Dämmerung, A Novel of Nazi Germany: Ascension, #3

By Max Overton

Konrad Wengler is captured and sent from one Soviet prison camp to another. Even hearing the war has come to an end makes no difference until he's arrested as a Nazi Party member. In jail, Konrad refuses to defend himself for things he's guilty of and should be punished for. Will his be an eye-for-an-eye life sentence, or leniency in regard of the good he tried to do once he learned the truth?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writers Exchange E-Publishing
• Release date: Sep 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922548177

Book preview

Chapter 1

SS-Unterscharführer Konrad Wengler

January 1944

I still have nightmares, but they do not trouble me as much as they used to.

It is not that the content has changed--I still see myself in the role of murderer--but my mind acts more swiftly when I awake to restore reality. I sweat, I cry out, my limbs jerk, and tears come to my eyes, but within moments of my eyes opening, the memories recede. I only wish that they would go away, leave me entirely, but I do not think that will happen until the day I die. What will happen then, I cannot say. If there is a god, a just god, then how can he look upon me with anything less than disgust and condemnation?

I am a killer--a killer in the name of a regime that has brought untold misery upon the people residing in its lands. I could plead that I am just a soldier obeying orders, but how can any order that involves killing women and children be legitimate? It is my duty as a member of common humanity to disobey such an order, yet for a long time I followed those orders, and that obedience has stained my soul indelibly.

My wife Ilse has stuck by me through everything, and she is probably the only reason I am alive today. I say wife, though I have not yet taken that step--for her safety. You see, I am a Jew--on my mother's side at least--and being a Jew, or being married to a Jew, can be a fatal affliction in a Germany ruled by the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei.  I have a Blood Certificate, signed by the Führer himself, which enables me to live and work in Germany. If that were not burden enough, I am also Schutzstaffel, or SS, and a junior officer in the Totenkopf Division of the Waffen-SS. How I got there is a long story, and all that is important is that I am here and cannot change the past. I must find a future that I can live with, and that will enable my wife Ilse, my daughter Wilhelmina, and my son Gregor to live in peace. Increasingly, as the months and years slip past, that future is becoming harder to grasp.

Germany is slipping further into the abyss and me with it.

I have been on leave with my family in Gruttenau, recuperating from my wounds and the stress of combat, and tomorrow I must return to my unit. I play with my children, little Wilhelmina with her rag dolls and baby Gregor whose sole aim in life seems to be to stand up and grasp things that could lead to harm--the tablecloth, the hot stove, the letter-opener on my desk. He needs constant watching, but I am glad to do it for I will not be here much longer. Ilse busies herself with the housework, but we talk. Our topics cover material we have covered before, and I am sure she must be tired of such discussions, but she is indefatigable in my support and I am grateful to her. She is my anchor in life, though neither of us is nautically minded--perhaps I should say she is my brake, preventing my tortured mind from spinning off the road of life into disaster.

I thought we agreed you would focus on bringing Falk to justice, Konrad, Ilse says as she prepares vegetables for our evening meal. You can do nothing about what has occurred or the people you have harmed. Do what you can and it will be enough.

I know, I reply. I have said it before but my mind keeps cycling back to the impossibility of my task. The Hauptabschnittsleiter is beyond my reach. My only hope of charging him with the murder of Otto Balzer was to find Artur Witt, the shooter. He died in Stalingrad, and his confession with him.

He may not be dead. Maybe he was captured.

That is as good as dead. How am I ever going to find him in Russia?

After the war then. How much longer can this war possibly last? The papers and the radio keep talking about the great victories our army has had over the enemy.

This is dangerous ground, and I hesitate to speak of it, even to Ilse. The children are too young to understand our words, but still I am loath to voice defeatist talk in front of them. Stories abound of children turning in their parents for traitorous remarks, and even if my children would not deliberately betray us, an injudicious word in the hearing of others could still spell disaster.

The war is not going as well as we are told, I say in a low voice.

Ilse stops peeling the potatoes and looks at me. You know this for a fact?

I shrug and, despite the knowledge that we are alone with only our small children for company, look around as if my archenemy Hauptabschnittsleiter Falk is standing in the doorway.

I have been on the Eastern Front and, though our army fights fiercely, we are pushed back by ever-increasing Soviet forces.

They say that is only a temporary setback.

This war is bleeding Germany of its young men and its resources. Men are afraid to speak out, but our cities are being destroyed by the British and Americans.

There is nothing of this in the papers or on the radio.

Of course not, yet it happens. I have seen it for myself, in Berlin. Goering once claimed that no enemy plane would ever drop its bombs on German soil, but now they do so every night and often in the daytime too. I shake my head. The war is going badly.

I had no idea.

