Vienna Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  ‘Is there enough food there for two of us there, eh Rolf?’

  When Rolf turned around, Edgar doffed his cap, a cloud of dust rising from it as he did so.

  ***

  Edgar had been instructed by Sir Roland Pearson to go to Vienna on 1st May. Early the following morning, a Wednesday, he took a flight from RAF Benson in Oxfordshire to Orly airport south of Paris and, from there, a lunchtime USAF flight to Neubiberg airport just outside Munich: the Bavarian capital had only been captured from the Nazis on the Monday.

  A familiar figure greeted him at the aircraft’s steps. ‘I must say, Edgar,’ said Basil Remington-Barber, ‘it’s rather wonderful being the occupier. Anything you want you can demand, no longer any need for all this clandestine nonsense. If it wasn’t for the fact I’m English I wouldn’t even need to say please or thank you! Look at this car, a beautiful Mercedes: I just asked one of the US Army liaison chaps if they could get me a car and he said take your pick: I’m rather hoping I can take it back to Bern, beautiful leather seats…’

  They went straight to the US Military Intelligence offices at the airport and found a room covered in maps. Remington-Barber used the end of his pipe to indicate an arc between Linz and Vienna. ‘Soviets have Vienna and everything east of it tied up. We’re in the west – I say we, it’s the US Army in the northern part… here… And we’re further south, around here – the Eighth Army coming up from Italy. So you’ll have to wait until we meet up with the Soviets then ask very nicely if they’ll let you into Vienna: I’d say we can get you there within a week or two.’

  ‘No, no, no – that’s fucking inconvenient Basil,’ said Edgar. ‘I’m sorry to use that language, but I can’t possibly wait that long. Berlin’s about to fall – if it hasn’t done already – yet all these godforsaken towns in the middle of Austria are still being fought over. We have to know what the hell’s going on with Leitner. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Rolf by any chance?’

  ‘No, Edgar, London keeps asking me. And before you ask, I’ve no view on whether he’s a Soviet spy or not. I’ve certainly never had him marked down as one, but then after everything we’ve been through since this damned war began, nothing would surprise me. I’m not sure how you’re going to get through US-controlled territory, then through Nazi-controlled territory and into Soviet-controlled Vienna and remain in one piece. I’d say your best bet is to go in as an Austrian citizen.’

  ‘I agree, but I need to get there fast. How far east is the USAF flying?’

  ‘I can check,’ said Remington-Barber. ‘But the last I heard they were still flying reasonably close to Vienna. Who controls what airspace is somewhat uncertain at the moment.’

  ‘Come on Basil,’ said Edgar, picking up his bag and heading out. ‘Let’s go and find whoever’s in charge of these things: they can drop me in tonight.’

  Edgar lied to the deeply sceptical USAF major and assured him that of course he’d kept up with his parachute training and there was no question he was up to it. He then started to pull an impressive number of strings, including Sir Roland Pearson at number 10 Downing Street, which had the required effect on the base commander at Neubiberg. Three hours later Edgar was floating gently through the still night sky towards a field less than 10 miles north west of Vienna. It had been a perfect drop: there were no trees nearby to worry about and he was able to roll along the field as soon as his boots touched the ground. He sat still for a moment or two, catching his breath and making out as much as he could of his surroundings in the half moon. He gathered the parachute and buried it together with all his jumping gear and the helmet, overalls and boots. From his rucksack he removed his German clothes and the papers Remington-Barber had brought for him. Sewn into his jacket were US dollars and British identity papers. I’m sure they’ll soon count for something Edgar, you may well need them, Remington-Barber had said. He’d been given a cloth cap, one that bulged more at the sides than ones in England and with a deeper peak, which would help conceal his face. The cap looked a bit too pristine, so he rubbed it in the dry earth. He checked his compass and when he was satisfied which direction he should head in, buried that too.

