Fatherland

ring.
    His hand hung motionless. One ring. Two. Three. The stillness of the house magnified the sound; the dusty air vibrated. Four. Five. He flexed his fingers over the receiver. Six. Seven. He picked it up.
    "Buhler?" The voice of an old man more dead than alive; a whisper from another world. "Buhler? Speak to me. Who is that?"
    March said, "A friend."
    Pause. Click
    Whoever it was had hung up. March replaced the receiver. Quickly he began opening the desk drawers at random. A few pencils, some notepaper, a dictionary. He pulled the bottom drawers out, one after the other, and put his hand into the space.
    There was nothing.
    There was something.
    At the very back, his fingers brushed against an object small and smooth. He pulled it out. A small notebook bound in black leather, an eagle and swastika in gold lettering on the cover. He flicked through it. The Party diary for 1964. He slipped it into his pocket and replaced the drawers.
    Outside, Buhler's dog was going crazy, running from side to side along the water's edge, staring across the Havel, whinnying like a horse. Every few seconds it would get down on its hind legs before resuming its desperate patrol. He could see now that almost the whole of its right side was matted with dried blood. It paid no attention to March as he walked down to the lake.
    The heels of his boots rang on the planks of the wooden jetty. Through the gaps between the rickety boards he could see the muddy water a meter below, lapping in the shallows. At the end of the jetty he stepped down into the boat. It rocked with his weight. There were several centimeters of rainwater on the aft deck, clogged with dirt and leaves, a rainbow of oil on the surface. The whole boat stank of fuel. There must be a leak. He stopped and tried the small door to the cabin. It was locked. Cupping his hands, he peered through the window, but it was too dark to see.
    He jumped out of the boat and began retracing his steps. The wood of the jetty was weathered gray, except in one place, along the edge opposite the boat. Here there were orange splinters, a scrape of white paint. March was bending to examine the marks when his eye was caught by something pale gleaming in the water, close to the place where the jetty left the shore. He walked back and knelt, and by holding on with his left hand and stretching down as far as he could with his right, he was just able to retrieve it. Pink and chipped like an ancient china doll, with leather straps and steel buckles, it was an artificial foot.
    The dog heard them first. It cocked its head, turned and trotted up the lawn toward the house. At once, March dropped his discovery back into the water and ran after the wounded animal. Cursing his stupidity, he worked his way around the side of the house until he stood in the shadow of the towers and could see the gate. The dog was leaping up at the ironwork, grunting through its muzzle. On the other side, March could make out two figures standing looking at the house. Then a third appeared with a large pair of bolt cutters, which he clamped onto the lock. After ten seconds of pressure, it gave way with a loud crack.
    The dog backed away as the three men filed onto the grounds. Like March, they wore the black uniforms of the SS. One seemed to take something from his pocket and walked toward the dog, hand outstretched, as if offering it a treat. The animal cringed. A single shot exploded the silence, echoing around the grounds and sending a flock of rooks cawing into the air above the woods. The man holstered his revolver and gestured at the corpse to one of his companions, who seized it by the hind legs and dragged it into the bushes.
    All three men strode toward the house. March stayed behind the pillar, slowly edging around it as they came up the drive, keeping himself out of sight. It occurred to him that he had no reason to hide. He could tell the Gestapo men that he had been searching the property, that he had not received Jaeger's message. But something in their manner, in the casual ruthlessness with which they had disposed of the dog, warned him against it. They had been here before.
    As they came closer, he could make out their ranks. Two Sturmbannführer and an Obergruppenführer —a brace of majors and a general. What matter of state security could demand the personal attention of a full Gestapo general? The Obergruppenführer was in his late fifties, built like an ox, with the battered face of an ex-boxer. March