CHAPTER 8 - LILLE, FRANCE—JULY 19, 1916
Bruno, his boots spattered with mud from the trenches, peered through the carriage window as the train chugged into the Lille station, a mere twenty kilometers from the front.
He’d been summoned to meet with Fritz Haber, the head of the Chemistry Section in the Ministry of War, but the purpose of the meeting was not disclosed.
A feeling of powerlessness encompassed him, as if he were being swept away by a raging river.
Perhaps I’ll be reprimanded for my failure to stop the gas attack at Halluch.
The last time he’d spoken to Haber, who recruited him to join the gas regiment, was in Ypres, when Germany unleashed the first mass use of poison gas, which resulted in thousands of French casualties.
The German Empire was the first to breach the Hague Convention treaty that prohibited the use of poison weapons.
But being the first to commit the atrocity hadn’t changed the tide of the war.
Instead, it fueled the Allied forces to begin using their own gas warfare.
And any chance of a swift end of the war, Bruno believed, was gone.
Despite the unfavorable wind conditions at the battle of Hulluch, Bruno had failed to influence superior officers to stop the gas attack.
The poisonous cloud, which blew back on the German lines, killed over one thousand German soldiers.
The trenches and dugouts were full of bodies with blue faces and black lips.
Most of the deaths were due to not having gas masks.
But some of them, who didn’t understand that the gas sinks in the trenches, removed their masks too soon.
These men swallowed gas, scorching their lungs, and they choked and hemorrhaged to death.
Although it wasn’t his duty, he’d insisted on overseeing the burial of the dead, many of whom were destined to mass graves.
However, he arranged for four hundred of the fallen men to be properly buried in a cemetery of a French village called Pont-à-Vendin.
But the entombments did little to alleviate a cancerous guilt that grew within him.
The screams and gurgles of dying men were etched into his brain like a phonograph disc.
And burned into his memories was the image and stench of decomposing corpses, stacked like cords of wood.
There are no words to describe the wickedness of war, he’d thought while writing a letter to Anna.
He struggled whether to tell her about what had taken place at Halluch.
He longed to confide in her, but he feared that providing transparency about his duties might hurt her or, even worse, ruin her feelings for him.
I will tell her everything on my next military leave. For now, I’ll carry the burden alone.
The train screeched to a stop. Bruno shook the horrid thoughts from his mind and retrieved his leather case, which contained Anna’s letters and his personal items. As he stepped onto the landing, a pungent scent of burning locomotive coal filled his nostrils.
The German-occupied city of Lille was bustling with troops passing through on their way to the front.
Reluctant to face a possible reprimand, Bruno chose to walk, rather than take a carriage, to his meeting with Haber.
The city of Lille, which held much of France’s coal and steel industry, was captured in October of 1914.
Raw materials, manufactured goods, and food flowed east to support the German Empire.
Street signs had been changed to German names.
Bars and coffeehouses poured beer for German soldiers.
An empty cigarette factory, as well as several unused industrial buildings, had been converted into barracks for soldiers.
Also, the empire had taken control of printed publications.
A German language newspaper, Liller Kriegszeitung, was provided to occupying troops, while a German-created French language newspaper, Gazette des Ardennes, produced propaganda to occupied citizens.
Additionally, the clocks in Lille were set on German time.
The occupation, Bruno believed, had transformed the French city into a German outpost.
As Bruno entered the city center, forty Allied prisoners, haggard and wearing soiled uniforms, were being forced to march through the streets by a group of armed soldiers.
Silent French onlookers, comprised of old men, women, and children, stood along the street.
It was apparent, to Bruno, that citizens of Lille were not permitted to speak to the prisoners.
The ravaged men, their eyes lowered, shuffled their feet.
With the exception of their uniforms, they look like our men.
As the prisoners passed, Bruno approached a soldier. “Where are you taking them?”
“To a prison in the citadel.” The soldier adjusted his rifle on his shoulder.
“Will they be transported to Germany?”
“Nein. We march them each day between the citadel and train station.” The soldier quickened his pace and joined his group.
Bruno’s eyes locked on the prisoners. Shame pricked at his conscience. We parade them through the city to demoralize them. He gripped the handle of his case, turning his knuckles white, and took another route to his rendezvous with Haber.
On a prominent street lined with palatial homes, Bruno arrived at a grand, three-story bourgeois house with dormer windows jutting from the attic.
Angst grew in his gut as he climbed the stone steps to the entrance, bearing the address in his summons from Haber.
He knocked on the door, which had a posting that contained two names: Gabrielle Lemaire, which was partially scratched away with pencil, and Celeste Lemaire.
A young woman in her early twenties with skin the tone of alabaster opened the door. Wavy auburn hair rested on the lace collar of her navy dress. “Oberleutnant Wahler?”
Bruno removed his cap. “Ja.”
“They are waiting for you in the parlor,” the woman said in German but with a French accent. “Follow me.”
They traveled over a rouge marble floor.
The click of their shoes echoed in the hallway.
She opened a set of tall, oak-paneled doors.
Seated at a table were two officers, both of whom Bruno recognized: Fritz Haber, a bald-headed man with pince-nez spectacles, and Otto Hahn, a mustached officer in his late thirties.
Like Bruno, Otto was a chemist who’d been recruited by Haber.
However, Otto’s duties included hunting for sites on both fronts for gas attacks.
“Bruno.” Haber stood and extended his hand.
Bruno, feeling surprised to be called by his first name, shook Haber’s hand. He greeted Otto.
