The Odessa File by Frederick Forsyth, Published: JJJJJ IIIII Table of Contents Foreword Publisher's Note Author's Note JJJJJ IIIII Foreword THE. WEIGHT LOSS TIPS. HELPFUL ADVICE TO GET YOU STARTED. Brought to you by TodaysFitnessShop. &. The Odessa File is a thriller by Frederick Forsyth, first published in , about the adventures of a young German reporter attempting to.

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    Frederick Forsyth – The Deceiver DON'T MISS THESE GRIPPING BOOKS BY FREDERICK FORSYTH THE DAY OF THE JACKAL THE ODESSA. Odessa File · Read more · Odessa File. Read more · Odessa File · Read more forsyth, frederick - odessa file. Read more · Odessa · Read more · Odessa. Editorial Reviews. Review. “Forsyth can tell a suspenseful tale better than anyone.”—Fort Worth Star-Telegram “When it comes to espionage, international .

    Finally, the Odessa File script is here for all you quotes spouting fans of the Jon Voight movie based on the Frederick Forsyth novel. I know, I know, I still need to get the cast names in there and I'll be eternally tweaking it, so if you have any corrections, feel free to drop me a line. You won't hurt my feelings. Swing on back to Drew's Script-O-Rama afterwards for more free movie scripts! Odessa File Script Hannah, would you mind? What I am going to tell you is, of course, top secret. The Egyptians have rockets based at Helwan.

    He had been born a Jew in Mannheim but had emigrated to Palestine in at the age of twelve. He was also the top agent of Israeli Intelligence in Egypt at that time. On February 28, , after a raid on his home in which a radio transmitter was discovered in the bathroom scales, he was arrested. Tried on June 26, , he was sentenced to hard labor in perpetuity. Released after the end of the war as part of an exchange against thousands of Egyptian prisoners of war, he and his wife stepped back onto the soil of home at Lod Airport on February 4, But the night Kennedy died this was all in the future: He raised his glass to the four smiling faces in front of him.

    In fact, he could hardly wait for his guests to depart, for something one of them had said over dinner was of vital importance to his country, and he desperately wished to be alone, to go up to his bathroom, get the transmitter out of the bathroom scales, and send a message to Tel Aviv.

    But he forced himself to keep smiling. Even half awake, he could feet the warmth of the sleeping figure of Sigi seeping across the bed to him, and by reflex he snuggled closer so that her buttocks pushed into the base of his stomach.

    Automatically he began to erect. Sigi, still fast asleep after only four hours in bed, grunted in annoyance and shifted away toward the edge of the bed. Miller sighed, turned onto his back, and held up his watch, squinting at the face of it in the half-light. Then he slipped out of bed on the other side, pulled a toweling bathrobe around him, and padded through into the living room to pull back the curtains.

    The steely November light washed across the room, making him blink. He focused his eyes and looked down into the Steindamm. It was a Saturday morning, and traffic was light down the wet black tarmac.

    He yawned and went into the kitchen to brew the first of innumerable cups of coffee. Both his mother and Sigi reproached him with living almost entirely on coffee and cigarettes.

    Drinking his coffee and smoking the first cigarette of the day in the kitchen, he considered whether there was anything particular he ought to do that day and decided there was not. For one thing, all the newspapers and the next issues of the magazines would be about President Kennedy, probably for days or weeks to come. And for another, there was no particular story he was chasing at the time. Besides which, Saturday and Sunday are bad days to get hold of people in their offices, and they seldom like being disturbed at home.

    He thought he might contact the magazine to which he had sold the series, then decided against it. It would pay in time, and he was not short of money for the moment. Indeed his bank statement, which had arrived three days earlier, showed he had more than marks to his credit, which he thought would keep him going for a while. He carried the portable transistor radio into the bathroom, closed the door so Sigi would not hear it, and listened to the news while he showered and shaved.

    The main item was that a man had been arrested for the murder of President Kennedy. As he had supposed, there were no other items of news on the entire program but those connected with the Kennedy assassination. After drying off he went back to the kitchen and made more coffee, this time two cups. He took them into the bedroom, placed them on the bedside table, slipped off his robe, and clambered back under the cushion beside Sigi, whose fluffy blond head was protruding onto the pillow.

    She was twenty-two and at school had been a champion gymnast who, so she said, could have gone on to Olympic standing if her bust had not developed to the point where it got in the way and no leotard could safely contain it. The change to striptease dancer in Hamburg came a year later and for the very best and most simple of economic reasons.

    Despite her willingness to take her clothes off to the buff in a nightclub, she was remarkably embarrassed by any lewd remarks made about her body by anyone whom she could see when the remarks were made.

    The only drink allowed was champagne, in halfbottles or preferably whole bottles. On these she collected a fifteen-per-cent commission. Although almost without exception the customers who invited her to drink champagne with them hoped to get much more than an hour of gazing in stunned admiration at the canyon between her breasts, they never did.

    She was a kindly and understanding girl, and her attitude to the pawing attentions of the customers was one of gentle regret rather than the contemptuous loathing that the other girls hid behind their neon smiles. She was a big girl, five feet, nine inches tall and with a figure to match, which, on a shorter girl, would have been out of proportion.

    She stripped to the music with the habitual supposedly sensual gestures, her face set in the usual bedroom pout of strippers.

    Miller had seen it all before and sipped his drink without batting an eyelid. But when her brassiere came off even he had to stop and stare, glass half- raised to his mouth. His host eyed him sardonically. But she was so firmly muscled that her bosom stood outward and upward without a vestige of support.

    At the end of her turn, when the applause started, the girl had dropped the bored poise of the professional dancer, bobbed a shy, half-embarrassed little bow to the audience, and given a big sloppy grin like a halftrained bird dog which against all the betting has just brought back a downed partridge.

    He asked if she would like a drink, and she was sent for. As Miller was in the company of the boss, she avoided a bottle of champagne and asked for a gin fizz. To his surprise, Miller found she was a very nice person to be around and asked if he might take her home after the show. With obvious reservations, she agreed. Playing his cards coolly, Miller made no pass at her that night. It was early spring, and she emerged from the cabaret, when it closed, clad in a most unglamorous duffel coat, which he presumed was intentional.

    They just had coffee together and talked, during which she unwound from her previous tension and chatted gaily.

    He learned she liked pop music, art, walking along the banks of the Alster, keeping house, and children. After that they started going out on her one free night a week, taking in a dinner or a show, but not sleeping together. After three months Miller took her to his bed and later suggested she might like to move in. With her single-minded attitude toward the important things of life, Sigi had already decided she wanted to marry Peter Miller, and the only problem was whether she should try to get him by not sleeping in his bed or the other way around.

    Sensing his ability to fill the other half of his mattress with other girls if the need arose, she decided to move in and make his life so comfortable that he would want to marry her. They had been together for six months by the end of November. Even Miller, who was hardly house-trained, had to admit she kept a beautiful home, and she made love with a healthy and bouncing enjoyment.