  One of the inevitable consequences of being somewhere in the immediate aftermath of a battle was the unusual movement of civilians. During the battle itself those civilians who were able to do so hid as best they could, often going without food and water for days at a time. They might be wounded or ill, or parted from loved ones or just afraid. But when the battle ended, their instinct was to move and they tended to do so in every direction, often as if the very act of moving was because they feel they ought to, rather than having any definite destination in mind.

  So that Thursday morning as soon as Edgar found the main road into Vienna he joined a steady stream of people: more were leaving the city than going towards it but there were enough of the latter for him to not look out of place. The train of people moved slowly and silently, fearful of what they’d find in the city, clearly traumatised by whatever it was they had left behind. They were on the outskirts of Vienna when they came across the first Soviet troops at a checkpoint just inside Penzing. Edgar shuffled along, doing his best to appear slightly lame and confused. The troops were most interested in anyone they suspected of being a German soldier and women under the age of 50. Anyone who fell into either of those categories was ushered into a nearby church. For a while the group Edgar was in was called to a halt in the road. From inside the church he could hear women squealing and as they were moved on he heard a volley of shots. The Red Army was clearly taking no prisoners.

  ‘Go to Morzinplatz,’ Remington-Barber had advised him. ‘Assuming it’s still standing, that is. Soviet Intelligence will want to base themselves there, makes sense. I’ll leave it to you as to what you do when you get there, but if there’s anything to find out about Leitner – it’ll be there.’

  Edgar arrived in Morzinplatz late that afternoon and took in as much as he could: the main thing was that it was busy and there were plenty of NKVD troops around, which was a good sign. From there he crossed the canal into Leopoldstadt and found his way to Obere Augartenstrasse. There wasn’t much left of the apartment block where Leitner had been hidden, it was little more than a blackened shell. A boy told him it had caught fire.

  When?

  During the battle.

  Did anyone survive?

  What do you think? Do you have any cigarettes… or food?

  Overwhelmed by exhaustion he walked back into Innere Stadt, where a Russian soup kitchen was begrudgingly serving some lukewarm gruel. Nearby he found a bomb-damaged office block where he bedded down for the night, sharing an alcove under some stairs with a family of hungry rats.

  Early the next morning, the Friday, he walked to Morzinplatz, picking up a shovel left by the side of a road. He hung around the edge of the square, watching the building and making sure to move bits of rubble around if anyone in Red Army uniform came near him.

  He spotted Rolf from a distance, standing with his back to the Canal on Franz-Josefs-Kai and doing a credible enough job of not making it too obvious he was monitoring the building. He moved to the other side of the square so a large tree – one of the few not to have been felled in the fighting – would help obscure him. Rolf seemed uncertain at first, then walked into the old Gestapo HQ with such a purpose Edgar conceded he’d been wrong and Porter had been right: Rolf was a Soviet agent after all.

  He was still watching the building when Rolf left it two hours later. He followed him as he walked through Innere Stadt. Twice Rolf was stopped by Soviet troops, but each time the papers he produced saw him through far quicker than any other civilians. Edgar had little doubt now that Rolf was a Soviet agent, but he needed to know why and he needed to know what had happened to Leitner. Rolf carried on walking: he paused outside Bank Leu and headed down Ungargasse. Edgar dropped back a little further and crossed to the other side of the road. He knew where Rolf was heading: at least he’d now get his chance.

 
; ***

  ‘How long have you been working for them Rolf?’

  The two men were sitting in the lounge, Rolf nervously on the edge of the sofa and Edgar on a chair he’d pulled up in front of him.

  ‘Working for whom?’

  ‘Come on Rolf… Come on… The Soviets. The war’s all over now bar the shouting so we can be honest with each other. I can disappear from Vienna as quietly as I arrived here, I can be gone tonight – but first I’d like to know what happened.’

  Rolf had a look of such hurt innocence about him that Edgar found himself in awe at how persuasive the young Austrian was. They’d all fallen for it, not least himself. Edgar regarded it as one of the most impressive performances he’d ever seen from a double agent – a breed of person in which he felt he had unequalled expertise.

