Vienna Spies
Page 35
‘So you did work for the Gestapo?’
‘… Only in a very minor capacity, I was little more than a clerk really and a most reluctant one, I assure you of that.’
Viktor spoke again in Russian and a guard went over to Strobel, tore away the remains of his shirt and pulled down his trousers. ‘Some accounts of a death by a thousand cuts said that, if the executioner was especially cruel or the victim’s crime particularly heinous, they’d start with the genitals…’
‘Mauthausen!’
‘Pardon?’
‘She’s in Mauthausen and it wasn’t my decision to send her there – I was about to release her. Ask Mildner, Rudolf Mildner – he’s the man in charge of the Gestapo here, he’s the man you want to question, not me! I’m just a clerk.’
‘Unfortunately, Rudolf Mildner fled just before we arrived,’ said Viktor, who then turned and said something to one of the guards in Russian. ‘But we’ll check to see if you’re telling the truth.’
‘What’s Mauthausen?’ It was the first time Rolf had spoken.
‘It’s a prison camp, that’s all…’ said Strobel. ‘Whatever goes on there is nothing to do with me.’
‘Shut up,’ Viktor told him.
Ten minutes later the NKVD guard returned and spoke with Viktor, handing him a sheet of paper, which looked like a long list of names.
‘So it looks as though you were telling the truth, Strobel. According to this, Anna Schuster was indeed transported to Mauthausen on the 5th April.’ Viktor stood up, straightening his jacket and moving his chair back against the wall.
‘You see? I told you! You’ll let me go now, yes? I’m a Prisoner of War, remember that. Please let me down from here.’
‘Wait a moment,’ said Viktor. ‘I’m not finished yet. Do either of you know a Frieda Brauner?’
Rolf looked stunned and he heard a sharp intake of breath from Strobel.
‘She was you fiancée, am I right?’
Rolf nodded.
‘I have to tell you this man here murdered Frieda in one of these cells in March 1942.’ Viktor was pointing his knife at Strobel. The look of fear the Austrian had worn when they’d had first entered the room was nothing compared to his expression now. Rolf could see the man’s heart beating hard in his chest and his face turn white as he repeated the word ‘no’.
Viktor held out his knife and offered it to Rolf. ‘Would you like the honour of revenge? Remember, this man murdered your fiancée.’
Rolf shook his head and tried to turn but Viktor stopped him. ‘You need to watch. I would happily do it myself, but my arm…’ He beckoned one of the guards, handing the knife to him, saying just one word to him in Russian: medlenno. He kept on repeating the word as the guard plunged his knife into Strobel’s abdomen.
***
Fifteen minutes later Rolf and Viktor were sitting in the office on the third floor, drinking brandy. Rolf was smoking his third cigarette, clutching it so tightly in his trembling hand that some of the tobacco had spilled onto his trouser leg. He was still recovering from being forced to watch Strobel’s last terrible moments on earth. The NKVD guard had stuck the knife in Strobel’s lower abdomen then pulled it slowly upwards towards his chest, while a desperate cry like that of a wounded animal reverberated around the cell. Rolf took another large swig of brandy, trying hard to dispel the image of what he’d seen from his mind. ‘You kept saying a word to the guard, what was it?’
‘Medlennno,’ replied Viktor. ‘It means slowly.’
It certainly been slow, thought Rolf. Strobel had been conscious for most of the minute it took him to die, not once taking his bulging and tearful eyes off Rolf.
‘This was his office, you know?’ Viktor was speaking in a matter-of-fact manner, sensing Rolf’s discomfort and trying to change the subject. ‘That’s how we found out all that information; he was meticulous in keeping records. There was a file on Frieda.’
‘This place he said Anna had been taken to – the prison camp?’
‘Mauthausen. It’s what the Nazis call a concentration camp. They built dozens of them around occupied Europe. Hundreds of thousands of people were murdered at some of them, mostly Jews. Recently, though, Mauthausen has been mainly for political prisoners. We know the American Third Army’s in that area, but we don’t know whether it’s reached the camp yet. We’d better get you there as soon as possible.’