    She never mentioned marriage directly but tried to get the message across in other ways. Miller feigned not to notice. Strolling in the sun by the Alster lake, she would sometimes make friends with a toddler under the benevolent eyes of its parent. But they were happy together, especially Peter Miller, who was suited down to the ground by this arrangement of all the comforts of marriage, the delights of regular loving, without the ties of marriage. After drinking half his coffee, Miller slithered down into the bed and put his arms around her from behind, gently caressing her crotch, which he knew would wake her up.

    After a few minutes she muttered with pleasure and rolled over onto her back. Still massaging, he leaned over and started to kiss her breasts. Still half asleep, she gave vent to a series of long mmmms, and her hands started to move drowsily over his back and buttocks. Ten minutes later they made love, squealing and shuddering with pleasure.

    He diverted into the sitting room and answered it. Are you still asleep? Sure, Karl. Sorry, I just got up. I want to talk to you. What about him? Can we meet? Anyone who has got something to say but does not wish to say it over the phone must think it important. In the case of Brandt, Miller could hardly suspect a police detective would be so cagy about something ridiculous. Like most young Germans, he had been told at school when he was twelve or so that he and the rest of his countrymen had been guilty of massive war crimes.

    At the time he had accepted it without even knowing what was being talked about. Later it had been difficult to find out what the teachers had meant in the immediate postwar period. Only with coming manhood had he been able to read a little about it, and although what he read disgusted him, he could not feel it concerned him. It was another time, another place, a long way away.

    He had not been there when it happened, his father had not been there, his mother had not been there. Something inside him had persuaded him it was nothing to do with Peter Miller, so he had asked for no names, dates, details. He wondered why Brandt should be bringing the subject up.

    Brandt stirred his coffee, himself embarrassed, not knowing how to go on. Was that what they ended up like? It was ridiculous. The man must have been liberated by the Allies eighteen years earlier and had lived on to die of old age. But the face kept coming back. He had never seen anyone who had been in a camp before—at least, not knowingly. For that matter he had never met one of the SS mass-killers, he was sure of that. One would notice, after all. His mind strayed back to the publicity surrounding the Eichmann trial in Jerusalem two years earlier.

    The papers had been full of it for weeks on end. He thought of the face in the glass booth and remembered that his impression at the time had been how ordinary that face was, so depressingly ordinary. It was in reading the press coverage of the trial that for the first time he had gained an inkling of how the SS had done it, how they had got away with it.

    But these had all been about things in Poland, Russia, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, far away and a long time back. He could not make them personal. For answer Brandt took a brown-paper-wrapped parcel out of his attache case and pushed it across the table. It seems he wrote notes at the time and stored them in his foot-wrappings. After the war he transcribed them all.

    They make up the diary. I picked it up and took it home. I read it last night. I had no idea it was that bad—the things they did to them. He shrugged. So I suppose it belongs to the Police Department. You can have it, if you want it. It might make an article for a magazine. What about you?

    Yes, it did. I just never thought it was that bad. That story ended here in Hamburg last night. Good-by, Peter. He threw the package onto the living-room table and went to make a large pot of coffee before sitting down to read it.

    Settled in his favorite armchair with a cup of coffee at his elbow and a cigarette going, he opened it. The diary was in the form of a looseleaf folder with stiff covers of cardboard bound in a dull black vinyl, and a series of clips down the spine so that the leaves of the book could be extracted, or further leaves inserted, if necessary. The contents consisted of a hundred and fifty pages of typewritten script, apparently banged out on an old machine, for some of the letters were above the line, others below it, and some either distorted or faint.

    The bulk of the pages seemed to have been written years before, or over a period of years, for most of them, although neat and clean, bore the unmistakable tint of white paper several years old. But at the front and back were a number of fresh sheets, evidently written barely a few days previously.

    There was a preface of some new pages at the front of the typescript, and there was a sort of epilogue at the back. A check of the dates on the preface and the epilogue showed both to have been written on November 21, two days previously.

    Miller supposed the dead man had written them after he had made the decision to end his life. A quick glance at some of the paragraphs on the first page surprised him, for the language was clear and precise German, the writing of a well-educated and cultured man. On the outside of the front cover a square of white paper had been pasted, and over it a larger square of cellophane to keep it clean.

    On the square of paper had been written in large block capitals in black ink: Miller settled himself deeper in his chair, turned to the first page, and began to read. I have decided to end my own life because it has no more value, nor is there anything left for me to do. Those things that I have tried to do with my life have come to nothing, and my efforts have been unavailing. For the evil that I have seen has survived and flourished, and only the good has departed in dust and mockery.

    The friends that I have known, the sufferers and the victims, are all dead, and only the persecutors are all around me. I see their faces on the streets in the daytime, and in the night I see the face of my wife, Esther, who died long ago. I have stayed alive this long only because there was one more thing I wished to do, one thing I wanted to see, and now I know I never shall. I bear no hatred or bitterness toward the German people, for they are a good people.

    Peoples are not evil; only individuals are evil. Therefore guilt is individual, like salvation. When I came out of the concentration camps of Riga and Stutthof, when I survived the Death March to Magdeburg, when the British soldiers liberated my body there in April , leaving only my soul in chains, I hated the world. I hated the people, and the trees and the rocks, for they had conspired against me and made me suffer.

    And above all I hated the Germans. I asked then, as I had asked many times over the previous four years, why the Lord did not strike them down, every last man, woman, and child, destroying their cities and their houses forever from the face of the earth. And when He did not I hated Him too, crying that He had deserted me and my people, whom He had led to believe they were His chosen people, and even saying that He did not exist.

    But with the passing of the years I have learned again to love; to love the rocks and the trees, the sky above and the river flowing past the city, the stray dogs and the cats, the weeds growing between the cobblestones, and the children who run away from me in the street because I am so ugly.

    They are not to blame. Yes, one can forgive even what they did. But one can never forget. There are some men whose crimes surpass comprehension and therefore forgiveness, and here is the real failure. For they are still among us, walking through the cities, working in the offices, lunching in the canteens, smiling and shaking hands and calling decent men Kamerad. That they should live on, not as outcasts but as cherished citizens, to smear a whole nation in perpetuity with their individual evil, this is the true failure.

    And in this we have failed, you and I, we have all failed, and failed miserably. Lastly, as time passed, I came again to love the Lord, and to ask His forgiveness for the things I have done against His Laws, and they are many. Shema Yisroel, Adonai elohenu Adonai ehad. By the late thirties he was married to a girl called Esther and was working as an architect. He was spared being rounded up before owing to the intervention of his employer.

    Finally he was taken, in Berlin, on a journey to see a client. After a period in a transit camp he was packed with other Jews into a boxcar on a cattle train bound for the east. I think it was six days and seven nights after we were shut up in the car in Berlin. Suddenly the train was stationary, the slits of white light told me it was daytime outside, and my head reeled and swam from exhaustion and the stench.

