by Alex Gerlis
He left Westbahnhof through the Mariahilfer Strasse exit and headed north in the direction of the 1st District. It was a long walk and it gave him time to get a feel for the city after all the years. It also gave him time to think. The Central Committee members had given him some food for thought: possible cells or just individual comrades in the factories around the 17th, 20th and 21st Districts, all in the north of the city. And then the Labour Exchange, in Favoriten, closer to where he was now. But, of course, Brodsky had been correct. I know you Viktor; you’re too good not to have contacts there who’ll still be around, people who’ve never had anything to do with the Party.
He wished he could share Brodsky’s confidence that they’d still be around and, even if they were, that they could still be trusted. But there was one, someone he’d have happily walked from Moscow to Vienna to see just one more time, and it didn’t occur to him, not for a single second, they couldn’t be trusted.
Just before Mariahilfer Strasse reached the Opern Ring he turned into Getreidemarkt, which all felt familiar, then through the Naschmarkt, which didn’t. The famous food market was still open, but with very little food in it. Small groups of soldiers in their long grey coats were milling around, eyeing what food there was on the stalls suspiciously. By one bearing a sad array of old-looking vegetables, a policeman was pestering the stall-holder. From the Naschmarkt it was across to Schleifmuhlgasse and, just off it, the familiar square with the elegant apartment blocks set around it.
Although it was only just mid-afternoon the light was beginning to fade, and people were hurrying that little bit faster. The lights in the shops, though not bright, were just enough to make him feel a bit more exposed. From the street he could see the apartment: there was no mistaking it and as far as he could tell it was dark.
He walked around the block and into Wiedner Hauptstrasse, rehearsing his story and checking it had no flaws. I was given an address in Schikandergasse for possible lodgings, is this the correct place? If it was a stranger in the apartment they’d hopefully suspect nothing and point him to the parallel street, and he’d be apologetic and make a feeble joke about all these streets beginning with ‘S’ and remember his ‘Heil Hitler’ as he calmly walked away.
He walked up to Karlsplatz, now beginning to feel self-conscious with his small case, still not wanting to arrive at the apartment too early. He also knew he needed to leave himself enough time to find somewhere else if they weren’t there: he’d have to head to the north of the city before the curfew and find a lodging house in one of those districts that apparently still had a very, very faint hue of Red Vienna about them.
By the time he entered the little square through its northern opening it was much darker than before and quite a few of the apartments were now illuminated. He was sure the apartment he was going to did have a light on, behind a set of curtains. Ideally he’d have waited a bit longer, standing back in the shadows of a nearby entrance and observing the apartment, but time was pressing. He wrapped his black silk scarf around the lower part of his face and strode confidently across the square and into the building where the smell – a mixture of soup and strong disinfectant – was so familiar it felt as if he’d been there only the day before. He climbed quickly to the top floor. The landing felt the same, a window overlooking the square, one apartment straight ahead of the stairs and two more on either side of it. There was no name on the door, there never was, just a brass bell that he always joked was so loud it could be heard on the other side of the Danube.
It still was.
She opened the door and, as he loosened his scarf, she staggered back in such shock he thought she was going to collapse. Even though he couldn’t be sure she was alone, he quickly followed her in, closing the door behind him. She’d backed into the doorway of the lounge where she stopped, her hand cupped to her mouth, her skin white and tears filling her eyes. She mouthed his name. He went up to her and held her tightly to him, talking quietly but urgently into her ear. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes, yes!’
‘Where is he?’
‘France. He’s based at army headquarters in Paris. He was back last week; he won’t be here again for weeks, months maybe. But it’s not safe Viktor.’
‘Listen carefully. If anyone comes in or asks, my name is Otto Schneider and I’m looking for lodgings, you understand? I thought I had an address nearby and got confused. Understand?’
