Fatherland

She was gone before he could think of a response.
    * * * *

    The line of returning Germans shuffled one at a time, in silence, into the Reich. March waited patiently with his hands clasped behind his back while his passport was scrutinized. In these last few days before the Führer's birthday, the border checks were always more stringent, the guards more jittery.
    The eyes of the Zollgrenzschutz officer were hidden in the shade of his visor. "The Herr Sturmbannführer is back with three hours to spare." He drew a thick black line through the visa, scrawled "VOID" across it and handed the passport back. "Welcome home."
    In the crowded customs hall March kept a look out for Charlie but could not see her. Perhaps they had refused to let her back into the country. He almost hoped they had: it would be safer for her.
    The Zollgrenzschutz was opening every bag. Never had he seen such security. It was chaos. The passengers milling and arguing around the mounds of clothes made the hall look like an Indian bazaar. He waited his turn.
    It was after three by the time March reached the left-luggage area and retrieved his case. In the toilet he changed back into his uniform, folded his civilian clothes and packed them away. He checked his Luger and slipped it into his holster. As he left, he glanced at himself in the mirror. A familiar black figure.
    Welcome home.

3

    When the sun shone the Party called it "Führer weather." The Party had no name for rain.
    Nevertheless, it had been decreed, drizzle or not, that this afternoon was to be the start of the three-day holiday. And so, with National Socialist determination, the people set about their celebrations.
    March was in a taxi heading south through Wedding. This was workers' Berlin, a Communist stronghold of the 1920s. In a festive gesture, the factory whistles had sounded an hour earlier than usual. Now the streets were dense with damp revelers. The Blockwarte had been active. From every second or third building a banner hung—mostly swastikas, but also the occasional slogan— between the iron balconies of the fortress-tenements. WORKERS OF BERLIN SALUTE THE FÜHRER ON HIS 75TH BIRTHDAY! LONG LIVE THE GLORIOUS NATIONAL SOCIALIST REVOLUTION! LONG LIVE OUR GUIDE AND FIRST COMRADE ADOLF HITLER! The back streets were a delirium of color, throbbing to the oom-pah! of the local SA bands. And this was only Friday. March wondered what the Wedding authorities had planned for the day itself.
    During the night, on the corner of Wolff-Strasse, some rebellious spirit had added a piece of graffiti in white paint: ANYONE FOUND NOT ENJOYING THEMSELVES WILL BE SHOT. A couple of anxious-looking brownshirts were trying to clean it off.
    March took the taxi as far as Fritz-Todt-Platz. His Volkswagen was still outside Stuckart's apartment, where he had parked it the night before last. He looked up at the fourth floor. Someone had drawn all the curtains.
    At Werderscher-Markt, he stowed his suitcase in his office and rang the duty officer. Martin Luther had not been located.
    Krause said, "Between you and me, March, Globus is driving us all fucking mad. In here every half hour, ranting and raving that someone will go to a KZ unless he gets results."
    "The Herr Obergruppenführer is a very dedicated officer."
    "Oh, he is, he is." Krause's voice was suddenly panicky. "I didn't mean to suggest—"
    March hung up. That would give whoever was listening to his calls something to think about.
    He lugged the typewriter across to his desk and inserted a single sheet of paper. He lit a cigarette.

    TO: Artur Nebe, SS-Oberstgruppenführer, Reich Kriminalpolizei
    FROM: X. March, SS-Sturmbannführer             4 17 64
I have the honor to inform you that at 10:00 this morning I attended the premises of Zaugg & Cie., Bankiers, Bahnhof-Strasse, Zürich.
The numbered account, whose existence we discussed yesterday, was opened by Foreign Ministry Under State Secretary Martin Luther on 7 8 42. Four keys were issued.
The box was subsequently opened on three occasions: 12 17 42, 8 9 43, 4 13 64.
On inspection by myself, the box was found to contain
    March leaned back in his seat and blew a pair of neat smoke rings toward the ceiling. The thought of that painting in the hands of Nebe—dumped into his collection of bombastic, syrupy Schmutzlers and Kirchners—was repugnant, even sacrilegious. Better to leave her at peace in the darkness. He let his fingers rest on the typewriter keys for a moment, then