The Berlin Escape

by Warren Court

  “You’re lucky I was the only one who caught you snooping in the count’s personal rooms.”

  “It’s all true—you can come with me if you want. I have the address.” She was babbling now, she realized, and she willed herself to calm down.

  There was the slam of car doors outside on the driveway. The SS captain went to the window. “The Reichsmarschall is leaving. I should be downstairs.” He turned his attention back to Aubrey. “You are under surveillance all the time. This little escapade could have gotten you caught, and that would have exposed me.”

  “How? I didn’t know you were Starlight until you identified yourself. And speaking of that, I thought you were going to give me something.”

  He rifled through his pants pocket. “How will you get it out of Germany?”

  “The SIS took care of that.”

  “Very well. Here.” He went to hand her a slip of white paper. There was a noise outside the office, and he quickly pulled his hand back and stuffed the note back in his pocket just as the count entered the office.

  “There you are, Aubrey. Captain Schmidt, I didn’t know you were up here.”

  “Sorry, I got lost, Helmut. I found the ladies’ and then I needed a phone book.” Again, she patted the leather-bound book.

  “You are welcome in my home, Aubrey, but this office is private.”

  “Herr Count von Villiez, it would be remiss of me not to point out that you have seemingly classified material strewn about your desk,” Schmidt said.

  “What are you accusing me of?”

  “Nothing, Count. Just a friendly bit of advice.”

  The count moved behind his desk, scooped the papers into the drawer and locked it. Aubrey handed over the phone book.

  Helmut said, “Why didn’t you just ask?”

  “I forgot. Spur-of-the-moment thing. The young officer here checked up on me.”

  Schmidt cut her off. “We should rejoin the Reichsmarschall. He is preparing to leave.”

  “Agreed.” The trio left the office and the count locked the door. He let the SS man get ahead of him and pulled Aubrey back.

  “Are you all right?”

  “He just scared me is all. He thought I was spying.”

  “You weren’t, were you?”

  “Of course not. Like I said, I was just looking for a phone book. I apologize for going into your office, but I’m no spy.”

  “Good, because in Germany spies are dealt with harshly.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  12

  The count escorted Aubrey back into the party. There were women there now, a half dozen mingling among the forty men. Goering kissed the hand of one of them and then was escorted out of the house.

  The rest of the women were scattered throughout the soiree, drinking and laughing. Aubrey didn’t need to be hit over the head to realize they had all been purchased and provided by the count.

  “It is how business is done, my dear. I would not have been able to sell a thing to this lot without first greasing the wheels.”

  “I don’t mind. As long as they don’t think I’m for sale.”

  “Never. Everyone knows who you are. Still, I understand how it might make you uncomfortable. It is disrespectful to you. I apologize.” He looked genuinely abashed.

  “It has been a long day; would you have your car take me back to my hotel?”

  “But of course.”

  The count escorted her out to the Mercedes and apologized profusely for not seeing her home personally.

  “Nonsense. You have a party to attend to, and a load of important people in there. I’ll see you tomorrow at the exhibition?” she asked, throwing the count a bone.

  “I do not know yet. I have important work to do. Perhaps we could dine tomorrow night?”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “I’ll leave a message at your hotel with the details.”

  13

  Aubrey opened the door to her room and stood for a moment, looking around. The quilt was still hastily thrown over the bed the way she’d left it; the maid had definitely not been in to tidy up. Aubrey stood there, breathing in through her nose, trying to detect if someone had been in the room. Body odour, perhaps aftershave or cologne if a spy or security agent had been careless.

  She was in full spy mode now, which, as Hewitt Purnsley had stressed, she should be. Switched on. That introduction to the agent in the count’s manor house was still fresh in her mind. It had rocked her to the core, largely because of who Purnsley’s agent had turned out to be. That young Nazi officer with the eyes of a killer was betraying his country? Or was he? He had never actually handed her anything. It could all be a trap, with the real spy rotting away in the basement of Gestapo headquarters.

  No, she told herself, don’t overthink it. The man has his reasons for doing what he’s doing. Hewitt had only touched on the methods used to make a man betray his country. The leverage, the manipulation. They did it for money or a feeling of power or to get back at their higher-ups for not recognizing their value.

  Sometimes a person betrayed his country purely for the sake of ideology. But the man was a uniform-wearing, card-carrying, Heil Hitler–saluting Nazi. One of the SS, an organization totally committed to Hitler’s world vision. Could a man such as that grow disillusioned? Enough to risk his life and that of his family?

  The last reason Hewitt Purnsley had talked about was sexual compromise. He’d called it a honey trap. Explained how it worked over coffee their last night alone in a quite café on the Right Bank.