Viktor poured himself another large brandy and carried it to the window overlooking Morzinplatz, gazing out onto the square for a while. ‘He’s still there: he’s very good you know, quite remarkable really. I’ll tell you what – if we provide transport and an escort, he could go with you to Mauthausen. What do you think?’
‘Who?’
‘Your Major Edgar!’ Viktor was pointing out of the window. ‘At least he won’t have to pretend to be a refugee any longer.’
Chapter 30
Vienna and Mauthausen, May 1945
Katharina had arrived at Mauthausen on Friday 6th April and her first few days were spent in a daze. She was slow to respond when the guards barked orders and reluctant to eat what little food there was. For some reason, the kapo who’d harassed her on the first day had ignored her since, but she failed to recognise her good luck. Instead she slipped into a state of depression. After a few days she was taken aside by one of the Spanish Republican prisoners in her hut, a dark-haired Catalan called Montse with jet-black eyes and a hard, thin face.
‘You have to decide whether you want to live or die,’ Montse told her. ‘If you want to die, that’s your choice. But if you want to live then I suggest you decide quickly, otherwise you’ll reach the point when you won’t be able to change your mind.’
‘Of course I want to live,’ said Katharina, though not with much conviction.
‘In that case, start acting like you do,’ said Montse. ‘You need to eat because if you don’t you’ll get ill and, once that happens, you’re finished – faint from hunger and they’ll put a bullet in your head. And you also need to get smart. You need to understand this place and stay one step ahead of the guards. You don’t appreciate how cheap human life is here. The way you’re going, you won’t last the week.’
The camp was overcrowded: the rumours were that it was one of the last in Europe still under Nazi control, so in the past few weeks tens of thousands of prisoners had been force-marched there as the Allies and the Red Army had liberated camps elsewhere. As a result, disease was rife and the SS guards, sensing defeat, were even more prone than usual to kill prisoners for the slightest of excuses.
Katharina was sent to work at a quarry near the main camp, where her job was to help break up rocks that other prisoners had carried up. A Russian prisoner of war told her she was lucky it was good weather. ‘In the winter, people didn’t last more than a week in this job, two at the most.’
‘And how long do they last in this weather?’
‘Three weeks – maybe four,’ he replied cheerfully.
But one day, after the 6.00 morning roll call, none of the prisoners were lined up into their work details. They were made to stand in the large open areas for more than two hours before being sent back to the huts. The newer prisoners were relieved not to have been sent to work. The more experienced ones like Marie and Montse were worried. ‘It’s not good: we’re only of any use to them if we’re working,’ they said.
It was the 20th April, Hitler’s birthday. Until then Katharina had thought she was in hell and it couldn’t get any worse – but that day it did. The rumours started later that morning: prisoners from the infirmary block were being killed, thousands of them. That afternoon all the women in her hut were ordered to the infirmary where they were forced to carry the dead patients to the crematoria. Some patients were heaped on wagons and some carried by stretcher, but there were so many of them that they were forced to carry them as best they could.
Some of the prisoners were still alive. Though most were unconscious, a few were aware what was happening. Katharina’s fi
rst living victim was a Spanish man, little more than a skeleton and apparently dead, but as she hauled him over her shoulder he began to speak, in Spanish at first then in German: let me down, carry me out of the camp, I need water…
This continued until they reached the crematoria, where the sonderkommando grabbed the man from her and threw him in the ovens as he began to scream.
They carried on late into the night then lay stunned on their bunks, still having been given no food. One of the other women said she’d overheard a guard boast 3,000 people had been killed from the infirmary block that day.
She’d just fallen asleep when she became aware of noisy breathing next to her along with the reek of alcohol. When she opened her eyes she saw it was the kapo. He clamped a rough, greasy hand over her mouth as he climbed on top of her and ripped open her tunic. He was mercifully quick and almost gentle, and when he’d finished he lay over her, propped up on his elbows, his face just an inch or two from hers. He gazed down at her, his foul breath directed into her nostrils, and stroked her face with his rough hands, smiling then kissing her, on her cheek first then on the lips, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. His kisses were almost affectionate and when he’d finished he buried his head in her hair and whispered something like ‘my love’ and ‘tomorrow’.