    There were shouts outside, the sound of bolts being drawn back, and the doors were flung open. It was just as well I could not see myself, who had once been dressed in a white shirt and well-pressed trousers. The sight of the others was bad enough. As brilliant daylight rushed into the car, men threw arms over their eyes and screamed with the pain. Seeing the doors opening, I had squeezed my eyes shut to protect them.

    Under the pressure of bodies half the car emptied itself onto the platform in a tumbling mass of stinking humanity. As I had been standing at the rear of the car, to one side of the centrally placed doors, I avoided this and, risking a half-open eye despite the glare, I stepped down upright to the platform. The SS guards who had opened the gates, mean-faced, brutal men who jabbered and roared in a language I could not understand, stood back with expressions of disgust.

    Inside the boxcar thirty-one men lay huddled and trampled on the floor. They would never get up again. The remainder, starved, half-blind, steaming and reeking from head to foot in their rags, struggled upright on the platform. From thirst, our tongues were gummed to the roofs of our mouths, blackened and swollen, and our lips were split and parched.

    Down the platform forty other cars from Berlin and eighteen from Vienna were disgorging their occupants, about half of them women and children. Many of the women and most of the children were naked, smeared with excrement, and in much as bad shape as we were. Some women carried the lifeless bodies of their children in their arms as they stumbled out into the light. The guards ran up and down the platform, clubbing the deportees into a sort of column, prior to marching us into the town.

    But what town? And what was the language these men were speaking? Later I was to discover that this town was Riga and the SS guards were locally recruited Latvians, as fiercely anti-Semitic as the SS from Germany, but of a much lower intelligence, virtually animals in human form. Standing behind the guards was a cowed group in soiled shirts and slacks, each bearing a black square patch with a big J on the chest and back.

    This was a special command from the ghetto, brought down to empty the cattle cars of the dead and bury them outside the town. They too were guarded by half a dozen men who also had the J on their chests and backs, but who wore armbands and carried pickax handles. These were Jewish Kapos, who got better food than the other internees for doing the job they did.

    There were a few German SS officers standing in the shade of the station awning, distinguishable only when my eyes were accustomed to the light. One stood aloof on a packing crate, surveying the several thousand human skeletons who emptied themselves from the train with a thin but satisfied smile. He tapped a black riding quirt of plaited leather against one jackboot.

    He wore the green uniform with black and silver flashes of the SS as if it were designed for him and carried the twin- lightning strikes of the Waffen SS on the right collar.

    On the left his rank was indicated as captain. He was tall and lanky, with pale blond hair and washed-out blue eyes. Later I was to learn he was a dedicated sadist, already known by the name that the Allies would also later use for him— the Butcher of Riga.

    The first onsite unit of the SD and SP sections of the SS established themselves in Riga on August 1, , and began the extermination program that would make Ostland as the three occupied Baltic states were renamed Jew-free. Then it was decided in Berlin to use Riga as the transit camp to death for the Jews of Germany and Austria.

    The Odessa File

    In there were , German Jews and , Austrian Jews, a round half-million. By July tens of thousands had been dealt with, mainly in the concentration camps within Germany and Austria, notably Sachsenbausen, Mauthausen, Ravensbrueck, Dachau, Buchenwald, Belsen, and Theresienstadt in Bohemia.

    But they were getting overcrowded, and the obscure lands of the east seemed an excellent place to finish off the rest. Work was begun to expand or begin the six extermination camps of Auschwitz, Treblinka, Belzec, Sobibor, Chelmno, and Maidanek.

    Riga was chosen. Between August 1, , and October 14, , almost , exclusively German and Austrian Jews were shipped to Riga. Eighty thousand stayed there, dead; , were shipped onward to the six extermination camps of southern Poland already mentioned; and came out alive, half of them to die at Stutthof or on the Death March back to Magdeburg.

    In less than three weeks Roschmann and his deputy, Krause, had overseen the extermination of most of them, as per orders. The ghetto lay at the northern edge of the city, with open countryside to the north.

    There was a wall along the south face; the other three were sealed off with rows of barbed wire. There was one gate, on the northern face, through which all exits and entries had to be made. It was guarded by two watchtowers manned by Latvian SS. From this gate, running clear down the center of the ghetto to the south wall, was Mase Kalnu Iela, or Little Hill Street.

    To the right-hand side of this looking from south to north toward the main gate was the Blech Platz, or Tin Square, where selections for execution took place, along with roll call, selection of slave-labor parties, floggings, and hangings. The gallows with its eight steel hooks and permanent nooses swinging in the wind stood in the center of this.

    The whole ghetto must have been just under two square miles, a township that had once housed 12, to 15, people.

    Before our arrival the Riga Jews, at least the of them left, had done the bricking- off work, so the area left to our transport of just over men, women, and children was spacious. But after we arrived transports continued to come day after day until the population of our part of the ghetto soared to 30, to 40,, and with the arrival of each new transport a number of the existing inhabitants equal to the number of the surviving new arrivals had to be executed to make room for the newcomers.

    Otherwise the overcrowding would have become a menace to the health of the workers among us, and that Roschmann would not have. So on that first evening we settled ourselves in, taking the best- constructed houses, one room per person, using curtains and coats for blankets and sleeping on real beds.

    After drinking his fill from a water butt, my room neighbor remarked that perhaps it would not be too bad after all. We had not yet met Roschmann. As summer merged into autumn and autumn into winter, the conditions in the ghetto grew worse.

    Each morning the entire population— mainly men, for the women and children were exterminated on arrival in far greater percentages than the work-fit males—was assembled on Tin Square, pushed and shoved by the rifle butts of the Latvians, and roll call took place. No names were called; we were counted and divided into work groups.

    Almost the whole population, men, women, and children, left the ghetto each day in columns to work twelve hours at forced labor in the growing host of workshops nearby. I had said earlier that I was a carpenter, which was not true, but as an architect I had seen carpenters at work and knew enough to get by.

    I guessed, correctly, that there would always be a need for carpenters, and I was sent to work in a nearby lumber mill where the local pines were sawed up and made into pre-fabricated hutments for the troops. The work was backbreaking, enough to ruin the constitution of a healthy man, for we worked, summer and winter, mainly outside in the cold and damp of the lowlying regions near the coast of Latvia.

    Our food rations were a half-liter apiece of so-called soup, mainly tinted water, sometimes with a knob of potato in it, before marching to work in the mornings, and another half-liter, with a slice of black bread and a moldy potato, on return to the ghetto at night. Bringing food into the ghetto was punishable by immediate hanging before the assembled population at evening roll call on Tin Square. Nevertheless, to take that risk was the only way to stay alive. As the columns trudged back through the main gate each evening, Roschmann and a few of his cronies used to stand by the entrance, doing spot checks on those passing through.

    They would call to a man or a woman or a child at random, ordering the person out of the column to strip by the side of the gate. If a potato or a piece of bread was found, the person would wait behind while the others marched through toward Tin Square for evening roll call.

    When they were all assembled, Roschmann would stalk down the road, followed by the other SS guards and the dozen or so condemned people. The males among them would mount the gallows platform and wait with the ropes around their necks while roll call was completed. Then Roschmann would walk along the line, grinning up at the faces above him and kicking the chairs out from under, one by one. He liked to do this from the front, so the person about to die would see him.

