I knew the number because when Kirsten’s father had died, I had tried to find out if her brother was alive or dead. The discovery that he had been killed, in 1944, had hardly helped her deteriorating mental condition.
Frau Warzok was shaking her head. “No, it’s not like that. He was alive at the end of the war. In the spring of 1946 we were in Ebensee, near Salzburg. I saw him for only a short while, you understand. We were no longer living together as man and wife. Not since the end of the war.” She tugged a handkerchief down the sleeve of her tailored suit jacket and held it crushed in the palm of her hand, expectantly, as if she was planning to cry.
“Have you spoken to the police?”
“The German police say it’s an Austrian matter. The Salzburg police say I should leave it to the Americans.”
“The Amis won’t look for him either,” I said.
“Actually, they might.” She swallowed a bolus of raw emotion and then took a deep breath. “Yes, I think they might be interested enough to look for him.”
“Oh?”
“Not that I have told them anything about Friedrich. That’s his name. Friedrich Warzok. He’s Galician. Galicia was part of Austria until the Austro-Prussian War of 1866, after which it was allowed its autonomy. Then, after 1918, it became part of Poland. Friedrich was born in Kraków in 1903. He was a very Austrian sort of Pole, Herr Gunther. And then a very German one, after Hitler was elected.”
“So why would the Americans be interested in him?” I was asking the question, but I was beginning to have a shrewd idea.
“Friedrich was an ambitious man, but not a strong one. Not intellectually strong, anyway. Physically he was very strong. Before the war he was a stonemason. Rather a good one. He was a very virile man, Herr Gunther. I suppose that was what I fell for. When I was eighteen, I was quite vigorous myself.”
I didn’t doubt it for a moment. It was all too easy to imagine her wearing a short, white slip and a laurel wreath in her hair and doing interesting things with a hoop in a nice propaganda film from Dr. Goebbels. Female vigor never looked so blond and healthy.
“I’ll be honest with you, Herr Gunther.” She dabbed her eye with the corner of her handkerchief. “Friedrich Warzok was not a good man. During the war, he did some terrible things.”
“After Hitler there’s none of us can say he has a clear conscience,” I said.
“It’s very good of you to say so. But there are things that one has to do to survive. And then there are other things that don’t involve survival at all. This amnesty that’s being discussed in the Parliament. It wouldn’t include my husband, Herr Gunther.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I said. “If someone as bad as Erich Koch is prepared to risk coming out of hiding to claim the protection of the new Basic Law, then anyone might do the same. No matter what he had done.”
Erich Koch had been the gauleiter of East Prussia and the Reich commissioner for the Ukraine, where some dreadful things had been done. I knew that because I’d seen quite a few of them myself. Koch was banking on receiving the protection of the Federal Republic’s new Basic Law, which forbade both the death penalty and extradition for all new cases of war crimes. Koch was currently being held in a prison in the British Zone. Time would tell if he had made a shrewd decision or not.
I was beginning to see where this case, and my new business, were headed. Frau Warzok’s husband was my third Nazi in a row. And thanks to the likes of Erich Kaufmann and the Baron von Starnberg, from whom I had received a personal letter of thanks, it looked as if I was turning out to be the man to turn to if your problem involved a Red Jacket or a fugitive war criminal. I didn’t much like that. It wasn’t why I had gone back to being a private detective. And I might have brushed Frau Warzok off if she had been there telling me that her husband had nothing personal against the Jews, or that he was merely the victim of “historical value judgments.” But so far, she wasn’t telling me that. Quite the contrary, as she now proceeded to underline.
“No, no, Friedrich is an evil man,” she said. “They could never grant amnesty to a man like that. Not after what he did. And he deserves whatever is coming to him. Nothing would please me more than to know he’s dead. Believe me.”
“Oh, I do, I do. Why don’t you tell me what he did?”
“Before the war he was in the Freikorps, and then the Party. Then he joined the SS, and rose to the rank of Hauptsturmführer. He was transferred to the Lemberg-Janowska camp in Poland. And that was the end of the man I had married.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t heard of Lemberg-Janowska.”
