An order comes through sending him to Lechfeld to try out the Me 262. He gets on the phone to protest. How can he leave his guys? They have replacements every day. He refuses to send them up against the Amis until he’s given them a few more hours in the air. Schaefer, if he’s the one to stand in for Jochen, won’t have the status to resist Jonny Beck or anyone higher up the chain. His protest is denied, and he flies south.

  Lechfeld. Near Augsburg. The Messerschmitt works. A long concrete runway. Not so good for a Gustav that really needs a grass field where you can always land into the wind.

  The Alps are in view again; gateway to the Swiss land of plenty. He turns away and into the wind and lands on the grass beside the runway. He taxis past a 262, the plane he’s come to fly. It’s dangerous-looking, shark-like, an engine beneath each wing, without propellers but with a nose wheel that aligns the fuselage parallel to the ground, as if already in flight, giving the machine a ready-for-action look. There are others hidden in shelters around the airfield.

  Nowotny is forming the first 262 unit at Lechfeld. He hopes to be in action in two or three weeks but: ‘The engines only last a few hours. Ten, twelve if you’re lucky. Then they need changing. It’s not really ready yet.’

  ‘Still,’ Jochen says, ‘it’s fast.’

  ‘But acceleration is very slow on take-off and you have to open up really carefully or the engine will flame out and then you’ve had it.’

  ‘Does it glide?’

  ‘Like a brick.’

  ‘We’ll learn how to use it.’

  ‘I hope so. What we need is guys who’ve had a year or two on Gustavs and 190s. But they’re all spread out on alarm start duty.’

  ‘It’s fast, though. They’ll never catch us.’

  ‘Unless they lurk over our bases and attack when we’re coming in at one seventy with a cup of fuel left. That’s what I’d do.’

  ‘We’ll have to patrol the fields with Gustavs.’

  ‘Where will they come from?’

  Jochen is silent.

  ‘Sorry,’ Nowotny says. ‘I don’t mean to drown your enthusiasm. You haven’t even flown it yet.’

  ‘Does Fatty know all this?’

  ‘Who knows what he knows? Hitler wanted it as a bomber but…’

  ‘A bomber!’

  ‘Yes. To get revenge, apparently, but they managed to kill that idea.’

  After dinner they drink a few brandies and tell stories of dead comrades. Lying in bed, he imagines the discussion he’s planning with Dr Hofmann in a week’s time. He’s been granted two days leave in Berlin at the end of his Lechfeld week. Lotte will expect to be getting married but there’s going to be a big row instead.

  With the Alps in the far distance, one of Messerschmitt’s engineers shows him around the 262. He won’t answer Jochen’s questions about the engine, too secret for him. The Schwalbe, they’re calling it. A good name for a jet, a swallow being such a fast, darting bird.

  ‘Gently with the throttle,’ the guy tells him. He climbs in, straps up, parachute first, though how you’d get out at nine hundred is anyone’s guess. A functional cockpit, dials and taps well-laid out and easy to see and grab, though the board they all sit in is plywood painted black. Plywood! In the world’s most modern aeroplane. But the view! There’s no long nose tipped up in front. You can see everything, see what to avoid. It’ll be a treat to taxi. But he doesn’t taxi. To save jet fuel, there’s a tractor to tow him to the end of the runway.

  They start the engines. No vibration. And the sound! Not a roar, more a low whistle. The Schwalbe rocks against the brakes. He drops the canopy and waves the chocks away.

  Through the crackle in his ears his remote instructor talks him through everything.

  ‘Open the throttle slowly, three centimetres,’ he hears.

  He feels a gentle push in his back as his bird starts to roll. No vibration! So strange.

  ‘Another three centimetres.’

  He obeys and he’s pushed harder into his seat. He glances at the speedo. 110 already. No movement in the machine but through the wheels comes a regular jolt from the joins in the runway concrete.

  ‘Another three.’

  She feels lighter. 170. Very light. No concrete joins now. He’s off.