    Sometimes he would pretend to kick the chair away, only to pull his foot back in time. Sometimes the condemned men would pray to the Lord; sometimes they would cry for mercy. Roschmann liked to hear this. What was that you said?

    There was little that he did not succeed in devising. When a woman was caught bringing food into the camp, she was made to watch the hangings of the men first, especially if one was her husband or brother. Then Roschmann made her kneel in front of the rest of us, drawn up around three sides of the square, while the camp barber shaved her bald. After roll call she would be taken to the cemetery outside the wire and made to dig a shallow grave, then kneel beside it while Roschmann or one of the others fired a bullet from his Luger point-blank into the base of the skull.

    No one was allowed to watch these executions, but word seeped through from the Latvian guards that he would often fire past the ear of the woman to make her fall into the grave with shock, then climb out again and kneel in the same position. Other times he would fire from an empty chamber, so there was just a click when the woman thought she was about to die.

    The Latvians were brutes, but Roschmann managed to amaze them for all that. There was one certain girl at Riga who helped the prisoners at her own risk. She was Olli Adler—from Munich, I believe. Her sister Gerda had already been shot in the cemetery for bringing in food.

    He made her his concubine—the official term was housemaid, because relations between an SS man and a Jewish girl were banned. She used to smuggle medicines into the ghetto when she was allowed to visit it, having stolen them from the SS stores. This, of course, was punishable by death. The last I saw of her was when we boarded the ship at Riga docks. By the end of that first winter I was certain I could not survive much longer.

    The hunger, the cold, the damp, the overwork, and the constant brutalities had whittled my formerly strong frame down to a mass of skin and bones.

    Looking in the mirror, I saw staring back at me a haggard, stubbled old man with red-rimmed eyes and hollow cheeks. I had just turned thirty-five, and I looked double that. But so did everyone else. I had witnessed the departure of tens of thousands to the forest of the mass graves, the deaths of hundreds from cold, exposure, and overwork, and of scores from hanging, shooting, flogging, and clubbing.

    Even after surviving five months, I had outlived my time. The will to live that I had begun to show in the train had dissipated, leaving nothing but a mechanical routine of going on living that sooner or later had to break. And then something happened in March that gave me another year of will power.

    I remember the date even now. It was March 3, , the day of the second Duenamuende convoy. About a month earlier we had seen for the first time the arrival of a strange van. It was about the size of a long single-decker bus, painted steel-gray, and without windows. It parked just outside the ghetto gates, and at morning roll call Roschmann said he had an announcement to make.

    He said there was a new fish-pickling factory just started at the town of Duenamuende, situated on the Daugava River, about eighty miles from Riga.

    It offered light work, he said, good food, and good living conditions. Because the work was so light the opportunity was open only to old men and women, the frail, the sick, and the small children.

    Naturally, many were eager to go to such a comfortable kind of labor. Roschmann walked down the lines, selecting those to go, and this time, instead of the old and sick hiding themselves at the back to be dragged screaming and protesting forward to join the forced marches to Execution Hill, they seemed eager to show themselves. Finally more than a hundred were selected, and all climbed into the van.

    Then the doors were slammed shut, and the watchers noticed how tight they fitted together. The van rolled away, emitting no exhaust fumes.

    Later, word filtered back what the van was. There was no fish-pickling factory at Duenamuende; the van was a gassing van. On March 3 the whisper went around the ghetto that there was to be another Duenamuende convoy, and sure enough, at morning roll call Roschmann announced it.

    But there was no pressing forward to volunteer, so with a wide grin Roschmann began to stroll along the ranks, tapping on the chest with his quirt hose who were to go.

    Astutely, he started at the fourth and rear rank, where he expected to find the weak, the old, and the unfit-for-work. There was one old woman who had foreseen this and stood in the front rank. She must have been close to sixty-five, but in an effort to stay alive she had put on high-heeled shoes, a pair of black silk stockings, a short skirt even above her knees, and a saucy hat.

    She had rouged her cheeks, powdered her face, and painted her lips carmine. In fact she would have stood out among any group of ghetto prisoners, but she thought she might be able to pass for a young girl. Reaching her as he walked by, Roschmann stopped, stared, and looked again. Then a grin of joy spread over his face. Come out into the center so we can all admire your youth and beauty. She whispered something we could not hear. The Latvians could not understand but started to grin.

    The old woman shook her head. She made a few little shuffling movements, then stopped. Roschmann drew his Luger, eased back the hammer, and fired it into the sand an inch from her feet. She jumped a foot in the air from fright.

    Roschmann fired his last three slugs into the sand in front of her face, blasting the sand up into her eyes. All this had happened in complete silence from us, until the man next to me started to pray. He was a Hasid, small and bearded, still wearing the rags of his long black coat; despite the cold which forced most of us to wear ear-muffs on our caps, he had the broad-brimmed hat of his seat. He began to recite the Shema, over and over again, in a quavering voice that grew steadily louder.

    Knowing that Roschmann was in his most vicious mood, I too began to pray silently that the Hasid would be quiet. But he would not. Like a cantor, he drew out the last syllable in the traditional way, as Rabbi Akiba had done as he died in the amphitheater at Caesarea on the orders of Tinius Rufus. It was just at that moment that Rosahmann stopped screaming at the old woman. As I stood a head taller than the Hasid, he looked at me. I thought: This is the end, then. So what? I stepped forward as he arrived in front of me.

    Then it relaxed and he gave his quiet, wolfish smile that struck terror into everyone in the ghetto, even the Latvian SS men. His hand moved so quickly no one could see it. I felt only a sort of thump down the left side of my face, simultaneous with a tremendous bang as if a bomb had gone off next to my eardrum.

    Then the quite distinct but detached feeling of my own skin splitting like rotten calico from temple to mouth. It was a two-foot quirt, sprung with a whippy steel core at the handle end, the remaining foot-length being of plaited leather thongs without the core, and when drawn across and down human skin at the same time, the plaiting could split the hide like tissue paper.

    I had seen it done. Within a matter of seconds I felt the trickle of warm blood beginning to flow down the front of my jacket, dripping off my chin in two little red fountains. Roschmann swung away from me, then back, pointing to the old woman still sobbing in the center of the square.

    And so, a few minutes ahead of the arrival of the other hundred victims, I picked up the old woman and carried her down Little Hill Street to the gate and the waiting van, pouring blood onto her from my chin.

    I set her down in the back of the van and made to leave her there. As I did so, she gripped my wrist in withered fingers with a strength I would not have thought she still possessed. She pulled me down toward her, squatting on the floor of the death van, and with a small cambric handkerchief that must have come from better days stanched some of the still flowing blood.

    She looked up at me from a face streaked with mascara, rouge, tears, and sand, but with dark eyes bright as stars. Swear to me that you will live. Swear to me you will get out of this place alive. You must live, so that you can tell them, them outside in the other world, what happened to our people here. Promise me, swear it by the Torah. Then she let me go. I stumbled back down the road into the ghetto, and halfway down I fainted. Shortly after returning to work I made two decisions.

