by Jana Petken
“We’re not betraying our country, or working against it,” Dieter corrected Brandt. “We’re trying to save it from a narcissist who’d blow it to smithereens in an instant if he thought the allies were defeating him. You’ll see, he’ll take every German down with him. No, Ernst, we’re not the traitors, he is.”
“Quite right … you’re right, of course we’re not. He’s the one that killed my family in 1934, not me … no, I didn’t shoot my wife or daughter or grandson.”
Dieter grew silent as tears sprouted from Brandt’s eyes. The old man had never once mentioned why his family had been murdered, and Dieter had never asked. Brandt wiped his eyes, sniffed and said, “Well, my friend, let’s get to it before I can’t remember why you’re here.”
“I’ll miss you, old goat,” Dieter chuckled, wondering how the new agent, code named The Barber, would get along with the habitually ill-disposed Ernst Brandt. “When the Barber contacts you, you’ll find him experienced and thorough, so don’t be fooled by his youth, and don’t give him any trouble, you hear?”
Brandt gave a mock salute. “Do you know him? Is he a foreigner?”
“You’ll find out. I’ve told you all you need to know for now.”
“What do you need from me today?” Brandt asked, now looking more tired than tipsy.
“Two things; the first is a forged passport, and the second is a communication, of sorts…”
“And with whom should I communicate?”
Dieter, growing nervous at the thought of the upcoming mission, snapped, “Let me speak without interrupting and I’ll tell you. In exactly two weeks from today, you will buy the Das Reich newspaper. Go to the book reviews page on page six and look for the reviewer named Franz Schwarz. If I have successfully escaped Germany, you will read the headline for a book by Pearl Sydenstricker Buck. The book is called, China Sky, and my headline will be, A Not to be Missed Chinese Extravaganza.” Dieter pulled a piece of paper from his jacket’s breast pocket. “Here, I’ve written the date, page, text and name down for you.” To reiterate, Dieter pointed to the text. “If you see that, you’ll know I made it out.”
“Who’s the passport for?”
“I’ll give you the details after you get some coffee down you, Ernst.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Klara Gabula
Paris, August 1941
Klara locked the shop’s front door for the night and climbed the stairs to Chirac’s one-bedroom flat. She kicked off her shoes, wiggled her newly-freed toes, then fell onto the bed. Another day without any sign of British help arriving, she thought, staring at the crack in the ceiling that stretched from one corner to the bare bulb hanging on a wire in the centre. Another day to wonder if Romek was still alive, another long night ahead, dreaming of Max holding her in his arms. “Stop it,” she muttered, “Enough of the self-pity.”
She began to cry despite her best effort to stay strong. She’d convinced herself that fate had intervened on her behalf, for had she been involved with Romek’s Resistance fighters, she’d have been arrested with the group, and might be dead by now. Her decision to go it alone, to leave her marriage and husband had saved her life, yet she was filled with guilt.
She crossed to the window, drew back the curtains and looked down on the street below. A group of rowdy German Luftwaffe airmen were walking past her shop. They crossed the road to claim a table outside the Café Francoeur. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. On the café’s façade, a large letter ‘V’ was written in chalk. The ‘V’ for victory symbol had reached Paris from Britain and was plastered all over the city. It had been painted on the walls of the Metro, and even on German vehicles, though unsurprisingly those were removed as soon as they were discovered.
The French had been quick to adopt the symbol of defiance after the idea was broadcast on the BBC’s French language service, which began at 9.15 every evening. The programme always started the same way, with an opening message of encouragement for the occupied French people and the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which sounded like the Morse code for ‘V’ as in victory.
She looked forward to listening to it every night, not only because the service was being transmitted by their ally but because it also brought hope. She, more than Darek, who brought news reports to her most evenings, was convinced that at some point in the broadcast a direct communication would come through for the survivors of the captured Polish-French Resistance group.
Romek, also an avid listener, had told her once, “Yes, Klara, the BBC often include personal messages in its broadcasts. You must listen carefully, for they come in a variety of ways, such as within lines of poetry or even seemingly nonsensical items that someone somewhere will understand.” But Darek was still sceptical and fond of saying in French, L’espoir jaillit éternellement dans le coeur des hommes: Hope springs eternal in the hearts of men.
She opened the window and stuck her head out. The rowdy and somewhat tipsy Luftwaffe men spotted her and waved up at her. Alarmed, she slammed the window shut and went to the kitchen for a glass of milk.
It was nine o’clock according to the wall clock. Darek was due to arrive at any minute, and hopefully, bring an update on Romek and the others. With or without up-to-date intelligence, he came to Chirac’s flat an hour after the shop closed every evening, and upon his arrival, asked the same two questions, “Have our friends across the Channel made contact?” And, “Did you hear anything interesting today from your German customers?”
A bottle of French brandy was on the sideboard in the living room. She picked it up, tempted to drink a thimbleful before he arrived, but decided against it as alcohol made her overly emotional and apt to cry at the drop of a hat. She set the bottle down on the dining table behind her, went back to the sideboard and removed the glasses and ornaments from its top before lifting the lid to reveal her radio transmitter. Her fingers hesitated as though afraid of being burnt. She gazed at it for a moment, then, timidly at first, ran her fingers along its length turning the dials as she went.
