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"Quite sure."
"Then you won't mind letting me know your name."
There was a second's hesitation. "Frau Schmidt. Now please leave us."
Romer moved toward them in a menacing way.
"We're going," Frieda said frostily. "We have no intention of giving Herr Romer an excuse to molest us."
The man changed course and opened the door for them.
They went out,
climbed on their bikes, and rode down the drive. Frieda said: "Do you think she believed our story?"
"Totally," said Carla. "She didn't even ask our names. If she had suspected the truth she would have called the police right away."
"But we didn't learn much. We saw the chimney. But we didn't find anything we could call proof."
Carla felt a bit down. Getting evidence was not as easy as it sounded.
They returned to the hostel. They washed and changed and went out in search of something to eat. The only cafe was the one with the grumpy proprietress. They ate potato pancakes with sausage. Afterward they went to the town's bar. They ordered beers and spoke cheerfully to the other customers, but no one wanted to talk to them. This in itself was suspicious. People everywhere were wary of strangers, for anyone might be a Nazi snitch, but even so Carla wondered how many towns there were where two young girls could spend an hour in a bar without anyone even trying to flirt with them.
They returned to the hostel for an early night. Carla could not think what else to do. Tomorrow they would return home empty-handed. It seemed incredible that she should know about these awful killings yet be unable to stop them. She felt so frustrated she wanted to scream.
It occurred to her that Frau Schmidt--if that really was her name--might have further thoughts about her visitors. At the time, she had taken Carla and Frieda for what they claimed to be, but she might develop suspicions later, and call the police just to be safe. If that happened, Carla and Frieda would not be hard to find. There were just five people at the hostel tonight and they were the only girls. She listened in fear for the fatal knock on the door.
If they were questioned, they would tell part of the truth, saying that Frieda's brother and Carla's godson had died at Akelberg, and they wanted to visit their graves, or at least see the place where they died and spend a few minutes in remembrance. The local police might buy that story. But if they checked with Berlin they would swiftly learn the connection with Walter von Ulrich and Werner Franck, two men who had been investigated by the Gestapo for asking disloyal questions about Akelberg. Then Carla and Frieda would be deep in trouble.
As they were getting ready to go to bed in the uncomfortable-looking bunks, there was a knock at the door.
Carla's heart stopped. She thought of what the Gestapo had done to her father. She knew she could not withstand torture. In two minutes she would name every Swing Kid she knew.
Frieda, who was less imaginative, said: "Don't look so scared!" and opened the door.
It was not the Gestapo but a small, pretty, blond girl. It took Carla a moment to recognize her as Nurse Konig, out of uniform.
"I have to speak to you," she said. She was distressed, breathless and tearful.
Frieda invited her in. She sat on a bunk bed and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress. Then she said: "I can't keep it inside any longer."
Carla glanced at Frieda. They were thinking the same thing. Carla said: "Keep what inside, Nurse Konig?"
"My name is Ilse."
"I'm Carla and this is Frieda. What's on your mind, Ilse?"
Ilse spoke in a voice so low they could hardly hear her. She said: "We kill them."
Carla could hardly breathe. She managed to say: "At the hospital?"
Ilse nodded. "The poor people who come in on the gray buses. Children, even babies, and old people, grandmothers. They're all more or less helpless. Sometimes they're horrid, dribbling and soiling themselves, but they can't help it, and some of them are really sweet and innocent. It makes no difference--we kill them all."
"How do you do it?"
"An injection of morphium-scopolamin."
Carla nodded. It was a common anesthetic, fatal in overdose. "What about the special treatments they're supposed to have?"
