by Ken Follett
"We must try to set his fingers," Carla said. "So that the bones heal straight." She touched Rudi's left hand. There was no reaction. She grasped the hand and lifted it. Still he did not stir.
"I've never set bones," said Hannelore. "Though I've seen it done often enough."
"Same here," said Carla. "But we'd better try. I'll do his left hand, you do the right. We must finish before the drug wears off. God knows he'll be in enough pain."
"All right," said Hannelore.
Carla paused a moment longer. Her mother was right. They had to do anything they could to end this Nazi regime, even if it meant betraying their own country. She was no longer in any doubt.
"Let's get it done," Carla said.
Gently, carefully, the two women began to straighten Rudi's broken hands.
ii
Thomas Macke went to the Tannenberg Bar every Friday afternoon.
It was not much of a place. On one wall was a framed photograph of the proprietor, Fritz, in a First World War uniform, twenty-five years younger and without a beer belly. He claimed to have killed nine Russians at the Battle of Tannenberg. There were a few tables and chairs, but the regulars all sat at the bar. A menu in a leather cover was almost entirely fantasy: the only dishes served were sausages with potatoes or sausages without potatoes.
But the place stood across the street from the Kreuzberg police station, so it was a cop bar. That meant it was free to break all the rules. Gambling was open, street girls gave blow jobs in the bathroom, and the food inspectors of the Berlin city government never entered the kitchen. It opened when Fritz got up and closed when the last drinker went home.
Macke had been a lowly police officer at the Kreuzberg station years ago, before the Nazis took over and men such as he were suddenly given a break. Some of his former colleagues still drank at the Tannenberg, and he could be sure of seeing a familiar face or two. He still liked to talk to old friends, even though he had risen so far above them, becoming an inspector and a member of the SS.
"You've done well, Thomas, I'll give you that," said Bernhardt Engel, who had been a sergeant over Macke in 1932 and was still a sergeant. "Good luck to you, son." He raised to his lips the stein of beer that Macke had bought him.
"I won't argue with you," Macke replied. "Though I will say, Superintendent Kringelein is a lot worse to work for than you were."
"I was too soft on you boys," Bernhardt admitted.
Another old comrade, Franz Edel, laughed scornfully. "I wouldn't say soft!"
Glancing out of the window, Macke saw a motorcycle pull up outside driven by a young man in the light blue belted jacket of an air force officer. He looked familiar: Macke had seen him somewhere before. He had overlong red-blond hair flopping onto a patrician forehead. He crossed the pavement and came into the Tannenberg.
Macke remembered the name. He was Werner Franck, spoiled son of the radio manufacturer Ludi Franck.
Werner came to the bar and asked for a pack of Kamel cigarettes. How predictable, Macke thought, that the playboy should smoke American-style cigarettes, even if they were a German imitation.
Werner paid, opened the pack, took out a cigarette, and asked Fritz for a light. Turning to leave, cigarette in his mouth tilted at a rakish angle, he caught Macke's eye and, after a moment's thought, said: "Inspector Macke."
The men in the bar all stared at Macke to see what he would say.
He nodded casually. "How are you, young Werner?"
"Very well, sir, thank you."
Macke was pleased, but surprised, by the respectful tone. He recalled Werner as an arrogant whippersnapper with insufficient respect for authority.
"I'm just back from a visit to the eastern front with General Dorn," Werner added.
Macke sensed the cops in the bar become alert to the conversation. A man who had been to the eastern front merited respect. Macke could not help feeling pleased that they were all impressed that he moved in such elevated circles.
Werner offered Macke the cigarette pack, and Macke took one. "A beer," Werner said to Fritz. Turning back to Macke, he said: "May I buy you a drink, Inspector?"
"The same, thank you."
Fritz filled two steins. Werner raised his glass to Macke and said: "I want to thank you."
That was another surprise. "For what?" said Macke.
His friends were all listening intently.
