by Dean Hughes
Ten minutes went by, fifteen, and then a man in a white shirt, with a loosened tie and open collar, finally stepped into the office. He stuck his hand out. “Hello,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He sounded distracted. “I have a hard time keeping up with everything that’s going on around here.”
Brother Stoltz stood up and shook the man’s hand. He said politely, in English, “I appreciate your taking time to meet with me.”
“That’s fine. What can I do for you?” The American walked around his desk and sat down. He didn’t say what his name was.
“I’m a German,” Brother Stoltz said. “Perhaps you know that.”
“Yes. I do.”
“I resisted the Nazis. I took in Jews, hid them. I was discovered, and I had to escape from my country. I crossed into Switzerland with my family, and from there the British helped me contact the French underground, who guided us across the border to France. Later we made our way across France and the Channel, and we live here now. I’ve been working with the British SIS. I gave them information I thought might be helpful, and now I translate German documents for them. I feel, however, that I can do more. If I had identification papers, I could return to Germany. I have contacts with an underground organization in Berlin–‘Uncle Emil’ they call themselves. I could enlist them to help with reconnaissance–or I could make observations myself. You must need people who can tell you how effective your bombing raids are, for instance. That is something I could watch and report.”
“What makes you think we do such things, Mr. Stoltz?”
“I know a great deal, sir. I know what you have done in France, and I know that you need more operatives in Germany as the fighting moves closer. In my work with the British, all these things have become known to me. It was SIS agents who gave me permission to talk to you.”
“If anyone ever did take on such work as you describe, it would be very dangerous, wouldn’t you think?”
“Yes. But less so for me, a native German, than it would be for American agents. I know the language, of course, but I also know the people, the customs, the transportation system–everything. I’m much less likely to make a mistake than an American would be.”
The man picked up a pencil, held it between his thumb and forefinger, and began to tap it in a steady rhythm against the edge of his desk. “You certainly speak good English,” he said after a time.
“My English has improved a great deal since we came here.”
Brother Stoltz could get no reading on what the man was thinking. He seemed more an intellectual than a spy. He had that slightly disheveled look of a professor or scientist, his hair rather too long and uncombed, his shirt frayed a little at the wrists. He was still tapping the pencil, steadily; the sound, like a ticking clock, made Brother Stoltz nervous.
“Why would you want to do something like that, Mr. Stoltz?”
“I hate what Hitler is doing to my country. I want to see the war end as soon as possible.”
“You’re telling me this has nothing to do with your son?” He set the pencil down, leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, and looked into Brother Stoltz’s eyes.
Brother Stoltz was stunned. “You know about my son?”
“Of course I do. I don’t let just anyone walk into this office. I’ve talked to the British. They’ve told me all about you. I know, for instance, that a Gestapo agent tried to rape your daughter, and she sliced his face with a butcher knife. That’s what forced you to take sides against the Nazis, Mr. Stoltz. Before that, you went along with Hitler, just like every other German.”
“Yes. I suppose you could say that. I disagreed with what the Nazis were doing, but I kept my mouth shut. That’s true.” Brother Stoltz hated this summary of himself. The matter wasn’t quite that simple.
“I also know that you bungled things with a Jewish family you were supposed to be protecting. The Gestapo nabbed them.”
Brother Stoltz leaned back and looked at the bare white wall behind the agent. He was offended by the man’s bluntness, but he couldn’t deny the accusation. “Yes. I made mistakes. You only know this because I admitted everything to SIS agents.”
“That’s all well and good. But your previous work doesn’t look like the best recommendation for a man who wants to help me.” He picked up the pencil and began to tap it again.
“I suppose not.” Brother Stoltz could feel this last hope slipping away.
“You also injured a Gestapo agent in Basel, pushed him off a train platform. Every police agency in Germany probably has your picture.”
“But they know I left Germany, and they would never expect me to return. They wouldn’t be looking for me now.”
