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On 23 November, the German Sixth Army, which had reached the suburbs of Stalingrad, had been encircled by the Russian 1st Guards and 61st Armies. On Göring’s assurance that the Sixth Army could be supplied by air, Hitler had forbidden any attempt to break out of the encirclement. When it became apparent that the Luftwaffe could not supply the Sixth Army, Hitler had ordered General Erich von Manstein to assume command of Army Group Don at Rostov, and to break through the Russian forces. Von Manstein had attacked with an armored corps from Kotelnikovo on 12 December. After suffering severe losses, the German attack had been stopped twenty miles short of Stalingrad on 19 December.
“Oh?” Müller responded, not very surprised. “Now what?”
“Now nothing,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “Von Manstein has nothing more with which to attempt a relief. Von Paulus is doomed.”
General Fredrich von Paulus was the Sixth Army’s commander.
“So there goes another quarter of a million men,” Müller said.
"Yes, that’s true,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. It was almost a minute before he spoke again.
“There is some good news,” he said. “You may now call me ‘sir.’ I have been appointed Brigadeführer (Brigadier General) in the SS reserve.”
“I saw your picture in Die Sturmer,” Müller said dryly. “How did you manage to pull that off?”
“Under the new compulsory service regulations, I was about to be ordered to join my regiment as Hauptmann von Heurten-Mitnitz.”
“You may wish you were a captain in the Pomeranian Infantry,” Müller said.
“I believe they are now part of Von Paulus’s Sixth Army in Fortress Stalingrad, ” von Heurten-Mitnitz said, and then abruptly changed the subject: “We have heard, I think, from our friend Eric.”
“What do you mean,‘think’?”
“I have received a postcard from Bad Ems,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “I want you to have a look at it and let me know what you make of it.”
Müller nodded his head and didn’t say a word until, as he pulled to the curb before the small mansion in Zehlendorf, he said, “Bad Ems? What the hell is there in Bad Ems?”
“It is argued by some historians that a telegram sent from Bad Ems triggered the Franco-Prussian War,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. He handed Müller the postcard. “Here, you figure it out.”
"Why is it in this?” Müller asked, indicating a glassine envelope.
“I thought perhaps there might be a fingerprint on it,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “Or am I letting my imagination run away with me?”
Müller shrugged.
Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz stepped out of the Opel Kapitän into the snow-covered street and walked up to the gate in the fence in front of his house. Inside, he told his housekeeper that he’d stepped into slush and soaked his feet. Then he changed his shoes and socks and went back to the car.
"’Willi von K’?” Müller said as they drove off. “And you don’t even know this is for you! The name got wet; all you can read is the street number.”
“Eric von Fulmar is the Baron Kolbe,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“That’s reaching for it,” Müller said.
“Not if you can find his fingerprint on it,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “His father, obviously, could be his father. Professor Dyer? Is there a Professor Dyer at Philips University in Marburg? Did Fulmar know him?”
“I’m reasonably sure there’s a set of Fulmar’s prints in Berlin,” Müller said. “I’m not sure I can get at them without raising questions.”
“I think we have to take that risk,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
“Okay. For the sake of argument, I dust this postcard, find a print, and match it with Fulmar. And it turns out there is a Professor Dyer at Marburg. Then what?”
“Then we do what it says,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “We give his regards to his father and this Professor Dyer, presuming we can find him.”
“Germans,” Müller said,“people I know, are freezing to death right now in Russia. And we’re…”
“We can’t help the people in Russia,”von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “The best we can hope for is to do what we can to end this insanity. I think of it as cutting off a gangrenous hand to save the arm.”
“You have the advantage on me,” Müller said. “You can think of this in philosophical terms. I’m just a simple policeman. I think of it in terms of being hung on piano wire to strangle in the basement of the Prinz Albrecht Strasse prison.”
