that time did Josef offer to help me."
"What about his leg?" It was Jaeger again, his tone antagonistic. He had clearly decided to take Buhler's side in this family dispute. "What happened to that?" His manner suggested he thought she might have stolen it.
The old lady ignored him and gave her answer to March. "He would never speak of it himself, but Edith told me the story. It happened in 1951, when he was still in the General Government. He was traveling with an escort on the road from Krakau to Kattowitz when his car was ambushed by Polish partisans. A land mine, she said. His driver was killed. Josef was lucky only to lose a foot. After that, he retired from government service."
"And yet he still swam?" March looked up from his notebook. "You know that we discovered him wearing swimming trunks?"
She gave a tight smile. "My brother was a fanatic about everything, Herr March, whether it was politics or health.
He did not smoke, he never touched alcohol and he took exercise every day, despite his ... disability. So, no: I am not in the least surprised that he should have been swimming." She set down her glass and picked up her hat. "I would like to go home now, if I may."
March stood up and held out his hand, helping her to her feet. "What did Doctor Buhler do after 1951? He was only—what?—in his early fifties?"
"That's the strange thing." She opened her handbag and took out a small mirror. She checked that her hat was on straight, tucking stray hairs out of sight with nervous, jerky movements of her fingers. "Before the war, he was so ambitious. He would work eighteen hours a day, every day of the week. But when he left Krakau, he gave up. He never even returned to the law. For more than ten years after poor Edith died, he just sat alone in that big house all day and did nothing."
Two floors below, in the basement of the morgue, SS-Surgeon August Eisler of Kriminalpolizei Department VD 2 (Pathology) was going about his business with his customary clumsy relish. Buhler's chest had been opened in the standard fashion: a Y incision, a cut from each shoulder to the pit of the stomach, a straight line down to the pubic bone. Now Eisler had his hands deep inside the stomach, green gloves sheened with red, twisting, cutting, pulling. March and Jaeger leaned against the wall by the open doorway, smoking a couple of Jaeger's cigars.
"Have you seen what your man had for lunch?" said Eisler. "Show them, Eck."
Eisler's assistant wiped his hands on his apron and held up a transparent plastic bag. There was something small and green in the bottom.
"Lettuce. Digests slowly. Stays in the intestinal tract for hours."
March had worked with Eisler before. Two winters ago, with snow blocking Unter den Linden and ice-skating competitions on the Tegelersee, a bargemaster named Kempf had been pulled out of the Spree, almost dead with cold. He had expired in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Accident or murder? The time at which he had fallen into the water was crucial. Looking at the ice extending two meters out from the banks, March had estimated fifteen minutes as the maximum time he could have survived in the water. Eisler had said forty-five, and his view had prevailed with the prosecutor. It was enough to destroy the alibi of the barge's second mate and hang him.
Afterward, the prosecutor—a decent, old-fashioned sort—had called March into his office and locked the door. Then he'd shown him Eisler's "evidence": copies of documents stamped Geheime Reichssache —Top Secret State Document—and dated Dachau, 1942. There were reports of freezing experiments carried out on condemned prisoners, restricted to the department of the SS surgeon general. The men had been handcuffed and dumped into tanks of icy water, retrieved at intervals to have their temperatures taken, right up to the point at which they died. There were photographs of heads bobbing between floating chunks of ice, and charts showing heat loss, projected
"What about his leg?" It was Jaeger again, his tone antagonistic. He had clearly decided to take Buhler's side in this family dispute. "What happened to that?" His manner suggested he thought she might have stolen it.
The old lady ignored him and gave her answer to March. "He would never speak of it himself, but Edith told me the story. It happened in 1951, when he was still in the General Government. He was traveling with an escort on the road from Krakau to Kattowitz when his car was ambushed by Polish partisans. A land mine, she said. His driver was killed. Josef was lucky only to lose a foot. After that, he retired from government service."
"And yet he still swam?" March looked up from his notebook. "You know that we discovered him wearing swimming trunks?"
She gave a tight smile. "My brother was a fanatic about everything, Herr March, whether it was politics or health.
He did not smoke, he never touched alcohol and he took exercise every day, despite his ... disability. So, no: I am not in the least surprised that he should have been swimming." She set down her glass and picked up her hat. "I would like to go home now, if I may."
March stood up and held out his hand, helping her to her feet. "What did Doctor Buhler do after 1951? He was only—what?—in his early fifties?"
"That's the strange thing." She opened her handbag and took out a small mirror. She checked that her hat was on straight, tucking stray hairs out of sight with nervous, jerky movements of her fingers. "Before the war, he was so ambitious. He would work eighteen hours a day, every day of the week. But when he left Krakau, he gave up. He never even returned to the law. For more than ten years after poor Edith died, he just sat alone in that big house all day and did nothing."
Two floors below, in the basement of the morgue, SS-Surgeon August Eisler of Kriminalpolizei Department VD 2 (Pathology) was going about his business with his customary clumsy relish. Buhler's chest had been opened in the standard fashion: a Y incision, a cut from each shoulder to the pit of the stomach, a straight line down to the pubic bone. Now Eisler had his hands deep inside the stomach, green gloves sheened with red, twisting, cutting, pulling. March and Jaeger leaned against the wall by the open doorway, smoking a couple of Jaeger's cigars.
"Have you seen what your man had for lunch?" said Eisler. "Show them, Eck."
Eisler's assistant wiped his hands on his apron and held up a transparent plastic bag. There was something small and green in the bottom.
"Lettuce. Digests slowly. Stays in the intestinal tract for hours."
March had worked with Eisler before. Two winters ago, with snow blocking Unter den Linden and ice-skating competitions on the Tegelersee, a bargemaster named Kempf had been pulled out of the Spree, almost dead with cold. He had expired in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. Accident or murder? The time at which he had fallen into the water was crucial. Looking at the ice extending two meters out from the banks, March had estimated fifteen minutes as the maximum time he could have survived in the water. Eisler had said forty-five, and his view had prevailed with the prosecutor. It was enough to destroy the alibi of the barge's second mate and hang him.
Afterward, the prosecutor—a decent, old-fashioned sort—had called March into his office and locked the door. Then he'd shown him Eisler's "evidence": copies of documents stamped Geheime Reichssache —Top Secret State Document—and dated Dachau, 1942. There were reports of freezing experiments carried out on condemned prisoners, restricted to the department of the SS surgeon general. The men had been handcuffed and dumped into tanks of icy water, retrieved at intervals to have their temperatures taken, right up to the point at which they died. There were photographs of heads bobbing between floating chunks of ice, and charts showing heat loss, projected
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