“It’s the nature of warfare, dear. Things were just like that in the Great War. The soldiers went out as nice boys and came home hardened men.”
“It didn’t happen to you.”
“No, but I was a bugler and nothing really terrible happened to me, as it did to thousands of others. It’s the same now, I’m sure, and I’m only glad that I have the dispensation of age and a seat in the Staatsoper orchestra.”
“Some people in Germany are opposing the war and Hitler,” she said casually before taking a bite of potatoes and mushroom gravy.
“Subversives and saboteurs. They should be hanged,” Karl Sommer blustered.
“But if you disapprove of the war, there is a certain logic, I suppose,” she said lightly, as if half in jest.
“There’s no logic in treason. Subversion threatens the whole nation. Even if I don’t go in for all that flag-waving, I never forget that our troops are fighting right now, and for us. We have to support them.”
“Yes, of course,” Katja said. “We have to support the troops.”
*
August 1941
The Hauptsturmführer barked, “Fall in!” and Erich Prietschke and eleven other men lined up for the special detachment, SS Einsatzgruppe 4.
He knew a speech was coming, but he was surprised to see the man who was about to give it. It was Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich himself, easily recognizable by his height and his impressive Nordic features. An elongated face with a high forehead, emphasized by thinning blond hair, gave him the haughty look of nobility that so many of his colleagues envied.
You all know why we’re here on foreign soil. The invasion, Operation Barbarossa, is a battle forced on us by the Bolsheviks to prevent the Soviet attack that we know was planned for July 1941. But it’s more than a strategic battle; it is a war of civilizations, a racial war between German National Socialism and the more primitive culture of Soviet Communism. We all know who the Bolsheviks are, and who sent them, and who drives the brutes and peasants who are sent out to kill us. Jewish Communist Party commissars.
Standing in formation, Erich could not nod, but he permitted himself a sudden decisive blink of the eyes in agreement.
It is therefore the task of all four Einsatzgruppen to secure the offices and papers of all Soviet commissars and to liquidate all of the cadres of the Soviet state. That is, to execute all Soviet officials, all captured Red Army political commissars, all members of the Cominterm, members of the local and provincial committees of the Communist party, and all Communist party members of Jewish origin.
Erich did not know any of the men who stood on both sides of him, but he was confident that not a single one among them disagreed with that assessment. He’d heard a similar speech the week before, on his first Einsatzkommando, when they entered Konitz.
The Communist committee was easily identified, as well as the Jewish mayor and a dozen other city officials. The Sturmbannführer had ordered a trench dug outside the city and the Jewish-Bolsheviks were lined up within it. He and nine other SS men executed them, and, after the men had all dropped, an armored truck with a plow attached in front covered the trench with dirt. It should have been a clean job, but he could see that not all of the twenty-seven men were dead. Some of the shots had been sloppy, and two of the wounded men even tried to climb out of the trench. One of the SS men took his rifle butt and forced them back in as the field vehicle plowed the dirt over them.
Erich turned away so he wouldn’t see, and afterward, when he was off duty, he got drunk. For his service, he was promoted and given an increase in pay. That part he liked, so he volunteered for the next commando.
The speech was over, and the detachment snapped to attention. They had their assignment. The condemned, whoever they were, had already been arrested that morning and trucked outside of town. By now, the trench would have been dug and all that remained was for the Einsatzkommando to carry out the order.
In half an hour they were there, the twelve of them, eight SS men and four from the Security Service. They scrambled from the truck and fast-marched toward the site where the prisoners were being held. It was a larger group this time. He counted forty-two. They would have to be shot in groups. Well, he could do that. Just blank out his mind and fire, reminding himself who he was shooting and why he was doing it.
He lined up in place with the other eleven marksmen before the first row at the edge of the trench. A squad of twelve rifles for twelve prisoners. At the commands of the Sturmbannführer he raised his weapon and took aim, and at the final command he fired. Twelve of the condemned fell, from clean shots. The marksmen marched farther along the trench and took aim at the next twelve. This time there were both men and women. Crap, he hated that. Worse, some of them stood facing their executioners. Fortunately, his own target was turned away. Command: “Raise rifles.” Command: “Aim.” Command: “Fire!”
