Fifth Column

by Christopher Remy

  "Ah, yes, it would be. Yes, too dangerous."

  I need to make this seem like it's his idea, she reasoned.

  "I've heard a lot about the Deutsche Ausland Institut in Stuttgart," she continued. "Apparently they have an America section there where scholars do research for the government. I think that sounds very interesting."

  Bolting across the room, Kunze began opening and closing drawers in his desk, muttering, "Yes, yes, yes."

  He produced a small notebook and held it up with a triumphant look.

  "I know just what to do. Have you heard of Walter Kappe?"

  Johanna feigned ignorance.

  "He was a very important man in the Bund a few years ago – our propaganda chief. He is now in Germany," he said, pausing dramatically, "in charge of just that America section at the Foreign Institute!"

  She did her best to act surprised. "Do you know him? Do you think you could arrange it for me to go to Stuttgart?"

  "Of course, I know him, of course. Yes, let me get in touch with him and see what I can do. How much time do you have before you have to be in court again?"

  That was a good question. Johanna didn't know. Was she even required to follow through with it if she was still here? Would the police come looking for her if she didn't?

  "Two weeks," she guessed.

  "All right, we'll see what we can do."

  Johanna got up to leave and Kunze came over looking like he wanted to console her. As he tried to get an arm around her, she squeezed out the door, thanking him over her shoulder.

  Coming into the outer room of the Bund headquarters, the secretary plopped down in her seat, clearly rushing back from her eavesdropping position.

  Good, Johanna thought. The more Bundists that know about this, the better. If it turns out that Kunze is not as well-connected as he portrays himself to be, I might need someone else's help instead.

  17

  For the next two weeks, Johanna decided to keep a low profile. She worked in the deli, helping her mother with stocking shelves, waiting on customers and sorting through the paperwork. She denied her complicity in any spying or subversive activities, and that seemed to satisfy her parents. Their confusion seemed to be about why Johanna was the one singled out, and not Freddy. No one was more confused about that than Freddy himself, who seemed jealous of his sister's legal problems. He cornered her several times in the back storeroom to ask details about what the FBI said and did and who else had been in court with her.

  Klaus and Elisabeth had been American citizens for almost twenty years, but Johanna thought they still seemed naïve about how things worked here. She was loath to take advantage of this, but she did nonetheless. Telling them that the FBI was persecuting her because she was German and a professor of German history, she was able to plant a seed of doubt that perhaps the anti-German hysteria from the Great War had indeed returned. This lie made her feel guilty for the deception and at the same time embarrassed by their gullibility. Johanna told herself that someday she would be able to tell them the truth, and that it would make up for the lies.

  Freddy, however, was more than willing to believe in an anti-German conspiracy. He railed on and on about the Jewish vendetta against the Bund and German-Americans for "exposing their plan for world domination and Aryan subjugation." He only stopped when their father found errands for him to run or made other busywork for him. None of this succeeded in stopping Freddy's tirades –he only restarted them whenever Johanna was around. She finally was able to shut him up when she announced her decision to immigrate to Germany in the volksdeutsche program.

  Freddy's jealousy turned to bitterness. He refused to speak to anyone and shot angry looks at Johanna every chance he got. Klaus withdrew even further into sullenness and anger, while Elisabeth wept and tried to persuade Johanna to stay. She tried to convince her that they would do whatever was necessary to clear her name. Why would she want to leave and go to Germany, didn't she know it was dangerous? She could be killed in the bombing. Why would she want to live under Hitler and his awful cohorts?

  This proved to be Johanna's hardest acting challenge yet. She pretended to be resolute in her decision, saying that leaving the United States was the only way she could escape persecution. She said she was going to work at an institute far away from the fighting and British bombs. After a few days, her mother's pleading became less tearful, and the Falcks reverted to their usual silent dinner tables and the tension of things unsaid.

  One day, Freddy came into the small office in the back of the deli, where Johanna was busy looking through invoices. He had an angry look.

  "You need to go to Bund headquarters. Everything is set."

  This time, the Bund's offices looked like they must have when the group was in its heyday. Everything had been put away, no more piles of newspapers or boxes. Each of the inner offices was clean and organized, furniture placed just so. Kunze's office no longer looked lived-in. The cot was gone as were the bad smells. A small, round table had replaced the threadbare couch, a table at which Johanna now sat with Kunze and a man he introduced as Herr Reiss. Reiss was a rather pale and doughy man who exuded self-importance. He wore a pince-nez which compounded his imperious bearing by forcing him to literally look down his nose on everyone in order to see them through the thick lenses.

  He greeted Johanna in heavily accented English, quickly reverting to High German while he explained his presence.

  "I am here on behalf of the Foreign Institute in Stuttgart. I have been sent to tour the United States, giving speeches to German groups, keeping them abreast of events in the Fatherland. I understand from Mr. Kunze that you have found yourself in some trouble."

