by Alex Gerlis
Her husband, Nicholas, was a nervous man, medically exempt from conscription because of a breakdown a few years earlier, and it was agreed by all concerned that he shouldn’t know of his wife’s recruitment to the SOE. Christine Butler was given a few weeks’ training – Lean had to admit they were rushing them through these days – and sent to Dijon, where she was to link up with a British radio operator and sort out the Tractor circuit, which had been operating with very mixed results.
But the mission had not gone well from the start. The Captain – the man who ran the Tractor circuit – had insisted she be landed near Chaumont, which Lean felt was too far north of Dijon, and then they’d seemed to meander through Burgundy before reaching the city.
She’d not been there long when the message came through from Hervé, the radio operator: the word ‘thunder’ used three times, which meant everything had gone wrong. As far as they could gather, Christine had been arrested by the Gestapo and taken to their headquarters in rue du Docteur Chaussier. After that, communications ceased and it seemed Hervé had either been caught or killed.
A few days later, a report came through from another agent who’d been sent to Dijon from Lyons to find out what had happened. According to this, Christine Butler had undergone a brutal interrogation and torture at rue du Docteur Chaussier at the hands of a young Gestapo officer from Paris. It seemed that this officer had raped her so violently that she was sent to the infirmary at Dijon prison. According to a friend of someone who knew someone who worked in the infirmary, her internal injuries were probably fatal, but before her condition declined to that point, the same Gestapo officer who’d raped her turned up at the prison and had her carried out to the pavement, where he shot her dead.
According to the report, the agent was known by his nickname: das Frettchen.
The Ferret.
It fell to Major Lean to travel to the tiny terraced house in south London to inform Christine Butler’s devastated husband of her fate. For the first time in many years, the poor man had found a degree of happiness, and now all that was being taken away from him. Lean told him that his wife had been working for the RAF in Scotland and had been killed in an air accident. Sadly, no remains had been found. When he asked if there was anyone he could let know – maybe family or friends who could come round – Nicholas Butler shook his head and said there was no one. No family, no friends.
Major Lean added the Ferret’s details to all the watch lists, including an internal SOE one, and wasn’t terribly surprised – though he was horrified – when N Section contacted him the following May to say that a man matching that description, and with the same nickname in Dutch, appeared to be responsible for the death of an SOE agent called Peter Dean in Enschede, along with a woman called Frieda Mooren who ran the local resistance group.
Later, he also learned of other atrocities committed by this young, rather presentable Gestapo officer, possibly with an Austrian accent, who answered to the nickname ‘the Ferret’.
The SOE agreed that Major Lean would be the officer responsible for tracking him down.
* * *
In August 1945, Charles Lean was enjoying his first holiday in nearly four years when the receptionist at the hotel in north Devon handed him a message. A Christopher Stephens had called: please could he call him back on this number? Apparently it was urgent.
By the time Lean had incurred the considerable wrath of his wife and returned to London, Captain Stephens was ready to brief him. A man matching the Ferret’s description had been briefly detained by American military police officers after a bar brawl in Munich. There’d been some kind of argument and insults had been exchanged with a group of men, one of whom told the policemen that the man was in fact a Gestapo officer known as das Frettchen.
‘And you say he was released?’
‘Unfortunately, but a sergeant checked his name out and found him on our watch list. Fortunately the system appears to have worked sufficiently well for us to find out about it, what… three days later?’
‘We need to get someone out to Munich, Christopher.’
‘I’d like to volunteer, sir.’
‘I need you here.’
‘Why, sir? The war’s over and we’re not running agents any longer. I speak German and I know the case – and I’ve worked in Europe on clandestine missions: this one ought to be much more straightforward.’
Later, Major Lean reflected that Stephens had sounded a bit too complacent, too careless of the danger that still existed in Germany despite the Allied victory. But by then it was too late.
Captain Stephens arrived in Munich two days later. The American military police were somewhat chastened by their failure to detain a man identified to them as a Gestapo officer, and did what they could to help.
The young sergeant from Chicago who’d found the Ferret’s details on the watch list was assigned to help the captain. He took him to the bar north of the station where the fight had taken place, and eventually they traced one of Emil’s friends. Emil himself had left town, but the friend told the British officer what he knew: that the man who said he was known as das Frettchen was from Vienna, that he carried a Gestapo identity badge and had stolen a young prostitute from Emil, a girl called Gisela.
It was only when he was threatened with arrest that he revealed more. It’s only rumours, but Emil told me he’d heard this Austrian was living with Gisela near the Theresienwiese.
For the next few days Christopher Stephens hung around the bars of central Munich, and especially those near the Theresienwiese, asking people if they knew a young Austrian – maybe from Vienna – known as das Frettchen. He was generous with whoever talked to him, buying drinks and promising rewards if they could help him find the man.
