The Violent Century Read online

  And if the Nazi era is over, nevertheless there are others desirous of your services. There is no reason to become unduly panicked. The Nazis are uncivilised, you secretly feel. But you’re a pragmatist. Working for Hitler got you an island, a secret base, the best minds Germany could produce (well, no, not the best minds, you concede, as your Jewish colleagues either fled to America or were murdered in the camps), but some of the very best, anyhow, not to mention a limitless supply of slaves for the work. Too bad, almost, that the time has come to change sides. The time has come to surrender.

  It’s spring and the air is filled with the smell of flowers and munitions. You gather your men. The decision is reached. You will not surrender to the Soviets. They are animals, the Russians. They might treat you like prisoners of war. Worse: they might treat you like criminals.

  There is only one thing to do, at this stage.

  You must find yourself an American.

  The withdrawal takes time. Peenemünde must be abandoned. Already the Nazi high command is suspicious of you – they never trusted you to begin with, if you’re honest with yourself. And Peenemünde is too exposed, the Soviets are too close. You and your men mobilise, you get shipped by train to the Alps, to Oberammergau, where the SS can watch you and make sure you remain loyal. Your brother, Magnus, is with you.

  It is Magnus who facilitates the surrender. Magnus who ends up chasing a US private from the 44th Infantry Division on his rusty bicycle, calling out, in an English thick with his German accent: My name is Magnus von Braun. My brother invented the V2. We want to surrender!

  We want to surrender.

  By the end of the war, we know, everyone wanted to surrender.

  61. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present

  – Still, the Old Man says again. You got out, in the end. And Oblivion, of course.

  – But not Tank, Fogg says, and the words fill the room like smoke. They won’t go away.

  – No, the Old Man says. Not Tank. That was … regrettable.

  – They shipped him out, Fogg says. They shipped him to Poland.

  Thinking of Tank, fighting Schneesturm, knowing the Gestapo were waiting just beyond the snow. Knowing that, even if he won, he had already lost.

  Knowing only that he’d bought Fogg and Oblivion the time they needed to get away.

  And smiling back at them, one last time, as they walked away.

  – Yes, the Old Man says. They shipped him to Poland, Fogg.

  Not letting him off. Forcing it back. The memories. The knowledge of what he’d done, or not done. The knowledge of walking away.

  – To our old friend, Dr Mengele, the Old Man says.

  And: As I said … regrettable.

  Fogg closes his eyes. It is so quiet in the Old Man’s office. It’s deep underground. There’s no one to hear him scream.

  62. AUSCHWITZ, POLAND 1943

  This is the thing about closing your eyes: that, not seeing – this act of unseeing – does not stop the things you don’t want to see from happening. Tank does not close his eyes. Shackled like an Androcles taken into captivity, Tank sits hunched inside the armoured truck, alone in his cage, waiting. He has nothing to do now but wait. It is very cold inside the truck but that’s one thing about Tank, he doesn’t feel the cold easily. He’s drowsy, both from the beating and from the drugs the Gestapo man, von Wolkenstein, ordered to be administered to him, back in Paris. Then, when they took effect, von Wolkenstein came and stared at him for a long moment and put his hand on Tank’s shoulder, solemnly, and said, ‘What a pity you were not born a German.’

  Then comes the inside of the truck, and more drugs, and no food, and the long, slow drive across Europe, in the snow. The two drivers in the front take turns driving, stopping only to pee and refuel, and even that hurriedly. It makes Tank smile. They are afraid of him, afraid that he’d escape or that there’d be a rescue. But neither is forthcoming, and then Tank nods off again.

  Then the truck stops. He can hear the drivers just sitting there, for a moment. As if they’re taking a breath. Or waiting for something. Then the sound of doors opening and feet hitting the ground and coming around. He wants to tear off the shackles and hit the men with them when they come but he has no power left in him, he can barely keep his eyes from closing.

  The doors open. Sunlight floods the dark interior, hurting Tank’s eyes. Then they’re pulling him and he staggers out, and stands on the cold ground and straightens himself up for the first time. He can feel them moving away, and he grins. He lifts up his hands and the shackles clang as they hit each other.

  Tank blinks in the light. The drivers are backing away but now soldiers approach, guns pointing at him, almost a dozen of them. There’s a short exchange. He doesn’t get much of it.

