by the relentless green tide.
Seyss poked his head round the stack of empty ammo crates that for the last twenty minutes had served as his blind, glancing a last time up and down the street. Satisfied that no unfriendly eyes were watching the building, he crossed the road and jogged up the front path, neatly threading his way through a field of debris. He paused by the entry long enough to read the address inscribed on a soot-encrusted brass plaque. Twenty-one Lindenstrasse. He offered an unfeeling smile. Home.
Hurrying inside, he made a quick tour of the ground floor, through the salon, the living room, the kitchen. His eyes scanned what floor remained for boot prints, cigarette butts, any sign of a recent visit. He saw nothing to alarm him. At times, he was forced to tiptoe across the coarse spars that had supported the flooring. Hearing a strange flutter, he froze and glanced up. Through the torn floorboards, he glimpsed the ceiling of his bedroom three stories above him. The tail of his curtains gently slapped the wall, then fell back.
Twenty years had passed since he’d lived at Lindenstrasse. At the age of eight, he’d been sent away to school, first to the state military barracks at Brunswick, then to the SS Academy at Bad Toelz. Home had always been simply a way station between postings. If he’d expected an onslaught of nostalgia, he was mistaken. His only sadness was at the condition of the house itself. Nearly all the flooring had been torn out, probably to use as firewood. It went without saying that the furniture, paintings, carpets, and assorted bric-a-brac that had made up his home was gone. Even the wallpaper had been rudely torn off. The house was nothing but a husk.
“Father?” he called, sotto voce. “I’m home.”
His whisper died inside the barren shell and he laughed silently. He had no idea where his father might be, nor did he care. Six months had passed since he’d last seen him, a lunchtime visit on his way to the Austro-Hungarian border. There he’d sat, Otto Seyss, gray and paunchy, proud holder of National Socialist party number 835, one of the oldest of the
alte kämpfer,
loudly proclaiming over his ersatz coffee and ersatz sausage that the retreat of the German Army on all fronts was a ruse.
A ruse!
And that, any day now, Hitler would unleash his secret weapons under construction at the rocket laboratories at Peenemünde and the war would be over—
snap!
—like that. The Allies forced to surrender, the Russians driven back to Stalingrad, the German Army once again victorious, with all Europe its prize. Seyss had branded his father’s talk of secret weapons a sham, arguing that the war had been over for two years already, and that he should get the hell out of Munich as soon as possible if he wanted to survive the coming fight. His father had responded accordingly, calling him a traitor and a coward. The same things he’d called his wife six years earlier when she’d declared herself unwilling to support the tyrant who had shipped her youngest son to a detention camp. Only that time, he’d punctuated his remarks with a vicious right hook that had sent his wife home to Dublin for good with a shattered jaw.
Seyss returned to the front door before venturing upstairs and scanned the road in both directions. Lindenstrasse was deserted. The once-noble town houses had been picked clean and abandoned, the entire neighborhood left to its decaying self. Not a GI or a German was in sight. Reassured, he made his way to the main staircase. Remarkably, it was intact, except for the banister, which was nowhere to be seen. He climbed quickly, taking the stairs two at a time, stopping only when he’d reached the top.
The third floor was composed of three rooms. His parents’ bedroom occupied the northern half. The southern half was divided into two rooms for Seyss and his younger brother, Adam. He glanced into Adam’s room, imagining a lanky, argumentative boy with a crop of honey-colored
Seyss poked his head round the stack of empty ammo crates that for the last twenty minutes had served as his blind, glancing a last time up and down the street. Satisfied that no unfriendly eyes were watching the building, he crossed the road and jogged up the front path, neatly threading his way through a field of debris. He paused by the entry long enough to read the address inscribed on a soot-encrusted brass plaque. Twenty-one Lindenstrasse. He offered an unfeeling smile. Home.
Hurrying inside, he made a quick tour of the ground floor, through the salon, the living room, the kitchen. His eyes scanned what floor remained for boot prints, cigarette butts, any sign of a recent visit. He saw nothing to alarm him. At times, he was forced to tiptoe across the coarse spars that had supported the flooring. Hearing a strange flutter, he froze and glanced up. Through the torn floorboards, he glimpsed the ceiling of his bedroom three stories above him. The tail of his curtains gently slapped the wall, then fell back.
Twenty years had passed since he’d lived at Lindenstrasse. At the age of eight, he’d been sent away to school, first to the state military barracks at Brunswick, then to the SS Academy at Bad Toelz. Home had always been simply a way station between postings. If he’d expected an onslaught of nostalgia, he was mistaken. His only sadness was at the condition of the house itself. Nearly all the flooring had been torn out, probably to use as firewood. It went without saying that the furniture, paintings, carpets, and assorted bric-a-brac that had made up his home was gone. Even the wallpaper had been rudely torn off. The house was nothing but a husk.
“Father?” he called, sotto voce. “I’m home.”
His whisper died inside the barren shell and he laughed silently. He had no idea where his father might be, nor did he care. Six months had passed since he’d last seen him, a lunchtime visit on his way to the Austro-Hungarian border. There he’d sat, Otto Seyss, gray and paunchy, proud holder of National Socialist party number 835, one of the oldest of the
alte kämpfer,
loudly proclaiming over his ersatz coffee and ersatz sausage that the retreat of the German Army on all fronts was a ruse.
A ruse!
And that, any day now, Hitler would unleash his secret weapons under construction at the rocket laboratories at Peenemünde and the war would be over—
snap!
—like that. The Allies forced to surrender, the Russians driven back to Stalingrad, the German Army once again victorious, with all Europe its prize. Seyss had branded his father’s talk of secret weapons a sham, arguing that the war had been over for two years already, and that he should get the hell out of Munich as soon as possible if he wanted to survive the coming fight. His father had responded accordingly, calling him a traitor and a coward. The same things he’d called his wife six years earlier when she’d declared herself unwilling to support the tyrant who had shipped her youngest son to a detention camp. Only that time, he’d punctuated his remarks with a vicious right hook that had sent his wife home to Dublin for good with a shattered jaw.
Seyss returned to the front door before venturing upstairs and scanned the road in both directions. Lindenstrasse was deserted. The once-noble town houses had been picked clean and abandoned, the entire neighborhood left to its decaying self. Not a GI or a German was in sight. Reassured, he made his way to the main staircase. Remarkably, it was intact, except for the banister, which was nowhere to be seen. He climbed quickly, taking the stairs two at a time, stopping only when he’d reached the top.
The third floor was composed of three rooms. His parents’ bedroom occupied the northern half. The southern half was divided into two rooms for Seyss and his younger brother, Adam. He glanced into Adam’s room, imagining a lanky, argumentative boy with a crop of honey-colored
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