by Andy Marino
“I heard he’s addicted to morphine,” the princess offered.
“Amphetamines,” growled Herr Trott without turning around. “His personal doctor injects him every morning.”
“If that’s true,” Papa said, “he will only grow more manic. The drugs will feed his insanity.”
“And that is precisely why we must act now,” said an unfamiliar voice. All heads turned as a man in an immaculate black overcoat burst through the velvet curtain and into the sitting room.
At first, Max thought it was Albert in yet another disguise. But that notion vanished when Albert appeared beside the stranger to take his coat and retreat back into the hallway.
The newest visitor to Frau Becker’s sitting room was tall and imposing, with an almost regal bearing. As soon as he walked in, the atmosphere of the room seemed to shift, as if he drew the attention of not only the guests but the furniture itself. Aristocrat, Max thought at once. And judging by the crisp uniform, an army officer, too. Even the man’s obvious injuries—he was missing his right hand, two fingers of his left, and he wore an eye patch over his left eye—did nothing to diminish his stature.
General Vogel crossed the room and shook the man’s remaining hand. “Claus!” he said. “Wonderful to see you.”
The man gave a slight bow. “And you, as always, Lothar.”
Max had never seen high-ranking officers address each other by their first names before.
Frau Becker pointed her cane at the new guest. “May I introduce our most illustrious counterpart on the military side, Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg.”
Claus bowed again. “Thank you, Frau Becker.” He addressed the gathered conspirators. “I wanted to come in person to express my admiration for your efforts on behalf of the resistance. I know it can feel like thankless work, in the face of overwhelming odds, but as the great poet Goethe once wrote, knowing is not enough; we must apply. Willing is not enough; we must take action.”
“I believe it is, more simply, willing is not enough; we must do,” the princess said.
Hans cleared his throat.
Claus grinned. “You are correct, of course. Princess Marie Vasiliev, I presume. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“And yours, Count,” the princess said. Count, Max thought. So that confirmed it: Claus von Stauffenberg was definitely from an old, noble family—just like Frau Becker.
“Have some cake,” Frau Becker said.
Claus shook his head. “I’m afraid, since my injuries, I have no stomach for sweets.”
Max found himself moving toward the colonel, as if drawn by some invisible tether. “I’m Max,” he said, and gestured over his shoulder. “That’s my sister, Gerta.”
“Ah!” Claus’s good eye lit up. “Frau Becker has told me all about you. You should know that when things feel hopeless, brave comrades like you and your sister inspire me to keep fighting. Truly.”
Goose bumps broke out down Max’s arms. “N-nice to meet you,” he stammered. He had heard stories from people who’d met Hitler at the beginning of the war, when the Führer was bursting with power and prestige. They described his presence in almost mythical terms, as if they were being drawn to some ancient force beyond human understanding. Max thought he finally understood what they were talking about. This man, Claus von Stauffenberg, had a similar magnetism. Yet Hitler’s eyes were an eerie, watery blue, while Claus’s one good eye shone with determination and clarity, like a brilliant sky reflected on the surface of the Spree.
“It’s always nice to see the younger generation so enthusiastic about committing high treason with me,” Claus said.
There was a moment of silence. Then Herr Trott roared with laughter. Claus tried to keep a straight face, but a smile broke through. Hans doubled over, cackling madly, and the princess spit her tea back into her teacup.
Here was another key difference between Claus von Stauffenberg and Adolf Hitler, Max thought. The army colonel had a sense of humor.
“All right, all right.” Frau Becker waved her cane in the air. “Enough levity for one war. Now, Claus, what do you need from us?”
“I need you to be prepared for the aftermath of the assassination,” Claus said, glancing quickly at everyone in turn. “Make no mistake: The hours and days following Hitler’s death will be chaotic. And, if I may speak frankly—full of uncertainty.”
“You have narrowed down a course of action, then?” Frau Becker said.
“Yes,” Claus said. “The Wehrmacht is to be issued new uniforms. A new, warmer design for the Eastern Front.”
