Klaus’s inspiration came from a history class. Other more important teachings were long forgotten, but he remembered an insignificant aspect of Renaissance rivalries between opposing Italian clans: slender daggers crafted of fine Venetian glass used to assassinate enemies. The thin shard would slip easily in at the base of the neck, just above the collarbone, burying itself deep within the body before snapping off. Extraction was next to impossible without accelerating the already fatal damage. Klaus rummaged in the fraternity house cellar for a Christmas ornament, a glass icicle. He carefully chipped away the tip to create a sharp point, then wrapped the base in cloth to provide a protective handle. Its use proved far messier than anticipated, but the offending Jew caused no further problems for Horst. Or for anyone else.
Klaus became Horst’s “dagger.” When the leader entered the secret police, Klaus joined as a recruit, as well. When Horst moved to Berlin, Klaus joined him, always one step back, his advancement always a gift from his mentor. The third member of their team, Peter Brenner, was placed—again thanks to Horst—in the Kassel Gestapo office, for he had married a good local girl, a dedicated Nazi.
The behavior of Erika Breitling in Marburg had stunned Klaus. He could not imagine her debasing herself with an American when she had the epitome of German manhood in Horst. Klaus was equally shocked when his mentor married the bitch anyway, and resented that she had borne his child and continued her role in Horst’s ascent within the SS hierarchy. She was a useless distraction and potential liability. Now was the moment to see the arrogant woman suffer for humiliating them both. He alone had unmasked her duplicity, and he alone would bask in Horst’s gratitude for being the one true friend to save his career and free him of this whore.
Klaus placed calls to Königsberg and the small Gestapo office in Marburg. Satisfied for the moment, he ordered fresh coffee delivered to Horst’s desk.
With an expressive venting of steam the locomotive came to rest on Track 3 of the Hamburg main station. The platform was eerily empty of passengers, given the time of morning and the number of travelers who would normally rush to board. Those planning to detrain in Hamburg faced a daunting rank of police and plain-clothes agents stretched along the length of the platform. Another impatient crowd stood behind armed guards blocking access to the tracks. The railroad employees watched from a distance. Their wait was not long.
Gestapo agents climbed swiftly aboard, entering from both the first-class coaches and the lesser carriages at the rear. Moving systematically down the aisles, they scanned each group of passengers. Every woman with a small child was questioned and her personal and travel documents reviewed. Upon seeing the new arrivals board the train the travelers had retaken their seats, hastily shoving luggage back into the racks or pulling it close to their feet. Most stared straight ahead, attempting to appear as innocuous and uninteresting as possible. No one wanted involvement in a police matter. One needed nothing to hide in order to fear interrogation and possible arrest.
Mid-train the teams met empty-handed. Notes were compared before the agent in charge placed a call to Gestapa Berlin. He reported two mothers traveling with sons at least eight years of age, one woman with a daughter still in diapers, and one governess taking a six-year-old boy to visit his grandparents. None traveled first class. No slender blonde woman with a three-year-old son.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The escape from the Amsterdam-bound express had gone as planned, just as the train pulled away from Lehrter platform. In one fluid motion, Ryan had released the latch and swung down onto the lower step of the rail carriage. Holding onto the railing, he dropped their luggage before hopping out. “Now quickly—the boy!” His shout faded beneath the metallic squeal of the turning wheels as the locomotive released another piercing whistle.
Erika held Leo in her arms at the open doorway, gave him a reassuring hug, then handed him into Ryan’s waiting arms as he paced the rolling train. Her stomach muscles ached from the strain. With the train now creeping alongside the platform, she made the leap herself, landing with a stumble, her forearm braced tightly across her abdomen.
“You all right?” Ryan noted the grimace cross her face.
She gave him a quick look of reassurance. “Just need more practice at all this,” she said.
Leo giggled, then laughed out loud, the first laugh Ryan had heard from the boy. “Let’s do that again.”
“Not now, my darling.” She grabbed the child’s hand. “Maybe later.”
“Yes, please, every time!”
The hasty exit from the railcar left passers-by gaping in surprise. A trainman in blue uniform glared, offended by the violation of protocol. Erika’s quick glance toward the gates reassured that the brown-shirted guards and Gestapo had taken no notice of their surprising action. As she and Ryan had hoped, the gatekeepers were too occupied with newly-arriving passengers to note activity on the platforms, and no alarm had been raised. An older gentleman in a bowler hat and bow tie had narrowly avoided the sudden emergence of luggage and then Ryan. He stopped to help with their two bags while his disgruntled wife huffed her displeasure. Erika offered a quick apology, “Sorry, wrong train.”
“Glad to help,” he said, tipping his hat to her.
The sullen matron lifted her nose at the impropriety and muttered to no one and everyone, “Unheard of, such behavior!” She led her husband by the arm down the platform, but not before he turned to wink at Erika, who returned his smile. Ryan picked up both boy and bags, and the three headed toward the subterranean passage leading to the S-Bahn interurban connection.
They hoped never to learn if Horst and his cronies had fallen for their ruse and pursued the train to Amsterdam. And should they be captured, nothing would save them anyway. But even a modest head start bought time for a crossing into Strasbourg as tourists, and should things get dicey, they would look to René to get them over the Rhine to France. Kehl may not have been the most direct route west across the border, but it offered the option of private river transport.
Erika told him that Horst knew of their meeting the previous day, but not Ryan’s identity or the nature of their rendezvous. Her husband was sure she had taken a lover. Her hands trembled, and she shifted uncomfortably as she briefly described the departure from the house. Ryan realized the attentively-listening boy was preventing her telling the full story. That would have to come later.
