Libnits, Rosa Epstein, Carol Zimny, and Klaus Funke are fictional, though
this is not the case and with the rest of the characters integrated in the
plot of this book as it unfolds against the backdrop of WWII's fierce
reality _a war that went down in history as the bloodiest and costlier in
terms of human lives._
Also, much as we find it difficult to believe, it's the main historical
event that practically led to the outbreak of WWII on which is based the
plot of the present book._
And this event in itself may well be described as an abhorrent monument of
historical cynicism dedicated to state-inspired mass lawlessness and
criminality, a legacy Herr Adolph Hitler and his uniformed gang of thugs
left to the rest of the world with the notorious `Gleivic Incident' _an
incident which, together with a few others, seem to have set a
historical precedent which helped created a spirit of cruel and inhuman
ruthlessness and outright disregard and contempt towards man's values and
principles, displayed in our times by the contemporary nuclear empires,
known also as today's Superpowers._
And the big irony is that it was precisely those same superpowers that
during WWII lead their armies to the trenches and bloody fronts under the
banners of Freedom, Democracy, and Self-Determination for the peoples of
the world, also those for the respect of human rights _in all values and
high ideas destined to be abused and trampled over soon after the victory
of the then Allies over the Axis _values and high ideas for which almost
thirty million people sacrificed their lives._
_
Nicos Foscolos._
_
_
Dedicated to the victims of coercion and totalitarianism of all
times, and of all countries._
_
The fatal night that the biggest carnage humanity has ever known was about
to begin, the notorious `border incident' plan, conceived and `crafted' by
Himmler was well under way. When Lieutenant Colonel Stenmets, CO of the
garrison patrolling by the borders, tried to object, he was made to comply
once he was informed that that was
_
Raimon Cartier:
_
_
_
Valter Selleberg_
(SS Security Services Second In Command).
_
_
_
William Shirer_
_
_
The heavy door opened again as silently as before and the group
of grand-looking people walked in, noiselessly as if they were a
group of apparitions.
After a moment, Geurda remained motionless and with her eyes
half-closed, ecstatic as in a trance, overwhelmed by the familiar
thundering sound created by pairs of booted heels clacking together and
immediately after by the as thunderous and snapping calling out
of male voices in unison that for so many years caressed her
ears, thrilling her, sending shudders up her shrivelled-up body.
The Fuhrer was standing by the window, with his back turned to
his guests, motionless, shoulders slightly bent, his head low,
looking out the window somewhat absent-minded at the sea
of huge, deep red banners with the swastika, at the front of the
Chancellery that were fluttering leisurely to the morning breeze,
high above the steel helmets of the posted guards.
As was his habit, he turned abruptly and unexpectedly to face
his guests, a motion almost spastic, with his hands down, one
clutching the other, until he finally made the well known and at
the same time relieving to all gesture of crossing his hands
high on his chest.
He looked pale, tired and anxious though his eyes, focused and piercing
like twin naked flames capable of burning down the
will-power and the very souls of those standing in front of him,
held something even fiercer than ever before.
He paused, lowered his head and remained like this for a while,
moody and taciturn and then looked at them again with his dark
eyes.