“Be glad of that, Herr Gunther,” she said. “Janowska wasn’t like the other camps. It started out as a network of factories that were part of the German Armament Works, in Lvov. It used forced labor, Jews and Poles. About six thousand of them in 1941. Friedrich went there in early 1942 and, for a few days at least, I went with him. The commander was a man named Wilhaus, and Friedrich became his assistant. There were about twelve or fifteen German officers, like my husband. But most of the SS, the guards, were Russians who had volunteered for service with the SS as a way of escaping a prisoner of war camp.” She shook her head and tightened her grip on the handkerchief, as if squeezing tearful memories out of the cotton. “After Friedrich got to Janowska, more Jews arrived. Many more Jews. And the ethos—if I can use such a word about Janowska—the ethos of the camp changed. Making Jews produce munitions became of much less importance than simply killing them. It wasn’t systematic killing of the kind that went on at Auschwitz-Birkenau. No, this was just murdering them individually in whatever way an SS man felt like. Each SS man had his own favorite way of dispatching a Jew. And every day there were shootings, hangings, drownings, impalements, disembowelings, crucifixions—yes, crucifixions, Herr Gunther. You can’t imagine it, can you? But it’s true. Women were stabbed to death with knives, or chopped to pieces with hatchets. Children were used for target practice. I heard a story that bets were made as to whether a child could be cleaved in two with a single blow from an ax. Each SS man was obliged to keep a tally of how many he had killed, so that a list might be compiled. Three hundred thousand people were killed like this, Herr Gunther. Three hundred thousand people brutally murdered, in cold blood, by laughing sadists. And my husband was one of them.”
While she spoke she looked not at me but at the floor, and it wasn’t long before a tear rolled down the length of her fine nose and hit the carpet. Then another.
“At some stage—I’m not sure when, because Friedrich stopped writing to me after a while—he assumed command of the camp. And it’s safe to say he kept things going just as they were. He did write to me once, to say Himmler had visited and how happy he was with the way things were progressing at Janowska. The camp was liberated by the Russians in July 1944. Wilhaus is dead now. I think the Russians killed him. Fritz Gebauer, who had been camp commandant before Wilhaus, was tried at Dachau and sentenced to life imprisonment. He’s in Landsberg Prison. But Friedrich escaped to Germany, where he stayed until the end of the war. We had some contact during this time. But the marriage was over, and had it not been for the fact that I am a Roman Catholic, I would certainly have divorced him.
“In late 1945, he disappeared from Munich and I didn’t hear from him again until March 1946. He was on the run. He contacted me and asked for money, so that he could go away. He was in contact with an old comrades’ association—the ODESSA. And he was awaiting a new identity. I have money of my own, Herr Gunther. So I agreed. I wanted him out of my life, forever. At the time, it did not occur to me that I would marry again. My scars were not as you see them now. A surgeon has worked hard to make my face more presentable. I spent most of my remaining fortune paying him.”
“It was worth it,” I observed. “He did a good job.”
“It’s kind of you to say so. And now I’ve met someone. A decent man whom I should like to marry. So I want to know if Friedrich is dead or alive. You see, he said he’d write to me when he got to South America. That’s where he was going. That’s where most of them go. But he never did. There were others escaping with Friedrich who did contact their families and who are now safe in Argentina and Brazil. But not my husband. I’ve taken advice from Cardinal Josef Frings, in Cologne, and he tells me that there can be no remarriage in the Roman Catholic Church without there being some evidence of Friedrich’s death. And I thought, you having been in the SS yourself, you might have a better chance of finding out if he’s alive or dead. If he’s in South America.”
“You’re well informed,” I said.
“Not me,” she said. “My fiancé. That’s what he told me, anyway.”
“And what does he do?”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“I might have known.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” I said. “You know, Frau Warzok, not everyone who was in the SS is as warm and cuddly as I am. Some of these old comrades don’t like questions, even from people like me. What you’re asking me to do could be dangerous.”
“I appreciate that,” she said. “We’ll make it worth your while. I have some money left. And my fiancé is a rich lawyer.”