  Johanna nodded and briefly explained her "situation," including the part about her mysterious middle man.

  "I see. So you have no actual contacts with Abwehr or anyone in Berlin?"

  "That's right," she replied. "Just my contact here in New York."

  "I also understand that you are a professor of German history. What would you say your field of expertise is?"

  She thought carefully, and gave Reiss a sanitized version of her dissertation, leaving out all the Nazi-related content, and focusing on the social and intellectual history portions of it. The discussion quickly turned into an interview of sorts; Reiss asked her about her research experience and her plans for a career in academia. He explained that the Foreign Institute had many functions, from performing research on various groups of Germans living abroad, to writing news articles and pamphlets for distribution to volksdeutsche around the world. In addition, there was an organization called Kameradeschaft-USA, a collection of Germans who had lived in America who joined together to keep contact between the Fatherland, the Nazi party and Germans still in the U.S.

  Johanna told Reiss that she would be very interested in working for the DAI, if she could contribute to research about the United States, especially with Kameradeschaft-USA.

  Reiss asked her to wait outside while he conferred with Kunze.

  She went out to the reception area, where the secretary was either busy at work or busy putting on a show for Reiss. Johanna suspected the latter. A full ashtray and an open makeup kit were half-hidden under a newspaper on the desk and the speed of her typing slowed when she saw Johanna come out.

  A succession of opening doors and nearing footsteps sped the secretary's typing back up. Kunze and Reiss walked out, Kunze looking like he was escorting royalty—a beatific smile on his face and an obsequious bow ready for every one of Reiss' utterances.

  Reiss put on his hat and handed Johanna a slip of paper. On it was written "Pier 14, 9 am." She looked up to catch his eyes roaming over the front of her blouse. He flushed and rushed out the door, wishing her luck.

  On her way back home, Johanna stopped at a phone booth. She pulled Stephenson's card out of her purse and dialed the number.

  Answering on the first ring, a woman's voice announced in a crisp British accent, "UK Passport Control."

  Johanna ask
ed for Stephenson. The woman said he was unavailable. "Who's calling, please?"

  She gave her name, and the receptionist asked if she would like to leave a message.

  "Yes, I would. I….um…wanted to tell him that my arrangements have been made. For my trip, I mean."

  She heard a low chuckle at the other end.

  "Yes, dear, I'll tell Mr. Stephenson that your passage to Germany has been secured. Has everything been arranged with the DAI?"

  Johanna laughed in spite of her embarrassment at the awkward cloak-and-dagger routine.

  "Yes, I think it has."

  "Wonderful. Please come down to the office for six o'clock tomorrow morning."

  18

  After Johanna waited nearly an hour in one of the small meeting rooms at BSC's office, William Stephenson came in. He apologized and gave her a hasty rundown of the final details. He handed her a copy of Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms to use as her code book, explaining that she was to use the first full paragraph on the even numbered pages as her encryption key, going from one to the next for each report. On a small chalkboard, he wrote the time and place of her courier rendezvous and told her to memorize the information. He reiterated that she should not be in any danger, but if she failed to meet with the courier, they would do their utmost to get her out. Johanna nodded, knowing that it was likely a lie.

  He gave her a quick pep talk, telling her he was confident she would be fine and that he looked forward to reading her reports. As quickly as he had come in, he was gone.

  The meeting room had a telephone, and she dialed Charlie Daly's number. She told him what had happened and that she was off to Germany the next morning.

  "Well, good luck, Johanna, I know you'll do fine," he said. "And I have some good news: Eve and I have been reassigned to COI. They've moved the entire Research and Analysis group over intact, so I'll still be the one in charge of your operation. If you have any problems, I'll be there to take care of you, your 'handler' if you like. If there's anything you need while you're over there, just stick it in your written report and I'll do my best."

  She was reassured that he and Eve would be looking out for her, and she told him so.

  "Now, remember, you go there, do whatever work they give you and report only on what you come across in the normal course of the day. Do not, under any circumstances, put yourself at risk by trying to steal any papers or go snooping around anywhere you don't belong. If this DAI and Kameradeschaft-USA are what we think they are, you should be able to provide us with plenty of good information on their support of Fifth Columnists, anti-American propaganda and the like.

  "Most importantly, however, is anything you can get that tells us what they think about our military capabilities, our political situation and what their plans are to try to subvert our government or military from within in the event of war. That's your primary focus, okay?"

  Johanna said she understood. Charlie promised to keep close tabs on her the entire time she was in Germany. The one question still unanswered was, when would she be able to come home? It was also a question unasked –Johanna knew anything they told her would be just to placate her. She would just have to figure that out later, hopefully when British – or maybe even American – troops invaded Germany and passed her way.

  Charlie put Eve on another extension and they all said their goodbyes, the Daly's repeating that she would be fine and not to worry. She hung up, hoping to see them again.

