“Hello, Fritz, he said.”
“Hello, Fritz.”
Fritz hadn’t imagined hearing the man’s voice would affect him so. The sound of it brought freedom and the final unmasking he’d long desired. Holding Marlene’s hand, he felt through the darkness and pushed aside branches that stretched out like the strings of bows.
“Will? Will, is that you?”
“It’s me. It’s about time you got here.”
Fritz could now make out Priest’s silhouette and the side of a boat landed on the beach, its wet hull gleaming. “Nice and cloudy tonight,” Priest said. “Good for us.” He climbed out of the boat, a cool wind wafting along the bank, and shook Marlene’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Frau Wiese. This man here talks of nothing but you.”
“As he should,” Marlene said. “You’re my first real American.”
Fritz laughed. He could tell that Priest was genuinely happy to see him. He handed Priest both suitcases and Priest loaded them into the boat. Then he helped Marlene in, and Fritz after her, the boat wobbling under his feet. Priest pushed off and water rushed along the boat’s hull. Then Priest swung himself over the side and into the boat, his legs dripping wet. He sat in the middle and reached for a box at his feet. In the dark Fritz could just make out the subtle shine of two machine guns. Priest handed him one. The metal felt cool. “Safari,” he said. Priest’s inexplicable silliness was contagious. Deliverance rode in this boat, and so did a feeling of elation. The danger still ahead of them barely registered. Fritz said, “You drink up Dulles’s secret whisky stash or what, Will? He’s not always like this, Marlene.”
Marlene laughed quietly. “I think it’s nice,” she whispered.
“You hear that, Fritz?”
“Shut up, Will.”
Priest started rowing, slowly and gently. He was careful to dip the blades into the water silently, and the more water that rushed past the boat, the more euphoric Fritz grew. Marlene sat at the bow. Fritz gazed at the contours of her cheeks. He would have liked to go over to her and kiss her. He breathed in the nice cool air and looked back at the lights on the shore. A patrol boat was casting its spotlight far in the distance. Things would all go well from this point on. There was only this one stretch of lake left, only Will’s oar strokes, and then they’d go underground at some secure hideout in Switzerland.
Fritz sat in the stern of the boat while Priest quietly, evenly dragged the oars through the water. Up in the bow, Marlene was dipping her fingertips into the lake. Suddenly, the memories came back to Fritz again. He ran after Katrin on the beach at Camps Bay, felt those strange men grip his shoulders on board the Louisiana, and saw von Günther in the Foreign Office for the first time and his own contorted face.
Walter and Käthe were laughing with him, and then Käthe was shrinking away, gone gray, her eyes robbed of all life. He saw the documents with swastikas and Reich eagles, and he heard Marlene laughing in Frau Hansen’s tiny office. Then William Priest beckoned him down a hallway, he met Allen Dulles and Greta Stone, and he noticed the secret glances exchanged between Weygand and von Lützow’s wife.
He heard that young boy in Berlin screaming, Papa! Papa! and he saw Marlene naked and vulnerable before him. He felt the cobblestones of Bern’s narrow lanes under his feet. Next von Ribbentrop was glaring at him, and Hitler walked through the shadows of trees at the Wolf’s Lair. Marlene was sitting out in front of the Foreign Office in her blue overcoat, waiting for him, quite un-German behavior for a German lady, though she couldn’t care less. In the corridors of the White House, they were talking about one George Wood, and then there was Marlene’s straight, slim nose, the loveliest nose he’d ever seen.
It all had to be written down. His name didn’t need to be mentioned, but this story of revolt against tyranny had to be told, and an accounting must be given of the ones who must pay for that tyranny.
As the boat skidded onto the sand of the opposite bank and Priest pulled in the oars, Fritz closed his eyes a moment. He heard Marlene’s voice. “Is this really Switzerland?”
