Vienna Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  Forget about her.

  That’s what Edgar, George Whitlock and Crispin Meredith had all told him ad nauseam – and Basil Remington-Barber reminded him of it in Switzerland.

  Forget about Frieda, Rolf. You’re not going back to Vienna to find her. If she’s in prison or worse, well then there’s nothing you can do, is there? And if she’s still alive and well then even making enquiries could put her life at risk and you don’t want that, do you? Either way, you’ll be jeopardising the mission and we can’t have that.

  It was all well and good for them to say that, but then they weren’t engaged to her, were they? How could they expect him to return to his home town after six years and not want to find out what had happened to his fiancée? They were the ones, after all, who’d sent him back to Vienna, he hadn’t volunteered for it. But now he was here, he was determined to find the answers to the questions that’d been haunting him.

  The night before he’d fled Vienna in 1938 he and Frieda had had a bitter argument. He’d pleaded with her to come with him, she’d chastised him for leaving. ‘How are we going to defeat the Nazis if we leave Austria?’ She’d called him selfish and a typical social democrat, and he’d told her she was a typical communist, always making dramatic gestures and counting on a revolution that was never going to happen. ‘You really believe your precious proletariat are going to rise up? They’re the most enthusiastic Nazis!’

  He’d only stayed that night at her apartment in Brigittenau because it’d have been too dangerous for him to leave it late at night. In the early hours of the morning, when he was wondering whether he should remain in Vienna with her after all, he’d leaned over to her, closing his body against hers. But instead of responding as she normally would, she’d pushed him away and moved over to the edge of the bed, pulling most of the blankets with her.

  When he woke fully she was gone: no note on the table, nothing. The set of keys she’d given him for her apartment had been removed from his jacket pocket and the framed photograph of the two of them by the Danube was no longer on the mantelpiece. So he left, with no goodbye, no reconciliation – not even a grudging understanding or an agreement to disagree. Instead he was left with a feeling of guilt and regret that had haunted him every minute of every day since. It was a feeling he knew would remain with him until he’d discovered what had happened to Frieda. He’d thought returning to Vienna might give him some peace of mind, but it had made matters worse. He was unsettled, having no idea whether she dead or alive, free or in captivity, in Vienna or elsewhere.

  Since the time he’d cried in the park, he’d done his best to hide his feelings from Katharina. But he was starting to doubt whether this was wise. He did wonder whether she was beginning to take their need to play the part of a married couple more literally than he was. He noticed – he couldn’t fail to do otherwise – that when they were alone in the apartment she often wore a tight, white woollen sweater that showed off her breasts to their best advantage. And, though he tried to resist it, he couldn’t help but be attracted to her. Katharina was one of those women whose beauty became apparent the more time was spent with her. It wasn’t an obvious beauty; she wasn’t pretty in that sense. But after a while he became aware of a sensuality about her that had become impossible to ignore. He found himself thinking back to the time she’d casually mentioned he perhaps didn’t need to sleep on the sofa. Had she been thinking of more than just his comfort?

  So Rolf had waited for a month after arriving back in Vienna before he made his first tentative enquiries about Frieda. He was well aware that, once he started to do so, he risked exposing himself to people who may remember him, but he couldn’t have been more cautious. He travelled up to the 20th district, where she had lived. And on his first journey he’d remained on the tram as it went up Leipziger Strasse then back again down Pappenheim Gasse, so he’d pass both the front and rear of the block she’d lived in. There was no bomb damage and no other sign of anything out of the ordinary.

  A few days later he returned to the area, this time getting off the tram at the first stop on Leipziger Strasse and walking past the apartment block. He didn’t stop, but walked slowly enough to have a look at the building. Again, there was nothing unusual, though he wasn’t sure what would constitute unusual. At the top of the road he turned left into Nordwestbahnhof Strasse, where he was taken aback at the extensive damage to the freight yards beyond it. Somehow a small goods train was weaving its way through the tangled metal and piles of rubble. He carried on walking, turning right into Pappenheim Gasse, from where he could see the rear of Frieda’s block. He spotted her apartment on the third floor, but he couldn’t make out any detail that would indicate whether she still lived there or not.

