by Bonnie Toews
On the lower level, a private bar and kitchen occupied the small wing, which was originally the music room adjoining the reception area. From here, the grand piano had been moved to the center of the lounge to encourage singsongs and gatherings of appreciation around those who performed. It was amazing how many journalists were either hobby pianists or enjoyed the company of those who were. Lee believed sessions around the piano substituted for a sense of family, something most correspondents missed. Tonight, they expected Lady Grace Radcliffe from England would perform on this elite Steinway sent from New York in 1931.
Berlin’s International Press Club filled in two waves every day, either before five o’clock or after midnight, depending on deadlines. Journalists often invited translators from the Propaganda Ministry to meet them in the lounge to help them figure out the German text of Hitler’s speeches, or to discuss press releases from the Chancellery. Though they easily got along, Lee never kidded herself. These German interpreters were there to gather as much information from the foreign correspondents as they were there to clarify what was going on.
To attend Lady Grace’s performance at the Charlotteberg Opera House earlier, Lee had selected a diamond necklace, one Quinn had given her for occasions like this, and a full-length, bare shoulder, dark green satin gown that sheathed her body. She had gathered her lustrous dark hair to the back of her head in a smooth French roll in understated elegance to capture the sensual grace Quinn said attracted men to her. As Lee hung her evening wrap in the library’s cloakroom, she could hear men’s voices arguing in the anteroom.
“Look, Hitler hasn’t shed the blood of one soldier, yet in two years he’s walked in and taken over all the Rhineland, Austria, and now Sudetenland.”
Lee smiled. There was no mistaking Kurt Lindahl’s mid-west twang. Kurt was the bureau chief for United Press.
“Tell me he’s not outwittin’ the western powers every step of the way,” Kurt continued. His voice rose in frustration. “In the west, the French army outnumbers the German army ten to one. All the French have to do is overtake the Ruhr, and Hitler’s arms industry is finished. So, what does England and France do? They hand over the Sudetenland to Hitler because they’re afraid the Luftwaffe will wipe ’em out. In God’s name, what is your Chamberlain usin’ for brains, Quinn?”
“I agree,” Lee said, stepping into the conversation among the small group of correspondents.
“Hitler won’t be satisfied with just the Sudetenland. He wants all Czechoslovakia. It’s just the way Churchill said it would be when he told Chamberlain: Hitler gave you a choice between war and dishonor. You chose dishonor, and you WILL have war.”
“Old Churchill’s right about that,” drawled Lindahl. “And once Hitler knows how feeble-minded the Western allies really are, he’ll pick his own time and take over the whole cotton-pickin’country of Czechoslovakia.”
“What’s worse,” commented the Columbia Broadcasting System’s European broadcaster, William Baird, in his softer, richer voice, “he’s convinced the German people he’s invincible.”
“Why not!” demanded Lindahl. “He’s delivered three bloodless victories. He’s so puffed up with his own power, he believes he can get away with anythin’. You can blame that dimwit Lindbergh for makin’ it so easy too.”
“I agree, Kurt,” interjected Quinn. “Charles Lindbergh is one fine pilot, but he knows nothing about military planes. Why you Americans sent over such a gullible bloke to scout out the Luftwaffe is an even bigger mystery to me. The Germans convinced him the Luftwaffe is superior to the combined air fleets of Britain, France, Czechoslovakia and Russia. After the Condor Legion’s incendiary bombings in Spain, he really believes the German air force is capable of wiping out the biggest cities in Europe. He in turn convinced the British, the French and the Americans Hitler’s bluff is true when, in fact, the Luftwaffe can’t reach England from their present bases.”
“What do you mean London is beyond the Luftwaffe’s reach?” broke in Lee.
“The range of a bomber carrying a thousand-pound bomb load is 430 miles. For fighter planes, it’s even less. So, the maximum range any German plane can fly has to be the same, 400 miles at best. It’s just simple arithmetic, Lee.”
Quinn’s green eyes twinkled at her, softening the sarcasm in his tone.