“Welcome, Madame,” Priest said. He climbed past her and out of the boat and held out a hand to her. Fritz sat there a moment longer, looking back over his shoulder. The lights of Lindau glowed timidly in the black night. They might as well have originated from another planet, they seemed so far away. As he stepped onto dry ground, he felt like an explorer discovering some unknown island.
Priest took the machine gun from him and shouldered it. Marlene was standing over by a car talking with a gray-haired man who was smoking a pipe.
“Mr. Wood.”
“Mr. Dulles.”
“I can’t believe you never told me your real name.” Marlene smiled.
“George Wood,” he said and kissed her hand. “Will she be safe, Mr. Dulles?”
“That she will. Did you bring us any new intelligence?”
Even at a time like this, Fritz thought. He pulled thin papers from his pockets and socks and handed them over to Dulles.
“That’s all of it,” he said.
“Hold on,” Dulles muttered. “You should know I never agreed to all this. Mr. Priest seems to be taking a bit too much upon himself.”
“I told him about my mission to Lindau,” Fritz said. “He merely lent me a hand. Marlene and I were going to get away one way or another. Would’ve tried to, in any case. And without any help from you, Mr. Dulles.”
They drove through the darkness, Marlene and Fritz sitting in the back of the car, holding hands. Priest was at the wheel and Dulles turned to them every so often, telling Marlene about Washington and New York and explaining that in the States there was only a very small, select circle of top-ranking individuals who knew of George Wood.
“I personally told the president that Wood is the most important spy of this whole war.”
“The president?” Marlene looked at Fritz. It felt awkward for him to be portrayed as a hero—he’d never wanted that. He felt a tingle in his chest nevertheless and straightened his shoulders. Marlene squeezed his hand and looked out the window at the gray woods rushing by.
“The president?” she repeated. “Of America? Fritz! Just where am I anyway?”
“With me,” Fritz said. He turned to Will. “Where are you putting us up?”
“The last place anyone would expect you to go,” Priest said.
“Smack dab in the middle of Bern,” Dulles said. “A little apartment, nothing special, but adequate. You won’t be able to leave the apartment, but we’ll see to it that you’ll have everything you need. It’s just for a few weeks more.”
“Thanks, Will. That’s very good of you.”
“We’ve done it, Fritz,” Marlene said. “We’ve done it. My God, we’re going to live.”
The apartment was in a building built in the Middle Ages, on Langmauer Lane not far from the rush of the Aare. From their window they could see Kornhaus Bridge off to the right. Time ceased to exist in those two rooms with a fireplace and a small kitchen. And though each of them needed to be alone now and then, the doors always stayed open and they never suffered a moment of boredom or monotony. They chatted, they read, or they read to each other; they cooked and lay in bed—a lot. Fritz put out his globe. “Now you can spin in peace again, dear world,” he said. He was glad Marlene was happy. She seemed to have gotten over leaving Charité Hospital and appeared resolved not to let her conscience torment her anymore. And so she began, cautiously at first and then with increasing determination, to talk about their future together.
William Priest came by twice a week, bringing supplies and the international papers. He said little about the OSS’s espionage activities. He mentioned Greta Stone once to say she sent her regards. “Our good Greta is on her way back to Europe. She’s been assigned directly to Eisenhower on the Western Front. She has the highest security rating.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Better than ever. She’s where the action is.”
“Where the action is, isn’t always t
he best place to be. Not in the long run.”
“In America it is.”
“Will, come on.”
“That’s just how it is.”
“Do you know what’s happened to Weygand?”
“He was ordered back to the Reich but he took off. He’s a little fish.”
“What about Gehlen?”
Priest lit a cigarette.
“Will? General Gehlen?”
“That’s classified, Fritz. All right? Now, make sure you keep the radio on nice and loud for the next few days. It can’t last much longer now.”
Books lay open around them in bed. Sausage, cheese, and radishes wobbled on a plate balanced atop their bunched-up sheets. Fritz kissed the curve of Marlene’s breast as she licked mustard off her fingers.
“The merry month of May begins today,” Fritz said.
