The Serpent's Egg

by JJ Toner

  Traut stormed into Neumann’s office. “Tell me what progress you’ve made in the case since October.”

  Neumann rose from his chair. Traut waved at him to stay where he was.

  “We found a cigarette lighter in the grass near the cemetery wall. My men took a clear set of fingerprints from it, but we haven’t been able to find a match on our records. I wondered if you could check your records.”

  “I take it you’ve tried all the Kripo records in Berlin?”

  Neumann offered his cigarette packet to the Gestapo man. Traut selected one and Neumann lit it for him.

  “Yes, and we’ve checked in all the other major cities. We’ve even checked the Austrian police records.”

  Traut sucked in a lungful of smoke. He exhaled, grimaced, and peered at the cigarette. “A search of all our identity cards would take years. Do you have anything to narrow the search?”

  “Not much, but you could start with Kurt Framzl. After that you could concentrate on any special records you may have, subversives, political criminals, Communists maybe?”

  “Very well.” He stubbed out the cigarette in Neumann’s ashtray. “Let me have the fingerprints and I’ll see what I can do. I’m making no promises, Kommissar, but I’ll put some men on it and see what emerges.”

  “And Framzl?”

  “I’ll check his fingerprints first, and I’ll see if I can arrange for you to interrogate him. Leave that with me.”

  #

  Oberassistent Fischer called to the central office of the Reich Labor Service in Hubertus Allee and asked to speak with Max-Christian Noack. Noack came down to the lobby to meet with him.

  Noack was a tall, well-built young man with a pleasant smile under a shock of dark hair. His handshake was firm.

  Fischer checked his identity card quickly and handed it back. “We are investigating the killing of a Roman Catholic priest, Salvatore Vigo. Did you know him?”

  Noack looked shocked. “Yes, I know him. He officiated at my wedding last year. He has been killed? How terrible. Those Brownshirts are vicious brutes.”

  “How well did you know Father Vigo?”

  “Not well. As I said, he married us in St. Angar’s Church…”

  “When was that?”

  “March 25 last year. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Do you have any connection to the Italian community in Berlin?”

  Noack frowned and shook his head.

  “Have you ever visited the Holy Cross Church cemetery in Kreuzberg?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What about Father Gunther Schlurr? Do you know him?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  #

  Fischer put out an alert for Father Gunther Schlurr. The newspaper carried a description: mid to early twenties, close to 2 meters tall, with dark hair. When Greta saw it, she contacted Peter Riese and asked him to create a new passport and a set of identity and ration cards for Max. Gunther Schlurr was dead.

  Chapter 79

  February 1940

  Anna was preparing an evening meal in the apartment. Max was crouched over the radio, listening to the Berlin news. The Russian’s incursion into Finland was going well. A new general, Erich von Manstein, had been given command of the 38th Armor Corps. Two huge trainloads of supplies had arrived in Leipzig from Russia.

  The telephone rang. Anna wiped her hands on her apron and picked it up. “Berlin 12388. Who’s calling?”

  She handed the telephone to Max. “It’s for you.”

  “Hello? This is Max Noack.”

  “Can you get to the Frederick statue in 30 minutes?”

  “I think so. Who is this?”

  “Meet me at the statue. I have something for you.”

  Before Max could reply, the telephone went dead.

  “Who was that?”

  “It sounded like the man I spoke to in December.”

  “Your father?”

  Max put his coat on. “I have to go and meet him at the statue.”

  “Your dinner’s almost ready. Have your dinner first. Did you tell him you were sitting down to your dinner?”

  “Put it in the oven, Anna. Keep it warm. I won’t be long.”

  #

  To get to the statue of Frederick the Great, Max had to take two trams. He made it with five minutes to spare. The radio had said it was one of the coldest Februaries on record. Max believed it. The trees on Unter den Linden were covered in ice sparkling in the weak sunlight like natural chandeliers. The scene was all but deserted. It was dinner time and far too cold for loitering. He stood at the base of the statue, pulled his collar up around his ears and stamped his feet.

  “Max-Christian Noack?” A man approached.

  “I’m Max.”

  “Let’s get in out of the cold.” The man led Max to a beer cellar in Universitätstrasss. Blowing on his hands, Max pulled out two chairs and they sat at a table.

  “You drink beer?” said the man.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  The man was well covered against the cold with woolen gloves and an army greatcoat. Even so, Max reckoned he was a bulky individual under all the layers of wool. He was tall, gray-haired with a military bearing.

  The man waved to a serving girl in a lacy bodice and paid her for two beers.

  Unable to deny his curiosity any longer, Max blurted out, “Who are you?”

  “My name is Walter Lehmann. I knew your father at the Somme. He saved my life.”

  “How? What happened?”

  “We were under fire from a machinegun. He knocked me over, saved me.”

  Max took a moment to absorb that. “Was that you I spoke to in December? Your telephone number is 10267?”

  “Yes. I laughed when you asked if I was your father. Do I sound like your father? Do I look like your father?”

