“Most of it I pick up from their faces.”
The dull roar above us signaled the inevitable return of the RAF. An air raid siren wailed. The admiral and I always ignored it. Now that I had a woman to worry about I felt guilty. Yet, as Canaris said, we would all die sooner or later, a notion which correlated with the fatalist component of my Irish soul.
“Damn fools have bad maps if they bomb Gruenwald again. They will spoil lovely houses and miss the machine tools and the railroads.”
“And the Widerstand?”
“Young Claus is a great leader. There could be no better. Only it is too late, much too late. The evil has already been done to Germany.”
“You think they will fail?”
He moved a knight and looked up at me.
“If they kill Hitler, they have a chance. However, I think it is written in the stars that only the Russians or the Americans can kill him. Or perhaps Himmler. Should they win, they still have to make peace. That will be very difficult. The Red Army smells Berlin, blood and rapine, and will not be satisfied until it drinks the last dregs of victory here. Check.”
There was a tremor in his hands as he moved his queen. The poor old man was losing it.
I made the move I had been planning in response to his.
“Check,” I said.
“You Irish are diabolically clever.”
“Then how come we moved next to England? And if they don’t kill Hitler? If, as Claus says, the Antichrist continues to protect his own?”
“Then many of us will die, perhaps thousands. I will be one, so will Beck, Leber, Gordeler, Pastor Bonhoeffer, Tresckow, perhaps that young blond woman who compiles all the plans, Claus and his brother of course. Not you. You are far too clever. You combine recklessness with ingenuity. Irish trait I suppose.”
The 88s were firing very near to us. Bombs were falling even closer.
He moved his queen again.
“Checkmate,” I said.
The next bomb seemed to explode just down the street.
“Damn,” he murmured. “Someday your Irish cleverness will destroy you, though I hope not.”
The bombs stopped falling and the 88s were quiet. He emptied the winebottle into my glass. The all clear sounded weakly.
“They will be back, Timothy. You’d better go home.”
“Ja, ja, Herr Admiral … For the sake of history, did you tell them that the landing would be in Normandy?”
“Only to confirm their choice of the Pas de Calais. No one but a fool would have thought that it wasn’t Normandy.”
We shook hands as I left the gracious old house.
“We will meet again, Herr Ambassador. I don’t know where or when. But we will meet in happier times.”
“Ja, ja, Herr Admiral.”
“It will of course not be in this world,” he said, laughing sardonically as I walked down the footpath.
“We have a saying in my country that wherever old comrades meet it is always this world.”
I don’t know whether he heard me or not.
I found my way to the S-Bahn and rode back to the Friedrichstrasse. Blazing ruins lined the Speyer River and then vanished in the darkness. There were fires on my own street too. However, the Irish embassy had been spared. My passports, revolvers, map, and letters from Claus were still safe.
The bombings continue, I wrote in my dispatch. Berlin continues to survive. Life goes on. Many Berliners who understand military matters say that the war will be over within a year as the Americans and the Russians lock Germany in a vise and squeeze. No one knows for sure how the Americans will fight, they say. One more lesson of 1918 that is forgotten. Some people are whispering that the more of Germany the Americans occupy the better will be the fate of Germany.
The next day I met Claus at a Weingarten just off the Potsdamer Platz. Most of the buildings on the little street were in ruins.
“Well,” he said, his face taut and grim, “I spent the last three days out at the Wolfs Lair in East Prussia with the Führer.”
“An exciting time, I imagine.”
“You can’t imagine how ugly it is,” he burst out as soon as were seated. “A scattering of huts, some concrete, some wooden, in a setting of scrub trees and rocks. I wonder why the Russians or the English don’t bomb it. I can’t imagine that they don’t know where it is. There are usually some Me-109s in the air above. From the air it probably looks unimportant. It feels decadent. Goering is there, of course, where Hitler, who no longer trusts him, can keep an eye on him. The smell of his cologne fills the concrete hut where the remnants of the OKW meets every day. They are all servile and sycophantic Keitel, Jodl, Zessler. The dregs of the General Staff.
“They tell the Führer only what he wants to hear, not what he needs to know. I am presented to him as the chief of staff of the Home Army, he nods and stares at me, the hypnotic expression that frightens most of those whom he meets for the first time. It frightens me, but I don’t drop my eyes. I know I am looking into the eyes of the Antichrist. I say an Ave Maria to fight off the evil. He looks away. I win. Worthless victory.
“‘Where were you wounded, Colonel?’
“‘Tunisia, by the Americans, my Führer.’
“‘They are not very good fighters, not like my brave German soldiers.’
“I realized that was a compliment, so I nod, and say ‘They learn quickly, my Führer’”
Claus falls into silence, his dark eyes deeply troubled.
“Sorry for exploding at you.” He smiles and is himself once again. “You can’t imagine the shock of realization that the fate of the German nation is in the hands of these degenerates. Goering is just barely conscious. He can survive a day only by filling his veins with narcotics. The others are corrupt and know they are corrupt. Yet they hunger for a word of approval from Hitler and cower at his hostile stare. The building stinks with fear. I could remove my Luger and kill him on the spot. But we are not yet ready.”
