by Jana Petken
“Look, it’s not our job to make military decisions,” Heller tried again, “but, you came here wanting an up-to-date assessment of what is happening on the ground in France, and based on our intelligence, you need to keep those men out of the line of fire. We believe it will take months for the British Army to regroup, re-supply and attempt another push.”
“So, your bottom line is that the Second Expeditionary Force would not have the necessary equipment to proceed?” Crawley asked, as though needing confirmation one more time.
“That’s right, Mr. Crawley. Equipment, men, fire power ... and if you leave them there, they’ll be stranded with no way home.”
The meeting ended abruptly when the minister rose, shuffled his papers together, shoved his pen in his top pocket and nodded his understanding. He’d heard enough to report back to the Prime Minister. The decision about Operation Ariel had to be taken by midday.
******
Max and Frank drank their coffee in the recreation room while waiting for the next meeting to begin. Frank hadn’t been present at the previous one so Max had filled him in. Both men were despondent, still shocked by the savage retreat from Dunkirk. Britain faced an overwhelming struggle to recover.
“You’ve been quiet since getting back from Paris. What’s up?” Frank asked.
Max put his cup down. He’d trust Frank and Hannah with his life, but not with the personal secret that was causing him so much angst. He drained his coffee and patted Frank’s shoulder. “I’m going for a walk – back in a minute.”
Outside in the busy street, the noise of traffic and sirens further darkened Max’s mood. He’d tried to keep his mind on the war and work, but all too often an image of Klara’s face shot into his brain and refused to leave. He shouldn’t ignore his feelings; he couldn’t. After all, he was fighting for those he loved and for his future. War tended to smudge the line between the personal and professional, and whether he liked it or not, Klara was both.
The next meeting began once the tea lady had parked her trolley carrying teapots, cups and saucers, and plates of scones. As always before leaving, she reminded the men not to let the tea get cold. Max noticed that Heller’s mood seemed particularly bleak, and to confirm it he opened the proceedings with a warning.
“Gentlemen, we cannot afford to be lax, especially after the bloody disaster in Holland where we lost two good agents and God knows how many others within Europe,” Heller began. “It’s only now that we’re seeing the devastating effects of that catastrophe, and it’s not pretty.”
“Do you have a final count of how many of our assets were picked up by the Germans after they got their hands on that list?” The Foreign SecretaryViscount Halifax, asked.
“No, My Lord, we don’t, I’m sorry.” Heller shook his head. “We have a rough estimate, but I can’t give you names or a definitive answer at this time.”
The Secretary said, “The abductions in Holland have been a setback, not only because of the agents we lost, but because it seems our new Prime Minister has refused to even entertain the possibility of working with any German opposition groups in the future. He was absolutely furious.”
“And we all know how Winston Churchill gets when he’s angry,” Heller responded. “But, it is because of the Prime Minister that we’re here this morning. These are early days, and much too soon to talk about the details of new sections, but in my meeting with him, Churchill made it clear that he wants his own spy and sabotage agencies. They would be the first of many new subcommittees he’s planning to concentrate on Germany’s Abwehr agents.” Heller paused to address Max who was sitting further down the long table.
“This is Max Vogel, head of our counter-espionage section,” Heller told Viscount Halifax and the two officers from the intelligence arm of the Navy and Air Ministry. “Max, bring our guests up to speed, if you would, please.”
Max nodded. “Yes, of course. My Lord, gentlemen, after dilly-dallying on the intelligence front, the Germans are now mounting a major campaign to catch up with our agencies. They’ve already tried to infiltrate Britain with their spies...”
“Why did they procrastinate?” Travis, a naval commander interrupted.
Heller answered. “Hitler was hoping for British neutrality. He is only just coming to terms with our refusal to sue for peace, and the minute he gives up all hope for rapprochement with us, he will hit hard. You can bet on your life he will upgrade his Abwehr Secret Service machine to counter ours.”