arms. This is a right we have to demand all by ourselves,
gentlemen, paying the price required in blood. For this is
something no-one will ever offer to us for free...>_
He interrupted his little speech as abruptly as he had began
and looked them straight in the eye, one by one. Then again he
clasped his hands, shot outward his right foot, turned about face
and walked into his vast office. He stood erect under the huge
red and black shield with the swastika, resting both hands on the
glistering crystal of his desk. He remained frowned and brooding
for a moment or two, as if he was away in some-kind of wonderland
known and accessible only to him. He finally raised his head and
once more he darted his fierce gaze towards the group of men in
their resplendent uniforms who looked back at him stone-faced and
in array a few paces away. He remained silent. He drummed shortly
his fingers on the crystal nonplussed and for a tiny moment a
fiendish spark burned in his eyes and vanished, followed by a fleeting
shadow of a second thought that never lasts._
These were the first words spoken by any of the men standing on
the other side of the room. They were offered with reverence
and self-assurance at the same time, from the lips of a man huge
in size, utterly resplendent in his showy gold-trimmed blue
uniform of the Chief Commander of the Luftwaffe. And it was the
same man who turning to the others promptly added:_
Hitler lost no time elaborating._
Inside the vast office, under the blood-red shield with the
swastika, Hitler talked to them about this thought which kept him
awake that warm and humid night; and he explained to them what
was it that it had to be carefully planned and carried out
secretly and silently and meticulously, for so demanded
that the Third Reich was about to be engaged._
He began in a low but harsh voice, his speech fragmented, his
sentences short, but gradually his voice gained in volume until
it became a shrill cry reaching a climax, as the crazy horse of
his unholy passion bolted and began racing down the depths of
his abysmal inner world, only to drop and fade away as suddenly as the echo of a shot
fired in the dark. Once he was through, his staffers had by then the full picture
of what was it exactly he wished of them._
As they stood there, somewhat intimidated by the grandiose decor
of the space _the marble floor, the thick carpeting, the unique pieces of furniture_
under the stern gaze of the Emperor Frederick William looking down on them from his big
portrait _ the man Hitler so much admired right from the early
years of his life _ and now that they knew what was requested of
them, they all looked pallid, dumbfounded, and even some of
them felt a shudder running down their spine._
For what they have heard only minutes ago _ words uttered by the
leader of one of the great and mighty countries of the world, a
country rating among the most civilised in Europe with a long
and outstanding cultural tradition _ was incredible indeed. It was
something with no precedent in the history of human armed
conflicts to that day, also something never to occur again in any
of the future wars most probably. It was a thought and an order
at the same time, a thought never conceived even by the most
bellicose figures throughout the history of mankind, something
beyond the cunning and the shrewdness of Genghis Khan, of
Tamerlane or of Attila when each of Them in his day started out
to conquer the world, leaving on his wake trails of ruins, and
rivers of blood and tears. It was something devilish, sinister
and cynical, something outsizing in its wickedness even the
depravity of this very Nazi Party itself. In short it was something
that once declared, left the others petrified._
But still!_
The men standing in front of Hitler as if pinned down to the
floor, looking shocked and surprised were no others than Herman Goering, a known
adventurer and ruthless plunderer, Martin Borman, an obscure and
unscrupulous schemer, J. Goebbels, an able forger of History and
a morbid ravisher of truth, and three more sadistic criminals,
Himmler, Heydrich, and Mueller,
who had
In short, a bunch of beasts. Though even this bunch of wild animals couldn’t help
but feel shocked by the sheer monstrosity of their Master’s
as the outbreak of the bloodiest of all the wars mankind had ever
known was closing near...
02
CHAPTER TWO
_
The bright sun was sinking slowly into the waters of Lake
Valenzee after its day-long cruising across the sky of Berlin shedding
spots of melted gold all over its still surface that now was
slowly shrouded by wafts of mist that seemed to materialise
out of nowhere._
Claus Funke was waiting for quite some time now, standing in a
shady corner of the park by the lake, right opposite from the
exit of Trabenestrasse as it gradually submerged in the gloom. He
looked again at his wrist-watch. It was some minutes past eight._
Well, he was waiting for over an hour now, but these scumbags
still failed to show up. It was not the first time though. Right
from the very fist day their
loathsome pigs made no effort to hide their scorn for him. And
every time they chose to call him names or make a nasty
on him, Klaus Funke simply clenched his fists, his fingernails
almost cutting into the flesh of his palms, and bit at his grey- red lips
till they bled, trying to control the rage burning deep inside
him, struggling not to yell at them and let them have a taste of his
own disgust and hatred for them right in the middle of the
darkened streets._
The reason of his restraint though was that the
strong, big, well trained and far too many. Klaus Funke had
witnessed with his very own eyes quite a few times how brutal
they could be with someone weak or defenceless and even worse
with what a hair-raising easiness they could kill._
So he would wait._
He would wait for them today, and tomorrow, and the day after
that. And he would keep listening to their obscenities, half
smiling _ and in an amicable way at that _ about his godamned
hump that he was carrying around for so many years with
shame and anger, since the day his eyes met the world for the first
time, and about his crippled, and shorter than his right, left
leg that he was dragging along in a funny way, in-spite of his
persistent efforts to make it look as if it was quite normal._
Yes, he would wait._
-And while waiting he would keep turning a deaf ear to all the
insults, never letting the bitterness surging up within him out
of his chest. And he would keep honouring his end of the
stashed away under some rotten floor-boards in the dark and lurid
cellar he called
He would wait until this chest was full to the brim with
looting, and then for another and another. He would wait until
he had saved millions of marks, until he had accumulated a heap
of gold coins, and rings, and bracelets, and wrist-watches, and
gold pentacles. He would keep bowing his head to those bastards,
and to humiliate himself before them. He would keep hurting deep
inside, he would keep crucify others and be crucified himself,
till the day he was rich, really wealthy and well off._
For deep in his heart Klaus Funke knew right from his early
years, when he was parading along the cold streets of Berlin his
hump, his crippled leg and his half-empty stomach, that
no-one in this world dares to call you a cripple, or a hunchback, or a skinny
little bugger, or a cockeyed freak, once you’ve managed to hit it big. To
Claus, one being rich made one worth for the others to feast
their eyes on, even if this one was so ugly and deformed that
his creator spat on him the day of his birth._
He stopped brooding and grunting, as was his habit, for his
ears caught a familiar sound from a distance.