Ilse resumes her vegetable preparation and for a time nothing more is said. She finishes her task and brews a pot of dried raspberry-leaf tea that we take outside to enjoy in the weak winter sunshine. We sit on a bench at the side of the house overlooking the bedraggled garden that now bears only winter cabbages and onions. Protected from the chill breeze, we enjoy each other's company in silence. Both of us know I am returning to duty the next day, and we feel the need to make the most of our few remaining hours together. Gregor is sleeping now inside, and Wilhelmina is bundled up against the cold between us on the bench.

I should have married you while I had the chance, I tell Ilse.

We are effectively married; just not registered, she replies. An actual marriage would only draw unwelcome attention from the authorities.

She means that my Jewishness would once more come to the forefront of people's notice, and the scrutiny of the Party might make our lives more difficult. I would suffer this gladly if it were not that she would suffer more--a good German woman giving herself to a Jew would be more than many of our neighbours could stomach. They know it anyway, but as long as the arrangement is unofficial, they can pretend to ignore the fact.

Maybe after the war, she murmurs. When all this business dies down.

If Germany wins, then it will never go away; if our enemies are victorious, then who knows what will happen. You are too young to remember what life was like after Germany lost the Great War.

Ilse is silent for a time, hugging Wilhelmina in her arms. Is there a future for us, Konrad? she asks quietly.

We must believe there is, is all I can reply.

What will you do now?

What do you mean?

If you cannot bring Falk to justice, then what will you do?

The fear is there between us, though unspoken, that without a purpose in my life I will be overcome by my guilt and remorse, spiralling down to depression and suicide.

I shake my head. My duty, I say.

She looks enquiringly at me, so I explain. I am a Jew, a Mischling, but I am also a German. The Nationalsozialistische have taken over the Fatherland, but I still owe my allegiance to the country of my birth. I am a soldier, so I will fight for Germany.

Ilse frowns. You are also Schutzstaffel and a member of...of that Party.

I know. I cannot renounce that without bringing down catastrophe on me and my family, so I must work within the limits of my situation. In my heart, I have renounced these things, but I still belong to the Totenkopf Division of the Waffen-SS.

Could you transfer to an ordinary Wehrmacht unit?

I grimace and look away. Clouds cast shadows that race across the wet winter fields and forests of Gruttenau, and I feel that I too am being blown toward my fate by the same chill breezes.

It doesn't work like that, my love. I have no choice in the matter. I shake my head again. I am in Totenkopf until they transfer me elsewhere or until... I do not finish because my death is the only other reason. To cover up, I hurry on. It does not matter because Wehrmacht or Waffen-SS, we are fighting for the same thing; the survival of Germany.

Not victory? Ilse asks.

If fate smiles upon us, but I think the most we can hope for is a negotiated peace. If we put up a fierce enough resistance, our enemies might decide to negotiate instead of risk further deaths.

The sun slips behind the clouds and what little heat there is in the day goes with it. From inside, Gregor cries in his cot and Ilse rises to go to him. She hesitates and looks at me.

Will it be enough for you? she asks. Knowing you cannot bring Falk to justice?

It will have to be. I am a German above all else and I will fight for my country. What greater service can I perform?

Chapter 2

Hauptabschnittsleiter Heinz Falk watched those same clouds obscure the sun from his office on the top floor of what used to be the Gruttenau Municipal Building. A town council was no longer needed under the auspices of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, so Falk commandeered the building for his own purposes, installing his tame policeman, Meister Rolf Haber, in one of the downstairs offices. The municipal building was the tallest in the town and centrally placed, which fostered Falk's feelings of supremacy. He imagined himself as a puppet master with his fingers on the strings that controlled everyone in the district. Other people had a less complimentary term for him--a fat, bloated spider sitting at the centre of his web.

Gruttenau  was firmly in Falk's grasp now, though his rank of Hauptabschnittsleiter afforded him some grief. He had hoped to have risen higher in the ranks of the Party, to Kreisleiter at least, if not to Gauleiter, but he had been overlooked by his superiors. Gradually, as his thirst for more political power remained unfulfilled, he looked for more tangible advancement, and found it through the influence of his position in the district. One of his duties was to arrest Jews and dispossess them of their property. In a farming district this often meant prime land. Confiscated farms were offered for sale, the proceeds flowing into Party coffers, but Falk controlled the sale, and a number of the best properties found their way into the hands of Martin Falk, his cousin and largest landowner in the district.

Falk and his cousin were partners in the process, though everything was in Martin's name, and both men were getting rich. The only fly in Falk's soup was a certain Jewish ex-policeman who had tried to investigate him and become a nuisance out of all proportion to his importance. This man was still a nuisance despite Falk's every attempt to get rid of him, and he was back in Gruttenau right now. Falk ground his teeth in frustration. He strode to the door of his office and flung it open.

Get Haber in here!

His secretary, Frau Bixler, looked up from her typing. He will be on his rounds, Herr Falk, and therefore not in his office.

