Fatherland

glamorous, like a film set.
    March stumbled toward it, up and down across the wooden sleepers and metal tracks, over the diesel-soaked stone.
    Before it had been renamed Gotenland, this had been the Anhalter Bahnhof: the Reich's main eastern railway terminus. It was from here that the Führer had set out in his armored train Amerika for his wartime headquarters in East Prussia; from here, too, that Berlin's Jews—the Weisses among them—must have embarked on their journey east.
    "... from October 10 onward the Jews have been evacuated from Reich territory... to the East in a continuous series of transports ..."
    In the air behind him, growing fainter: the platform announcements; somewhere ahead, the clank of wheels and couplings, a bleak whistle. The yard was vast—a dreamscape in the orange sodium lighting. At its center was the one patch of brilliant white. As March neared it, he could make out a dozen figures standing in front of a high-sided freight train: a couple of Orpo men, Krebs, SS surgeon Dr. Eisler, a photographer, a group of anxious officials of the Deutsche Reichsbahn—and Globus.
    Globus saw him first and slowly clapped his gloved hands in muffled and mocking applause. "Gentlemen, we can relax. The heroic forces of the Kriminalpolizei have arrived to give us their theories."
    One of the Orpo men sniggered.
    The body, or what was left of it, was under a rough woolen blanket spread across the tracks, and also in a green plastic sack.
    "May I see the corpse?"
    "Of course. We haven't touched him yet. We've been waiting for you, the great detective." Globus nodded to Krebs, who pulled away the blanket.
    A man's torso, neatly cropped at either end along the lines of the rails. He was belly down, slanted across the tracks. One hand had been severed, the head crushed. Both legs had also been run over, but the bloodied shards of clothing made it difficult to gauge the precise point of amputation. There was a strong smell of alcohol.
    "And now you must look in here." Globus was holding the plastic sack up to the light. He opened it and brought it close to March's face. "The Gestapo does not wish to be accused of concealing evidence."
    The stumps of feet, one of them still shod; a hand ending in ragged white bone and the gold band of a wrist- watch. March did not close his eyes, which seemed to disappoint Globus. "Ach, well." He dropped the sack. "They're worse when they stink, when the rats have been at them. Check his pockets, Krebs."
    In his flapping leather coat, Krebs squatted over the body like carrion. He reached beneath the corpse, feeling for the inside of the jacket. Over his shoulder, Krebs said, "We were informed two hours ago by the Reichsbahnpolizei that a man answering Luther's description had been seen here. But by the time we got here . . ."
    "He had already suffered a fatal accident." March smiled bitterly. "How unexpected."
    "Here we are, Herr Obergruppenführer." Krebs had retrieved a passport and wallet. He straightened and handed them to Globus.
    "This is his passport, no question," said Globus, flicking through it. "And here are several thousand Reichsmarks in cash. Money enough for silk sheets at the Hotel Adlon. But of course the bastard couldn't show his face in civilized company. He had no choice but to sleep rough out here."
    This thought appeared to give him satisfaction. He showed March the passport: Luther's ponderous face peered out from above his callused thumb. "Look at it, Sturmbannführer, then run along and tell Nebe it is all over. The Gestapo will handle everything from now on. You can clear off and get some rest." And enjoy it , his eyes said, while you can .
    "The Herr Obergruppenführer is kind."
    "You'll discover how kind I am, March, that much I promise you." He turned to Eisler. "Where's that fucking ambulance?"
    The pathologist stood to attention. "On its way, Herr Obergruppenführer. Most definitely."
    March gathered he had been dismissed. He moved toward the railway workers standing in a forlorn group about ten meters away. "Which one of you discovered the body?"
    "I did, Herr Sturmbannführer." The man who stepped forward wore the dark blue tunic and soft cap of a locomotive engineer. His eyes were red, his voice raw. Was that because of the body, wondered March, or was it fear at the unexpected presence of an SS general?
    "Cigarette?"
    "God, yes, sir. Thanks."
    The engineer took one, giving a furtive glance toward Globus, who was now talking to Krebs.
    March