Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright

by Justine Saracen

  They had little left to say and their feet were sore, so they settled down to wait. They were sure the victors would ignore them, but in fact, within fifteen minutes, the private who had delivered the message returned with an officer.

  “I’m Lieutenant Forbes. What can I do for you?”

  Frederica stood up to meet him eye to eye and offered her hand. “My name is Frederica Brandt. I’ve been working undercover for British Intelligence since 1935 and for the Special Operations Executive since 1940, code name Caesar. I’ve reported directly to an agent called Handel and indirectly to Maurice Buckmaster. I wish to come in, along with my colleagues, who have put their lives at risk in collaborating with me: Katja Sommer, Peter Arnhelm, and Rudi Lamm.” She gestured toward each one as she named them. “In addition, I have specific information about Adolf Hitler and a letter from Joseph Goebbels. You can obtain confirmation of my identity by contacting Mr. Buckmaster at the SOE in London.”

  “Code name Caesar, eh?” He looked faintly skeptical. “Very interesting. Unfortunately, we’re sort of tied up processing a hundred thousand surrendering troops and civilians, so we’re not equipped to hold any conversations with London at the moment. What’s your information, specifically?”

  “Primarily that as Joseph Goebbels’ secretary, I was in the bunker with Adolf Hitler at the time of his suicide, and I would like to provide the details of that event to my superiors.”

  “You were Goebbels’ secretary? In the bunker with Adolf Hitler?” The officer finally seemed impressed. “I see. Well, I know exactly the people you need to talk to. Come with me.”

  He led them into an open courtyard where a military personnel carrier was waiting with its motor running. At his signal, an MP opened the rear double doors. The carrier was nearly full with other passengers, but there were a few benches in the rear, and the MP helped them climb inside.

  “Where are they taking us?” Peter asked nervously, and Katja translated his question into English to the officer, who was just about to turn away.

  “To Seventh Army headquarters,” the lieutenant said. “They’ll know what to do with you there.” With that, the MP closed the doors, locking them in the grim yellowish interior lit by a single small bulb at the far end of the truck bed.

  “Headquarters? But why are we in a prison truck, with prisoners?” Rudi tilted his head and Katja followed his glance toward the other passengers’ hands. They were all shackled.

  “Um, good question. Any ideas, Frederica?”

  “Will you all stop worrying? I’m sure things will be all right once Handel identifies us. Just be patient.” Katja couldn’t tell if Frederica’s reaction was sincere or simply bravado. It seemed absurd, after surviving two concentration camps and the Führer’s bunker, that they would end up being imprisoned by the victorious Allies.

  The light went out as the truck began to move and plunged them into darkness.

  *

  Dozing fitfully as she had been doing for weeks, it seemed, Katja was awakened often by the jolts and delays from traveling along roads clogged with debris.

  An eternity later, the truck halted with a lurch.

  The doors opened to a military camp and two MPs in clean white helmets and immaculate spats. With swollen feet and dopey from half sleep, the four clambered down out of the truck. The MPs urged them to one side, then unshackled the other passengers and led them toward a building in the distance.

  Left unattended, they waited, nonplussed. Katja rubbed her face and glanced around. Barracks, black against the pre-dawn sky. Scattered among them, small cottages. Like Ravensbrück. A wave of dread washed through her.

  In a few minutes another MP appeared. “This way, please,” he said, and led them to the nearest building, a long, one-story wooden hut. Inside, clerks were setting up large ledgers and typewriters. One of the clerks had a steaming cup next to his typewriter, and the fragrance of coffee made Katja almost dizzy.

  Frederica addressed the first of the clerks. “Where are we?”

  The clerk ignored her.

  “Is this a POW camp? Have we been arrested?”

  “We ask the questions here, you give the answers. But for your information, you’re at the interim headquarters of the Seventh Army, 7708 War Crimes Group. Now you tell me who you are.”

  Frederica repeated what she had said to the lieutenant earlier. The clerk glanced up once, obviously surprised when she said “British Intelligence,” but otherwise simply recorded her statement on the typewriter.