And that was when she began to die. She’d become inured to the violence and the terror; that was impersonal, everyone in the camp was experiencing it. But the intimacy she couldn’t cope with.
***
Rolf was so shocked the Russian had spotted Edgar from his window that he remained seated. He said nothing, hoping it was a trick: it wasn’t possible, he told himself – if anyone could remain hidden, surely it’d be Edgar. Viktor turned around, smiling broadly, allowing a flash of gold teeth.
‘Come here if you don’t believe me – come!’ Viktor waved him over to the window, like an child eager to show something to a parent. Rolf stood by the window with Viktor’s arm around his shoulder and sure enough he could see Edgar in the distance in the square below, his cap pulled down low over his face as he shovelled bits of debris towards a pile by the canal wall. Viktor shouted out in Russian and one of his officers came in to be given a series of instructions. Viktor and Rolf waited by the window and watched as a few minutes later the officer and a dozen NKVD troops appeared in the square and marched towards Edgar, surrounded him and marched him to the building.
Five minutes later Major Edgar from MI6 was standing in front of Viktor Krasotkin of the GRU in the elegant third floor office, flanked by two NKVD soldiers. The two men looked at the other with a similar countenance, one best described as a mixture of curiosity and distrust with a certain measure of respect thrown in. They stood just a foot from each other for two silent minutes, eyeing each other up and down like bulls finding themselves in the same field. Viktor walked back to his desk and sat down, lit a cigarette then removed his switchblade knife from his pocket before sharpening his pencil again, allowing the shards to scatter across the desk. He spoke briefly in Russian and one of the guards pulled up a chair. The other guard pushed Edgar into it.
‘You’re German is obviously good enough for us to converse in.’
Edgar nodded.
‘I never imagined the two of us would meet,’ said Viktor, raising his eyebrows, inviting an answer.
‘Well, that’s the war for you, eh?’
‘Indeed: but we’re allies, after all, aren’t we? We’re on the same side, but how much longer will that be for – days, weeks? Months at the most, I’d say. And even though we’re on the same side, we’re also enemies at the same time, are we not?’
‘I’d prefer to say rivals,’ said Edgar.
The Russian laughed. ‘I’m sure you would prefer to say that, Edgar: English understatement. But you’re in my custody now. Of course you’re not going to describe yourself as my enemy!’
The Russian smiled as he topped up his glass of brandy then poured one for Edgar, pushing it to the front of the desk towards the Englishman.
‘I think we could describe the situation between us now as like a ceasefire, a very brief period…’ Viktor’s voice trailed off, he was thinking. ‘Rolf, would you leave us please.’ Then he snapped an instruction to the two guards and they left the room too.
The two spymasters were now alone. Viktor carried his chair from behind the desk and placed it alongside Edgar, positioning it so it faced in the opposite direction, their shoulders touching. ‘What I’m going to say, no one should hear. You understand?’
Edgar nodded and edged his chair even closer to the Russian’s.
‘You’ll leave Vienna today with Rolf and never return. No one need know you’ve been here. You understand? But you leave on two conditions. The first is that you go directly from here to Mauthausen – the Nazi concentration camp near Linz. We know Anna Schuster was sent there around a month ago. That area is either under the control of the US Army or about to be, so I expect that by the time you get there it’ll have been liberated. I’ll provide you with an escort.’
‘Are you sure she’s still alive?’
The Russian shook his head. ‘No, but…’
‘Why are you so keen to help?’
‘Because I was responsible for her arrest: if you can rescue her, that’ll ease my conscience.’
‘You mean you have one?’
‘I’ve as much or as little of a conscience as you do; we’re in the same line of work after all.’ Viktor turned to stare at Edgar, daring him to believe what he’d said.
‘You said there were two conditions, what’s the second one?’