  When he returned the following week he entered the apartment block, armed with what he hoped was a plausible enough cover story. Frieda had lived in apartment 3D. He had, he told the concierge, a letter for a Herr Maier in apartment 3D. There’s no Herr Maier in apartment 3D. Are you sure? Of course I’m sure; Frau Wallner and her daughter live in 3D. Here, let me see your letter.

  He handed over the letter. No! This is for apartment 3D in the block across the road, Leipziger Strasse 58. We’re Leipziger Strasse 53.

  Once he’d established that Frieda no longer lived in Leipziger Strasse, he was at a loss what to do. The dental surgery where she worked in the 9th District was now an opticians and he felt asking where – if anywhere – the practice had moved to would be too risky. Frieda’s elderly mother lived in a village near Innsbruck in Tyrol-Vorarlberg, which was close to Switzerland, and he’d no intention of going there. He’d need to see what he could find out in Vienna, though he’d have to be careful – he couldn’t risk Katharina finding out what he was up to.

  Most of Frieda’s group of friends had either been arrested before Rolf left the country or had fled at around the same time as him. Most had been communists, though not all members of the KPO. Some of those, because of their jobs, had kept their political affiliations very quiet and it was those he decided to seek out. There was a tight-knit and secretive group of around half a dozen that he clearly wasn’t part of. He didn’t even know all their names. The one he’d known best was Wolfgang Fischer, who’d been a PhD student at the university at the same time as him, and for a while lived near him in the 18th District. One lunchtime, when he was on an errand for Bank Leu, he made a detour to the house where Fischer had rented a room.

  ‘Why do you want Herr Fischer?’ The landlady eyed him suspiciously through a half-open door.

  ‘I’m an old friend.’

  ‘And your name?’

  A slight pause. ‘Schmidt, Marcus Schmidt. Is Wolfgang here?’

  ‘Did you know Herr Fischer well?’ Her tone had switched from suspicious to hostile.

  ‘Look, it really doesn’t matter,’ said Rolf. ‘No, I didn’t know him well. We were acquaintances more than anything else and I just happened to be passing and…’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Herr Fischer died two or three years ago, I don’t know the circumstances – they said it was an accident or something What I do know is that when they came to search his room they ransacked it, made a terrible mess, and I received no compensation for that – not one Reichsmark!’

  ‘Who came to search his room?’ Rolf was already edging away from the entrance.

  ‘The Gestapo, who else? What did you say your name was?’

  Rolf managed to hurry away and was relieved he’d at least had the presence of mind to give a false name. But he was shocked Fischer was dead – and, by the sound of it, had been killed.

  He decided to try one more friend of Frieda’s. Rolf had the impression Joachim Lang was the most important in their group; a shadowy figure who said little but to whom Frieda and the others appeared to defer. Rolf remembered Lang’s father ran a small music bookshop in the 9th District and, on occasion, Frieda would ask Rolf to deliver a note there for Lang on his way to the university.
Don’t get involved, none of your friendly conversations: just check it’s his father you’re giving it to then leave.

  The shop was still there in Berg Gasse when Rolf visited the next day. When the door opened it did so to the familiar sound of a musical chime. The shop had barely changed since his last visit: shelf after shelf of sheet music and bookcases were still groaning with dusty volumes. The shop was full of music, but conspicuously silent. Lang’s father was behind the glass counter, looking slightly older. The one change to the shop as far as Rolf could make out was that on the wall behind him the portrait of Wolfgang Mozart now had a companion: Adolf Hitler. Mozart and Hitler, Vienna’s ubiquitous images.

  It was evident Herr Lang didn’t recognise Rolf. The older man smiled kindly, pleased to see a customer and perhaps someone to talk to. How could he help, he wondered? He stubbed a cigarette out in a saucer and straightened his frayed cuffs.

  ‘Actually, it’s your son Joachim I’m after.’

