looked at each other across the desk, and it was Himmler who broke first, under the pretext of replacing his pince-nez. He settled them back on his nose and began leafing through Eicke's papers. He spoke without looking up. "Tell me, Obergruppenfuhrer --what exactly was it that was written on your grandmother's tombstone?"
Almost imperceptibly, Heydrich stiffened. And then laughed. His lips parted in amusement, but the chill blue eyes narrowed to slits. "Her name, for one thing," he said. "Her name was Sarah . . ."
"I'm told," Himmler interrupted him, "you went to some lengths to have the tombstone removed."
"Removed?" echoed Heydrich, raising his eyebrows.
"Why should I do such a thing, Reichsfuhrer? It cost a great deal of money."
"Which is doubtless why you have now had it replaced --but without the name of Sarah, curiously enough."
There was a silence.
"This name--this Sarah," suggested Heydrich. "Has it ever appeared on the tombstone of my great-grandmother, Reichsfuhrer?"
Himmler stared at him across the table. Heydrich sat calmly in his chair, an expression of alert curiosity on his face, and it slowly came to Himmler that this, his most competent of generals, was also his most dangerous. He decided, for the moment, to let the matter drop. "All right, Heydrich. You can go. We'll forget it for now."
Heydrich smiled an inward smile of triumph and trod silently over to the door. He also had his weapons, but they were not yet for public display. The time was not ripe.
3
Porta's Breakfast
Sergeant Lutz kicked open the door so hard that I thought an earthquake had hit us. We were wakened every morning by his hideously rasping voice. "Wake up, you lazy jerks! Rise and shine, out of bed, put some vim into it!"
This morning, it was even worse than usual. For one thing, it wasn't so much the morning as the middle of the night; and for another, he had a special message for Porta, myself and Tiny, which he relayed in a gloating bellow.
"You--you--and you! Report immediately to the CO And when I say immediately, I mean immediately. For special duties, no less, aren't you the lucky ones?"
"Go fuck a duck!" was the only reply to be heard, from the depths of Porta's blankets.
"I'm warning you!" barked Lutz. "Any more of that and I'll have you up on a charge!"
Tiny shot up in his bed and fixed Lutz with one frenzied, red-rimmed eye. "What the hell's the matter with you? You got a flea up your ass or something? Can't you see we're trying to sleep?"
Porta let loose one of his celebrated, reverberating farts and lay in bed sniggering. "Wrap that one up and take it to the CO with my compliments!"
Lutz breathed very deeply. "I'm not telling you again," he said nastily. "But you'd better get a move on. You'd just better get a move on, or I'm warning you--you'll be up on a charge of refusing to obey orders."
He slammed out again, happy at the havoc he had wrought. The air was full of obscenities, but we reluctantly wriggled out of our warm blankets into the freezing blasts of the extreme early morning. Lutz was a bastard and as good as his word, and being had up on a charge of refusing to obey orders could well prove to be worse than the orders themselves.
Porta sat up, cursing, and deftly picked off a flea that was crawling over his thin chicken chest in a vain search for blood. He crushed it between finger and thumbnail and shot it across the room.
"Screw the lot of 'em!" he declared. "I can't do nothing without my breakfast."
"You've got a hope," I said. "Breakfast at this hour of the night?"
"Don't you worry!" Porta jumped out of bed and into his uniform in one perfected movement. He advanced on the door, doing up his buttons. "Don't you worry, I'll get some breakfast out of the bastards if it's the last thing I do."
Tiny and I hurried after him, half dressed and anxious, pulling on boots and jackets, determined not to miss our share. At our own field kitchen there was nothing doing. Porta stood and bawled his
Almost imperceptibly, Heydrich stiffened. And then laughed. His lips parted in amusement, but the chill blue eyes narrowed to slits. "Her name, for one thing," he said. "Her name was Sarah . . ."
"I'm told," Himmler interrupted him, "you went to some lengths to have the tombstone removed."
"Removed?" echoed Heydrich, raising his eyebrows.
"Why should I do such a thing, Reichsfuhrer? It cost a great deal of money."
"Which is doubtless why you have now had it replaced --but without the name of Sarah, curiously enough."
There was a silence.
"This name--this Sarah," suggested Heydrich. "Has it ever appeared on the tombstone of my great-grandmother, Reichsfuhrer?"
Himmler stared at him across the table. Heydrich sat calmly in his chair, an expression of alert curiosity on his face, and it slowly came to Himmler that this, his most competent of generals, was also his most dangerous. He decided, for the moment, to let the matter drop. "All right, Heydrich. You can go. We'll forget it for now."
Heydrich smiled an inward smile of triumph and trod silently over to the door. He also had his weapons, but they were not yet for public display. The time was not ripe.
3
Porta's Breakfast
Sergeant Lutz kicked open the door so hard that I thought an earthquake had hit us. We were wakened every morning by his hideously rasping voice. "Wake up, you lazy jerks! Rise and shine, out of bed, put some vim into it!"
This morning, it was even worse than usual. For one thing, it wasn't so much the morning as the middle of the night; and for another, he had a special message for Porta, myself and Tiny, which he relayed in a gloating bellow.
"You--you--and you! Report immediately to the CO And when I say immediately, I mean immediately. For special duties, no less, aren't you the lucky ones?"
"Go fuck a duck!" was the only reply to be heard, from the depths of Porta's blankets.
"I'm warning you!" barked Lutz. "Any more of that and I'll have you up on a charge!"
Tiny shot up in his bed and fixed Lutz with one frenzied, red-rimmed eye. "What the hell's the matter with you? You got a flea up your ass or something? Can't you see we're trying to sleep?"
Porta let loose one of his celebrated, reverberating farts and lay in bed sniggering. "Wrap that one up and take it to the CO with my compliments!"
Lutz breathed very deeply. "I'm not telling you again," he said nastily. "But you'd better get a move on. You'd just better get a move on, or I'm warning you--you'll be up on a charge of refusing to obey orders."
He slammed out again, happy at the havoc he had wrought. The air was full of obscenities, but we reluctantly wriggled out of our warm blankets into the freezing blasts of the extreme early morning. Lutz was a bastard and as good as his word, and being had up on a charge of refusing to obey orders could well prove to be worse than the orders themselves.
Porta sat up, cursing, and deftly picked off a flea that was crawling over his thin chicken chest in a vain search for blood. He crushed it between finger and thumbnail and shot it across the room.
"Screw the lot of 'em!" he declared. "I can't do nothing without my breakfast."
"You've got a hope," I said. "Breakfast at this hour of the night?"
"Don't you worry!" Porta jumped out of bed and into his uniform in one perfected movement. He advanced on the door, doing up his buttons. "Don't you worry, I'll get some breakfast out of the bastards if it's the last thing I do."
Tiny and I hurried after him, half dressed and anxious, pulling on boots and jackets, determined not to miss our share. At our own field kitchen there was nothing doing. Porta stood and bawled his
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