  The old photograph on the piano in his mother’s house was the only picture Max had ever seen of his father. “I have no idea what my father looks like, or what his voice sounds like. I have no memory of him. I haven’t seen him since I was three.”

  “Your father and I were close. We shared a dugout. He died at the river Somme in 1916.”

  “You saw his body?”

  “I saw the shell hit him. He was sheltering in a foxhole. I was in another one nearby. There was a theory that a foxhole was a safe haven, that a shell couldn’t fall on the same place twice.”

  “Like lightning?”

  “The theory was just so much horseshit. The shell landed squarely in your father’s foxhole. It could easily have landed in mine and killed me. It must have had his name on it, I suppose…”

  Chapter 80

  February 1940

  The serving girl placed two beers on the table. The stranger thanked her. Max lifted his glass to cover his gloomy face. The man tapped him on the shoulder. “You knew he died in 1916. You didn’t really think he was still alive, did you?”

  “Not really, but we never got to bury him, and when I saw your telephone number on my mother’s pad, I thought…”

  “Ah, I see. I have been in touch with your mother. Your father and I had an agreement that if one of us survived he would keep an eye on the other’s family. I drew the short straw.” He laughed.

  “When did you first start visiting my mother?”

  “It was January two years ago. When I got back to Germany I had nothing. I set up a small business, made some money. Then the recession hit and I lost it all again. That was when I joined the police.”

  “You’re a policeman?”

  He opened his hand and flashed a Gestapo disk. Max’s heart did a triple somersault.

  “Don’t look so worried. There are still some good apples left in Heydrich’s rotten RSHA barrel. Not many, but a few.”

  “Why did you call me back?”

  “The Kripo found your father’s cigarette lighter at the scene of a murder. They’ve been searching their fingerprint records for months.”

  Shit! Fingerprints!


  “How do you know it’s my father’s?”

  “Your father gave it to me at the Somme in 1916, and I returned it to your mother. When I rang her to get your number, I asked if she’d passed the lighter on to you. She confirmed that she had.”

  “There must be hundreds of lighters like that. How can you be sure it’s my father’s?”

  “I can’t, but I thought I should warn you that the Gestapo is now searching its records. If the fingerprints on that lighter are yours, they will match them. It may take some time, but they will find a match. When they come calling they’ll ask you to show them your father’s lighter. If you have it at home you have nothing to worry about…”

  They sipped their drinks in silence. Max could feel the bars of a trap closing around him. This man could easily have informed his superiors in the RSHA about the lighter. If he had, the Gestapo would have immediately checked Max’s fingerprints on his identity card and found a match. The whole process would have taken no more than an hour. Walter Lehmann was an ally, a good friend.

  “I’m grateful to you, Herr Lehmann.”

  “It was nothing. I owe your father a debt deeper than any man could ever repay. But tell me you didn’t murder anyone.”

  “I murdered no one. I swear it.”

  “That’s all I wanted to hear. My glass is empty.”

  Max waved to the serving girl. She came over and he paid for two more beers.

  The conversation turned to Max’s mother.

  “How often do you visit my mother?”

  “Not often. When I first visited her two years ago, she really didn’t want to talk to me. I nearly didn’t go back. But I tried again in the autumn. She let me in. We spoke for ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “She seemed uncomfortable in my presence so I left. I managed to tell her who I was, though, and the next time I called she was more amenable.”

  “More friendly, you mean?”

  The serving girl arrived carrying a tray of full glasses. She put two down on the table and went on to deliver the others.

  Lehmann took a mouthful of beer. “She’s never been friendly. Your mother is not the easiest person in the world to get on with. She tolerates my presence. I usually stay for about 20 minutes.”

  “I’m not sure, but when I saw her in December she seemed unhappy. I thought she might be lonely.”

  “That’s natural. She lost her husband over 20 years ago. Has she had anyone else since then?”

  “Not that I know of, but she’s never shown signs of loneliness before. I think meeting a friend of my father’s could help her. Will you continue to visit her?”

  “As long as I’m able.”

  “Because you gave your word to my father?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the only reason.”

  Max thought it best not probe any further on that subject. He drained half his beer and ran his hand across his lips. “Was it you that persuaded her to get a telephone?”

  “Yes, I thought it might be easier to talk to her on the telephone.”

  “And is it?”

  Lehmann laughed. “No. Your father warned me about her. I thought he was exaggerating, but he wasn’t, was he?”

  “Did he ever speak about me?”

  “All the time. You were the apple of his eye.”

  “Have you ever done any work around the house for my mother?”

  “A little. I fixed an annoying pipe that rattled in the kitchen and I sorted out a drainage problem in the garden.”

  “Wearing my father’s boots?”

  He grinned through the beer foam on his upper lip. “They were a snug fit.”

  Chapter 81

  February 1940

  A high degree of expectation and tension pervaded the air on the third floor of the War Office in London. All six members of Joint Forces Contingency Committee were smoking as if their lives depended on it. The chairman, Air Commodore Frank Scott had his pipe in his hand. It was full but unlit. A buzz of conversation filled the room. A rear admiral and a major general of the army stood face to face in a corner of the room in a raging argument. The red-faced major general looked close to apoplexy.