He began walking as fast as he could, dragging along his
crippled leg that gave him extra burden as he wore on it an
oversized and ungainly orthopaedic boot. He stopped right in the
middle of the street and his hawkish sight helped him make out
almost immediately the big shadows approaching from
Halenzestrasse._
And at the same time he felt his heart pounding against his
chest with joy, as, turning his head the other way, towards
Erbachestrasse, to the south, he saw another convoy of iron
Cyclops materialise out of the fog and the darkness._
Wasting no time and feeling as excited as he always felt in such
occasions, he limped as quickly as he could along the middle of
Trabenestrasse and then he stopped again and he began turning
this way then the other, flashing his torch-light, signalling._
Immediately after the grey trucks and the black smaller cars
with the SS insignia painted on their sides came to a halt before
him and many silent shadows began jumping out over the tail gates of
the bigger vehicles to the street. They wore helmets and the
steelworks of their rifles caught and reflected the pale light of
the rising moon. A grey-coloured Opel convertible stopped beside
Klaus and a tall, imposing figure got off. The man wore the
insignia of the SS and the stripes of a Haupstourmfuhrer. He
pulled his Lugger off his webbing holster and took a few strides
towards the waiting cripple._
So there it was again! There was the moment of ultimate pain for
Klaus. There was the moment of humiliation and wild anger._
He failed to respond at once, pausing for a second, clasping his
hands viciously._
Alfred Onayoks, the tall captain of the SS with the brown hair,
the clever eyes and the unlimited ambitions, looked for a moment
at the wretched cripple as he stood in front of him making
the same thought he had made so many times in the past while in
the company of Klaus Funke. It was more like a voice welling up
from the depths of his being telling him that, come to think of
it, no man was as unimportant as he seemed to be._
the other way with his gun always at he ready, he crossed to the
vehicles waiting lined-up by the curb._
He gave his orders in a low and hasty voice, and the next moment
groups of men armed with rifles and machine guns rushed forward
rounding up the block. The Captain himself followed by a dozen
of hand-picked men hurried to the entrance of the old building. A
spay of machine-gun bullets shattered the wooden door and a
couple of men yanked it free from its hinges, and left it crush
against the marble floor of the entrance hall._
The group of men stormed inside the dark building shouting snappy
orders and at the same time Klaus Funke, lurking in the dark by
the entrance, heard a French door on the top floor of the
building leading to a balcony, open with a bang, its glass
rattling to the impact. He saw people bend over the wrought-iron
railing, looking down alarmed and anxious in the pale moonlight,
and he heard voices tinted with frustration calling out,
wondering aloud about the reason of this nasty commotion until
they saw the vehicles and the SS men running to all directions._
The next thing Klaus heard was the banging of rifle butts
against door frames, and then women crying out, children
screaming, and men shouting excited. Then there were a few quick
bursts from a Schmeizer followed by random gun shots._
Looking up, Klaus saw the top floor come alive with lights, but
then again the lights went out as quickly, as the cacophony of gun shots,
screams, and shouts reached a peak. Then he saw a male figure running
out to the balcony and diving down
to the street below over the railing. Moments before the body of
the falling man hit the cobblestone, almost right next to where
Klaus stood, the cripple saw another man trying to climb down the
sliding roof of the old building on all fours and jump over to the
roof of the next building that stood at a lower level._
From the back-street down below came two short bursts of machine-gun fire.