“Not a moment too soon,” General Vogel said darkly. “Just in time for the retreat.”
“I have arranged a demonstration of the new uniforms for our beloved Führer,” Claus said. “A man I trust—a young lieutenant who shares our point of view—will model them for Hitler himself. Underneath his uniform, he will be strapped with bombs. When he moves to embrace the Führer, he will detonate them—blowing Hitler away.”
“And killing himself,” Mutti said.
Claus did not falter. “Yes, Frau Hoffmann. He will be a martyr for the resistance.”
The princess clapped wildly. “A fashion show assassination! I approve wholeheartedly, Count.”
“Thank you, Princess. I have been attempting to arrange it for months, but Hitler is not easy to pin down, as you well know. Finally, he has agreed to the second week in February. The afternoon of the tenth.”
Claus went on to explain what would happen after Hitler was dead—how the army officers loyal to the cause of the resistance would turn on the SS and disarm them, and how a new, provisional government would quickly form to fill the void left by the Nazis.
“What’s it called?” Max said after Claus was finished speaking.
Claus frowned. “I’m sorry—what is what called, Max?”
“The plot! It has to have a code name, right?”
“Ah, yes. Quite right,” Claus said. “Our little conspiracy does indeed have a name.” He paused. “We call it Operation Valkyrie.”
FEBRUARY 10, 1944
The Hoffmanns gathered around their radio. Affixed to the tuning dial, by order of the blockwart, was a red card that said:
Remember: Listening to foreign broadcasts is an offense against the national security of our people. By order of the Führer, it will be punished with severe custodial sentences.
Max remembered the day that Herr Siewert had given them the card and personally supervised as Papa attached it to the dial. Of course, Gerta had wanted to rip it off the minute Herr Siewert shut the door behind him, but Papa thought it was safer to leave it alone. The blockwart was the kind of man who would come over unannounced to make sure that the card was still displayed in its proper place.
Not anymore, Max thought. And suddenly the night of the shelter’s collapse closed in around him, and the living room was a smoking ruin, and a little girl was screaming, and a dead eye stared at him from out of the darkness …
He shoved the memories aside. He was getting better at ignoring them, but it was troubling how they could claw at him without warning at any time, day or night.
“I bet the Nazis won’t even tell us when Hitler’s dead,” Gerta said. “I bet they’ll pretend like it didn’t happen for as long as they can.”
“Oh, I am certain Goebbels will manage to finesse it,” Mutti said.
“In death, our beloved and fearless Führer only grows more powerful,” Papa intoned, impersonating the voice of the Nazi propaganda minister. “We await his return on his winged horse to lead our holy army to victory.”
Max laughed. He loved to see his parents like this: giddy with tension and anticipation, but also with long-buried joy so ready to erupt, it was already leaking out.
Mutti turned the tuning dial, and Max was treated to a rapid-fire tour of German radio: the volksmusik (people’s music) tune “Glocken der Heimat” (Bells of the Homeland), with its syrupy strings. The melancholy longing of “Lili Marleen.” The soaring, martial t
riumph that Max recognized instantly as one of Wagner’s operas, which reminded him of Nazi boots marching in lockstep down the street.
Finally, Mutti stopped at a newsman’s voice droning on about how the German collapse on the Eastern Front was, in reality, a “strategic retreat,” and that instead of racing back to Germany with the Red Army in pursuit, what the Wehrmacht was actually doing was “shortening the lines.”
Mutti’s expression hardened. “Millions dead, the Allies closing in on all sides, and still the Nazis can’t speak the truth to the people of Berlin. What will they say when the entire city is ash?”
“They will call it ‘strategic rebuilding,’ ” Papa said.
Gerta caught Max’s eye and puffed out her cheeks, pursed her lips, and made her eyes bulge.
“Back to the cellar with you, cave troll!” Max said. “I banish thee in the name of the Becker Circle.”
