by Alex Gerlis
At one stage Hanne wound down the window, but she soon put it back up: the smell was overpowering. Each time the car stopped, people would gather around it, the frightened eyes of emaciated children gazing at them as they pleaded for food. At one point a boy reached up to tap on the glass, and for a moment Prince thought it was his son Henry.
‘They did this to themselves,’ said the commissar, indicating a group of people fighting over something in a gutter. ‘Save your sympathy for their victims.’
‘I don’t have any sympathy for them,’ said Hanne.
‘Not even for the children?’
She shrugged and took her husband’s hand.
Gurevich pointed ahead of them to an enormous complex rising to their left high above the ruined landscape: Hohenschönhausen. Their progress was halted by a cart being pulled along the road in front of them. The driver sounded his horn, but it didn’t move out of the way. Gurevich said something to him in Russian and he edged forward, knocking the cart over. The two old ladies who’d been pulling it stood with their heads bowed as the car drove on.
Inside the prison they were directed to one of the few brick buildings and escorted to an upper-floor office where two uniformed men were nervously waiting for them. There was a long conversation, the two men seeming to defer to Gurevich, who eventually spoke in German to Hanne and Prince, gesturing at the men.
Comrade Orlov was the governor in charge of Hohenschönhausen, he said. Orlov looked old and tired, his head completely bald and his eyes red as if through lack of sleep.
‘And this is Comrade Kiselyov; he is in charge of the block where Schweitzer is held. Comrade Kiselyov speaks German. Maybe if we all sit down, he can tell us about the prisoner. I’ve told him you need information from him about a German fugitive.’
Kiselyov’s hands trembled as he spoke, all the time looking at a sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched.
‘Prisoner Schweitzer was arrested in May in Colmar in France, formerly an annexed zone of the Nazi Reich. He was arrested by a unit of French communists and eventually handed over to the Soviet Union. Under the special wartime provisions of section 117, subsection 48 of the Penal Code, he was eligible to be tried in Germany as someone who committed war crimes on German territory during the war against fascism.’
He paused to cough and gratefully sipped from a glass of water the governor passed to him. He glanced anxiously at the commissar to check all was in order before continuing.
‘The specific charges against Prisoner Schweitzer are that in the period from June 1940 to June 1944 he was an active agent of the Nazi Gestapo organisation, in which capacity he assisted the Nazis in carrying out war crimes and conducted war crimes himself, specifically but not exclusively a vendetta against members of the Communist Party of France and their relatives and associates. In terms of—’
‘Maybe get on to what happened when the prisoner arrived here, Comrade?’
‘Of course, Comrade sir, my sincere apologies. Prisoner Schweitzer arrived at Special Camp Number 3 Hohenschönhausen on Wednesday the first of August and appeared before a People’s Tribunal on… Apologies, Comrade, I need to find the date…’
‘Don’t worry, Kiselyov, you’re not on trial here!’
Kiselyov looked up, shocked, before continuing. ‘Here we are: Thursday the ninth of August was the date of the tribunal. Prisoner Schweitzer was found guilty of all charges. In a statement he said he was forced to do the work, but of course, all the evidence…’
‘Of course, Comrade. Perhaps you’d now tell us about his sentence and when it is due to be carried out?’
‘Yes, Comrade: he was sentenced to death on… here we are… Tuesday the fourteenth of August and the sentence was confirmed by Comrade Orlov on the third of September.’
‘Why the delay, Comrade?’
‘The governor said he was sorry but there was a backlog and he’d been in Moscow for a meeting and—’
‘Don’t worry, my friends here will be pleased you didn’t execute the prisoner straight away. But that was over three weeks ago, and he’s still alive?’
It was Orlov who replied. ‘There is always a two-week period between my confirming the sentence and it being carried out. During this time the prisoner has the right to make an appeal, though an appeal will only be considered if it is based on a factual error in the conviction. In the case of Prisoner Schweitzer, he claimed it was a case of mistaken identity, and it took us some time to get further evidence from Paris. His execution has now been scheduled for Monday the first of October.’
‘And the prisoner knows this?’
‘Of course, Comrade.’
Gurevich had been translating what the two officers said into German. Prince said they’d need to question Schweitzer urgently. ‘He’s the only person we are aware of who knows the true identity of the Nazi we are looking for.’
Orlov had an owl-like demeanour: his head remained quite still but his eyes darted around, taking everything in, and he came across as wise and unhurried. He said nothing for a while as he removed a cigarette from a packet on his desk and lit it, all the while without taking his eyes off his visitors.
‘I would say no.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I would strongly suggest you don’t question the prisoner on this topic.’
‘But Comrade,’ said Gurevich, ‘I have the authority to order it and I—’
‘Yes, Comrade, of course I know that. What I mean is I would not recommend it. Prisoner Schweitzer is typical of the non-German Nazis we see here – they tend to be more fanatical and stubborn than the Germans. If you go in now and question him about the man you’re after, it will be counter-productive. He won’t say anything. What do you think, Kiselyov?’
Kiselyov looked nervous again but sounded confident in his reply. ‘I would agree: I would say Prisoner Schweitzer is no fool. He knows he’s about to be executed so why should he tell us anything?’