Falk snarled. With anyone else he might have snapped back, but Frau Bixler reminded him of his mother. She had ruled her husband and family with an iron hand and Falk had never dared contradict her. Bixler was cut from the same cloth.

Send somebody out to look for him, he said. I want to see him immediately. Falk went back into his office, slamming the door.

Frau Bixler rang down to the police offices and was lucky enough to find young Anwarter Wolff on duty, and he knew where Meister Haber was. He said he would find him and have him report to the Hauptabschnittsleiter as soon as possible.

Sooner, Bixler said. He is in a mood that would sour milk and hostility washes off him like a stinking tide.

Happily, Haber turned up less than thirty minutes later, slightly out of breath and smoothing down his rumpled uniform. He grinned at Frau Bixler.

The schnitzel wants to see me? What about?

I wouldn't let him hear you call him that, and he didn't say. Go in; he's expecting you.

Haber knocked and without waiting for permission, entered Falk's office. He strode across the carpeted floor and executed an exaggerated salute to the man behind the desk.

Heil Hitler, Hauptabschnittsleiter Falk. I come in answer to your summons.

Haber held the salute until Falk scowled and returned it. What kept you?

I have work to do. Police work.

Does that include testing the springs on Frau Esche's bed? I am sure Feldwebel Esche will be grateful that the police Meister is looking after his wife while he defends our country.

Haber's smile slipped for a moment, but he realised there was little that went on in Gruttenau and the surrounding district that Falk would not know about.

I am happy to report her bed is in good order, Herr Falk.

Do you think I care? Falk snarled. I did not call you in here to discuss your adulteries.

Then may I be permitted to know why?

Falk glared at the police Meister. For a man in such a lowly position, he certainly gave himself airs. Was it just that he believed himself useful, or did he imagine he had a card up his sleeve?

SS-Unterscharführer Konrad Wengler, Falk said.

An unterscharführer already? Our Konrad is working his way up in the world again. Haber caught sight of the filthy look on Falk's face and decided it might be politic to scale back his amusement. Sorry, Hauptabschnittsleiter, but Herr Wengler is proving remarkably resilient.

He is still a Jew, Falk said.

Admittedly, but hardly the untermensch we are led to believe.

Be very careful what you say, Meister.

My apologies if I gave offence, Hauptabschnittsleiter Falk, but you have no reason to doubt my loyalty. Haber smiled. What was it you wanted me for?

The Jew; why is he still alive?

That is a question that should be directed at the Gestapo. They investigated him before, didn't they?

Yes; he was even thrown into a labour camp but somehow he managed to acquire a Blood Certificate and get released. I complain to the highest authority and I am led to believe that he will be dealt with. Instead, he is sent to an elite Division.

Where he will no doubt die, sooner or later, Haber said. The Russian Front is widely regarded as a very dangerous place to serve.

Sooner or later is not good enough. I need him dead now.

May I ask why? He can no longer trouble you.

He offends my German sensibilities, Falk said.

Haber knew that the real reason for Falk's desire to see Wengler dead was not offended sensibilities, but rather fear. Falk had committed many crimes against Jews, but he could not be brought to account for those in present-day Germany. There were other crimes though, that he thought were hidden, but were not. Haber knew of some of them, and they formed the basis of incriminating files lodged with a law firm in Bad Reichenhall. Falk did not know of these files, but perhaps he feared Konrad Wengler might track down the same evidence. That would be reason enough to want him dead.

What do you want me to do?

Have him watched, and if the opportunity arises, get rid of him.

You know he is returning to his unit tomorrow?

Falk swore. You are certain of this?

I am surprised you are not aware of it. I thought it was common knowledge.

Falk grunted. It seems I will have to arrange something else then. You have other duties, I am sure, so leave me.

Haber saluted and left, winking at Frau Bixler on the way out.

Falk instructed his secretary to organise a telephone call through to SS-Gruppenführer Heinrich Müller, head of Gestapo.

That may take some time, Herr Falk.

Just get on with it.

It took over an hour to get through to Gestapo headquarters in Berlin, during which time Falk worked himself up into a rage at his initial request for the Jew's demise seemingly having been ignored. When the connection was made, Falk found that Müller was unavailable.

Gruppenführer Müller is in a meeting, Hauptabschnittsleiter Falk.

How long will he be?

Who can say? What did it concern, Herr Falk? Perhaps someone else could assist you.

It concerns a Jew, a Konrad Wengler of Gruttenau...

I think Gruppenführer Müller has more to concern him than a single Jew.

This Jew is...or was...a member of the SS. Müller...Gruppenführer Müller...was going to have him eliminated, but the man is still alive a year later and prospering by all accounts...

I have made a note of your concern, Herr Falk, and will bring it to the attention of the Gruppenführer.

Ask him to telephone me so we can discuss it.