“Merry is good,” Marlene said. Fritz started kissing her nipples, but Marlene pushed him away after only a few seconds. She had never done that before, not in a private moment like this. What was wrong now?
She was holding him back with her arms stiff, staring at him. “Listen. Listen to what they’re saying on the radio.”
“This afternoon our Führer, Adolf Hitler, has fallen at his command post in the Reich Chancellery, fighting to the last breath against Bolshevism, and for Germany . . .”
It took a while for them to comprehend it. They fell completely silent, then they felt for each other’s hands and squeezed firmly for a long time.
Hitler was dead.
“It’s over, Fritz.”
Fritz slowly climbed out of bed. Rising from the dead. That was his first thought. The words loomed large in his mind. He flexed his muscles until they quivered.
He screamed one long “Yeesssss . . .” out into the apartment.
“She’s turning to look at me, Marlene. She’s turning my way. She’s waving.”
“Who is, Fritz?”
“Katrin. My daughter.”
“Oh my God, and we’re alive.”
She got out of bed naked and they embraced, and Fritz closed his eyes as he held his woman tight.
A week later, the document of unconditional surrender was signed. The war in Europe was over.
Fritz and Marlene pushed open the door onto the street. They laughed and hugged each other out in the sunshine. They could not comprehend that it was over, and yet the end was all they could think about. They left their hideaway and strolled through Bern together, just as Fritz always wanted them to. The springtime sun seemed to be shining just for them, Fritz said, and he showed Marlene the building on Herrengasse where the OSS kept their clandestine office. He walked with her past the German diplomatic mission on Willading Lane. The doors stood open, crates were piling up in the front yard which smelled of blossoms, and someone had taken down all the curtains. He considered showing Marlene Weygand’s and von Lützow’s offices, but decided to let it be and showed her his hotel on Bubenbergplatz instead.
“So that’s where you always stayed?” she said.
He pointed at the window of his room. “Right there,” he said, and it felt like it had been decades ago. “Those were the good old days,” he said.
Marlene yanked him close to her. “You can’t be serious.”
“Not for one second,” he said. But was that entirely true? He felt keenly the weight of the war ending, of Hitler dying, and of his reclaimed freedom. But there was something else there too: an intuition, a hint of a feeling, connected to the room behind that window. Did George Wood—Kappa—still exist? Or had he died along with Adolf Hitler?
Fritz called Eugen Sacher and the three of them met for dinner in a restaurant on Herrengasse. He and Eugen hugged, unable to care less about the other tables staring at them.
“Nice restaurant,” Eugen said. He placed a hand on Fritz’s forearm. “Man, was I ever scared back when this all started.”
He said that he was now getting plenty of business from over in Central Europe. “So many deals coming in, it’s crazy. You two can’t imagine all the goods going back and forth these days.”
“Doing business with former Nazis?” Fritz asked.
“Come on, Fritz.”
“Our lives were in real danger, Eugen. Walter and Käthe are dead, and so are millions of others.”
“I know that. But life goes on. It always does. That’s a good thing.”
“A story can only move on once a chapter is completely finished.”
Marlene reached for his hand. He was convinced that she shared his opinions on the subject, but she didn’t want to argue now and he understood that. It wasn’t a topic that should be avoided in the future, but they were still recovering from the war, and Fritz didn’t want to disturb her peaceful meal. He kissed her cheek and waved at the waiter to bring more white wine to go with the fish. Eugen, seeming to sense their shared understanding, said only that, naturally, he would not be doing business with ex-Nazis.
“You have to be able to recognize them first,” Fritz said, “before you can avoid them.”
“Something a certain friend of mine hasn’t worried nearly enough about.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Marlene said. “That’s enough.”
The next day William Priest called and summoned Fritz to the OSS office on Herrengasse. Fritz asked if he could bring Marlene.
“Don’t say crap like that, Fritz. Of course you can’t,” Priest said and hung up.
