Free Fatherland by Robert Harris Page A

kitchen.
    He tried the first door. Behind it was a paneled dining room: a long table and twelve high-backed carved chairs, cold and musty from disuse.
    The next door led to the drawing room. He continued his mental inventory. Rugs on a polished wooden floor. Heavy furniture upholstered in rich brocade. Tapestries on the wall—good ones, too, if March was any judge, which he wasn't. By the window was a grand piano on which stood two large photographs. March tilted one toward the light, which shone weakly through the dusty leaded panes. The frame was heavy silver, with a swastika motif. The picture showed Buhler and his wife on their wedding day, coming down a flight of steps between an honor guard of SA men holding oak boughs over the happy couple. Buhler was also in SA uniform. His wife had flowers woven into her hair and was—to use a favorite expression of Max Jaeger—as ugly as a box of frogs. Neither was smiling.
    March picked up the other photograph and immediately felt his stomach lurch. There was Buhler again, slightly bowing this time and shaking hands. The man who was the object of this obeisance had his face half turned to the camera, as if distracted in midgreeting by something behind the photographer's shoulder. There was an inscription. March smeared his finger through the grime on the glass to decipher the crabbed writing. "To Party Comrade Buhler," it read. "From Adolf Hitler. May 17, 1945."
    Suddenly, March heard a noise: a sound like a door being kicked, followed by a whimper. He replaced the photograph and went back into the hall. The noise was coming from the end of the passage.
    He drew his pistol and edged down the corridor. As he had suspected, it gave on to the kitchen. The noise came again: a cry of terror and a drumming of feet. There was a smell, too—of something filthy. *
    At the far end of the kitchen was a door. He reached out and grasped the handle and then, with a jerk, pulled the door open. Something huge leapt out of the darkness. A dog, muzzled, eyes wide in terror, went crashing across the floor, down the passage, into the hall and out through the open front door. The larder floor was stinking, thick with feces and urine and food that the dog had pulled down from the shelves but been unable to eat.
    After that, March would have liked to have stopped for a few minutes to steady himself. But he had no time. He put the Luger away and quickly examined the kitchen. A few greasy plates in the sink. On the table, a bottle of vodka, nearly empty, with a glass next to it. There was a door to a cellar, but it was locked; he decided not to break it down. He went upstairs. Bedrooms, bathrooms—everywhere had the same atmosphere of shabby luxury, of a grand life-style gone to seed. And everywhere, he noticed, there were paintings—landscapes, religious allegories, portraits—most of them thick with dust. The place had not been properly cleaned for months, maybe years.
    The room that must have been Buhler's study was on the top floor of one of the towers. Shelves of legal textbooks, case studies, decrees. A big desk with a swivel chair next to a window overlooking the back lawn of the house. A long sofa with blankets draped beside it, which appeared to have been regularly slept on. And more photographs. Buhler in his lawyer's robes. Buhler in his SS uniform. Buhler with a group of Nazi bigwigs, one of whom March vaguely recognized as Hans Frank, in the front row of what might have been a concert. All the pictures seemed to be at least twenty years old.
    March sat at the desk and looked out of the window. The lawn led down to the Havel's edge. There was a small jetty with a cabin cruiser moored to it and, beyond that, a clear view of the lake, right across to the opposite shore. Far in the distance, the Kladow-Wannsee ferry chugged by.
    He turned his attention to the desk itself. A blotter. A heavy brass inkstand. A telephone. He stretched his hand toward it.
    It began to ring.
    His hand hung