  Sex, one of humanity’s oldest motivators, could be used to compromise someone, with either a member of the opposite sex or, even better, of the same sex. The threat of exposure of homosexuality was a powerful motivator, especially in an organization such as the SS. Aubrey had asked boldly, “Do you want me to tart it up in Germany?” Hewitt had told her no, under no circumstances was she to explore any kind of relationship with any German.

  Yet here she was, exploring it, in her heart at least, with the Count von Villiez. She had been able to think of nothing else on the drive back to the hotel. That old sensation, gone for a long time now, had never really established itself except for a brief fling in St. Louis when she had been flying. There was no mistaking it now, though: it was coming on strong. Aubrey was developing real feelings for the dashing aristocrat and captain of industry.

  She flicked on the lights to banish her girlish thoughts and moved around the room examining the tells she’d left, little markers that might indicate if someone had been in her room and gone through her things, as meagre as they were.

  Hewitt had talked about indicators good operatives used to identify whether a room had been entered. She’d mentioned a scene she’d seen in a movie: a match stuck into the door jamb to indicate whether someone had been there. If the door had been opened, the match would have been lying on the floor.

  He’d warned her not to use that trick. It took training to do it right. Besides, much like she wasn’t supposed to let someone tailing her know she was on to them, a match in the door jamb would also reveal her tradecraft. No, he’d had something else in mind, and they’d gone over it thoroughly. She’d employed it just before she’d left her room earlier that day.

  She’d picked one of the legs of her bed, the one at the foot, closest to the door. Then she’d placed several personal items around the room, aligning them in a specific way with that post. If they had been examined, they would likely be moved when they were set back in place. After all, no one was going to suspect Aubrey of being a master spy. If the Abwehr, Germany’s intelligence service, or the Gestapo had sent someone into her room, it might be an amateur such as herself.

  She’d also left out a copy of Harper’s Weekly Gazette, with a picture of a beautiful starlet swinging on a trapeze on the cover. One of the starlet’s feet was pointed at the bedpost. As far Aubrey she could tell, it had not been moved. There were other indicators, too: her makeup bag and her two pieces of luggage were all lined up wit
h the bedpost, just the way she’d left them. Her father’s pistol was still under the mattress. She retrieved it. It was loaded, but lacked one up the spout, as her father would say. She put it back in her bag, within arm’s reach if she needed it. Thoughts of Captain Schmidt, “Starlight” or not, and his goons breaking down the door in the middle of the night were not beyond the realm of possibility. With that, Aubrey got ready for bed and switched off the lights.

  14

  From the window of the car, Aubrey could see the dark plume of smoke coming from the Luftwaffe air base a mile away. She recognized the mushroom cloud–like shape of an explosion. The sight of one of those at an air base, any air base, usually meant there had been a crash. This much smoke usually resulted in the death of a pilot.

  She shuddered as it billowed up into the air. She’d seen that before, all too often. One time in particular it had meant the death of a close friend, a man she could easily have fallen in love with. Her heart sank and her neck tightened in anticipation as they approached the gates of the air base. A fire truck roared by, its bell clanging, firefighters on the back of it hanging on for dear life.

  She was in a taxi this morning. She had pleaded with the count for the two young airmen to be called off Aubrey duty. She would manage fine with a taxi. The count had argued but confirmed that he would make it so. A taxi had been arranged through the hotel. She’d looked back once or twice to see if she was being tailed, but could not spot anything unusual. This gave her little comfort; her training with Hewitt Purnsley had been rushed, and they hadn’t gotten to this aspect of counter-surveillance.

  The entrance to the airfield was deserted; everyone had rushed to the crash. Nevertheless, she took her credentials out of her purse and put them around her neck. She even found a registration book and signed in. The guards were hurrying back when she passed through the gates. She waved her credentials at them but they seemed uninterested.

  The smoke cloud had lost its unique mushroom shape and was being carried towards Berlin. A continuous upstream of black smoke was feeding it, and now she could see flames at ground level. Aviation fuel burned ferociously, usually reducing any human remains to charred embers. The smell hit her now: a mixture of spent fuel, burnt metal and paint, and human flesh. She was transported back in time to that airfield outside of St. Louis and the sight of a burgeoning love being burned to a crisp while she was restrained by her fellow pilots. She shook her head. That was a long time ago, Aubrey. A different world, a different life. Get in the game.

  The crash this morning had happened at the end of the tarmac, and two fire trucks were dousing the inferno. Aubrey could see the wreckage of at least two planes. The fire trucks, one manned by Luftwaffe personnel and the civilian one that had passed her on the street, were aggressively attacking the fire. It was getting dangerously close to a row of parked aircraft. Luftwaffe crew scrambled over those aircraft, removing blocks and hooking up a tow to the one nearest to the flames that crept along the grass. The scene was half-pandemonium, with officers shouting orders and the firefighters directing their hoses here and there. The civilians in attendance were frozen in place, struggling to comprehend what they were witnessing. Civilians like Richard Fuchs, who was just standing there amongst his fellow journalists, holding his hat in his hand.