The officer at the other end said nothing for a few moments and when he spoke again, there was a noticeable coolness in his voice.

I will inform the Gruppenführer of your request, but perhaps you could call again.

If I must. When will he be free?

I cannot say. Keep calling until he has the time to talk to you.

I am a Hauptabschnittsleiter and I have better things to do than making repeated phone calls, Falk snapped.

Gruppenführer Müller has more important things to occupy his time, Herr Falk. Call again at another time.

The connection went dead, and Falk slammed the handset down, roaring with rage. He struggled to control his temper and mopped his sweating face before shouting to Frau Bixler to bring coffee and pastries. Later, eating and drinking, he thought about the problem of arguing with an underling.

I should have asked for his Gottverdammt name; talking to me like that. Odds are he won't even tell Müller I called.

He decided the only certain way of getting through to Müller was to write him a letter and send it through official channels. His secretary would open the letter, but he would be sure to add it to Müller's incoming correspondence. Taking out some paper and a pencil, he laid out his concerns, crossing out and adding words, stressing points, and requesting an explanation for why Wengler was still alive. Satisfied at last, he gave the rough draft to Frau Bixler for typing up.

Rolf Haber, meanwhile, had gone down to the office on the ground floor and sent the junior officer in his command, Manfred Wolff, out to do some patrol work. He wanted time to think, and he could not do that with an anxious Anwarter hanging around. Making himself a cup of coffee, he carried it into the main office and sat down on a creaking old armchair. At once, an old cat appeared from the next door office and clambered up onto his lap.

Haber grinned and shifted his cup to his other hand. Hello Felix, come to keep me company? He scratched the old cat under the chin, evoking a deep-throated purr of contentment. Felix kneaded Haber's lap with his paws, making the man wince, but he did not stop the cat. When Felix settled down and went to sleep, Haber sipped his coffee and gave some thought to what Falk had said.

What did Wengler have on Falk that made him so afraid? Haber was aware of many things Falk had done that would be considered criminal were it not for his position in the Party. Wielding the power he did, he could get away with almost anything unless it harmed someone higher up in the Party hierarchy. Had he done so? Haber could not think of anything. Everything he knew was in the files he had lodged with his lawyer, but none of those were especially harmful. They were crimes committed against Jews...but that was an oxymoron in Germany under the Nationalsozialistische. A crime could not, by definition, be committed against a Jew. What then? Had Wengler discovered something else? The only thing that came to mind was the killing of Otto Balzer. Wengler had been obsessed with that case for a time, believing an Anwarter Leo Pelz implicated in the shooting. That had been a dead end though, and as far as he knew, Wengler was not pursuing any other avenues.

Felix woke and stretched, turning around before settling back down. Haber stroked his soft fur and sipped his cooling coffee.

Was the killing of Otto Balzer a sufficient threat to Falk's safety? Balzer had been an ordinary German farmer--certainly not Jewish--who had the misfortune to own a chicken farm near other Jewish farms that Falk coveted. Balzer had died when police stormed his farm after he or an accomplice allegedly shot at them. Shooting at police was insufficient reason for confiscating his farm, so Falk invented a Jewish plot involving Balzer the ultimate anti-Semite. It was a laughable idea, except it was sufficient for Balzer's daughter to be dispossessed of her father's farm.

Almost certainly Falk had a hand in Balzer's death, but how to prove it? Haber was certain the alleged shooter was not Balzer, but if not him, then who could it be? It was not a Jew, because no Jew would risk getting involved in such a plot...but if not a Jew, then who? Had Wengler found the real shooter? Or someone who knew who he was?

Think of that, Felix. Falk must be kacking himself. I wonder who it is.

Haber sat in thought for a few minutes, but could think of no way of finding out who the shooter might have been, unless Wengler told him. That was unlikely to happen; Haber was not high in Wengler's estimation. Was there any other way to find out? Falk would know, but he was hardly going to reveal that to him. Others must know, he realised, but unless he had some idea of who the shooter might be, he could not see how he could track them down.

Does it even matter, Felix? he asked. It all happened five years ago and if Wengler has not been able to charge Falk with it by now, then he will never be able to. Haber tossed around the idea for a few more minutes, but nothing new occurred to him. He shook his head wearily. I think you should just forget it, Felix, and so will I.

Forget what, Meister?

The voice from the doorway so startled Haber that he jumped. Felix woke instantly and fled, his claws digging deep into Haber's thighs as he made his escape. Haber swore and looked up at the Anwarter standing in the doorway.

Verdammt, Manfred, you startled the cat and I paid the price.

Sorry, sir. What should you forget?

Nothing that concerns you, Anwarter. I was talking to the cat.

That is not a good sign, sir. Perhaps you need a holiday.

Perhaps you need more work if you are back already.