Werner said: "A year ago you gave me a good telling-off."
"You didn't seem grateful at the time."
"And for that I apologize. But I thought very hard about what you said to me, and eventually I realized you were right. I had allowed personal emotion to cloud my judgment. You set me straight. I'll never forget that."
Macke was touched. He had disliked Werner, and had spoken harshly to him, but the young man had taken his words to heart and changed his ways. It gave Macke a warm glow to feel that he had made such a difference in a young man's life.
Werner went on: "In fact I thought of you the other day. General Dorn was talking about catching spies, and asking if we could track them down by their radio signals. I'm afraid I couldn't tell him much."
"You should have asked me," said Macke. "It's my specialty."
"Is that so?"
"Come and sit down."
They carried their drinks to a grubby table.
"These men are all police officers," Macke said. "But still, one should not talk publicly about such matters."
"Of course." Werner lowered his voice. "But I know I may confide in you. You see, some of the battlefield commanders told Dorn they believe the enemy often knows our intentions in advance."
"Ah!" said Macke. "I feared as much."
"What can I tell Dorn about radio signal detection?"
"The correct term is goniometry." Macke collected his thoughts. This was an opportunity to impress an influential general, albeit indirectly. He needed to be clear, and emphasize the importance of what he was doing without exaggerating its success. He imagined General Dorn saying casually to the Fuhrer: "There's a very good man in the Gestapo--name of Macke--only an inspector, at the moment, but most impressive . . ."
"We have an instrument that tells us the direction from which the signal is coming," he began. "If we take three readings from widely separated locations, we can draw three lines on the map. Where they intersect is the address of the transmitter."
"That's fantastic!"
Macke raised a cautionary hand. "In theory," he said. "In practise, it's more difficult. The pianist--that's what we called the radio operator--does not usually stay in the location long enough for us to find him. A careful pianist never broadcasts from the same place twice. And our instrument is housed in a van with a conspicuous aerial on its roof, so they can see us coming."
"But you have had some success."
"Oh, yes. But perhaps you should come out in the van with us one evening. Then you could see the whole process for yourself--and make a firsthand report to General Dorn."
"That's a good idea," said Werner.
iii
Moscow in June was sunny and warm. At lunchtime Volodya waited for Zoya at a fountain in the Alexander Gardens behind the Kremlin. Hundreds of people strolled by, many in pairs, enjoying the weather. Life was hard, and the water in the fountain had been turned off to save power, but the sky was blue, the trees were in leaf, and the German army was a hundred miles away.
Volodya was full of pride every time he thought back to the Battle of Moscow. The dreaded German army, master of blitzkrieg attack, had been at the gates of the city--and had been thrown back. Russian soldiers had fought like lions to save their capital.
Unfortunately the Russian counterattack had petered out in March. It had won back much territory, and made Muscovites feel safer, but the Germans had licked their wounds and were now preparing to try again.
And Stalin was still in charge.
Volodya spotted Zoya walking through the crowd toward him. She was wearing a red-and-white checked dress. There
was a spring in her step, and her pale blond hair seemed to bounce with her stride. Every man stared at her.
Volodya had dated some beautiful women, but he was surprised to find himself courting Zoya. For years she had treated him with cool indifference, and talked to him about nothing but nuclear physics. Then one day, to his astonishment, she had asked him to go to a movie.
It was shortly after the riot in which General Bobrov had been killed. Her attitude to him had changed that day--he was not sure he understood why; somehow the shared experience had created an intimacy. Anyway, they had gone to see George's Dinky Jazz Band, a knockabout comedy starring an English banjolele player called George Formby. It was a popular movie, and had been running for months in Moscow. The plot was about as unrealistic as could be: unknown to George, his instrument was sending messages to German U-boats. It was so silly that they had both laughed their socks off.
Since then they had been dating regularly.
Today they were to have lunch with his father. He had arranged to meet her beforehand at the fountain in order to have a few minutes alone with her.
