Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  A full three minutes passed before the phone jingled. “Guten Tag,” Ryan said, not giving a name.

  “You the gent that needs a quick print job?”

  “You got him. This Herr Becker?”

  “Works as good as any. You got money?”

  “More than enough.”

  “Just what I want to hear. Where you at now?”

  “Alex S-Bahn station.” Ryan preferred meeting in a less public spot. “But I can come to you.”

  “Better we meet there. Waiting hall. Thirty minutes. What are you like?”

  “Mid-thirties. On the taller side, slender build, dark hair, blue eyes. Billed cap and tweed overcoat. I’ll smoke a pipe. How about you?”

  The man ignored Ryan’s question: “I’ll find you. If you’re late, I’m outa there, got it?”

  “Got it,” Ryan replied to the buzz of an empty line.

  Twenty-five minutes later he found an unoccupied bench against the far wall of the waiting room. As usual, a constant swarm of passengers came and went. He needed a spot that offered some privacy, but men huddling in too a quiet a corner might arouse official suspicion. He wanted to observe each passer-by for any sign of interest but knew that wasn’t wise. It made better sense to pretend to read, so he’d stopped briefly at the newsstand. His first inclination had been the latest edition of the Völkischer Beobachter. Blatantly displaying that rag, rife with anti-Semitic propaganda, might lessen the curiosity of a suspicious policeman. But a man making a living forging documents would be wary of approaching a fervent Nazi, so he chose instead the relatively neutral Abendblatt at the news stand. He sat down and lit up.

  Precisely ten minutes later a man in his mid-twenties took a seat on Ryan’s bench. A brown fedora concealed most of the cropped blond hair matching a sparse mustache. The fellow—slight with a sunken chest and hunched shoulders—removed a watch from his wrist, and, squinting at the station clock high on the opposite wall, carefully set the time and wound the stem. He wore thick lenses. Casually, he turned his head toward Ryan to inquire: “You finished with the Abendblatt?”

  “Yes, of course.” Ryan refolded the paper and handed it over.

  “Thank you. Most considerate.” The man turned to the back pages and ran his fingertip down the columns of classifieds. Ryan feigned disinterest. A minute or two passed before the man commented quietly: “Never can find a good print shop when you need one, right?”

  Ryan nodded. “Herr Becker?”

  “Sure. Why not?” The man lit a cigarette and released a cloud through his nostrils, then hacked from deep in his lungs. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “An embarrassing situation, actually—I’ve misplaced my identity papers. Likely stolen.”

  “No shortage of thieves around, right? And so tedious to replace them through official channels, don’t you know? Always a bucket load of questions.” He chuckled. “Suspicions and accusations.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Ryan re-lit his neglected pipe and shook out the match. “So what would you need from me?”

  “What are you looking for, exactly?”

  “The typical, I suppose.”

  “Well then, an identity card and some sort of work permit. Or if not a permit, at least a letter excusing you from duty?”

  “That should do just fine. Would it help if I could get ahold of, say, outdated papers? Ones your capable hands could improve upon?”

  The man smiled ever so slightly, considering the proposition before slowly shaking his head. “No, I prefer working from scratch. Artist’s prerogative, you understand.”

  Ryan didn’t, but nodded anyway. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think three days, and a couple of passport photographs. Two hundred marks now, another two on delivery.” The man’s eyes never left Ryan’s, clearly gauging his ability to pay.

  Casually observing the comings and goings of the station, Ryan removed several large bills from his jacket pocket and slipped the cash into the photographer’s envelope. He set it down between them. “You’ll find photos inside.”

  The man coolly slid the thin bundle between the folds of the newspaper. “Anybody special in mind, or should I get creative?”

  “Military exemption is a must. I’m thinking a civil engineer with the Todt Organization would be just the ticket.” Ryan knew the massive construction firm received a blank check from Hitler in building both the new Berlin and the Reich’s defenses. “Use the name ‘Ernst Mahler.’ Born 21 July 1906 in Frankfurt an der Oder.”Ryan released a puff of smoke. “Got all that?”