Manfred smiled uncertainly and walked into the other office. Haber sat for a few moments longer wondering, not for the first time, whether he was making a mistake leaving incriminating files with Schwab and Renner, lawyers of Bad Reichenhall. Leaving them anywhere might be a mistake. If Renner decided it was in the best interests of the Party to tell Falk about them, then his goose was cooked. He thought it unlikely; he had chosen that firm because it was Wengler's choice, but it was hard to trust anyone in present-day Germany.

Frau Gertrud Bixler typed up Falk's request to Gruppenführer Müller, checked it for mistakes and found none, and then took it in to Falk for his signature. After she had sealed the letter in an envelope and addressed it, she started to screw up the rough draft of the letter. Normally, she paid little attention to the letters and reports she typed up, transcribing the words without registering the overall meaning of the sentences, but in this one she had taken note of the name 'Konrad Wengler'. Now, she smoothed out the draft and read it through.

The content of the letter troubled her, though she found it hard to pin-point exactly why. It concerned the Jewish policeman living in a state of sin with that loose woman Ilse Bauer. Gertrud did not think of herself as particularly anti-Semitic, but she was aware of the low regard in which Jews were held by society and she believed there must be a reason for it. She did not like the way Wengler treated the Hauptabschnittsleiter. Not that Heinz Falk was a nice man, but he was the designated authority in Gruttenau, and was deserving of respect for that reason alone. It was no wonder that Falk was in a foul mood after even a mention of that man's name.

The letter requested the Gestapo chief to look into the reason why Konrad Wengler had not been disposed of as he was supposed to have been a year before. Gertrud Bixler was appalled. However much she disliked Wengler, she could not think of him as an enemy of the state and deserving of death. Imprisonment perhaps, if he was guilty of wrongdoing, but the only crime she could discern from the letter was being Jewish. Well, if that is all, then send him off with the other Jews of the district; resettle him where he could no longer be a nuisance. Execution seemed extreme. Still, she had to believe that the authorities knew what they were doing. They must have access to other information that would warrant such a decision. She started to crumple the paper up again, and then her mind made another connection.

For some reason, her brother Erwin Schwab defended Konrad Wengler in matters of law. She did not object to Jews being represented by lawyers; she just thought it a pity that her brother should do so. But if the Gestapo was going to move against Wengler, then it might be wise if Erwin distanced himself from the Jew in case he became enmeshed in his crimes. Gertrud knew Erwin would just smile and dismiss her words if she spoke to him, but he could not argue with a letter written in Falk's own hand, could he? She would send him the draft and let him make up his own mind.

Chapter 3

Konrad left home in the early morning sunshine, waiting out on the road for a farmer who lived several kilometres away. Ernst Schill farmed pigs and every few weeks took a hog or two to be slaughtered and sold in Bad Reichenhall. He had agreed to pick Konrad up on his way and drop him off at the police barracks, from where Konrad could get a ride to München. Schill did not particularly like Jews, but he had a sense of humour, and took delight in the idea of transporting the Jewish policeman in a van reeking of pigs.

Konrad was aware of Schill's proclivities, but as his Jewish leanings had not yet embraced distaste for pigs, he decided he could put up with their close proximity. The smell was another matter. By the time Schill let his passenger off in Bad Reichenhall, Konrad's clothes carried with them a stink that had passers-by wrinkle their noses in disgust. The police Wachtmeister on duty at the barracks took a similar dim view of Konrad's aroma.

Gottverdammt, what is that smell? Is that scheisse, Unterscharführer?

Regrettably, pigs, Wachtmeister. Konrad handed over his orders and asked for a ride to München on the next transport vehicle.

In an hour's time. You can wait outside.

It is rather cold. Perhaps I could wait here?

Oberleutnant Strauss will be here shortly and he will not take kindly to your stink, Unterscharführer. Believe me; the cold is preferable to a reaming out by the Oberleutnant.

Konrad took the man's advice and found a seat on a low wall outside the barracks. He shivered as the cold worked its way through his clothing, but he hoped the fresh air would help dispel the smells clinging to him. A few minutes after he took his seat, a man in an Oberleutnant's uniform stepped out and stared at him before retreating back into the warmth of the barracks. A little later, the Wachtmeister came out and brought him a tin mug of hot coffee. Konrad thanked him warmly.

The Wachtmeister shrugged. We are all in this together, Unterscharführer. Just leave the mug on the step.

A truck pulled up and the driver went into the barracks, emerging a few minutes later with his paperwork signed. He stood in the cold street, stretching his limbs and yawning before walking up to Konrad.

Are you the soldier heading back to his unit?

Konrad stood up. Yes. I am told you can take me as far as München.

The driver sniffed. I never noticed how foul this town smelled. All right, hop up into the cab.

Konrad did so, but after a few moments the driver grimaced. What are you in civilian life? A pig farmer?

I got a ride with a pig farmer this morning.

