by Alex Gerlis
‘That must be our plane; we could well be back in Berlin this evening after all. Tell me Ernst: what do you make of what Jodl had to say…?’
Generalmajor Ernst turned to face his companion, carefully studying his face. He wanted to be sure he was not being led into a trap.
‘You mean about…?’ It was clear he wanted the admiral to say it first.
‘The invasion plans: what else were we there for?’
‘He only wants us to plan for an invasion of the Soviet Union, Hans. That’s probably prudent don’t you think – to make contingency plans, in case…?’
‘Come on Ernst: we’ve known each other for years! I was watching you yesterday during Jodl’s briefing, you hardly looked enthusiastic. It’s madness, you must know that better than me. Just imagine for a moment you were a British general rather than a German one and you’d found out the Fuhrer had ordered his high command to turn up in Bad Reichenhall yesterday to be instructed to plan for an invasion of the Soviet Union. You’d be delighted, wouldn’t you?’
The Generalmajor shrugged. Behind them a plane was noisily taxiing in front of the building where they had been waiting. ‘I think our flight will be ready soon, Hans.’
‘Come on Ernst, answer my question. If you were a British general you’d be very pleased to hear Germany was planning to break its alliance with the Soviet Union and fight on two fronts, would you not?’
‘I think that more than anything, Hans, I would be surprised. So surprised in fact that I’d struggle to believe it.’
***
Chapter 10: Stuttgart, July 1940
‘I was only asking what business it is you have in Zürich, Henry. Surely I have a right to ask? One minute you’re off to Basle, then Zürich… wherever next?’
Marlene Hesse had little choice but to accept her son’s imminent and largely unexplained departure with her customary lack of grace. Henry had come to learn that, these days, all he needed to do was tell her what he was doing then leave it at that.
He arrived in Zürich on the Monday and spent the night in a hotel on Oetenbachgasse where his flight tickets were waiting for him. He left the hotel early the next morning and took the airport bus from Hauptbahnhof station at seven o’clock.
The flight left on time at 8.15, the Swissair DC-3 banking heavily to the east before climbing noisily through the cloud then appearing to float as they headed north and crossed the border. The plane landed at Stuttgart Echterdingen just after 9.30; a few minutes before they had begun their descent, the two stewardesses had come round and drawn all the curtains. Henry was in a single seat, but he heard a man across the aisle from him explain to his neighbour in French that they always did this: ‘It’s a military airport now. They don’t want us to spy on the Luftwaffe!’
The captain welcomed them to Germany, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. ‘Please respect all the special security rules in place at the airport. Please follow all instructions. Passengers for the onward flight to Berlin should remain in their seats. Passengers disembarking here in Stuttgart should ensure they have all their belongings with them. We hope you have enjoyed flying with Swissair. We wish you a pleasant stay in Stuttgart.’
The plane taxied to a remote part of the airport: outside they could hear shouting and the noise of engines. The passengers were led down the steps to a bus with blacked-out windows that had drawn up alongside. Henry had no more than 30 seconds to glance around as they were led onto the bus: he could see very little, other than a ring of troops around the plane and a couple of oil tankers nearby.
There were few other passengers in the vast terminal building, although at the far end Henry could see groups of men in uniform hurrying along. At the other end of the terminal were the airline desks, most of which appeared to be abandoned. There were a few people waiting by one of the Deutsche Lufthansa desks but the only other airline desks that seemed to be operating were Swissair and Ala Littoria. While he waited, there were a few announcements made by a woman just managing to suppress her Swabian accent: ‘Arriving passengers should wait until they are called; any passengers for the Swissair flight to Berlin are to proceed to the departure gate immediately; a further delay is announced on the Deutsche Lufthansa flight to Lisbon, Portugal.’
Henry was questioned by two men stood behind the desk; one in SS uniform, the other in a cheap suit with a swastika badge on each lapel. Behind them was a large clock with enormous swastika banners draped on either side.
They each checked the visa, silently. The man in civilian clothes left the desk at one stage with Henry’s passport, but returned a minute later.
‘How long are you intending to stay in Stuttgart, Herr Hesse?’
‘Until Friday.’
‘You have a return ticket?’
Henry handed it to them and they both studied it.
And the purpose of your visit? Where are you staying? With whom will you be meeting? Are you aware of the restrictions of your visa?
All questions that had already been asked at the embassy in Bern: Remington-Barber had warned him of this. Routine: they’ll just trying to catch you out: they’ll be looking to compare your answers: nothing to worry about. Just play a straight bat. Don’t smile too much. Don’t get impatient.
‘We would like to know more about your business affairs in Stuttgart, Herr Hesse,’ said the civilian.
An unnecessarily detailed and complicated account of his step-father’s business affairs in Stuttgart followed. Henry told them how he suspected they had been mishandled by a man called Heinz Bermann – at the mention of which there was a knowing look between the two Germans – and how following his step-father’s death, which was probably hastened by the activities of this Heinz Bermann, it was taking time to unravel everything but he felt it was his duty to come here and see what was going on… and so on. It had the desired effect of making the two officials look bored. Henry hoped to God that poor old Heinz Bermann had managed to get out of Stuttgart: he was a decent man and always very charming. It would be a shame if Henry had just added to his woes.