“Perhaps, but the Abwehr are still on the back-foot?”
“For the moment,” Max continued. “So far, their hurried decision to drop poorly trained men into Britain has been to our advantage, but given time...”
“Sorry for interrupting again, but how do you know about their spies being here? Have you caught any?”
Max smiled at Travis. “Yes, Commander, we’ve been very successful thanks to their sloppy training.”
“How many have you caught?”
Max took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “If you’ll indulge me, I will give you a couple of examples.”
“Let my man finish,” Heller defended Max. “Carry on, Major.”
Max focused on the Lord Halifax, a serious considerate man who evidently believed in the value of listening. “Here’s what we know. One man in North London tried to use a forged ration book to buy food in a restaurant. The restaurant owner noticed the flaws and called the police. Two other customers prevented the spy from leaving. Another man was caught out when he was billed two and six in a shop and thought he should pay two pounds and six shillings. When he became flustered, his German accent surfaced, and that, plus the money mix-up, was enough to arouse the shop-keeper’s suspicion.”
“My, my, how unprofessional,” Travis remarked, his shoulders shaking.
Max continued. “The good news is we’ve already captured eight of their agents because they made gaffs the minute they landed in Britain. They had badly-forged passports and documents, and no local knowledge – one of the German agents tried to get into a pub at nine in the morning when we all know that by law, our pubs don’t open until eleven o’clock.”
To lighten the conversation, Heller chuckled. “He was disappointed not to get his beer and being captured.”
“So, what does Churchill think we should do with these idiots?” Lord Halifax asked.
Heller said, “There’s no doubt in my mind, or the Prime Minister’s, that there could be tremendous benefits to controlling the German espionage programme by turning their spies into our spies.”
Group Captain Hawkins, the Air Intelligence Officer chuckled. “Are you talking about making double agents out of these clowns?”
“Yes, Captain,” Heller answered. “But don’t make the mistake of thinking they are all idiots. Up until now, the German agents have been useless because of their lack of training which has made it easier for us to turn them. Three of the spies we captured have already announced that they are not particularly enamoured with Hitler and his regime. One had been blackmailed by the Abwehr, and two weren’t even Germans.”
“Don’t tell me they were British nationals?” Commander Travis looked appalled.
Max said, “Yes, I’m afraid they were. They were also known fascists, picked up by the German Abwehr because of their very public support for Nazism.”
“Traitors,” Lord Halifax spat.
Max said, “Not quite, My Lord. The two men completed their training in Berlin, but as soon as the Abwehr parachuted them back into England, they handed themselves in to the police. In both cases, British patriotism won over their fascist ideology.”
“Are you sure they can be trusted, Major?” Lord Halifax asked.
“That remains to be seen, but I think so, yes. We’re paying them more money than the Germans. We’re giving them the information we want them to have, which is built on half-truths and in some cases outright lies, and we are offering full protection from the law should they be arrested. The goal is for them to pass o
n false information to the Abwehr in the hope that it will confuse German strategies.”
The visitors paused to mull over what Max had said.
“Are you or your men with the double agents when they transmit to their Abwehr handlers?” Commander Travis asked.
Max nodded, “We write the messages and watch the agents while they send them.”
“Will you have enough people to babysit these double-crossers?”
Heller answered, “No, Commander, not in the long term. We plan to turn every German spy we capture and eventually run the operation on a basis of trust, and a certain amount of financial … erm … incentive. Each cell will have a handler, who will encourage loyalty to Britain. We’ll also use surveillance on the agents to monitor their movements and habits, and we will continue to dictate or write the information to be transmitted. Gentlemen, time will tell if we’re successful or not, but so far, I’m encouraged, and so should you be.”
“Can your agency run all these programmes without affecting your own espionage sections at home and abroad?” Lord Halifax asked.