She nodded and, still shocked, led him into the neat lounge, with the immaculate embroidered covers on the chairs and the fine Bohemian glassware on the sides; the elegant French-polished sideboard with its photographs of a man in uniform; and the tapestries on the wall alongside the dark oil painting of a supposed relative of her husband. She sat down in the armchair then got straight up again.
Something to drink… perhaps to eat? Even as the wife of an officer I have very little these days, but he brought food back from Paris. Some cheese perhaps? I have some pastries. And cognac, you’d like a cognac?
She was talking fast as she fussed over him, her face now red and the tears still flowing. She couldn’t take her eyes off him and nor could he stop looking at her.
Viktor sat her down. ‘You have to listen carefully, Irma. I know how dangerous this is: I’ll not stay here long. No one saw me enter, I’m certain of that. Let me stay one night, maybe two – I won’t leave the apartment during that time so no one’ll know I’m here, like the old days, eh? In the meantime you can make some enquiries for me and help me like before, then I’ll move on.’
‘Just like the old days,’ she said, smiling and dabbing her eyes.
‘Yes, just like the old days,’ he said, standing up and leading her towards the bedroom. ‘In more ways than one.’
***
When Viktor first met Irma in early 1934 she was a beautiful girl who looked considerably younger than her late twenties. She was engaged to an army officer 10 years older than her whom she married months later, but in what was probably a passing gesture at youthful rebellion she’d attended a clandestine meeting organised by the KPO. A friend of a friend of someone she worked with had told her about it, that kind of thing. Viktor saw these people at every meeting – the KPO attracted them like flies, all the Communist Parties around Europe did in those days. It was fashionable, people were attracted by the danger and the excitement and a passing sense of injustice. They rarely lasted more than a meeting or two.
The Comintern political officers would oversee the different organisations, making sure they followed Moscow’s line. In the case of the KPO, the line was quite clear: no co-operation whatsoever with the Social Democrats, active resistance to the Nazi threat and no compromise on Austria’s independence. Then came the Communist International congress in 1935, which decided the Social Democrats weren’t so bad after all and it was now party policy to co-operate with them in defeating fascism. Agents once again fanned out around Europe to make sure the comrades were aware of this new policy.
And Viktor, as always, followed unseen. He’d remain in the background while the political officers enforced the party line and he’d be there to spot likely recruits or follow up on ones his agents had picked out. France was fine and he’d had some success in Switzerland, but Austria was harder for some reason. The KPO members were so committed that none of them were suitable enough to work for him.
But Irma was different: from a good family, church-going, elegant and sophisticated, and about to marry into the military hierarchy. But more than that was the way she touched Viktor’s soul, in a way no one else had, not even the wife and daughter he hadn’t seen since 1930 and doubted he’d ever see again. Irma understood him and he understood her. They didn’t need to speak or explain themselves to each other; it was enough to be in each other’s company on the occasions when he was able to arrange it and when she could do so without attracting the attention of her husband.
Her inability to have children brought her closer to him and, because he didn’t want to compromise their relationshi
p, he asked little of her. Occasionally he’d get her to deliver a letter or give a message to someone, but it was a very minor role. He protected her.
But if Irma had looked 10 years younger when he first met her in 1934, she was now not only 10 years older but looked a full decade older than she actually was – as if she were in her late forties. Her face was still beautiful, but it was now lined; her hair was turning grey and no longer as immaculate as it once was. He hadn’t mentioned his mission on the first evening, or that night or the next morning. But the following afternoon he told her why he was in Vienna and he needed her help. ‘I need to find comrades who can work with me, people who can be trusted.’
‘But everyone’s a Nazi now,’ she replied. ‘Even I had to join the Nazi Party, my husband insisted – he said he’d miss out on a promotion otherwise. I’ve had nothing to do with communists since I last saw you, in 1937. No one has any idea about my involvement then.’
They thought carefully, wracking their brains about who they could approach, but they could think of no one. He would, he decided, have to risk going up to Floridsdorf to find a likely bar and watch people: maybe he would recognise someone; maybe his instinct would come to his aid as it so often did.
