“I guarantee you, Herr Kolbe, I can still make things happen in the Foreign Office. And for that, I will need you.” He’d expounded on the devotion and obsession for detail exhibited by great diplomats such as Benjamin Franklin and Talleyrand, men who operated so deftly that those who signed their treaties became aware only months later of the conditions they had agreed to with their signatures. “The Congress of Vienna,” Biermann gushed. “So sharp the quills, so black the ink. The situation may be dire,” he said, “but together we can still stop even worse things from happening! I promise you this.”
Katrin would not understand all this insanity, Fritz thought. Why should she? How could she? Consul Biermann might only be fooling himself, he realized. Maybe there was a reason they had transferred him to this faraway posting in Cape Town. And at various receptions, he’d acted more than distant to the delegations from South Africa’s National Socialist Greyshirts. This would not have gone unnoticed in Berlin.
Yet the old man truly was good; he knew the history of European diplomacy like no other and was a decent person through and through. And Biermann’s argument that his standing would suffer if Fritz didn’t come with him had truly moved Fritz. He removed his straw hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He felt so small. From up here he saw the ocean surge into Camps Bay and wash around Wale Rocks as a cloud-white foam. The sun was shining, and seabirds screeched into the wind. Below and to his right, the city center stretched out white and sparkling. Fritz absorbed as much of the view as he could, took a deep breath, and committed it to memory. Then he drove home down to Camps Bay.
“Herr Vice-Consul Kolbe?”
Mr. Carlsroupe, secretary to the British envoy, stood in Fritz’s doorway. They shook hands. Carlsroupe had straw-blond hair with a severe part and his mustache was neatly trimmed. He told Fritz he’d always known him to be a decent fellow, adding that the British envoy sent his greetings. Carlsroupe wished Fritz the best of luck. “Though I do fear there isn’t much luck to be had in Germany these days.”
Fritz didn’t comment. He asked if Carlsroupe felt like having that drink.
“Where shall we ever be if we start declining a simple drink?”
“Quite sensible of you.”
They went into the kitchen, and Fritz grabbed a bottle of Scotch and glasses from a cabinet.
“To think that we’re enemies at war, Kolbe.”
“Braunwein’s son, Horst, left toy pistols lying around here somewhere,” Fritz said. “Perhaps we could shoot at each other a little.”
They laughed and toasted. Fritz said he’d had a lovely time in South Africa, going on plenty of outings in the car with Katrin and with the Braunweins as well. He’d even gone venturing out alone despite the warnings he’d heard about wild animals.
“I never expected anything could happen to me here,” he said, “until the other day.”
“What day was that?”
“‘As of five forty-five this morning . . .’ That day.”
Carlsroupe removed his panama hat and set it on the table. “The German army certainly is going all out.”
“The German painter Max Liebermann commented at one point in the thirties, in response to one of those militaristic parades with thousands of flags and torches and all that silliness, that he couldn’t eat as much as he would like to vomit.”
Carlsroupe cleared his throat and laughed. “Well,” he said, “I’m not surprised you like that quote. Despite your always elegant attire you are known on the Cape as being a strange bird indeed.” He tapped Kolbe’s stack of newspapers: the Times, Washington Post, and Le Figaro, along with papers by the Italians, Russians, Spanish, and Poles. “Still wild for the international press, I see. Even now.”
“The world is big and colorful,” Fritz said.
“So, why did you call me, Kolbe? It sounded urgent.”
Fritz closed the kitchen door and drew the curtains, turning the room’s light greenish. He pulled out the notepad page from inside his jacket. He stared only at his hand holding the paper.
“What is this?”
“These are the codes from our radio room, and the names of a few people staying behind.”
“Herr Kolbe, I . . .”
“I’m no Nazi, Mr. Carlsroupe.”
“Then what on earth are you doing? Did it ever occur to you that the man you wish to hand these codes to might well be a double agent? See here, everyone knows embassies and consulates are rife with spies, especially now. Yet you go around doing things like this, not knowing if you’re safe? Kolbe, my dear Fritz, perhaps you should stay in South Africa after all. If you act like this back in Germany, you’ll be dead within a few weeks.”
