by Jon Cleary
. . . I am well aware of the contradictions in the German character. Christianity, as Heine said, is the moderating factor in the German psyche; we like to think we are the most Christian of European nations. Yet the wildness of the warriors of the pagan gods lies there beneath our surface and we take pride in it; Wagner knew it. What I was planning I saw as a Christian act; a sinful one but not a pagan one . . .
Hans von Gaffrin had been in contact for some time with men in London sympathetic to our hatred of Hitler and Nazism. I should never have accepted them as accomplices in our planned action; that would have been traitorous. Am I splitting hairs? Perhaps; but conscience, too often, is composed of split hairs . . .
The English had told Hans of a suggestion put to them by their military attaché in Berlin. They had rejected the suggestion, though they gave Hans no reason for the rejection; the English mind can be so devious that it was impossible to guess at the complex reasons for not carrying out the idea. It was simple enough: to shoot Hitler from a virtually undetectable ambush, in the flat of the London Times correspondent. The flat was now empty . . .
10
I
MONDAY HAD been a busy day for Carmody, as it had been for all the other correspondents; a continual round of the government offices and the principal embassies. Coming out of the American embassy opposite the Chancellery, Carmody paused to look at the queue waiting to get into the consular office. There was no mistaking who most of them were: they were the Jews, marked by the yellow star on their clothing, who had somehow managed to survive by remaining in Germany. He had heard that they were arriving from all over the country, desperate at last to obtain American visas and be gone from the persecution they had endured and which they knew would become worse if war broke out. They stood there in the long queue that stretched down the street and round the corner, quiet and fearful, their eyes alight with a frantic hope that made some of them look as if they were drugged. Some had even brought their luggage with them, as if they expected instant freedom. He wondered how many of them had exit permits, but decided not to ask: he did not want to discourage them by raising another hurdle.
On the other side of the street half a dozen uniformed police watched the queue; four men in civilian suits, Gestapo written all over them, strolled up and down in a parody of government clerks out for a breath of fresh air. One of the Gestapo men suddenly broke away from his companions and crossed the road; the queue shivered like a long kite’s tail caught in a breeze and pressed in against the wall of the embassy. The Gestapo man said something to one of the Jews in the queue, a tall man with a pronounced stoop; the man seemed to stoop even lower as he was approached, as if his height had always been a handicap to him. The Gestapo officer said something to him, the man replied politely, then the secret policeman went back to rejoin his companions. The queue straightened up, seemed to stiffen, as if wire had been threaded into the kite’s tail.
Carmody was about to turn away when he saw Fred Doe on the inside of the queue, leaning up against the embassy wall. He had pushed through the queue before he thought of the possible consequences: he was exposing Doe to the watchful eyes on the other side of the road. “Fred—what are you doing here?”
Doe did not seem to mind that Carmody had found him. He smelled of drink and looked as if he had not slept for days; he had a grey stubble of beard and his eyes were red-rimmed. He was carrying his cornet-case. “Hi, pal. You heading for the old USA, too? Join the line, pal. Give me your tired, your poor . . . I oughta blow a few notes on that one.”
“But why are you out here in this queue? You’re an American citizen aren’t you?”
“Sure.” Those near them in the queue were listening, but in the politest way: ears pinned back, but eyes studiedly looking elsewhere. “But I’ve lost my passport—some sonofabitch stole it. Well, maybe he wasn’t a sonofabitch. Who could blame him? You think I could blame any of these people here if they took it?”
“But you could walk straight into the embassy. There’s a desk in there for American citizens—I just passed it.”
“I know, pal. I was here yesterday. But I gotta get in the front door first—once I’m in there I’m okay. You dunno what officialdom can be like, pal. Some of those jerks in the embassy have been in this country too long—they gotta do things the German way.” The listening ears seemed to twitch; some eyes swung round to look at this American who was endangering them all by being so outspoken. Doe gave them a polite but wan smile. “I’ll be okay, pal. I’ll play The Stars and Stripes Forever—” He patted the cornet-case. “It’s the bullies I gotta worry about.”
He looked past Carmody and the latter turned his head. “You mean those blokes over there? The Gestapo?”
“They picked me up yesterday morning, kept me all day. They know I’ve been refused an exit permit.”
“Why?”
“Something about I been living here for eight years, they gotta check I ain’t been a communist or a Jew-lover—” Heads turned this time and he gave them the same wan smile. “Once I got my passport, they’ll be glad to be rid of me.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help—” There was nothing he could possibly do: the words had a sourer taste than usual when he uttered such hypocrisies.
“There’s nothing, pal. Thanks all the same. How’s it going with you?”
He meant with Cathleen. “Okay, but there’s still a long way to go.”
“There always is, pal. Ask any of these people.” He looked up and down the long queue; his eyes filled with pain. “Jesus, what’s gonna happen to them if—”
If they don’t get American visas: don’t say it, thought Carmody. But some of those in the queue understood English; what was worse, they understood unspoken thoughts. They looked at Doe as if he had condemned them, had torn their hopes out of them and crushed them beneath his heel.
