Prologue

Heinrich Lange: December 1944
It is still grey and cold, the morning mist lifting out of the hollows, as the three of us drive down towards the river. We are forced into going someway out of our path, to find a road in the right direction. Huber even takes the big Horch across a field, the trailer with our fuel cans rattling behind, to reach the track that parallels the river. Huber swings the Horch, onto this rough road. The riverbank trail weaves through Alder trees, their stiff branches leafless against the cold winter sky.
A soldier in a camouflage smock jumps out of the refuge of a concealed firing position ahead of us and tries to wave us down. Herr Gausel leans forward to Huber. He shouts over the noise, ‘Keep going, don’t stop!’
The soldier has to leap out of the way. He shouts something after us, but what, I cannot hear. Huber drives along the river road until we come level with the field. He halts the vehicle on the road.
Herr Gausel jumps out, ‘She will be hiding, waiting for dark to cross the river. Spread out, start looking. Huber, look for hollows among the trees south of here. Lange, you look along the hedges in the fields. I will go through the trees to the north.’
I stand and watch the others for a moment. Because of the cold of the morning, Huber wears a camouflage smock over his uniform. He quickly disappears into the trees. Herr Gausel is still in his field grey dress uniform, not warm enough for the weather, but I doubt he notices the cold. I sigh and turn to my task.
Having experience of hunting people, I decide even if she is here, with only three of us and no dog, it is nearly impossible to find her. Then while I look I reflect, is it best if he finds her at all? Would it be better if she escapes? I cannot bear to think of what will happen to Katharina in the hands of the Gestapo. And what of Herr Gausel, how will it be for him to hand her over to them? I decide it is best if we never find her, if she makes it across the river to France. She may be in danger there, but nothing like the horror she will face in the Gestapo's torture cells.
So of course it is me who finds her. I nearly tread on her hand. She is lying in a small hollow under the hedge. She lies on her side, asleep with the sleep of the exhausted. One of her hands flung out above her head, extends into the open. The weak morning sun throws a mottled pattern of light and shade over her face. With her tousled blonde hair and a smear of dirt on her cheek, she looks like a sleeping child. I wish I can let her slumber, but if it comes to a choice, I know to whom I owe my loyalty.
I quietly leave her lie and fetch Herr Gausel. When we reach the place again, she still sleeps. She has not moved. Herr Gausel stands and watches her for some time. She does not move, except to rub her nose as she sleeps. He looks so sad I think he will weep. He remains still as if undecided what to do. But finally his face hardens. He reaches down and grabs her extended wrist. Her eyes flutter open. He heaves hard, pulls her out from under the hedge.
She shrieks, a noise of surprise and pain, as she is bodily dragged out. He hauls her onto the grass before dropping her arm. But he does not let her lie; he grabs her by her hair, pulling her up, on to her knees, fumbling for his pistol with his other hand. She moans with pain, and utters a single word, ‘Ebi.’
He seems to flinch, as if it is he who has been hurt, but it is only momentary; he pulls his pistol and grinds it against her cheek. Now he moans, as if in pain, ‘Why have you done this? Why have you destroyed me, destroyed everything?’
In her eyes, I see for a moment naked fear, fear of death. But she closes them and when they open again, there is nothing but resignation. ‘What do you want me to say, Ebi?’
He shouts, ‘Tell me!’
Her beautiful eyes simply stare up at him; she says nothing. It is a tortured scream that issues from his throat ‘Tell me!’
He smacks the pistol barrel into the side of her head. It is a stupefying blow, but he is holding her so she cannot fall. She blinks and struggles to speak. ‘I have never tried to destroy you, I wanted to save you.’
‘Save me?!’
Now, he presses the pistol under the line of her jaw. ‘Save me? Save me from what?’
She takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes, ‘From what you have become. I wanted to undo some of the harm you have done.’
‘Harm, what harm?’
‘All the death, the killing, a little boy called Benjamin.’
‘Benjamin? Who the hell is Benjamin?’
‘Benjamin was a little boy who lived in Poland.’
‘You are telling me all this has been for them? For the filthy Jews?!’
‘Yes, for them, for you, for us.’
He stands very still now, he is very white. Then he howls and the howl that comes from him is one not only of anger, but also of ultimate despair. He lashes at her again, his gun catching her brow with a sickening crack. She tumbles onto the grass. He turns on his heel and strides away. ‘Bring the prisoner.’
I gently help her up, his final blow has left a huge red welt down the side of her face. Her eyebrow is split open, blood already pours into her eye and down her face. I am distressed. I understand Herr Gausel and his moral stand, but I am weak, I cannot bring myself to hate her. I seek to save her a little dignity. At least what comes next will only be witnessed by those who love her, ‘Huber, go back to the vehicle, wait there.’
I take her by the elbow and guide her along. She stumbles several times. She is finding it hard to walk, perhaps she cannot see very well because of the blood running into her eye, perhaps she is in shock.
We pass through some trees which are clothed in nothing but their grey bark. So we come to the riverbank. It is steep here and the water rushes past. Even in the starkness of winter the Rhine is a beautiful river. It should be peaceful here.
She guesses what is happening. She struggles now and claws at me, then turns to face him, ‘Ebi, I’m your Katharina! You can come with me! We can go to Switzerland together. Even now, it's not too late to let go.’
But there is nothing in his face to give her hope. Gausel just looks at her, his face wooden. Then she speaks one last time. It is strange. She is not begging now. She knows it is the end. It is as if she absolves him. ‘Ebi, I love you.’
He screams again, a wordless howl, and swings the pistol at her. This time he strikes the left side of her face. I am sure I hear the crack of breaking bone, as the pistol drives into her jaw. She is down again, and blinks stupidly up at me, clearly stunned. Her eye is almost swollen shut, and blood from the cut on her brow streaks her face. Her left cheek is already bruising and swelling. I want to cry. My heart is breaking. Her beautiful face is twisted out of shape. I am sure her cheek is smashed. I cannot bear it. This should not be happening to her, and not at his hands. 
Gausel is standing with his back to us, maybe to avoid seeing what he has done, maybe to gather the strength for what he is about to do. He shouts again, this time at me, ‘Get her on her knees, on the bank.’
I drag her up, lift her to her knees facing out to the river. She is not resisting now, but is almost limp. I hold her by the shoulder ready to pitch her forwards clear of the shallows when it is done. I turn my face towards the river and close my eyes. Not so much because I do not want to watch, which I do not, but because I know what will happen.
In Russia for executions, small caliber pistols, mostly 6.35mm, are used. This is because, while these low power bullets do the job at close range, they seldom cause the head to rupture, hence less mess to clean up. But of course, such a weapon is nearly useless as a military sidearm. Gausel prefers a Belgian made, Browning Hi-Power, because of its large capacity clip. At contact range, the heavy 9mm bullet will likely blow her head apart. It is bad enough to get such a mess on oneself, it is worse to get it in the eyes.
Looking away, I hear Gausel cock his pistol, even over the rushing water. I cannot bear it, my heart is breaking, I want to tell him to think again, maybe he can let her go. Anybody can see we have lost the war already, surely showing mercy just once will not diminish us. I think this, I go to speak, then abruptly my face is spattered with the warm stickiness of blood. With the roar of the pistol ringing in my ears, I tip her forwards into the river. There is a splash and she is gone.