Carlsroupe’s words cut through Fritz like a machete. Would he do this in Germany? Fritz had heard whispers about various intelligence agencies’ clandestine activities during his postings in Madrid, then briefly in Paris and Warsaw, and now South Africa. There were the British MI6, the Soviet NKVD, the French Deuxième Bureau.
“Well, give it here, Kolbe.” Carlsroupe’s voice had lost some of its British politeness. The Englishman glanced back and forth between Fritz’s eyes and the page in his hands. Fritz slowly pushed the paper across the tabletop; it made a gentle rasping sound. Carlsroupe reached his hand, his fingers spread, a signet ring on one of them. Fritz pressed the page to the table. Carlsroupe yanked his hand back and raised his arms as if threatened.
“Can you give me some kind of guarantee?” Fritz asked.
“No, none. Surely you must know that these radio codes are already worthless.”
Fritz went to stand at the window, its curtains drawn. Through a small gap he saw the sun, looking like the kind one sees blazing in the desert, more pale than yellow, masquerading as weak. Do it, he thought, don’t brood. Of course the codes were worthless, since codes were changed all the time, but the gesture wasn’t—not for him. Anyway, Carlsroupe clearly seemed to have more of a clue about espionage matters than he did, or the man wouldn’t have tipped Fritz off to the possible dangers.
He flung the paper back onto the table; Carlsroupe snapped it up with one hand.
“Well played in any case,” Carlsroupe said. “Now, do watch out for yourself. The telephones and radio traffic are bugged, and all post is being opened. You are going—voluntarily—to live in tyranny. I truly do not know what to make of you.” He reached for his hat. “And, good Lord, do consider exactly what you hope to gain from this.” He stuffed the paper into his jacket pocket and patted it, then shook Fritz’s hand.
“Farewell to you, Herr Kolbe.”
Fritz walked Carlsroupe to the door. Summer burst into the room as Fritz opened it. “We all want peace,” he said.
“To have a roof over one’s head, a family, enough to eat,” Carlsroupe said.
“It’s the same everywhere, no matter where in the world you look. It truly is that simple.”
The Englishman set his panama hat on his head. “It will get nasty, you know. We British do not give up.”
“I wish you luck, Carlsroupe.”
“And I you, Kolbe. You will need it.”
“Do say hello to your wife for me.”
Ida had prepared braised chicken drumsticks and vegetables. Fritz ate in the kitchen with Katrin. He couldn’t look at his daughter and simply chewed as she said, “Mmmm, tasty, Papa.” His stomach had clenched up. He could hardly get a bite down.
She noticed, seeing right through his silence. “What is it, Papa?”
“I have to make a phone call,” he said. He went away to his little den and called Consul Biermann.
“I’m not coming with you, Herr Consul. There’s no way. I’m staying with Katrin.”
His words were met by silence. Then something happened that Fritz never would have expected: the old man screamed at him.
“I’m your superior! Where would we be if everyone here simply did what they wished? Where does it end? You’re my vice-consul. Berlin has been informed that I’m returning with you. Do you serious
ly wish to play into the hands of these philistines? You wish to admit defeat and run off with your tail between your legs like some mangy mutt off the street? I cannot believe you’re telling me this.” A sigh came over the line. Fritz felt small and ashamed. “I’m appalled and disappointed, Kolbe. Never, ever have I been so disappointed in a person as I am in you. But fine. Please do send this old man back to Berlin to take up a fight for which the young are too cowardly.”
The line clicked and Fritz banged the handset against his temple. He cursed and punched the air. If only he could be like the rest of them. O Reich! O Hitler, heavenly Führer! Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. Take away my responsibility, and I will eagerly follow you. Take my soul, my thoughts. Take me!
He ripped the cord out of the phone and wall and hurled it at the window. The cord stuck there a moment, like a snake, then dropped to the floor.
Fritz went back, held his hand out for Katrin, and proposed they go for a little stroll by the sea.