  On the other side of the room, beyond earshot of Frederica, Katja gave her statement in German, while Rudi and Peter were interviewed in another room.

  Then, to Katja’s alarm, MPs came from the other room leading Rudi and Peter by the arms. As they passed her and exited through the door of the hut, Rudi looked back, and for the first time, his eyes registered real fear.

  “That will be all for now,” Katja’s interviewer said. “The sergeant will show you to your quarters.” An MP stepped forward and, without speaking, escorted both her and Frederica from the building.

  Katja glanced sideways at him as they walked and marveled at how muscled he was. What did the Americans eat? For all his bulk, he made no effort to prod or intimidate them, but led them at a moderate pace down the row of barracks. Several small cottages made up the fourth side of the camp, and he led them to one of them, opened the door, and waved them in.

  The cottage had a single room with four beds. Real beds, not wooden platforms, and an adjacent toilet, with a door, a small table, four chairs, and a lamp. The cottage was otherwise empty.

  “Can you tell us where in Germany we are?” Frederica asked.

  “You’re in Augsberg, Ma’am. I think they call it Bärenkeller here. The Seventh Army has taken over the Wehrmacht barracks for incarceration and questioning of persons like yourselves.”

  “Why have we been separated from the other prisoners?”

  “You’re not prisoners, Ma’am,” the MP said, managing to be polite and aloof at the same time. “You’re not allowed to associate with the other inmates, who are. They’ll be going for breakfast shortly, but they’re off limits.”

  “But what about the two men we arrived with?”

  The soldier shrugged. “I don’t know their status, Ma’am. I think the major will be calling for you shortly. Perhaps you can ask him.” He saluted with his immaculately gloved hand and left them alone.

  Within minutes, a siren sounded. Katja shuddered, recalling the roll calls at Ravensbrück. To confirm that they were free, they tried the cottage door and, finding it open, went outside to study their surroundings.

  They watched as a team of MPs unlocked the doors of the several barracks across the way, and men streamed out. Most of them wore uniforms, and all were officers, some with the insignias of very high rank.

  Katja sighed. “No sign of Rudi or Peter, but I see at least two generals. I don’t recognize them though.”

  “Only generals? How about a Reichsmarshall?”

  Katja glanced in the direction Frederica pointed. “I don’t believe it. Hermann Goering. He looks a wreck. I almost didn’t recognize him. I wonder who else is here.”

  “And who’s in the cottage next to us? Come on. We might as well find out.” Frederica wandered toward it and knocked.

  “Come in,” someone said.

  Frederica opened the door, took a step forward, then halted so abruptly Katja almost crashed into her. “Traudl Junge!” Frederica exclaimed. “How did you get here so quickly?”

  Traudl took her by the arm and drew her into the room. “I left the bunker right after the Führer…died,” Traudl said. “And it looked as if I had made it to safety, but I had to show papers at Tangermünde, and I guess the Americans had my name. That’s when they picked me up and brought me here.”

  “So you’re a prisoner?” Frederica asked.

  “Yes, but they’re not treating us like the men. They seem to think we’re harmless and just want all the information t
hey can get. They’re interrogating us all the time.” Traudl’s expression changed to cheerful resignation. “Whatever happens, at least they feed us well. I was just about to go for breakfast. There’s a place away from the male prisoners where they’ll let us eat. Want to come along? Your friend too.”

  Katja had scarcely been listening, for her eyes were riveted on the other woman, who half sat, half crouched on her bed, her knees drawn up to her chin. Next to her was a battered leather briefcase, which she seemed to be guarding. “No, thank you. We’ll keep Frau Riefenstahl company while you’re gone.”

  “Ah, so you know each other. Well, then, until later.” Traudl nodded amiably as she passed them and left the cottage.

  Katja strode ahead of Frederica toward the bed. “So, we meet again,” she said, wishing she had thought of a better greeting. “And once again you are in bed. Were you also running away from the Russians?”