  ‘OK. Wheels up.’

  He feels them clunk into the wings and the nose.

  ‘Open up fully. Climb at forty degrees. Level off at three thousand and fly. Check the speed.’

  Three thousand. He’s there already! He puts the stick forwards. Level flight! Six hundred, seven hundred, eight, eight-fifty, nine hundred!

  ‘Nine hundred! Whee!’

  ‘Calm down, cowboy! Slow down a bit and do some turns. Enjoy yourself!’

  He does. It’s a revelation. Galland was right. There’s an angel pushing him. And protecting him. No one will hit him at this speed.

  His time up, he puts the nose down and closes the throttle a little. Ground features grow larger. He joins the circuit and commits to the landing. The Schwalbe flies down at one seventy. Now he feels he’s in danger as Nowotny suggested; the throttle takes effect so slowly. If he had to open up to escape Ami fighters, he’d hit the ground before the Schwalbe could accelerate. He touches down and rolls. Steering with the nose wheel, he swings to the left, off the runway. The view is so good it’s like driving a car.

  The Schwalbe is everything it’s cracked up to be. But tricky. That throttle. Open it too fast and the engine might flame out or catch fire. But there’ll be a thousand of them by Christmas! God help the Amis and the English. But who’s going to fly them? Where will the pilots come from? And where do the guys come from on the assembly line?

  No one says. That’s as big a secret as the Jumo 004 engine.

  He puts in hours on the Schwalbe. He loves it but he doesn’t look forward to landing one after a fight. He shakes his head at Nowotny.

  ‘Wonderful. But too late.’

  Berlin from the air is a sight to break his heart. Buildings flattened. Only shells of others remaining. Piles of rubble. Groups clearing roads so traffic can pass. Craters. Upside-down, burnt-out vehicles. The whole pattern repeated into the distance as far as he can see.

  He lands at Tempelhof, following the line indicated between bomb craters. He grabs his bag from the hatch behind his seat and leaves his Gustav for two days. The S-Bahn is still running. He takes it.

  His street has not escaped. Gaps have appeared in the avenue of limes where trees have gone; buildings further up, too. What must it have been like as it was happening? He starts running up the stairs but slows to a walk after one flight. His left leg. It still hurts on occasion. No one’s in. He gets the key from the usual neighbour. She hugs his arm and says he looks exhausted. He finds some cheese, makes coffee and falls asleep on the sofa.

  His mother wakes him. She’s excited. He hasn’t warned her of his arrival. He hasn’t told Lotte, either. He didn’t want any arrangements made. His mother tells him to go and find Lotte at once but he sits her down and explains to her why there’ll be no marriage. She’s shocked. She cries. Shakes her head, tut-tuts, mutters, ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear.’ But she doesn’t try to change his mind.

  He takes the S-Bahn again as far as he can and ends his journey on foot. He’s nervous. He’ll have to play it by ear. It might be dangerous for Willi if Jochen reveals what Willi’s told him. He needs to wheedle the information out of Lotte’s father without letting on that he knows anything. It must appear to be a discovery, a surprise, a terrible shock to Jochen.

  The receptionist directs him through the hospital corridors. A middle-aged woman in a white coat opens the door he knocks on. She’s clearly taken aback but in the same instant puts two and two together.

  ‘Hauptmann Murville! Dr Hofmann will be delighted. This way please. He’s only been back from the East for a couple of days.’

  Hofmann must have heard. He comes from a further room.

  ‘Jochen, my boy. What a great delight to see you!’ He pumps Jochen’s hand. ‘You look tired, though. Fräulein Knoke, some coffee.’ The woman in the white coat leaves.

  Dr Hofmann shows him into his own room. Dark oak shelves stuffed full of books, gold leaf titles on leather; other shelves with skulls; assorted human bones; glass jars of alcohol, each containing a different medical horror. Jochen looks away from them at the papers piled on Hofmann’s desk.

