Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse. Len Deighton

became quiet. ‘Those damned dogs will drive me mad,’ muttered Wörth.

      ‘I can well believe it, sir,’ said Fischer. ‘Why don’t you get rid of them?’

      ‘Why indeed,’ said Wörth and smiled as though Fischer had made a rather good joke.

      Leibstandarte, this old man, was it possible? ‘Rzhev?’

      ‘January ’forty-two, the Rzhev pocket.’ It was months since he’d last spoken of it. ‘My company of cavalry were trying to find Ivan. Our artillery found us.’ In the snow, horses and riders moved like ghosts, silent and invisible in their newly issued white smocks. Wörth was riding Rosenknospe, a lightfooted horse as fast as any other in the company and with a gentle disposition.

      They were in the Valdai hills where the Volga rises, north of Rzhev. They had come over the rise cautiously; Hentschel first on the black mare that he’d had all the way from the training school in Warsaw. At the bottom of the rise there was a T34, its turret askew and a black circle round it. Hentschel waved them on and then went close to the sooty burned-out tank, but there was no sign of life there. It was snowing slightly and the horses were fidgety, tossing their heads and missing their footing as they encountered debris, bodies and goodness knows what under the snow. ‘It was our artillery.’ They must have had the old T34 zeroed in; by getting close to that we were asking for it really. ‘A T34 might be very different from a Tiger tank but Russian cavalry looks just like us, eh?’ Then there was the noise: deafening thuds and the screams of horses and men. Instead of a black and white silent film it became a noisy colour film. The black mare racing across the snow, dragging young Hentschel – his second-in-command – by his foot, with horse and rider spilling blood as they went. Hentschel, Hentschel. ‘No horses survived, four men did.’ Rosenknospe, his favourite, threw him and then kicked wildly. It was frightened, its eyes dilated and mouth open. Then he saw that its belly was split open and its kicking feet entangled in its own entrails. Damn you, Rös’chen. Get up! ‘Crawled back three miles on hands and knees.’ The pain. ‘Took twenty-eight hours.’ Why the devil should he remember it all today? He pushed it back again deep into a recess in his mind.

      ‘You were all right?’

      ‘Only survivor. The other three died of wounds in hospital. I was there for three months, discharged myself. But only on anti-partisan work after that.’

      ‘That’s important duty.’ Must the fellow relate his adventures. That little scuffle wouldn’t merit a mention nowadays.

      ‘Strong stuff; a whole village sometimes. Old men, old women, and then there’s the problem of one’s own soldiers with the girls. You take a hundred villagers …’ His voice faded before he described their fate. ‘Strong stuff. I was glad to leave it.’

      ‘Necessary stuff, sir. We must never let up on any of them,’ said Fischer.

      Wörth looked at him and nodded, confirming not Fischer’s opinion but his own opinion of Fischer. Wörth grimaced involuntarily. ‘Gangrene, pain recurs more frequently lately. My foot and hip too. Without the sunlamp I can’t walk.’

      ‘It was bad luck, sir.’

      ‘Mustn’t bore you with my stories.’

      ‘No question of that, Herr Standartenführer.’ Not much!

      The old man suddenly became tired. ‘Witting,’ he called in a voice no louder than the rest of his conversation, and from behind the door came an NCO. ‘Leave you now, Fischer. Don’t see you again, luck.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’ Fischer came rigidly to attention and averted his eyes as the bent old man was helped out through the door. Moving ever more slowly he inched his crippled feet forward. Witting closed the door gently.

      ‘This is a slight unmeritable man,

      Meet to be sent on errands …’

      quoted Fischer softly to himself. On the table there were the remains of his meal. He’d eaten two frankfurters and a dish of boiled potatoes but had left the dehydrated cabbage and powdered soup. German Army frankfurters, by some miracle of logistics, tasted the same in Danzig as they did in Paris. He wondered how his driver was managing the repairs on the Kübelwagen. It would be ready by ten PM he was sure of that. He’d ordered it for ten and his driver would have it in good order even if he hadn’t eaten, bathed or slept and was still wearing the same stinking underwear. Still, you can’t have everything.

      From his pocket he took a small notebook. Written there was the name of Herr Voss the tailor followed by his private address. There were four other names and addresses in Münster and Dortmund but they had been ticked. Fischer went out on the balcony to have a cigarette and stare at the placid lake and the ducks. Soon he would phone.

      Andi Niels, the Burgomaster’s secretary, got back to his office at five-fifteen. There was a note waiting: the Burgomaster wanted to see him urgently. He sighed irritably; already the doorman and the typist next door had given him the same message. He went to check that Meyer’s file was still where he had hurriedly pushed it. Only when he was sure it was there did he go next door.

      ‘Niels,’ said the Burgomaster, ‘you have been signing documents and borrowing police dockets in my name without proper authority.’

      Herr Holländer from the marriage registry was standing in the corner with a look of satisfaction on his rat-like face. He had always been jealous of Niels, who he knew could win any argument by invoking the Burgomaster’s name. Now he was delighted to be in at the young upstart’s undoing.

      Niels had not responded to the Burgomaster’s statement, so he spoke again. ‘This file on Meyer, Hans-Willy.’

      Meyer, Hans-Willy, thought Niels, the old buffoon spoke like an official document.

      ‘Explain the down-grading,’ said the Burgomaster.

      ‘It’s all in order, Herr Bürgermeister,’ said Niels, smiling in one final hope that Ryessman would let the matter drop.

      ‘I didn’t ask you that, Niels.’

      ‘He wanted to be.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘He wanted to be.’

      ‘Don’t raise your voice to me, my boy. You know very well that what he wanted is nothing to do with it. You made entries on the documents, why?’

      ‘So that he could be married.’

      Ryessman remembered the dark-eyed boy and girl. ‘Was he married this afternoon?’

      ‘That was him,’ said Niels. ‘You frightened the life out of him.’

      ‘I did?’

      ‘He thought you were about to stop the ceremony. It can’t be altered now, you know.’

      ‘I still don’t understand,’ said the Burgomaster.

      Herr Holländer said, ‘I understand, Herr Bürgermeister. Marriage between two persons with one-third Jewish blood is forbidden, but marriage between a person with one-third Jewish blood and a person with two-thirds Jewish blood is permitted under certain circumstances. The man Meyer wanted to be down-graded so that he could marry the girl.’

      ‘But she must be mad,’ said the Burgomaster, trying sincerely to comprehend it. ‘A girl with only one-third Jewish blood could have married an Aryan.’

      ‘They are like that,’ said Herr Holländer. ‘I get them coming into the registry for advice. It’s hard to believe, but some of them would sooner marry one of their own kind than one of us.’

      The Burgomaster shook his head in wonder. He looked up at Niels. ‘What did they pay you?’

      ‘Nothing, I did it to help. They were in love.’

      ‘Must I hand this matter over to the Gestapo?’

      ‘Three thousand marks.’

      ‘When