While still in Paris he had mailed Major von Haldheim, telling of his anticipated return to Berlin the first week of November. Two weeks later a letter arrived in general delivery at the rue du Louvre post office. The obvious enthusiasm of his friend was gratifying. The Old Major welcomed his “American son” back to Germany and invited him to call the moment he reached the city. His old room in the villa would be waiting, “just as in the good old days.” Ryan looked forward to seeing his Berlin family once again, his mind filled with fond memories.
The public phone in front of the canteen offered nothing but a busy signal. He waited a few minutes before a newsstand, reading the headlines. All the German papers appeared written by the same hand. By the end of September war had seemed a certainty, and the foreign press drummed a steady warning as Hitler demanded Czechoslovakia’s surrender of the Sudetenland with its three million ethnic Germans. Ryan had met pessimism everywhere he traveled, fear and gloom were palpable, and it was obvious the German people themselves had no enthusiasm for another armed conflict. No crowds came out to cheer the long troop convoys on their way south and east. Then England had appeased Hitler, and France had once again caved rather than live up to its treaty commitments, and the Sudetenland fell under German rule. Hitler had further expanded his Reich without unleashing a new European war. The rest of poor Czechoslovakia doesn’t have a prayer, Ryan thought, just wait.
Once again the busy tone. He rang the operator to make a third attempt and learned someone was using the line, which came as a surprise. He remembered well Frau von Haldheim’s constant admonition to the household that the telephone was for brief and important business only. Casual conversation belonged in the salon amongst friends, best enjoyed over coffee and cake.
Lemmon gave the taxi driver the Grunewald address. The cabbie seemed pleased with the prospect of a drive into one of the city’s wealthier suburbs and the attendant higher fare. On the way they exchanged small talk about the weather, and the driver chatted about his children. He pointed proudly to a small photo attached to his visor. Two young boys in Hitler Youth uniform stood to attention. He asked if Ryan had children of his own.
“No, not yet married. I’m American, a correspondent.” Ryan noticed the arching eyebrows in the rearview mirror. “Tell me, have things settled down a bit here after the crisis in September? Are Berliners worried about war?”
The warmth had disappeared, replaced by unvarnished cynicism. “Life’s good. We celebrate each of our Führer’s bloodless victories, and Germany has no further territorial ambitions in Europe. What’s not to enjoy?”
Political candor, even within the confines of a cab, obviously made the driver wary, and Ryan remembered René’s warning. He let the matter drop.
The fall day was rich in color, a brilliant blue sky streaked by a few white clouds, the woodlands and gardens still in autumn gold. An occasional breeze scattered leaves across the manicured lawns. Within the walled estates teams of gardeners swept the errant foliage from the walkways as quickly as it fell. Ryan had run into austerity drives across the Reich, encouraging Germans to cut back for the benefit of the state. The rattling tin cans of the Winterhilfe summoned citizens to donate to the poor for the coming cold months. René had explained that overseas trade embargoes on German goods were affecting the massive military buildup of Göring’s Four-Year-Plan. As a one-time student of economics, Ryan knew that without foreign currency the economy had to be on the ropes. Yet, here in this wealthy enclave, prosperity showed no signs of abating.
Not far from Brahmstrasse he had the driver wait outside a flower shop. Bent, arthritic Beckemann still remembered the young American from his occasional visits in the early thirties. After the exchange of pleasantries and a discussion of the shopkeeper’s ailments in excessive detail, Ryan left with a bouquet of long-stemmed yellow roses, Frau von Haldheim’s favorite.
The taxi entered an elegant row of villas and the von Haldheim home came into view. A stone wall topped with ornate wrought-iron separated the mansion from the street. From a distance he spotted a dark sedan parked at the gated entry. Black uniforms stood to either side of the gate with guns shouldered.
“Trouble.” The driver slowed his vehicle to a crawl and pulled to the curb.
“Wait for me here,” Ryan said. “I’ll go check it out.”