  The air commodore rapped the table with his pipe. “Please resume your seats, gentlemen. I’d like to get started.”

  “If I may, Air Commodore…” The speaker was Group Captain Cameron Pinkley of the RAF.

  The air commodore yielded the floor to Pinkley who opened his briefcase, took out six copies of a document and circulated it around the table. Each copy was numbered and carried the heading OPERATION PIKE – MOST SECRET in large letters.

  “My team at Air Readiness has been working on this plan since the last meeting. The first page contains a summary. It goes without saying that His Majesty’s forces could not stand against the combined force of Nazi Germany and Stalin’s Soviets. As previously discussed, the oilfields and oil refineries of Caucasia have been identified, by our French allies, as the single most vulnerable strategic asset that the Soviets possess. Analysis by the War Office proves that a carefully coordinated action from our air bases in Turkey and Iran and the French bases in Syria could destroy a large part of these assets in a series of sustained air strikes over a 3-month period.”

  The hubbub rose again. The air commodore raised a hand for silence and the group captain continued, “As I’ve said, between the RAF and the French Air Force, we have the capacity to wipe out maybe as much as 75% of this strategic resource. The analysts have calculated that such a strike would neutralize the combined Soviet military forces for an extended period. In addition, it could reduce the Soviets’ production of electricity, closing down large portions of their heavy industry.”

  Another outburst greeted these statements. Someone laughed and shouted above the racket, “I suppose they won’t be able to produce food, either.”

  “That is correct,” said the group captain. “Our analysts have calculated a reduction of 50% in their agriculture output. In fact, the air strike could well cause widespread famine and a complete collapse in the Soviet economy. Also, as the German Wehrmacht relies on these oilfields for much of their fuel, a strike there will kill two birds with one stone.”

  The red-faced major general said, “It seems rather elaborate to me, and I still question the advisability of awakening the sleeping giant.”

  The air commodore peered into the bowl of his pipe. “What was it the bard said about killing the serpent in the egg?”

  “Julius Caesar: Act 2, scene 1,” said B-S, the Assistant Director of Military Intelligence. “And therefore we should liken him to a serpent’s egg. Once it’s hatched it becomes dangerous. Thus we must kill him while he is still in the egg.”

  The major general snorted. “Whatever happened to ‘let sleeping dogs lie’? How can we be sure this one short air campaign will be enough to kill off the Soviet threat?”

  Air Commodore Scott raised an eyebrow. “You doubt the analysis, General?”

  “No, I’m sure the analysts have done a fine job. All I’m saying is we will need to be absolutely certain before we act. If the air raids miss their target or the Soviets’ air defenses are more robust than we think, or the Soviets have other untapped sources of oil that we don’t know about. I can think of a hundred things that might go wrong.”

  “Quite right, General, and that’s exactly why we are warming the seats of our pants in this room. Now I suggest we start by making a list of all the contingencies we can think of, no matter how improbable, and we can proceed from there.”

  Chapter 82

  March 1940

  Max awoke with a throbbing pain in his mouth. The cyanide capsule was now a constant irritation. After a few moments of internal debate, he concluded that he was unlikely to be captured by the Gestapo, and if he was, the fact that it was the Gestapo that had inveigled him into joining the Red Orchestra in the first place should save him. He decided to get rid of it. He leapt from the bed and into the bathroom and turned the key in the bath
room door. Using his tongue, he worked the cyanide capsule loose and spat it into the toilet.

  #

  In Storkowerstrasss police station, Kommissar Neumann was snowed under with work. In an attempt to win over the hearts of the population, the Nazi government had initiated a new policy of prosecuting Brownshirts for their most serious crimes. To make matters worse, the Kommissar had run out of Russian cigarettes. Only the black market had them now, and no member of the Kripo could be seen buying from that source. To get over his craving, Neumann bit the inside of his cheek and threw himself into his work.

  “Any word from the Gestapo on the Pastor Vigo affair, Fischer? Surely they’ve found those fingerprints on their records by now?”

  “I’ve heard nothing from them, Boss. I assume they’re still looking.”

  Neumann picked up the telephone. “Get me SS-Sturmführer Traut in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse.”

  Traut picked up the telephone on the third ring and grunted his name.

  “Jürgen, it’s Erhart Neumann here. Have you found a fingerprint match for us yet?”

  “No. The fingerprints are not Framzl’s. We’re still looking. I told you I’d ring if we found anything. You need to be patient Kommissar. Have you any idea how many records we have here?”

  “40 million?”

  “Nearly 50 million adult records. How many do you think we can check in a day?”

  “A thousand?”

  “With maximum manpower, we can check 2,000 a day. That’s if I put every man on it. But we have other things to do. We’re checking about 250 per day. How long do you think it’s going to take us to work through 50 million records?”