Zoya gave him her thousand-candlepower smile and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. She was tall, but he was taller. He relished the kiss. Her lips were soft and moist on his. It was over too soon.
Volodya was not completely sure of her yet. They were still "walking out," as the older generation termed it. They kissed a lot, but they had not yet gone to bed together. They were not too young: he was twenty-seven, she twenty-eight. All the same, Volodya sensed that Zoya was not going to sleep with him until she was ready.
Half of him did not believe he would ever spend a night with this dream girl. She seemed too blond, too intelligent, too tall, too self-possessed, too sexy ever to give herself to a man. Surely he would never be allowed to watch her take off her clothes, to gaze at her naked body, to touch her all over, to lie on top of her . . . ?
They walked through the long, narrow park. On one side was a busy road. All along the other side, the towers of the Kremlin loomed over a high wall. "To look at it, you'd think our leaders in there were being held prisoner by the Russian people," Volodya said.
"Yes," Zoya agreed. "Instead of the other way round."
He looked behind them, but no one had heard. All the same it was foolhardy to talk like that. "No wonder my father thinks you're dangerous."
"I used to think you were like your father."
"I wish I was. He's a hero. He stormed the Winter Palace! I don't suppose I'll ever change the course of history."
"Oh, I know, but he's so narrow-minded and conservative. You're not like that."
Volodya thought he was pretty much like his father, but he was not going to argue.
"Are you free this evening?" she said. "I'd like to cook for you."
"You bet!" She had never invited him to her place.
"I've got a piece of steak."
"Great!" Good beef was a treat even in Volodya's privileged home.
"And the Kovalevs are out of town."
That was even better news. Like many Muscovites, Zoya lived in someone else's apartment. She had two rooms and shared the kitchen and bathroom with another scientist, Dr. Kovalev, and his wife and child. But the Kovalevs had gone away, so Zoya and Volodya would have the place to themselves. His pulse quickened. "Should I bring my toothbrush?" he said.
She gave him an enigmatic smile and did not answer the question.
They left the park and crossed the road to a restaurant. Many were closed, but the city center was full of offices whose workers had to eat lunch somewhere, and a few cafes and bars survived.
Grigori Peshkov was at a pavement table. There were better restaurants inside the Kremlin, but he liked to be seen in places used by ordinary Russians. He wanted to show that he was not above the common people just because he wore a general's uniform. All the same, he had chosen a table well away from the rest, so that he could not be overheard.
He disapproved of Zoya, but he was not immune to her enchantment, and he stood up and kissed her on both cheeks.
They ordered potato pancakes and beer. The only alternatives were pickled herrings and vodka.
"Today I am not going to speak to you about nuclear physics, General," said Zoya. "Please take my word for it that I still believe everything I said last time we talked about the subject. I don't want to bore you."
"That's a relief," he said.
She laughed, showing white teeth. "Instead you can tell me how much longer we will be at war."
Volodya shook his head in mock despair. She always had to challenge his father. If she had not been a beautiful young woman, Grigori would have had her arrested long ago.
"The Nazis are beaten, but they won't admit it," Grigori said.
Zoya said: "Everyone in Moscow is wondering what will happen this summer--but you two probably know."
Volodya said: "If I did, I certainly could not tell my girlfriend, no matter how crazy I am about her." Apart from anything else, it could get her shot, he thought, but he did not say it.
The potato pancakes came and they began to eat. As always, Zoya tucked in hungrily. Volodya loved the relish with which she attacked food. But he did not much like the pancakes. "These potatoes taste suspiciously like turnips," he said.
His father shot him a disapproving look.
"Not that I'm complaining," Volodya added hastily.
When they had finished, Zoya went to the ladies' room. As soon as she was out of earshot, Volodya said: "We think the German summer offensive is imminent."
"I agree," said his father.
"Are we ready?"
"Of course," said Grigori, but he looked anxious.
"They will attack in the south. They want the oilfields of the Caucasus."