After ten minutes, Henry was taken through to a small side room where he and his bags were thoroughly searched by two policemen. His copy of that morning’s Neue Zürcher Zeitung was removed from his briefcase and thrown away. Everything else was carefully examined. Nothing else aroused their suspicion, other than the Swiss Francs.
‘Are you changing all of these here?’ the official in charge of the search asked.
Henry nodded.
‘Wait here while I count them.’
The official left the room, returning with the Francs five minutes later. Later, Henry would discover he’d helped himself to some of the money.
He emerged from the side room into the queue in front of yet another desk, but this was a much quicker process. His passport was stamped again and he was now in Germany.
‘You are now permitted to cross the border, Herr Hesse. Please go the cashier’s window over there and change all money into Reichsmarks. Welcome to Germany.’
Henry changed his money then joined a queue which had formed just outside the terminal for the bus into the city. It took half an hour. Again, the curtains were drawn and it was difficult to make out where they were, other than by occasional glimpses through the front window. Henry thought he recognised one or two familiar sights and, as far as he could tell, there were few signs of the war, other than a good deal of military traffic on the road. They passed through two road-blocks, and at the final one three policemen climbed on board and checked everyone’s papers.
‘Stuttgart-Mitte’ announced the driver: The bus pulled into Fürstenstrasse, just off the enormous Schlossplatz.
It was no more than three or four minutes’ walk to the hotel and Henry knew the area well, but somehow the city centre did not feel familiar. The buildings were the same and he recognised the street names and knew exactly where he was. But, for him, the city had always had a unique atmosphere, which was hard to describe but he knew it when he was th
ere. Stuttgart today did not feel like somewhere he had been to before, it felt as though he’d only ever seen it on film. It now had an undoubted military edge; so many of the people on the streets seemed to be wearing a uniform of one type or another and there were anti-aircraft batteries on the Schlossplatz. Most of the buildings were draped in large red-and-black swastika flags.
By the time he reached the Hotel Victoria on the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Keplerstrasse and walked through its ornate entrance he had a better idea why Stuttgart felt so unfamiliar. It was the people and how they behaved; they were moving around in silence, avoiding eye contact and with hardly anyone speaking to anyone else. A city he had once found friendly now had a distinctly menacing air to it. Germans had always struck him as being smartly dressed but now, compared to the relative sophistication of the Swiss, they looked drab.
The man behind the reception desk did at least look him in the eye. ‘Yes, we have a reservation for you Herr Hesse,’ he said, holding up the telegram from the Schweizerhof in Bern. ‘You’re staying for three nights, correct?’
Henry said that he was and completed the various forms handed to him by the receptionist. He was then escorted to his room on the third floor by an elderly and evidently arthritic porter. Once he had unpacked, he decided to go for a walk in the afternoon. As tempting as it was to remain in the relative safety of his room, he knew that would draw attention to himself and would not allow Milo the opportunity to approach him, though he was still none the wiser how that was going to happen. Back in Bern, Remington-Barber had been decidedly cryptic in that respect.
‘You’ll be approached by someone using the phrase “We usually have some rain in Stuttgart at this time of year,”’ Remington-Barber had said. ‘You are to reply, “That must be the case all over Europe.” In response they’ll say, “Surely there must be rain over the Alps.” You’ll reply, “There is always rain around the Alps even in summer,” and when they say “How wonderful,” then you’ll know it’s Milo and that it’s safe.’
Remington-Barber had asked him to repeat it, many times.
‘Good: you’re to do precisely what Milo tells you. If they send you somewhere, you go.’
So Henry wandered around the centre of Stuttgart for the best part of an hour and a half and, as far as he could tell, he was not being followed. From Schlossplatz he walked down the Planie, which had now become Adolf Hitler Strasse and then into Charlottenplatz, which was now Danziger-Freiheit. A different city. He sat on benches, paused by shop windows – noticing there seemed to be far less in the shops than on previous visits. He crossed the road and back again, allowing anyone wanting to approach him plenty of opportunity to do so. He was beginning to get a sense of what a country at war felt like: it was as if the horizon was diminished and there was less air to breathe. Less colour, so much quieter and the ubiquitous slogans on buildings and flags hanging from them. From Danziger-Freiheit, he headed north to Neckarstrasse, where one of his step-father’s property agents had their offices. He decided to go in, just in case he was being followed: it was good to be able to show the reasons he had given for visiting Stuttgart appeared to be genuine. Herr Langhoff took him into his office and was happy to talk for a while: times were very hard; many people had joined the military; Jewish property was being given away which meant less business for them; no, as Herr Hesse was surely aware, all of his step-father’s properties had been disposed of.
He left the office after half an hour, satisfied that anyone watching would feel he had indeed been there to conduct business. A few doors along he found a small basement bar. The barmaid knew better than to ask too many questions, especially when she realised he was Swiss. From the bar he walked back across the Schlossplatz to the hotel, concerned at how and when Milo was going to approach him: he could hardly spend the next few days hanging around the hotel, going for the occasional walk and eating in his room.
