are talking to a pariah. You may be endangering yourself merely by meeting me.”
“That only makes it sound more fascinating.” Halder put his long fingers together and cracked the joints. “Go on.”
“This is a real challenge for you.” March paused, took a breath. Three men: Buhler, Wilhelm Stuckart and Martin Luther. The first two dead; the last, a fugitive. All three senior civil servants, as you know. In the summer of 1942, they opened a bank account in Zurich. At first I assumed they put away a hoard of money or art treasures -as you suspected, Buhler was up to his armpits in corruption — but now I think it is more likely to have been documents.”
“What sort of documents?”
“Not sure.”
“Sensitive?”
“Presumably.”
“You’ve got one problem straight away. You’re talking about three different ministries — Foreign, Interior and General Government, which isn’t really a ministry at all. That’s tons of documents. I mean it, Zavi, literally-tons.”
“Do you have their records here?”
“Foreign and Interior, yes. General Government is in Krakau.”
“Do you have access to them?”
“Officially — no. Unofficially…’He wobbled a bony hand.’…Perhaps, if I’m lucky. But, Zavi, it would take a lifetime simply to look through them. What are you suggesting we do?”
There must be some clue in there. Perhaps there are papers missing.”
“But this is an impossible task.”
“I told you it was a challenge.”
“And how soon does this "clue" need to be discovered?”.
“I need to find it tonight.”
Halder made an explosive sound, of mingled incredulity, anger, scorn. March said quietly: “Rudi, in three days” time, they’re threatening to put me in front of an SS Honour Court. You know what that means. I have to find it now.”
Halder looked at him for a moment, unwilling to believe what he was hearing, then turned away, muttering: “Let me think
March said: "Can I have a cigarette?”
“In the corridor. Not in here — this stuff is irreplaceable.”
As March smoked he could hear Halder, in his office, pacing up and down. He looked at his watch. Six o’clock. The long corridor was deserted. Most of the staff must have gone home, to begin the holiday weekend. March tried a couple of office doors, but both were locked. The third was open. He picked up the telephone, listened to the tone, and dialled nine. The tone changed: an outside line. He rang Charlie’s number. She answered at once.
“It’s me. Are you all right?”
She said: “I’m fine. I’ve discovered something- just a tiny thing.”
“Don’t tell me over an open line. I’ll talk to you later.” He tried to think of something else to say, but she had replaced the receiver.
Now Halder was on the telephone, his cheerful voice echoing down the flagstone corridor. “Eberhard? Good evening to you… Indeed, no rest for some of us. A quick question, if I may. The Interior Ministry series… Oh, they have been? Good. On an office basis? … I see. Excellent. And all that is done?…”
March leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, trying not to think of the ocean of paper beneath his feet. Come on, Rudi. Come on.
He heard a bell tinkle as Halder hung up. A few seconds later Rudi appeared in the corridor, pulling on his jacket. A bunch of pen-tops jutted from his breast pocket. “One small piece of luck. According to my colleague, the Interior Ministry files at least have been catalogued.” He set off down the passage at a rapid pace. March strode beside him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means there should be a central index, showing us which papers actually crossed Stuckart’s desk, and when.” He hammered at the buttons beside the elevator. Nothing happened. “Looks as if they’ve turned this thing off for the night. We’ll have to walk.”
As they clattered down the wide spiral staircase, Halder shouted: “You appreciate this is completely against the rules? I’m cleared for Military, Eastern Front, not Administration, Internal. If we’re stopped, you’ll have to spin Security some yarn about Polizei business — something that’ll take them a couple of hours to check. As for me, I’m just a poor sucker, doing you a favour, right?”
1 appreciate it. How much further?”
“All the way to the bottom.” Halder was shaking his head. “An Honour Court! Dear God, Zavi, what’s happened to you?”
Sixty metres beneath the ground the air circulated cool and dry, the lights were dimmed, to protect the archives. “They say this place was built to withstand a direct hit from an American missile,” said Halder.
“What’s behind there?”
March pointed to a steel door, covered with warning signs: “ATTENTION! NO ADMITTANCE TO UNAUTHORISED PERSONS!” “ENTRY FORBIDDEN!” “PASSES MUST BE SHOWN”.
“ "The right history is worth a hundred divisions", remember? That’s the place where the wrong history goes. Shit. Look out.”
Halder pulled March into a doorway. A security guard was coming towards them, bent like a miner in an underground shaft, pushing a metal cart. March thought he was certain to see them, but he went straight past, grunting with effort. He stopped at the metal barrier and unlocked it. There was a glimpse of a furnace, a roar of flame, before the door clanged shut behind him.
“Let’s go.”
As they walked, Halder explained the procedure. The archive worked on warehouse principles. Requisitions for files came down to a central handling area on each floor. Here, in ledgers a metre high and twenty centimetres thick, was kept the main index. Entered next to each file was a stack number. The stacks themselves were in fire-proof storerooms leading off from the handling area. The secret, said Halder, was to know your way round the index. He paraded in front of the crimson leather spines, tapping each with his finger until he found the one he wanted, then lugged it over to the floor manager’s desk.
March had once been below-decks on the aircraft carrier, Grossadmiral Raeder. The depths of the Reichsarchiv reminded him of that: low ceilings strung with lights, the sense of something vast pressing down from above. Next to the desk: a photocopier — a rare sight in Germany, where their distribution was strictly controlled, to stop subversives producing illegal literature. A dozen empty carts were drawn up by the lift-shaft. He could see fifty metres in either direction. The place was deserted.
Halder gave a cry of triumph. “State Secretary: Office Files, 1939 to 1950. Oh Christ: four hundred boxes. What years do you want to look at?”