‘Zyklon B,’ said Voss, continuing to write.
‘In most cases, gentlemen, we shall attempt to remove bodies intact,’ said Buhtz. ‘However, in the meantime …’
He approached the corpse I had uncovered with a spade just forty-eight hours earlier and drew back the piece of sacking I had used to cover it up again.
‘I propose to make an immediate start with this fellow.’
He probed the bullet hole in the back of the skull with his forefinger for a moment.
‘Judge Conrad,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you would be kind enough to make a contemporaneous note for me, while I make a preliminary examination of this cadaver’s skull.’
‘Certainly, professor,’ said Conrad, and taking out pencil and paper, he prepared to write.
Buhtz dug around the skull with his fingers to make enough room to lift it clear of the earth it was lying in. He peered closely at the top and the front of the skull and then said: ‘Victim A appears to have suffered a bullet wound to the occipital bone, close to the opening of the lower part of the skull, consistent with his being shot, execution-style, in the back of the head and at close range. There appears to be a point of exit in the forehead, which leads me to suppose that the bullet no longer remains within the skull cavity.’
He unwrapped his bundle of surgical instruments on the ground and selecting the large amputation knife I had seen earlier, he began to cut into the bones of the neck.
‘However, by measuring the size of these holes we may be able to arrive at an early determination of the calibre of the weapon that was used to execute this man.’
There was no hesitation in the way he used the knife and I wondered if he could have removed the head of a living man with such skill and alacrity. When the head was completely severed he lifted the skull, wrapped it carefully in the piece of sacking and laid it on the ground by Lieutenant Voss’s feet.
Meanwhile I glanced at Judge Conrad, who caught my eye and nodded silently, as if the professor’s actions here in Katyn Wood confirmed the curious story he had told me about the removal of the SS corporal’s head in Buchenwald.
It was Dyakov’s keen eyes that spotted the shell casing. It was lying on the ground in the spot that had been recently occupied by the dead Polish officer’s skull. He dropped down on his haunches and rubbed in the dirt for a moment before coming up with the small object in his thick fingers.
‘What’s that you’ve found?’ asked Buhtz.
‘Sir, it looks like a shell casing,’ said Dyakov. ‘Perhaps the same shell that contained the very bullet that killed this poor Polish man.’
Buhtz took the shell casing from Dyakov and held it up to the light. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Well done, Dyakov. We’re off to a flying start, I think. Thank you gentlemen. If anyone needs me I will be in my laboratory at Krasny Bor. With any luck, this time tomorrow we’ll already be able to say what kind of weapon killed this fellow.’
I had to admit that Buhtz was more impressive than I had been expecting. We watched him walk back down the slope to his motorcycle. He was carrying the skull under his arm and looked like a referee walking away from a game of soccer with the football.
Conrad sneered after him. ‘What did I tell you?’ he murmured.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ I said, ‘he seemed to know what he was about.’
‘Maybe,’ Conrad said grudgingly. ‘Maybe he does. But he’ll boil that head tonight and make a soup out of it. Just you see if I’m wrong.’
Lieutenant Voss sniffed the air. ‘It smells bad already,’ he said.
‘Plenty bad,’ agreed Dyakov. ‘And if we smell it, then so will the wolves. It might not just be the looters we have to worry about. Maybe they’ll come back for a free meal. It might even be dangerous. Believe me, you don’t want to meet a pack of hungry wolves at night.’
‘Would a wolf really eat something that’s been dead for this long?’ asked Lieutenant Voss.
Dyakov grinned. ‘Sure. Why not? A wolf is not so particular if his meat is kosher or not. Filling his stomach with something – anything – is more important. Even if he throws most of it up, for sure something will stay down, you can guarantee it. Hey colonel, maybe you should increase the guard on the wood from tonight.’
‘Please don’t tell me my duty, Dyakov,’ said Ahrens. ‘You might enjoy the field marshal’s confidence, but you don’t yet enjoy mine.’ With a face like a thundercloud he walked down the slope just as we heard Buhtz’s motorcycle start up and then roar away.
‘What’s up with Ahrens?’ asked Judge Conrad. ‘The silly ass.’
‘He’s all right,’ insisted Dyakov. ‘He just doesn’t like it that this nice place is already starting to look and smell like a shit heap.’ He laughed a big vulgar laugh. ‘That’s the trouble with you Germans. You have such sensitive noses. We Russians don’t even notice it when things smell bad. Eh, Peshkov?’ He elbowed the other man, who winced uncomfortably and then moved away.
‘That’s why we’ve got the same rotten government we’ve had since 1917,’ added Dyakov. ‘Because we have no sense of smell.’
Back in the signals room at Dnieper Castle there was a message for me from Berlin. Martin Quidde had already gone off duty and it was his junior signaller, Lutz – the man he believed was working secretly in the 537th for the Gestapo – who handed me the yellow envelope. He knew what the message said of course, because it was he who had decoded it, but I could see he was keen to ask me a question, and because when I can I like to keep the Gestapo as close as possible I offered him a Trummer from my little cigarette case and acted as if I was happy to talk for a while. But what I really wanted was to have someone in the Gestapo looking out for me, and sometimes, when you’re looking for a man to cover your back, it’s best to recruit the very person whose job it might be to put a knife in it.
‘Thanks very much, sir,’ he said, puffing with obvious enthusiasm. ‘These are the best cigarettes I’ve tasted in a while.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Quidde says you’re not in the army at all but in the SD.’
‘That should tell you something.’
‘It should?’
‘It should tell you that you can trust me. That you can be frank with me.’
Lutz nodded, but it was plain I was going to have to let him have the run of the line for a while before I could land him at my feet.
‘This is not something that would be true of everyone in the 537th,’ I said, carefully. ‘Not everyone is committed to the Party the way you and I are, Lutz. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, loyalty – real loyalty – is a comparatively rare thing these days. People say “Heil Hitler” with alacrity, but for most of them it doesn’t mean a damn thing.’
‘That’s very true.’
‘It’s just a figure of speech, a trope. Do you know what a trope is, Lutz?’
‘I’m not sure I do, sir.’
‘It’s a word or phrase that has almost become a cliché. It implies that for some people the words no longer mean anything very much; that the words have been turned away from their normal meaning. A lot of people say “Heil Hitler” and make the salute merely as a way of ensuring that they don’t get into trouble with the Gestapo. But Adolf Hitler doesn’t mean much for these men, and certainly not what he means for you and me, Lutz. By which I mean SD men and Gestapo men. I’m right, aren’t I? That you’re with the Gestapo? No, you don’t need to answer that. I know what I know. But what I don’t yet know is if I can rely on you, Lutz. That I can count on you in a way I can count on no one else in this regiment. That I can talk to you in confidence perhaps, and that you can speak to me in the same way. Do I make myself plain?’