A Mortal Terror Read online

  “So how did he end up in the SS?” Philby asked, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

  “In early 1941, his sister-in-law died in a mental institution.”

  “Nazi euthanasia?” Philby asked.

  “Yes. At that point, Gerstein became committed to acting against the regime. He apparently decided the best way to do that was from within. A few months after her death, he joined the SS. Either they didn’t check his records, or his technical skills made them willing to overlook them. He had an engineering degree, and had completed his first year of medical school. So they brought him into the Technical Disinfection Department of the SS.”

  “What, do they clean garbage cans?” I asked, wondering where all this was leading.

  “No. They are in charge of disinfecting the clothes of all the Jews they kill. Jews, Gypsies, Communists, opponents of the regime, anyone who is sent to the extermination camps.”

  I’d read about the concentration camps, where enemies of the Nazis were sent, and I knew the SS and the Gestapo had no qualms about shooting whomever they wanted. But this felt different. A whole structure dedicated to extermination? It was bigger than wanton slaughter, beyond evil, beyond believing. Everything I’d read or seen in newsreels about the Nazis made me angry. This made me sick.

  “We know the Nazis have treated the Jews terribly,” Philby said. “As they have many others. We know many die in the camps in the east, but extermination? Surely they use them for labor, and many die, but you can’t mean wholesale slaughter?” Philby’s normally suave demeanor faltered for a moment as he took in what Diana was describing.

  “The Technical Disinfection Department also provides a gas called Zyklon B. It is used in gas chambers, in large quantities,” Diana said, her lips compressed, as if the words were too terrible to let loose into the world. “Kurt Gerstein is in charge of the delivery of Zyklon B. He delivered large quantities to a number of camps in Poland, including a huge complex of camps at a place called Auschwitz.”

  “Unbelievable,” Philby said, and I couldn’t tell if he simply did not credit Diana, or was stunned at the enormity of what she was telling us.

  “In 1942, he visited several concentration camps, including Belzec, in Poland. While he was there, he witnessed the gassing of three thousand Jews. This was what he had joined the SS for. To gather evidence of outright extermination. He described what he had seen to the Swedish diplomat Baron von Otter, and the papal nuncio in Berlin, Father Cesare Orsenigo, as well as to the bishop. All promised to send word to London, and each did. When nothing but silence came of that, Bishop von Preysing wrote directly to the pope.”

  “Diana,” Philby said, leaning forward to whisper to her. “Are you sure this chap isn’t mad? Surely I would have heard of such a report coming from Berlin. Perhaps he had an attack of conscience and fabricated the worst he could imagine.”

  “You don’t understand,” Diana said. “What do you think is happening in these camps? Gerstein witnessed it all, the trains coming in, the few able-bodied separated to be worked to death, all the rest ushered into the gas chambers. They have them marked as showers, to disinfect for typhus. Jewish trustees tell them to fold their clothes and leave them on benches, to remember where they left them. Then they enter the chamber and the doors are locked behind them. The Zyklon B is dropped through vents in the ceiling. In twenty minutes they open the doors and pull out the dead. They pry the gold from their teeth and incinerate the bodies.”

  “The very Zyklon B that Herr Gerstein so thoughtfully provided?”

  “Yes. So that he could witness what was being done. So he could tell the world. But so far, the world hasn’t listened.” She slammed the table with the flat of her hand and her glass fell, staining the tablecloth with wine before it rolled off the table and shattered.

  Philby sat in silence, haunted perhaps by visions of mass killing, or worried that he hadn’t been privy to reports smuggled out of Nazi Germany. Finally he stirred enough to chastise Diana about overreacting to Vatican gossip and to tell me to keep quiet about what I’d heard, and then left the table.

  “What do you think, Billy?” Diana said, now that we were alone. I knew Diana was counting on me to believe her, to back her up. I squirmed in my seat, trying to find the words she wanted to hear, but I didn’t know what to say. It was all so insane, it was hard to come up with a logical thought. Then I remembered Sammy.