  She sprinted over to him. “What happened?” she asked.

  He barely glanced at her and answered in German. “A crash. What do you think happened?” Then he realized who he was addressing. “Two planes collided in mid-air; I saw the whole thing. It was like it was happening in slow motion. One was able to land. The other fell on the aircraft parked there. The pilot is dead, I would imagine. They haven’t been able to get to him.”

  “He’s gone,” she said.

  “You’ve seen this sort of thing before?”

  “Too many times.”

  “I don’t know how you can look at it. It’s bloody awful.”

  “You’re a journalist. Aren’t you supposed to be able to handle things like this?”

  He scoffed. “I guess. So, how was last night?” he said, changing the subject. “Where did His Grace take you?”

  “To his home.”

  “And you think I move fast.”

  “There was a reception. I met Hermann Goering.”

  “Ahh, I see.” He looked at his shoes then back up to her. “On a whim, I went to your hotel. I was nearby. I waited an hour and then another to see if you would come back. Got more than a little drunk at the hotel bar. I cursed your name.”

  “Are you still cursing it?”

  “No. I was a little dry this morning, hung over.” He nodded at the scene, the rising smoke. “Not any more. I’m sorry, but I have to go file this.”

  “I understand.” She needed to do the same thing, she realized. She wondered how she would write it. She wanted at least some of the truth of her mission here to make it into the American magazines. If it were discarded by the ghost writers and editors in charge of publishing her articles on her behalf, so be it. At least she would have tried.

  There was no point in sticking around. She did not see the count, and the exhibition would surely be closed today. She hitched a ride back into the nearest town, and from there, with her rudimentary German, she managed to catch a taxi that was willing to drive her to Wannsee. She had plenty of money and had to show it up front before he agreed.

  She got halfway there when she remembered to check for a tail. It was difficult to do this discreetly in the taxi, but again she was fairly certain no one was behind her. She would put her brief training to the test when she got to Wannsee and started walking around. She had the picture of the girl with her; she’d tucked it into her handbag before leaving the hotel, knowing that today, or at least soon, she would try and find her.

  The Frick house was not far from the count’s stately manor. It was less impressive in size, but it still spoke of wealth and privilege. A gardener working the hedges near the entrance paid Aubrey no mind when she came up the path.

  A stern-looking woman, as thin as a rail with horn-rimmed glasses, opened the door and looked down her nose at Aubrey.

  “I’m looking for Lydia Frick. Does she live here?”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend of Lydia’s, from America. It’s important that I see her. Is she here?”

  “No, not anymore.”

  “They moved away?”

  “Leave our property at once or I will call the police.” The woman glanced past Aubrey to see if anyone was watching. Then she slammed the door. The abruptness of it pushed Aubrey off the steps, and she stood there dumbfounded. There was no use knocking again; she would get a sterner reply and probably that police intervention. She had no choice but to leave.

  As she neared the gate, the gardener moved even closer to it. He spoke to her without raising his head from his work.

  “You’re looking for Lydia?”

  “I am.”

  “I was their gardener for twenty years. They’ve gone.”

  “I got that impression. They moved out of Berlin?”

  “Not moved. Were moved. They are still in Berlin, last I heard.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Jewish Quarter. They wrote to me. They are in a house on Eindhoven Strasse; I don’t know the number. I threw the letter away.”

  “Do you want me to give them a message?”

  Aubrey heard the sound of the front door opening again, and the gardener turned his back on her and moved farther down the hedges.

  The row houses on Eindhoven Strasse could have been anywhere in the US; St. Louis, Chicago, Brooklyn. What was striking about this area of town was the absence of children. Absence of any signs of life, really. The street was deserted; shutters closed quickly as she passed from house to house.

  The other thing striking about this street compared to others in Wannsee was the garbage. There were piles of it on the street corners and in front of the houses, where the other streets were spotlessly clean.
She could see where rats had chewed into the paper bags to get at the contents. It looked like the rubbish collection had been suspended in this area.

  There was a synagogue on the corner. Outside it, two loutish-looking goons in brown shirts with swastika armbands were hanging around, writing down the license plate numbers of what few worshipers there were, it being Friday.

  She went up to the front door of one of the houses and knocked. A man answered, and she asked for the Fricks. The man shook his head. “Number 29,” he said. He seemed relieved she wasn’t enquiring about him, happy to direct the attention of this foreigner elsewhere.

  She climbed the steps of 29 and knocked. She saw a tarnished mezuzah on the door post. There was a shuffling sound on the other side of the door and a woman called out faintly, asking who was bothering her. The door opened a crack, and an elderly woman, hunched over with a mole on her face, peered out.