When they took position for the third group, it was easier. Raise rifles, Take aim, Fire. And it was done. He never looked to see if all the shots were clean. Not his problem.
The last six waited and he took final position with the first five rifles in the line. Erich cursed to himself. His target, a young woman, was facing him. Worse, she looked familiar. Her face…oh, shit, her face was identical to one he knew. His mouth was suddenly dry. It was the face of Frederica Brandt.
“Raise rifle.” He obeyed.
“Aim.” He peered down the line of sight toward his target, and in the split second before the last command came, a revelation came to him and his nausea turned to rage. If this Jew looked like Frederica, then Frederica must have been a Jew. That explained why she had rejected him in favor of the vile little propaganda minister—for his money and power.
“Fire!”
He heard the concussion of his own rifle, as if someone else had fired it. To his horror, the woman didn’t fall. She clutched her chest with crossed arms, as though she embraced something, and continued to stare at him until he shot again. She fell to her knees, and he shot a third time, knocking her back against the wall of the trench. Then the order came to march away, and he didn’t look back as the armored truck started its engine and plowed the wall of dirt into the pit.
Chapter Twenty-one
September 1941
Katja covered her ears against the roar of the bulldozers as she hurried past them toward the zoo. Berliners knew, vaguely, that a flak tower was being constructed on the corner near the bird sanctuary, but only a few knew how large it would be and that it would serve in part as a command center, hospital, and bomb shelter.
Katja knew. Joseph Goebbels had recorded his conversation with Albert Speer in his diary, and Frederica had transcribed it. Now Katja was in the process of delivering the summary of the transcription to the kiosk drop.
The flak tower was ominous in every respect. Germany was now so threatened by air attack that Hitler had ordered the building of such towers in every major city. Moreover the location of this one meant increased visibility for her own work.
Frederica had also grown more cautious. She no longer attempted to smuggle material copies of the transcriptions, however small, from the ministry. Discovery would have meant her certain and immediate death. Instead, she tried to memorize the most important sections and summarized them each evening, then hid the tiny notes until she could code them for Katja’s delivery.
There it was, the kiosk, just a hundred meters away. Katja slipped one hand around the tightly wrapped bundle in her pocket and approached casually, waiting for a customer to pay for his paper and leave. Finally the space in front of the kiosk was empty and she stepped up to the piles of newspapers.
Her heart sank. An old woman tended the newspapers, someone she had never seen before, and there was no sign of the little bald man.
Katja forced calmness on herself. “A nice day to be home listening to music,” she said loudly over the sound of the bulldozers, and laid her free hand on a copy of the Deutsche Allgemeine, as if to buy it.
&
nbsp; The woman looked at her, puzzled, then grunted indifference. “You want the paper or not?”
“Ah, yes, of course.” She lifted her empty hand from her pocket to drop the necessary coins into the dish. Then, with a frozen smile, she hurried away.
*
Katja turned on Frederica’s radio to loud polka music and dropped onto Frederica’s couch. “I couldn’t make the drop,” she said. “Someone else was there, an old woman, and she didn’t know the code. So I came right back.” She tossed the cigarette-sized packet of notes on the coffee table.
Frederica dropped down beside her. “I guess they’ve caught him. Now he’ll just disappear, like Cecily and Violette and Denise.”
“What about us now? If the Gestapo interrogates him he can describe us both. What are we going to do?” Before that moment, Katja had never seriously thought about being arrested, and she was close to panic.
“No, I think we’re all right. First of all, the kiosk agent is no fool. He’s not going to give them every detail about your face. But secondly, we’re both of medium height, with nothing distinctive about our hair, and I’m guessing he never saw our eyes. Even if he gives a true description, it will match that of several thousand Berliners.”