“Thanks, but I’d best be going.” The driver’s eyes never left the SS guards. “Those fellows are seldom in the friendliest of moods.”
Ryan reached for his wallet. “Café Braunitsch, it’s easy to find. On the left, two streets back. Keep the meter running and I’ll make it worth your while.” Ryan added a generous tip and stepped out.
“Good luck.” The cabbie touched the brim of his cap. “You may need it.” The taxi carved a wide turn and headed back.
Pedestrians in this neighborhood of grand mansions were rare: an occasional resident out for fresh air, a mother with baby carriage, a servant walking the dog or running an errand. Ryan intended to stroll past his old residence, but realized that a valise in one hand and roses in the other suggested something more than a casual walk. With some distance between villas he was bound to be noticed, and he didn’t want the armed SS to suspect his interest in the von Haldheim home. Always remain as inconspicuous as possible to the authorities, his trainers had admonished. But Ryan saw no choice now but to find out what was going on with his Berlin family.
To the rear of the grounds sat the brick cottage of the butler Erich and his wife Luisa, head of the kitchen and housekeeping staff. A tall manicured hedge shielded the house from the villa gardens. Ryan recalled the service gate from the night he snuck out for his final adventure with Isabel. Approaching the corner of the grounds, he turned and headed up toward the alley which ran along the back perimeter. He stopped to stash both bag and flowers in the hedge paralleling the wall. A flock of starlings rose with a startled chorus of cries. So much for keeping a low profile, he thought.
Reaching the gate, Ryan peered cautiously beyond the iron bars and saw no guard at this approach to the mansion. He gave the button a single brief push and a muffled bell responded within the cottage only a few paces away. Movement at the window caught his eye, as Luisa drew back the edge of the curtain. He knew she had recognized him. The curtain fell back into place.
Erich emerged. Grabbing the handle of a garbage bin he dragged it slowly down the walk to the gate. Before Lemmon could greet him, the butler slowly shook his head twice, his eyes then cutting toward the main house in warning. Ryan stepped back into the shadow of the portal. The butler opened the locked gate and pulled the refuse container into the alleyway. He didn’t acknowledge Ryan, but spoke in a whisper, as if muttering to himself. “Something terrible has happened.” His throat caught. “You must leave, Herr Lemmon, now, for your sake as well as ours.”
“What’s going on? The von Haldheims—are they home?” He wouldn’t leave without an explanation.
“We mustn’t talk out here. Give me a moment to reassure Luisa.” The old man made his way back to the cottage.
Ryan found the gate now unlatched and the house door also stood ajar. He let a minute pass before deciding enough was enough. Only the roofline of the main house extended above the dense foliage or the gardens, and no one appeared to be watching from that direction. Nothing moved amidst the cultivated plantings. Ryan approached the cottage, then hesitated a moment and listened. Only the splashing of the moss-covered fountain could be heard.
He let himself in with a gentle knock and surveyed the room at a glance. The house was impeccably clean despite porcelain figurines cluttering every free surface. Brightly-colored banners and embossed pewter plates celebrated tourist destinations from across Germany. Ryan couldn’t recall that Erich and Luisa had ever traveled, had ever been anywhere but attentively at the beck and call of the von Haldheims. The walls displayed framed portraits of children and grandchildren, parents and grandparents. He had never seen any offspring. Service staff truly does live in a world apart. T
he cottage pre-dated the villa by many decades. Rugs covered the rough-hewn plank flooring, notably worn by years of use. A pastoral North German landscape hung above the beamed mantelpiece. A burgundy velvet sofa faced the hearth and overstuffed armchairs flanked the window, lace doilies protecting wood and cloth. The all-pervasive smell of wood ash came from the fireplace, where untended embers still glowed. Erich and Luisa stood in the center of the room, his arm about her shoulder. She dabbed at her eyes.
“I apologize for the interruption, but what’s going on here?”
