by Ken Follett
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Intuition.’
Carla recalled the moment at the bus stop, when she had wondered aloud who put up the anti-Nazi posters, and Frieda had gone quiet. Carla’s intuition agreed with her mother’s.
But that was not the only problem. ‘Even if we could, do we want to betray our country?’
Maud was emphatic. ‘We have to defeat the Nazis.’
‘I hate the Nazis more than anyone, but I’m still German.’
‘I know what you mean. I don’t like the idea of turning traitor, even though I was born English. But we aren’t going to get rid of the Nazis unless we lose the war.’
‘But suppose we could give the Russians information that would ensure we lost a battle. Erik might die in that battle! Your son – my brother! We might be the cause of his death.’
Maud opened her mouth to answer, but found she could not speak. Instead, she began to cry. Carla stood up and put her arms around her.
After a minute, Maud whispered: ‘He might die anyway. He might die fighting for Nazism. Better he should be killed losing a battle than winning it.’
Carla was not sure about that.
She released her mother. ‘Anyway, I wish you’d warn me before bringing someone like that into the kitchen,’ she said. She picked up her basket from the floor. ‘It’s a good thing Lieutenant Koch didn’t look any further into this.’
‘Why, what have you got in there?’
‘Medicines stolen from the hospital for Dr Rothmann.’
Maud smiled proudly through her tears. ‘That’s my girl.’
‘I nearly died when he picked up the basket.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You couldn’t know. But I’m going to get rid of the stuff right now.’
‘Good idea.’
Carla put her raincoat back on over her uniform and went out.
She walked quickly to the street where the Rothmanns lived. Their house was not as big as the von Ulrich place, but it was a well-proportioned town dwelling with pleasant rooms. However, the windows were now boarded up and there was a crude sign on the front door that said: ‘Surgery closed’.
The Rothmanns had once been prosperous. Dr Rothmann had had a flourishing practice with many wealthy patients. He had also treated poor people at cheaper prices. Now only the poor were left.
Carla went around the back, as the patients did.
She knew immediately that something was wrong. The back door was open, and when she stepped into the kitchen she saw a guitar with a broken neck lying on the tiled floor. The room was empty, but she could hear sounds from elsewhere in the house.
She crossed the kitchen and entered the hall. There were two main rooms on the ground floor. They had been the waiting room and the consulting room. Now the waiting room was disguised as a family sitting room, and the surgery had become Rudi’s workshop, with a bench and woodworking tools, and usually half a dozen mandolins, violins and cellos in various states of repair. All medical equipment was stashed out of sight in locked cupboards.
But not any more, she saw when she walked in.
The cupboards had been opened and their contents thrown out. The floor was littered with smashed glass and assorted pills, powders and liquids. In the debris Carla saw a stethoscope and a blood pressure gauge. Parts of several instruments were strewn around, evidently having been thrown on the floor and stamped upon.
Carla was shocked and disgusted. All that waste!
Then she looked into the other room. Rudi Rothmann lay in a corner. He was twenty-two years old, a tall man with an athletic build. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning in agony.
His mother, Hannelore, knelt beside him. Once a handsome blonde, Hannelore was now grey and gaunt.
‘What happened?’ said Carla, fearing the answer.
‘The police,’ said Hannelore. ‘They accused my husband of treating Aryan patients. They have taken him away. Rudi tried to stop them smashing the place up. They have . . .’ She choked up.
Carla put down her basket and knelt beside Hannelore. ‘What have they done?’
Hannelore recovered the power of speech. ‘They broke his hands,’ she whispered.
Carla saw it at once. Rudi’s hands were red and horribly twisted. The police seemed to have broken his fingers one by one. No wonder he was moaning. She was sickened. But she saw horror every day, and she knew how to suppress her personal feelings and give practical help. ‘He needs morphine,’ she said.
Hannelore indicated the mess on the floor. ‘If we had any, it’s gone.’