    One was to keep a secret diary, nightly tattooing words and dates with a pin and black ink into the skin of my feet and legs, so that one day I would be able to transcribe all that had happened in Riga and give precise evidence against those responsible.

    The second decision was to become a Kapo, a member of the Jewish police. The decision was hard, for these were men who herded their fellow Jews to work and back, and often to the place of execution. Moreover, they carried pickax handles and occasionally, when under the eye of a German SS officer, used them liberally to beat their fellow Jews so they would work harder.

    Nevertheless, on April 1, , I went to the chief of the Kapos and volunteered, thus becoming an outcast from the company of my fellow Jews. There was always room for an extra Kapo, for despite the better rations, living conditions, and release from slave labor, very few agreed to become Kapos.

    I should here describe the method of execution of those unfit for labor, for in this manner between 70, and 80, Jews were exterminated under the orders of Eduard Roschmann at Riga. When the cattle train arrived at the station with a new consignment of prisoners, usually about strong, there were always close to a thousand already dead from the journey.

    Only occasionally was the number as low as a few hundred, scattered among fifty cars. When the new arrivals were lined up in Tin Square, the selections for extermination took place, not merely among the new arrivals but among us all.

    That was the point of the head-count each morning and evening. Among the new arrivals, those weak or frail, old or diseased, most of the women, and almost all the children, were singled out as being unfit for work. These were set to one side. The remainder were then counted. If they totaled , then of the existing inmates were also picked out, so that had arrived and went to Execution Hill.

    That way there was no overcrowding. At first these victims were marched in column to a forest outside the town. Here, in clearings between the pines, enormous open ditches had been dug by the Riga Jews before they died. And here the Latvian SS guards, under the eye and orders of Eduard Roschmann, mowed them down so that they fell into the ditches.

    The remaining Riga Jews then filled in enough earth to cover the bodies, adding one more layer of corpses to those underneath until the ditch was full. Then a new one was started. From the ghetto we could hear the chattering of the machine guns when each new consignment was liquidated, and watch Roschmann riding back down the hill and through the ghetto gates in his open car when it was over. After I became a Kapo all social contact between me and the other internees ceased.

    There was no point in explaining why I had done it, that one Kapo more or less would make no difference, not increasing the death toll by a single digit, but that one single surviving witness might make all the difference, not to save the Jews of Germany, but to avenge them.

    Or was I just afraid to die?

    [BEST SELLING] The Odessa File by Frederick Forsyth

    Whatever it was, fear soon ceased to be a factor, for in August that year something happened that caused my soul to die inside my body, leaving only the husk struggling to survive. In July a big new transport of Austrian Jews came through from Vienna. We did not see them, for they were all marched from the station to High Forest and machine-gunned. Later that evening, down the hill rolled four trucks full of clothes, which were brought to the Tin Square for sorting.

    They made a mound as big as a house until they were sorted out into piles of shoes, socks, underpants, trousers, dresses, jackets, shaving brushes, spectacles, dentures, wedding rings, signet rings, caps, and so forth. Of course this was standard procedure for executed deportees. All those killed on Execution Hill were stripped at the graveside and their effects brought down later. These were then sorted and sent back to the Reich.

    The gold, silver, and jewelry were taken in charge by Roschmann personally. In August there was another transport, from Theresienstadt, a camp in Bohemia where tens of thousands of German and Austrian Jews were held before being sent eastward to extermination. I was standing at one side of the Tin Square, watching Roschmann as he went around making his selections. The new arrivals were already shaved bald, which had been done at their previous camp, and it was not easy to tell the men from the women, except for the shift dresses the woman mainly wore.

    There was one woman across on the other side of the square who caught my attention. There was something about her cast of features that rang a bell in my mind, although she was emaciated, thin as a rake, and coughing continuously.

    Arriving opposite her, Roschmann tapped her on the chest and passed on. The Latvians following him at once seized her arms and pushed her out of line to join the others in the center of the square. There were many from that transport who were not work-fit, and the list of selections was long. That meant fewer of us would be selected to make up the numbers, though for me the question was academic.

    As a Kapo I wore an armband and carried a club, and the extra food rations had increased my strength a little. Although Roschmann had seen my face, he did not seem to remember it. He had slashed so many across the face that one more or less would not attract his attention. Most of those selected that summer evening were formed into a column and marched to the ghetto gates by the Kapos. The column was then taken over by the Latvians for the last four miles to High Forest and death.

    But as there was a gassing van standing by also at the gates, a group of about a hundred of the frailest of the selected ones was detached from the crowd. I was about to escort the other condemned men and women to the gates when SS Lieutenant Krause pointed to five of us Kapos. The thin woman was among them, her chest racked by tuberculosis.

    She knew where she was going—they all did—but like the rest she stumbled with resigned obedience to the rear of the van. She was too weak to get up, for the tailboard was high off the ground, so she turned to me for help. We stood and looked at each other In stunned amazement. I heard somebody approach behind me, and the other Kapos at the tailboard straightened to attention, scraping their caps off.

    Realizing it must be an SS officer, I did the same. The woman just stared at me, unblinking. The man behind me came forward. It was Captain Roschmann. He nodded to the other Kapos to carry on, and stared at me with those pale blue eyes. I thought he could only mean I would be flogged that evening for being slow to take my cap off.

    Do you think we ought to liven you up a little this evening? The sentence was passed. I could not reply. My mouth was gummed together as if by glue. I nodded dumbly. He grinned even more widely. Help the lady up into the van. With this assistance she climbed into the van.

    The other Kapos waited to slam the doors shut. When she was up, she looked down at me, and two tears came, one from each eye, and rolled down her cheeks. She did not say anything to me; we never spoke throughout.

    Then the doors were slammed shut and the van rolled away. The last thing I saw was her eyes looking at me. I have spent twenty years trying to understand the look in her eyes. Was it love or hatred, contempt or pity, bewilderment or understanding?

    I shall never know. When the van had gone, Roschmann turned to me, still grinning. That was the day my soul died inside me. It was August 29, After August that year I became a robot. Nothing mattered any more.

    There was no feeling of cold or of pain, no sensation of any kind at all. I watched the brutalities of Roschmann and his fellow SS men without batting an eyelid. I was inured to everything that can touch the human spirit and most things that can touch the body.

    The transports came, their occupants marched to Execution Hill or to the vans, died, and were buried. Sometimes I looked into their eyes as they went, walking beside them to the gates of the ghetto with my armband and club. It reminded me of a poem I had once read by an English poet, which described how an ancient mariner, condemned to live, had looked into the eyes of his crewmates as they died of thirst, and read the curse in them.

    But for me there was no curse, for I was immune even to the feeling of guilt. That was to come years later. There was only the emptiness of a dead man still walking upright… [Peter Miller read on late into the night. The effect of the narration of the atrocities on him was at once monotonous and mesmerizing.

