In his flapping leather coat, Krebs squatted over the body like carrion. He reached beneath the corpse, feeling for the inside of the jacket. Over his shoulder, Krebs said: “We were informed two hours ago by the Reichshahn Polizei that a man answering Luther’s description had been seen here. But by the time we got here…”
“He had already suffered a fatal accident.” March smiled bitterly. “How unexpected.”
“Here we are, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer.” Krebs had retrieved a passport and wallet. He straightened, and handed them to Globus.
“This is his passport, no question,” said Globus, flicking through it. “And here are several thousand Reichsmarks in cash. Money enough for silk sheets at the Hotel Adlon. But, of course, the bastard couldn’t show his face in civilised company. He had no choice but to sleep rough out here.”
This thought appeared to give him satisfaction. He showed March the passport: Luther’s ponderous face peered out from above his calloused thumb. “Look at it, Sturmbannfuhrer, then run along and tell Nebe it is all over. The Gestapo will handle everything from now on. You can clear off and get some rest.” And enjoy it, his eyes said, while you can.
The Herr Obergruppenfuhrer is kind.”
“You’ll discover how kind I am, March, that much I promise you.” He turned to Eisler. “Where’s that fucking ambulance?”
The pathologist stood to attention. “On its way, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer. Most definitely.”
March gathered he had been dismissed. He moved towards the railway workers, standing in a forlorn group about ten metres away. “Which of you discovered the body?”
“I did, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.” The man who stepped forward wore the dark blue tunic and soft cap of a locomotive driver. His eyes were red, his voice raw. Was that because of the body, wondered March, or was it fear at the unexpected presence of an SS general?
“Cigarette?”
“God, yes, sir. Thanks.”
The driver took one, giving a furtive glance towards Globus, who was now talking to Krebs.
March offered him a light. “Relax. Take your time. Has this happened to you before?”
“Once.” The man exhaled and looked gratefully at the cigarette. “It happens here every three or four months. The derelicts sleep under trie wagons, to keep out of the rain, poor devils. Then, when the engines start, instead of staying where they are, they try to get out of the way.” He put his hand to his eyes. “I must have reversed over him, but I never heard a thing. When I looked back up the track, there he was — just a heap of rags.”
“Do you get many derelicts in this yard?”
“Always a couple of dozen. The Reichsbahn Polizei try to keep them away, but the place is too big to patrol properly. Look over there. Some of them are making a run for it.”
He pointed across the tracks. At first, March could make out nothing, except a line of cattle-trucks. Then, almost invisible in the shadow of the train, he spotted a movement — a shape, running jerkily, like a marionette; then another; then more. They ran along the sides of the wagons, darted into the gaps between the trucks, waited, then scampered out again towards the next patch of cover.
Globus had his back to them. Oblivious to their presence, he was still talking to Krebs, smacking his right fist into the palm of his left hand.
March watched as the stick-figures worked their way to safety -then suddenly the rails were vibrating, there was a rush of wind, and the view was cut off by the sleeper train to Rovno, accelerating out of Berlin. The wall of double-decker dining cars and sleeping compartments took half a minute to pass and by the time it had cleared the little colony of drifters had vanished into the orangey dark.
Most of you know what it means when one hundred corpses are lying side by side. Or five hundred. Or one thousand. To have stuck it out and at the same time — apart from some exceptions caused by human weakness — to have remained decent fellows, that is what has made us hard. This is a page of glory in our history which has never to be written and is never to be written.
A crack of light showed beneath her door. Inside her apartment a radio was playing. Lovers” music — soft strings and low crooning, appropriate for the night. A party? Was, this how Americans behaved in the presence of danger? He stood alone on the tiny landing and looked at his watch. It was almost two. He knocked and after a few moments the volume was turned down. He heard her voice.
“Who is it?”