The radio had lain unused since Darek had deposited it in the flat on the morning Romek was arrested. It was a powerful weapon, she thought, one that could get her killed if she dared to use it, or give her the pleasure of contacting Max, who might be sitting next to a radio like this one in Britain worrying about her.
Finally, she took it out, sat it on the table and played her reticent fingers across it. If only she had the courage to switch it on. She knew what to do, how to use the most basic of codes.
Darek’s three knocks at the front door startled her. She looked longingly once more at the radio and then put it back in its hiding place. She would have to use it eventually if she were to carry on the fight against the Nazis, she thought, closing the sideboard lid; but not tonight.
“Are they still alive?” said Klara before Darek could pose his habitual questions.
“I went to the prison, but it’s impossible to get any closer than a hundred metres. The number of guards has doubled in the last three days. They’ve blocked the road leading to the compound and all vehicles including horse-drawn carts were being searched. I don’t know what to tell you, Klara. There’s no way of knowing if our people are alive, or if they’ve already been shot.”
Klara was frustrated. “We have to do something. Can we get a man in there?”
“I suppose it’s possible. I saw French civilians at the barricade. They showed their papers to the Boche guards and were let in. I presumed they were going to work at the prison. But, Klara, the civilians are probably the same ones who guarded the prison before the Germans took it over. It’s unlikely they’ll take someone asking for a job off the street.”
“Who do you know that’s still active and loyal to Romek?” she asked. “We’ve got to rebuild the group, otherwise the intelligence I’m gathering will be a waste of time.”
Klara sat at the table. Darek fidgeted with his cap, his eyes unwilling to meet hers.
“Don’t keep secr
ets, Darek. I can take it, whatever it is,” she said.
Darek gave her a reluctant nod. “I don’t want to believe this, but I think Romek has broken under interrogation. Those in our group who were lucky enough not to be at the factory when it was raided have been arrested.”
“How many?”
“Eighteen, so far.”
Klara gasped. The image of Romek being tortured by the Gestapo was almost too much to bear. But she was sure Romek would rather die than give up his men. “You’re wrong about Romek. You can’t know what he has or hasn’t said?”
“True, but I’ve spent most of this week trying to contact our remaining fighters in the hope that we can get something moving again. Romek had a list of our people’s addresses and places where they could be found in a hurry. He had it to keep tabs on the men in case they betrayed him, or were in trouble. He saw it as a necessary precaution, and I agreed with him.”
“You mean he found it necessary to spy on his own fighters? Well, he didn’t do a good job with that Albert you told me about, did he? And neither did you. You can’t even find out about him and the others, and you have the cheek to sit here and call Romek a traitor. You’re probably the reason Romek is either dead or about to be killed.” Kara clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry … sorry…”
Darek shook his head. “I’m sick and tired of you throwing Albert in my face every time I come here. Only you, Romek and I know about this place, and if I were a German spy, the Gestapo would have been here by now to arrest you. We don’t know if Albert gave the Germans our location or if it was someone else in the group. But it certainly wasn’t me!”
Klara flinched at Darek’s words, but he wasn’t finished.
“If you don’t trust me, I’ll leave, but I won’t come back to help you if you get yourself into trouble. You’re playing a dangerous game here. Your luck will run out eventually.”
Klara’s fingers trembled as she poured Darek a shot of brandy. “It’s not luck that’s kept this place going. I’ve been very careful.” Finally, she apologised, “I’m sorry, Darek. I know Romek and you did what you could to protect the group’s security. I have no right to object to whatever you two did or didn’t do.” She knocked back her own drink and then asked, “Who else knew the names of our men and where to find them?”
“Apart from Romek, only Oscar and me.”
“Oscar wouldn’t blab, would he?”
“If we knew where he was we could ask him.”
Klara banged the tumbler on the table, the remaining brandy spilling on the tablecloth. She was impatient to do something other than sit in the apartment wondering what had happened to her estranged husband and almost thirty Polish and French fighters. “Who gave the other fighters up under torture is not important now. We should be putting a plan together to get our people out of there.”
“How? Are you thinking of going to the prison’s doors and saying please?”
“Darek, think! There has to be something we can do.”
Darek poured more brandy into their glasses and then pushed the cork back into the bottle. “That’s it.” He nodded, his eyes wide with an idea forming.
“What are you thinking?” Klara asked.
“Did you ever hear Romek talk about a Communist called Florent Duguay?”
“No, the name doesn’t ring a bell but then I didn’t see Romek in the weeks running up to his arrest.”
“Romek and I ran across Duguay when we were trying to uncouple a railway track to derail a train. We’d just about finished and had tied up the two French civilians who were guarding the line when Duguay turned up with two other men to do the same job as us.”
Klara chuckled, imagining that scene. “So much for cooperation.”
Darek smiled for the first time since he’d walked in. “After that first meeting, Romek and I had a few get-togethers with Duguay. We didn’t exchange names until much later, of course, but once we’d established trust, we found out that he runs a partisan network.”