“No. We can’t, My Lord,” Heller shook his head. “Absolutely not. We have agreed not to put these new sections under the direct purview of MI5 or MI6. Their responsibilities are too broad and demanding and will require a dedicated sub-committee to concentrate soley on the double-agent division...”
A secretary knocked on the glass door and then nodded at Max. Max excused himself and went into the hallway.
The woman handed Max a coded radio transmission printout from Berlin. He looked at it and thanked her, then slumped against the wall, his face ashen.
Chapter Thirty-One
Paul Vogel
Berlin, Germany, July 1940
Paul’s smart grey SS Lieutenant’s uniform had been delivered two days earlier. He clipped the cornflower-blue medical epaulettes onto the jacket’s shoulder studs and then studied himself in the mirror. The ensemble fitted him like a glove, made him look strong and powerful, yet he’d never felt as weak as he did now, or as cowardly.
He stood on the top landing and listened to his parents’ muffled voices coming from the kitchen. They were waiting for him to go down and have breakfast with them before he left for Brandenburg. Eat? He’d not be able to swallow a morsel, not with his father sitting at the same table. He had nothing more to say to the man, no personal thoughts or light conversation to share with the bloody Nazi.
Paul crept into Judith’s bedroom and crossed to the bed to watch her sleep. She’d asked him the previous night, “Why are your parents afraid of me?” and he’d made a mess of things with an ambiguous answer that had lacked candour. “Our government sees your people as a threat,” he’d told her, but he couldn’t tell her why Adolf Hitler despised Jews. “You’re a beautiful, innocent woman being persecuted by bigots,” he’d gone on to say, “and my parents aren’t afraid of you, they’re afraid of doing or saying anything that might offend the Third Reich. We’re all afraid of being Nazi prisoners, Judith.”
“That’s a stupid thing to say. You and your father are Nazis. What have you and any other Aryan German got to be worried about?”
Paul reflected now that during the conversation he could have reminded her of the Catholics, gypsies, homeless people, homosexuals, and other non-Jews who had been transported to concentration camps for speaking out against Hitler. He could have told her that the Jews weren’t the only persecuted group in Germany, but that wouldn’t have been strictly true. Jews were being victimised not because they were viewed as political or religious dissidents but unequivocally because of their religion.
His father had not been unkind to Judith, Paul admitted, as he left the room. He had allowed her to stay, albeit with harsh conditions attached. She had not been permitted to leave the bedroom under any circumstances and she’d not been allowed to speak about her father or sister because in Dieter’s mind, the less his wife knew about Hilde Weber’s mercy-killing, the better – he wouldn’t call it murder, Paul thought – no, his father would consider that to be a vulgar and unfair term for the SS, who in his opinion, were the backbone of Germany’s armed forces. Whatever malevolent act the SS carried out, his father seemed to want to defend it.
Outside Judith’s room, Paul leant against the wall, debating over whether he should tell her that she was being kicked out. He was ashamed of both his parents for cold-heartedly dismissing Judith’s safety to protect their own.
“You’re leaving for Brandenburg tomorrow, Paul, and your mother is going to Dresden for the summer on Wednesday,” his father had begun at dinner the previous evening. “The Jew can’t stay here any longer. Every day she’s in this house puts your mother and me in danger, and I will not risk our lives and reputation because of a woman you’ve taken a fancy to. So, when your mother goes, Judith goes back to wherever she came from. End of story.” Paul had insisted that he had no romantic feelings for Judith, after which, Dieter had asked, “Then why the blazes are you helping her?”
Paul and his siblings had been taught at a young age never to question their father’s judgement. His word was law. Dieter had always pointed out that he did and said what was best for his children without exception, but Paul wondered how could he now reconcile the mantra, Papa is always right, with the man his father had become?
Three days left to get Judith somewhere safe, Paul thought walking down the stairs. Only three days until his mother got on a train for Dresden where she would spend the summer with Aunt Gretchen. Her husband, Uncle Wolfgang was a foreman and Arbeitsfront union leader at the Vogel factory. He would remain in Berlin to work, but would commute to Dresden on the odd weekend with Dieter. It was all planned, all wrapped up and tied with a bow, but not so for Judith.
