by Ken Follett
Werner looked around at the trees in the graveyard coming into leaf. ‘I hope to God it’s true,’ he said with sudden savagery. ‘It will finish the damned Nazis.’
‘Yes,’ said Volodya. ‘If the Red Army is prepared.’
Werner was surprised. ‘Are you not prepared?’
Once again Volodya was not able to tell Werner the whole truth. Stalin believed the Germans would not attack before they had defeated the British, fearing a war on two fronts. While Britain continued to defy Germany, the Soviet Union was safe, he thought. In consequence the Red Army was nowhere near prepared for a German invasion.
‘We will be prepared,’ Volodya said, ‘if you can get me verification of the invasion plan.’
He could not help enjoying a moment of self-importance. His spy could be the key.
Werner said: ‘Unfortunately, I can’t help you.’
Volodya frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t get verification, or otherwise, of this information, nor can I get you anything else. I’m about to be fired from my job at the Air Ministry. I’ll probably be posted to France – or, if your intelligence is correct, sent to invade the Soviet Union.’
Volodya was horrified. Werner was his best spy. It was Werner’s information that had won Volodya promotion to captain. He found he could hardly breathe. With an effort he said: ‘What the hell happened?’
‘My brother died in a home for the handicapped, and the same thing happened to my girlfriend’s godson; and we’re asking too many questions.’
‘Why would you be demoted for that?’
‘The Nazis are killing off handicapped people, but it’s a secret programme.’
Volodya was momentarily diverted from his mission. ‘What? They just murder them?’
‘So it seems. We don’t know the details yet. But if they had nothing to hide they wouldn’t have punished me – and others – for asking questions.’
‘How old was your brother?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘God! Still a child!’
‘They’re not going to get away with it. I refuse to shut up.’
They stopped in front of the tomb of Manfred von Richthofen, the air ace. It was a huge slab, six feet high and twice as wide. On it was carved, in elegant capital letters, the single word RICHTHOFEN. Volodya always found its simplicity moving.
He tried to recover his composure. He told himself that the Soviet secret police murdered people, after all, especially anyone suspected of disloyalty. The head of the NKVD, Lavrentiy Beria, was a torturer whose favourite trick was to have his men pull a couple of pretty girls off the street for him to rape as his evening’s entertainment, according to rumour. But the thought that Communists could be as bestial as Nazis was no consolation. One day, he reminded himself, the Soviets would get rid of Beria and his kind, then they could begin to build true Communism. Meanwhile, the priority was to defeat the Nazis.
They came to the canal wall and stood there, watching a barge make its slow progress along the waterway, belching oily black smoke. Volodya mulled over Werner’s alarming confession. ‘What would happen if you stopped investigating these deaths of handicapped children?’ he asked.
‘I’d lose my girlfriend,’ Werner said. ‘She’s as angry about it as I am.’
Volodya was struck by the scary thought that Werner might reveal the truth to his girlfriend. ‘You certainly couldn’t tell her the real reason for your change of mind,’ he said emphatically.
Werner looked stricken, but he did not argue.
Volodya realized that by persuading Werner to abandon his campaign he would be helping the Nazis hide their crimes. He pushed the uncomfortable thought aside. ‘But would you be allowed to keep your job with General Dorn if you promised to drop the matter?’
‘Yes. That’s what they want. But I’m not letting them murder my brother then cover it up. They’ll send me to the front line, but I won’t shut up.’
‘What do you think they’ll do to you when they realize how determined you are?’
‘They’ll throw me in some camp.’
‘And what good will that do?’
‘I just can’t lie down for this.’
Volodya had to get Werner back on side, but so far he had failed to get through. Werner had an answer for everything. He was a smart guy. That was why he was such a valuable spy.
‘What about the others?’ Volodya said.
‘What others?’
‘There must be thousands more handicapped adults and children. Are the Nazis going to kill them all?’
‘Probably.’