Gone were the days of discreet meetings with just Greta, Priest, and Dulles. Now, about a dozen extra telephones were ringing, and carpets and runners were lying over countless cables. Twenty men, many of them in uniform, were talking over one another, handing phone receivers back and forth and paging through documents.
Dulles told Fritz he was looking forward to a secluded and secure new office in Berlin and to one in the States after that. He sat at his desk, frowning at all the men and sucking on his extinguished pipe.
“Between you and me, Mr. Wood—”
“Kolbe.”
“Huh?”
“Kolbe, Fritz Kolbe.”
“Now, between you and me, this here”—Dulles pointed with his pipe—“is not my preference. Proper focus demands that a small group of people tell a larger group what they should be doing.”
Priest pulled Fritz aside.
“We have some more assignments for you. You’re being officially recruited. From now on, you’ll be getting paid dollars for your work. You’ll get more details in the next few days. But listen, Fritz, you have to keep a low profile. Wooldridge from MI6—you know, the Brit—came to us again. He’s still obsessed with the idea that there’s a massive leak right in London. The British have long known that a certain George Wood was a prime source and still is. But they’re also convinced any new enemy will soon be putting out even more feelers, trying to find you. Such an ungodly mess. Our work goes on everywhere. Berlin, Bern, London, Washington, Moscow—and now Vienna, brand new on the market. No one has any perspective.”
“But I can finally contact Katrin, right?”
Priest shook his head. “It was smart of you to keep her out of all this. But you’ll have to wait a little longer. Things are too chaotic now. Once some sort of structure is in place, once we’ve determined what position we’re taking . . . then, Fritz, then. You’ve endured it this long. Keep Katrin out of it a little longer.”
“Did you get a message to her?”
“Of course.” Priest placed a hand on his shoulder. “Look, you’ve made yourself plenty of enemies. And at least some of them now find themselves in new territory. They’re reacting differently, thinking differently. I know that this all sounds pretty muddled, but muddled is the way things are at the moment. I want you to keep your head down.”
“I’ve had it up to here with keeping my head down, Will.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“What about Marlene?”
“Having a woman at your side just gives them one more way to put pressure on you.”
/>
Fritz cursed.
“Here in Bern, you should be fine. Just don’t go dancing at too many parties.” Priest shook Fritz’s hand. “By the way,” he said, “she’s a wonderful woman.”
“Without Marlene, I couldn’t have done it.”
Fritz squeezed between two of Dulles’s men into Greta’s former office on his way to the exit.
A young lieutenant said quietly, “Pardon me, please, sir, are you George Wood?”
Fritz looked around. Another man glanced at him. Priest was standing in the doorway. Sensing Fritz’s hesitation, Priest shook his head at him as if to say, Not a word.
The lieutenant’s smile was almost bashful. Something about him reminded Fritz of Horst Braunwein.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Fritz said.
Priest groaned.
“The pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Wood.” The lieutenant shook his hand. “Terrific job. Really fantastic.”
As Fritz turned to leave the room with all its shrillness and chatter, he heard the other man mutter something.
“You know, he’s a traitor . . .”
Fritz turned back, advanced on the man, and cocked his arm.
No more shadowboxing, no imagined Nazi henchmen. This time, a young, baby-faced American in uniform got a swift fist to the mouth.
As he walked out, Fritz shut the door on the remark, on the men who stood staring at him like dolls, on the moaning man with his bloody split lip. He went down the stairs but did not exit the front door to Herrengasse; he used the hallway to the garden gate instead. This was the very spot where William Priest had met him on his first trip to Bern, where he had stood in the darkness, waving Fritz toward him and another world.
“From there I went straight to a newspaper’s offices and talked my way in to see the editor-in-chief. I told him I had a first-rate espionage story to tell, only my name couldn’t get mentioned.”
“That wasn’t too smart,” Veronika says.
Fritz looks out at the night, the window reflecting the glow of the lamp and the fiery oranges flickering behind the woodstove’s hatch.
The Honest Spy Page 33