‘I’m 45,’ said Viktor. ‘As old as the century. You look surprised Edgar – I know I probably look much older, but then I’ve been in the service of my country in this capacity for more than 20 years and you’ll appreciate that ages anyone. I never expected to survive this long and I’ve no idea how much longer I’ll survive, but let me say I’ve started to think about my survival. One day I may need your assistance, Edgar. I may have to contact you, be it directly or indirectly. I’d like you to give me your word that should I do so, you’ll do what you can to help me.’
Edgar nodded slowly. ‘And how will I know it’s a genuine approach?’
Viktor looked around the room and said nothing, appearing not to have heard the question. He walked over to the desk and picked up a nearly empty bottle of brandy, a pear-shaped bottle with the words ‘Baron Otard, Cognac’ on the label.
‘We found cases of these here, the spoils of war.’ He tapped the bottle. ‘Should you ever get a message that a Baron Otard is trying to contact you, you’ll know it’s genuine, that it’s me. You understand?’
Edgar said he understood, but…
‘Don’t look so worried! I may never need your help. They may get me first or I may never be in danger: I could be promoted and protected, and we’ll remain opponents. But remember, Baron Otard…’
***
Montse, the Spanish Republican, mentioned it first then Marie the French resistance fighter noticed it too. The eyes were the first sign – and after the massacre at the infirmary and being raped by the kapo all the life had disappeared from Anna Schuster’s. She lay still on her bunk, not sleeping, not eating and barely acknowledging anyone around her. She was clearly unwell now, her body wracked alternately by raging temperatures then painful chills. For a few days after the mass deaths there was an uneasy lack of activity around the camp as the SS seemed more preoccupied with themselves than the prisoners. The rumours were rife: the Americans would be here today, tomorrow – or maybe the Russians, next week. In the confusion the prisoners in their hut were left alone but they knew it wouldn’t be long before the SS turned their attention back to them. Every night the kapo came to her bunk and when he’d finished he’d lie next to her, staying for as long as an hour, cuddling her, kissing her and whispering into her ear: ‘We’ll be so happy together.’ When he left, Montse and Marie did their best to rouse Anna. It won’t be long, we’ll be l
iberated soon. Just pull yourself together for the last few days.
***
‘You’ll travel to Mauthausen on the Danube,’ Viktor had announced, sounding like a travel agent discussing the itinerary with a client.
‘Won’t we be rather vulnerable on the river?’ Edgar had replied incredulously.
‘You’ll be vulnerable whichever way you go. You’ll be travelling from Soviet-held territory through areas still under Nazi control then to where the Americans are: nowhere will be safe. All the time the battle lines will be shifting. The Danube may just be a safer route, who knows? Mauthausen is less than a mile from the north bank of the river, before it enters Linz.’
Viktor took them to the Floridsdorfer Bridge, one of the only ones in Vienna to have survived the battle for the city. Moored at a small quay was a battered tug, bouncing up and down in the dirty, choppy waters. The Donau Mädchen was long past its better days, its rusty hull pockmarked with bullet holes. It would attract little attention. Accompanying Edgar and Rolf was a young, three-star NKVD Starshiy Leytenant called Alexei Abelev. ‘Alexei will protect you if you’re stopped by our forces,’ said Viktor. ‘I trust him and he also speaks some German.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Edgar. ‘But what if we run into the Germans?’
Viktor said nothing, but led them onto the boat and into the wheelhouse where a tall man was checking the instruments. Rolf let out a gasp of recognition when he saw the man, who nodded back. The two men shook hands and slapped each on the shoulder.
‘Joachim?’
‘Joachim joined the Wasserschutzpolizei, the river police,’ explained Viktor. ‘But he’s also been working for me. He knows the river well and will skipper the boat. If you come across any Nazi forces, he should be able to persuade them there’s no problem.’
As dusk began to fall the Donau Mädchen set sail, gently sliding along the river as it headed west towards Linz. Lang had found an old engineer whom he trusted, so there were five of them aboard. Lang remained in the wheelhouse while Edgar, Rolf and Abelev remained below deck. Lang had felt the most dangerous part of the journey would be between Vienna and Krems. ‘There are more likely to be Nazi forces in that area,’ he’d said. ‘I’m wearing my uniform below my overalls, so if there’s any problem…’