At the breakfast table, Paul said, “Father, Mother never goes to Dresden until August. Why can’t you put her trip off for a week to give me more time to sort things out for Judith?”
“I can’t,” Dieter responded without looking up from his plate.
“Please, just give me a little more time.”
Dieter chewed on a piece of ham and then took his time to butter a slice of toast. Paul, with nothing more to lose surged ahead despite his mother’s rule that there should be no arguments at the dining table. “I don’t understand why you agreed to work for the Reich when you know what they’re planning to do to innocent people. Be a hero, Father, walk away from your factories. The allies will probably blow them up at some point, anyway, and then all you’ll have is your name and misguided loyalty to fall back on. Is being a rich member of the Nazi Party that important to you?”
“That’s enough, Paul!” Dieter snapped.
“If it’s money you want, go to Switzerland,” Paul continued despite the warning. “You’ve got a bank account in Zurich that no one in Germany can get their hands on, with enough in that vault to buy another house and live comfortably for years. And there’s the house in Kent...”
“I said that’s enough!” Dieter threw his butter knife on the table. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Paul, still furious at the way his father had addressed Judith as, that Jew, played his final card. “Mother, I wasn’t going to tell you this until I’d finalised my plans, but father has forced my hand. I’ve found a way to get you and Judith out of Germany.” He paused to glance at his father’s infuriated face, and then he went back to his mother. “Will you at least think about it before it’s too late?”
Laura gazed at her son. “Why do you have to go on and on about this? You ask me to leave Germany every time you come home, and every time I say no. Your father has made his position clear, Son, and if he’s staying, a herd of wild horses will not make me budge – for God sake, Paul, stop your badgering. I’m sick to the back teeth of it.”
“Something else you should understand, Paul. I am a good German,” Dieter said, calmer now. “And that to me means answering my call to duty, even if I don’t agree with all of my leaders’ policies.”
“Wh
at about answering your conscience, Papa?”
“Let me tell you about conscience. When you were a baby, I was fighting Germany’s enemies. I killed countless men in the Great War and not a day goes by that I don’t think about the lives I took. But, everything I did and everything I do now is in service to my country. Leaders of governments might have consciences, but we, the people, have only duty.”
“You’re wrong,” Paul shook his head.
“No, I’m right. We’re going to win this war, and do you know why, Son?”
“No, do enlighten me.”
“Because Germans are passionately loyal to the Fatherland, and we...”
“Germans are afraid of their Führer and his bully boys. One wrong word from anyone and it’s off to bloody Dachau.”
Sighing, Dieter told Laura, “There’s no point talking to him. He’ll never understand.”
“Your father’s right,” Laura said. “We should drop this subject. All we ever seem to do nowadays is fight about Hitler.”
“When you brought Judith here I agreed to give you a week to find her somewhere safe to live. I didn’t throw her out or report her. I didn’t threaten her or treat her unkindly. I fed her and gave her a comfortable bed to sleep in. I did what I said I would do, but you haven’t lifted a finger to make the necessary arrangements for her, in fact, the only thing you’ve done in the past four days is sulk … and now … now, you expect your mother and me to mop up your mess? You’re asking too much.”
“I’m your son ... and I have…”
“And I’m trying to protect you. You can’t go around Berlin helping people to escape the authorities. If Judith wants to leave, she can apply for emigration papers like the tens of thousands of Jews before her. Her people have no future in Berlin, Son. And they are not your responsibility.”
Paul stared at his mother, dismayed to see her avert her eyes. She wouldn’t even look at him. He wished he could tell her about Herr Brandt who would, at some point, prepare documents to get Judith out of the country. He wanted to tell her that Max was helping as well, though he had no idea how exactly.