But he wasn’t careful enough. He forgot that this was Munich, the city where the Nazi Party had started and that could still be regarded as its heartland. One man who overheard Stephens in a bar became suspicious and didn’t believe the story about the young Austrian owing him money. He mentioned it to a friend, who told someone else, a man who’d been an SS officer and was now living under an assumed identity. This man contacted someone he knew who’d been in the Paris Gestapo, and fairly soon word reached a man in Frankfurt who said not to worry, he’d take care of matters.
* * *
Ulrich and Wolfgang Steiner had first met in late 1943, and instinctively trusted each other. It was immediately apparent to Steiner that they could not be more different: one a working-class Protestant from Lower Saxony, the other a middle-class Catholic from Vienna. Ulrich had joined the SS as a private and worked his way up through the ranks, gaining a reputation for being especially ruthless. He’d lost an arm at the Battle of Kursk, and after that was based in Berlin, where the two men had got to know each other. Sometime in late 1944 Steiner provided Ulrich with an excellent new identity, and in return, Ulrich – who was very well connected in the SS – promised to act as a point of contact for both Wolfgang and his son.
Now they were in a café on Munich’s Promenadeplatz, where the windows had been replaced with planks of wood. Ulrich looked carefully around before he spoke.
‘He called me.’
‘When?’
‘Just before I left Frankfurt – and after I got word that someone was looking for him.’
‘Did he say where he was?’
‘Here in Munich, but he didn’t say where. He admitted he was having trouble with a man called Emil, but I don’t think he’s aware people are searching for him. I told him to lay low and meet me in two days at a grocery shop I know on Türkenstrasse, near the Wittelsbach Palace – the owner’s husband was a comrade. In the meantime…’
‘…we need to find who’s asking about him!’
It didn’t take them long.
They put the word out that someone who knew the whereabouts of das Frettchen and was most interested in the reward would be at a bar on Ludwig Strasse opposite St Ludwig’s church at eight o’clock the following evening.
&n
bsp; Sure enough, the man turned up. His German was good, but he clearly wasn’t a native speaker. And his story about das Frettchen owing him money was less than convincing. When Ulrich asked him where they’d met and for other details, he seemed hesitant. Ulrich, worried that they might be scaring him off, asked about the reward instead.
It turned out to be a generous one, and they agreed he’d pay half now and half when he found the man, which would be very soon, as Ulrich assured him das Frettchen was living just round the corner.
* * *
That was when it all went drastically wrong for Captain Christopher Stephens. He’d arranged for the American military police sergeant and two of his men to be waiting outside in civilian dress and in a German car. His plan had been for them to go with him to arrest the Ferret. But Ulrich insisted he leave with him through the rear of the bar, where he found himself in a small yard. Two men held him against the wall while an older man stood in front of him and asked him who he was and what he wanted.
Stephens’ only hope was that the Americans had realised what was going on and would come to look for him – he had said something to the sergeant about giving him ten minutes, and more than ten minutes had passed. He tried to buy time by saying that maybe there’d been a misunderstanding, and he wasn’t sure what the fuss was all about – he’d known the man called das Frettchen in Paris and they’d become friends; in fact – he gave a conspiratorial wink – they’d worked together in Avenue Foch. He owed his friend some money and had heard he was in Munich and wished to repay it; that was all.
‘I thought you told me he owed you money?’
Stephens realised he was shaking violently, and his mouth had turned dry.
‘You’re not German.’
‘Unfortunately not, no – I’m from Luxembourg. I feel unable to return there because of my… activities.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ The older man had produced a knife.
Stephens shouted – a loud shout in English, hoping the Americans were looking for him and would hear – ‘I’m here… help me!’ He repeated it and tried to kick the man with the knife, but it was too late. One of the others had plunged a blade into his side.
When the Americans found him a few minutes later, the surface of the small yard was coated in the Englishman’s blood, like a pond unexpectedly appearing in a forest.
* * *
Friedrich Steiner turned up as instructed at the grocery store on Türkenstrasse. He told the woman behind the counter that he never wanted to see another potato again, and when he asked if she had any cauliflower, she ushered him into the back of the shop. His delight at seeing his father ended when his father slapped him repeatedly round the face.
What on earth do you think you’re up to?
Did I not give you very strict orders?
Why have you been volunteering information about yourself here in Munich?
Did you know an Englishman was sent here to find you?
Friedrich sank to the floor and started sobbing. He said he was so sorry, but he couldn’t stand it in the Tyrol and thought he’d be safer in a city. He’d only told one or two people about himself, and then it was because he knew they were good Nazis like him, and never – on his mother’s memory – had he told anyone what his real name was, so really things weren’t that bad. And he was a reformed character, he assured his father. His behaviour had improved – he didn’t lose his temper as often – and he’d found himself a woman. ‘In fact, she lives with me.’