  “Memory like a vault. ‘Ernst Mahler.’ Got it. I specialize in detail work.”

  “Then that should do nicely. Other than that, a letter from the Todt people explaining my temporary stay here would be a nice touch.”

  “Not a problem. You’d be surprised to learn how many official documents come my way. That pickpocket problem, you see.”

  “Excellent.” Ryan gave up on his pipe, tapping the bowl against the edge of the ashtray stand to loosen the smoldering tobacco. “Anything else you need from me?”

  “This will do. Meet me in three days, same time of day.”

  “Where?” Standard protocol for illicit dealing was never to meet someone twice in the same locale. Was this guy an amateur? “Here again?”

  The forger touched the brim of his hat with his forefinger and casually picked up the folded newspaper concealing the cash. “No way.” He glanced toward the exit. “Wertheim’s. Men’s room on the mezzanine. Wait till we’re alone.” He slipped the paper beneath his arm, crushed what remained of his cigarette underfoot and ambled off without a glance back.

  Ryan knew he might have seen the last of both the two hundred and his photos, but his options were limited. He waited five minutes before purchasing a ticket and boarding the next train that pulled in. He paid no attention to its destination, only to the people who boarded after him. Half an hour later he returned by underground to find afternoon foot traffic beginning to build on the Alex. He joined a group of shoppers at the main entrance to the Hertie department store, took the elevator up two floors, then rapidly descended by the back staircase and exited a side door. He had not been shadowed.

  Now there was little to do but wait. The sooner he was rid of “Lewis Graf,” the better. Those incriminating documents would disappear the minute he had Becker’s replacements in hand. Assuming he got them. It certainly couldn’t hurt to have a secondary identity even should Ellington come through in the meantime.

  On the way to his room he stopped to dial the number for Canaris one more time. Out of service. He couldn’t count on another Klara should he step in it again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Berlin, Germany

  December 1941

  At precisely ten to six Kriminalrat Gregor Brandt rolled to the side of the bed and slowly lowered his legs to the floor. He took a moment to stare out the murky window and shuddered. Not from the cold, but from memories equally dark. Always ten minutes to six. Always the same troubled dreams, the same memories upon awakening. He switched on the lamp and fastened his watch. No need to check the time. He knew.

  His alarm clock had given up the ghost the previous spring, the winding mechanism sprung after a long life. Finding a replacement even in the wartime economy would not have been difficult for a man with his connections, legal and otherwise. But the demise of the old silver and brass timepiece had not disrupted his routine. He left the hands standing at eight past three. Years of punctuality had created a mental clock that set the limit for his night’s rest, and it was unfailing in its accuracy.

  His sense of passing time, awake or asleep, had always impressed Gisela. He lifted her framed photograph from the bedside table—the smiling bride, Heidelberg’s castle in the distance, a bouquet in her hands—and greeted her with a “Guten Morgen, Liebling,” just as he had for years, just as he had when she was still with him and would rise from bed without a complaint to prepare his breakfast. Fresh bread rolls, delive
red warm to the stoop just minutes before by Helmut, the baker’s boy with the withered arm and unfailing smile. And that unmatched Edamer cheese wrapped in waxed paper, the one that only Frau Helke sold in her little milk store up the street. Butter. A single soft-boiled egg. And, of course, coffee. Those were the days when breakfast still meant something to him.

  Gisela had been by nature a late riser, so when given a choice on Sunday mornings she would stay in bed until he brought her a cup of coffee. But ever a diligent wife and companion, she had accepted the late hours and unpredictable absences of a police inspector. Brandt was thankful that she had not lived to see what had become of her beloved country, of once high-spirited Berlin, of him. “Too old for this,” he said aloud. Glancing again at the photograph, he repeated the complaint to her lovely face frozen in time, and added another “my love.”