Carla felt a spasm of pure rage. Even the hospitals were short of supplies – and yet the police had wasted precious drugs in an orgy of destruction. ‘I brought you morphine.’ She took from her basket a vial of clear fluid and the new syringe. Swiftly, she took the syringe from its box and charged it with the drug. Then she injected Rudi.
The effect was almost instant. The moaning stopped. He opened his eyes and looked at Carla. ‘You angel,’ he said. Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.
‘We must try to set his fingers,’ Carla said. ‘So that the bones heal straight.’ She touched Rudi’s left hand. There was no reaction. She grasped the hand and lifted it. Still he did not stir.
‘I’ve never set bones,’ said Hannelore. ‘Though I’ve seen it done often enough.’
‘Same here,’ said Carla. ‘But we’d better try. I’ll do his left hand, you do the right. We must finish before the drug wears off. God knows he’ll be in enough pain.’
‘All right,’ said Hannelore.
Carla paused a moment longer. Her mother was right. They had to do anything they could to end this Nazi regime, even if it meant betraying their own country. She was no longer in any doubt.
‘Let’s get it done,’ Carla said.
Gently, carefully, the two women began to straighten Rudi’s broken hands.
(ii)
Thomas Macke went to the Tannenberg Bar every Friday afternoon.
It was not much of a place. On one wall was a framed photograph of the proprietor, Fritz, in a First World War uniform, twenty-five years younger and without a beer belly. He claimed to have killed nine Russians at the Battle of Tannenberg. There were a few tables and chairs, but the regulars all sat at the bar. A menu in a leather cover was almost entirely fantasy: the only dishes served were sausages with potatoes or sausages without potatoes.
But the place stood across the street from the Kreuzberg police station, so it was a cop bar. That meant it was free to break all the rules. Gambling was open, street girls gave blow jobs in the toilet, and the food inspectors of the Berlin city government never entered the kitchen. It opened when Fritz got up and closed when the last drinker went home.
Macke had been a lowly police officer at the Kreuzberg station years ago, before the Nazis took over and men such as he were suddenly given a break. Some of his former colleagues still drank at the Tannenberg, and he could be sure of seeing a familiar face or two. He still liked to talk to old friends, even though he had risen so far above them, becoming an inspector and a member of the SS.
‘You’ve done well, Thomas, I’ll give you that,’ said Bernhardt Engel, who had been a sergeant over Macke in 1932 and was still a sergeant. ‘Good luck to you, son.’ He raised to his lips the stein of beer that Macke had bought him.
‘I won’t argue with you,’ Macke replied. ‘Though I will say, Superintendent Kringelein is a lot worse to work for than you were.’
‘I was too soft on you boys,’ Bernhardt admitted.
Another old comrade, Franz Edel, laughed scornfully. ‘I wouldn’t say soft!’
Glancing out of the window, Macke saw a motorcycle pull up outside driven by a young man in the light-blue belted jacket of an air force officer. He looked familiar: Macke had seen him somewhere before. He had over-long red-blond hair flopping on to a patrician forehead. He crossed the pavement and came into the Tannenberg.
Macke remembered the name.
He was Werner Franck, spoiled son of the radio manufacturer Ludi Franck.
Werner came to the bar and asked for a pack of Kamel cigarettes. How predictable, Macke thought, that the playboy should smoke American-style cigarettes, even if they were a German imitation.
Werner paid, opened the pack, took out a cigarette, and asked Fritz for a light. Turning to leave, cigarette in his mouth tilted at a rakish angle, he caught Macke’s eye and, after a moment’s thought, said: ‘Inspector Macke.’
The men in the bar all stared at Macke to see what he would say.
He nodded casually. ‘How are you, young Werner?’
‘Very well, sir, thank you.’
Macke was pleased, but surprised, by the respectful tone. He recalled Werner as an arrogant whippersnapper with insufficient respect for authority.
‘I’m just back from a visit to the Eastern Front with General Dorn,’ Werner added.