“Just add the figures, Lee” Lindahl added. He straightened his slumped posture as he retrieved a package of Export cigarettes from his breast pocket and continued in a patronizing voice.
“The Luftwaffe has to get to England from German bases and back without refuelin’—That’s more than 800 miles round trip. See how impossible it is.”
At this moment an SS colonel interrupted the small group.
“Am I too early for Lady Grace’s reception?” he asked.
Lee spoke first. “By about fifteen minutes.”
“That’s good. I’m Colonel Erich von Lohren. While we’re waiting, could I get everyone a drink from the bar?”
“Why not?” Lee answered for them all.
The SS officer intrigued her. She glanced at Quinn to catch his reaction. With his gaze fixed on the German, a telltale furrow twitched between Quinn’s eyebrows.
The journalists followed the Nazi colonel to a cushioned booth by the fireplace. As they sat down, Lee introduced herself and her fellow correspondents.
Von Lohren handed a list of cocktails to Lee, who selected a Black Russian and passed the drink card to Quinn. Lindahl shook out a cigarette from the Export package and drawled, “I hear Hitler has fallen for the dear cousin of the king of England.”
The SS officer looked aghast at the suggestion.
“Our Führer recognizes her greatness and acknowledges it to the world with the dignity Lady Grace deserves.”
Lee took pity on him. “Kurt is just pulling your leg.”
Colonel von Lohren frowned in confusion. “Pulling my leg? What does that mean?”
“It’s American slang. It means he’s teasing you, Colonel,” Quinn explained and smiled with sympathy at the German. “You sound like an Englishman. Are you a translator?”
“No, I serve with Heydrich’s SD under General Walther Schellenberg.”
Quinn raised one eyebrow.
“Indeed. Does your assignment bring you to Berlin?”
“Until last week, I was head of Security at Berlin’s Propaganda Ministry.”
“And now?” Lee prompted.
“I leave for Copenhagen in the morning.”
“On holiday, of course,” Quinn said.
“No,” smiled Von Lohren with amusement, “as a member of Germany’s Diplomatic Legation to the king of Denmark.”
“Denmark?” Quinn turned to include Lee. “We’ve never been there. Perhaps you would let us tag along to do a travel spread on a day in the life of Hitler’s Elite,” Quinn suggested.
“Make your request in writing to General Schellenberg,” von Lohren replied. “He may like the idea.”
The SS Colonel directed his gaze towards Lee. “Does ‘us’ include you?”
“Exclusively.”
“Then I will have to use my influence to persuade the General to approve Herr Bergin’s request, won’t I?”
Lee inclined her head in a gesture of agreement. This Nazi officer might be fun to cultivate for Intelligence. His tall frame offered an imposing presence, and she understood why he was a perfect choice for the Propaganda Ministry. In uniform, Colonel von Lohren represented the ideal Aryan model of the pure race Hitler coveted: deep blue eyes, sculpted features, clear skin and a pair of dimples that softened his severity. She wondered what he had done to achieve such a high rank in the SS so quickly. She offered him her most winning smile.
Soon the main lounge filled with foreign dignitaries and staff officers from the German High Command. Most of the Nazi officers and their wives Lee had already met at Hermann Goring’s KarinHall estate, the home of the dual Reichstag president and Luftwaffe chief in the Schorfheide forests north east of Berlin. Th
ere, only foreign dignitaries and Hitler’s inner circle partied. How often had she been subjected to their tiresome bragging about his lavish banquets? If the Berliners weren’t gloating over the popular works of German composers, especially Hitler’s favorite Richard Wagner, they were prattling on about their film star idols, fancy nightspots and elegant restaurants: all safe, non-political topics except for their constant praise of the great prosperity der Führer had brought them in just five years.