“You’re not afraid the Gestapo will break the code and trace the transcription back to you?”
“Rather unlikely. It’s coded, against a base in Caesar’s The Gallic Wars. The Edwards translation, to be exact.”
Katja calmed slightly. “Ah, that explains why you have the book. Maybe that’s why they gave you the code name Caesar. In any case, what do we do now? How do we get word to the SOE about the new flak towers?”
“I don’t think we have to worry about that. I got a message from Handel some time ago with an alternative drop site, a ‘dead drop,’ in case we lost the kiosk. I guess he was already worried about it.”
“A ‘dead drop’? What’s that?” Katja obviously had more to learn about espionage.
“A drop where you don’t know who is going to pick it up, or even when. It’s more precarious, but it’s where we are now. Our new ‘dead drop’ is the Hotel Adlon.”
“The Adlon? Good Grief! Hundreds of big Nazis are there all the time. Why don’t we go all the way and just drop things at Gestapo headquarters?”
“Don’t joke. I wouldn’t put it past the SOE. After all, they’ve got an agent in the propaganda ministry, haven’t they? The Adlon is a good site to place some sensitive ears. It’s not so hard for people with vague documentation to get menial jobs like kiosk vendors, waiters, dishwashers, that sort of thing. In any case, they’ve got someone in or near the kitchen. Since we missed the drop this week, they’ll be waiting for us.”
Katja exhaled slowly, calculating the risks. “In for a penny, in for a pound. All right, then. So how, exactly, do we ‘drop’ the material?”
“In a bottle,” Frederica said, and went to the kitchen. She returned with a red earthenware Steinhäger bottle. “See? Opaque, so you don’t notice the paper inside. We’re supposed to drop one into the trash on Friday. One or both of us is to eat dinner there and order a bottle of Steinhäger. Then, when we’re done, we exchange our loaded Steinhäger bottle for the one on the table. When it goes into the kitchen, whoever separates out the trash will pick it up. That’s the plan, anyhow.”
“What happens if it’s not picked up? What if he misses it?”
“I presume it goes into the trash, forever. It shouldn’t endanger us. No one would have any reason to look inside an empty schnapps bottle. If they do, the coding still protects us. Of course, the loss would be a big waste of my work, but let’s not think about that, shall we?”
“Won’t we be conspicuous, two women alone, having dinner at the Adlon? Besides, Dietrich will be here on leave Friday. He’s been promoted again. What should I do with him?”
“It looks like the second problem is the solution to the first. We’ll have a celebratory dinner. Tell him I’ve been given a bonus for my work for Goebbels and that I invite you. That should please him. We’ll toast his new promotion with a lot of Steinhäger.”
*
The main dining room of the Hotel Adlon was chandeliered and palatial. Dressed in his new uniform, Feldwebel Dietrich Kurtz guided Katja and Frederica to a table for three in one of the corners. A chamber orchestra played something from Schubert, and the air of the dining room held a curious mélange of women’s perfumes and the fragrance of meat sauces.
For a few moments, at least, Katja forgot the danger they were placing themselves in and enjoyed the thought of an expensive dinner paid for indirectly by British Intelligence. She had been worried about Dietrich’s reaction to the suggestion of a dinner threesome, but she needn’t have been. He was so bedazzled that it never occurred to him to question it. She also felt a twinge of guilt thinking about Peter having to steal bits of raw meat from his lions, and Rudi, who might have had nothing to eat at all.
The dining room, reputed to be the playground for the Nazi upper class, in fact held a preponderance of SS and Wehrmacht officers in uniform. The women, in formal or semiformal gowns, were obviously the pampered wives and mistresses of the men in power. For the briefest moment, Katja wondered if Frederica had ever dined at the Adlon with the Reichsminister, then forced the thought from her mind.