The dark shadow of the man on the roof took a few clumsy steps,
as if he was trying out a new dance, then he pivoted jerkily in
the uncertain backdrop of the dark sky and disappeared, falling
down the other side of the roof. A few minutes passed, and then,
as the windows of the nearby buildings began to open reluctantly
one after the other, the gun fire subsided and all one could hear
in the silence that followed was some sobbing and the sporadic
shouting of the soldiers herding off the night’s
Soon the prisoners, about ten men with blood all over their faces
and their cloths in tatters, six or seven women and three
children, some of them half naked, some in night-gowns, appeared
in the street heading for the waiting trucks surrounded by
uniformed SS men who were pushing and shoving them non-stop till
they got them all on one of the vans. Once loaded, the van was on
its way._
The bloodied bodies of the two dead men were dragged along the
wet cobblestone and hurled on to the back of the second van as
if they were logs. This van too departed immediately, followed by
the personnel trucks._
One after the other the few open windows began to close as
discreetly as they had opened and the lights went out. Silence
once more engulfed the dark and deserted street _ a mournful
silence like the one prevailing inside a grave._
Still standing in his dark corner, leaning his weight on his
crippled leg, Klaus Funke kept staring at Captain Onayoks
speechless, as the other man approached shoving his pistol back
into its holster._
The two men, the tall, commanding Aryan with the thunderbolt
like SS insignia on the lapels of his tunic, and the short,
skinny cripple, stood there facing each other. Then Onayoks got
into his car. He turned the key to the ignition and leaving the
engine running, he rolled down the window._
The Captain remained silent for a moment, his bright eyes
focused on the cripple who was battling with the rage raving
inside him. Then he added in a cold voice._
Flashing a sarcastic smile to Klaus, he gunned his engine and
the powerful car dashed forward, its wheels screeching. §
03
CHAPTER THREE_
_
Klaus Funke was still standing there, in the middle of the
street. The cobblestone was already glistering with dampness, as
the mist coming from the small lake was settling in. He stood
clenching his bony fists, as inside his narrow chest that never
seemed big enough to contain all the air Klaus needed, huge
waves of wrath kept surging and falling._
body shaking.
The sound of his own voice reached his ears hoarse and changed
and that made him stop talking to the night. He relaxed his
clenched fists and held his breath, wishing for he tempest raving
inside him to subside._
He fumbled his grey, creased trench-coat with his bony and still
shaking fingers, searching for his cigarette case. He fished it out
of his pocket and saw it sparkle, catching the
moonlight. Pure, solid gold! The sight of the golden case resting
on the palm o his hand slowly dispersed his anger and then it was
as though a sweet feeling of tranquillity rippled down his
system, touching his very soul._
Yeah, he pondered! He already had too many looting stashed away. Money,
gold, jewels... the works. But he would wait, one maybe two years
more, stashing away, accumulating, until he ended up with a mint.
And then he would leave the country and go away, far- far away
from the ghosts that haunted him. And once with both his feet
firm on this remote land, he would bury his past, and he would
scatter the ashes of his burned passport over an ocean starting
his life afresh, rich in the meantime and free. And finally he would try to
convince himself that he still was a human being._
He took a deep breath, something he needed to do pretty often,
for this accursed bronchitis that plagued him from his childhood
was always there to harass him. He was more relaxed now. He took
a cigarette from his golden case, adorned with a Star of
David pentacle that furtively reflected the pale light. The cigarette too was
a spoil from the unholy raids into the Jewish households. He lit
it with a trembling hand, inhaled the expensive, fragrant smoke,
savouring this tiny little pleasure he very seldom allowed to
himself. And then he saw the man for the first time._
He stood a few paces away, by the street corner and he seemed like
if he had come out of the mist as it swirled and swayed right behind
him, moving upwards, creating flimsy clouds. The stranger was
tall and lean, and looked as if he was carrying on his
shoulders some kind of burden too hard to bear _ shoulders outlined so wide
and strong under the shabby army overcoat, that Klaus
instinctively felt the steely hand of fear clutching his little
soul._
For just a second he dared look the stranger in the eyes and
this made his fear even greater._
What Klaus Funke saw were two dark slits etched on a gaunt face
and between those slits two flickering sparks, grey and cold, and
menacing as the stranger stared back at him. He seemed to be a loner and a
hard-egg, and as he kept looking intensely on, Klaus read something in
those eyes which reminded him of the stray dogs wandering wild in
the big cities._
Almost paralysed with fear, Klaus tried not to show any emotion.