‘You certainly won’t be able to stop them if you’re in a prison camp.’
For the first time, Werner did not have a comeback.
Volodya turned away from the water and surveyed the cemetery. A young man in a suit was kneeling at a small tombstone. Was he a tail? Volodya watched carefully. The man was shaking with sobs. He seemed genuine: counter-intelligence agents were not good actors.
‘Look at him,’ Volodya said to Werner.
‘Why?’
‘He’s grieving. Which is what you’re doing.’
‘So what?’
‘Just watch.’
After a minute the man got up, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and walked away.
Volodya said: ‘Now he’s happy. That’s what grieving is about. It doesn’t achieve anything, it just makes you feel better.’
‘You think my asking questions is just to make me feel better.’
Volodya turned and looked him in the eye. ‘I don’t criticize you,’ he said. ‘You want to discover the truth, and shout it out loud. But think about it logically. The only way to end this is to bring down the regime. And the only way that’s going to happen is if the Nazis are defeated by the Red Army.’
‘Maybe.’
Werner was weakening, Volodya perceived with a surge of hope. ‘Maybe?’ he said. ‘Who else is there? The British are on their knees, desperately trying to fight off the Luftwaffe. The Americans are not interested in European squabbles. Everyone else supports the Fascists.’ He put his hands on Werner’s shoulders. ‘The Red Army is your only hope, my friend. If we lose, those Nazis will be murdering handicapped children – and Jews, and Communists, and homosexuals – for a thousand more blood-soaked years.’
‘Hell,’ said Werner. ‘You’re right.’
(vii)
Carla and her mother went to church on Sunday. Maud was distraught about Walter’s arrest and desperate to find out where he had been taken. Of course the Gestapo refused to give out any information. But Pastor Ochs’s church was a fashionable one, people came in from the wealthier suburbs to attend, and the congregation included some powerful men, one or two of whom might be able to make inquiries.
Carla bowed her head and prayed that her father might not be beaten or tortured. She did not really believe in prayer but she was desperate enough to try anything.
She was glad to see the Franck family, sitting a few rows in front. She studied the back of Werner’s head. His hair curled a little at the neck, in contrast with most of the men who were close-cropped. She had touched his neck and kissed his throat. He was adorable. He was easily the nicest boy who had ever kissed her. Every night before sleeping she relived that evening when they had driven to the Grunewald.
But she was not in love with him, she told herself.
Not yet.
When Pastor Ochs entered, she saw at once that he had been crushed. The change in him was horrifying. He walked slowly to the lectern, head bent and shoulders slumped, causing a few in the congregation to exchange concerned whispers. He recited the prayers without expression then read the sermon from a book. Carla had been a nurse for two years now and she recognized in him the symptoms of depression. She guessed that he, too, had received a visit from the Gestapo.
She noticed that Frau Ochs and the five children were not in their usual places in the front pew.
As they sang the last hymn Carla vo
wed that she would not give up, scared though she was. She still had allies: Frieda and Werner and Heinrich. But what could they do?
She wished she had solid proof of what the Nazis were doing. She had no doubts, herself, that they were exterminating the handicapped – this Gestapo crackdown made it obvious. But she could not convince others without concrete evidence.
How could she get it?
After the service she walked out of the church with Frieda and Werner. Drawing them away from their parents, she said: ‘I think we have to get evidence of what’s going on.’
Frieda immediately saw what she meant. ‘We should go to Akelberg,’ she said. ‘Visit the hospital.’
Werner had proposed that, right at the start, but they had decided to begin their inquiries here in Berlin. Now Carla considered the idea afresh. ‘We’d need permits to travel.’
‘How could we manage that?’
Carla snapped her fingers. ‘We both belong to the Mercury Cycling Club. They can get permits for bicycle holidays.’ It was just the kind of thing the Nazis were keen on, healthy outdoor exercise for young people.
‘Could we get inside the hospital?’
‘We could try.’
