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"We have this time."
"Why?"
"The Fuhrer neglected to explain his decision to me personally," Kringelein said sarcastically. "But I can guess. The program has attracted remarkably angry protests from a normally passive public. If we persist with it, we risk an open confrontation with churches of all denominations. That would be a bad thing. We must not weaken the unity and determination of the German people--particularly right now, when we are at war with the Soviet Union, our strongest enemy yet. So the program is canceled."
"Very good, sir," said Macke, controlling his anger. "Will there be anything else?"
"Dismissed," said Kringelein.
Macke went to the door.
"Macke."
He turned. "Yes, sir."
"Change your shirt."
"My shirt?"
"There's blood on it."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
Macke stamped down the stairs, boiling. He returned to the basement chamber. Father Peter was still alive.
Raging, he yelled again: "Who told you about Akelberg?"
There was no reply.
He turned the current up to maximum.
Father Peter screamed for a long time; then, at last, he fell into a final silence.
xiii
The villa where the Franck family lived was set in a small park. Two hundred yards from the house, on a slight rise, was a little pagoda, open on all sides, with seats. As children Carla and Frieda had pretended it was their country house, and had played for hours pretending to have grand parties where dozens of servants waited on their glamorous guests. Later it became their favorite place to sit and talk where no one could hear them.
"The first time I sat on this bench, my feet didn't reach the floor," Carla said.
Frieda said: "I wish we could go back to those days."
It was a sultry afternoon, overcast and humid, and they both wore sleeveless dresses. They were in a somber mood. Father Peter was dead: he had committed suicide in custody, having become depressed about his crimes, according to the police. Carla wondered if he had been beaten as her father had. It seemed dreadfully likely.
There were dozens more in police cells all over Germany. Some had protested publicly about the killing of the handicapped, others had done no more than pass round copies of Bishop von Galen's sermon. She wondered if all of them would be tortured. She wondered how long she would escape such a fate.
Werner came out of the house with a tray. He carried it across the lawn to the pagoda. Cheerily he said: "How about some lemonade, girls?"
Carla looked away. "No, thank you," she said coldly. She did not understand how he could pretend to be her friend after the cowardice he had shown.
Frieda said: "Not for me."
"I hope we're still friends," Werner said, looking at Carla.
How could he say such a thing? Of course they were not friends.
Frieda said: "Father Peter is dead, Werner."
Carla added: "Probably tortured to death by the Gestapo, because he refused to accept the murder of people such as your brother. My father is dead, too, for the same reason. Lots of other people are in jail or in camps. But you kept your cushy desk job, so that's all right."