“They took them this morning, Herr Lemmon.” Erich pulled his wife closer and kissed her forehead. “They arrested them both, the Major and Frau von Haldheim.” He lowered his arm and took Luisa’s hands in his. The old man’s jaw was trembling.
“Who took them?”
“One high-ranking SS officer, three troopers, two Gestapo. The rest of the staff was sent home or confined to their rooms. We’re to stay here until summoned.”
“What charges?”
“Sedition, fomenting rebellion against the Reich, at least that’s what they said.” Erich smiled thinly. “You know the Major; never one to keep his opinions to himself.”
“Had he become more open about it?”
“Unfortunately, yes, with all the war talk in September. No one thought the French would turn their backs on Czechoslovakia, that England would go soft. Some of our generals were here at the villa, meeting in the salon. They were discreet, but I heard talk of overtures to the British, of taking back our government from the Nazis. The Old Major wouldn’t leave it alone.”
Luisa spoke up, her eyes brimming with tears: “But the gnädige Frau? What’s she ever done to deserve all this?” Erich tucked a loose strand of hair behind his wife’s ear, but the question went unanswered.
“Any idea where they’ve gone?”
“They told us nothing, but with the Gestapo, we all know.” His eyes did not leave his wife’s. “Prinz Albrechtstrasse, and then Sachsenhausen.” Luisa broke down in sobs and lowered herself to the couch. Erich pulled a handkerchief from his vest and dried his own eyes.
Ryan felt infuriated by his own impotence. “There must be something we can do. Perhaps they’ll release them after questioning? The Old Major has powerful friends.”
“The SS commander allowed them each one small bag.” He cleared his throat and blew his nose. “It was a sham, they won’t be back. I helped him gather a few things, but there was little time.”
“What about Rolf, their son? He’s been in the Party for years now, right? Can’t he help?”
“Too late, I’m afraid. The young von Haldheim was here only a week before last. The first time in ages—you do know they were estranged for years over politics?” Ryan nodded. “He showed up with a car at the gate and demanded to speak to his father.”
“Why’d he come back?”
“I wish I knew, but I withdrew, of course. They talked for some time privately in the library. He did caution his parents to be discreet; his final words at the door were ‘be careful.’ They were all in tears. Over the reconciliation, I suppose.”
“And then?” Ryan noticed Luisa repeatedly glancing toward the door and window. He had no wish to endanger them further. He should hurry.
“The Major did tell me that his son was once again welcome in his home. Frau von Haldheim was visibly shaken and retired to her room for the day.”
“And that’s it?”
“No, Herr Rolf was back again yesterday, very distraught. This time they didn’t call for Frau von Haldheim. Voices were raised; they argued. I know only that they embraced when he left. I’m now convinced he was warning them about all this.” The older man gestured in the direction of the villa.
“Any ideas on how I might contact Rolf?”
“I’m sorry, no—there’d been no word from him for ages, and he didn’t leave a card, at least with me.” In afterthought, he turned toward the sofa. “The Herr Major did leave this for you.” Erich removed an ivory-colored envelope from a photo album on the end table. “He had told me of your coming visit; he was so very excited to see you. Despite all that was happening this morning, he slipped this to me as he gathered his things and told me to get it to you if possible.”
The butler handed the envelope to Ryan. Recognizing the distinctive pen of the Old Major, Ryan slid it into his jacket pocket unopened, more pressing matters at hand. The SS could call for the couple at any moment.
“And what’s to become of the two of you?”
“Who knows, perhaps we’re to be arrested, as well. Or they could keep us in service here. It seems there will soon be new residents in the manor. The officer in charge was quite taken by the formal salon. I overheard him say the Reichsminister will find all this even better than he’d hoped.”
“The mansion?”
Erich joined his wife on the couch and laid his arm around her shoulders once again. “Were it my guess, this has nothing to do with sedition or criticizing the Reich, it’s all about real estate. Some bigwig from Wilhelmstrasse wants the villa as his own.”