He turned about and started towards Trabenerstrasse, his
walk slow. He kept going at a steady pace, but with all his
senses in alert, in a desperate effort to pick up any alarming
signs, trying to decipher the stranger’s secret thoughts and
intentions. And then he heard his steps on the cobblestone,
closing in from behind._
Funke was frozen with fear now. He was gasping for air and he
felt the crazy urge to run._
But no! he shouldn’t. All this could have been nothing more but
a nightmarish trick of his twisted imagination. Fear born out of
fear. Maybe the troll following him was doing so all by chance.
Maybe he was nothing more than a poor devil, a petty thief, one
of those creatures thrown-up by the social bottom of every big
city of the world once the sun gives way to darkness. Funke knew
only too well that if he would start running, if he would try to
take off, he would at the same time give in to his panic, and his
paralysing fear. And this could awaken the ``other's'' most
obscure instincts, like it happens with a dog that, as long as
you stand your ground facing it firmly, never dares to get close
to you, while it jumps you and tears you to pieces once
you try to make a run for it, scared._
The voice was persistent, agonising, but so was the sound of the
footfalls closing in from behind and Funke's urge to flee was
growing by the second - a shattering, choking feeling._
In spite of his panic, he managed to restrain himself and he kept
walking -a shade faster now - until he hurriedly turned a corner
and then on to Erbachstrasse through a narrow back street. God,
Kurfuster Alee was only two streets away, he discovered. He could
clearly hear the buzzing of traffic and the noise of the
people gathering there every night under the bright lights. If he
could just get there soon enough, the worst part of the danger
would have been over. He would be safe..._
Pallid like a ghost, soaked in cold sweat that was gushing through every pore of his body, he turned on to Erbachstrasse and stopped for a second to catch his breath._
The thudding of footsteps from behind kept getting louder
and louder, and it was obvious that the man who shadowed him was
moving faster than before. Half dead with fear, Funke decided it
was time to make a run for._
On trying to run he tripped, fell into a pothole deep like a huge
scar on the deck of the street, crawled out on all fours,
then got to his crooked feet and kept running as best as he could
toward the far end, to safety, where the bright afterglow of
too many lights and the ever-flowing river of human commotion and sounds._
It was there, under the pale glow of the first street-light that
Funke halted breathless and with his chest almost to the verge of
erupting from the tormenting effort, and ventured to cautiously
turn his head so he could take a better look at his ruthless
pursuer._
But the stranger was not coming after him any more. Instead he
had stopped short near the pothole Funke had tumbled in moments
ago. He saw the man lean low over the shallow chuckhole , feeling the
ground close to the rim with both his long hands. It was like he
was searching for something persistently, and when he finally
found it, he raised his tall, bonny body, walked just a
few feet back, climbed on the sidewalk, sat on a stone step, leaned his head against
the wall of a building, then slowly, sensually almost, brought
his tiny little trophy to his lips._
It was Funke's cigarette butt. That shitty stub Funke had dropped
as he was fleeing in terror, chased by the shadows of his
nightmares...§
CHAPTER FOUR_
For Werner Libnitch this was the second cigarette butt he was
sampling since early that morning when he walked through the
prison gate on his way to freedom._
The first time things had happened in a far more simpler
fashion; there was this fat moron - a banker or a diplomat, or a
loan-shark at that - waiting for a birdy to show up, and when he
saw her coming swinging like a ship in rough seas and smelling
like a French perfume-shop, he had had to get rid of his long,
thick cigar as he was standing by his sports Mercedes, so he
could kiss her hands and open the passenger door for her._
That to Werner was a windfall really, a lucky twist just as he
was entering Tiergarden. Moments later he was savouring his
unexpected treasure seated in a bench next to the one occupied by
a corpulent Bavarian nanny pretending to watch over a little brat
in a stroller while in fact glimpsing hungrily at the passing
by Wermacht soldiers until Werner caught her full attention._