“Maybe not. But you could still be recognized. Or if you were ever picked up, you would be a dead man.”
“I would take that chance. And if I were discovered, it would not damage your work. You have nothing to lose and much to gain, as I see it.”
“Mr. Stoltz, here’s what bothers me. I think you want to return to Germany to look for your son. If I were to help you get across the border, I’m afraid you would spend all your time searching for this boy. You say we have nothing to lose, but if we go to a lot of work to make papers for you, train you, and get you into Germany–which is very difficult–we want to know you’re really working for us and not serving your own purposes.”
“I could do both. And I don’t think you can find many like me. Young men would be noticeable. The police would stop them to determine why they were not in the military. At my age, I wouldn’t be watched as closely. What is more, I have contacts that no one else has.” Brother Stoltz slid to the front of his chair, sat up straight, and looked the man in the eye. “Above all, I’m willing to do it. If I’m motivated to find my son, at least I am motivated.”
The man gave the pencil a little toss, and it rattled across the desk. “I’m sure you made all the same arguments with your friends at MI-6. Why didn’t England choose to send you in?”
Military Intelligence, Department Six, was another name for the SIS. Brother Stoltz was well aware of both names. “I suppose for the same reasons you have given me. But there is one major difference. The English are not trying to penetrate Germany. From what I know, you are.”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Of course. But it is what I understand, and it is why I came to you.”
The man took a long look at Brother Stoltz, and then he leaned back and looked away. He sat for an uncomfortably long time, looking toward the door, or the wall, hardly focused on anything. Brother Stoltz had no idea what he was thinking. “I suppose you couldn’t parachute, could you?” he finally asked.
“I will, if that’s what you want me to do.”
“What about the injuries to your knee and your shoulder?”
“You know about that, too?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well . . . it would be difficult, but not impossible.”
For the first time, the agent smiled. “I’ll say this much. You’re willing to do what it takes.”
“Sir, I don’t know you. I don’t know whether you have children. But what would you do if you had a son in danger? Wouldn’t you do anything you could to help him? Maybe my motivation is not quite so simple as yours. But I want to get my son out, and almost as dearly, I want to strike a blow against these appalling Nazis who have destroyed my country. You could never find an American who feels such a passion as I do.”
“Passion can get you into trouble.”
“It can also sharpen your wits.”
The man nodded. And he considered again. “All right. We’ve talked. But we haven’t talked. You can’t mention a word of anything that has gone on here to anyone–including your wife and daughter. Not even the boys at MI-6. You seem to think that this is a spy agency, but there’s no such thing here. Do you understand that?”
“Of course. Were I to say anything, I know I would lose whatever chance I have with you.”
“I need to talk to some people. And I need to think. I don’t want to say anything else for now. But I have listened to what you have to say. And I guess I’ll admit this much: I am interested.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“We know where you are. If we decide to pursue this we’ll contact you.”
Brother Stoltz stood up. He rather hoped the man would at least offer to tell him his name, but he didn’t. The two shook hands, and Brother Stoltz left.
The Stoltzes were living in an apartment near the Marylebone BritRail station in London, near Baker Street. Brother Stoltz took the underground to the Baker Street stop, one stop before his, then walked into Regent’s Park and sat on a bench for a time. He had told his wife that he had work to do that day in the SIS office. If he returned too quickly, she would wonder why–and of course, he couldn’t tell her.
The park was a pleasant place, with its waterways, its ducks and swans, but the rose gardens had been left to go wild, and throughout the park there were long trenches. These had been intended as defenses back in 1940, when a German attack across the channel had seemed imminent. Many of the trenches had caved in now, and some had even been backfilled, but over the years it had been difficult enough to keep London operating without taking time to worry much about filling trenches.
