Page 35 of V2

He ran along the corridor of the apartment block and down the stairs. The front door lay across the steps, blown off its hinges by an aerial mine. It rose and fell like a see-saw as he stepped across it into the swirling rosy fog created by the artificial smoke screens. The scene was surreal, dreamlike. Here and there the chemical gauze flickered pink and red from the burning buildings. The full moon seemed to be hurtling through gaps in the mist. He could see a wash of stars, the brilliant narrow beams of the searchlights duelling across the sky. The bombers were invisible, but he could hear their heavy engines, very low and loud, in between the deafening crashes of explosions shaking the ground. Shadowy figures ran past him in panic. For perhaps a minute, he stood transfixed, as if he were merely a member of the audience at some fantastical son et lumière. Only when he became aware of the intense heat did his residual fear of an explosion bring him to his senses. He set off quickly down the street, around the corner, towards the air raid shelter.

At the bottom of the steps, in the low concrete chamber, a dozen figures crouched around the walls. It was newly dug out; it stank of lime. The overhead lamp swung with each detonation. The light flickered. He recognised the faces of some of the engineers. Nobody was speaking. They were looking at the floor. Gradually the time between the explosions became longer, and after five minutes of silence, Graf decided to go in search of Karin.

In the bright moonlight he could see that the headquarters building had been destroyed, and the design block and the mess hall, but the wind tunnel and the telemetry labs were untouched. He went out through the security gate and set off down the road. It was covered by fine white sand, as if a storm had passed through. He could still hear a lot of aeroplanes overhead. Tiny pieces of aircraft debris, shrapnel fragments and spent bullet casings were pattering like hailstones across the road and through the trees. A Lancaster bomber with one of its engines trailing fire streaked low across the sky and disappeared in the direction of the sea. One of the rocket storage buildings in the production area was in flames. But it was the accommodation buildings that seemed to have been worst hit. Parts of the housing estate and the slave labour camp were on fire. Several hundred prisoners in their striped uniforms were sitting in a field beside the road with their hands on their heads, guarded by SS men with machine guns.

As soon as he reached the compound where Karin lived, he knew she must be dead. The big hotel was windowless, roofless, gutted. A row of corpses, some badly charred, lined the path. He steeled himself to look at the faces but there was no one he knew. Perhaps she was alive after all. People were wandering around. ‘Karin Hahn, have you seen her? Has anyone seen Karin Hahn?’ He stood with his hands on his hips and tried to think what she would have done when the bombs began to drop, where she might have gone. He retraced his steps back towards the housing estate.

‘I need to find Dr Thiel. Is the Thiel family safe, does anyone know?’

He found them ten minutes later, laid out in the school hall. Their house, he discovered afterwards, had suffered a direct hit. The slit trench in front of it where they had been sheltering was a crater. They had been buried alive in the soft sandy soil. Thiel looked different without his glasses, but unlike the bodies in the women’s camp he at least seemed peaceful, and mercifully undisfigured. So too did Martha Thiel, and their children, Sigrid and Siegfried; and so, lying a little way apart from them, her head tilted slightly quizzically to one side in a mannerism he knew well, did Karin.

They stopped at the checkpoint that guarded the entrance to the Wassenaar street and waited with the engine running. An SS man shone his torch in their faces and then onto their identity papers. When he returned them, he gave a slight wink. ‘Have a good evening.’ Another guard raised the barrier.

Graf was beginning to regret the whole undertaking. He would have suggested abandoning it. But Seidel was like a hunting dog who had picked up a scent. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, his head hunched over the steering wheel, straining his eyes to follow the unmarked cobbled road. Each time they came to a house, he would slow and take a quick glance at it. He muttered to himself, ‘It’s so damn easy to miss in the blackout …’

Behind their gates and overgrown hedges, the mansions succeeded one another – silent, dark, abandoned – each quite different: some rustic, some modern, a few elaborate, like mini-Versailles. There was a lot of money here, Graf thought. Decades of it; centuries, probably. He said, ‘I’m surprised they haven’t been looted.’

‘Don’t you believe it. One of my men got caught with a Vermeer under his bed. A fucking Vermeer, for God’s sake! They sent him to a punishment battalion on the Eastern Front.’

‘Isn’t that a death sentence?’

‘As good as. Discipline, my dear Graf. Discipline! The army’s very keen on protecting local property; local people – less so. Ah, here it is!’

He swung the steering wheel and they turned into a gravel drive. The house, so far as Graf could make it out in the weak headlights, was nineteenth century – square, three storeys, built in the French style, with shutters and a high roof. A couple of staff cars were parked in front of the door. Drifts of leaves had piled up around the entrance. The windows were blacked out, and when Seidel turned off the engine, there was a deep silence.

‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

‘Of course. Are you still up for it?’

‘Why not?’

He followed the lieutenant up the steps. Seidel rang the bell. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed open the heavy door. They stepped into a large hall, dimly lit by red-shaded lamps. A staircase rose straight ahead. Doors on either side of the passage. A faint sound of music somewhere. Graf suddenly wondered if he had brought enough money. ‘How much does this cost, by the way?’

‘A hundred. Plus a tip for the girl. Or girls.’

One of the doors opened and a woman emerged – forties, plump, dark-haired. Her freckled breasts strained against a low-cut black velvet dress. Graf removed his hat politely. She recognised Seidel, or pretended to, and threw out her hands. ‘Lieutenant! So good to see you again! A kiss for Madam Ilse.’ Her German was thickly flavoured with an Eastern European accent Graf couldn’t place. She proffered her face to Seidel. He kissed her twice, on either cheek, as if she were his aunt. ‘And who is this?’

‘This is my friend, the doctor.’

‘A doctor! Let me take your coat,’ she said to Graf. He unbuttoned it and handed it to her, together with his hat. Seidel gave her his cap. She hung them carefully on a rack. There were five other caps, Graf noticed – three grey Wehrmacht, two black SS – and a leather greatcoat. ‘So! Come.’

She led them through a door into a bar. Thick strata of cigarette smoke hung motionless in the reddish half-light. A gramophone was playing a sentimental song by Mimi Thoma. Four or five men sprawled in comfortable chairs, booted legs outstretched, their jackets open, smoking. A couple of girls perched on the arms of their chairs. An SS man, his chin on his chest, appeared to have passed out on the sofa with his arms around two women, one on either side of him, who were whispering behind his head. There were more women in a huddle around the bar. A waitress, naked from the waist up, carried a tray of empty glasses. Ilse showed them to a shadowy corner where a pair of armchairs faced one another, and beckoned to the waitress.

‘What will you drink?’

Seidel said, ‘Do you have cognac?’

‘Of course we have cognac.’ She sounded affronted.

‘You see,’ he said to Graf, ‘we were right to come.’

‘Cognac,’ said Ilse. The waitress moved away. ‘Have you had a chance to look yet? Do you find anyone to your liking?’

Graf glanced around. He couldn’t see the girl from the wood. Seidel said, ‘That redhead, Marta – is she still here?’

‘I’ll see if she’s free. And your friend?’ she said, turning to Graf. ‘What is the doctor looking for?’

He was straining his eyes at the bar. ‘A blonde. Young. Quite small.’