Fatherland

kilometer. And they managed it in the first three years. An incredible operation, considering the war was still on."
    "How many people were involved?"
    "One million. The SS eugenics bureau found Germans in places you'd never have dreamed of—Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia, Croatia. If your skull had the proper measurements and you came from the right village—you were just given a ticket."
    "And Buhler?"
    "Ah. Well. To make room for a million Germans in the new Reichsgaue, they had to move out a million Poles."
    "And they went to the General Government?"
    Halder turned his head and glanced around furtively to make sure he was not overheard—"the German look," people called it. "They also had to cope with the Jews being expelled from Germany and the western territories—France, Holland, Belgium."
    "Jews?"
    "Yes, yes. Keep your voice down." Halder was speaking so quietly, March had to lean across the table to hear. "You can imagine—it was chaos. Overcrowding. Starvation. Disease. From what one can gather, the place is still a shithole, despite what they say."
    Every week the newspapers and television carried appeals from the East Ministry for settlers willing to move to the General Government. "Germans! Claim your birthright! A farmstead—free! Income guaranteed for the first five years." The advertisements showed happy colonists living in luxury. But word of the real story had filtered back—an existence conditioned by poor soil, backbreaking work, and drab satellite towns to which the Germans had to return at dusk for fear of attack from local partisans. The General Government was worse than the Ukraine; worse than Ostland; worse, even, than Muscovy.
    A waiter came over to offer more coffee. March waved him away. When the man was out of earshot, Halder continued in the same low tone, "Frank ran everything from Wawel Castle in Krakau. That would have been where Buhler was based. I have a friend who works in the official archives there. God, he has some stories. . . . Apparently the luxury was incredible. Like something out of the Roman Empire. Paintings, tapestries, looted treasures from the church, jewelry. Bribes in cash and bribes in kind, if you know what I mean." Halder's blue eyes shone at the thought, his eyebrows danced.
    "And Buhler was involved in this?"
    "Who knows? If not, he must have been about the only one who wasn't."
    "That would explain why he had a house on Schwanenwerder."
    Halder whistled softly. "There you are, then. We had the wrong sort of war, my friend. Cooped up in a stinking metal coffin two hundred meters under the Atlantic, when we could have been in a Silesian castle sleeping on silk with a couple of Polish girls for company."
    There was more March would have liked to ask him, but he had no time. As they were leaving, Halder said, "So you'll come to dinner with my BdM woman?"
    "I'll think about it."
    "Maybe we can persuade her to wear her uniform." Standing outside the hotel with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and his long scarf wrapped twice around his neck, Halder looked even more like a student. Suddenly he struck his forehead with the flat of his hand. "I clean forgot! I meant to tell you. My memory ... A couple of Sipo guys were around at the archive last week asking about you."
    March felt his smile shrink. "The Gestapo? What did they want?" He managed to keep his tone light, offhand.
    "Oh, the usual sort of stuff. 'What was he like during the war? Does he have any strong political views? Who are his friends?' What's going on, Zavi? You up for promotion or something?"
    "I must be." He told himself to relax. It was probably only a routine check. He must remember to ask Max if he had heard anything about a new screening.
    "Well, when they've made you head of the Kripo, don't forget your old friends."
    March laughed. "I won't." They shook hands. As they parted, March said, "I wonder if Buhler had any enemies."
    "Oh, yes," said Halder. "Of course."
    "Who were they, then?"
    Halder shrugged. "Thirty million Poles, for a start."
    The only person on the second floor at Werderscher-Markt was a Polish cleaning woman. Her back was to March as he came out of the lift. All he could see was a large rump resting on the soles of a pair of black rubber boots and the red scarf tied around her hair bobbing as she scrubbed the floor. She was singing softly to herself in her native language. As she heard him approach she stopped and turned her head to the wall. He squeezed past her and went