  ‘Of course I don’t work for the bloody Soviets,’ said Rolf. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Edgar had to admit his indignation sounded genuine. ‘So you popped into the NKVD headquarters today for what…? To report a missing dog?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody sarcastic, Edgar: I actually risked my life going in there. I was trying to find out what happened to Katharina. I ought to tell you something, I’m not sure whether Basil realised this when he acted as matchmaker, but we’re both very fond of each other and…’

  ‘Congratulations, Rolf, but I need to know why you were there.’

  ‘There’s something else you need to know – I met Viktor there.’

  Major Edgar regarded displays of emotion and temper as indulgences reserved for the English upper and working classes and he was member of neither. But he sat in a state of shock as Rolf recounted his story in such a calm and plausible manner, with the right balance of detail, emotion and occasional imprecision, that Edgar began to question his judgement of the man and wondered whether the young Austrian was telling the truth after all.

  Rolf told Edgar of how, on the day the Soviet offensive began, Katharina had been arrested by the Gestapo and he’d been informed of it in a letter hand-delivered to the bank; how he’d returned to Ungargasse and watched as she was taken by the Gestapo from the apartment block they were both now sitting in; how he’d gone to Leitner’s cellar and remained there for a couple of days before stealing the ambulance and escaping from Vienna. He told of how Viktor had appeared and he’d shot him, and of the perilous journey west to find either the British or the Americans. And, finally, he told him that Leitner had died, quite possibly just minutes before they met the Americans.

  Edgar sat quietly, taking it all in.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be wanting proof Edgar,’ said Rolf. ‘Well, the American officer who can vouch for me is a Captain Henry Steele from the 5th Infantry Regiment and we buried Hubert Leitner is a wood just on the western side of the main Linz to Salzburg railway line, south west of Wels. I could show you the exact spot. He was an old, sick man: I’m sure you’ll find he died of natural causes. That’s certainly what the American Army doctor said.’

  When he began talking about Katharina, Rolf broke down. He paused frequently to sob quietly. He told Edgar that – once he’d discovered his fiancée, Frieda, had been murdered by the Gestapo – he’d realised just how much in love he was with Katharina and she with him. He was so desperate to find out her fate that he’d taken the enormous risk of returning to Vienna and going into the NKVD headquarters – the same building where Frieda had most probably been murdered.

  ‘Viktor wanted to know Leitner’s whereabouts, too, but when I asked about Katharina – he knows her as Anna Schuster – he admitted he was the one who’d informed on her to the Gestapo. It was a way of getting me to lead him to Leitner. I’m going back there tomorrow: Viktor’s promised to find out about Katharina, and in return I promised I’d tell him about Leitner.’

  ***

  Rolf and Edgar had talked long into the night. ‘Viktor won’t believe you about Leitner,’ Edgar had insisted.

  ‘But if it isn’t true, why on earth would I have returned to Vienna?’

  ‘He knows you’re a British spy. Maybe he thinks we’ve sent you to see what they’re up to.’

  ‘Or maybe he believes I’m desperate to find out about Katharina?’

  ‘I’m not sure Viktor’s capable of that kind of empathy.’

  ‘I’m telling you,’ said Rolf. ‘He seemed genuinely remorseful that he’d informed on her.’

  They decided to wait and see.

  ***

  Within minutes of Rolf’s arrival back at Morzinplatz that Saturday morning he was escorted to Viktor’s office. ‘First, tell me who you’re working for,’ said the Russian.

  ‘For the British – against the Nazis.’ Viktor looked taken aback that Rolf had been so forthcoming.

  ‘Tell me about Leitner.’

  ‘You promised you’d let me know about Anna…’

  ‘… After you told me about Leitner. I do have information for you, but I want to know about Leitner first.’

  ‘Leitner’s dead.’