“Celeste,” Haber said, turning to the woman. “Bring us something from the cellar to drink.”
The woman left, closing the doors behind her.
“You’re probably wondering why I’ve summoned you,” Haber said, taking a seat.
Bruno put down his leather case and sat. “I assume it’s about what happened at Hulluch.”
“Mishaps are part of war,” Haber said.
Otto nodded, appearing as if he’d experienced accidents with poison gas.
“A change in wind can be impossible to predict.” Haber adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “And commanding officers, who are ignorant of science, can be quite difficult to persuade.”
Bruno’s shoulder muscles relaxed.
“I’ve summoned you to discuss a breakthrough in technology.”
Otto’s lips formed a smile.
“We’ve placed phosgene gas in artillery shells,” Haber said, grinning. “Otto successfully used the new shells at Verdun.”
“Poison shells?” Bruno asked.
“We no longer need to worry about the wind,” Otto said. “We can place gas anywhere we want.”
“What were the results in Verdun?” Bruno asked, uncertain if he wanted to know the answer.
“On June twenty-second, we gassed French artillery positions with phosgene shells,” Otto said. “We estimate between one and two thousand casualties.”
Haber placed his fingers together. “Your new assignment will be based in Lille. The phosgene shells will be transported here. You’ll be responsible for introducing the new weapons along the front, between Hulluch and Ypres.”
Bruno nodded.
Celeste entered the room with a bottle of wine and glasses. She poured drinks for the officers.
“Danke,” Bruno said.
Celeste’s green eyes met with Bruno, and she lowered her head. “Will there be anything else?”
Haber waved her off, and she left the room.
“To surpassing enemy technology and winning the war,” Haber said, raising his glass.
Bruno clinked his glass and sipped. The Allied forces will likely begin using their own poison shells in a matter of months.
“Our advancement will escalate casualties,” Otto said. “It’ll break the stalemate on the front.”
Haber swirled his drink. “Death is death, regardless of how it is inflicted.”
Bruno’s skin prickled. A flash of gassed bodies—mouths gaped and faces the color of plum—filled his head.
“I’ve recently spoken with your vater,” Haber said.
“How is he?” Bruno asked.
“Well,” Haber said. “With government contracts, Wahler Farbwerke is becoming a large company. Your family will be quite wealthy after the war.”
Bruno nodded, attempting to recall the last letter he’d received from either of his parents or his half-brother, Julius.
He took a drink of wine, attempting to wash away his disappointment from their lack of communication.
“How is your wife, Clara?” he asked, eager to change the topic of conversation.
“Dead,” Haber said.
Bruno straightened his back. “I’m sorry. When did it happen?”
“Last year,” Haber said.
Otto lowered his eyes.
“My condolences, sir,” Bruno said. “If I had known I would have—”
“She wasn’t well,” Haber said abruptly.
Bruno nodded. The room turned silent, and Otto changed the subject to the production of phosgene shells. For the next twenty minutes, they avoided topics of personal matters and only discussed plans for the German Empire to win the escalating chemical warfare race.
Haber finished his wine and stood. “I have a train to catch, but Otto will remain in Lille for a few days to help you get started on your assignment.”
Bruno stood and shook Haber’s hand.
“Good luck to you.” Haber put his cap on his head and left the room. Seconds later, the front door opened and closed.
Otto poured wine into his glass.
“Did I do something to offend him?” Bruno asked.
“Nein, he was scheduled to leave. But in the future, I recommend not to inquire about his wife.” Otto took a sip of wine. “Clara committed suicide.”
Bruno’s eyes widened.
“Haber doesn’t like to talk about it. There are rumors that she was depressed from Haber’s work with chemical warfare. When she learned of the gas attack in Ypres, which killed many thousands, she committed suicide.”
“Oh, God,” Bruno said.
“She shot herself in the heart with Haber’s service revolver. Their twelve-year-old son found her.”
Bruno’s breath stalled in his lungs.
“Let’s not speak of this again.” Otto drained his drink and placed the glass on the table.
“Celeste will show you to your room. I think you’ll find the accommodations of this officers’ boardinghouse to be far nicer than the old factory barracks.
Once you are settled in, I’ll show you the supply depot, and then we’ll go to the officers’ casino. ”
Bruno nodded.
Otto patted Bruno on the shoulder and left for his room.
Bruno slumped in his chair and lowered his head into his hands. What will Anna do when she learns of what I’ve done? What will she think of my family’s role in the war? His heart ached with regret, and he wished there was something he could do to change the past.
Celeste entered the parlor. “May I show you to your room?”
Bruno raised his head and nodded. He stood and reached, his hand trembling, for his leather case.
“Are you all right, monsieur?”
“Ja,” Bruno lied.
Celeste gently took the case from his hand. “You’ll feel better after some rest.”
He followed her out of the parlor and up a winding staircase. For Bruno, each step of the ascent felt harder and harder, as if the weight of the war was pressing on his shoulders.
“I’ve placed towels and water in your room,” Celeste said, opening a door. She sat the case next to the bed.
“Danke,” he said.
“If you need anything, monsieur, you can find me in the kitchen or my room in the attic.” She turned and closed the door behind her.
Bruno collapsed onto his bed. His mind raced with potential ramifications of his actions.
He struggled to convince himself that Anna—if she learned of his role in the gassing deaths of thousands of men—would never hurt herself, like Haber’s wife, Clara.
But how can I know for sure? Unwilling to risk ruining his engagement and, most importantly, burdening Anna with knowledge of his sins, he resolved to never divulge the truth.