When he told her, she ran away, a skinny little girl with coal-black hair. He watched her go, a hook in his chest attached to a cord around Katrin’s waist. He shouted her name into the wind and the coarse rushing sounds of the ocean. He ran after her, his shoes sinking in the sand, his strength draining out of him, making it hard to go on.
“Katrin! Katrin!” His daughter was fleeing from him. He pleaded with her to stand still. When he finally caught up with her and placed a hand on her shoulder, she pushed it away. Her eyes were wet, and she wore an expression he had never seen before. Katrin was grown up.
“You promised! You promised me! Fathers don’t break promises!”
He knelt before her in the sand and raised his hands as if praying. Katrin punched at his chest.
“I’m coming back,” he stammered, “I’m coming back, Katrin, I—”
“You’re leaving me all alone.” Her voice went shrill from rage and shouting against the wind. Fritz hung his head and spread out his arms. He didn’t know how long he remained like that. After a few seconds, or perhaps years, he felt Katrin’s body press against him firmly in that way that was unique to her, and he wrapped his arms around her, wanting to never let her go again.
“You can’t just leave me behind, Papa.” Her chest shuddered with sobs.
“I am coming back. I’ll come get you, you’re my little girl. I will come get you no matter what.”
Fritz held her as tight as he could. She knew the score. She wasn’t a child anymore. She read as many newspapers as he did.
“You’ll have it good with Hiltrud and Werner,” he said. “It’s lovely in South-West Africa, believe me. As soon as it’s over, I’m coming back. It won’t last long, honey. There are so many horrible things going on. It can’t continue to go well for them for long.”
Katrin worked herself free from his embrace and pushed him away. He sunk into the sand. She turned her back to him and ran off along the beach.
Katrin insisted on going with him to the harbor. Fritz would have preferred to say good-bye at home, alone, undisturbed. He was afraid he would start crying as he watched from the railing the slight figure of his daughter disappear into the crowd. But he couldn’t refuse Katrin’s wish.
The throng gathered before the ship’s towering hull smelled to Fritz like sunshine, flower blossoms, and sweat. A cursing man barged into Katrin and struck her shin with his suitcase. Fritz barked at the man that he should kindly watch himself and go straight to hell. He felt Katrin watching him, her eyes reflecting the sky. She had never heard him talk like that before.
Fritz embraced his daughter there amidst the heat and the ripples of overlapping voices, and she dug her fingers into his back. I can’t do this, he thought. I can’t. He closed his eyes, unable to budge, smelling the fumes from the ship’s smokestack, the black exhaust rising straight up into the blue sky. He took Katrin’s face in both his hands, felt the smoothness of her cheeks, and looked her in the eyes. The most precious thing in the whole world, he thought.
“I’m coming back,” he said. He broke down when Katrin let go of his back to wave at Ida, who was walking toward them. The girl would be staying with her over the next few days, until Werner and Hiltrud came to take her away to South-West Africa, which had been a German colony only until 1915 and was still safe, far removed from war.
Fritz was one of the last to board the Dutch steamer Louisiana. The gangway seesawed beneath his feet while he looked over at the flat summit of Table Mountain. South Africa had been a paradise for him.
The crowds jostling on deck were loud and aggressive, but Fritz was able to elbow his way to a spot at the railing. He spied Katrin’s fair face and the large thick figure of Ida next to her. Hundreds of hands waved, handkerchiefs fluttered helplessly, and soldiers raised fists into the air. Then the ship’s horn droned and the heavy mooring cables rumbled. Fritz could feel the massive engines working away beneath the deck planks under his feet. This cannot be, he thought. Katrin was still so little.
She turned her back to him.
“Katrin, don’t, please!” he shouted.
Ida leaned down to his girl and spoke to her. Fritz prayed. Katrin shook her head. Ida glanced up at him, then turned to his daughter again. Katrin slowly turned around. Fritz rubbed the tears from his face. Katrin was waving to him.
“I’m coming back!” he shouted. The gap between the ship and the dock grew larger. Water churned from the propellers twisting their way through the harbor. As Fritz watched, Katrin’s face blurred, receded in the distance, and then vanished.