  “I had a friend in high school, Sammy Vartanian. He was Armenian, and his father used to curse the Turks for killing over a million Armenians in 1915. I’d never heard of it, and I figured maybe Sammy’s old man was off his rocker. So I looked it up in the encyclopedia. Sure enough, there is was. The Armenian Genocide. I figure if something like that happened a few decades ago, and I never heard of it, then you could be right. Besides, I believe in you.”

  “I’d heard talk among Jews we have hidden in Vatican City, but I thought it might be nothing more than rumors. Not the deportations and shootings, all that is well known. It’s the sheer scale of it all. Like a giant assembly line of death.”

  “But you believe this report from Gerstein?”

  “Yes. It all checks out. Bishop von Preysing vouches for him, and he’s completely reliable. He’s been anti-Nazi and quite outspoken about it, unlike most other German bishops. And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For believing in me.” Diana reached her hand toward mine, and her skin held an electrical charge. I pulled away, looking around to see if anyone had seen this Irish civilian hold hands with a nun. Diana blushed, the red flush stark against the white surrounding her face.

  “Let’s go,” she said, and I followed her up the stairs, aware of the movement in her hips beneath the black cloth. My heart was beating fast, and I wondered if I should feel guilty about desiring her so soon after discussing the fate of millions. Then I wondered if I was going to hell for lusting after a nun, even a phony one. That made my heart beat even faster, but I didn’t have time to decide which to worry about, since we were in front of Diana’s door. Guilt and hell were pretty much the same thing in my upbringing, and I knew I could never explain this situation to a priest and ask for absolution.

  “Listen,” I said, as she turned the key in the lock. “I’ll understand if you want to be alone, you know, after your long trip and all.”

  Diana eyed me, then the hallway. It was empty. The only sounds were those drifting up from the restaurant two floors below. She pressed her body against mine, her face warm, her eyes half closed, her lips moist as we kissed. Our arms encircled each other, and I tasted the sweetness of her mouth and the saltiness of the tears that streaked her cheek. I reached for the unlocked door, pushed it open, and we entered like two dancers in tune with the music of longing. I kicked it shut as Diana pulled the white coif from her head, letting her long hair loose. She carefully removed the cross she wore around her neck and the rosary beads from her woolen belt, placing them on a small table by the gable window. Then she removed her scapular— the black apron draped over her shoulders—and covered them with it.

  “I’ve missed you,” she said, kicking off her shoes and wiping a tear away.

  “Is that why you’re crying?” I asked, taking her in my arms, feeling warm flesh beneath the nun’s habit and trying not to think about all the real nuns I’d known. This was not the time for visions of Sister Mary Margaret.

  “I don’t know. It’s everything. The war, the innocent deaths, all the lives ripped apart. It’s too much to bear. I don’t want to think about it anymore, at least not now.”

  We struggled out of our clothes, not wanting to separate for a second, eager to release our bodies from the confines of belts and buttons. I laughed when Diana pulled off her tunic, half expecting all the saints in Switzerland to barge through the door.

  “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever seen a nun undress before?”

  I laughed some more and Diana giggled as the pile of clothes by the side of the bed grew, layers of her unde
rgarments mixing with my civvies, until we were under the duvet, basking in the warmth of our flesh on a cold winter night, safe from the murderous conflict that threatened from all points of the compass. The world had shrunk down to the two of us in this room. The war had burned away all the petty arguments, all the ill will that we’d let come between us. There were no questions about tomorrow or the next day, no expectations of the future, no wondering what would become of us. Fear, blood, and death had washed us clean, leaving only what survived, or what had burrowed deep into our hearts, as far from the danger as it could go and still be remembered. We caressed each other, coaxing those memories out, letting them breathe the air of joy and freedom before we put them away again.

  We laughed, but I can’t say we were happy. We made love, but it was desperate and burning hot, as if we were keeping evil at bay by the very act. We cried, but our woes were so small that I was ashamed of the tears. We held each other, and knew it would not last.