“Are they active?”
“Yes. Since June, they’ve set off about twenty bombs, derailed four trains and carried out over fifty acts of sabotage, but unlike the heavy-handed British attacks, no French people were killed. Most of Duguay’s men are French Communist veterans of the Spanish Civil War. They’re used to operating in secret, and to be honest, they’re much better at it than we ever were. They’re organised like an army, tightly disciplined with snipers and experienced demolition experts in their ranks. Romek and I met with Duguay two days before the raid on the factory and we agreed to merge certain operations.”
“Will they help us?”
“Yes. I think they will, but you’ll have to give them something in return – locations, functions attended by high-ranking officers and Reich officials, that sort of thing – this is good, Klara, they’d pay a good price to get a few high-profile assassinations under their belts.”
“Do you know how to find Duguay?”
“Yes, but…”
Klara donned her cardigan. “What are we waiting for? Take me to him.”
“No. If we’re going to do this, we will do it my way.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The Vogels
Berlin, September 1941
“Why are you going to work now?” Laura asked Dieter, who’d already donned his hat despite his wife’s pleas to stay at home.
“I have things to do, darling,” Dieter replied in his most patient voice. “You can’t expect me to take a week off work at short notice without tying a few things up in the Berlin factory first. You know I’m not free to walk away whenever I want.”
“Oh, that old excuse.”
“Laura, dear, you seem to forget the pressure I’ve been under lately, what with the wedding and important meetings.”
Laura harrumphed. “How can I forget when you’re never home. You always have things to do at that bloody factory. You might as well live there.”
Dieter opened the front door, but before he left, he kissed Laura hard on the mouth. “You are the most important person, thing, in my life. I promise, we’ll go to Dresden and spoil each other rotten. No distractions, just you and I taking long walks on the embankment.”
Laura tried to hide a smile, “And what about your Dresden factory?”
“It has run smoothly enough without me for months. I’ll go in for an hour or two in the mornings, that’s all.”
Laura had the right to be angry with him, he thought, getting into the car. She’d already been upset about Paul leaving that morning. “Our son has just gone to war, and now you’re leaving me,” she’d rebuked him. But he’d reminded her that their son had gone to Paris, which was hardly a war zone.
“I lied to Laura,” Dieter remarked to Kurt on their way to the Grunewald, the forested area in Western Berlin situated ten kilometres from the city centre.
“There’s nothing new in that, Dieter, and as I’ve always reminded you, you lie to protect her from the truth – plausible deniability will be her best defence if we muck this up,” said Kurt, using Dieter’s Christian name as he always had when they talked in private.
Dieter lit a cigarette, then thinking aloud he said, “It’s become easier over the years to look her in the eye and say, I promise, we’ll do this or that, and to tell her I’ve been here and there when I’ve been somewhere completely different doing something I shouldn’t be doing. I’m afraid my years of subterfuge has moulded me into an overly cautious and aloof man, one who is also rather flippant with the truth.”
“We grow into our roles as spies, Dieter, that’s all. In some ways, the man and spy conjoin to become a flawed person full of deceit. But it doesn’t mean one is heartless, we’re just, as you say, overly guarded.”
Dieter grew quiet and turned his thoughts to Paul. He’d got married only twenty-four hours earlier and was now on his way to Paris after what he’d described as the most wonderful honeymoon night imaginable. His son had left with mixed feelings. He was deeply in l
ove with Valentina and unhappy to be leaving her behind, but although he’d tried to hide it from her, he was also excited to begin a new life in the army.
At first, Paul had not wanted to join any branch of Germany’s armed forces, but Dieter had urged his son to volunteer before he received the mandatory enlistment papers that would eventually catch up with everyone of a certain age regardless of political ideals or qualifications. “Don’t leave it until they call you up,” he’d advised Paul. “The good postings will be gone, and you’ll be sent to the worst corners of the world.” It seemed his analysis had been correct, for Paul had been given a choice of postings available for commissioned medical officers, and had elected to go to Paris.
“This is the best possible outcome,” Paul had said to Valentina just before he’d left. “I’m a doctor, a non-combatant, a protected person who under the Geneva Convention won’t be attacked, harmed or taken as a prisoner of war.” On the way to Paul’s base, Dieter had put his son right on a few things. “Smarten up, Paul, before war kicks you in the gut and leaves you for dead in some trench or concentration camp. No one is protected on a battlefield, and the Geneva Convention is not respected half the time.”
The wedding, held the previous day, had not been what Laura had envisaged for their son, and it hadn’t been what he, Dieter, had wanted for Laura either. She was still disappointed that she had missed Hannah and Frank’s wedding, and had wanted a church ceremony for Paul, followed by a reception at a fancy Berlin hotel, although she’d not gone as far as to name the venue. Dieter, however, had persuaded her to acknowledge that time was not on their side. He had also reminded her on the night of the wedding that both families had achieved wonders in successfully arranging the no-fuss, civil ceremony followed by a luncheon held in the Einstein Club with only four days’ notice. It was well done to both sets of parents as far as he was concerned.