‘Because he has nothing to lose?’ Hanne sounded as if she was negotiating.
‘But he hates us – he hates communists and is still a committed Nazi. If you ask him about the man you’re hunting, he’ll just clam up.’
The room fell silent. The governor lit another cigarette and Gurevich drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Through the open window came the sound of orders being shouted and large numbers of people moving. In the distance a fighter plane flew low over the northern suburbs.
‘There is another possibility,’ said Gurevich, leaning back with his eyes half shut as he spoke, ‘but we need to buy some time. Remind me when you said Schweitzer is due to be executed?’
‘Monday morning, Comrade sir. The executions always take place at dawn. We use a firing range at the barracks to the north of this complex.’
‘We must delay that.’
‘He’ll suspect something.’
Gurevich said nothing for a minute or so and then nodded his head. ‘Who is the most senior Soviet official in Moscow, Comrade Orlov?’
‘Marshal Zhukov, of course, sir.’
‘That’s right: so how about you wait until Sunday and then offer Prisoner Schweitzer the option of applying for a… what shall we call it… a petition to the Soviet commander? How does that sound?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it, Comrade sir.’
‘Of course you haven’t, Comrade Orlov! I’ve just made it up, but it will buy us time and will enable us to find a way of getting the information out of the prisoner. Don’t look so worried, I’ll square it with Marshal Zhukov’s office.’
‘This way of getting the information we need.’ Prince was looking worried. ‘Did you have something in mind?’
‘I have an idea actually.’ Hanne stood up and walked over to the window, where she gazed at the parade ground below. When she turned round, she was silhouetted against the late-afternoon sun. ‘I was thinking about it because we were asked the other day about Irène – about whether
we trusted her. I said I did, that my time in Ravensbrück had taught me how to spot a stooge.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Gurevich had leaned forward, curious.
Hanne returned to her seat. ‘We find someone we can trust but who will also be someone Schweitzer instinctively trusts.’ She paused while Gurevich translated into Russian for the governor. ‘And that person tricks Schweitzer into revealing the name.’
‘Ah – I understand you. In Russian we have a word for this type of person; we call it a provokator! Well done, Hanne, that is a very clever idea!’ Gurevich clapped his hands, and for the first time the governor looked animated and allowed himself a smile. ‘Of course, we need to find this provokator; we don’t have long.’
‘Actually,’ said Prince, ‘I think I know the ideal person.’
Chapter 11
Berlin, September 1945
In the minutes approaching midnight on Sunday 30 September, the block containing the condemned cells at the Hohenschönhausen prison complex in Berlin was as silent as anywhere in a prison housing thousands of inmates could ever be.
It took a while for the sound of the footsteps of two men as they marched across a courtyard and into Block D to become apparent. The silence was disturbed by a series of doors being unlocked and then secured again, and the same footsteps moving along the stone floor until they reached an office on the second floor.
Kiselyov, the officer in charge of that section, was waiting nervously when the two men walked in. He stubbed out his cigarette and stood to attention, but the governor told him to sit. Kiselyov recognised the other man, the commissar from the NKGB headquarters in Mitte, no less, the man who’d turned up a week earlier with the two visitors who were neither Russian nor German.
‘How is he, Comrade?’
Despite the invitation to sit, Kiselyov had remained standing, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. ‘Prisoner Schweitzer spent the evening writing his final letters, Comrade sir. He was checked by the medical officer at six o’clock and then his evening meal was brought to him, but I’m told he didn’t eat any of it. I can’t say I blame him, I—’
‘Get on with it, Kiselyov.’
‘Yes, Comrade! He asked to see a Roman Catholic priest, but this was refused. The guards monitoring him in his cell say he has been agitated all evening, pacing up and down, crying and hitting the wall on occasion. He has been sick a number of times. In accordance with your instructions, he was given a mild sleeping draught about one hour ago, and when I checked with the guard five minutes ago, I was told that he is now asleep.’
‘Good, all as planned.’ The governor turned to Gurevich. ‘Are you satisfied, Commissar?’
‘I think so: you know what to say to him?’
‘Yes, sir, but what if he declines the opportunity?’
Gurevich helped himself to a cigarette from Kiselyov’s desk and raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Do you think he’s mad, Comrade Orlov? Five hours before he’s due to die? Come on, let’s go.’
* * *
The cell door burst open at the same time as the main lights were turned on, and Kiselyov shouted to the prisoner to wake up. Alphonse Schweitzer woke with a start and sat bolt upright on his narrow prison bed, letting out a yelp of fear as he did so. His shirt was undone and stained, and he stared at Kiselyov, the governor and the two guards in absolute terror.
‘Surely it’s not time, is it? Please… it must be too early… I asked to see a priest.’
Kiselyov told him to stand in the presence of the governor. Orlov nodded at one of the guards to handcuff the prisoner, who was now shaking so much it seemed as if he was having convulsions, while at the same time making a whimpering sound. He was trying to hold up his trousers and not succeeding. In the few days since the governor had last seen him, he seemed to have shrunk to half his size and looked twice as old.
‘You need to listen very carefully, Schweitzer, do you understand?’