  We slept, but could not rest.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE NEXT MORNING, he was waiting for us. A young guy, his face smooth and pink. He sat at our alcove table, pulling at his shirtsleeves to best display his gold cuff links. I squeezed Diana’s hand and stopped before he saw us. I watched as he sipped his coffee, resting his hands just so, allowing the gold to sparkle. A leather briefcase was on the chair next to him. His hair was brown and wavy, his expression bored, his fingers manicured. He’d been out in the sun, most likely on a ski slope. He had the healthy, athletic look of a college boy, and the well-tailored look that came from a rich daddy. His eyes weren’t on the other guests or the entrance. He didn’t even notice us a dozen steps away. He sipped his coffee and looked at his copy of the Neue Zürcher Zeitung, the major Swiss daily newspaper. Probably checking his stocks.

  “Let’s go back,” I whispered, pulling Diana by the arm. She wore a silk blouse and tweed skirt from the clothes that had been provided for her and the sensation was appealing.

  “Why? Because that boy is at our table?” She stood closer to me as we edged against the wall. Feeling the smooth silk against her skin, I hated the thought of leaving her so soon.

  “He’s from the embassy. It can only be trouble.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “He’s American. He’s not an agent, unless he’s in disguise as a Harvard twit. He’s too young to have any clout, which makes him a messenger boy. And messages from embassies are like telegrams—always bad news.”

  “All right,” Diana said in a low voice, her face close to mine, close enough to feel the heat of her breath on my cheek. She backed away and I followed as she took the stairs. Two at a time.

  SUNLIGHT STREAMED IN, warming us as we huddled under the white duvet.

  “Do you think he’s still down there?” Diana asked.

  “Yeah. He’s probably knocked on my door a couple of times by now. If he’s got half a brain he’ll start asking questions and figure out I’m in your room.”

  “Perhaps Kim will shoot him. Or have him shot, more likely.” She laughed, and it sounded like wind chimes on a warm spring day. But it was winter, a war winter, and this hidden moment with a bit of sunshine was all we had. It was enough, I decided, and laughed along with her, until we lay exhausted and the sun rose higher in the morning sky, leaving the room in a gloomy chill.

  Dressed again, we went down to the restaurant. It was nearly empty, with no trace of the messenger boy. The waiter brought coffee to our table and said the young man had gone off to look for me. He smiled and Diana blushed.

  “I hope they don’t have microphones in the rooms,” Diana said as the waiter left.

  “Could they?” I asked, and then saw she was trying to hide a laugh. “Make a nice souvenir,” I added, trying to cover up.

  “Mr. McCarthy?” It was the embassy kid, looking at a photograph and checking it against my face. It took me a moment to remember that was the name on my Irish passport.

  “In the flesh,” I said, and Diana gave an abrupt laugh, her hand covering her mouth as she looked away. “Please join us.”

  “I’m sorry, but I need to speak to you in private.”

  “Unnecessary, as I’m sure Mr. Gallagher has told you.” That was Philby’s cover name.

  “Very well,” he said, taking a seat and waving off the approaching waiter, probably having had his fill of coffee. “Julian Dwyer, Assistant Commercial Officer, American Embassy.”

  “Sorry we missed you earlier,” I said.

  “How do you know I was here earlier?”

  “Because I saw you and figured you were bad news. So we skipped out.”

  “My time is quite valuable, Lieutenant Boyle,” he said, whispering my name and rank in a hiss.

  “No it isn’t. There’s not much commerce these days between Switzerland and the U.S. And the fact that you couldn’t find me and you stand out like a virgin in a whorehouse means you’re not a spy operating under diplomatic cover. I bet you just graduated from Harvard or one of those snobby schools and daddy got you a posting so you wouldn’t have to associate with the lower classes and dress in khaki.”

  “Yale,” Julian said, sounding offended more by the Harvard remark than anything else.

  “I’m not a college football fan, so it makes no difference to me. It boils down to the fact that you’re the only guy they could do without up in Bern and not insult whoever sent the message to be passed on to me. You dress well, I’ll give you that.”