That evening she was busy in the kitchen and he was resting on the bed when he heard her cry out, which worried him. There was a danger the neighbours could hear and since he’d arrived at the apartment they’d barely spoken above a whisper.
He rushed into the kitchen and she grabbed him by the arm.
‘I know who can help! It’s so obvious I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before! Do you remember Paul the plumber?’
Viktor remembered the bright young man who was on the District Committee of the KPO in the 12th District, Meidling. Viktor had high hopes for him and, as he’d joined the party under an alias, Viktor had persuaded him to leave to try and get a job in an armaments factory. But Paul’s wife died suddenly and he was left on his own with a young son and no other family to help look after him. Paul asked to be excused working for the Party, but Viktor refused. The Party comes first, you know that. But Irma had pleaded with him: have a heart for once, just this once. Think of this poor man and his little boy. You never know when this kindness may be repaid.
So Viktor had gone against his better judgement and allowed Paul to resume a normal life, with no obligation to the KPO. He worked as a plumber and that was the last he’d heard of him.
‘He’s still around,’ said Irma. ‘I felt so sorry for him that I kept his details and, if ever I needed a plumber or a friend did, I’d call. I heard he was conscripted but was invalided out, but he’s still around.’
‘How do you know that, Irma?’
‘Because only the other week a friend of mine told me he’d been around to fix a blocked sink and how efficient he was. She said he sent his regards to me.’
***
Irma rang the communal telephone number Paul the plumber shared with a dozen or so other apartments in his block and the person who answered promised to get the message to him. ‘Broken tap, yes I’ve got that… Irma, yes I’ve got that too… And the address, yes, yes, I’ve got that.’
Paul arrived the following morning. Viktor had watched him from behind the net curtain in the lounge as he crossed the square and he carried on watching for a few minutes after that: he was sure no one had followed Paul, and no one was watching the apartments. He waited until he was already at work on the tap in the bathroom before going in: from the look on his face, had he not been kneeling already he’d have fallen down. A minute later all three of them were sitting around the table in the kitchen.
‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ said Paul. ‘I was pleased it was that way, if I’m honest. Things became so dangerous here after the KPO was banned, and with the Nazis… I was just grateful you’d allowed me to leave the party. I kept my head down, worked whenever I could and looked after Joachim. Because of Joachim’s age – he was only seven when the war started – I managed to avoid conscription until 1941. When I did join up, I was sent to Poland, but I was shot during Operation Barbarossa. The bullet hit my thigh and the injury looked much worse than it actually was, but it was enough for me to be discharged. The irony of it all, me a communist, being hit by a Red Army bullet that put me out of action!’
‘You’re still a communist then?’
‘Of course! I’ve just not been very active… Well, to be honest, I haven’t been active at all. So many comrades – those that stayed in Vienna – have been arrested or just disappeared. Dozens of them have been killed and others have been sent to this dreadful place called Mauthausen. That’s where they send the Jews and other prisoners.’
‘Do you have any contacts – from the KPO, I mean – other comrades?’
Paul remained silent, his hands clenched in front of him on the table. ‘I know I can trust you and Irma, but I can’t trust anyone else. That’s how I’ve survived. Even my son, I can’t trust him. Joachim’s 12 now and he’s in the junior section of the Hitler Youth. He comes home from school and tells me all these terrible things, and I know I have to pretend to agree with him. I’ve no doubt if I disagreed with him or if he heard me saying anything against the Nazis, he’d report me. It happens. So, in answer to your question, yes I do still have a few contacts. They’re people I knew before the war, but they’re like me, just keeping their heads down… I don’t know…’
‘People who could help me?’
‘Possibly,’ said Paul. ‘But you need to understand two things. First of all, the vast majority of people in this city, and in the whole of what was Austria, are perfectly happy with the Nazis being in power. If you asked a thousand people in private what they thought of the Nazis, they’d have no problem. Maybe one would, but even then you couldn’t be sure.
