The General dropped his gaze to a file upon the desk before him. He opened it with a flick of his finger. He began to read out of it—a series of statements which all ended upon a note of interrogation. Throughout his reading he never once raised his eyes to Otto.
“Heinrich Maximilian Otto Falken?” The voice was clipped and each word had a sharp edge as if it were metal ringing against metal.
Otto knew he was to answer. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Height, six feet, one and a half inches?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Weight, one hundred and eighty pounds?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Born November 3, 1914?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Family name originally Von Falkenhaus? Father, Ulrich Von Falkenhaus?”
“Yes, sir.” Though he never took his eyes from the clipped grey head of the General, Otto could feel the gaze of both the civilians. His collar was hot and uncomfortable and little beads of sweat were forming over his cheekbones.
“Both parents died in your early childhood? No brothers or sisters?”
Otto swallowed. “That is correct, sir.”
“Only known relatives, two paternal uncles? One, Ludwig, killed in action on the Western Front in 1916—the other, Karl, executed for seditious behaviour in Rittenberg, 1934?”
Otto lifted a hand towards his collar; then checked the movement. “Yes, sir.”
And so it went on, question after question, in the hard, quiet, ringing voice; question after question, answer after answer. All facts, all accurate, many of them amazingly private; things which Otto could have sworn upon his life no one could know—every fact and facet and, almost, every fancy of his life. It was all there, in that file, all of him: he felt as if he were being stripped of clothing, piece by piece, in a public square. . . .
And all the time, while his eyes were fixed upon the grey head, he could feel the four eyes watching him. . . .
Unchanging, unmodulated, the hard metal voice kept on. “On this same day,” it was saying now, “you and your squadron participated in a daylight raid over the South-west Coast of England?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were escorting six Heinkel bombers? You encountered severe fighter opposition and you yourself were shot down, landing on the English Coast by parachute?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were taken prisoner and confined in a prison camp near Colchester?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were there three months and two days?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You finally effected an escape and succeeded in obtaining civilian clothes and lay hidden for two days?”
“Yes, sir.”
Now the General did look up. It was a sudden and unexpected movement, and Otto had difficulty in suppressing a start as the black, glittering eyes once more met his own. The General said:
“Falken, tell how you managed your return to Occupied France. Concisely.”
A change here. Otto did not know whether he liked it or not—but he obeyed promptly. He continued to look directly at the General, and to sit straight and stiff. He said, keeping his voice flat and toneless and without emotion:
“I hid in some woods near Colchester. I think they were game preserves. I stole food and the clothes at night. They were searching for me, but I managed to evade them. On the third night I began to move. I was trying to reach the Coast. Towards morning I found a hiding-place in some more woods. I was discovered by two men. I think they were farmers. I heard them coming and did not let them find me hiding but accosted them. I spoke in English to them. I said I was off a Swedish freighter that had been sunk. I said I was making my way to Colchester where I had relatives. They believed me and gave me directions. Later in the morning I was hiding again. I was near the sea. I heard planes and saw, very high, some bombers coming in from the sea escorted by fighters. They were ours. A fleet of Hurricanes and Spitfires went up to intercept them. I saw them climbing. There was fighting—and I saw two of our bombers come down in flames. One fell about half a mile from where I was.”
He paused for a moment, moistening with his tongue lips which were very dry. The black eyes opened a little more widely and he hurried on. He said: