“I’m hoping to become a maid in the home of our third scientist, Max Sicke. He lives in a mansion here in Berlin, and I’m just guessing that it might be an upgrade from my current conditions,” she said, looking around her sparse stone room.
Gunter grinned. “You can come back and visit anytime. We’ll be here.”
She leaned over and hugged him, startled to feel his shoulder blades.
Emma knew that she’d now committed to the final stage of her journey—one that she hoped would soon land her back safely on English soil with her son. As much as she longed to hold Axel, their reunion would have to wait: her most treacherous steps lay directly ahead, and he’d be safer with his father in Hamburg than where she was headed.
Part III
The Boy
Chapter 39
Saturday, March 24, 1945
8:00 a.m.—Max Sicke’s Mansion, Berlin
His eyes followed her from behind as she moved smoothly from one task to another, her hands cutting, pouring, and flipping as she went about preparing his breakfast.
He raised the thick coffee she’d made to his lips, his eyes still focused on her, his hawk-like nose undistracted by the gorgeous aroma of caffeine wafting through the steamy kitchen.
He’d decided to eat here on this warm spring morning because this room, and its windows, admitted the most light in the mansion, every room covered floor to ceiling in dark mahogany. He’d also decided to sit in the kitchen so that he could watch and smell her, without being too obvious.
Like a wolf, Max Sicke could always smell his prey, often from distances that surprised even him. The scientist thought of his nasal passages as a great gift. His victims rarely did—not in the end, at least.
His parents were but one example. The police believed he’d set the fire that killed them. As a ten-year-old boy, he’d been caught off guard by the unfounded accusation, but he’d recovered quickly.
It’s not that he hadn’t thought about killing his parents—it’s just that the opportunity had never presented itself. But when his nose twitched in the middle of that night so long ago, waking him, he immediately recognized the distant, leafy smell of high-quality tobacco smoke and assumed that his father or his mother had once again fallen asleep cigarette in hand.
On two other occasions, he’d run into their bedroom far down the hallway and saved his slumbering parents from smoke that would have turned to fire and taken their lives. This time, though, for whatever reason—maybe their excessive drinking and giggling had irked him before he went to bed—he decided not to rush. He’d called for help only when he could see flames licking the ceiling outside their room. As he waited for the fire trucks to arrive, he kneeled and prayed amid the smoke, coughing and choking, asking God to forgive his parents for their sins.
Sicke breathed deeply as his long, curved nose turned its attention back to the figure who was so busy assembling toast, eggs, and an assortment of cold meats for his morning meal. The light, feminine smell of her skin excited him, his flared nostrils finding her soft and inviting.
Her appearance made her particularly delicious. In many ways, she reminded him of Ingrid Bergman. He’d hosted the Swedish actress for tea in his mansion’s large parlor before the war, an offering arranged by the führer in recognition of his brilliant scientific work. Fortunately, the actress loved playing Ping-Pong with him in the parlor. He’d even lost on purpose to make himself more likable. Unfortunately, Bergman and her assistant declined his kind offer to stay the night. He’d often rued letting the actress get away.
This cute maid, on the other hand—Emma was her name—wouldn’t have the same opportunity to escape his clutches.
After he’d hired her three months earlier, at the beginning of January, she’d made the unexpected choice to share a bedroom with Frannie, one of the older maids, rather than have her own room, as he’d encouraged. Might the girl have foreseen his intentions? Whether she had or not was irrelevant now, because he’d been too occupied trying to perfect his new weapon and planning its imminent first launch. Besides, until recently he’d been sleeping with another maid, Ania, and he’d learned to sequence his conquests rather than overlap them.
He’d grown tired of Ania’s complaints about having to service his every need. After the thirty-five-year-old Pole threatened yet again to leave his employ, he’d agreed to pay her a parting bonus, but only if she’d act as a distant outside observer during the second trial of his disintegration bomb. Happily, that second test south of Kohnstein, a few hours from Berlin, had occurred only weeks earlier and been more successful than the Rügen Island effort in October.
Poor, naïve Ania.
When Sicke realized from Emma’s roots that she was a blonde, he’d insisted that she revert to her natural hair color, which she’d done to pleasing effect. He’d liked her since the day he hired her. She was reserved, not too smart, responsive, efficient, and very flattering toward him; she had made it clear that she knew he was brilliant, and even commented, at times, on how handsome he looked. With his short stature, mousy brown hair, big ears, pallid skin, slight build, and beady eyes, he knew that he was far from handsome—all of which made him appreciate her comments that much more.
“Emma, I believe you’re going out for the day after you’ve cleaned up my breakfast, is that correct?” he asked, as she set his hot plate on the table and he breathed her in.
“Yes, sir,” she responded meekly.
“If you’d like to use one of the servant cars again, you’re welcome to. You know where to find the keys.”
“Yes, of course, sir, and thank you, but, with the weather finally being so nice, I think I’ll spend the day walking,” Emma said.
“And when will you be back?”
“By dinnertime, if that meets your needs, Herr Doktor Sicke.”
“It does. I know you’ve only had a handful of afternoons to yourself over the past few months, so enjoy. Where do you plan to go?”