“Is there any other kind? In the future I’ve an idea that everyone will be a lawyer. They’ll have to be.” I lit another cigarette. “A case like this, it might take a bit of money at that. Expenses. Talking money.”
“Talking money?”
“A lot of people won’t say or do anything until they see a picture of Europa and her bull.” I took out a banknote and showed her the picture I was talking about. “This picture.”
“I suppose that includes you.”
“Me, I’m coin-operated, like everything and everyone else these days. Lawyers included. I get ten marks a day plus expenses. No receipts. Your accountant won’t like that but it can’t be helped. Buying information isn’t like buying stationery. I get something in advance. That’s for your inconvenience. You see, I might draw a blank and it always inconveniences a client when he finds himself paying for nothing very much.”
“How does two hundred in advance sound?”
“Two hundreds are better than one.”
“And a substantial bonus if you find any evidence that Friedrich is alive or dead.”
“How substantial?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t given it much thought.”
“Might be a good idea if you did. I work better that way. How much would it be worth to you if I did find something out? If you could marry, for example.”
“I’d pay five thousand marks, Herr Gunther.”
“Have you thought of offering that much to the cardinal?” I asked.
“You mean like a bribe?”
“No, not
like
a bribe, Frau Warzok. I mean a
bribe,
pure and simple. Five thousand marks buys an awful lot of rosaries. Hell, that’s how the Borgias made their fortune. Everyone knows that.”
Frau Warzok seemed shocked. “The Church is not like that anymore,” she said.
“No?”
“I couldn’t,” she said. “Marriage is a sacrament that is indissoluble.”
I shrugged. “If you say so. Do you have a photograph of your husband?”
From an envelope in her briefcase she handed me three photographs. The first was a standard studio portrait of a man with a twinkle in his eye and a large grin on his face. The eyes were a little too close together, but apart from that there was nothing about it that might have led you to suppose that this was the face of a psychopathic murderer. He looked like a regular nine-to-five guy. That was the frightening thing about the concentration camps and the special action groups. It had been the regular guys—the lawyers, the judges, the policemen, the chicken farmers, and the stonemasons—who had done all the killing. In the second picture, things were clearer cut: a slightly tubbier Warzok, his chins bulging over his tunic collar, was standing stiffly to attention, his right hand held in the clasp of a beaming Heinrich Himmler. Warzok was about an inch shorter than Himmler, who was accompanied by an SS Gruppenführer I didn’t recognize. The third picture was a wider shot, taken the same day, of about six SS officers, including Warzok and Himmler. There were shadows on the ground and it looked like the sun had been shining.
“Those two were taken in August 1942,” explained Frau Warzok. “As you can see, Himmler was being shown around Janowska. Wilhaus was drunk, and things were slightly less cordial than it seems. Himmler didn’t really approve of wanton cruelty. Or so Friedrich told me.”
She reached into her briefcase and took out a typewritten sheet of paper. “This is a copy of some details that were on his SS record,” she said. “His SS number. His NSDAP number. His parents—they’re both dead, so you can forget any leads from that direction. He had a girlfriend, a Jewess called Rebecca, whom he murdered just before the camp was liberated. It’s possible you might get something out of Fritz Gebauer. I haven’t tried.”
I glanced over the paper she had prepared. She’d been very thorough, I had to give her that much. Or perhaps her lawyer fiancé had. I looked at the photographs again. Somehow it was a little hard to imagine her in bed with the man shaking hands with Himmler, but I’d seen more unlikely-looking couples. I could see what Warzok got out of it. He was short, she was tall. In that he was conforming to type, at least. It was harder to see what had been in it for her. Tall women usually married short men because it wasn’t money the men were short of, just inches. Stonemasons didn’t make a lot of money. Not even in Austria, where the tombs are fancier than almost anywhere else in Europe.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why did a woman like you marry a squirt like him in the first place?”
“Because I got pregnant,” she said. “I wouldn’t have married him otherwise. After we married, I lost the child. And I told you. I’m a Catholic. We mate for life.”
“All right. I’ll buy that. But suppose I do find him. What happens then? Have you thought about that?”