Macke sensed the cops in the bar become alert to the conversation. A man who had been to the Eastern Front merited respect. Macke could not help feeling pleased that they were all impressed that he moved in such elevated circles.
Werner offered Macke the cigarette pack, and Macke took one. ‘A beer,’ Werner said to Fritz. Turning back to Macke, he said: ‘May I buy you a drink, Inspector?’
‘The same, thank you.’
Fritz filled two steins. Werner raised his glass to Macke and said: ‘I want to thank you.’
That was another surprise. ‘For what?’ said Macke.
His friends were all listening intently.
Werner said: ‘A year ago you gave me a good telling-off.’
‘You didn’t seem grateful at the time.’
‘And for that I apologize. But I thought very hard about what you said to me, and eventually I realized you were right. I had allowed personal emotion to cloud my judgement. You set me straight. I’ll never forget that.’
Macke was touched. He had disliked Werner, and had spoken harshly to him; but the young man had taken his words to heart, and changed his ways. It gave Macke a warm glow to feel that he had made such a difference in a young man’s life.
Werner went on: ‘In fact, I thought of you the other day. General Dorn was talking about catching spies, and asking if we could track them down by their radio signals. I’m afraid I couldn’t tell him much.’
‘You should have asked me,’ said Macke. ‘It’s my specialty.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Come and sit down.’
They carried their drinks to a grubby table.
‘These men are all police officers,’ Macke said. ‘But still, one should not talk publicly about such matters.’
‘Of course.’ Werner lowered his voice. ‘But I know I may confide in you. You see, some of the battlefield commanders told Dorn they believe the enemy often knows our intentions in advance.’
‘Ah!’ said Macke. ‘I feared as much.’
‘What can I tell Dorn about radio signal detection?’
‘The correct term is goniometry.’ Macke collected his thoughts. This was an opportunity to impress an influential general, albeit indirectly. He needed to be clear, and emphasize the importance of what he was doing without exaggerating its success. He imagined General Dorn saying casually to the Führer: ‘There’s a very good man in the Gestapo – name of Macke – only an inspector, at the moment, but most impressive . . .’
‘We have an instrument that tells us the direction from which the signal is coming,’ he began. ‘If we take three readings from widely separated locations, we can draw three lines on the map. Where they intersect is the address of the transmitter.’
‘That’s fantastic!’
Macke raised a cautionary hand. ‘In theory,’ he said. ‘In practice, it’s more difficult. The pianist – that’s what we call the radio operator – does not usually stay in the location long enough for us to find him. A careful pianist never broadcasts from the same place twice. And our instrument is housed in a van with a conspicuous aerial on its roof, so they can see us coming.’
‘But you have had some success.’
‘Oh, yes. But perhaps you should come out in the van with us one evening. Then you could see the whole process for yourself – and make a first-hand report to General Dorn.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Werner.
(iii)
Moscow in June was sunny and warm. At lunchtime Volodya waited for Zoya at a fountain in the Alexander Gardens behind the Kremlin. Hundreds of people strolled by, many in pairs, enjoying the weather. Life was hard, and the water in the fountain had been turned off to save power, but the sky was blue, the trees were in leaf and the German army was a hundred miles away.
Volodya was full of pride every time he thought back to the Battle of Moscow. The dreaded German army, master of blitzkrieg attack, had been at the gates of the city – and had been thrown back. Russian soldiers had fought like lions to save their capital.
Unfortunately the Russian counter-attack had petered out in March. It had won back much territory, and made Muscovites feel safer; but the Germans had licked their wounds and were now preparing to try again.
And Stalin was still in charge.
Volodya spotted Zoya walking through the crowd towards him. She was wearing a red-and-white check dress. There was a spring in her step, and her pale-blonde hair seemed to bounce with her stride. Every man stared at her.
Volodya had dated some beautiful women, but he was surprised to find himself courting Zoya. For years she had treated him with cool indifference, and talked to him about nothing but nuclear physics. Then one day, to his astonishment, she had asked him to go to a movie.