3
VOYAGE TO HELL
At sea, fall 1939
On the decks and inside common rooms, the men sang popular German folk songs. The singing unfurled over the ship like a flag. The Louisiana steamed on through a deceptively calm Atlantic, water heaving at the ship’s sides.
Throughout the journey, Fritz often stood at the railing and looked out at the horizon’s bladelike edge. A determined group of German passengers, men and women, had sent a delegation to the captain, demanding that the German flag be hoisted next to the Dutch. The captain had rejected their demand, locked up the door to the bridge, and had sentries posted outside.
Two to three times a day people pushed their way into the radio room to get news of how the war was going. Their cries of joy disgusted Fritz. “Poland’s fallen!” they called out. Whenever the triumphs of German U-boats were reported, he heard a song that would haunt him in his sleep: “Today Germany belongs to us, and tomorrow the entire world.” Men and women he’d gotten to know as reasonable people in Cape Town were now constantly talking big, trying to order around the Dutch sailors. On the first day, Fritz heard that some of them had already come to blows.
He shared a tiny windowless cabin with a man named Petersen. Petersen had tried to succeed at various business ventures in South-West Africa and South Africa. It hadn’t worked out, though, “all because of those half-apes down there,” Petersen said. He had propped himself up on his elbows. The cabin wall behind him was greasy. Now, luckily, a whole new day was dawning for him, he said. Two more weeks and he’d be in the Wehrmacht. Was Fritz going to become a soldier too?
“I’m in the diplomatic corps.”
Petersen laughed. “Diplomat? What crap. What do we need diplomats for? You look like you’re quite healthy. Why aren’t you fighting at the front?”
“The Foreign Office,” Fritz said, “negotiated our current treaty with Russia as well as our Anti-Comintern Pact with Japan, and what’s more we—”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, that’s all fine. You’re not wrong there. Von Ribbentrop and the Führer are supposed to be plenty close. So if he’s your superior, fine, why not?”
Fritz developed the habit of looking out to sea for hours, observing how the position of the sun changed the color of the water. He started a daily exercise routine: jog at least ten times around the decks, then do thirty knee bends and thirty push-ups. Sometimes, when all the Germanomania on deck became too much for him, he r
etreated into a book. One time—he wasn’t sure how many days into the journey they were when this happened—he saw a vertical plume of smoke far on the horizon. A U-boat had likely torpedoed a ship, and now hundreds of people were trapped below in their cabins with the water rising, or they were treading water in the ocean until their muscles went limp and the weight of their bodies pulled them down into a world without breath. All those poor, poor people.
In the evenings Petersen droned on, delivering monologues about racial theories and how it was now being proved just how right the Führer was about everything. The peoples in the East, he said, “such as your Polacks,” had nothing to counter German might. He also liked talking about how International Jewry were getting their “knuckles rapped right proper,” something he said was long overdue. Fritz only felt lucky that Petersen didn’t expect him to respond; the man talked on without interruption until he finally said good night and began to snore seconds later.
Fritz’s sole comfort was a whale that often passed close to the ship. Its mighty gray back—slick and glossy, as if lacquered—would rise from the ocean and dive under again in one elegantly sweeping motion. The colossus then blew out water, and its huge tail flipper wound its way back out of the Atlantic, swinging as it moved, dripping wet and awe-inspiring.
Next to him Petersen said that if he had a gun right now he’d sink a few bullets into it—people were saying that these beasts could disrupt the U-boats. “The captain has to have a rifle somewhere on the bridge, don’t you think?”
“That’s enough,” Fritz said. “You imbecile.”
Petersen drew a notepad from his jacket pocket and asked for Fritz’s full name and residence. “Well?” Petersen waved and two men came to his side.
“Sommer, Karl Heinz,” Fritz said. “Chemnitz, Fritzstrasse thirty-three.”
“There you go. People like you, Sommer, only have to be shown who’s boss, and you’ll knuckle under soon enough. You’ll have a lot to learn in Germany. But don’t you worry, we’ll soon show the likes of you just how things work.”
The Honest Spy Page 4
