Fatherland

worked his way through the remaining papers. A blue envelope, unmarked. Something heavy in it. The flap of the envelope was open. He saw a letterhead in copperplate—Zaugg & Cie., Bankiers—and stuffed it into his pocket.
    The buzzer from the door downstairs began sounding in long urgent bursts.
    "They must know we're up here!"
    Jaeger said, "Now what?" Stiefel had turned gray. The woman stood like a statue. She did not seem to know what was going on.
    "The basement!" shouted March. "They might just miss us. Get the elevator!"
    The other three ran out into the corridor. He began stuffing the papers back into the safe, slammed it shut, twirled the dial, pushed the mirror back into place. There was no time to do anything about the broken seal on the apartment door. They were holding the lift for him. He squeezed in and they began their descent.
    Third floor, second floor . . .
    March prayed it would not stop at the ground floor. It did not. It opened on to the empty basement. Above their heads they could hear the heels of the storm troopers on the marble slabs.
    "This way!" He led them into the bomb shelter. The grating from the air vent was where he had left it, leaning against the wall.
    Stiefel needed no telling. He ran to the air shaft, lifted his bag above his head and tossed it in. He grabbed at the brickwork, tried to haul himself after it, his feet scrabbling for a purchase on the smooth wall. He was yelling over his shoulder, "Help me!" March and Jaeger seized his legs and heaved. The little man wriggled headfirst into the hole and was gone.
    Coming closer—the ring and scrape of boots on concrete. The SS had found the entrance to the basement. A man was shouting.
    March to Charlie: "You next."
    "I'll tell you something," she said, pointing at Jaeger. "He'll never make it."
    Jaeger's hands went to his waist. It was true. He was too fat. "I'll stay. I'll think of something. You two get out."
    "No." This was turning into a farce. March took the envelope from his pocket and pressed it into Charlie's hand. "Take this. We may be searched."
    "And you?" She had her stupid shoes in one hand, was already mounting the chair.
    "Wait till you hear from me. Tell nobody." He grabbed her, locked his hands just below her knees and threw. She was so light, he could have wept.
    The SS were in the basement. Along the passage—the crash of doors flung open.
    March swung the grating back into place and kicked away the chair.

THURSDAY, APRIL 16

    When National Socialism has ruled long enough, it will no longer be possible to conceive of a form of life different from ours.
    ADOLF HITLER, July 11, 1941

1

    The gray BMW drove south down Saarland-Strasse, past the slumbering hotels and deserted shops of central Berlin. At the dark mass of the Museum für Völkerkunde it turned left, into Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, toward the headquarters of the Gestapo.
    There was a hierarchy in cars, as in everything. The Orpo was stuck with tinny Opels. The Kripo had Volkswagens—four-door versions of the original KdF-wagen, the round-backed workers' car that had been stamped out by the million at the Fallersleben works. But the Gestapo was smarter. They drove BMW 1800s—sinister boxes with growling, souped-up engines and dull gray bodywork.
    Sitting in the backseat next to Max Jaeger, March kept his eyes on the man who had arrested them, the commander of the raid on Stuckart's apartment. When they had been led up from the basement into the foyer, he had given them an immaculate Führer salute. "Sturmbannführer Karl Krebs, Gestapo!" That had meant nothing to March. It was only now, in the BMW, in profile, that he recognized him. Krebs was one of the two SS officers who had been with Globus at Buhler's villa.
    He was about thirty years old with an angular, intelligent face, and without the uniform he could have been anything—a lawyer, a banker, a eugenicist, an executioner. That was how it was with young men of his age. They had come off an assembly line of Pimpf, Hitler Youth, National Service and Strength-Through-Joy. They had heard the same speeches, read the same slogans, eaten the same one-pot meals in aid of Winter Relief. They were the regime's workhorses, had known no authority but the Party and were as reliable and commonplace as the Kripo's Volkswagens.
    The car drew up and almost at once Krebs was on the pavement, opening the door. "This way, gentlemen. Please."
    March hauled himself out and looked down the street. Krebs might be as