“My heartfelt condolences, sir. Such tragedies were not uncommon then, and sadly still occur today. Newly-found power is seductive, nicht wahr? We servants of the Third Reich may share a common goal, but no consensus on how best to achieve it.”
A wary Rolf offered a formulaic response: “Thankfully we have our Führer to guide us.”
Both glanced up abruptly as the aide drew the curtain aside. He set down two cocktails and just as quickly withdrew.
“Yes, of course, but our beloved Führer—being such a busy man—cannot possibly keep track of everything his loyal followers undertake.” The latent sarcasm in the admiral’s words was as strong as Rolf’s first sip of his martini. “So we are forced to regulate our own actions, at least insofar as we can.” He took an olive between his teeth and withdrew the toothpick. “Which provides considerable latitude in interpreting our assignments, don’t you think?” Canaris toasted his companion and both drank. “Now tell me about your current assignment with the Sicherheitsdienst.”
Rolf knew of the bitter turf war between the SD and the Abwehr, and also knew the need for discretion. He harbored no love for his current bosses. Life had been hell in the SD after his parents’ disappearance into the Sachsenhausen concentration camp, their ultimate fate unknown. His long-standing connections within the Nazi Party had yielded no answers. In fact, his personal inquiries had come to an abrupt halt with orders to drop the matter accompanied by none-too subtle threats of expulsion from the Party. And perhaps worse. Despite the loss of family wealth he had maintained his own investments and annuities which enabled the luxurious lifestyle he required. But his income stream already showed strains of weakening as the war took its toll in the homeland. Shortages of every kind were becoming more apparent daily, and—much to Rolf’s personal disappointment—getting hand-made British shoes or a custom-tailored suit from Savile Row was now only a dream. “In all candor, things haven’t been easy within the SD. Mistrust rules.”
“The nature of our business. Suspicion, distrust, ruse upon ruse.”
“I would like to think that—within our own ranks, at least—we can find some degree of trust.”
“Have your assignments inspired you to trust?” Canaris didn’t wait for an answer. “Without betraying confidences, what can you tell me about your recent work in the east?”
With the Blitzkrieg of September 1939, Rolf had accompanied a Waffen-SS division into Poland, and by summer of 1940 he was in Krakow under orders to help stabilize the local populace. The occupation authority was setting up a forced-labor camp in the right bank district of Plaszow, and Rolf became involved in helping fill the barbed-wire confines. A number of helpful Polish citizens stepped forward to aid in the suppression of dissidents and the elimination of the Jewish threat. Rolf followed orders, helped quash resistance, and witnessed gut-wrenching executions and families torn apart by war. He returned to Berlin a sobered man. But in spite of his unflinching service, his superiors within the SD hierarchy had still eyed him with suspicion—his parents’ “sedition” always tainting some file—and he found himself ever more excluded.
So when invited to meet at this well-known restaurant on the Wilhelmsplatz, he had arrived filled with curiosity and a touch of dread. Now one of the most powerful men in intelligence was vetting him personally, but to what purpose? Rolf was well aware that his personal rank in the intelligence services did not warrant an invitation to drink with this inscrutable Reich leader. So he replied with caution: “Routine desk matters now that things in Krakow and Poland have settled down. Nothing of particular note; just sorting reports on the Jewish situation there.”
“Please, let’s not speak cavalierly of the ‘Jewish situation.’ I was at Bedzin in September ’39 to witness our SS troops herding hundreds of Jews into a synagogue and setting it afire.” He finished his martini in one long draught. “These mass executions of the Jews, this singling out of Polish aristocracy and Catholic clergy for extermination—we have nothing there to be proud of.”
Rolf realized he had either found a kindred spirit, or might be stepping into a trap. “I was equally shocked by what I saw in Krakow, Herr Admiral.” He lowered his voice and shook his head. “Horrifying.”