The prisoner nodded frantically, gazing at them in a pleading manner.
The governor spoke slowly in Russian, pausing every sentence or two for Kiselyov to translate. ‘Prisoner Schweitzer, you have been found guilty of war crimes under the special wartime provisions of section 117, subsection 48 of the Penal Code. You have been sentenced to death and your appeal has been dismissed.’
Schweitzer was weeping now and shaking his head.
‘Shut up and act like a man! Your execution will take place,’ Orlov looked carefully at his wristwatch, ‘in just over five hours.’
After Kiselyov had finished translating that last sentence, the governor paused. ‘However, Prisoner Schweitzer… I have been informed this evening that as of the first of October, all prisoners who are neither German nor Soviet citizens are able to make use of a petition to the Soviet commander requesting clemency.’
He managed to look resentful at having to impart this good news. The prisoner stared at him in amazement and asked him to repeat what he’d just said, and if possible to explain further.
‘What I mean is that you may have been very lucky, Prisoner Schweitzer. The new regulation comes into force tomorrow, whereby the Soviet commander of the occupied zone of Germany will review all death sentences scheduled to be carried out on prisoners other than German or Soviet citizens. Personally I was of the opinion that this did not apply to prisoners sentenced before the first of October, but others took a different view.’
The prisoner mumbled something that sounded like a prayer.
‘However, for this to happen, you have to request it by signing this form – here, read it first by all means.’
The prisoner was weeping tears of joy, which dripped onto the sheet of paper as he read it and signed. Thank you… thank you… thank you…
‘Well, let’s see, Prisoner Schweitzer, your thanks may be premature: who knows what Marshal Zhukov will decide when he considers your case? But it could take up to a month for him to make his judgement, so tomorrow you’ll be moved to another cell.’
Thank you… thank you… thank you…
‘You’re a lucky bastard, Prisoner Schweitzer.’
When Orlov and Kiselyov left the cell, they noticed the commissar leaning against the wall, just out of sight of the man within. He said nothing as they walked back to the office on the second floor, but when they got there, he took a bottle of Armagnac from his briefcase, along with a wooden box of cigars, and placed them on the desk.
‘You have both handled this very most impressively. It will not go unnoticed, I promise you.’
The two men looked almost as grateful and relieved as the prisoner had minutes before.
‘Now we need the next stage to work. However, I do know that my friends have found someone who should make an excellent provokator.’
* * *
In the end, they moved the terrified Alphonse Schweitzer to another cell late on the Monday evening. Since the governor and Kiselyov had turned up in his cell the previous night and announced a temporary reprieve, he’d not slept. At first he was overcome with joy, relieved beyond words at his stay of execution. Then he worried the whole business might be a cruel trick by the Russians – he wouldn’t put anything past those bastards – or worse still, a trick of his own imagination.
He’d stayed awake all night: dawn came and passed, and the first Monday of October, which was a day he’d been fated never to see, was spent in his cell. The guards constantly checked him and Kiselyov came in two or three times to assure him he was about to be transferred to another block, but that was still being sorted and he should be patient.
He’d begun to doubt it would ever happen, but then at eight o’clock that night, the cell door opened and Kiselyov told him to get a move on. He was handcuffed and shackled and led through Block D, by which time of course the other prisoners had been locked down and the lights in the corridors and halls dimmed. When they came to the entrance to the block, he was told to wait and a hood was placed over his head; he was convinced this meant they were about
to shoot him, or worse still, hang him, which he considered a far worse fate. As he was hurried across a courtyard and along a rough path and then into another block, he wondered why they needed to go to all this trouble if they were going to kill him.
The cell they took him into was the least unpleasant of the half-dozen or so he’d been in at Hohenschönhausen. It was quite large, with a toilet and a sink in one corner, which made a welcome change from the bucket and bowl he’d been used to. It also contained two beds, and to his surprise, a man in prison uniform was sitting on one of them.
‘Reinhard Möller.’ The other man had waited until the guards had locked the door and turned off the light before getting up and shaking Schweitzer’s hand in a friendly manner. He apologised for not being very talkative but said he was tired. ‘I’ll introduce myself properly in the morning.’
* * *
Three days earlier – on the Saturday morning – back at RAF Gatow in the south-west of Berlin, an irritated Bemrose was waiting outside in the Humber Snipe, muttering that he still resented being treated as a chauffeur but that when he’d complained to Mr Gilbey, he’d been told how important this job was.
In the arrivals area, Hanne and Prince watched as the RAF Dakota landed somewhat awkwardly, bouncing on the runway as it was buffeted by a cross-wind and then taxiing towards the apron.
The two men they were waiting for greeted them warmly. Tom Gilbey said he couldn’t believe the destruction he’d seen as the plane descended over Berlin. The other man said he could. ‘It’s far worse on the ground, I can tell you – remember, I was only here five months ago. I lived through the Battle for Berlin!’
The conversation in the car from the airport to the safe house Bemrose had organised in Wilmersdorf was restricted to the weather and the areas they were driving through. The German who’d arrived with Gilbey apologised. ‘I could give you a guided tour, but it’s so hard to recognise places.’
