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“Yes, of course,” he said, turning to leave. “Right away.”
“But start with the next six weeks,” Kappler called after him. “I do not wish to wait forever. I have other business to tend to, as usual.”
* * *
An hour later, Wolfgang Kappler was flipping through a thick sheaf of reports that, in true Teutonic fashion, detailed literally down to nuts and bolts the last two months of production at the facility. As he scanned the pages, he ran his fingers through his short dark hair, then rubbed his temples.
Walter, despite his faults, has always been good about going the next step. Ask for six weeks, he gives you eight.
I’m sure that that has served him well with trying to please the gottverdammt Gestapo.
“This is a good start,” Kappler said.
“These production papers, and plans for the next year, Herr Schwartz left in his office,” Walter Höss said. “You are aware of them, yes? And that he still maintains an office here? A small one, to keep an eye on production.”
Am I aware?
Not of one damn word!
That bastard!
Kappler nodded. “Of course. Schwartz worked quite closely for me, as you know. When was he last here?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Have you heard from him since?”
“No, sir. His next scheduled visit is not for another month.”
Kappler nodded.
“I would have been happy to send these to your Berlin office,” Höss said in what he hoped was a helpful tone, “and saved you the trip here.”
Kappler did not reply to that. Instead, he stood and went to the plate glass window.
Chemische Fabrik Frankfurt consisted of two massive, fully enclosed manufacturing facilities. This part of the chemical manufacturing plant covered two full city blocks. The second, which was across the street, covered three.
Here, as far as the eye could see under the vast metal roof, stood shiny rows of twenty-foot-tall stainless steel cylinders that were connected by a labyrinth of heavy industrial-grade piping. On opposite sides of the building were railroad spurs. The spur to the left had flatcars stacked with crates that were being off-loaded by men in black-and-white-striped outfits under the watch of guards.
Those pitiful sklavenarbeiter . . . I don’t know that I’ll be able to save any others now.
None of us will survive unless I am successful.
On the right side, there was a conveyor belt that led to the other rail spur, where more sklavenarbeiter, also in black-and-white-striped prison uniforms, and under guard, hand-loaded small metal canisters into boxcars.
“What exactly are we producing today?” Kappler said, hoping to appeal to the accountant’s ego.
Höss motioned
at the sheaf of papers he had brought.
“As detailed in there, high explosive,” Höss said, the pride evident in his voice. “One hundred twenty tons every twenty-four hours, which is twenty percent in excess of what has been ordered. As you know, we have not manufactured any nitrogen or phosphate products for agricultural use since last December.”
Kappler gestured at the left rail spur.
“And this is what? Trinitrotoluene coming in from our other plant?”
“That is correct. TNT. It is added in this facility with ammonium nitrate to produce the high explosive Amatol. We have also, as backup in the event that components for the high explosive become rare, been asked to be prepared to gear up for production of the lower-grade explosives Trialen and Myrol.”