Canaris idly rolled the stem of his empty glass between two fingers. When he spoke again, his mood had abruptly lightened. “Then you wouldn’t mind a change of pace? Something a bit more to your tastes…Paris, perhaps?”
“Paris?” Had he misheard following such talk of inhumanity and barbarism?
“Let’s be frank, Herr von Haldheim.” Canaris regarded him with heavy-lidded eyes, and Rolf noted he had stopped using his SD rank. “I know a great deal about you, and I appreciate what you bring to the table. I also knew your late father quite well, and although we didn’t always see eye-to-eye, we did share certain beliefs on what is best—and worst—for our nation. That’s why I thought you might be of value in achieving my goals for our beloved Deutschland.”
Rolf didn’t miss the Admiral’s emphasis on the word “my.” He recalled a rumor that on more than one occasion Canaris had referred to his fellow Nazis as “sheep.”
“I’m flattered, sir, but in all candor, my father and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye on everything, either.”
“None of that matters now. What does matter is whether we can work past any differences and accomplish something of value to help Germany survive and prosper. Our work in the Abwehr is somewhat different from those more regimented efforts done on your current side of the fence, and I personally favor giving my operatives plenty of autonomy.”
“That would be a pleasant change of pace.”
“I speak in all candor. Your Sicherheitsdienst is saddled with shortsighted direction—it lives in fear of independent thought…much like its parent, the SS. We of the Abwehr see a broader picture, and know there are many means to achieve our goals. I value education and good breeding. I want wolves, not sheep. My personnel, left to their own devices, accomplish so much more than those who live in dread of some bourgeois overseer hampering their creativity and stealing their accomplishments, all to rise higher in the Party’s favor. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir, very clear indeed.”
“And you are interested in what I have to offer?”
“Without a doubt, Herr Admiral.”
“Good. Now on to a personal matter—we’ve done our homework, so I am aware that you enjoy cabarets, night clubs, music halls. And certain other distractions. Paris would be a good match. It also comes to my attention that you may well—forgive me if I use an expression favored by our friends across the Channel—‘bat for the other side.’ ”
Rolf took a quick sip and smiled benignly despite the tension in his gut.
“All that means nothing to us…to me. Your stultified SD leadership may rant and rave about ‘degenerate behavior,’ as they call it, but I’m after results, and personal preferences remain your own as long as they don’t compromise our mission, is that clear?”
“Indeed it is, sir.” Rolf exhaled. His sexual inclination had been a constant burden, for discovery by the SD would have been his end. Now Canaris, reputed ‘Knower of All Things,’ knew this, as well. And yet he claimed disinterest. It was becoming obvious why this powerful man was considered untouchable.
“Good. Then we’re clear on that. In fact, your inclination toward the less sober-minded side of life interests me, because it suits the assignment I’m considering.” He drained his glass. “Nuts?”
Rolf declined the condiment tray the admiral had slid across the table.
“So, first things first, are you ready to jump ship, to join us at the Tirpitzufer?”
“Jawohl, Herr Admiral, “and with pleasure.” Rolf set down his glass. “But may I be as upfront with you as you’ve been with me. My SD efforts amount to little of real value, and my file carries the taint of my father’s transgressions, whatever they may have been. And I’m sure you know my military experience was merely a brief stint in the
last war and then mustered out after a gas attack which left me somewhat myopic. I’m afraid the soldier’s life and military matters weren’t my cup of tea, despite the value they carried for my late father, ‘the Old Major’. ”
“None of that matters. One of the advantages of my position is making field promotions at the drop of a hat. A word from me and you can be a Wehrmacht major with all the benefits of military rank and influence and none of the drawbacks. Sound good?”
“That sounds excellent to me, sir.”
“So we will now have another drink and explore a few options, and tomorrow I’ll pull a few strings.”