Scheisse--literally. Well, wind down the window, for God's sake. I'd rather put up with the cold than the stink.

They set off, but within half an hour the temperature in the cab was so low, even with the heater on, that the driver told Konrad to close the window a bit. By trial and error, they worked out a balance between frigidity and odour that was acceptable to them both.

I'm Emil Fall, the driver said. Unteroffizier, Seventh Transport.

SS-Unterscharführer Konrad Wengler, Totenkopf Division.

Yeah, I guessed you were. Verdammt good job you boys are doing from all accounts. He glanced at Konrad. You must have some exciting stories to tell.

I'm probably not allowed to tell them. You know--security and all that.

I guess. Fall looked disappointed.

Besides, life on the front is ninety percent boredom and ten percent kacking your pants.

Fall laughed. Ordinary soldiers, maybe, but not you Panzer boys. He shook his head and grabbed at the steering wheel as the truck edged into the gravel on the side of the road. Anyway, glad to have you on board--even if you do stink of pig scheisse.

Conversation passed on to less contentious topics, and Konrad even slept for part of the way. They stopped twice for coffee and to relieve themselves, and pulled into the outskirts of München in the early evening. Fall dropped Konrad off near the main railway station, the Hauptbahnhoff.

Konrad had passed through the station several times, though it was even more cavernous and forbidding than he remembered it. He shouldered his bag and made his way to the ticketing office, where he showed his orders and travel papers. The man there issued him a ticket and directed him to a platform, though the train would not be leaving until the next morning. Konrad decided it was not worth finding a bed for the night, so found a vacant bench within the station and made himself as comfortable as possible.

At least the stink of pig scheisse has abated, he murmured.

The night passed slowly, and Konrad woke repeatedly, shifting on the hard surface of the bench. It grew colder as morning approached and he was happy to get up while it was still dark, to use the toilet facilities and then wait for the station restaurant to open. Coffee and a bread roll was all that was available without coupons, so he took that and sat in a corner to break his fast. He bought a newspaper and idly leafed through the sparse pages. Aside from a series of propaganda pieces praising the Party and their illustrious leader, there was little else. A few news items caught his eye and he read them, grimacing at the way they reported German forces steadily progressing on the Eastern Front, pushing the Soviet Army back continually. Only someone who knew the geography of Russia and Ukraine would be able to tell that each successive victory by the German Army was another step closer to the Fatherland.

You have a problem with the news, soldier?

Konrad looked up to see a young SS officer, a Scharführer by his rank badges, scowling at him. He rose to his feet and saluted, waiting until the man returned the salute.

I saw your expression as you read the news reports, the Scharführer said. Our victories bring you no joy?

On the contrary, Scharführer, I am very happy. I am only concerned that the war will not last long enough for me to rejoin my unit and share in the victories.

What is your unit, Unterscharführer?

The Third Panzer Division, Totenkopf.

Grudging admiration showed on the Scharführer's face. He nodded. I will leave you to your meal then. My apologies for having disturbed you.

Konrad watched the officer walk away, grateful for once for Totenkopf's reputation. He left the paper on the table and carted his kit bag back to the station platform to wait for his train, boarding it after showing his papers and travel orders once more.

The train took him north to Nürnberg, where he had to change trains. He had an hour to wait, so he strolled into the city for the exercise, remembering his first visit there some seventeen years before. Then, the city had presented a face full of vigour and hope for the future when the Nationalsozialistische held rallies there. It had been in a building just around the corner, if his memories served him right, that he had listened to Adolf Hitler speak. Konrad stopped in shock when he saw the rubble of bombed buildings, the haggard looks on the faces of the people. Of course, he had heard of the air raids by the British and Americans, but one did not discuss these things, just accepting the official words that spoke of light damage and hundreds of enemy aircraft shot down. Konrad could see now that the authorities had been sparing with the truth.

Konrad returned to the station. He found a small park nearby that consisted of little more than a patch of grass, a few leafless trees and a rickety bench. Here he waited until the train whistle alerted him to its imminent departure.

His route now took him northeast toward Dresden, another city with bomb damage, and on toward the Polish cities of Breslau and Krakau. Guards examined the papers and travel documents of everyone several times on this journey, but they were deferential toward Konrad, once more recognising the status of a Totenkopfer, even of a lowly ranked Unterscharführer.

Krakau was as far as the train went, and Konrad went in search of the nearest military base, reporting to the duty adjutant and handing over his orders once more. Space was made for him on a supply convoy heading east to Lviv, or Lemberg, and then joining up with other convoys as they pressed on deeper into the Ukraine. Somewhere ahead was the Third Panzer Division and Konrad's own Totenkopf comrades.

Where is the Front now? he asked a supply officer on one of their halts to refuel.