    Several times he sat back in his chair and breathed deeply for a few minutes to regain his calm. Then he read on. Once, close to midnight, he laid the book down and made more coffee.

    He stood at the window before drawing the curtains, looking down into the street. Farther down the road the brilliant neon light of the Cafe Cherie blazed across the Steindamm, and he saw one of the part-time girls who frequent it to supplement their incomes emerge on the arm of a businessman.

    They disappeared into a pension a little farther down, where the businessman would be relieved of marks for half an hour of copulation. The job was easier said than done, with winter coming on and the ground about to freeze hard. It put Roschmann in a foul temper for days, but the administrative details of carrying out the order kept him busy enough to stay away from us.

    Day after day the newly formed labor squads were seen marching up the hill into the forest with their pickaxes and shovels, and day after day the columns of black smoke rose above the forest. For fuel they used the pines of the forest, but largely decomposed bodies do not burn easily, so the job was slow. Eventually they switched to quicklime, covered each layer of corpses with it, and in the spring of , when the earth softened, filled them in.

    The gangs who did the work were not from the ghetto. They were totally isolated from all other human contact. They were Jewish, but were kept imprisoned in one of the worst camps in the neighborhood, Salas Pils, where they were later exterminated by being given no food at all until they died of starvation, despite the cannibalism to which many resorted.

    When the work was more or less completed in the spring of , the ghetto was finally liquidated. This procedure badly burned the corpses but did not destroy the bones. The Russians later uncovered these 80, skeletons. Most of its 30, inhabitants were marched toward the forest to become the last victims that pinewood was destined to receive.

    But apparently he was still in Riga. Tauber described how in early October of the SS officers, by now panic-stricken at the thought they might be taken alive by the vengeful Russians, prepared for a desperate evacuation of Riga by sea, taking along a handful of the last surviving prisoners as their passage ticket back to the Reich in the west. This became fairly common practice for the SS staff of the concentration camps as the Russian advance swept on. Sometimes the charade became ridiculous, as when the SS guards outnumbered their tottering charges by as many as ten to one.

    The Russian spring offensive of carried the tide of war so far westward that the Soviet troops pushed south of the Baltic States and through to the Baltic Sea to the west of them. This cut off the whole of Ostland from the Reich and led to a blazing quarrel between Hitler and his generals. They had seen it coming and had pleaded with Hitler to pull back the forty-five divisions inside the enclave.

    Cut off from resupply, they fought with dwindling ammunition to delay a certain fate, and eventually surrendered. Of the majority, made prisoners and transported in the winter of to Russia, few returned ten years later to Germany. In the distance we could hear a strange crump, as if of thunder, along the horizon. For a while it puzzled us, for we had never heard the sound of shells or bombs.

    Then it filtered through to our minds, dazed by hunger and cold, they were Russian mortar shells landing In the suburbs of Riga. When we arrived at the dock area it was crawling with officers and men of the SS.

    I had never seen so many in one place at the same time. There must have been more of them than there were of us. We were lined up in rows against one of the warehouses, and again most of us thought that this was where we would die under the machine guns.

    But this was not to be. Apparently the SS troops were going to use us, the last remainder of the hundreds of thousands of Jews who had passed through Riga, as their alibi to escape from the Russian advance, their passage back to the Reich. The means of travel was berthed alongside Quay Six—a freighter, the last one out of the encircled enclave.

    As we watched, the loading began of some of the hundreds of German Army wounded who were lying on stretchers in two of the warehouses farther along the quay. It was almost dark when Captain Roschmann arrived, and he stopped short when he saw how the ship was being loaded. Got up on that ship and get these men off. Bring them back down here. That ship is ours. Hundreds of other SS men, privates and NCOs, who till then had been standing back watching the loading, surged forward and followed the prisoners up onto the ship.

    When the first got on the deck, they began picking up the stretchers and carrying them back to the quay. Rather, they were about to, when another shout stopped us. I had reached the foot or the gangway and was about to start up, when I heard the shout and turned to see what was happening. An Army captain was running down the quay, and he came to a stop quite close to me by the gangway.

    This boat is ours. He delved in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. I looked across at Roschmann. He was standing trembling, I thought with anger. Then I saw he was scared.

    He was frightened of being left to face the Russians. Unlike us, they were armed. I have commandeered this ship in the name of the Reich. I noticed his face, as he was only two meters away from me.

    It was gray with exhaustion, with dark smudges under the eyes. There were lines down each side of the nose and several weeks of stubble on his chin. Seeing the loading work begin again, he made to march past Roschmann to supervise his orderlies. You tell the swine. I had seen him slap men a thousand times, but never with the same result. Roschmann flew back several feet and went flat on his back in the snow, a small trickle of blood coming from his mouth.

    The captain moved toward his orderlies. Everything stopped at the crash from the pistol. The Army captain staggered and turned. Roschmann fired again, and the bullet caught the captain in the throat. Something he had been wearing around his neck flew off as the bullet struck, and when I passed it, after being ordered to carry the body and throw it into the water, I saw that the object was a medal on a ribbon.

    He read the page a dozen times to make sure there was no doubt, then resumed reading the diary. I found myself helping one young soldier back down the gangplank onto the quay. He had been blinded, and around his eyes was wrapped a dirty bandage torn from a shirttail. He was half delirious and kept asking for his mother. I suppose he must have been about eighteen.

    Finally they were all taken off, and we prisoners were ordered on board. We were all taken down into the two holds, one forward and one aft, until we were so cramped we could hardly move.

    Then the hatches were battened down and the SS began to come aboard. We sailed just before midnight, the captain evidently wishing to be well out into the Gulf of Latvia before dawn came, to avoid the chance of being spotted and bombed by the patrolling Russian Stormoviks. It took three days to reach Danzig, well behind German lines.

    Three days in a pitching, tossing hell below decks, without food or water, during which a quarter of the four thousand prisoners died. There was no food to vomit, and yet everyone was retching dry from seasickness. Many died from the exhaustion of vomiting, others from hunger or cold, others from suffocation, others because they simply lost the will to live, lay back, and surrendered to death.

    And then the ship was berthed again, the hatches were opened, and gusts of ice-cold winter air came rushing into the fetid, stinking holds. When we were unloaded onto the quay at Danzig, the dead bodies were laid out in rows alongside the living, so that the numbers should tally with those that had been taken on board at Riga.

    The SS was always very precise about numbers. We learned later that Riga had fallen to the Russians on October 14, while we were still at sea. From Danzig the surviving inmates were taken by barge to the concentration camp of Stutthof, outside Danzig, and until the first weeks of he worked daily in the submarine works of Burggraben by day and lived in the camp by night.

    Thousands more at Stutthof died of malnutrition. He watched them all die, but somehow stayed alive. In January , as the advancing Russians closed on Danzig, the survivors of Stutthof camp were driven westward on the notorious Death March through the winter snow toward Berlin. Some friends of mine heard you are making an inquiry Eduard Roschmann is dead! There's no reason why you should. I thought I'd mention the fact because I didn't want you wasting your time. Tell me something, Dr. Schmidt, when exactly did he die?