‘You’re not marrying her, are you, Friedrich?’
‘I don’t think she’s old enough, Father.’
Wolfgang Steiner shook his head. ‘You’ve obviously not learned your lesson. Tomorrow you will go to Frankfurt with Ulrich. He’ll arrange your escape from there: fortunately, I’ve made some arrangements. You’re to do what he says, do you understand?’
‘But Father—’
‘Listen to me! It’s not just your safety, it’s mine too. You will stay with Ulrich until the morning and then leave for Frankfurt.’
‘Can I go to my room?’
‘No, it’s too dangerous – let me have the address, though.’
* * *
When Wolfgang Steiner went to the address near the Theresienwiese the following morning, the place was deserted. A neighbour told him the girl had left the previous evening, and said there were bruises all over her face. Steiner thought it was ironic how close she’d come to being killed without realising it.
In the short time he’d been in the building, the rain had turned from a light shower to such a heavy one it was bouncing off the pavement. He waited in the dark entrance, smoking as he watched people hurrying by, all hunched and avoiding looking at anyone else. One man did glance towards the building, and for a brief moment Steiner thought he looked familiar, so he stepped back further into the shadows.
Europe was like this now: everyone seemingly on the move, journeys born out of desperation, destinations unclear or a secret, and an all-pervading sense of mistrust. A shudder ran down his back as he wondered whether he had either the energy or the courage for all this, for this escape from a life that not so long ago had been so assured.
His only hope was to trust that Ulrich would somehow lead Friedrich away from this nightmare.
His son would now be a traveller on der Fluchtweg Falke.
The Kestrel escape route.
Chapter 6
London, September 1945
They were on the early-morning train from Lincoln to King’s Cross and Prince was trying to explain to his wife of less than a week why Tom Gilbey’s suggestion that the two of them come down to see him was a ‘summons’.
‘So it’s an order?’
‘Not as such, no.’
‘An invitation, then?’
‘Somewhere between an invitation and an order, but closer to an order.’
‘I don’t understand. Until I came to live here, I thought my English was very good, but…’
‘It is good, Hanne.’
‘But there’s so much I don’t seem to grasp. You call it nuance, don’t you?’
‘We do, though actually I think nuance is a French word originally. But I know what you mean. English is full of subtle meanings. We’re very good at understatement – for instance, if someone asks “How are you?” a response of “I’m not too bad, thank you” could either mean that you’re fine or that things aren’t good.’
Hanne shook her head and stared at the English countryside flying past. ‘So how do you know what they mean?’
‘You get used to it. An accompanying facial expression can make all the difference, and it also depends very much on who says it. You asked me the other day about the British class system, didn’t you?’
‘I asked you which class I’m now a member of.’
‘And I said middle class: my parents owned their own home, I – we – own ours, I have a senior job and I went to a grammar school. Tom Gilbey, on the other hand, belongs to what we’d call the upper class, and—’
‘Is that the highest class?’
‘Not as such; he’s not aristocracy, which is a whole different matter.’
‘So the king and queen – they’re upper class?’
‘This is where it gets very complicated, Hanne. They’re probably regarded as being in a class of their own.’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘Probably best not to try to: you’ll get used to it. But the point I’m trying to make is the fact that Tom Gilbey belongs to the upper class goes a long way to explaining how he treats people like us. Are you all right, Hanne? You look uncomfortable?’
‘I’m all right. These seats are hard to sit on, though.’
‘I know. But you’re not feeling too tired today?’
‘I’m feeling so much better, Richard. On days like today it feels as if I never had typhus. Carry on, you were telling me about Mr Gilbey’s class.’
‘The upper class tend to be from well-established familie
s: they live in houses – especially in the country – that have been owned by their family for generations, and they would expect to pass them on to their children. They go to the same schools as each other and they benefit enormously from a network of acquaintances and friends from their school days. There’s something called the old boy network that tends to help them in their careers – as do family connections.’
‘It sounds corrupt.’
‘I suppose that’s just how it is. When Gilbey told me he’d been at school with the bishop, it didn’t surprise me in the least. The upper class marry people from similar families, and their lives are intertwined. They go to very select clubs that are in many ways an extension of their schools, right down to the food they eat in them. And more importantly, they live their lives through a sense of obligation: an obligation to maintain the status quo and to ensure good order in society, not least because they benefit so much from it. It’s as if society has been designed with them in mind, therefore they have a stake in defending and promoting it.’
‘But this is wrong, isn’t it, Richard? Surely people’s position in society should be based on their ability – that’s what happens in Denmark. You seem to just accept the situation.’
‘Perhaps one just gets used to it, darling. In any case, now that we have a Labour government, things may change, who knows?’