He wandered around the lobby for a while then returned to his room. He closed the heavy curtains then ran a hot bath, rested, read a little before telephoning reception to order his evening meal. There were three dishes on the menu, only one of which was available: sausages and potatoes.
After his meal he left the tray, as instructed, in the corridor outside his room. It was only eight o’clock, but he began to think about settling down for the night. He was beginning to think this trip was no more than a test by British Intelligence to see how he coped – whether he could get in and out of Germany and no more than that. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. After all, hadn’t Edgar more or less told him his first mission would be something relatively straightforward? Whichever way you looked at it, he told himself, travelling into Germany and meeting with another agent was hardly straightforward. The British were unlikely to risk a novice agent’s first assignment on anything too dangerous. Surely they would simply want to see whether he had the nerves to go there and return in one piece?
But what was it Viktor had told him at the weekend? Don’t think too much synok: they’ll know what they are doing.
There was an easy chair near a radiator by the window and he sat on it, kicking off his shoes and putting his feet on the small table. He began to recall another conversation with Edgar, when he had implied they may advance five hundred pounds of his aunt’s money on successful completion of a mission. Would this count as a successful mission? Maybe he could now afford a car. He watched the patterns forming on the ceiling by the lampshade by the bed when a firm knock on the door disturbed his train of thought. He was annoyed, assuming they had come to collect his dinner tray when in fact he had left it in the corridor.
‘The tray is out there for you,’ he called out.
A female voice replied. ‘Thank you, Herr Hesse. Please could I come in? We have managed to locate your missing case.’
‘I think there must be some mistake, I…’
A car door slammed on Keplerstrasse below, followed by the sound of a lorry moving down the road.
‘There’s no need to worry sir, I am the duty manager: if you could open the door please?’
The woman who Henry let into his room was wearing the dark, formal uniform of the hotel staff. On her lapel was a badge: Katharina Hoch, Night Manager. She closed the door carefully behind her then looked him up and down, as if checking him out. ‘It is good news we found your case, Herr Hesse.’ She was carrying a small, leather bag.
‘There’s been a mistake, I’m afraid. I have my case here. I only brought the one with me.’
‘Are you enjoying your stay at the Hotel Victoria?’
‘I am, but…’
‘And in Stuttgart: you are enjoying Stuttgart? We usually have some rain in Stuttgart at this time of year.’
Henry felt unsteady on his feet. Milo? ‘I beg your pardon?’
She repeated the phrase in a pleasant, conversational manner.
‘We usually have some rain in Stuttgart at this time of year.’
Henry sat down on the edge of the bed, aware he was shaking violently. He took a moment or two to remember his correct response.
‘That must be the case all over Europe.’
Was it safe to have a conversation like this in a hotel room?
‘Surely,’ she said, checking behind the curtains then glimpsing into the bathroom, ‘surely there must be rain over the Alps?’
‘There is always rain around the Alps even in summer.’
‘How wonderful,’ she replied, as though she really meant it.
There was a long silence. Another car door slammed on Keplerstrasse; the sound of distant laughter. The woman smiled at him in what in other circumstances he’d have taken to quite a seductive manner. Her mouth was quite beautiful, without any trace of lipstick.
‘So you are Milo?’ He was speaking in barely more than a whisper.
‘I am Milo, yes – don’t look so shocked. Look, I am on duty, so I don’t have too long and we have much to talk about.’
‘Is it safe in here?’
She lifted the suitcase onto the bed and opened it. It was full of men’s clothes, along with a hat and a pair of black shoes. ‘Have you ever been to Essen, Herr Hesse?’
‘Where?’
‘Essen. In the Ruhr: north of Cologne.’
‘No, I can’t say I have.’
‘Tomorrow will be your first visit then.’
‘But… surely not. My visa doesn’t permit me to travel outside of Stuttgart.’
‘That’s what all this is about.’ She pointed to the suitcase on the bed. ‘Henri Hesse will not be travelling to Essen. You will travel as Dieter Hoch.’ She had removed a wallet from the suitcase and emptied its contents onto the bed.
‘Dieter Hoch is my brother. Dieter is four years older than you but the photograph in his identity card here is not a good one and so we’re confident your identity documents will pass a basic examination. It’ll work as long as no-one has any reason to suspect you. You’ll only wear these clothes here: they all belong to my brother. Everything you wear will be German-made. There must be nothing on you that could identify you as being Swiss. You will take this suitcase.’
‘And your brother is in on this?’
‘Of course: we both do what we can to help the British. We aren’t Nazis, you may have gathered that. Dieter is a manager with the railway here in Stuttgart, which means he’s able to travel more freely on trains. He’s worked for the past seven days and finished this evening, so now he’s off work until Friday morning. He’ll remain at home until then and won’t leave the house: he’ll tell my parents he is unwell. That gives you two clear days to get to Essen, complete your mission and return here. We want you back in Stuttgart before the curfew on Thursday night.’