Gerta held her breath until her face turned scarlet, then let the air rush out.
“Shh!” Papa said, and leaned closer to the radio. A different newscaster interrupted the first with a special report from the Eastern Front.
“The Fifth SS Panzer Division has made a valiant stand at the Dnieper line, repeatedly fighting off Red Army advances despite the Soviets’ superior numbers—”
“Ach,” Mutti said, waving her hand dismissively toward the radio.
As if conjured by her wave, the telephone began to ring. Max’s heart sank. It was always the hospital on the other end of the line, frantic with some emergency or another, begging Herr Doktor Hoffmann to come in.
Papa muttered something under his breath and went into the kitchen to answer the phone.
“The consolidation of our forces in the east is proving to be a great success … ,” the radio said.
Papa returned a moment later. Max could tell by his grim expression that the news was not going to be good.
“That was Frau Becker,” Papa said. “Hitler canceled the fashion show at the last minute. Nobody knows why.”
“What do you mean canceled?” Max blurted out.
Mutti turned the radio off. Papa settled heavily into the sofa and sighed. “What I mean is, the Führer refused to show up. Apparently no explanation was provided.”
“I swear,” Mutti said, “that man is blessed with the devil’s own luck.”
“I don’t think it was luck,” Gerta said.
Papa raised an eyebrow.
Gerta took a deep breath, and Max readied himself for the torrent of words. He knew exactly what his sister was going to say. This was the chance she’d been waiting for.
“Back in December,” Gerta said, “the night of our last dead drop and the shelter collapse, Herr Siewert said something to me when he caught me—I’ve been waiting for you, like he knew something was going to happen, and he was keeping watch.”
“It was his job to keep watch over the neighborhood,” Mutti pointed out.
Max chimed in. “That’s what I said.” He glanced at Gerta. “That it didn’t really prove anything. But now, after this—”
“There has to be a spy in the Becker Circle!” Gerta said. “Somebody who knew that we were going to be near Messelpark that night! Somebody who got word to Hitler that the fashion show was a trap!”
“Lower your voice, Gerta,” Mutti said.
Gerta’s face was flushed with excitement. She had been turning her theories over in her mind for weeks, letting them simmer, and now that she was finally voicing them, she could barely contain her glee.
“Ingrid,” Papa said.
“Karl,” Mutti said. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and Max tried to read their expressions. But whatever passed between them was a mystery, transmitted in a language only they could understand.
“I suppose it is possible,” Karl admitted after a moment. “The Gestapo knows how to apply pressure. If they have turned someone in our group into the Nazis’ eyes and ears, it will be disastrous.” He looked at his wife and his children in turn. “For all of us.”
“Are you going to tell Frau Becker?” Max said.
“Yes,” Papa said. “I will inform her of your suspicions.”
“But what if she’s the spy!” Gerta cried. “How do we know we can trust her?”
“Shh!” Mutti said.
“What if she’s a secret Nazi?” Gerta whispered.
“Frau Becker is not a Nazi,” Max countered. He felt like it was his duty to defend Frau Becker’s honor. “She hates the Nazis. Think about what Albert told us—”
“What if Albert’s the spy!” Gerta said.
Max paused to consider this. It was actually a pretty good guess. A man who could change his appearance at will would certainly make an excellent spy. He thought about how easily Albert’s lie about the French machine gun at the Somme taking his arm sprang to his lips. Albert was such a slippery figure—who knew what was in the heart of a man like that?
“If Frau Becker is a Nazi,” Mutti said, “she is the best actress I have ever seen.”
“If Frau Becker is a Nazi,” Papa said, “then we are already found out, and it is only a matter of time before the Gestapo come knocking at our door. But I simply do not believe that a woman like that has become such a firm believer in the Nazi cause that she would go to great lengths to put together a resistance movement, with the sole purpose of betraying it. Besides, we have no choice—we must bring this to her attention.”
Mutti turned to Gerta. “Do you agree?”
Gerta blinked, taken aback by the question. She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. I think she needs to know.”