Grigori shook his head. "They will come back to Moscow. It's all that matters."
"Stalingrad is equally symbolic. It bears the name of our leader."
"Fuck symbolism. If they take Moscow, the war is over. If they don't, they haven't won, no matter what else they gain."
"You're just guessing," Volodya said with irritation.
"So are you."
"On the contrary, I have evidence." He looked around, but there was no one nearby. "The offensive is code-named Case Blue. It will start on the twenty-eighth of June." He had learned that much from Werner Franck's network of spies in Berlin. "And we found partial details in the briefcase of a German officer who crash-landed a reconnaissance plane near Kharkov."
"Officers on reconnaissance do not carry battle plans in briefcases," Grigori said. "Comrade Stalin thinks that was a ruse to deceive us, and I agree. The Germans want us to weaken our central front by sending forces south to deal with what will turn out to be no more than a diversion."
This was the problem with intelligence, Volodya thought with frustration. Even when you had the information, stubborn old men would believe what they wanted.
He saw Zoya coming back, all eyes on her as she walked across the plaza. "What would convince you?" he said to his father before she arrived.
"More evidence."
"Such as?"
Grigori thought for a moment, taking the question seriously. "Get me the battle plan."
Volodya sighed. Werner Franck had not yet succeeded in obtaining the document. "If I get it, will Stalin reconsider?"
"If you get it, I'll ask him to."
"It's a deal," said Volodya.
He was being rash. He had no idea how he was going achieve this. Werner, Heinrich, Lili, and the others already took horrendous risks. Yet he would have to put even more pressure on them.
Zoya reached their table and Grigori stood up. They were going in three different directions, so they said good-bye.
"I'll see you tonight," Zoya said to Volodya.
He kissed her. "I'll be there at seven."
"Bring your toothbrush," she said.
He walked away a happy man.
iv
A girl knows when her best friend has a se
cret. She may not know what the secret is, but she knows it is there, like an unidentifiable piece of furniture under a dust sheet. She realizes, from guarded and unforthcoming answers to innocent questions, that her friend is seeing someone she shouldn't; she just doesn't know the name, although she may guess that the forbidden lover is a married man, or a dark-skinned foreigner, or another woman. She admires that necklace, and knows from her friend's muted reaction that it has shameful associations, though it may not be until years later that she discovers it was stolen from a senile grandmother's jewel box.
So Carla thought when she reflected on Frieda.
Frieda had a secret, and it was connected with resistance to the Nazis. She might be deeply, criminally involved: perhaps she went through her brother Werner's briefcase every night, copied secret papers, and handed the copies to a Russian spy. More likely it was not so dramatic: she probably helped print and distribute those illegal posters and leaflets that criticized the government.
So Carla was going to tell Frieda about Joachim Koch. However, she did not immediately get a chance. Carla and Frieda were nurses in different departments of a large hospital, and had different rotas, so they did not necessarily meet every day.
Meanwhile, Joachim came to the house daily for lessons. He made no more indiscreet revelations, but Maud continued to flirt with him. "You do realize that I'm almost forty years old?" Carla heard her say one day, although she was in fact fifty-one. Joachim was completely infatuated. Maud was enjoying the power she still had to fascinate an attractive young man, albeit a very naive one. The thought crossed Carla's mind that her mother might be developing deeper feelings for this boy with a fair mustache who looked a bit like the young Walter, but that seemed ridiculous.
Joachim was desperate to please her, and soon brought news of her son. Erik was alive and well. "His unit is in the Ukraine," Joachim said. "That's all I can tell you."
"I wish he could get leave to come home," Maud said wistfully.
The young officer hesitated.
She said: "A mother worries so much. If I could just see him, even for only a day, it would be such a comfort to me."
"I might be able to arrange that."
Maud pretended to be astonished. "Really? You're that powerful?"
"I'm not sure. I could try."
"Thank you for even trying." She kissed his hand.