“Since there hasn’t been any bombing today, I’ll go for a stroll in the Tiergarten,” she said. Emma chose to tell him the truth because she knew that he might have one of the other staff follow her to confirm her answer.
“Ah, yes,” Sicke said. “Still one of my favorite places to go as well. Pity I can’t join you. I have an urgent project I’m working on, and a phone call to prepare for this evening after dinner.”
She was already well aware that another major event in the evolution of his weapon was looming, and wanted to find out more, but she chose to stay disciplined, in role.
After months of tedious daily chores, depressingly soggy days, and endless patience as she watched, waited, listened, and pandered to Sicke’s oversized ego, she wouldn’t risk probing now in a way that might arouse his suspicions.
“Yes, a pity, sir. Maybe we can spend time together another day,” she said, thinking of Ania and her sudden disappearance, as she ran her hand across the nape of her neck.
It won’t be another day. It will be tonight, he thought, noting that she seemed a little flustered, a touch of sweat on her brow. I’ve waited long enough.
She walked into the adjoining room, and he could still taste her lingering scent.
He lifted his nose in the air. Vanilla, he decided. Spicy, sweet, and inviting.
—
Emma noticed that Magnus von Braun looked more gaunt than when they’d first met months before—but then so did most Berliners, as well as their favorite park.
Across the Tiergarten, Allied bombing had left craters and entire swaths of wooded areas burned out, their smoky remains hovering, seeping into every visitor’s clothing. If the ground hadn’t been so wet from the melting snow, Emma guessed that the damage from the fires would have been much worse.
They hugged before sitting down at their prearranged meeting place, the statue dedicated to the three composers—Beethoven, Haydn, and Mozart—with
marble busts of each man facing outward. Because of their unusual and only meeting in November, at the bar followed by the crypt, Magnus felt almost like an old friend.
She and Magnus had since exchanged a number of messages, which they’d placed in a hidden crevice behind Beethoven’s back. Their notes had no names on them, just dates and times, occasionally cryptic updates—in case someone else happened upon their communication, as unlikely as that might be, given their unique hiding place.
With air attacks coming regularly now, people never knew how much time they might have to talk, so they did it quickly. Some referred to it as “the Berlin stutter,” because that’s what people did when they were forced to speak so fast. Emma and Magnus moved directly to business.
“I’ve been playing the submissive maid at Sicke’s home,” Emma said.
“I have to admit, I have trouble imagining that,” Magnus said with a smirk.
“Actually, you’d be amazed at how useful it is to spend hours doing monotonous chores. So much time to think and strategize,” Emma replied with a smile.
“You’ll be happy to know that we’ve managed to slow production of our rockets, especially those intended for special payloads. As for the ones that are launched, we do our best to ensure that they either misfire or are calibrated to miss their targets.”
“Excellent. And I have some good news, too. Lady Baillie told me the Americans said yes. The Defense Department wants Wernher, you, and the core members of your team to come to the U.S. after the war.” He smiled broadly. She’d followed through on her end of the bargain—as he’d assured his brother that she would.
“That’s wonderful, Emma. Thank you!”
“You’ll start on long-range weapons. If indeed lunar launches are ever prioritized by the American president’s office, you’ll be their men. And they agreed to my idea—U.S. officials deposited a million dollars into Lady Baillie’s bank account. If the Americans come through, they get their money back. If they renege on the deal, that money is yours.”
“Well, that certainly confirms that they’re serious,” he said, impressed at what she’d engineered. “Now we can at least begin to plan our surrender to the American forces.”
“I’ve given that some thought,” Emma said, “as Herr Sicke’s gloriously polished silver can attest.” He laughed. “To surrender to the U.S., you’ll need to head south to the Alps as soon as the war’s end seems imminent. The Americans are already nearby in France, and they’ll find you there. If you stay in the north, you’ll be surrendering to Russia, living on potatoes and vodka the rest of your lives.”
“While I’m a fan of vodka, that really isn’t our preference.”
She looked toward the east. “I’ve heard the Russians are coming hard. They’re maybe forty miles from Berlin. But it will be a while before they get here. The Nazis are digging in—many convinced that this rumored wonder weapon will save them.”
He shook his head. “No one told us the Russians were so close,” he said. “But the Nazis don’t tell us anything anymore—especially Kammler.”
“Nor are the Nazis going to warn you before they destroy all evidence of your rockets to keep it out of the hands of their enemies. You’ll need to make copies of all your blueprints as soon as possible and hide them away safely. I’d suggest the Harz Mountains, near Kohnstein where you and Wernher work. Having those plans will be useful leverage with the Americans when you have to negotiate the details of your deal in person.”
Magnus nodded. “We’ll handle it.”
Emma looked up at the distant horizon to see a small black speck that she thought might be a bomber. “I have just one last concern to discuss regarding your surrender.”
“What’s that?” Magnus asked, his eyes also flirting with the horizon as the sound of the bomber reached their ears.