  – What’s this?

  – That one’s for Dr Mengele.

  The drivers get back in the truck and drive off. The soldiers stop at a safe distance and keep the guns pointing at Tank and wait. That’s all.

  The first thing Tank notices after the soldiers are the train tracks. They disappear over the horizon but they terminate right where he’s standing. A last stop and destination.

  The rails terminate at the gates to a camp. That’s the next thing he notices. The camp. Barbed-wire fences, guard towers, low, grey brick buildings. It’s a massive enclosure, like the biggest prison camp he’s ever seen. Then there’s the sign over the gate, in wrought-iron letters. Arbeit Macht Frei. Tank’s lips form the words without sound. He doesn’t speak German, much. They learned some on the Farm, but … The letters are not straight, either. They’re arranged in an arc over the gates.

  Arbeit … Work? He thinks.

  And Frei he knows, it means freedom.

  Arbeit macht frei. Macht – makes. Work makes you free?

  Just working this out leaves him tired. The soldiers just stand there, watching him. He must have nodded off because, when he opens his eyes again, a train has pulled into the station and is being offloaded. Tank stares. The passengers all wear shabby clothes and all have a yellow Star of David stitched onto their sleeves or to their breasts, and so he reasons that they must be Jews. Most of them are very thin. They get off the train, old people, children, mothers and fathers and youngsters. Officers are barking orders at them, and there are many more soldiers, hurrying them along. They all head into the camp. The gates are open and they all go in, an exodus of Jews. None of them looks at Tank. That’s one thing we notice, about the scene. None of them looks at Tank, not even once. Like he’s not there.

  Like they’re trying very hard to not notice he’s there.

  He sees them walking through the gates. Carrying nothing. Parents holding their children’s hands. Sees a man in the distance. Crisp uniform. A horsewhip in one hand, beating rhythmically against his thigh. Thump. Thump. And pointing. Sorting the incomers into two streams. Left. Right. Left. Right. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Black smoke rising in the distance. We notice that, too. The black smoke. Tank notices it as well. It’s impossible not to. The smell. The air is choked with it. It makes a contrast with the smell of fresh hay and trees from the outlying areas. It’s a charming sort of place in the Polish countryside, with a small village nearby, just out of sight, and forests, and that black smoke, that damnable black smoke rising.

  After a while the Jews are all sorted left or right and the man with the horsewhip comes walking through the gates. Not hurrying. He’s got all the time in the world. The horsewhip thumping rhythmically against his leg. Thump. Thump. Thump bloody thump, Tank thinks. The man comes over and looks at Tank and smiles a small and satisfied smile. Tank returns his gaze. Thinking the drugs are wearing off. Thinking maybe he can make a go at it. Tests the shackles, casually. The man’s smile just grows a little wider.

  – I’m Dr Mengele, he says. You must be Tank.

  Tank looks at the man. Looks at the soldiers with their guns trained on him. Looks at the distance. Figures he can’t do it. Does it anyway.

  The shackles
drag him down. He swings one at the doctor but he’s too far away and it whistles before his face but doesn’t connect. Mengele doesn’t even move. Just stands there, smiling. ‘What a beautiful specimen,’ he says. Then he gestures with his head and someone fires, not a bullet, a dart. It hits Tank in the neck and he feels himself going numb.

  – Take him to the menagerie, Dr Mengele says; the last words Tank hears for a while.

  63. AUSCHWITZ. DR MENGELE’S LABS 1943

  We can’t now tell whether it is night or day. There are no windows. Tank opens his eyes, regains consciousness as they come inside. The room reeks of shit and piss and cleaning fluids and sweat. Mostly it reeks of an animal sort of fear. Tank isn’t often afraid. But he knows the smell, and like an animal it makes him want to whimper.

  He is not alone in the room.

  It is a long corridor brightly lit by white electric lights. On each side of the corridor are cages. In each cage there are specimens.