The Leutnant turned from his duties to consider Konrad's request. That's a bit hard to say. A month ago we were on the other side of the Dnieper River, now we are on this side of it. He shrugged. I have orders to take this convoy to Krivoi Rog.

That is where my Division is?

The Leutnant gestured to the east. Hear anything? See anything?

Konrad could see nothing but a bleak and wintery landscape and hear nothing but the shouts and clatter of the refuelling convoy.

What do you mean, sir?

No gunfire, no tanks, nothing blowing up. All a good indication that the Soviets are not attacking. That being the case, I dare say we will find the Third Panzers where we left them--at Krivoi Rog.

The Leutnant was correct, and the convoy soon entered a huge German encampment while still several kilometres from their final destination. Men and vehicles swarmed everywhere and only the freezing temperatures kept the earth solid beneath them. Shrubs and grassland had all but disappeared and the earth was churned and cut up so much Konrad knew it would be a sea of mud when the spring thaw took hold.

Konrad took his leave of the convoy at the main supply dump and was directed toward the Totenkopf Divisional headquarters on the eastern side of the encampment. Here, guns and tanks were all facing the Soviet threat, while trenches had been dug and defensive earth ramparts thrown up. A few men recognised him as he walked through the camp, calling out or waving. He exchanged quick greetings but carried on until he found himself at the command tent of his commanding officer, Sturmbannführer Hermann Stein.

Stein looked up as Konrad entered, but went on with looking over the paperwork passed to him by his aides. Konrad waited patiently for several minutes before Stein signed the last piece and his aides took the orders away.

Wengler, I am glad to see you back with us. You have fully recovered?

Konrad saluted his commanding officer. Yes, thank you, Sturmbannführer. I am eager to return to my duties.

Stein looked at Konrad thoughtfully. I can see I was wrong about you, Wengler. When you were first foisted upon me, I thought you would fail within your first month. Instead, you survived and then prospered; and now you are a valued junior officer.

Thank you, Sturmbannführer.

I was disappointed Army Command did not see fit to award you a medal, but your act of bravery came as we were falling back before the enemy. Our commanders do not like to reward bravery in defeat, only in victory.

Konrad did not think that warranted a reply, so he said nothing.

I have it within my power to reward you in some small way, but I would not do it unless I felt it would benefit the Division as a whole. Unterscharführer Wengler, you are now a Scharführer.

Konrad had not looked for advancement, but felt pride that his efforts on behalf of Germany were being recognised.

Thank you, Sturmbannführer.

I expect you will live up to my faith in you, Scharführer. Now go and find your unit and ready yourself for combat. The Soviets have been quiet for some days, but I do not expect that to last. Dismissed.

Konrad saluted and left Stein to his work. An aide pointed him in the direction of his old unit, and handed him the flashes of his new rank. There were many faces that he did not recognise as he drew closer to the tents and dugouts of his unit, but he was at last rewarded by a couple of faces he knew.

Schoff, by God. It is good to see you. Caught any good butterflies recently?

Emil Schoff looked round, and he grinned, embracing Konrad. Verdammt, but it is good to see you back. Have you been busy pressing flowers, Konrad?

The other man looked puzzled. Good to see you, Konrad, he said, but what is this about butterflies and flowers?

Ach, how would you know? Emil said. Our good Unterscharführer used to press flowers as a hobby, Lothar.

And this misbegotten individual used to collect butterflies, Konrad added. But it is Scharführer now. He held his new flashes up.

I thought they would have given you a medal, Emil said, but a promotion is well deserved.

Come and meet the other lads in the unit, Lothar said. We have been getting in new recruits.

Several members of Konrad's squad were busy with their duties, but Lothar and Emil introduced the others who were off duty.

All right, lads, Emil Schoff said. You have all heard of him, now you get to meet him in the flesh. This is Unterscharführer...sorry, newly promoted Scharführer Konrad Wengler. He might look old enough to be your father or grandfather, but he is a verdammt good officer. Scharführer, these wet-behind-the-ears Kinder are your new squad--Max Franke, Jurgen Krause, Gustav Lorenz, August Pohl, and Otto Walther.

Konrad shook hands with them all and asked a few simple questions about them and their previous experience to get their measure. As they relaxed in his presence, they asked questions of their own, eager to get to know the junior officer who would be leading their squad into battle.

How long have you been with Totenkopf, Scharführer? Pohl asked.

About eighteen months, Konrad replied. I joined just like you, as a simple Schütz. Apply yourself and you too can attain the dizzy heights of rank I have. There were a few grins, and Konrad decided it was a bit soon for humour.

You wear the Eisernes Kreuz--the Iron Cross--Scharführer, Krause observed. Where did you earn that?

Canal du Nord. The name met with blank looks, though Lorenz said it sounded French. It is French. A battle in the Great War.

Scheisse, you must be pushing fifty, Scharführer, Walther muttered, flushing with embarrassment as Konrad looked at him.