  Arthritis kept him on the edge of the bed as he flexed his legs and massaged away the pain in his knees as best he could. At last he shook his head with resignation and allowed his bare feet to feel for the felt slippers which somehow always wandered just beyond reach. At least, at sixty-three, he could still make it through the night without rising to pee.

  He stood, allowing gravity to settle his joints. He entered the bathroom to stand before the mirror and let frigid water run from the tap. Gisela used to bring him up a pot heated on the stove, but since her passing he made do with cold. He splashed his face and stared into the mirror, disgusted by his tired looks. How unkind the years had been. He sometimes wondered if the hateful things he’d seen, all the cruel suffering and wasted lives, the bloodied bodies and tortured souls, had somehow left their indelible print on his own features.

  In his youth his intellect and deductive powers shone in school, putting his comrades to shame and him near the head of his class. He had done well at his Abitur exams and even been offered a scholarship, and his parents surely wanted him to be the first in the family to go on to university. But Gregor had grown up on the streets of Berlin and witnessed from an early age the broad spectrum of humanity and inhumanity. He intended to further his understanding of all that made the inner city tick rather than head off to study with the wealthy elite.

  For several years he shuffled papers for an export firm, earning little money but a great deal of criticism from family who felt he was wasting his God-given talents. Finally, tiring of their disapproval and ready for a new challenge, he accepted a job offer from a local constable and former captain in Bismarck’s army who drank beer nightly with his father. Hands-on police training began in his early twenties under the man’s guidance. He quickly gained respect from his colleagues for solving difficult cases and developed a broad understanding of and with powerful figures of the Berlin underworld. By the time the Great War rolled around he was already approaching forty and considered indispensable to the Kriminalpolizei.

  In recent decades the young up-and-comers in the Kripo learned the arts of criminal investigation in a civil police training school. They tended to look down their noses at old-timers using old-time methods. Even more troublesome, his lack of advanced education put him at a disadvantage in the eyes of those colleagues and superiors who placed high value on their academic degrees. Yet Brandt felt that his kinship with the lesser denizens of his city allowed him to think as they did, feel their wants and needs, and better understand what drove them to do sometimes unspeakable acts against their fellow Berliners.

  The great irony was that those in charge of the new German state who directed and oversaw his everyday existence at the police presidium were now often far worse criminals than the many he sought to bring to justice. The Nazi big boys committed their crimes for self-aggrandizement, raw power, or financial gain, and used brutality on a whim. More thuggish than most of the small-time lawbreakers he tracked down, they literally got away with murder and seemed to enjoy their unfettered cruelty all the more because they carried it out in the name of “protecting the Reich.”

  He desperately needed his first morning coffee. Although ground who-knew-when and certainly a bit stale, his was the genuine beverage, an advantage of commerce with both legal authority and the underworld. What Reichsmarks and ration coupons could not obtain, influence usually could. He drew a wet comb through his thinning hair, then lathered up his face and neck, stropped his razor, and carefully worked his way past the deep grooves in his cheeks and around a mustache which artfully hid the scar from an assailant’s blade during his first year with the Criminal Police. The morning ritual nearly complete, he oiled his drying hair to keep it in place and headed down to the kitchen.

  He knew why he delayed as long as he could. It was still difficult to face the reality that Gisela would not be waiting there at the stove or sink, her hair pinned up to offer her lovely neck for a morning nuzzle. It was a full decade since she had left him, the cancer too much to withstand. The memory tugged at his heart.

  Forcing himself to move on, he set the coffee pot on the gas burner, then picked up the telephone and placed a call to the office. He knew Sergeant Schönheim would already have reviewed Brandt’s instructions from the previous evening. The young man always arrived at the most ungodly hour.

  Emil picked up immediately, clearly awaiting the call. “Schönheim here. Good morning, sir.”