“When will you be ready, Claus?”
“July 1 is our target day … Timmy, the Führer is half-dead already. He is bent over, one of his arms does not seem to work, he blinks constantly, he smells of defeat. His face is twisted from terrible headaches. His mistress, Eva Braun, is not permitted at the Wolf’s Lair because sex is forbidden. Naturally you can’t forbid sex to men like that. Even the Führer flies back to Tempelhoff periodically. No one knows if he and Eva have sex. Or even if he is capable of it anymore. Or ever was.”
“A long way from Friedrich der Grosse.”
“Ja, ja. It would be so easy to kill him, Timmy. Yet none of the plots have succeeded. Why should I think I am the one who will be able to kill the Antichrist?”
I always became uneasy when Claus talked about the Antichrist. We Irish believe in fairy forts and pookas and banshees and other wicked or ambivalent folk. But a creature of cosmic evil … That’s a little much for us. Yet if there was or could be such a being, it might well be Adolf Hitler.
“You laid out a plan to dispose of him?”
“It would be absurdly easy. The Führer has usually been obsessive about his personal safety, as well he might be. But the situation out there in East Prussia is remarkably lax. The Russians or the English could land a parachute regiment and destroy the place in a single day. I don’t know why they don’t do it.”
“Probably they don’t believe it would be as easy as you say.”
“I would fly out there with one assistant. We would have a dispatch case with two shells in it. In one of the latrines we would activate the ignition liquid. I would go into the headquarters building and put the dispatch case under the table, wait ten minutes and then leave. The explosion would kill everyone in the room. We would fly back to Tempelhof and activate Operation Valkyrie.”
“Sounds easy, Claus, but I don’t like it. Too easy. And too risky. You’re the leader of the Rising. If you get killed, it’s all over.”
“No choice, Tim. No choice. We must take the risks. If I fail, I will b
e blamed for the deaths of others. I hope their widows will forgive me and that God will forgive me.”
Then our conversation turned to Nina and the children and the good times we had enjoyed during my all-too-brief visits. Nina was doing well in her sixth pregnancy and happily expecting her child. He was for a few brief moments the delightful young man I had met in Heidelberg.
As we rose to leave the table, he said to me, “If the worst happens you will take care of Aunt Hannah.”
“Everything is prepared,” I said. “I will save her or die trying.”
“Ja, ja, that is good. I will let you know the day before.”
We shook hands.
“You have been one of the great graces in my life, Timmy.”
What does an Irishman say to that?
I quote without attribution the words of Admiral Canaris.
“We will meet again, Claus. There will be better times and better places. If not in this world then in another.”
I’m not happy with those words, but they were the best I could do.
I invited Annalise to supper at the Adlon.
She accepted.
“If I say no to your invitation, Herr Ridgewood, I will have to call you back and apologize. However, I will meet you there and return to Charlottenburg on the U-Bahn. You should not be seen with me near my apartment.”
I did not argue.
It was a pleasant enough meal. She had put on her comic mask, which meant that she made gentle fun of me.
“Ja, it is good to take supper with a rich Irisher I eat where I would never dream of eating. If I did this often I would become very gross. I cannot resist temptation.”
“I’m not rich, Annalise.”
“Surely you are. I’m sure the Irish government cannot afford to pay for all your expenses … That lovely Benz you drive.”
“It’s an old car, Annalise. Moreover, the government of the Free State insists that the only women who ride with me be beautiful blondes.”
“You must have found many of those in Berlin.”
And so it went, an evening of bantering and laughter in which I was hardly the winner
After we left the Adlon, I walked with her to the U-Bann and kissed her good night at the entrance to the station.
“Good night, Annalise. Be careful.”
The air raid warning siren on the Platz started to wail.
“Good night, Herr Ridgewood.” She was leaning against me and trembling. “You take care of yourself.”
She thinks that she will never see me again. She expects to die. I may have to talk her out of that.
On June 29 Claus called me late one night as I was listening to the BBC reporting a very different version of the Normandy situation than Berlin radio.
“July 15,” he said crisply, and hung up.
The next day I gave Franz and Magda three months’ pay in Swiss marks and told them to return to their home in the Schwartzwald until I notified them to return.
They thanked me and asked no questions. I then filled the gas tanks and hooked up the auxiliary tanks I had hidden in the basement of the embassy. I also packed into the trunk enough dry food to last us for the days it would take to drive to Basle. Fruit and milk would wait till the day before the Rising—as I always thought of it.
A week later, Claus called again.
“July 19 or 20, depending on the weather. I have been to confession.”
Claus had told me once that, while he was a Catholic, he did not believe in such things as confession. Now, faced with death, he did. He had also insisted that he had never been unfaithful to Nina. That I did not doubt.
I walked over to the Foreign Office, showed my credentials, and went to the desk for diplomats. I gave the clerk the undated minute I had cajoled out of my minister before we had left Dublin. The clerk stamped both passports several times, and said, “I should see if the Reichsminister wants to speak to you. He is very busy, but he would not want to seem rude to such a distinguished diplomat.”