Werner said: ‘I think you should drop the whole thing.’
Carla was startled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Pastor Ochs has obviously been scared half to death. This is a very dangerous business. You could be imprisoned, tortured. And it won’t bring back Axel or Kurt.’
She stared at him incredulously. ‘You want us to give it up?’
‘You must give it up. You’re talking as if Germany were a free country! You’ll get yourselves killed, both of you.’
‘We have to take risks!’ Carla said angrily.
‘Leave me out of this,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a visit from the Gestapo, too.’
Carla was immediately concerned. ‘Oh, Werner – what happened?’
‘Just threats, so far. If I ask any more questions I’ll be sent to the front line.’
‘Oh, well, thank God it’s not worse.’
‘It’s bad enough.’
The girls were silent for a few moments, then Frieda said what Carla was thinking. ‘This is more important than your job, you must see that.’
‘Don’t tell me what I must see,’ Werner replied. He was superficially angry but, underneath that, Carla could tell he was in fact ashamed. ‘It’s not your career that’s at stake,’ he went on. ‘And you haven’t met the Gestapo yet.’
Carla was astonished. She thought she knew Werner. She would have been sure he would see this the way she did. ‘Actually, I have met them,’ she said. ‘They arrested my father.’
Frieda was appalled. ‘Oh, Carla!’ she said, and put her arm around Carla’s shoulders.
‘We can’t find out where he is,’ Carla added.
Werner showed no sympathy. ‘Then you should know better than to defy them!’ he said. ‘They would have arrested you, too, except that Inspector Macke thinks girls aren’t dangerous.’
Carla wanted to cry. She had been on the point of falling in love with Werner, and now he turned out to be a coward.
Frieda said: ‘Are you saying you won’t help us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because you want to keep your job?’
‘It’s pointless – you can’t beat them!’
Carla was furious with him for his cowardice and defeatism. ‘We can’t just let this happen!’
‘Open confrontation is insane. There are other ways to oppose them.’
Carla said: ‘How, by working slowly, like those leaflets say? That won’t stop them killing handicapped children!’
‘Defying the government is suicidal!’
‘Anything else is cowardice!’
‘I refused to be judged by two girls!’ With that he stalked off.
Carla fought back tears. She could not cry in front of two hundred people standing outside the church in the sunshine. ‘I thought he was different,’ she said.
Frieda was upset, but baffled too. ‘He is different,’ she said. ‘I’ve known him all my life. Something else is going on, something he’s not telling us about.’
Carla’s mother approached. She did not notice Carla’s distress, which was unusual. ‘Nobody knows anything!’ she said despairingly. ‘I can’t find out where you father might be.’
‘We’ll keep trying,’ Carla said. ‘Didn’t he have friends at the American Embassy?’
‘Acquaintances. I’ve asked them already, but they haven’t come up with any information.’
‘We’ll ask them again tomorrow.’
‘Oh, God, I suppose there are a million German wives in the same situation as me.’
Carla nodded. ‘Let’s go home, Mother.’
They walked back slowly, not talking, each with her own thoughts. Carla was angry with Werner, the more so because she had badly mistaken his character. How could she have fallen for someone so weak?
They reached their street. ‘I shall go to the American Embassy in the morning,’ Maud said as they approached the house. ‘I’ll wait in the lobby all day if necessary. I’ll beg them to do something. If they really want to they can make a semi-official inquiry about the brother-in-law of a British government minister. Oh! Why is our front door open?’
Carla’s first thought was that the Gestapo had paid them a second visit. But there was no black car parked at the kerb. And a key was sticking out of the lock.
Maud stepped into the hall and screamed.
Carla rushed in after her.
There was a man lying on the floor covered in blood.
Carla managed to stop herself screaming. ‘Who is it?’ she said.
Maud knelt beside the man. ‘Walter,’ she said. ‘Oh, Walter, what have they done to you?’