‘But you also need to realise what a dangerous enemy we have in the Gestapo,’ he continued. ‘They’re very effective. You remember the old Hotel Metropole on Morzinplatz, near the Danube Canal?’
Viktor nodded.
‘That’s where they’re based. They have a department there that concentrates on finding enemies of the state, as they call them. It’s headed by a brutal bastard, Karl Strobel. He’s been very effective. Have you heard of V-Leute, Irma?’
Irma nodded.
‘It stands for Vertrauensleute. They’re the special informers who infiltrate all kinds of groups and betray them to the Gestapo. Even church congregations have V-Leute, apartment blocks, workplaces, bars… They’re everywhere. So many people – not just comrades – have been caught out that way. If someone moans in a queue about the quality of meat, there’ll be another person there to inform on them. I assume anyone I meet is a V-Leute, it’s safer that way. Even my former comrades, the ones you asked me about, I don’t know if they’re V-Leute or have been turned since we last met. So I’m very cautious, I never discuss anything.’
There was a long silence. Irma looked at Viktor across the table, her eyes imploring him: please don’t. Paul remained with his head bowed.
‘That all has to change Paul, you know that don’t you?’ said Viktor. ‘We have to take a risk.’
Chapter 9
Southern England, January and February 1944
On the morning of Friday 4th February, Edgar left his apartment just behind Victoria Street and decided, as it was such a fine day, to walk down to Grosvenor Place, from where he caught the number 16 bus. The journey took him past Hyde Park and onto Edgware Road, from where it was a short walk to Paddington Station, which these days felt more like a marshalling yard than a passenger station after a number of visits from the Luftwaffe had given Great Western Railways an excuse for their trains not running on time.
The 9.11 to Marlow did leave on time but there was a long delay at Maidenhead while he waited for his second connection and another at Bourne End for the short ride to his destination. It was almost 10.45 when he arrived.
Crispin Meredith was waiting for him outside Marlow station in a
black Morris 25 Saloon that looked as if it had been waxed that very morning. Edgar had barely sat down in the red leather passenger seat and hadn’t properly closed the door when the car pulled away.
‘In a hurry, Crispin?’
‘Time and tide wait for no man, Edgar, you should know that.’
‘I don’t think Chaucer meant to endorse endangering life like that though.’
Meredith insisted on driving with his window down, which meant Edgar had to wrap his coat tightly around him and the conversation during the journey was mostly shouted.
‘I said… how’s he getting on, Crispin? Do you really have to have that window open?’
‘Fresh air’s good for you, Edgar, weren’t you taught that at Prep School?’
‘I never went to one. You were going to tell me how Rolf’s getting on.’
***
Some four weeks previously, at around 2.00 on a bitterly cold and frost-covered morning, a good-looking and energetic Austrian called Rolf Eder had arrived at RAF Tangmere in Sussex. It was a clear night, lit by a full moon, and once the Lysander that had just flown him in from France came to a noisy halt alongside the cars waiting on the edge of the tarmac Rolf bounded down the ladder fixed to the plane’s port side, his blond hair catching the breeze.
One of the RAF ground crew helped him to the ground then shepherded him over to the cars, where two men were waiting to greet him. The reunion was an enthusiastic one. George Whitlock had originally recruited Rolf some years ago in Vienna, and Edgar had worked with him in Switzerland and Germany in 1941. Rolf was in his thirties, though he looked younger, and had classic Aryan features: blond hair and blue eyes. These eyes glanced around him, trying to take in his first-ever views of England. He could be forgiven for looking somewhat bemused: just over a week before he’d been suddenly informed by Basil Remington-Barber that he was about to be sent from Switzerland to England, where he’d be trained for a secret mission in his native Austria. Three days after that he was smuggled over the border into France.
