rugged outdoor face which the Propaganda Ministry liked on its posters, had needed shrapnel removing from his neck, but seemed set for a quick recovery. His mind, though, was in such turmoil that he could hardly lie still, twisting his head this way and that, convincing Effi that he would rip out the stitches that criss-crossed his throat. 'The Russians will fight on,' he told Effi, as if he was resuming an interrupted conversation. 'They can't retreat and they can't surrender, so what else can they do? If they retreat then their people shoot them, if they surrender then either we shoot them or they starve. There's no food for prisoners. That's just the way it is. But you can't fight an enemy that won't retreat or surrender. You just have to keep killing and killing and hope that he'll run out of soldiers before we do. But he won't, will he?' the soldier almost shouted. 'The Fuhrer must know this, so why does he keep telling us to attack?'
'Sssshhh,' Effi said, afraid the man would talk himself into trouble. 'We can't know what the Fuhrer knows. He may be getting false reports from his generals.'
The man's eyes lit up. 'That must be it. Someone should tell him. You should tell him. You're famous.'
'I will,' Effi promised.
'All my friends are dead,' he said.
'You're not,' Effi said. 'And you have to get better, and get back to your wife and children. They need you.'
The soldier gave her a questioning look, as if to check her sincerity. 'You're right,' he said without conviction. 'I must get better.'
As she leaned over to kiss him on the forehead she saw tears glistening in his eyes.
Visiting time was over, and she made her way back down the wards, smiling at the men she had spoken to. Annaliese Huiskes was sitting back in her chair, a glass of pinkish liquid in her hand, looking as tired as Effi felt. She was almost thirty, Effi knew, and prettier than she looked tonight.
'Come in,' Huiskes said, reaching inside a desk drawer for a bottle and a second glass. 'Have a drink.'
'Of what?' Effi asked.
'Hospital schnapps. We have the raw alcohol, and one of the doctors is good at giving it different flavours. This one's not bad.'
A drink did seem like a good idea, and it tasted no worse than some of the cocktails that the better hotels were now serving up.
'How did it go?' Huiskes asked.
Effi sighed. 'I hope I help. Some of them anyway. The last man I saw - Becker was the name above the bed - seemed very disturbed.'
'I'll leave a note for the night shift. But he's one of the luckier ones.' She drained her glass, looked at the bottle, and abruptly returned it to the desk drawer. 'It's hard to keep track,' she said. 'There're so many coming and going - more than ever these last few weeks. I hope that just means that we're getting a larger share than before, but who knows? I have a friend in the SS Hospital, and that sounds even worse. One night one of her patients started screaming, 'I can't do it anymore!' and most of the others joined in, until half the ward was screaming and the other half weeping.'
'Do what, I wonder,' Effi murmured.
'Killing people, of course. In their hundreds, thousands even. Jews mostly, but Russians too. They force them to dig huge graves, line them up on the side, and then shoot them. Row after row. Her patients can't stop talking about it, she says.'
'Why?' Effi wanted to know. 'Why are they shooting so many?'
Annaliese shrugged. 'Who knows? I haven't heard from my Gerd for weeks,' she added, as if he might have the answer.
'Where is he?'
'Somewhere in the south. He's with 60th Motorised. I worry about him not coming back, and I worry about who he'll be if he does come back.'
After the meeting with Dallin, Russell had walked the short distance south to the Abwehr headquarters, a five-storey building on Tirpitz Ufer overlooking the Landwehrkanal. The Section 1 offices seemed busy, but section chief Colonel Hans Piekenbrock only made him wait a few moments. After listening to Russell's
'Sssshhh,' Effi said, afraid the man would talk himself into trouble. 'We can't know what the Fuhrer knows. He may be getting false reports from his generals.'
The man's eyes lit up. 'That must be it. Someone should tell him. You should tell him. You're famous.'
'I will,' Effi promised.
'All my friends are dead,' he said.
'You're not,' Effi said. 'And you have to get better, and get back to your wife and children. They need you.'
The soldier gave her a questioning look, as if to check her sincerity. 'You're right,' he said without conviction. 'I must get better.'
As she leaned over to kiss him on the forehead she saw tears glistening in his eyes.
Visiting time was over, and she made her way back down the wards, smiling at the men she had spoken to. Annaliese Huiskes was sitting back in her chair, a glass of pinkish liquid in her hand, looking as tired as Effi felt. She was almost thirty, Effi knew, and prettier than she looked tonight.
'Come in,' Huiskes said, reaching inside a desk drawer for a bottle and a second glass. 'Have a drink.'
'Of what?' Effi asked.
'Hospital schnapps. We have the raw alcohol, and one of the doctors is good at giving it different flavours. This one's not bad.'
A drink did seem like a good idea, and it tasted no worse than some of the cocktails that the better hotels were now serving up.
'How did it go?' Huiskes asked.
Effi sighed. 'I hope I help. Some of them anyway. The last man I saw - Becker was the name above the bed - seemed very disturbed.'
'I'll leave a note for the night shift. But he's one of the luckier ones.' She drained her glass, looked at the bottle, and abruptly returned it to the desk drawer. 'It's hard to keep track,' she said. 'There're so many coming and going - more than ever these last few weeks. I hope that just means that we're getting a larger share than before, but who knows? I have a friend in the SS Hospital, and that sounds even worse. One night one of her patients started screaming, 'I can't do it anymore!' and most of the others joined in, until half the ward was screaming and the other half weeping.'
'Do what, I wonder,' Effi murmured.
'Killing people, of course. In their hundreds, thousands even. Jews mostly, but Russians too. They force them to dig huge graves, line them up on the side, and then shoot them. Row after row. Her patients can't stop talking about it, she says.'
'Why?' Effi wanted to know. 'Why are they shooting so many?'
Annaliese shrugged. 'Who knows? I haven't heard from my Gerd for weeks,' she added, as if he might have the answer.
'Where is he?'
'Somewhere in the south. He's with 60th Motorised. I worry about him not coming back, and I worry about who he'll be if he does come back.'
After the meeting with Dallin, Russell had walked the short distance south to the Abwehr headquarters, a five-storey building on Tirpitz Ufer overlooking the Landwehrkanal. The Section 1 offices seemed busy, but section chief Colonel Hans Piekenbrock only made him wait a few moments. After listening to Russell's
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