  Dr Hofmann smiles. ‘To what do I owe the honour, Jochen?’

  ‘Well, I’ve often found myself curious about your work and just now I realised I was passing. So I thought…’

  ‘Why not? Of course. An opportunity. Always grab them! Though two days earlier and you wouldn’t have found me. I was far from here, in our new eastern territories.’

  ‘Poland?’

  Hofmann laughs. ‘They used to call it that.’

  ‘Warsaw?’

  ‘No. What you might call… a small research station.’

  ‘I suppose science is at home everywhere.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What are you researching?’

  ‘The differences between people.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You know my field is eugenics, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think I did.’

  Hofmann laughs. ‘You and Lotte have got better things to discuss than the old man’s work, eh?’

  Biscuits and coffee arrive.

  ‘Can’t you study people in Berlin?’

  ‘Not in the same way.’

  ‘Dr Hofmann, I spent my youth playing the piano. I studied just enough to get into the Luftwaffe Academy and since then I’ve been flying planes. I’m afraid I don’t really know what eugenics is.’

  Hofmann laughs. ‘Eugenicists are interested in how different races compare.’

  ‘In what ways?’

  ‘Biology, anatomy, lengths of bones, for example, skull size, too, and, therefore, brain size.’

  ‘But aren’t there always quite big differences among people? Eye, hair colour? Tall, short? In my unit, for example, we’re all different sizes and shapes.’

  ‘Of course. But all of you must be basically good Aryan stock. You have no degenerates there.’

  ‘You mean Jews.’

  Hofmann laughs. ‘And don’t forget negroes, gypsies, homosexuals. Mental defectives! Eugenics makes plain their inferiority and the superiority of Aryans. That’s the beauty of it.’

  ‘Remarkable. And you study all that in your research station?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a wonderful by-product of our policy of shipping human detritus east. All conveniently gathered together.’

  ‘In a camp? That’s your research station?’

  Hofmann nods. ‘Auschwitz. Dr Mengele’s in charge there. A brilliant mind. His paper on the human jaw and what we can learn from it is groundbreaking. I’m fortunate to be an associate of his.’

  Jochen doesn’t have to wheedle, a mere attentive gaze seems to suffice.

  ‘I’m so very pleased you dropped in, Jochen. I’ve sometimes thought, you know, that you might not entirely agree with the Führer’s teachings. You’re an artistic type, you see. You know nothing of science. I’ve often wondered if you’d have sympathy with my work. Well, I’m glad you clearly do. Let me give you a brief rundown.’

  Dr Hofmann is quite full of himself, warms to his subject. Perhaps his work really does excite him. This must be what Willi’s had to listen to, what prompted the letter he sent. Jochen feels a little light-headed, thinks he might be trembling. Hofmann continues with the description of his work: studying mongrel races in order to understand the German race. Differences in anatomy and biology are small but key in proving the superiority of heredity over environment; in proving the genetic superiority of the German race and finding the route to increasing the rate of reproduction.

  Jochen’s throat has gone dry. He takes a sip from his cup. The coffee’s cold now and bitter.

  Twins! Jewish twins! Mengele selects the ones for study himself. Twins are extremely useful! For comparisons! Experiments! Amputations of limbs! Injections of typhus! In one twin. To compare.

  ‘How do you make the comparisons?’

  ‘Examine their organs.’

  Hofmann notices Jochen’s puzzlement. ‘We usually euthanise them first, of course, before we remove the organ.’

  Usually! Jochen stands abruptly. His chair scrapes back, tips over and lands with a crash.

  Dr Hofmann looks startled.

  ‘You cut organs out of living people?’

  Dr Hofmann stares at him.

  ‘How are the people in this camp occupied?’

  ‘They work if they’re able.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘We can’t feed them forever if they’re unproductive. Dr Mengele often makes the selections himself.’

  ‘What selections?’ Has he shouted?

  ‘My dear boy, don’t be naïve. I’d hate to think my daughter was marrying a naïve person.’