As she looked around, Quinn directed her to check one face she recognized but had not yet met: the Gestapo’s new section head for Berlin, Colonel Ludwig Ketmann. His silken-textured hair, the color of honey, was perfectly groomed back from his smooth forehead to frame the chiseled features of his highly polished face. His expensive suit fit into this room of exquisitely dressed people, but the correctness of his posture and immaculate neatness unmasked a deeper need for absolute control. He moved through the gathering like a shark swishing between swimmers treading water. She could feel those he brushed by hold their breath until he passed out of range. At one point, he stopped and turned towards Lee. His eyes held a curious scrutiny of her. Chills spilled down her spine. His mouth twisted into a thin smile of approval before his attention shifted back to circling the room for suspicious prey.
From what Lee had already learned, Ketmann spoke flawless English but little else was known about him: where he came from, what schools he attended. That didn’t surprise her. She had read SS Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler, who looked like an owl-faced schoolmaster, believed the less people knew about his agents the more intimidating the SS and Gestapo became.
Though many believed Himmler was Hitler’s closest advisor, Himmler’s second-in-command, Reinhard Heydrich, threatened his favor. As far as Lee was concerned, Hitler played the rivalry between his two Intelligence chiefs with such finesse neither trusted the other. It kept the three-tiered organization—SS, Gestapo and SD—imbalanced and cemented the loyalty of the two henchmen to Hitler. Lee found the Führer’s strategy cunning and was secretly amazed. Hitler wasn’t the buffoon Chamberlain’s government portrayed him to be to the English people.
As she collected more information on Hitler’s inner circle, she learned Himmler, like the Führer, had no tolerance for intellectuals. Neither did Ketmann, it seemed. She had already heard from Communist sources he bullied his suspects and tortured his prisoners. Heydrich, on the other hand, was called Himmler’s brain behind the Gestapo chief’s back. He did respect the academic ego and scholarly mind, with the tolerance of one who understood individual differences, and took pride in seducing his suspects to find out what he wanted. She was willing to bet Hitler’s fascination with Heydrich stemmed more from his fear of being outsmarted by him than from true admiration.
But now Ketmann’s influence was also growing. It made him an obvious target for Quinn to study, and the likelihood loomed before her. Watching the Gestapo chief walk out of her line of vision filled her with dread. He hadn’t looked at her with lust as most men did. Instead, during his cool appraisal a few moments before, she had felt like a flea trapped under his microscope. She might make him itch with desire, but his searching eyes told her he would rather dissect her than seduce her. That look also convinced her Ketmann was capable of cold-blooded murder.
FIVE
Wednesday, November 9th, 1938
The chatter quieted, and all eyes turned to the entrance hall. Colonel Erich von Lohren recognized Lady Grace wrapped in a white ermine fur. He wondered where the young pianist’s parents were. Normally they were quite protective of their protégé daughter and abandoning her to a room filled with Nazis seemed out of character. Ah! Gut. There was Sir Fletcher McAlister. Clearly, they trusted her with him. The Scotsman’s thick red mustache quivered as he laughed at something the Press Club host said before they disappeared into the checkroom with the reception committee.
Erich was in a quandary. Should he give his information directly to Sir Fletcher in passing conversation or test the British spymaster’s coding system in the face of some of Germany’s highest-ranking generals and the Gestapo’s shark-eyed Colonel Ketmann? How he managed the latter depended on Lady Grace’s acquiescence with so many strangers gathered around her at the grand piano.
Most classical musicians were gifted with perfect pitch, and Sir Fletcher and Erich were no exception. This ability is what gave Erich the idea to disguise their coded transmissions in music. He worked out, if they altered the inner harmonies and rhythms of selected pieces, they could designate the last note of each bar in the alto line for their code. Because there were only seven notes, he designated A through G on the keyboard as symbols for a series of letters or numbers. If A-Sharp were played twice followed by a rest in the fourth bar, the sharp meant convert the letters into their corresponding numbers and the rest represented STOP, or the end of the sequence. So, A-Sharp played twice meant one-one, which formed the two-digit number, eleven, followed by STOP. Sir Fletcher provided the poetic justice in their system. He selected the key to their code—Hitler’s manifest, Mein Kampf.