Carmody shook Doe’s hand, wished him luck and turned away quickly. As he walked down past the queue he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the Gestapo man crossing the road towards him. His first instinct was to quicken his pace; somehow he held himself back. The secret policeman caught up with him, put his hand on his arm.
“May I see your papers?”
Carmody took out his passport and press card, said nothing. He was aware of the queue contracting, moving away from him, squeezing in on itself, disowning him. Maybe I should be wearing the yellow star, he thought. Or even carrying a leper’s clapper-bell.
“Why were you talking to Herr Doe, the American?”
“I was saying goodbye to him. He has often entertained me at the Hotel Adlon. He is a very good musician.”
The Gestapo officer, young and muscular and eager, built for climbing mountains or promotion ladders, hesitated: so far he had not arrested any foreigners whose papers were in order. “All right, you may go. But be careful, Herr Carmody.”
“Naturally,” said Carmody, took back his papers and went on his way. The freedom-seekers in the queue looked at him without sympathy: he had raised the temperature of the watchers on the other side of the street.
He went back to his office, wrote a despatch and phoned it through to London. “Henderson is still talking to Chamberlain and Halifax,” said London. “They say he’s flying back to Berlin tonight. You’d better stay awake.”
“I never sleep,” said Carmody, wondering why ambassadors couldn’t keep office hours.
At seven o’clock he rang Cathleen at her flat. “I’m pooped,” she said. “Karl Braun is rushing to finish the picture. We put ten minutes of film in the can today, including a musical number. It’s like working for Monogram or Republic. How’s it with you?”
“I’m buggered, darl. I feel as if I could sleep for a week. But I’ve got to go over to the British embassy, hang around there. The ambassador is on his way back from London—he’s seeing Hitler some time tonight. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
“No, I’ll call you at your office. I’ve got a seven o’clock call in the morning. Goodnight, h
oney. I love you.”
He would apply for an American visa first thing tomorrow, go back to America with her . . . “Have you heard anything from our friends?”
“Nothing. I’m getting desperate.”
“Don’t,” he said gently. He did not want her going back to Goebbels. “Leave it in their hands.”
It was one o’clock in the morning before he got to bed. Sir Nevile Henderson had been to see Hitler, had been received by an SS guard of honour and a roll of drums; diplomats have to be honoured, even possible enemy ones, because one never knows when they will be required again as friends. When the ambassador returned to the embassy, looking exhausted and, at last, disillusioned, it was announced there would be no press announcement. The correspondents went home to bed wondering why they bothered to try to save the world. Didn’t the diplomats know the power of the press?
Carmody was back at the office at nine on Tuesday morning. Fräulein Luxemburg had taken to scratching off the dates on the calendar with big red crosses; up till two weeks ago she had marked the passing days with just thin blue lines. Today was 29 August: he wondered what sort of mark she would make on the day war was declared.
Cathleen rang at 9.30. “I’ve heard from our friends!” Her excitement trembled down the line. “They want to see us tonight.”
“Where? The usual place?” Then he said hastily, conscious that his line might be tapped: “No, don’t tell me. Meet me at the Adlon at seven.”
The rest of the day was another round of walking and waiting in government departments and embassies. The correspondents knew that they were waiting to write more than news stories, that what they sent over the wires and the phones might be history: they would be instant Gibbons, Trevelyans, Bryces, and de Joinvilles. But news can be chased or whipped up; history makes its own pace. The principal figures in the drama kept their counsel, pushing the world to the brink in secret.
At seven o’clock Carmody walked into the bar of the Adlon to find Cathleen waiting for him. They kissed, walked out of the bar, through the lobby and into the street. Carmody did not look up at the sky this time; instead he looked right, left and across the street. He could see no sign of Lutze, Decker or anyone else who might have been sent to follow him.
“Where do we go?”
“To the Tiergarten. They’ll be by the big goldfish pond.” He could feel the excitement in her, like a fever. “Oh God, I hope they’ve got good news!”
He wanted to tell her not to raise her hopes too high: instead, he just pressed her hand. “Let’s say a couple of Hail Marys on the way over.”
The Langs were waiting for them by the big pond. The gardens were not crowded, though there were strollers on all the paths and most of the benches were occupied. A few people were in a hurry, office or shop workers taking a short cut home; a pair of policemen walked sedately with a curiously similar flatfooted step, like uniformed ducks. Real ducks floated on the pond and overhead a wedge-shaped flight of them headed somewhere for their night’s lodgings. The Langs were feeding some mallards as Carmody and Cathleen approached them.
“Perhaps you would like to throw some crumbs?” Inge Lang handed a paper bag to Cathleen.
Cathleen began to toss bread upon the waters. “I hope you have good news?”
“I think so,” said Lang. He looked relaxed, but Carmody noticed that, without moving his head, his eyes were constantly on the alert. Carmody at once began to scout the paths, but he could see no one who appeared to be watching them. “We can get your mother out of Ravensbrueck.”
“Oh . . .” Cathleen’s hand quivered; the ducks were showered with manna. “How? When?”
“It will cost money—certain people have to be paid.”