Then Carla saw that it was her father. He was so badly injured he was almost unrecognizable. One eye was closed, his mouth was swollen into a single huge bruise, and his hair was covered with congealed blood. One arm was twisted oddly. The front of his jacket was stained with vomit.
Maud said: ‘Walter, speak to me, speak to me!’
He opened his ruined mouth and groaned.
Carla suppressed the hysterical grief that bubbled up inside her by shifting into professional gear. She fetched a cushion and propped up his head. She got a cup of water from the kitchen and dribbled a little on his lips. He swallowed and opened his mouth for more. When he seemed to have had enough, she went into his study and got a bottle of schnapps and gave him a few drops. He swallowed them and coughed.
‘I’m going for Dr Rothmann,’ Carla said. ‘Wash his face and give him more water. Don’t try to move him.’
Maud said: ‘Yes, yes – hurry!’
Carla wheeled her bike out of the house and pedalled away. Dr Rothmann was not allowed to practise any longer – Jews could not be doctors – but, unofficially, he still attended poor people.
Carla pedalled furiously. How had her father got home? She guessed they had brought him in a car, and he had managed to stagger from the kerbside into the house, then collapsed.
She reached the Rothmann house. Like her own home, it was in bad repair. Most of the windows had been broken by Jew-haters. Frau Rothmann opened the door. ‘My father has been beaten,’ Carla said breathlessly. ‘The Gestapo.’
‘My husband will come,’ said Frau Rothmann. She turned and called up the stairs. ‘Isaac!’
The doctor came down.
‘It’s Herr von Ulrich,’ said Frau Rothmann.
The doctor picked up a canvas shopping bag that stood near the door. Because he was banned from practising medicine, Carla guessed he could not carry anything that looked like an instrument case.
They left the house. ‘I’ll cycle on ahead,’ Carla said.
When she got home she found her mother sitting on the doorstep, weeping.
‘The doctor’s on his way!’ Carla said.
‘He is too late,’ said Maud. ‘Your father’s dead.
’
(viii)
Volodya was outside the Wertheim department store, just off the Alexander Platz, at half past two in the afternoon. He patrolled the area several times, looking for men who might be plain-clothes police officers. He was sure he had not been followed here, but it was not impossible that a passing Gestapo agent might recognize him and wonder what he was up to. A busy place with crowds was the best camouflage, but it was not perfect.
Was the invasion story true? If so, Volodya would not be in Berlin much longer. He would kiss goodbye to Gerda and Sabine. He would presumably return to Red Army Intelligence headquarters in Moscow. He looked forward to spending some time with his family. His sister, Anya, had twin babies whom he had never seen. And he felt he could do with a rest. Undercover work meant continual stress: losing Gestapo shadows, holding clandestine meetings, recruiting agents, and worrying about betrayal. He would welcome a year or two at headquarters, assuming the Soviet Union survived that long. Alternatively, he might be sent on another foreign posting. He fancied Washington. He had always had a yen to see America.
He took from his pocket a ball of crumpled tissue paper and dropped it into a litter bin. At one minute to three he lit a cigarette, although he did not smoke. He dropped the lighted match carefully into the bin so that it landed in the nest of tissue paper. Then he walked away.
Seconds later, someone cried: ‘Fire!’
Just when everyone in the vicinity was looking at the fire in the litter bin, a taxi drew up at the entrance to the store, a regular black Mercedes 260D. A handsome young man in the uniform of an air force lieutenant jumped out. As the lieutenant was paying the driver, Volodya jumped into the cab and slammed the door.
On the floor of the cab, where the driver could not see it, was a copy of Neues Volk, the Nazi magazine of racial propaganda. Volodya picked it up, but did not read it.
‘Some idiot has set fire to a litter bin,’ said the driver.
‘Adlon Hotel,’ Volodya said, and the car pulled away.
He riffled the pages of the magazine and verified that a buff-coloured envelope was concealed within.