  The old man’s face froze with fear and his leathery hands gripped the top of the counter. He stood rigid for a few moments then looked beyond Rolf in panic, trying to peer through the glass door to the street beyond. ‘I’ve no idea where he is,’ he said, his voice little more than an urgent and angry whisper. ‘I’ve not heard from him for many years. Please go now.’

  The man wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his hands, which were shaking violently. ‘Go, go on,’ he gestured for Rolf to leave the shop.

  ‘Is your son alright?’

  ‘I don’t know, I told you. You must leave now.’ The man shooed Rolf away and came around from behind the counter to show him out. ‘Here, take this sheet music – let me put it in a bag for you. It’ll look more natural if you’re seen to leave the shop with something. Here you are. Now go.’

  The man already had the door open with one hand and his other was on Rolf’s back, pushing him out.

  After the discovery that Frieda no longer lived at her apartment in Brigittenau, that Wolfgang Fischer was dead and the reaction of Lang’s father, Rolf was so unnerved he decided he’d better pause in his attempts to find out what had happened to Frieda.

  Maybe another opportunity would arise.

  ***

  The Kriminalpolizei, better known as the Kripo, was one of a number of divisions of the RSHA, the Reich Central Security Office. Another division was the Gestapo. But no member of the Kripo or anyone else in the RSHA was under the illusion these divisions might in some way be equals. There was no question that the Gestapo, the secret police, outranked the Kripo and pretty much everyone else it came across, with the possible exception of the SS.

  Kripo officers were well used to this. They regarded it as an annoyance and a hindrance as much as anything else, something to be lived with like the weather and rationing. Some senior officers secretly enjoyed it: the Gestapo acted in such an arrogant manner that the Kripo could be left to get on with what they regarded as proper crime on their own. One such senior officer was Kriminalrat Andreas Schwarz, a career detective with an impressive record, a cynical manner and a damaged hand that kept him safely away from military service.

  Early one afternoon towards the end of May, Schwarz was sitting in a meeting room at the Gestapo headquarters on Morzinplatz, with a group of reluctant Gestapo section leaders sitting opposite him. There was Strobel from Section IVA, which looked after the communists and other enemies of the state; Grosser from IVB which was supposed to sort out the Jews and other religions; Molden from IVC, whose responsibility was Nazi Party affairs; and a nervous man called Nikolaus, who was in charge of section IVE, counter-intelligence. None of them, thought Schwarz as he surveyed the room, ranked above Kriminaldirektor. He outranked them all. And none of them would know how to handle a proper investigation even if they were eye-witness to the crime.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Schwarz in his most polite voice, making sure he was smiling. ‘I’m very grateful for your attendance. I know how busy you are with work of such vital importance to the Reich.’

  Schwarz made sure there was no hint of obvious sarcasm in his voice. ‘We require your co-operation with an investigation that has many unusual aspects to it. Although there’s no obvious political dimension to the crime we’ve hit something of a brick wall and we can’t rule out the possibility of any connection with one of your departments.’

  Through the cloud of cigarette smoke he could make out the blank faces of men who clearly felt their time was being wasted. ‘Two weeks ago we were called to a hat shop on Wiedner Hauptstrasse,’ he continued. ‘Some of you may have heard about the crime. The owner of the shop had previously reported one of his employees, a Johann Winkler, as missing. Winkler appeared to have opened the shop as normal at 8.30, but when the other staff arrived an hour later there was no sign of him. Two weeks ago they had cause to enter a little-used cellar behind their basement storage area and, when they did so, there was a foul smell. They eventually worked out it came from a recess in a wall, hidden by a cupboard. Have a look at these photographs.’

  Schwarz passed around a series of photographs. The Gestapo officers, no doubt against their better judgement, began to show signs of interest. ‘Two bodies, as you can see,’ said Schwarz. ‘They’d begun to decompose, but were still in a good enough condition to reveal they’d both been murdered, stabbed with the same knife. We were able to identify one of the victims as Johann Winkler, the missing manager. The other victim, according to his identity cards and subsequently confirmed by a fingerprint check, is Wilhelm Fuchs. Fuchs has a fairly long criminal record, mostly in connection with fraud and prostitution. This is the photo from his identity card.’