  Like with animals in an exotic menagerie, the floors of the specimens’ cages are littered with their own excrement. The specimens are very thin, Tank notices. Or rather, he tries not to notice. Like the Jews going through the gates of Auschwitz, trying to unsee Tank. Tank blinks his eyes. Dr Mengele, ahead of him, turns and smiles reassuringly. ‘Superb recovery,’ he says. He nods at someone behind Tank. Something touches Tank, lightly, on his bare skin and intense pain flares up through Tank’s body, spreading like a liquid, making his whole body ring out like a bell. Then the touch is removed and the pain goes away. Tank turns and sees men in white smocks holding long cattle prods. Electricity. They’d just shot him up full of electricity. He looks back at the doctor. The doctor is smiling. Do we understand each other? he says.

  Tank understands electricity. He nods. What else is there to do? He looks at the cages as he passes them. They make a slow progression, Dr Mengele and Tank and Dr Mengele’s assistants with their electric cattle prods. A slow exhibition, Tank thinks, staring into the cages. A woman with multicoloured skin looks back at him. Swan wings erupt out of her naked shoulder blades. Her hair is wild and matted, crusted with dirt. Her hair is black and so are her eyes. In another cage a man is on fire, like a human torch. In the next a woman is a statue of glass, her body is transparent, Tank can see the dirty wall behind her, through her.

  Übermenschen.

  Tank wouldn’t describe himself as much of a thinker but when he looks at Mengele’s specimens he can’t help but think and none of his thoughts are pleasant. Übermenschen. He looks at these poor misshapen creatures in their cages and wonders what it means to be an Over-Man. What it’s like to be a hero. He doesn’t know how they all ended up there, in Auschwitz. Collected like curiosities. Scars on the man in the next cage. An average-looking man. Naked. Scarred everywhere. Scars on his face, his arms, his torso. Scars like a script. Some pus-ing. Some sealed and healed. Scars on his tummy, his abdomen. Scars on his thighs. Looks at Tank. Says nothing. Scar Man.

  In the next cage a pale man in a world of ice. Ice frosts the walls and the floor and the bars. The man wears a tattered yellow Star of David on his sleeve. The man has pale blue eyes. He, too, looks at Tank. Smiles. The smile transforms his face. My name is Kerach, he says. What’s yours?

  The assistants step forward. Stick the cattle prods through the bars. Hit the ice man with them. He shudders, falls back. Keeps the grin. Keeps his eyes fixed on Tank. Blasted Nazis, what, he says. Mengele pauses. Looks at the man with a frown of displeasure. Schedule Mr Kerach the Jew for tomorrow’s operation, he says. Kerach ignores him. Where are you from? he says. English? I learn English in prison, he says. Camp with English officers, before Herr Doktor bring me here. English good!

  Tank wants to reply but then the cattle prod is on him again and the electricity sings through him and he near passes out. Enough, Mengele says. Take him to the operating room.

  They drag Tank the rest of the way. Past the cages and the specimens and into a brightly lit room with a metal table in the middle of it and a harsh light above it. They strap Tank to the table. The leather straps dig into his skin. They remove his clothes with a scalpel, leaving him naked. The light hurts Tank’s eyes. It shines directly at his face. He can make out Mengele’s face swimming above him. The man has gained back his good humour. Excellent, Mengele says. He strokes Tank’s skin. Of the English specimens we get so few, Mengele says. He holds up something for Tank to see. A scalpel, Tank realises. It shines in the bright light. He tries to fight the restraints but he has no power left in him. Mengele feels him, strokes him. Such muscles! he says. Such a body!

  He lowers the scalpel. The tip of the blade touches Tank’s chest. It begins pressing into his skin. The light shines into Tank’s eyes. The blade presses in and with it comes pain. Eventually Tank screams.

  EIGHT:

  SOMMERTAG

  PARIS

  1943

  64. THE OLD MAN’S OFFICE the present

  – These things happen, the Old Man says. As if he’s trying to console Fogg. They happened to Tank, Fogg says. The Old Man sighs. In war there are casualties, Fogg, he says.

  Silence reigns as they look at each other. The Old Man, as if trying to bring back this meeting – this interrogation – onto its right track, turns another page in the dossier before him. The Paris operation, he says.

  – Yes?

  – It failed, the Old Man says, because intelligence cannot always be relied on. I can assure you the informant was dealt with, later.

  Fogg thinks of the corpse of a man, floating face down in a body of water. Is that what the Old Man meant? Or a quiet assassination in a curfewed street, in the dark, a bullet to the head, a body left behind.