“How much? It doesn’t matter—I’ll pay whatever they ask—”
“Five thousand dollars in American currency.”
“Mightn’t that be hard to get?” said Carmody.
Lang shrugged. “I don’t know. It would be difficult, almost impossible for a German, I should think. But Fräulein O’Dea is an American . . . Did you bring in American money when you came here?”
“Yes. But not five thousand dollars . . . It doesn’t matter. I’ll get it. I have a large account at the bank—all my salary has gone in there—”
“Why do they want American currency?” said Carmody.
“They are people old enough to remember what happened to the mark after the last war. If Germany goes into another war, who knows what will happen to the mark? One can’t blame them for being so demanding, Herr Carmody. I can remember when the dollar was worth four billion marks—it didn’t buy enough food to feed a family. Inge’s father shot himself for the sake of a few dollars.”
Inge Lang nodded. “We are fortunate, Herr Carmody, to find someone who does have that sort of memory. One wouldn’t be able to bribe any of the young officials.”
“I guess so,” said Carmody resignedly, but it went against the grain. Not against the grain of his thriftiness but against having to pay any sort of bribe for a person’s life. I’m still naïve and innocent, he thought; this would never happen in the bush back home. But, of course, there were no concentration camps in the bush back home . . . “We’ll get the money somehow. When do you want it?”
“As soon as possible. Tomorrow, at the latest. If your mother can’t be got out by Thursday, Fräulein, it will be at least another month before we can try again. By then it may be too late.”
“That’s sudden,” said Cathleen; she was tossing crumbs at the ducks as if they were starving. “What if the bank wants more time? Why must it be so quick?”
“We don’t know how the system works,” said Lang. “Our contacts gave us the day and the price. If the terms can be met, your mother will be here in Berlin on Thursday.”
“I’ll get the money!” Cathleen hurled the last of the bread at the ducks, who ducked as if they had been sprayed with shrapnel. “I’ll be here tomorrow at lunch-time, twelve o’clock.”
A thought struck Carmody, the devil’s advocate. “What about papers?”
“I’m afraid they will be your responsibility, yours and Fräulein O’Dea’s. Normally we would have supplied those, but our man was picked up by the Gestapo on Sunday—we haven’t heard from him since—”
Inge Lang screwed up her empty paper bag, put it in her handbag. With a detached part of his mind Carmody watched her: she may be Jewish, he thought, but she’s a German, neat and tidy, no matter what. “He has left his wife and four children behind. Now we have to get them out somehow, find papers for them.”
“How did he get the papers for you?”
“They were forged,” said Lang. “Passports were stolen, usually from dead persons, and altered.”
“And exit permits?”
“He had a stock of government paper—Why do you ask?” Lang suddenly was suspicious. “You are not going to write a story about this?”
“Of course not,” said Carmody angrily. His mind had never worked so fast: “If I could find a forger, just for this one case, could you get us a passport and some of the paper?”
Lang hesitated; but his wife said, “Yes. We’ll give them to Fräulein O’Dea when she brings the money. Here, at noon.”
She put her arm in her husband’s and off they went, married life-savers.
Cathleen screwed up her paper bag, dropped it at her feet: an American, thought Carmody. He took her arm and they began to walk back through the Tiergarten. He chose a different route from the one by which he had come; if the Gestapo were trailing him and Cathleen, he wanted to make it as difficult as possible for them. He chose one of the narrow paths that wound through the trees and shrubs; there was a certain peace here in the sun-dappled shade. They passed a monument to four composers: Beethoven glared at them stonily. They came to a bend in the path; a man stood there before them, mouth open in a tremendous shout. Cathleen clutched Carmody’s arm; he tensed, waiting for other Gestapo thugs to burst out of the bushes in answer to their colleague’s shout
ed warning. Then the shout turned into a strangled note of music, died away.
The man, young and plump, smiled apologetically. “I am sorry I startled you. I am practising. I have an audition at the Opera this afternoon.”
Cathleen recovered. “Good luck. What are you auditioning for?”
“Anything they offer me.”
He raised his hat as they walked on. When they had gone round the next bend in the path they heard him start up again. Neither of them knew much about opera. So they did not recognize the song: it was Parsifal telling the knights of the Holy grail that he is their King. The young tenor was playing safe: one could not go wrong with Wagner, not this week.
“He’s an optimist,” said Carmody. “He should be auditioning for the army.”
He heard a sound and looked up at the yellow sky. Three planes went over, coming from the east and disappearing towards the west.
Cathleen noted the direction of their flight. “Is that a good sign? Are they bringing them back?”
“Maybe they’re just decoys. Or maybe they’re getting a head-start on bombing Paris or London.” He was heavy with despondency.
“Don’t talk like that!”
“Sorry.” He changed the subject, to one about which he felt little more hope: “Can you get the money?”
“I’ll get it,” she said fiercely. “It’s the papers that worry me—”
“I’ll get those,” he said and realized there was no time to be lost. “I have to go looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“An organ-grinder. I’ll put you in a taxi.”
“I was hoping you’d come with me, stay the night. I don’t want to be alone tonight—I won’t be able to sleep.”