In the gold-trimmed green evening outfit she usually wore to her father’s opera performances, Katja was suitably dressed for the Adlon, but Frederica, in a black satin gown with décolleté, outdid her in her simplicity. She felt no jealousy, however, rather a persistent craving to touch some part of Frederica’s upper body. A single item that did not quite fit with Frederica’s glamor was the large handbag she carried, and Dietrich had remarked on it. But Frederica explained that it carried urgent work papers she would have to return to the Reichsministry after dinner, and she did not want to make a special trip back. A curious tale that Dietrich blithely accepted.
“Shall we order champagne?” Dietrich asked, but Frederica took charge of that part of the menu right away.
“The ministry has just concluded a contract with the city of Steinhagen for a…uh…documentary about the traditional craft of making German schnapps. The minister signed a contract with Steinhäger yesterday, and for my part in creating the contract I got a bonus that allowed me to invite you both this evening. Since Steinhäger is paying for our dinner, it seems fitting we order a small bottle. Don’t you think?” She glanced coyly at Dietrich.
“If you’re brave enough to drink it instead of champagne, I am too.” He laughed and cast an obvious let’s-see-who-gets-drunk-first glance at Katja.
The stoneware bottle arrived with the dinners and it immediately became obvious to Katja that she herself would be the first one drunk. Even the heavy pork meal was not enough to offset two drinks of the potent gin. Dinner-table conversation had been light banter, about life in the Wehrmacht, life in Berlin, the shortages of sugar and coffee, and the meaning and history of all Dietrich’s medals. But by the time they finished eating, Katja found it hard to concentrate or even pronounce some words. Fortunately, the chamber orchestra at the far end of the dining space was playing music, and five or six couples were already on the dance floor in front of them.
“Look, why don’t you two lovebirds go dance a bit while I order dessert,” Frederica suggested, catching Katja’s eye.
Obviously pleased by the suggestion, Dietrich took Katja’s hand and led her on slightly unsteady feet to join the other couples.
It was strange to be in his arms again, looking up into his open, slightly freckled face. She felt no desire for him, but had rarely felt it anyhow. His awkwardness dancing was endearing, and in her intoxicated state, she sensed a wave of affection for him. But she no longer felt like his wife. She almost wished he had been born her brother, or that they were already divorced and moved to the category of old friends. She assumed he would want to make love that night, his first night away from the battlefield, and she would allow it the same way she always d
id, with patience and the desire to please him rather than herself.
What did excite her was the thought that while they danced, at the other end of the room, Frederica, in her stunning dress, was committing treason. For better or for worse, she was connected with Frederica—unto death, perhaps—and all she could think of was how lovely she looked in black satin and décolleté.
The tune ended and they broke apart. Dietrich stood for a moment holding her and looking slightly bleary-eyed into her eyes. “How nice it is to be home, Liebchen. When I’m home for good, we’ll come here often, I promise.”
“Yes, dear,” she said mechanically, and led him back to their table where dessert was already laid out alongside real coffee. Frederica gave the faintest of nods to indicate the drop was done, and, in fact, the service had cleared away the Steinhäger bottle along with the dinner dishes, but Katja was dizzy now from the alcohol and the motion of dancing.
Dietrich sounded disappointed. “No more schnapps?” he asked but was interrupted by the dreaded sound: the deep buzz that rose immediately to a high-pitched ooooooooooaaaaah and after a full thirty seconds dropped again to a growl, only to rise again to the high whine of the air-raid siren.
The diners stood up, the regular patrons heading immediately for the air-raid shelter stairs, while the waiters called out, “This way, ladies and gentlemen, this way.”
Both of them uncertain on their feet, Dietrich took Katja by the hand and she in turn made sure she had hold of Frederica, so that they moved together with the crowd down the stairs into the hotel cellar.
They entered a long corridor with benches on both sides and, arriving among the last, they sat close to the entrance. Several bombs fell close enough to cause a tremor in the earth and to dislodge plaster from the ceiling. Katja still held the hands of both Dietrich and Frederica, but with every detonation, she squeezed only Frederica’s.
Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright Page 13