  Or a simple disappearance. A Nazi functionary who happened to go missing, one day. So much space in the catacombs under Paris, and dark quiet places to store such offerings in. Whichever way this nameless informant was dealt with, it doesn’t matter to Fogg. It doesn’t change things. And it makes facing the Old Man easier, somehow. As if, momentarily, Fogg has gained the upper hand. The point, the Old Man says, is that you came out of it, Fogg. Alive.

  – Was that the point? Fogg says.

  The Old Man regards him with his head tilted, like a bird’s. Makes Fogg uncomfortable. The Old Man says, Vomacht was never there. It was a set-up, we both know that now. The others were decoys, sacrificial pawns, and Vomacht was kept clear away. Correct?

  – Yes …

  And now the Old Man smiles, a small, tight smile. As if this momentary shift in their relationship has ended, and he is once again holding the tiller on this ship, and it is heading into hidden reefs where Fogg has no desire to go.

  – You had a hunch though, didn’t you, Fogg?

  The Old Man’s voice is soft, almost a whisper. Fogg feels hypnotised, it is so hot in the room, the Old Man’s eyes hold him in their stare. You stuck around, the Old Man says, matter-of-factly. Even when we recalled you and the others. You stuck around, in Paris. Watching in the fog. What were you watching for, Fogg? What did you find?

  The Old Man’s voice rises then, becomes a whip, demands an answer. Fogg moistens his lips. Nothing! he says. His voice is small and alone in the room. Nothing, he says. I found nothing. The Old Man looks at him and Fogg looks away.

  The door, miraculously, opens. Ah, tea, the Old Man says.

  It’s his old driver, Samuel. As unchanged as they all are. Gives Fogg a tight-lipped smile. Nods at Oblivion. Carries a tea service on a tray. He places it on the desk and pours three cups, carefully. Cream? Sugar? he says.

  Fogg just shakes his head. Cream and sugar, the Old Man says. For both of us, please, Samuel. Oblivion holds up two fingers, silently. Samuel serves the tea and departs. Fogg holds his cup of tea on his lap. The Old Man takes a sip from his, sighs with contentment. Then:

  – Paris, the Old Man says. Nineteen forty-three.

  – Old history, Oblivion says. Takes a sip of tea.

  – Funny thing, history, the Old Man says. It has a curious t
endency to come back to life when you least expect it.

  65. PARIS 1943

  Fogg, watching. Just like we’re watching, now. The smoke from French cigarettes curls like fog. He makes shapes with the smoke. Releases tiny smoke men into the air. They float overhead and slowly dissipate. You’re a good watcher, aren’t you, Fogg. The Old Man, after three months on the Farm. You’re a watcher, Fogg. A hider, not a seeker. Lays a fatherly hand on Fogg’s shoulder. We could use men like you, he says.

  And, later, in a bookstall on the Charing Cross Road in London, leafing through colourful American magazines. Like Thrilling Tales of the Beyond-Men. The text written by a Jacob Kurtzberg, in a tone of thrilled adoration. And yet the eye is drawn to the pictures, the bright uniforms in pixelated garish four-colour. There’s Tigerman, framed dramatically on top of the Empire State Building, holding onto a cowering criminal mastermind. There’s the Green Gunman chasing outlaws in the wilds of Texas. The Electric Twins in Detroit capturing Al Capone. Fogg is mesmerised by the images, their brashness, their colour. It is raining on the Charing Cross Road. A grey morning, people hurrying past with black umbrellas over their heads. You’re a good watcher, Fogg, the Old Man says, his voice is in Fogg’s ears. We need men like you. Do not be tempted by the Americans, the loudness, the colour. We are the grey men, we are the shadow men, we watch but are not seen.

  What did you see in Paris, Fogg? What were you so diligently watching?

  A girl, Old Man. I was watching a girl.

  Fogg rolls smoke like quarters between his fingers. Watching the coffeehouse and the girl and the older man she’s with. The way she leans over and touches the back of his hand with her fingers. The way she holds her hot chocolate. Watches the rain streaking down the glass, hiding her face. There are just the two of them, the girl and the older man. No Gestapo minders, no SS shadows. No Übermenschen. Just the two of them. Just the two of them and Fogg.