Having established... visual contact, the woman kept looking at
him every now and then in so hot a way, enough to ignite a powder
keg, but Werner, although fresh out of prison after a good year
behind bars, couldn’t help but thinking of that other woman._
The other woman!..._
Actually it was nothing more than a three or four-minute
encounter, all the time he had needed to rescue her from the
hands of those bleeding SS baboons who had cornered her, dead to
the world all of them and full of nasty intentions, somewhere
along a poorly lit back-street in Sarlotburg, by knocking the
living day-lights out of them. Still that short-lived tet_a_tet was
more than enough for Werner to look into those big, fear-stricken
black eyes as he was gasping for air, wiping blood off his nose
and mouth with the back of his hand and capture them for ever in
his mind. For he had never since forgotten her._
A tall, slender female figure dressed in a simple dark outfit
that despite her modest appearance, her mere existence somehow
cried-out of money, education and an aristocratic background; all
those things Werner had learned to smell in the air from miles
away, since the time he had began roving aimlessly the streets
like a hungry dog, in his early years. And then, at some point,
as he had managed to somehow wrap around her body her torn-up and
dishevelled dress, she had mumbled a few words thanking him, and
then she had opened with trembling hands her purse offering him a
couple of ten-mark bills._
Until that unusual night, for Werner Libnitch the very meaning
of life was nothing more but figures printed on bank-notes, those
shitty green and grey little pieces of paper which won you access
to everything you needed, from food and clothing to cigarettes
and booze or a visit to the red-light district of Zimenstaat._
But in those intriguing and full of awe moments when that broad
had reached out to hand him the money looking at him with eyes
still full of fear and gratitude, Werner had the chance to
discover very much to his surprise that he was unable to raise
his hand and pocket the Heaven-sent bonanza. And the only thing
he could do - something he had never stopped to remember
although his time in prison as if it had happened only the day
before so weird and unusual that it was - was to stand there
facing her motionless like a snowman, looking deep into her big,
fawnish eyes._
It was sheer madness, a stupid, a dumb thing to do no doubt, but
still the only think _he could do_ at that time. He had never moved to take
the dough she had offered. For the only thing he had really wanted to do
with all his heart's might at that instance was not to be paid for what he
had done only minutes ago, proving this way to himself that what had
really motivated him was not the money but rather the longing to hear the
word
didn’t fancy watching her being roughed-up by those drunken sons of
bitches._
And stranger still was the fact that, after twelve months in the slam
following his sentencing by that fucking Nazi court which had charged him
with
reason which had made him react the way he had reacted that night, almost a
year ago. What was eating him was why he had never accepted the dough
offered to him. Was he really trying to prove something to himself or to
the woman for that matter? And if yes, what was it?_
Anyway, after he had refused to take her money, the woman had shoved it
back in her purse somewhat perplexed by his reaction, staring at him
persistently as if she was trying to see through his very being, and then
she had uttered the very last words he had heard from her ever since:
Rosa Epstein! That was all..._
The woman had turned and walked away with short, hurried steps. A tall,
female figure, slim and ethereal like a magic shadow swallowed by
darkness, while he had remained there still looking at her motionless for
quite some time, until the two Nazi bums he had knocked silly had returned,
this time accompanied by five or six Gestapo people and Policemen who had
jumped him en masse screaming blue murder._
But even when they had secured the hand-cuffs round his wrists and began
dragging him along the narrow street toward the waiting Police van soaked
in his own blood and full of cuts and bruises, Werner still had his mind
fixed on one thing; how to preserve deep in him and cherish the two most
wonderful things he had experienced in his entire life: those two big,fawnish eyes staring at him, and the sound of her name; Rosa Epstein.§
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