Yes, he did want to see me. I had anticipated such a summons.
“Herr Ridgewood, it is good to see you again, especially on such a happy day for the Reich.”
“Ah?”
I had learned the rhetoric of the regime long ago. He meant that a new official line had developed to account for the bad news.
“Yes, the brave soldiers of the Wehrmacht have won great victories on both fronts. In the east we have driven the Bolsheviks back towards Warsaw, which we expect to recapture any day now and in the west we have sealed the Americans back in their beachhead, which is now quite precarious.”
Bullshite, I thought to myself.
“I’m sorry that I must return to Dublin before August 1. I would like to be present in Berlin when these victories come to full fruition. However, I can assure you that Ireland intends to sustain its embassy here permanently.”
True enough.
“I understand, Herr Ambassador, I understand. To facilitate your journey I have written a letter of passage for you.”
He rose from his desk, walked over to me, and handed me a letter and an envelope. I folded the letter and put it in the envelope.
“Please read it, Herr Ambassador.”
It was handwritten. It confirmed that I was the accredited Ambassador to the Third Reich of the Republic of Ireland and was traveling under the special protection not only of the Reichsminister but also of the Führer himself. Everything possible should be done to facilitate the journey of the Herr Ambassador and his wife.
His signature filled half the page.
“Thank you, Herr Reichsminister. This will surely help us in our journey in the present troubled times.”
“Sit down for just a few moments, Herr Ambassador.”
I knew what was coming and had my answers prepared.
“These are very troubled times for Germany, Herr Ambassador. It is time, I believe, to reach out to the West in a search for peace which will satisfy all legitimate desires of the countries involved. I have had some communications with the American intelligence people in Berne. If you would not find it inconvenient, I would ask you to continue the conversation, Herr Ambassador.”
“I stand ready to be of any assistance to the cause of peace.”
“The Führer is a very tired man. I believe that he is willing to step down in the name of peace. My colleagues and I are ready to accept a return to the borders of 1939 and sign nonaggression pacts among all the nations involved.”
This was certainly audacious from the man whose nonaggression pact signed with Molotov in Moscow had led to the dismemberment of Poland.
“Including Poland?”
“Naturally!”
He didn’t even blush.
“And the Sudeten?”
“If necessary …”
“Herr Reichsminister, I am asking only the questions I will be asked.”
“Naturally, Herr Ambassador. I understand.”
“And the criminal elements in some agencies of the Reich?”
“Believe me, Herr Ambassador, I will rest more easily than most Germans at their elimination.”
“Finally, I must ask, because I will be asked, about the Endlösung.”
“Naturally you must ask. I will say that I opposed the ‘Final Solution’ from the beginning and will be delighted to bring it to an end as soon as possible.”
“Thank you Herr Reichsminister for your candour. I believe that I can present an accurate picture of your position to the Americans in Berne.”
We shook hands; his was wet as it well might be.
The dirty son of a bitch, I said to myself, as I walked back to the embassy. He’s selling out everyone in the cause of his own political power. Yet all the others would do the same thing.
His surrender terms are virtually the same as those of the Widerstand. But there’s no way he can deliver on them, while if Claus is successful, he will be able to deliver.
I would pass on the terms to the Americans, should they be int
erested. Then it would be their problem about the millions of lives which might be saved if such a deal could be cut.
On July 20 I finished packing the car. All it needed for us to leave for Switzerland was Annalise in the car with me.
It rained on the nineteenth.
I had not slept for several nights. I thought I had calculated all the possibilities. But the great imponderable was Annalise. How could reach her if the Rising failed? Would she call me? If not, how would I find her?
21
Who are you, what do you want, how did you find me?
I’m Nuala Anne. I’m a detective and I figured it out. Jenny didn’t tell me. My husband who is a genius guessed your Internet name. I want to know whether you think it might be time to come home.
Why would a beautiful popular singer need to be a detective?
To make ends meet.
Blarney.
’Tis true, but you’re pretty good at that stuff yourself.
’Tis true too … My parents hire you?
They did, but didn’t they fire me, right before the memorial service Jenny told you about, like she told you about our interview with her.
I used to play basketball with your husband. He’s a big guy and strong and bright. Nice man.
’Tis true, but besides the point.
Marquette.
Again besides the point.
I forget what the point is.
Whether you want to come home to Chicago.
I think the other monks here would like to get rid of me, but are too polite to say so. They say there’s a contract out on me. They say it’s time to go home.
So are they right?
Could be. I never did want to be a monk, though I’ve learned a lot from them.
Course not. You want to be a parish priest in the Archdiocese of Chicago.
You’re one of the dark ones?
Sometimes.
From halfway around the world?
You know that has nothing to do with it.
’Tis true.
I could get a deal for you. Pick up a few markers.
How long you been in Chicago?
Ten years.
Who can you pick up the markers from?
Irish Linen Page 28