German bomber attacks had ceased in London, but in the past few weeks Hitler had finally unleashed the “secret weapon” he had long been threatening to use. V-2 rockets were striking every day now. Most of them were targeted to hit the docks and heavy industry on the East End, but some had also struck downtown. Recently, one had exploded in the middle of a shopping area in Mayfair, an area near Oxford Street. It had killed a number of people and done considerable damage, but even more, it had served warning that the rockets might strike any part of town, and that no one should sleep too soundly at night.
Brother Stoltz hardly paid attention to the V-2s. He had experienced too much in Berlin during the Allied blanket bombings. Nothing could compare to those attacks–and the fires that followed. These V-2 rockets were no more worrisome than a lightning strike. If they came they came, and he would accept his fate. His concern about Peter was another matter entirely. The Gestapo had his son, and by now the boy could be dead, but as long as Brother Stoltz could find a way, he was going to keep trying to save him. If he was in jail, maybe there was a way to bribe someone–or help Peter pull off an escape.
And so Brother Stoltz sat in the park and considered his options, and in truth, he saw none but this hope with the American OSS. But he had no idea how long he might have to wait before he heard anything, and he wondered whether time might be a factor in saving his son.
Losing Peter at the Swiss border had been the most disheartening experience of his life, and the worry never left him for a moment. He had promised to protect the Rosenbaums–the Jewish family–and he had failed; he had promised to protect his family, and he had gotten Peter into perilous trouble. If he was offered another chance, he didn’t want to fail again.
Brother Stoltz waited a couple of hours before he returned to his apartment. When he arrived, he found Anna and his wife sitting at the little wooden kitchen table. Anna had also started translating German documents for the SIS. Many of these were not classified, and in fact, Anna usually saw little value in them, but it was a way to earn some money and help her family pay the rent. Her father brought the material to her, and he gave her help when she needed it. The work was a blessing in more ways than one: besides the income it provided, it had occupied her mind these past few weeks, since Alex had been gone.
Brother Stoltz hung his hat on a peg just inside the kitchen and slipped off his suit coat. Money was very tight, and he never looked at his old coat without feeling embarrassed at how bedraggled it had become. But there was nothing he could do about that.
“What’s wrong?” Sister Stoltz asked as he turned toward her.
“Wrong? Nothing is wrong.”
“Anna has been gloomy all day, and now you come in looking like a sad little boy.”
“What’s Anna gloomy about?”
“Never mind for now. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Nothing. I’m fine,” Brother Stoltz said. He sat down at the table.
“Mama is the gloomy one,” Anna said. “I’ve been giving her English lessons. And she keeps saying she can’t pronounce the words.”
“It’s true. I can’t say this ‘t-h’ sound.” She pushed her tongue under her front teeth and blew out an exaggerated, wet sound. Brother Stoltz and Anna laughed, and then so did Sister Stoltz. Then she said, in German, “I’m sorry, but that’s the best I can do.”
“It’s very difficult to learn a language at our age,” Brother Stoltz said.
“It’s terrible. No one understands me when I try. I told the grocer this morning that I wanted Rotkohl.” She tried to say it in English–”red cabbage”–and then she laughed at herself. “I can’t say ‘r’ the way they say it here. The man had no idea what I was asking for.”
“It’s all right. You’ll do better in time. I’m not sure they have red cabbage here anyway. I haven’t seen it.”
“They must have it. How could they not have red cabbage?”
Brother Stoltz was preoccupied. He looked away. “It’s hard to say. We eat different things, of course.”
“I still hear it in your voice, Heinrich. Something is wrong.”
“No. Nothing. I told you that.”
“More rockets fell last night on the East End,” Anna said. “I heard people talking about it at the market. But the radio still says nothing about it. It’s almost like being in Germany. Why don’t they tell the truth?”
“I suspect they don’t want information to get back to Germany–about where the rockets struck, how much damage they did, all that sort of thing. But Hitler must have observers here. I suspect that sort of information gets back to him no matter what is on the radio.”