“And, Max,” Mutti said, “what do you think?”
“What will Frau Becker do?” he asked, wondering if this would mean the end of the Becker Circle. How could they continue their salons in the sitting room, knowing that someone in their midst could be reporting all their secret, treasonous, punishable-by-death plans to the Nazis?
“I don’t know,” Papa admitted.
“I think we have to tell her, either way,” Max said. “We can’t just pretend this isn’t happening.”
Mutti nodded. “Then it’s settled. We will speak to Frau Becker.”
Max was relieved, but there was a troubling thought lodged in the back of his mind. He caught Gerta’s eye and was sure that she was thinking the same thing.
Would they ever see Frau Becker again?
As it turned out, Max and Gerta would see Frau Becker much sooner than they’d thought. The next morning, while Max was getting ready for school, Mutti knocked on his door.
“Hurry up and get dressed, Maxi. Then come downstairs.”
Max frowned. He wasn’t running late. Why was his mother being so pushy? Quickly, he laced up his shoes and bounded down the stairs. Gerta was already dressed and waiting in the living room, along with Papa and Mutti.
“Come,” Papa said, gesturing toward the door. “We’re going to take a ride.”
“What about school?” Max said.
“School will just have to wait,” Mutti said, ushering them outside into the frosty morning. A radiant blue sky stretched across Berlin, marred only by a dark plume rising from distant Friedrichshain, last night’s bombing target. They hadn’t even felt the tremors in Dahlem.
Max was astonished to find a shiny black Mercedes-Benz idling in front of their house. It was the car of a high-ranking official—most ordinary Berliners could never have afforded such a vehicle.
Max was rooted to the steps of the porch, staring at the car’s darkly tinted windows, when the driver’s-side door opened and a man in a Nazi uniform got out.
Max turned to bolt back into the house, but stopped when he felt his father’s steady hand on his shoulder.
“Look closer,” his father said quietly.
The driver of the Mercedes gave a crisp German salute, along with a sly wink. It was Albert, dressed in a perfect replica of a Nazi staff driver’s uniform. His face was pale and gaunt, and his cheekbones seemed altered. Albert opened the passen
ger door and beckoned for the Hoffmanns to enter.
Max supposed they were just going to have to trust him.
Inside the car, a pair of leather bench-style seats faced each other. Frau Becker was seated on the bench at the rear. Her legs were wrapped in a thick woolen blanket, and her small, delicate upper body was bundled into a parka suitable for the Eastern Front. She wore Princess Marie’s ushanka, which slipped down low on her forehead and nearly covered her eyes.
The Hoffmanns squeezed together on the bench across from her. Albert shut the door behind them, and a moment later the engine rumbled to life and the car slid smoothly into the street.
“Until this business with the rat in our henhouse is settled,” Frau Becker said, “I’d rather not discuss any matters of importance in my home. Walls have ears, as they say.”
Max thought of last week’s Hornet and Wasp episode, where the crime-fighting duo uncovered hidden listening devices inside the prime minister’s residence in London.
“You think you’re being bugged?” Gerta said.
“Can’t be too careful,” Frau Becker said. “Well, unless you’re my mother, I suppose. Poor woman was so afraid of germs after the poison gas attacks from our first go-round at a world war, she refused to come out of her bedroom for eleven years. I guess the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.” She inhaled sharply. “Been a while since I’ve smelled the air out here.” She wrinkled her nose. “Smells like rot.”
To Max, it smelled like rich leather. He had never been inside a car that had built-in sliding curtains to cover the windows. Frau Becker kept them closed, as if she still couldn’t bear to witness what had become of her beloved city.
“Now,” she said to Max and Gerta, “tell me what happened, and please don’t leave anything out.”
Max opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, Gerta rushed to fill the old woman in on the incident with Herr Siewert that had ignited her suspicions—suspicions that had been confirmed, in Gerta’s mind, by Hitler’s abrupt cancellation of the fashion show.