The admiral called for his aide, who called for the waiter, and two fresh martinis appeared within minutes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Occupied France
1940
Despite all they had endured, René and Erika had been lucky. Unlike most refugees, they arrived in France with financial strength and a well-established connection to the Alsatian community. The gracious reception from the caretaker Rothe family, who had preserved the fortunes of the estate with the passing of Jeanne’s parents, smoothed the transition. Charles Rothe had risen from poverty and trained in oenology under her father’s mentorship. He had never forgotten the debt owed this long-established family. Under Charles’ vintner skills—and despite economic trials across Europe—the finely-crafted wines in the distinctive dark-green bottles always drew a premium price.
By winter of 1938, René and Erika found the vines bare but the family coffers heavily laden. Upon arrival René had quickly retreated to the office to review the company books. With relief he found plenty of resources to carry them through the coming months and years. Should the Reich fail to collapse of its own recklessness and inner depravity, and France remain their home for an extended period, finances would not become a problem.
Through mid-summer of 1939 the new-arrivals ran a station for Jewish families driven from the Reich, providing food and clothing and arranging passage to Marseille. There the immigrants hoped to board steamers bound for Tel Aviv. Word spread among the newly-arrived Jews in Strasbourg that the Gesslinger estate near Colmar was a safe if temporary haven on the route south.
But Erika and René knew word would also reach foes not satisfied with keeping persecution of Jews a purely Third Reich matter, so they used money and connections to acquire forged identities. The papers carried the family name of “Dalfert” with residency in Lyon. With this proof of French citizenship in hand and substantial funds transferred to a Lyon bank, the couple prepared for that certain moment when a snitch would surface, intent on shutting them down.
It hadn’t taken long. Already in that first winter at the family estate came news of round-ups and interrogations to the north in Strasbourg by an intimidating German. Refugees arriving in Colmar spoke of his frozen facial features and a vicious dueling scar on the left cheek. Those with the misfortune to see him in person called him “le Masque,” and reported he sought Erika by name. He appeared to work hand-in-hand with French police, and local fascists were promising bribes or protection should anyone reveal Erika’s whereabouts.
She knew immediately that le Masque could only be Horst. Shaking with both fury and fear, she recounted to René for the first time the details of the cruel torture she had undergone at her husband’s hands. While his mother Jeanne took charge of Leo and put him to bed, René sought to reassure Erika, taking her hand in his, later holding her close on the couch until early morning. With the first rays of the sun she was again resolute. The catharsis that came with finally sharing her suppressed fears left her more determined than ever to master her frightening situation.
For René the catharsis was of a different nature. During the long night at her side he finally acknowledged to himself his love for this intriguing woman. His earlier support came from a natural desire to help those in need and from a responsibility he had assumed on behalf of his friend Ryan, who gave his life to save this beautiful mother and her small child. But during those long months sharing common challenges and fears she had become so much more to him. His only care now was to spare this strong and intelligent woman further suffering and help Erika and Leo achieve some semblance of happiness in a tumultuous world.
One evening a month later, a friend at a service station in Strasbourg phoned to warn of a black Gestapo Citroën, just refueled and seeking directions to their Colmar vineyards. They would have at most an hour. In the darkness of the gravel drive René closed their Renault’s trunk on the getaway luggage, had Leo sit beside Jeanne in the back seat, and climbed up the stairs to see what delayed Erika. He found her kneeling before the safe in the home office, carefully stacking bundles of francs in a valise. He hesitated at the threshold, struck by her courage in the face of any adversity.
Erika glanced to the doorway. He knew she recognized the obvious love in his eyes. She handed the valise up to him, placing her hand on his forearm and moving closer. “You do know I love you, don’t you?” She kissed him softly on the lips. “Well, don’t you?”
Stunned, he dropped the bag and took her in his arms. “Then you should marry me.”
Erika laughed as he swung her in a great arc. “I shall, but first put me down. If we don’t get out of here now I’ll never prove to my new husband just how much I love him.”
From that moment she wished nothing more than to share her fugitive life with this bear of a man whose strength and will protected the persecuted. Protected her and Leo.