It was shortly after the riot in which General Bobrov had been killed. Her attitude to him had changed that day; he was not sure he understood why; somehow the shared experience had created an intimacy. Anyway, they had gone to see George’s Dinky Jazz Band, a knockabout comedy starring an English banjolele player called George Formby. It was a popular movie, and had been running for months in Moscow. The plot was about as unrealistic as could be: unknown to George, his instrument was sending messages to German U-boats. It was so silly that they had both laughed their socks off.
Since then they had been dating regularly.
Today they were to have lunch with his father. He had arranged to meet her beforehand at the fountain in order to have a few minutes alone with her.
Zoya gave him her thousand-candlepower smile and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. She was tall, but he was taller. He relished the kiss. Her lips were soft and moist on his. It was over too soon.
Volodya was not completely sure of her yet. They were still ‘walking out’, as the older generation termed it. They kissed a lot, but they had not yet gone to bed together. They were not too young: he was twenty-seven, she twenty-eight. All the same, Volodya sensed that Zoya was not going to sleep with him until she was ready.
Half of him did not believe he would ever spend a night with this dream girl. She seemed too blonde, too intelligent, too tall, too self-possessed, too sexy ever to give herself to a man. Surely he would never be allowed to watch her take off her clothes, to gaze at her naked body, to touch her all over, to lie on top of her . . . ?
They walked through the long, narrow park. On one side was a busy road. All along the other side, the towers of the Kremlin loomed over a high wall. ‘To look at it, you’d think our leaders in there were being held prisoner by the Russian people,’ Volodya said.
‘Yes,’ Zoya agreed. ‘Instead of the other way round.’
He looked behind them, but no one had heard. All the same it was foolhardy to talk like that. ‘No wonder my father thinks you’re dangerous.’
‘I used to think you were like your father.’
‘I wish I was. He’s a hero. He stormed the Winter Palace! I don’t suppose I’ll ever change the course of history.’
‘Oh, I know, but he’s so narrow-minded and conservative. You’re not like that.’
Volody
a thought he was pretty much like his father, but he was not going to argue.
‘Are you free this evening?’ she said. ‘I’d like to cook for you.’
‘You bet!’ She had never invited him to her place.
‘I’ve got a piece of steak.’
‘Great!’ Good beef was a treat even in Volodya’s privileged home.
‘And the Kovalevs are out of town.’
That was even better news. Like many Muscovites, Zoya lived in someone else’s apartment. She had two rooms and shared the kitchen and bathroom with another scientist, Dr Kovalev, and his wife and child. But the Kovalevs had gone away, so Zoya and Volodya would have the place to themselves. His pulse quickened. ‘Should I bring my toothbrush?’ he said.
She gave him an enigmatic smile and did not answer the question.
They left the park and crossed the road to a restaurant. Many were closed, but the city centre was full of offices whose workers had to eat lunch somewhere, and a few cafés and bars survived.
Grigori Peshkov was at a pavement table. There were better restaurants inside the Kremlin, but he liked to be seen in places used by ordinary Russians. He wanted to show that he was not above the common people just because he wore a general’s uniform. All the same, he had chosen a table well away from the rest, so that he could not be overheard.
He disapproved of Zoya, but he was not immune to her enchantment, and he stood up and kissed her on both cheeks.
They ordered potato pancakes and beer. The only alternatives were pickled herrings and vodka.
‘Today I am not going to speak to you about nuclear physics, General,’ said Zoya. ‘Please take it as read that I still believe everything I said last time we talked about the subject. I don’t want to bore you.’
‘That’s a relief,’ he said.
She laughed, showing white teeth. ‘Instead, you can tell me how much longer we will be at war.’
Volodya shook his head in mock despair. She always had to challenge his father. If she had not been a beautiful young woman, Grigori would have had her arrested long ago.
‘The Nazis are beaten, but they won’t admit it,’ Grigori said.
Zoya said: ‘Everyone in Moscow is wondering what will happen this summer – but you two probably know.’