  Despite the early hour, Pier 14 was packed with passengers and well-wishers. Cargo nets dangled from cranes high above the crowd and lines of passengers headed up the long gangplanks of the two ocean liners that loomed overhead. There was a somberness to the crowd, a palpable sense of heading into a war zone that overshadowed the excitement of traveling or returning home.

  There was no one to see Johanna off, a fact which made her feel relieved and depressed at the same time. Her mother had cried when she left this morning; neither her father nor brother was anywhere to be found. Telling herself that someday she would be able to redeem herself by telling her parents the truth was no comfort.

  Leaving her luggage with a porter, Johanna prepared to board. Standing alone in line, making her way up the gangplank of the Stockholm, Johanna knew that this was a preview of what was coming. She would be alone, both in the knowledge of who she really was and what her true purpose was, but also if things went wrong – she would have no one to rely on but herself. She wondered if experienced spies and agents had those same worries, even with their experience and training to fall back on. Despite the assurances of Stephenson, Brotherton and the Dalys, she knew that she would be making it up as she went along and hoping for the best.

  After a long wait, she came to the top of the switchback gangplank where a purser in a neat blue uniform was checking tickets and the passenger manifest. Johanna didn't have a ticket; technically a fugitive from justice, she couldn't appear on the passenger list. Kunze had explained the method by which numerous other Bundists and German agents were smuggled aboard passenger liners. She gave her name to the purser along with the note in Reiss' handwriting. The purser pretended to look at the manifest and nodded.

  "Stateroom Six-Oh-Seven-One," he whispered. "Deck Six, aft."

  She glanced over to the Hudson River beyond the prow of the huge ship, seeing a coal barge and some sailboats outlined against the cliffs of New Jersey.

  I hope I get to see this again, she thought, and turned back to the open doorway. She stepped aboard and officially became a stowaway bound for the Third Reich by way of Sweden.

  19

  Berlin – September 1941

  The Tiergarten district of Berlin got its name from the giant park that dominated it. Formerly a hunting preserve for Prussian nobility, it now served as an urban oasis, particularly for those who could afford to have a horse boarded at the park's stables. Every morning, riders could be seen cantering through the grassy fields or walking in pairs on the stone-dust paths that wound through the park.

  The park stables were in a long, low barn in a clearing with white fenced paddocks on all sides. Admiral Wilhelm Canaris inhaled deeply as he entered the barn; the unique scent – manure, shavings and hay – and the sound of horses snuffling in grain buckets or munching hay relaxed him before he even put a foot in a stirrup. As always, his beloved gray Arab mare, Motte, was tacked up and waiting for him in crossties while a groom picked her hooves.

  Seeing Canaris walk in, Motte nickered to him and bobbed her head, rattling the chains of the crossties. He rewarded her with an apple from his pocket, cooing in her ear. The groom finished with her hooves, unhooked her halter and put on the bridle. Canaris took the reins. Outside the barn, he maneuvered Motte over to a wooden mounting block. At just over five feet tall, Canaris was embarrassed at having to use the block like a child, so he did it quickly. With one bounding step, he climbed the block and mounted the horse.

  SS Standartenführer Walter Schellenberg called out to Canaris from behind the barn, where his chestnut Hanoverian gelding nibbled what little grass sprouted up among the dirt patches. With a swing of his leg, Schellenberg mounted his horse from the ground and rode over to meet Canaris.

  "Hello, Schellenberg," Canaris replied.

  Every morning, Canaris and Schellenberg met for a ride through the park before going to their respective offices. To the casual observer, the two men made an odd pair – the short, middle-aged Canaris with his silver hair and bushy eyebrows next to the tall, dark and youthful Schellenberg. To the informed, their pairing would have seemed preposterous.

  Canaris was the head of the Abwehr, the intelligence branch of the armed forces, and represented the conservative military tradition of the Prussian elite. Schellenberg was the quintessential National Socialist – joining the SS in college and getting caught up in revolutionary fervor, then rising to the rank of deputy director of the Sicherheitsdienst in his thirties. In charge of the counter-intelligence arm of the SD, which operated under the Reich Central Security
Office (RSHA) of Reinhard Heydrich, Schellenberg's organization was at constant loggerheads with the Abwehr, as was the entire RSHA. Each group distrusted the other and thought their opponent's work best suited to their own agency. Some said Abwehr and SD agents spent more time on plots and counter-plots against each other than they did against the enemy.

  As befitting two experts in the field of espionage, however, each man cultivated a rapport with the other as the best means of pre-empting intrigue. Begun as a wary liaison between rivals, their relationship had grown into a genuine friendship.

  The baking heat of September in Berlin had already taken hold this morning, and soon both horses and men were drenched with sweat as they trotted through the park. Slowing to a walk, Schellenberg pointed to a shady spot off the path and suggested they rest for a moment.