  The inspector had never understood the young sergeant’s chipper demeanor, especially at the break of dawn. Had he himself ever been so obnoxiously upbeat? Emil looked fit as a fiddle, but his induction physical found a debilitating weakness in his lungs that allowed him to remain on the Kripo roster rather than risk his life in Africa or on the Russian Front. Even more surprising, the young man had dared to share in private several liberal views in a department well represented by fervent admirers of Hitler.

  It had not always been that way. Early in the ‘30’s, when political mayhem still shook the city, Brandt had several compatriots on the force who shared his belief in the open exchange of ideas, a Berlin tradition for generations. This certainly came from growing up in a milieu of small shopkeepers, minor and sometimes major hoodlums, and working class stiffs like much of his extended family. Brandt had been a Social Democrat. Many colleagues, though affiliated with the more conservative Nationalists, still maintained a certain respect for democratic ideals, and he had often lifted mugs of beer with the Communists occupying the other end of the spectrum. With the ascendancy of the National Socialists and the elimination of competing parties Brandt became perhaps the last of his breed in his precinct to honor the concept of rational justice. Yet, despite occasional harassment from superiors who already wore the swastika pin, he was left to do his job, even while politely declining to join the Party. He might well have been ousted from both office and duties had his successful investigations not put the department in such a positive light. It also didn’t hurt that his special connection with a certain powerful underworld figure contributed to the financial well-being of a few well-situated overlords.

  In those early days, and especially in the working class district of Wedding and the eastern reaches of Mitte, petty criminals and police officers had established an easy truce, and the judicial system knew how to react judicially. More limited punishment was meted out for minor crimes and the harsher measures reserved for those who did serious bodily injury or upset the complacency of the very wealthy and powerful. This was a comfortable arrangement, leaving the cops free from wasting time on trivial peccadillos to pursue the heinous criminals harbored by any large city.

  Pity the poor fools in the current climate who ran astray of the Gestapo. The secret police stuck their noses into the most mundane of local criminal matters, determined to make life a literal hell for anyone transgressing against the strict laws regarding race and loyalty. No one wished to be deemed “unreliable,” a stigma which could and often did put families and friends in basements for cruel beatings and torture, or sent off to the prison camps, rarely to return. Brandt had learned to be excessively discreet in all his dealings, no longer confident that sup
eriors would look away and let him do his job as he saw fit.

  “Listen carefully, Sergeant. Time to reel in my American fish.”

  “Yes, sir. DT will be in by seven. I briefed them last night.”

  “Perfect.” DT stood for delirium tremens, the department’s nickname for Diedrich and Tannenfeld. The men were booze hounds of brute strength, limited intelligence, and easy confusion, but dependable for any simple arrest where intimidation sufficed. “Tell them he’s to walk in on his own two feet, understood?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “I want the suspect in my office by ten, ready for interrogation and a bit subdued. But make it perfectly clear: no really rough stuff, and no mention of my name.”

  “May I ask what you have in mind with this one, sir?”

  “I’m playing this close to my vest for the moment. Don’t want to compromise you should things go sideways. I’ll clue you in once it’s clear I’ll have success, but best you avoid the office this morning when they bring this one in.”

  “Avoid the office, sir?”

  “Yes, take the rest of the morning off once the DT boys come in. You deserve it. But first put DT to work. It’s important that the man’s caught off-guard and pliable, but not damaged.”

  “Understood, sir. Pliable.”

  “That’s all, Sergeant. Tell the office I’ll be in by eight.”

  Brandt set the receiver in its cradle. This should prove an interesting day. He poured himself a cup of the scalding coffee and unwrapped a chunk of cheese. A bit on the green side, but what’s the risk, right? He made a passable sandwich from stale bread, planning to grab something fresher on his way to the subway.

  He knew it was approaching seven so placed a second call. The phone rang four times, then five, and a familiar woman’s voice answered with the surname “Friedrich.”

  “It’s on for today,” the detective said. “Can you start tomorrow?”