Chapter Five

FEBRUARY–APRIL 1944

Many of them had children, and they liked talking about them.

“You should see my son, he’s a real knockout—the girls love him!”

“I hope he treats them well!”

“My son speaks five languages.”

“My daughter is the most beautiful pianist.”

“Mine plays the violin.”

“Maybe they could play together!”

And it was comments like that that ended such conversations. To talk about the future, as though it would be milk and honey, was a sin. The women didn’t want to embrace such thoughts, they just wanted to keep the images of their children frozen in their heads, putting them into a kind of inner present borrowed from years long since passed.

“How about you, Anna? Do you have any children?”

“I have a small daughter,” 10678 replied.

“What’s her name?”

“Amy.”

“A pretty name! How old is she?”

“Six.”

“And where is she now?”

“In England.”

“In England?”

But this was when 10678 stopped answering. Even if she got Amy back, she would have lost all those years. How many was it now? Four. “Dada in car” echoed from the past. What words did she know now? She’d be able to run. To go to the lavatory on her own. Read and write. Have some proper friends. Ask where her mother was.

The railway carriage was nearly empty, save for a few officials wearing swastika armbands over heavy suits. Pugh and Butcher were stretched out along the uncomfortable benches, attempting to get some sleep. They had left Hildesheim at five that morning, and by now, at two o’clock, all were exhausted. Worstead was sitting opposite, doing his best to read a book on the Valkyries. Evidently the German classes were of some use then, Lockhart thought.

Lockhart looked out the window. It was flat countryside, ploughed brown and dull, and made duller by the rain. The occasional village in the distance broke the monotony, but there was little else of interest. He felt that he should keep his eyes open, take in all he could, but he too was tired. They wouldn’t be arriving in Danzig until tomorrow morning, assuming that all the lines were intact and there wasn’t too much military traffic. Strasser had warned him that trains could wait for hours—if not days—on end, and they could count themselves lucky if they completed the journey in around twenty-four hours.

He folded his arms, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the seat and the side of the carriage. His left hand felt a small bump inside his tunic. It was his letter to “Hattie,” along with his pass, whose few small pages confirmed his apparent treachery. Gray, the size of a passport, and emblazoned with the SS runes on its cover, his SS Personalausweiss confirmed that he was six foot tall, was born in London on 2 February 1913, had Blutgruppe O running through his veins, and held the rank of hauptsturmführer. The small photograph of him stapled to the inside front cover had been cut into a clumsy octagon, and stamped with two spread eagles. He could barely look at it.