    In May, fighting the American advance. You'll have to try harder. Roschmann was captured by the British in December,. Didn't your friends brief you properly when they gave you this errand? Drop this inquiry! Roschmann was seen alive in Hamburg this year. It was never confirmed. You just confirmed it. Good day, Herr Dr. For the last time: What do you know about the Odessa? Only just what Simon Wiesenthal told me.

    So, why after you spoke with Wiesenthal He represented himself to me as Dr. He contacted me! David, give us minutes and we'll get the truth. I'm telling you the truth. I've told you the truth. You say he threatened you. I don't know why. Because of your interest in this diary. Yes, yes! Peter Miller was last seen in Vienna two days ago. One of our Kameraden talked to him at his hotel.

    Then we lost him completely. Who was in charge? I am in charge! Here's the information. The address of his girlfriend, Miller's flat in Hamburg.

    There's also a list of the people who are at your disposal. Let me know where you are, every move. We wouldn't have called you if it were not of maximum importance. And when I catch up with him? Kill him! What are you running for? That hurts. Just tell me where your boyfriend is. Where is he? Where is Miller? He left there five days ago. I don't want you to misunderstand me. Now, where is Miller?

    Let me in, quick. A man attacked me. Where do you live? I'll take you home.

    Thank you. I have told you we are members of Israeli intelligence. I must also tell you we have tried twice The question is: How far would you go to find this man? Would you risk your life?

    I already have. Your best chance of finding him You would have some advantages over the other two. What are they? In the first place, you are not a Jew, and What happened to the other two? The first we found drowned in the Elbe. The second disappeared without a trace. But we've learned a lot from our mistakes. Our contacts are better than they used to be. One of them is an expert on all SS procedure.

    forsyth, frederick - odessa file

    He would brief you very thoroughly. Can you trust him? As much as we can trust you. All the information you could supply us with. All right, I'll do it. You made the right decision. Let's get started. There's a lot to do. We'll begin with Hartstein at the Bremen General Hospital. Maybe next week. He's away on a case. Is there someone who could move in with you for a few days? There's Peter's mother, but she lives in Ahrensburg.

    Anyway, I don't want to upset her. You really shouldn't be alone, you know? I could arrange for someone to come and stay with you. A policewoman. You'd feel safe with her. I'll get her to you as quickly as possible. Don't go out more than you have to. Stay away from the nightclub and keep in close touch with us. And if you hear from your boyfriend, let us know. An Aryan is invincible! Nature's chosen ruler!

    What is the life expectancy of a concentration camp inmate? From one day to nine months. Major Max Koegel. How can we show a profit margin on a prisoner's death? By commercial utilization of the corpse. Gold fillings, clothing, hair. But every corpse means the loss of two marks If make-up will be detected, we can't have make-up.

    You see, he has that young face, young skin. Well, no make-up, but I can do something around the eyes. Kolb was tattooed with an SS blood group Take off your jacket.

    Put up your arm. Close your fist and grip as tightly as you can. The first thing they look for is the scar. Exactly as I did it. Why do I have to learn this so precisely? Kolb hasn't been in the SS for over years!

    He's a baker now, not a soldier. Pick up that gun. He's a -year-old man recovering from a tumour. This is crazy! I'm finished with this. I'm tired. What I am trying to teach you may save your life. I need two more weeks. So now, here's some money. Driving licence and the watch you asked for. This is a letter written by your employer Eberhardt He's away on holiday for three weeks and they can't contact him.

    So, that's what you've got. Three weeks. You know your contact in Munich, but Ackermann is shrewd. Remember the Iron Cross and don't forget to pick up the dagger. I'm interested in an Iron Cross, Second Class. An original. For a souvenir? For my collection.

    Second Class. There's no swastika in the centre. They are the only ones we are allowed to sell. Except to friends, Herr Ackermann. I was asked to give you this. One moment, please.

    American tourists download them for paper knives. I think perhaps I can help you. Would you come in? My name is Kolb. Please, come in. Describe your uniform, Kolb. Grey-green tunic and breeches. Yes, sir. Remain at attention, Kolb.

    This letter says you have been in hospital. I had a stomach tumour, sir. Go on. I was having tests and this ward orderly kept staring at me.

    I knew his face. He was one of the Jews we'd instructed to burn the bodies of Admiral Canaris and the others You were one of those who executed Canaris? I commanded the firing squad, sir. Then the orderly saw this, my SS blood group letter. I've since had it burnt off. Let me see. I didn't take any precaution about it because I didn't think Now they're talking about Canaris and the others At which hospital were you?

    Bremen General, sir. Princess Louise. This orderly, what was his name? I knew it quite well. I don't remember you, sir. You seem nervous. Are you nervous? I've been worried these past weeks. Then what happened? I was transferred to a convalescent home. Which one?

    Arcadia Clinic at Delmenhorst. Then I received an anonymous phone call He came to visit me at the nursing home. When I told him what had happened he offered to help.

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    Maybe he didn't want to use the phone in a matter like this. He was going away on his annual holiday. Yes, we checked. A cruise to the West Indies is very pleasant this time of year.

    I want these telephone numbers. Put your jacket on. Bad luck, wasn't it? I'm sorry, sir? Only survived. You have to be spotted by one of them. It was bad luck. Did you receive your dagger? From Major Max Koegel. There is an inscription on the blade. Two barracks, a gymnasium, a garrison shop, a whorehouse Which everyone shared? No, sir.

    Officers had their own. When you looked up from anywhere in the camp, what did you see? The sky. Don't be stupid! When we looked up? You mean the ruined castle on top of the hill, where we kept the dogs? Come and sit down. Bremen General? Princess Louise ward, please. I want to confirm that you have a ward orderly Yes, we have a Jacob Hartstein. Would you please transfer me to the Registrar's office?

    Yes, Rolf Gunther Kolb. His tumour responded to treatment. He was transferred to a convalescent clinic. Could you tell me which one? Arcadia Clinic in Delmenhorst.

    Arcadia Clinic. Oh, yes, one moment, please. Hello, this is Dr. Reitlinger here. Can I help you? I am inquiring about a patient called Gunther Kolb.

    Is he still with you? He discharged himself last week. He was very much better. It was a pleasure. Your tumour seems to have improved. I don't have much pain now, sir. You'll need a new identity. And a new passport. I'm sending you to one of our people in Bayreuth.

    His name is Klaus Wenzer. He's a specialist at this kind of thing. Probably the best. After he's fixed you up with documents Take Herr Kolb to the station and see he gets the train to Bayreuth. Don't worry, Kolb. One day we'll ask you to help us. The Bayreuth train leaves in half an hour from platform three. I can manage. One moment, I'll get her. Sigi, it's Peter on the phone. Of course it's me. Where are you? It's a terrible connection. I'm fine. It's wonderful to hear your voice.