  Leni Riefenstahl clutched her knees and rested her chin on her forearms. She was gaunt and appeared ill, but offered a wan smile. “In fact, I was running away from the Americans. They arrested me in Austria and I was put in a camp, but not a very secure one, so I escaped. They caught me and put me in another one in Germany, where I escaped again. They caught me a third time and I escaped yet again. I think they’re getting a little irritated.”

  Her speech was slightly slurred, as if she were drugged.

  “Are you all right?” Frederica asked, leaning over her.

  “No, of course I’m not all right. I’ve been sick as a dog off and on for a year, and it was all I could do to keep the pain under control just to keep working. Fortunately, the Amis let me keep my medication when they arrested me. I’m here instead of locked up someplace only because they know I’m too sick to run any more.”

  “What were you doing in Austria?”

  “Filming Tiefland. I know it sounds insane to be filming during the last days of the war, but, well, that’s the way it was. But at the end, some of my best film friends betrayed me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Schneebergers. They encouraged me to flee with them, when the Russians got close. But when the Führer committed suicide, they suddenly turned against me. They called me a ‘Nazi whore.’ Can you imagine? Just because I cried hearing about his death.”

  Katja could imagine. Easily. The sexual slur, she knew, was false, but Riefenstahl had been in Hitler’s entourage, which was almost as bad.

  “Ridiculous. I admit,” Riefenstahl said. “I was taken by his powerful personality but never joined the party, and I was never anti-Semitic. None of that was important to me. I was, I still am, an artist.”

  Katja had heard it before and was tired of it. “I’m afraid the Allies won’t see it that way. Once they look at Triumph des Willens, they’ll call it party propaganda. Surely you can’t think otherwise.”

  Riefenstahl shook her head. “That film will finish me. I wish I’d never heard of the damned Nuremberg Party Rally.”

  “A lot of people are saying that now,” Frederica said coldly.

  Riefenstahl had obviously already formulated her defense. “I’m sure all of Germany regrets letting things get so out of hand. I certainly do. But I didn’t know about the concentration camps.”

  Frederica frowned her disbelief, and Riefenstahl amended her remark. “I mean I knew there were camps for Hitler’s enemies, but I had no idea of the torture and killing on that scale.” She seemed to look inwardly for a moment, then added, “Don’t you remember? In the beginning, Nazism seemed like a daring, magnificent idea. It went through the German spirit like a force of nature, made the nation into a great, noble beast. But I should have seen how dangerous that was.”

  Frederica’s mouth twisted in contempt. “The Nazis wanted to be great, noble beasts, but in fact, they were blustering emotional adolescents, and their followers were sheep. If they thought they were a force of nature, they met a bigger one and now have nothing to complain about.”

  Katja was more conciliatory. “I’ll be happy to speak for you, Frau Riefenstahl. I mean I’ll tell them about your rescuing me from Ravensbrück. I have to thank you for that. It’s only a pity you couldn’t do the same for Rudi. He’s survived, but he’s a broken man.”

  “If I had saved him, I couldn’t have saved you. It was a card I could play only once. People always overestimated my friendship with the Führer, probably because people kept photographing us together. But there was a difference between being a Nazi and making a work of art for them. You know that, even if the Amis don’t. And even if they imprison me, it will always be true that I was an artist.”

  “Yes, you were,” Katja said. “The best in your field. I think people will remember that, when all is said and done.”

  Riefenstahl seemed to warm at the remark. She laid a hand gently on Katja’s forearm. “Sweet of you to say that. You know, I still have some of the photos, believe it or not.”

  She pulled the leather case onto her lap and snapped it open. It held loose papers, undergarments, a camera, and folders of photographs. She leafed through them, smiling to herself as if reminiscing. “Here’s my favorite,” she said, sliding one of the photos out and handing it to Katja.

  “Ah, yes. Your ‘Flag’ picture. The Hitlerjugend holding up the Nazi flag with the sunlight filtering through it. I remember that Rudi showed it to a friend, a Russian photographer who was very impressed. He said it made him want to go out and make his own flag picture. I wonder if he ever managed it.”

  Still thumbing through her photos, Riefenstahl seemed not to hear. “I’ve also got a nice picture of a group of us,” she said, and pulled out another from the folder. “Remember? Our last day on the film.”

