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He was angry with his father, yet hot tears came to his eyes when he thought about how he had died. Erik had at first denied that the Gestapo had killed him, but he soon realized it was probably true. They were not Sunday school teachers: they beat people who told wicked lies about the government. Father had persisted in asking whether the government was killing handicapped children. He had been foolish to listen to his English wife and his overemotional daughter. Erik loved them, which made it all the more painful to him that they were so misguided and obstinate.
While on leave in Berlin Erik had gone to see Hermann's father, the man who had first revealed the exciting Nazi philosophy to him when he and Hermann were boys. Herr Braun was in the SS now. Erik said he had met a man in a bar who claimed the government killed disabled people in special hospitals. "It is true that the handicapped are a costly drag on the forward march to the new Germany," Herr Braun had said to Erik. "The race must be purified, by repressing Jews and other degenerate types, and preventing mixed marriages that produce mongrel people. But euthanasia has never been Nazi policy. We are determined, tough, even brutal sometimes, but we do not murder people. That is a Communist lie."
Father's accusations had been wrong. Still Erik wept sometimes.
Fortunately, he was frantically busy. There was always a morning rush of patients, mostly men injured the day before. Then there was a short lull before the first new casualties of the day. When Weiss had operated on the frostbitten boy, he and Erik and Hermann took a midmorning break in the cramped staff room.
Hermann looked up from a newspaper. "In Berlin they're saying we've already won!" he exclaimed. "They ought to come here and see for themselves."
Dr. Weiss spoke with his usual cynicism. "The Fuhrer made a most interesting speech at the Sportpalast," he said. "He spoke of the bestial inferiority of the Russians. I find that reassuring. I had the impression that the Russians were the toughest fighters we have yet come across. They have fought longer and harder than the Poles, the Belgians, the Dutch, the French, or the British. They may be underequipped and badly led and half-starved, but they come running at our machine guns, waving their obsolete rifles, as if they don't care whether they live or die. I'm glad to hear that this is no more than a sign of their bestiality. I was beginning to fear that they might be courageous and patriotic."
As always, Weiss pretended to agree with the Fuhrer, while meaning the opposite. Hermann just looked confused, but Erik understood and was infuriated. "Whatever the Russians may be, they're losing," he said. "We're forty miles from Moscow. The Fuhrer has been proved right."
"And he is much smarter than Napoleon," said Dr. Weiss.
"In Napoleon's time nothing could move faster than a horse," said Erik. "Today we have motor vehicles and wireless telegraphy. Modern communications have enabled us to succeed where Napoleon failed."
"Or they will have, when we take Moscow."
"Which we will do in a few days, if not hours. You can hardly doubt that!"
"Can I not? I believe some of our own generals have suggested we halt where we are and build a defense line. We could secure our positions, resupply over the winter, and go back on the offensive when the spring comes."
"That sounds to me like treacherous cowardice!" Erik said hotly.
"You are right--you must be, because that is exactly what Berlin told the generals, I understand. Headquarters people obviously have a better perspective than the men on the front line."
"We have almost wiped out the Red Army!"
"But Stalin seems to produce more armies from nowhere, like a magician. At the beginning of this campaign we thought he had two hundred divisions. Now we think he has more than three hundred. Where did he find another hundred divisions?"
"The Fuhrer's judgment will be proved right--again."
"Of course it will, Erik."
"He has never yet been wrong!"
"A man thought he could fly, so he jumped off the top of a ten-story building, and as he fell past the fifth floor, flapping his arms uselessly in the air, he was heard to say: 'So far, so good.'"
A soldier rushed into the staff room. "There's been an accident," he said. "At the quarry north of the town. A collision, three vehicles. Some SS officers are injured."
The SS, or Schutzstaffel, had originally been Hitler's personal guard, and now formed a powerful elite. Erik admired their superb discipline, their ultra-smart uniforms, and their specially close relationship with Hitler.
"We'll send an ambulance," said Weiss.
The soldier said: "It's the Einsatzgruppe, the Special Group."
Erik had heard of the Special Groups, vaguely. They followed the army into conquered territory and rounded up troublemakers and potential saboteurs such as Communists. They were probably setting up a prison camp outside the town.
"How many hurt?" asked Weiss.
"Six or seven. They're still getting people out of the cars."
"Okay. Braun and von Ulrich, you go."
Erik was pleased. He would be glad to rub shoulders with the Fuhrer's most fervent supporters, even happier if he could be of service to them.