Ryan shook their hands and wished them well. He knew nothing more to say or do, so he left in deep gloom, frustrated by his own helplessness. The gate clicked closed behind him, and he recovered his valise from the hedge down the alley. No birds rose this time in protest.
He returned briefly to the cottage gate to leave the yellow roses perched between its bars.
CHAPTER TWO
No taxi waited at the Café Braunitsch, which didn’t surprise Ryan. Greeting the familiar waiter, still on the job after years since his last visit, he hung his overcoat on the rack at the door and found a table toward the rear of the elegant room. He needed a break to collect his thoughts.
The words of the butler ran through his mind again and again as he tried to formulate some plan to help his adopted German family. The arrests came from very high in the government. Nothing seemed doable; at least, nothing without risking his cover and compromising his assignment. An inquiry with the Gestapo would draw dangerous attention. Nazi officialdom, especially the police, would not take kindly to an investigation by a foreign reporter. He still had to register with the authorities and had no local press pass, and it would not do to be thrown out of the country on his first day in the city.
Ryan had counted on the aid of his monarchist family to reach sympathetic contacts in Berlin and beyond, hoping to find dissident groups similar to René’s operation here in the heart of the Nazi capital. In Washington Ryan had been briefed on discontent with Hitler’s leadership at the highest levels of the Wehrmacht, but there had been no guidance on whom he might contact. Without introductions, it would be difficult to tap into that resource and earn their trust. Now he needed a new plan.
The waiter set coffee before him in a white ceramic pot, a plate of small cookies to the side. Ryan reached into his jacket pocket for his pipe, which always relaxed him and helped organize his thoughts. His fingers brushed the envelope from the major, forgotten in his shock at learning of the arrest. He slit open the cover to reveal a short note from the major alongside a smaller, sealed envelope, addressed in care of von Haldheim at the Brahmstrasse address. No return name or address; Berlin postmark three days prior. He set the small envelope aside.
The major’s loose note was written on linen stationery embossed with the family crest:
My dearest Ryan,
I had hoped to deliver my welcome to you in person, but there is now only one certainty in the Reich—we can predict nothing. How very much things have changed here since you were first our guest.
If you are now reading these lines, know that I am reconciled with my fate, whatever it proves to be. So I write to wish you my best should we not meet again.
The enclosed arrived for you two days ago. The hand is obviously feminine, so I pass it along gladly, trusting that it will lead to something warm, welcoming and pleasurable for you.
As always, Your Old Major
Ryan allowed t
he sadness to wash over him. He set down his unlit pipe and opened the smaller envelope. Erika’s second letter in four years was as brief as it was enigmatic:
My dear Ryan,
I hear you return once again to Berlin and send you my fondest greetings.
How well I remember our last time together the eve of your departure from Marburg: the view of the city from high atop the tower, the cathedral bells marking the hour, even my very last words to you.
With enduring affection, E
His mind raced. Somehow Erika knew he was back in Berlin, wanted to reestablish contact. But how to find her? He sought veiled meaning in her concise lines. Erika hadn’t penned this note merely to reminisce, and he vividly recalled that final evening, so full of promise, their passion and parting, and finally the dangerous and frantic escape along the river and up the tunnels. He scanned the enigmatic lines word by word, setting that last Marburg evening in a Berlin context.
Gradually answers clicked into place: The view of the city from high atop the tower. Replace the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Tower in Marburg with the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Memorial Church in Berlin-Charlottenburg, both memorials to the same Kaiser, and the massive bell tower would offer a fine view over the city.
Cathedral bells marking the hour. What time had they rung from the fog-bound valley that night four years past? He pictured Erika in his arms, enveloped in his top coat, and mentally backtracked from the final farewell at her family apartment, just before midnight. It had to have been about nine.
My very last words to you. They were as clear in his mind as the very night she uttered them before slipping into the apartment, her eyes filled with tears: “I will see you again.”
But what day could she mean? When should they meet? The eve of your departure. He remembered leaving Marburg on a Wednesday for a Thursday morning embarkation in Bremerhaven.
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