  He passed around another photograph.

  ‘And there’s another intriguing aspect to the case. These photographs show a large amount of jewellery, some of it very valuable. It was left with the bodies. There was also an empty strongbox that was hidden in the cellar and in the bottom of it was a single magazine of ammunition, from a Steyr-Hahns.’

  ‘A robbery that went wrong,’ said Grosser. ‘What on earth makes you think it’s anything we can help with? We’re very busy here you know, Schwarz. Our job is to protect the Reich, not help out the Kripo when it’s unable to solve a simple crime.’

  Schwarz paused just long enough to let Grosser’s words sink in. ‘Because, Kriminaldirektor Grosser, we suspect Fuchs had political connections: he was regularly in trouble, but interestingly since 1940 he’s not been convicted of any crimes. We believe he may have friends in high places. We’ve reason to believe he ran a brothel near the cathedral, one where the prostitutes were not only underage but included boys as well as girls. Whenever this was looked into, the investigation was shut down at an early stage.’

  ‘Do you have any leads?’

  ‘Very few indeed, Kriminaldirektor Molden, though we do have an eyewitness who saw a couple – a man and a woman – who left the shop at around 9.10. That’d fit with Winkler having opened the shop at 8.30 and the other members of staff arriving an hour later.’

  ‘Who’s this witness?’

  ‘A road sweeper, something of a low-life, well known to us,’ said Schwarz. ‘Once he has a drink inside him he shows little respect for the law, but on that particular morning he was sober, so has proven to be uncharacteristically helpful. He was sweeping the area around the shop and saw the “open” sign in the door, then noticed it’d been replaced by a “closed” sign a few minutes later. He was wondering what was going on when he realised it said “open” again, which he thought was odd. Soon after that, at around 9.10, as I say, he saw this couple leave the shop. He says they were walking in a hurry.’

  ‘Can he describe them?’

  ‘He couldn’t provide a useful description of the woman; he says she was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that hid her face. But he describes the man as being in his early thirties, around six feet tall, with light-brown hair and wearing a light raincoat. One of them – he can’t remember which – was carrying a large hat box.’


  The meeting finished soon after that. As Schwarz gathered the photographs, one of the Gestapo officers – a fat and particularly unpleasant man called Karl Strobel who had a habit of puffing out his chest as if to compensate for his lack of height – sidled up to him. ‘Schwarz, I’d like you to accompany me to my office. I may have something of mutual interest.’

  Schwarz followed Strobel up to his office on the third floor and waited while the Gestapo man rooted around on his elegant desk for the file he was looking for. ‘Ah, here it is,’ he said. ‘Now, could I ask you once again to read out that description of the man provided by the road sweeper?’

  Schwarz read from his notebook. ‘He described the man as being in his early thirties, around six feet tall, with light-brown hair and wearing a light raincoat.’

  ‘Have you come across the name Frieda Brauner in your investigations, Herr Schwarz?’

  Schwarz bristled at Strobel’s failure to address him by his rank. ‘No, I’m sure I’d have recalled that name. Why?’

  ‘There was a communist resistance cell here in Vienna that was active for far longer than it should’ve been, especially during 1941 and into the early part of 1942,’ said Strobel. ‘We believe the cell comprised six or seven members, and it was somewhat effective, distributing defeatist leaflets and organising the sabotage of machinery in factories. Normally we deal with these groups very quickly, but not this one. We did catch two of their members in late 1941: Franz Josef Mayer and Wolfgang Fischer, but neither man revealed anything under interrogation and both died in custody. In March 1942, though, we arrested a third member of the group, Frieda Brauner. She too was interrogated and revealed very little – but, just before she died, she did pass on the code names of four other members and also of the group. The code names are of little use, they refer to the rivers of hell in Greek mythology.’

  ‘Excuse me if I appear impatient, Herr Kriminaldirektor, but what’s the connection with this case? I’m confused.’