  The Russian nodded his head, as if it was the news he expected to hear. From an inside pocket he removed a brown leather notebook, a pencil and switchblade knife, using one to sharpen the other. As Rolf told Viktor the story, the Russian wrote laboriously in his notebook. When he’d finished, he sat motionless as he looked at Rolf, as if trying to work out whether he was telling the truth.

  ‘If Leitner turns up alive, no matter where and no matter when, I promise you we’ll kill you. Understand?’

  Rolf nodded.

  ‘Follow me.’ Viktor led him down to the lower basement, along a dark, damp corridor with an uneven floor.

  ‘According to the records we found, Anna Schuster was brought here and interrogated by a Gestapo officer named Karl Strobel. Strobel ran Section lVA of the Gestapo, the section responsible for finding communists and other resistance groups. He’ll know what happened to her. Let me do the talking.’

  They stopped at a cell guarded by two NKVD soldiers. Viktor spoke quietly to them and they unlocked the door, following him in. The cell was long, narrow and brightly lit. On the wall facing the door was a large steel frame, strapped to which was a short, stocky man with a fat, red face, a short, pointed beard and a look of fear on his face. He was suspended from the frame by chains, his arms stretched above him, his toes only just touching the floor. His shirt had been ripped open and a line of dried vomit ran down his beard onto his chest. His trousers were stained and his whole body was shaking.

  Viktor arranged two chairs in front of the man, and he and Rolf sat down. The two NKVD guards stood at the back of the room. ‘This is Karl Strobel,’ said Viktor. ‘What rank in the Gestapo were you, Strobel?’

  ‘I have nothing to do with the Gestapo,’ He spoke in a surprisingly high pitched yet rough voice, as if the fear had taken hold in his throat. ‘I was a recruit in the Wehrmacht. I surrendered to your forces as soon as I could. I keep telling your colleagues that. Look, I was wearing a Wehrmacht uniform! I’m no Nazi; in fact, I’ve always been something of a communist, I’ve even read Marx! I should be treated as a prisoner of war!’

  ‘Strobel was in fact a Kriminaldirektor in the Gestapo, here in Morzinplatz,’ said Viktor, looking first at the man then at Rolf, as if describing a work of art to a gallery visitor. ‘Many people died in this basement at his hands. I’ll tell you more of that soon. But, Strobel, I want to ask you about a lady called Anna Schuster: she was arrested on the 2nd April and interrogated by you here. If it helps jog your memory, that was the day the Red Army began its attack on Vienna.’

  ‘I’ve no idea…’

  ‘… I know, I know, Strobel – I’ve heard it so many times. You don’t know anything… You’re a peaceful man – a communist even, you’ve read Marx… Look, I’m busy and so is this gentleman. If you want to be treated as a Prisoner of War, just tell me what happened to her.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re sure you want to persist with this?’

  Strobel said no
thing. He was twisting his body around, trying to get it into a position so the tips of his toes supported him on the floor. Viktor said something in Russian and one of the NKVD guards walked up to Strobel and punched him hard: once in the face then again in the stomach. Strobel screamed, twisting violently against his chains. Viktor turned around and addressed Rolf.

  ‘His name is all over the records we found here. He certainly interrogated Anna Schuster on at least two occasions. Now we’ll start to get serious with him.’ Viktor turned back to the prisoner. ‘Strobel, as an exponent of torture, are you familiar with the Chinese technique known as death by a thousand cuts?’

  Strobel stared at him; his eyes wide open, nostrils flared and panicked breathing coming from his mouth. He shook his head vigorously.

  ‘Apparently it was practised in China for hundreds of years, and as recently as the turn of this century French travellers describe having witnessed it. The emperors and other nobility reserved it for the most serious of cases. The prisoner is stripped naked, tied to a post then cut – a thousand times. It can take up to a day for them to die.’

  As he spoke Viktor removed the switchblade knife from his pocket, running a finger along the blade. ‘From what I’ve read, if the executioner starts with the limbs then the prisoner can remain conscious for a long time. Now, tell me about Anna Schuster.’

  ‘I saw so many people here, I can’t remember any names.’