Lyon
August 30, 1942
The leaflet was in Klaus Barbie’s hands by midnight. He was still in his office dealing with a few urgent matters. Since his trip to the camp before dawn, he had barely had a moment to think about the children who had escaped. But as he studied the leaflet, he was convinced that the French authorities were too inept to fix the situation on their own.
He read the paper for the hundredth time and then crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. He did not have many soldiers in the city. Officially, the SS and the Gestapo were not authorized to interfere in the free zone of France, though extrajudicially was another matter.
The captain called for his secretary, who ran in right away.
“Radio for all of our units within fifteen miles. I need all available SS members for a special operation.”
“An official operation, sir?” the secretary asked.
Klaus frowned. “I’m the one who decides what’s official and what isn’t. Is that clear?”
The woman nodded and ran out of the office. Klaus put on his bomber jacket and grabbed his hat. A glance out the window showed him that the city was calm, as if the war and all its misery were something far off and unreal. But it was very real and still going on. The Germans had not yet finished their masterwork of bringing Europe into submission and turning the world into Germany’s backyard. Planet Earth would become a showcase for the superiority of the Aryan lords. Klaus walked out after securing his pistol to his holster. His blood was boiling now. The sensation of the hunt inebriated him far more than alcohol ever did. That was what he loved about his job. It made him a higher being, godlike in deciding the life and death of mere mortals.