“If there are spies here, do you think they would try to harm us?” Sister Stoltz asked.
“No, no. We’re not worth their trouble now.”
“But what if they knew what you do–both of you?”
“We translate, that’s all. If we didn’t do it, someone else would. We aren’t important enough to worry about.” He waved his hand in a gesture to show his confidence, but in fact, he was not quite as sure as he pretended. Who knew what a Nazi patriot might do, should the chance offer itself?
“I’m so accustomed to being afraid,” Sister Stoltz said. “I don’t know how to stop worrying.”
“I don’t worry for us now,” Brother Stoltz told her. “I only worry for Peter. If I could do something to help him, I would do it.”
“But there isn’t anything for now,” Anna said. She patted her father’s hand. “I believe he’s a prisoner of war–like Alex’s brother. But I don’t believe anyone would harm him. He’s only a boy.”
Brother Stoltz told her that was probably true. But he didn’t believe it. Peter was not a boy. He would soon be eighteen. In Germany these days, seventeen-year-olds were not boys but soldiers.
“Maybe the war will end soon,” Brother Stoltz said, “and I can go search for him.”
“Maybe,” Anna said, and she shrugged.
“What’s this? Don’t you think so?”
“She has a new worry,” Sister Stoltz said.
“Papa, the news from Holland is not good,” Anna said. “I try not to think about it, but I can’t help it.”
When Alex had made his parachute drop into Holland, he had not been able to tell Anna. But for a few days before his departure, letters from him had stopped arriving, and Anna knew that would happen only if the army wasn’t sending his mail. Then the news had come through the newspapers: British and American airborne troops had made a daring move into Holland. The Guards Armored Division was making a headlong drive toward Germany.
For the next day or two, the news had been entirely optimistic, and people around London were speculatin
g that the attack could drive a lance into the heart of Germany. Everyone was saying that General “Monty” Montgomery was a genius to have developed such a plan. But then the news had changed. The Germans were fighting back fiercely in many sectors, and the thrust by the armored division had bogged down.
“What was the news today?” Brother Stoltz asked.
“I’m not sure I understand exactly what is happening, but the Germans. . . .” Anna stopped. It was so strange to talk this way, to think of Germans as “them.” But her husband was on one side, and therefore Germans were the enemy. “German troops have stopped the whole operation. There’s been no progress since the first two days.”
“The Allies always win in the end,” Brother Stoltz said. “Since America came into the war, there has been a steady march toward Germany. This may not go as quickly as they had hoped, but I’m sure it will move ahead.”
“Perhaps. But the Allies are nearly surrounded. They’re fighting to hold onto one road through Holland.”
Brother Stoltz nodded. He wanted to tell Anna something that might help, reassure her in some way, but the Stoltzes had been through too much together. She knew as well as he did what the realities were. He watched her eyes, saw how worried she was. She was not a young woman who fell apart under stress. She didn’t complain much, and she certainly didn’t vent her emotions. Still, having had such a short time with Alex, the thought of losing him had to be horrifying. Brother Stoltz remembered those early days in his own marriage when life had been difficult in many ways and he and Frieda had relied so totally on each other. How could he have lost that then, and gone on living until now? And yet all over the world young women were becoming widows. He had seen in Germany, and now here in London, so many amputees, men who had lost part of themselves to this war, but what about all the young wives who had lost part of their hearts?
The thought of Anna’s pain magnified by the number of people who were suffering as much or more was unthinkable. And no one could blame it on one simple cause or one person. But certainly more than anyone else, Hitler had created this horror. The dissident generals and leaders who had made an attempt on Hitler’s life–the men who were closest to Hitler–knew his madness better than anyone and had tried to stop him. They had failed, and many of them had already been executed for their actions. So Hitler’s grip on Germany was as tight as ever, and one more chance to end the war had been lost. Brother Stoltz wondered why God hadn’t aided those generals. So many lives could have been saved that way.