  ‘You execute them.’

  ‘You don’t execute vermin.’

  ‘They’re exterminated.’

  Hofmann gives a little smile.

  ‘I’m going.’

  He has a buzzing in his head. He feels he might vomit. At the door, he turns. Hofmann is staring at him.

  ‘I was a twin,’ he shouts.

  He’s waited till he thinks Lotte will be home. He found a bar open that had some schnapps but that didn’t calm the frenzy in his head. Everything he’s feared since the party two years ago, when he overheard those officers discussing the planned liquidation of the Jews, is true. And Mengele and Hofmann are an extra unexpected horror, though already disclosed to him in Willi’s letter. Beside him is the slot in the door frame that first told him this had been a Jewish house, that first cast a doubt in his mind about Lotte.

  A footstep and the door swings open. Lotte. Tired but as beautiful as ever. He sees her thoughts blossom on her face in an instant. Jochen! Loved one! Wedding! Husband! She flings her arms around his neck and kisses him. He takes her shoulders and almost lifts her away from him.

  ‘We must talk.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Who is it?’ her mother calls and appears. ‘Jochen, darling.’ She beams at him. ‘How wonderful!’

  ‘Excuse us,’ he says to Frau Hofmann. ‘In here?’ He opens the first door on the right. He’s never seen it before. An austere room that a maid might show a caller into when she goes to ask if the family is at home. He half pulls Lotte in and closes the door behind them.

  ‘Jochen, what is it? What’s the matter? Has something happened?’

  ‘I have to talk about your father, Lotte. Do you know where he’s just come back from?’

  ‘Somewhere east, I think. Observing a colleague’s work.’

  ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Something to do with eugenics. It’s all a bit over my head. Anna has a much better idea. Ask her. Jochen, you haven’t kissed me yet.’

  He ignores her. ‘Let me tell you what he told me.’

  ‘Did you go to see him? I’m glad. You should be on good terms.’

  ‘This colleague. Name of Mengele.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right, he mentioned his name.’

  ‘He’s a very nice man.’

  ‘Most of father’s colleagues are.’

  ‘Lotte!’

  ‘What?’ She begins to realise something may be seriously amiss. Her smile has gone.

  ‘Let me tell you what his work consists of.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He studies people.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He studies twins in particular because the comparisons are so useful.’

  ‘I suppose they might be.’

  ‘For example, first he infects one of them with typhus and then he compares them afterwards. He compares their organs. He takes them out to do it.’

  Lotte is staring at him.

  ‘Of course, he kills them first. Usually.’

  ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘Jews, negroes, gypsies, the disabled, queers.’

  ‘Queers? What’s that?’

  ‘Lotte! Homosexuals.’

  ‘Perverts, then.’

  ‘They’re humans first.’

  ‘But Jochen, all these people are degenerates.’

  ‘The Party calls them that. But your father says these people are so similar to Aryans that we can learn from these studies and improve the German race.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘But if we’re so similar that we can learn about ourselves, then how are they degenerates? How are they different from us?’

  ‘Look at them. You can tell. Jews, negroes. It’s clear.’

  ‘A Jew taught me to play the piano. My friend in Africa is a negro. He saved the boss’s life.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Jochen.’

  ‘This man, Mengele, selects twins to work on in this camp. Auschwitz. Selects them personally, in this hell hole where the healthy work and the rest are exterminated. Twins, Lotte. I was a twin.’

  ‘But you and Ilse, that’s different.’

  ‘Huh. Your father agrees with you. He admires Mengele. A great man, he thinks. What do you think?’

  ‘If my father thinks he’s a great man, then he must be.’

  ‘What about all this stuff I’ve just told you?’

  ‘I don’t know about any of that. It’s not my concern.’

  ‘You’re a German. These are your people.’

  ‘Jochen. Don’t take all this to heart so. You’re not a scientist, dealing in facts. You don’t live that life. You’re an artist.’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23