“Even though you’ve got an agreement, backed by money, our biggest challenge is going to be keeping the U.S. government onside if news leaks that they’ve cut a sweetheart deal with two brothers closely tied to the Nazis—especially since the work of those brothers led to Allied civilian casualties. The American people could raise a fuss, and the deal won’t be honored. That’s how it is with democracies.”
He dropped his head. “I understand.”
“I have a rough script for your consideration,” she said.
“That doesn’t surprise me. I’m all ears.”
“When you surrender, you’ll say that you’ve chosen to come to America to get away from the ungodly things that were forced upon you by the Nazis. Tell the newsmen your priority is to live in a great nation guided by the Bible.” She touched his arm. “Not to be too cynical, but I’ve heard the Americans love their Bibles. And they’ll want to know that you’ve chosen them to benefit from your expertise—not simply escaped to the first place that was willing to take you.”
Magnus nodded again as he kicked awkwardly at the broken pavement under his foot. He raised his eyes to look at Emma.
“I have something to share, which, unfortunately, isn’t going to make closing our deal with the Americans any easier.” He paused. “Nor am I proud of it.”
“What, Magnus?” They both shuddered as a string of explosions caused their bench to rumble, even though the bombs had been dropped on the other side of Berlin. Several plumes rose high into the air, adding to the city’s ever-present haze.
“The Nazis have been using laborers from the Mittelbau-Dora prison camp to dig tunnels, and make our rockets and weapons underground. The conditions are horrid, the prisoners abused and starved. Thousands have died doing this work—more than from our rockets hitting their targets, I can tell you that.” He forced himself to say these words, making a confession that he’d never wanted to make. “But Wernher and I feel powerless to stop it, just as we have felt powerless to stop working for the Nazis.”
Emma could see the tears, the fear, and the uncertainty in his eyes. She looked at him—not shocked, not in judgment, but not impressed, either.
She’d known about the underground work, but the labor source had been a mystery. Emma now knew how the Nazis had built so many weapons, and so quickly. How could she have overlooked prisoners? Of course, she thought. These weren’t your average prisoners; among them were engineers and scientists—highly educated specialists who could help build just about anything. She had to assume that Wolf’s isolation meant that he didn’t know any of this.
Emma spoke slowly. “Magnus, we all need forgiveness, because in war no one’s hands are clean. Knowing what you’ve told me, I’d suggest that you not just use the Bible as a tool in your negotiations with the Americans but that you reflect on its lessons and pray for mercy—as I do nightly,” she said, lowering her eyes.
The sudden sound signaling the plane’s proximity surprised both of them.
Magnus left the bench at the same time as Emma. They dropped to the ground, covering their heads as the silver aircraft passed over them, Germany’s decimated air defenses unable to do anything but set off warning sirens. The American plane released bombs over the center of the city. The dull sound of concrete exploding followed.
The pair sat down again quickly, their reaction to the bombing a practiced routine among Berliners who’d grown accustomed to these daily incursions. Neither acknowledged the interruption.
“Sicke is up to something,” Emma said to Magnus hurriedly. “It involves your rockets and sounds imminent. Now that the bridge is repaired and he can get what he needs, it’s clear that he’s ready to go again.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I listen to the calls he makes in his library through a device I inserted into the radio beside his desk. I have the receiver in my bedroom—which I can only use when my roommate isn’t close by. The reception isn’t perfect, but I usually hear most of his side of the conversation.”
He whistled at her daring efforts to eavesdrop.<
br />
“All I know,” he said, “is that earlier this month Sicke ran a second test near our Kohnstein facility. My sources tell me that he exposed prisoners to this blast to assess the impact of his improvements on humans. Some prisoners evaporated, others bled from every orifice. This version of his bomb was stronger than the first. Once again, though, it didn’t fully detonate. That’s what we call a schmutzige Bombe—with lethal radiation. But it’s still not the disintegration juggernaut it could be if its atomic core were to be triggered all at once.”
“He used prisoners to test this so-called dirty bomb?” Emma’s mouth hung open.
“Yes, prisoners,” Magnus said.
She assumed that Wolf had something to do with the second test not going as well as hoped.
“I did hear something about a test on one call,” Emma said. She touched her fingers to her chin as she looked at him. “So, Magnus, what do you think Sicke might be planning? A third test? The launch of a flawed bomb? Or, given the Russian advance, something else?”
“I can tell you one thing,” he said. “Before this nuclear option was fully pursued, the führer’s preferred choice against the Russians was a nerve agent called Tabun. One drop on the skin can incapacitate its victims—killing them in minutes by asphyxiation.”
“Really? So why wasn’t it used?”
“Because of Otto Ambros,” Magnus said. “He’s the chemist responsible for most deaths in the camps. When Hitler asked him about using Tabun on the Russian front years ago, Ambros risked his life and lied. I have it on good authority that he looked the führer in the eye and told him the Allies had other nerve agents that were just as good—which simply wasn’t the case, and he knew it.”
“Why do think Ambros suddenly decided to do the right thing?”
“I really don’t know,” Magnus said, “but whatever motivated him, Hitler listened and refused to use Tabun. So, ironically, Ambros, who has helped kill so many, may also be the biggest hero of this war. He probably saved millions through a single act of defiance.”
Weapons of Peace Page 36