Erika had recognized early that her choice to marry Horst von Kredow back in 1934 stemmed from a desire for worldly adventure, for escape from the constraints of small-town life. She had fallen for the Gestapo star’s powerful demeanor and obvious strength, overlooking his lack of warmth, of heart. That choice had proved deadly, had led to the death of her parents and almost cost her child his life. And in choosing the Nazi, she had abandoned any future with the brilliant but carefree Ryan Lemmon, a dashing charmer disinterested in any long-term commitment and off to a teaching position in the American Midwest. She had raised the son borne of their brief romance under the adverse, hate-filled rule of the sadistic Horst, finding in Berlin the glamor and social prestige she had sought, but at the cost of self-determination and at great physical risk to herself and her son.
When the harrowing flight from Berlin brought her back to the arms of the American, she again briefly dreamed of another life. A life with a gentler, kinder man who would risk all to protect the child she loved. But then the Rhine had dragged Ryan to his death, and only René, the faithful university friend who had come to their aid, had remained behind. And with every day spent together over the months that followed she had seen in the burly Alsatian a mix of what had always appealed to her most in the other two men who had most influenced her life—the strength of will of her strong but malicious husband, and the loving compassion of Ryan Lemmon.
René could be her husband in name only. Still legally married to Horst, she would never see a divorce as long as that sadist lived. But in her heart he would be everything, and for the first time in her life she knew she was truly doing the right thing for Leo and for herself.
The winter of 1939-1940 proved unusually brutal. The infirm and elderly perished in their frigid homes when supplies of heating fuel failed to arrive. The wretched cold buried itself deep and refused to surrender its grip, and some even wondered if God were punishing France for waiting out the Germans. “Let’s go fight the bastards and get it over with, not sit on our asses!” Yet the French army felt secure manning the Maginot Line “certain” to keep the Germans at bay. Hadn’t it worked just fine so far? Wasn’t it clear the Boches were too afraid to attack? So the drôle de guerre, “the phony war,” limped along, and people cursed the cold and the war and the army, but mostly they cursed the Germans.
Fleeing Colmar, Erika and René had holed up in a working class neighborhood of Lyon and became involved with Socialists furious with the discredited Third Republic. The group blamed the
past incompetence of the nation’s liberal leadership for encouraging the growing call for a fascist government modeled after Germany’s. René listened to hours of debate but found too much emphasis on angry articles in the newspapers and noisy street protests and too little willingness to take on the thugs who terrorized otherwise peaceful street demonstrations. René was ready to break a few fascist heads and dearly missed the rough-and-tumble river life and the successes of his old “Lone Ranger” network. A fighter when threatened, his experience in Nazi Germany had shown he thrived on danger, but opportunities to make a difference in France still eluded him.
By early spring they abandoned Lyon and moved further westward as the undercover agents of le Masque nipped at their heels. Every move demanded a new uphill battle to win local support. René’s egalitarian views and determination won him comrades with like-minded political and social views. Erika earned trust by dispensing free medical care to poor families. She helped with difficult births and obtained medicines out-of-reach for all but the wealthy.
Many they encountered were suspicious of the slender German woman of obvious breeding, but her warm heart soon softened theirs, and she was pleased her studies at the Marburg women’s clinic were finally doing others good. The happiness and gratitude of her “patients” brought tears to her eyes as she recalled her physician parents lost to Nazi terror. In the end, René and Erika inspired loyalty despite their German heritage, and left behind supporters anxious to throw pursuers off their trail.
When rumors of Horst von Kredow’s relentless pursuit of his Jewish wife began to resurface, René and Erika packed the family up and moved on. Jeanne, feeling her age and exhausted by a life in constant motion, phoned her elderly cousin Brigitte and within a week they arrived at her farmstead outside Morlanne in the far southwest region of Gascony. Leo immediately felt a connection with all the animals and seemed to relax for the first time. Seeing her son run and laugh with abandon brought Erika joy, but René complained almost immediately of vegetating in some backwater of France far from where they could make a real difference.
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