    Who was that girl? Listen, I was attacked in the Elbe tunnel and I went to the police. I can't hear you. I'm angry and frightened and I want you to come home. I've a few more things to do, but it won't take long. What are you doing at Munich Station? Sigi, I love you. Are you certain this girl got it right? From Munich Station an hour ago?

    That's very helpful. This is Werner. We have a problem and I need your help. We are looking for someone called Miller, Peter Miller. He was at Munich Station about an hour ago Just a moment. Yes, sir? You said Herr Kolb made a telephone call from the station?

    Yes, Herr Bayer, just before he got on the train. Rolf Gunther Kolb. Yes, I've been expecting you, Herr Kolb. They just telephoned me to tell me you were coming. But I didn't expect you to be here quite so soon. The letter. Come into the office. Do you have a driving licence? I'm sorry, I should offer you a cigarette, but I don't smoke. I think smoking is very bad for the health No, no, of course not. I shall have to keep this. Excuse me, please. Please, make yourself at home.

    It's my mother. She's very ill. She should be in the hospital, but you know what they're like. We've always been very close, Mother and I. How long will it take for the documents? It depends. First of all I need photographs. Yes, naturally. But there are also various technical preparations.

    No, you must stay at the hotel until Monday. The Excelsior, it's not very far from here. It's nothing much, but it is comfortable and you will be safe there. On Monday morning at :. Perhaps we could meet over the weekend. It's very difficult with Mother. I'm sure you understand. It's just metres down the road to your left. Until Monday, :. He's gone. One of these days, they will do to you It wasn't them, Mother. They killed him when he was no longer any use to them. They killed him.

    You know too much. Just like him. Do you still do what I told you? Yes, Mother. And I wouldn't hesitate to make use of it if there was any trouble. So do stop worrying. This is Wenzer. I've managed to get hold of the photographer. He can be here in an hour and take your picture tonight.

    After all, you said it was urgent and I've gone to a lot of trouble. We are lucky, he is not leaving until tomorrow morning. He's on his way here now. I really think you should come. All right, I'll be there. Then I'll see you in an hour. What happens now? I don't want you here when he comes. I'm very good with the sick.

    There might be a little blood. What if something should happen to her while I'm away? Don't argue, Wenzer. I'll just go up and see her to tell her not to worry. You've got minutes. Excuse me? I'd like to make a phone call. May I have the phone book, please? Turn out the light. Leave the door open. Blessed art thou among women Father, a Mass must be said for my boy.

    They killed Viktor and now they're going to kill my Klaus. I know it, Father. Who is going to kill Klaus? The Odessa. Hiding from them. He will come back. If they threaten him, he will use the file. What file? In the safe. I told him, for protection. Klaus needs protection. What's the number to the safe? Tell me. I'll get the file. The safe. Last four numbers telephone I want you to do something for me.

    Something very important. But you mustn't tell anybody, do you understand? Not Mother, not anyone. Yes, I understand. Yes, I shall look forward to it. We'll have a lovely day together. You should have let me answer. Who was it? Only Peter's mother. She's coming up to see us next Thursday. Sigi, what do you think you're doing? Open this door! This is one of fifty. Wenzer didn't trust his comrades. He kept the file for protection, to use if they ever turned against him.

    Yes, and where's the rest of the file? I have it safe somewhere. If I gave it to you now, you wouldn't need me anymore It was our agreement that I would deal with Roschmann on my own.

    Yes, and if you fail? That's taken care of. If anything happens to me, you'll get the file. But if you are not going to give it to us now, why have you come here? I want my car, my own clothes, marks for expenses. And I want Tauber's diary back. Who's there? It's me, Sigi. Is there anyone with you? Only the porter.

    Open the door. Perhaps you had better unpack your things. Yes, I'll do that. Well, now you know everything. Everything, I promise.

    Why couldn't you have told me in the first place? Why couldn't you have trusted me? I wish I had. What time is it? It's late. I have to go now. So soon? The official opening of the Kiefel Electric Trade Fair Just listen carefully.

    If I'm not back by tomorrow morning I want you to take a train to Munich. Here's a key to one of the lockers at the station. There's a number on it. In the locker you'll find the file. I want you to go straight to Vienna and give it to Simon Wiesenthal. Here's a letter for him. The address is on the envelope. Also there's some money. Don't look so anxious. It's just a precaution.

    First we are proud to welcome our distinguished guests of honour Raimond, if Herr Deilman arrives, send him up immediately. Very well. Put the phone down! Step away from the desk!

    Yes, the police are outside, but don't try to call them. I have no intention of calling them. What do you want? My name is Peter Miller, and yours is Eduard Roschmann. Close the curtains. Now the others. You got that limp escaping from the British in didn't you, Roschmann?

    When you jumped from the train. I don't really know what you're talking about. I am Hans Josef Kiefel, and who was the man Riga, I'm talking about Riga Do you mind if I smoke?

    Please, don't make the mistake of not taking me seriously, Roschmann. I do take you seriously. There were never disposed of at Riga. Not even. Does it really matter how many you killed? Move away from there. That's just the point. It doesn't matter. Not now. Not then. Look, young man, I don't know why you've come after me, but I can guess. Someone has been filling your head That's all nonsense, absolute nonsense. How old are you? Have you done your military service?

    You must have. You know what the army's like? A soldier is given orders. He obeys those orders. He doesn't ask if they are right or wrong. All I did was to obey my orders. Don't compare yourself with a soldier. You were an executioner. To put it more plainly, a mass-murderer, a butcher!

    How dare you call me a butcher! I was a soldier. We all were. Just like the rest. You young Germans don't realize, don't want to understand, what it was like. So tell me. I'm interested in your point of view. What was it like? It was like ruling the world. Because we did rule the world, we Germans. We had beaten every army they could throw at us. For years they'd looked down on us, and we showed them And we of the SS were the elite. Of course, they hunt us down now.

    First the Allies and now the wishy-washy old women of Bonn. They want to crush us, they want to crush the greatness of Germany That's why they divided the country. You youngsters today You don't speak for Germany, not anymore. Look around you at today's youth. Strong and healthy. A new generation.

    And who created this new generation? We did, by weeding out the sickly and the inferior. Look at yourself. Blonde, blue-eyed. That's what we were working for. And we succeeded! You shouldn't be critical of us. You should be grateful.

    Sit down in the chair. You can point that gun at me, but we're really on the same side. Same destiny. Same people. Why should it matter to you what happened to a few miserable Jews? Put your gun away, young man, and go home. I said, "Sit down. Look, Germany was crushed to pieces in.

    And now we are rising again. Slowly and surely. And what brings all this about? Discipline and management. Harsh discipline and harsh management, the harsher the better. You see all this? The house, the estate, Kiefel Electric My factory and hundreds of others like it. Who do you think did all this? We did! You should be more practical, young man. You should be more realistic. You should acknowledge the facts of today. Whatever prosperity there is in Germany today That's nonsense, absolute nonsense!

    Do you remember a man with the name of Tauber? He was German and Jewish. One of your prisoners at Riga. Try to think, Roschmann.


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