The lawyer nodded. “Yes, certainly that would get you into bad trouble with the present authorities in Germany. Go on with your story.”
“I was transferred to this clinic, and I didn’t see the Jewish orderly again. Then last Friday I got a telephone call at the convalescent clinic. I thought it must be the bakery calling, but the man wouldn’t give his name. He just said he was in a position to know what was going on, and that a certain person had informed those swine at Ludwigsburg who I was, and there was a warrant being prepared for my arrest. I didn’t know who the man could be, but he sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. Sort of official sounding voice, if you know what I mean, Sir?”
The lawyer nodded understandingly. “Probably a friend on the police force of Bremen. What did you do?”
Miller looked surprised. “Well, I got out, didn’t I? I discharged myself. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t go home in case they were waiting for me there. I didn’t even go and pick up my Volkswagen, which was still parked in front of my house. I slept out Friday night; then on Saturday I had an idea. I went to see the boss, Herr Eberhardt, at his house. He was in the telephone book. He was real nice to me. He said he was leaving with Frau Eberhardt for a winter cruise the next morning, but he’d try and see that I was all right. So he gave me the letter and told me to come to you.”
“What made you suspect Herr Eberhardt would help you?”
“Well, you see I didn’t know what he had been in the war. But he was always real nice to me at the bakery. Then about two years back we were having the staff party. We all got a little drunk, and I went to the men’s room. There was Herr Eberhardt washing his hands. And singing. He was singing the ‘Horst Wessel Song.’
So I joined in. There we were, singing it in the men’s room. Then he clapped me on the back, and said, ‘Not a word, Kolb,’ and went out. I didn’t think any more about it till I got into trouble. Then I thought-well, he might have been in the SS like me. So I went to him for help.”
“And he sent you to me?” Miller nodded.
“What was the name of this Jewish orderly?”
“Hartstein, Sir.”
“And the convalescent clinic you were sent to?”
“The Arcadia Clinic, at Delmenborst, just outside Bremen.”
The lawyer nodded again, made a few notes on a sheet of paper taken from a desk, and rose. “Stay here,” he said and left again.
He crossed the passage and entered his study. From the telephone information operator be elicited the numbers of the Eberhardt Bakery, the Bremen General Hospital, and the Arcadia Clinic at Delmenhorst.
He called the bakery first.
Eberhardt’s secretary was most helpful. “I’m afraid Herr Eberhardt is away, Sir. No, he can’t be contacted, he has taken his usual winter cruise to the Caribbean with Frau Eberhardt. He’ll be back in four weeks. Can I be of any assistance?”
The lawyer assured her she could not and hung up. Next he dialed the Bremen General and asked for Personnel and Staff.
“This is the Department of Social Security, Pensions Section,” he said smoothly. “I just wanted to confirm that you have a ward orderly on the staff by the name of Hartstein.”
There was a pause while the girl at the other end went through the staff file. “Yes, we do,” she said. “David Hartstein.”
“Thank you,” said the lawyer in Nuremberg and hung up. He dialed the same number again and asked for the registrar’s office.
“This is the secretary of the Eberhardt Baking Company,” he said. “I just wanted to check on the progress of one of our staff who has been in your hospital with a tumor in the intestine. Can you tell me of his progress? Rolf Gunther Kolb.”
There was another pause. The girl Ming clerk got out the file on Rolf Gunther Kolb and glanced at the last page.
“He’s been discharged,” she told the caller. “His condition improved to a point where he could be transferred to a convalescent clinic.”
“Excellent,” said the lawyer. “I’ve been away on my annual skiing vacation, so I haven’t caught up yet. Can you tell me which clinic?”
“The Arcadia, at Delmenhorst,” said the girl.
The lawyer hung up again and dialed the Arcadia Clinic. A girl answered.
After listening to the request, she turned to the doctor by her side. She covered the mouthpiece. “There’s a question about that man you mentioned to me, Kolb,” she said.
The doctor took the telephone. “Yes,” he said. “This is the Chief of the Clinic. I am Doctor Braun. Can I help you?” At the name of Braun the secretary shot a puzzled glance at her employer.
Without batting an eyelid, he listened to the voice from Nuremburg and replied smoothly, “I’m afraid Herr Kolb discharged himself last Friday afternoon. Most irregular, but there was nothing I could do to prevent him. Yes, that’s right, he was transferred here from the Bremen General.
A tumor, well on the way to recovery.” He listened for a moment, then said, “Not at all. Glad I could be of help to you.”
The doctor, whose real name was Rosemayer, hung up and then dialed a Munich number. Without preamble he said, “Someone’s been on the phone asking about Kolb. The checking up has started.”
Back in Nuremberg, the lawyer replaced the phone and returned to the living room. “Right, Kolb, you evidently are who you say you are.”
Miller stared at him in astonishment.
“However, I’d like to ask you a few more questions. You don’t mind?”
Still amazed, the visitor shook his head. “No, Sir.”
“Good. Are you circumcised?” Miller stared back blankly.
“No, I’m not,” he said dumbly.
“Show me,” said the lawyer calmly. Miller just sat in his chair and stared at him.
“Show me, Staff Sergeant,” snapped the lawyer.
Miller shot out of his chair, ramrodding to attention. “Zu Befehl,” he responded, quivering at attention. He held the attention position, thumbs down the seams of his trousers, for three seconds, then unzipped his fly.
The lawyer glanced at him briefly, then nodded that he could zip his fly up again.
“Well, at least you’re not Jewish,” he said amiably.
Back in his chair Miller stared at him, open-mouthed. “Of course I’m not Jewish,” he blurted.
The lawyer smiled. “Nevertheless, there have been cases of Jews trying to pass themselves off as one of the Kameraden. They don’t last long. Now you’d better tell me your story, and I’m going to shoot questions at you. Just checking up, you understand. Where were you born?”
“Bremen, Sir.”
“Right. Place of birth is in your SS records. I just checked. Were you in the Hitler Youth?”
“Yes, Sir. Entered at the age of ten in nineteen thirty-five, Sir.”
“Your parents were good National Socialists?”
“Yessir, both of them.”
“What happened to them?”
“They were killed in the great bombing of Bremen.”
“When were you inducted into the SST?”
“Spring nineteen forty-four, Sir. Age eighteen.”
“Where did you train?”
“Dachau SS training camp, Sir.”
“You had your blood group tattooed under your right armpit?”
“No, sir. And it would have been the left armpit.”
“Why weren’t you tattooed?”
“Well, sir, we were due to pass out of training camp in August nineteen forty-four and go to our first posting in a unit of the Waffen SS. Then in July a large group of officers involved in the plot against the Fuhrer was sent down to Flossenburg camp. Flossenburg asked for immediate troops from Dachau training camp to increase the staff at Flossenburg. I and about a dozen others were singled out as cases of special aptitude and sent straight there. We missed our tattooing and the formal passing-out parade of our draft. The commandant said the blood group was not necessary, as we would never get to the front, sir.”