  Katja studied the photo with a sudden rush of nostalgia and regret. “I’d forgotten about this one. The thirteen of us at our last supper in Nuremberg.”

  “I wonder what happened to everyone,” Riefenstahl remarked. She tapped her fingers on two of the men. “Allgeier was filming with the Wehrmacht and the last I heard he was alive. Vogel, unfortunately, was killed on the Eastern Front.” She moved her finger along the line of faces. “What about Hans Gottschalk?”

  “He went down with the Bismarck, and Dietrich Kurz fell at Stalingrad,” Katja said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Riefenstahl said with obvious sincerity. Her finger moved to two others. “What about Marti Kraus?”

  “In the Volkssturm in Berlin. His son too. I don’t think they made it.”

  “And Erich Prietschke?”

  “Dead,” Katja said coldly, and offered no detail.

  “Are we three the only ones who got out, then?” Riefenstahl asked.

  “No. Richard Koehler was in a panzer division and surrendered at Tangermünde. We actually saw him just at the end. Rudi Lamm and his friend Peter also survived—against all odds. They arrived here with us, though I don’t know where they’re being held.”

  “Oh, I’m glad to know they made it. Do you think they’ll be held as POWs?”

  “Not Peter. He’s a half Jew and was underground the whole time. But Rudi was on the Eastern Front in a penal SS regiment. It’s a complicated case.”

  “That’s what they say about mine. One day I’m just a filmmaker and the next day I’m Hitler’s mistress.” She shrugged.

  Katja had left the cottage door open on entering, and another figure stood in the doorway in a shiny white helmet. He knocked on the doorjamb. “Miss Riefenstahl, I’m to take you to interrogation again.”

  “Again? This will be the third time,” she grumbled. Groaning slightly, she swung her feet over onto the floor and stood upright with effort. “They’re convinced I can give them details about Hitler’s sex life. So very Hollywood, don’t you think?” She emitted a long sigh and hobbled in obvious pain through the doorway to follow the sergeant.

  Another white helmet appeared a moment later, the man under it even bulkier than the one before. “There you are. I was looking for you. Miss Brandt, Miss Sommer, I’
m to escort you both to interrogation.”

  Frederica translated to Katja. “Interrogation, just what we want. This is where we get to tell our story to someone other than a GI with a clipboard. Let’s hope they’ll listen this time.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The corridor outside the interrogation room was empty but for two wooden chairs, and Katja waited on one of them. She supposed the Americans were interrogating Frederica first to make sure they both told the same story, but what was taking so long?

  Finally an MP stepped out of the room and came toward her. “Major Bernstein will see you now.” This soldier, with light-brown hair tending toward red and a hint of childhood freckles, reminded her for a brief poignant moment of Dietrich, though ten kilos heavier.

  The interrogation room was not particularly intimidating. A simple office space with a central aluminum table and wooden chairs on both sides of it. A map of Germany hung on the wall and a shelf nearby held numerous loose-leaf binders. No portrait of the US president, Katja noted. Who was the president now? Oh, right. Truman. Too new to have an official portrait, she supposed.

  Major Bernstein, a man of about forty-five and trimmer than most of his colleagues, had unmistakably Semitic features. Would he be hostile toward them? Yet a softness in his expression made her want to trust him. He didn’t offer his hand but gestured toward the empty chair next to Frederica. “Please take a seat, Miss Sommer,” he said in passable German.

  Katja sat down next to Frederica, who smiled encouragement at her. The major picked up a fountain pen and glanced down at the open folder in front of him. “You are Katherine Sommer, resident of Berlin?” His marked American accent made him sound simple, not to say comical, but she reminded herself that he held all their fates in his hands, and she answered respectfully.

  “Katherine officially, sir, but I’ve always only been called Katja.”

  He noted it down. “Can you describe your relationship to Miss Brandt?”

  The question threw her and her heartbeat quickened with fear. Had Frederica confessed their romantic involvement? Should she lie about it? “I…uh…we…”