  “Billy,” Diana said, placing her hand on my arm. I was getting steamed, and poor Julian was the perfect target. It wasn’t his fault, but he was right in front of me, and I never liked his type much anyway.

  “It was my grandfather, not my father,” Julian said. “Six-term congressman. And I have a punctured eardrum, not to mention flat feet, so khaki was never in the cards. But I would look good in it.”

  “Okay, Julian, sorry. But I’m not wrong, am I? About bad news?”

  “I guess you would call it bad news,” he said, eyeing both of us. “Your orders, Lieutenant Boyle, are to proceed immediately to Naples, Italy. I’ve booked you on a flight from Zurich to Lisbon tonight. From there you’ll travel to Gibraltar and then via military transport to Naples.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes. The orders came from London. From a Colonel Samuel Harding.”

  “Thanks, Sam,” Diana said, with an edge of bitterness.

  “I still have three days of leave,” I said, knowing it was futile.

  “Sorry. I have the orders right here, along with a file,” Julian said, popping open his briefcase.

  “I believe you,” I said. “It’s got to be important if Colonel Harding sent it. My leave was approved by General Eisenhower, so if he’s overruling that, he’s got good reason. Have you read the file?”

  “The file is for you,” Julian said.

  “Right. It’s not sealed, so stop making believe you haven’t looked at it. This has got to be the most interesting thing that’s happened since you got here.”

  “Not quite as interesting as some of the Swiss girls I’ve met skiing at Gstaad, but you’ve got me dead to rights. You’re sure?” He nodded to Diana.

  “Spill, Julian. She’s got higher clearance than either of us.”

  “There have been two murders in Naples,” Julian said. I could see the eagerness in his eyes. He was excited, and I was sure this bit of cloak-and-dagger was the high point of his life.

  “Only two? Must’ve been a slow night.”

  “Both U.S. Army officers. First guy was found in the 3rd Division bivouac area at Caserta, outside Naples. Lieutenant Norman Landry. Found behind a supply tent, his neck snapped. The other officer was Captain Max Galante, M.D., of Fifth Army medical staff. He was found the same night, outside headquarters at Caserta, strangled.”

  The waiter came to our table with a tray of warm rolls, butter and jams. Conversation ceased as he laid everything out. As soon as he was gone, I buttered a roll, not knowing when or w
here my next meal might be.

  “Forgive me for asking, Julian,” Diana said, flashing him a warm smile, “but terrible as these murders are, they don’t seem to warrant your presence here. Why the orders from London? Fifth Army must have plenty of military police to sort this out.”

  “Like the lieutenant said, I’m only the messenger. But there is something here that may explain it. Pictures of the bodies.” He pulled two black and white photos from the file, face down. “They’re a bit gruesome.”

  “Gruesome is par for the course,” Diana said. “Let’s see them.”

  They weren’t pretty. Lieutenant Landry was on his back, head lolled to one side. His field jacket was open, and his .45 automatic was still in his holster. His hair was curly, and a splash of freckles decorated his cheeks. He looked young—too young to be leading men into combat. A canvas tent was visible in the background. A piece of paper appeared stuck in his shirt pocket. As if in answer to my unspoken question, Julian laid the other photo on top. It was a close up.

  “The ten of hearts,” I said.

  “A brand new card,” Julian said. “No other playing cards were found on him.”

  “You read this pretty carefully,” I said.

  “There wasn’t much else to do, waiting for you.”

  “Okay, okay. What about the other guy?”

  “Meet Captain Max Galante,” Julian said. Captain Galante was older, late thirties maybe. Stocky, dark haired. His throat was heavily bruised, his eyes bulging, the terror of death still on his face. Landry probably died instantly. This guy didn’t. What looked like a playing card stuck out from his shirt pocket as well.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said.

  “The jack of hearts?” Diana asked.

  “Yes,” Julian said, laying down the close up as if he were dealing a poker hand.