The first number represented the page number in Mein Kampf. The rest of the series referred to the word on that page of the book. Eleven, rest… five, rest… nine, rest… translated into page eleven, line five, word nine. If a flat were struck instead of a sharp, then the letter for the note such as E-Flat, not its number, represented a key phrase from a prearranged list similar to QUO in the standard code format that stood for: I’m in imminent danger of capture. The method was impossible to detect. Even if a Gestapo cryptographer detected the pattern, he didn’t have the key.
At this reception, Lady Grace was giving an informal recital. Some of the dignitaries had already taken seats surrounding the grand piano, while others, like Erich, preferred to stand. His sudden thrust into danger quickened an adrenaline rush. He tucked in his stomach, breathed in deeply and strolled into the main lounge just as the committee from the Reich Cultural Society and a bevy of reporters escorted Lady Grace and Sir Fletcher into the center of the main hall.
While walking over to the piano, Lady Grace paused. He saw her eyes rove over the guests and stop at him. She openly stared at him, and her eyes lit up as if she knew him.
What? Acutely aware of Colonel Ketmann’s sudden interest in her attraction to him, Erich recovered his surprise and began clapping to divert her attention. The room filled with welcoming applause. He thought he detected Lady Grace blush. She dropped her eyes modestly, and his heart recovered its normal beat as she carried on walking toward the grand piano.
Again, her performance thrilled him. He absorbed every nuance of Beethoven’s powerful cadences and frolicking scales to the final lilting passages of the Moonlight Sonata, which she shaped with the skill of a bel canto singer. It was a performance of art and spirit blissfully intertwined.
While the applause lingered, Erich threaded his way through her admirers draping the piano to stand at its edge where Lady Grace could spot him. Instantly her sky blue eyes lit up with a twinkle. She raised one brow and smiled demurely.
“At last we meet.”
“I’m sorry, Lady Grace, but where have you seen me before? I cannot believe that I would not have introduced myself.”
“At the time, you couldn’t. You were in the audience, down center, when I performed at the Belvedere Festival in Vienna. Under the spotlight, it’s easy to make out faces in the first few rows. Everything else beyond is a blur.”
His heart quickened. Mere infatuation paled in comparison to the magnetic obsession that gripped him when he recalled her performance. No matter what he did to forget her, she had lingered in his mind, a mutual attraction it seemed.
“You deserved to win the Gold Medal. No pianist in Europe plays Tchaikovsky any better.”
She tipped her head to one side. “Thank you… ah…” Her smile disarmed him. “What do I call you?”
“Forgive my poor manners, Lady Grace.”
He clicked his heels and bowed. “Baron Erich vo
n Lohren.”
“In the uniform of the SS.” She looked straight into his soul. “You must be quite influential, Colonel.”
Surprised at her recognition of his rank, he fingered the officer’s patch on his left collar.
“My family dates back to the Junker knights of the 1300s, to the Uradel title. We have served Germany faithfully for many centuries, and my Uradel title gives me a preferred status in the SS. But, unlike most of my peers with Uradel titles, I am a horse breeder, not a real estate developer, nor an industrialist. I believe I read about your filly. Did she not win the British Breeders Crown, Lady Grace?”
“Yes. Decency won.”
“A remarkable feat for a filly to beat a strong field of colts.”
“Do you think so?” she asked him.
“Indeed.”
“I believe in mixing bloodlines to keep the breed strong.”
She spoke with a soft, cultured English accent, but he instantly understood her challenge to Germany’s obsession with genetic purity. She was clever and spirited. Erich liked that.
“If you breed the best to the best, you’ll produce the best.”
“That’s where we disagree, Colonel. Decency’s dam is a thoroughbred from quite common stock, but she has the intelligence and the conformation of a champion. I bred her to our fastest stallion, and you know the result.”
“Perhaps you’ve been lucky this time, Lady Grace. I’ve produced some of Germany’s fastest trotters breeding the best to the best.”
“How lucky for you!”
Another challenge. He changed the subject.
“Would you grant me a favor? Ever since I heard you perform in Vienna, I have wanted to play a duet with you.”