Not quite, Konrad replied. I joined up at eighteen, just before the war ended.

And what did you get your medal for? Franke asked.

I took out a machine-gun nest with a grenade. Konrad patted his leg. You probably noticed my limp. I got that for my troubles too.

And your battles in Totenkopf?

Konrad shrugged. We do our duty. Totenkopf has a reputation to uphold and I am sure you will all get your chance to prove yourselves.

Later that evening, Konrad took Schoff aside and quizzed him about what had happened since he had been gone.

You're not asking me about the overall strategy, are you? Schoff asked. I'm just a soldier who does what he is told. All I know is we attack the Soviets and they defend, or the Soviets attack us and we defend. He shrugged. It seems to me we have done a lot more defending than attacking. And not always successfully. We were a long way east of here once.

That's what I thought, Konrad said. A while ago, before I joined Totenkopf, I had occasion to come to Krivoi Rog on my way to Kharkov, and it was just a staging post and supply dump then. Later on, in Totenkopf, we defended Krivoi Rog, but now it seems as if this place is on the front line.

Schoff nodded. A month ago, maybe two...you sort of lose track of time, if you remember...the Soviets hit our guys hard, threatening Krivoi Rog, and Totenkopf was ordered in to do what they could not. We checked the Russian advance long enough for our generals to gather enough divisions to counterattack, restoring the front and leaving Krivoi Rog in our hands. Since then, we have been guarding the place while they take most of the supplies away. Now why, I ask you, are we withdrawing our ammunition, our vehicles, and most of our supplies? Does that look like the actions of an army that intends to attack the Russians anytime soon?

Is the situation that bad?

Schoff looked around in case anyone was near enough to overhear them. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Konrad, who shook his head.

I gave up.

Good for you. Schoff lit up and drew deeply, expelling a great cloud of blue smoke. They don't tell us what the situation is, but if I was to guess I'd say it was bad. Schoff drew a curved line in the dirt with the toe of his boot. That's the Dneiper River; we are inside this curve with the Russians on the other side, which means we are in a pocket bulging into their territory. How long do you think that's going to last? He scuffed over the lines, obliterating them.

They'll keep on attacking.

Ficken right they will. We don't get to hear much at our level, but I would say we are well outnumbered and it is only a matter of time. The Russians drove us back to this river and we have turned it into a defensive line, but they won't sit quietly on the other side for long.

Are we...is the Division ready for them?

You know Totenkopf, Schoff said with a grin. We will be ready, even if the other divisions still have their fingers up their arses.

Konrad's squad was soon put to work, digging more trenches, carrying ammunition, and generally preparing for the inevitable resumption of hostilities. He got to know the new men by working alongside them, but most of them were young men who had served in regular Wehrmacht units or as prison guards in the Totenkopfverbände, so he was unsure of their fighting abilities. At least Stein granted him a competent Unterscharführer to serve under him, promoting Schoff to that position.

Schoff grumbled. I was happy as a Schutz, but now I have to tell people what to do.

Poor you, Konrad said with a grin. Just take a few men and go out on patrol.

Jawohl, Scharführer!

Schoff had hardly left when the Russian artillery started up. German guns started firing back and Totenkopf was mobilised to head east toward the Dnieper River. Schoff and his squad made it back unhurt and Konrad led his men to counterattack the Russians pouring over the river in force.

Konrad thought he was ready for it; that the month or so away from his unit had not lessened his fitness, his ability to cope with stressful situations, but the first few hours of the Russian bombardment had him shaking. It was only the responsibility he felt for the men under his command that kept him from diving for cover as explosions beat upon him from all sides and bullets ripped through the air.

Chapter 4

The city of München was far removed from the front lines, though enemy bombers made nonsense of the distance in kilometres. They still came over, particularly at night, the sky lit up by searchlights and the flashes of anti-aircraft shells. Distant explosions overlaid the droning of aircraft engines and the exhalations of fear amongst the people huddled in the bomb shelter.

Sturmbannführer Friedrich Oelsner sat alongside ordinary hausfrau, old men, children and cripples on makeshift benches, the ancient brickwork of the converted bierkellar basement showering them with dust as bombs fell nearby. He cursed the summons that had brought him out that night, and muttering imprecations against Konrad Wengler, who was the cause of it all. Those closest to the Oelsner on the benches drew back fearfully, not wanting to attract the attention of the lean blond-headed man in the uniform of the Geheime Staatspolizei.

The telephone had rung that evening, just before he went home, and he had picked it up, ready to tell the caller to try again the next morning.

Oelsner here. Call back tomorrow...no...sorry sir. He stood up quickly and only just prevented himself from saluting the empty room. Standartenführer Lentz, what can I do for you? Oelsner listened intently for less than thirty seconds before the connection was severed. He stood in thought for a few moments before replacing the receiver in