With Horst now convinced of her two-timing him, he undoubtedly had agents tasked with her constant surveillance. The Gestapo was certainly on their scent. Ryan knew from René that an unmatched network of internal spies, field agents and citizen informants made the secret police force nearly omnipresent. And the laws now made the Gestapo omnipotent, as well, free to arrest and condemn at will. The open question was how long it would take them to discover she had left Berlin. Erika suggested Horst might be fully occupied presenting his protocol, and the devastating trouble in the streets might also prove a distraction. And with the governess confined to the closet, it was even possible they might reach the border crossing before anyone raised an alarm. They agreed that was their best hope.
Ryan however was privately less confident that time was on their side. Horst was no fool, and he would know she would never leave her parents behind. The detour to Marburg could prove fatal, but he could not bring himself to object. They were, after all, her parents. Yet Ryan accepted his decision to take the risk for Erika and Leo. He thought of his loss and regret after Isabel’s disappearance and he knew the brutality of the Reich. And now—more than ever—he was determined to send Washington proof of their diabolical plan.
They rode the elevated S-Bahn in silence, looking down upon the littered streets of the city. While the chaos of the early morning hours had abated, the destruction remained. Ryan caught himself glancing nervously around the interurban car. At the Friedrichstrasse Station they took a taxi to Potsdamer Bahnhof, the ride bringing them perilously close to Gestapo headquarters. Ryan bought first-class tickets to Frankfurt via Kassel,
the group posing as a family. If the ruse at Lehrter Station had worked its magic, the Gestapo was on a wild goose chase toward Holland. However, if Horst was on to them, he might now assume his wife traveled with her “lover.” He recalled the Nazi’s unrelenting vengeance in Marburg. Were von Kredow to learn that his wife was with the same American he had tried to destroy years before, there would truly be hell to pay. And now a nation of thugs did his bidding.
Their compartment on the express out of Potsdamer Station was temporarily free of other travelers. Once the train reached the Berlin outskirts, Erika and Ryan moved to sit across from each other at the aisle door. From this vantage they could better spot the approach of any third party, whether passenger, train official, or police agent. Leo, fascinated by the heavy rail traffic, claimed the window seat vacated by his mother. Perched on the edge, he pressed his face to the glass to get the best view of the locomotives.
Ryan’s concern for Erika’s physical condition grew, but he held back his questions with Leo so near. Her movements lacked her customary grace, and occasionally she pressed a hand against her belly, her pain obvious. She had winced when changing seats, and now he noticed the ligature marks visible through her dark stockings. He repressed his anger, biding his time. “You doing okay?” he reached over the aisle to squeeze her hand.
She nodded, but her unease was apparent. He hoped Leo would sleep soon. Having risen early, he should tire before long.
“First, the camera,” said Ryan, checking the corridor. Erika opened her handbag and handed him the Minox, masking it in the palm of her hand. Under the cover of his topcoat he rewound the film and removed the cartridge. Scarcely larger than a postage stamp, its value would be measured in countless innocent lives.
He spread out a newspaper picked up on the S-Bahn, Der Stürmer, a typical anti-Semitic caricature glaring from the front page. He unzipped his tobacco pouch and shook the contents out onto the newssheet. The previous afternoon he had purchased a similar pouch along with scissors and rubber cement. Now he slid the cartridge beneath the false bottom he had crafted, quickly refilled the pouch, and set the newspaper aside. He glanced over to see if Leo had noticed, but the child’s eyes still followed the scenery racing past. Ryan hefted the small pouch and felt along its length and depth. Anyone looking at its contents would see only tobacco. Anyone grabbing the pouch by the mid-section would feel only tobacco. But anyone clever enough to squeeze along the bottom seam would undoubtedly question a solid object hidden there. It would have to do.
The next step was equally important. He nodded to Erika. Once again they checked the corridor. No one approached. She withdrew two small objects from her handbag which she handed over to him. The first was burnished silver in color: the oval Gestapo warrant badge assigned to Horst von Kredow.
To the German public, this badge, stamped with the Nazi eagle and swastika and bearing a distinctive identification number, represented unlimited power to arrest without provocation and convict without trial. According to Erika, Horst now found his badge unnecessary and rarely carried it. A man with his clout found no daily need for the identification disc, so his medallion rested routinely in the leather-covered case in his study. Until last evening. Ryan secured the gold chain to his waistcoat and tucked the ovoid disc into his vest pocket. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but Erika had told him during their planning session that he should carry it, “just in case.”
“My father has one of those. Are you a policeman, too?” Leo watched Ryan with great curiosity.
Ryan glanced quickly at Erika, momentarily at a loss for words. “Can you keep a secret, Leo?” Ryan asked in a loud whisper, and Leo nodded. “Then sit here beside me, because we must be very careful who’s listening.” Ryan set the newspaper aside, patted the seat next to him, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I am indeed a secret policeman, and my job is to make sure you both have a safe trip. Will you help me with that?”
“I help Mutti all the time.” Leo’s eyes shone with excitement at sharing a secret. “So I can help you, too, because you’re Mutti’s friend.” He smiled up at Ryan, all shyness gone.
“Well, here’s how you help: not a word to anyone about our secret, and do exactly what your mother asks. You’ll be my assistant policeman, all right?”
Leo nodded in agreement, obviously pleased with the prospect until something more pressing came to mind. He turned to Erika. “I’m hungry.” Erika realized they had not eaten anything since leaving the house that morning. With only a few squares of chocolate to satisfy his hunger, the boy had patiently passed several hours with no breakfast. She rummaged through the handbag in search of more chocolate.
Ryan smiled and took two wrapped sandwiches from his topcoat. “I hope you both like ham and cheese. I picked them up at Lehrter. Know what, Leo? I’m getting hungry, too.” He handed one to the boy, the other to Erika, who smiled in gratitude for his thoughtfulness. “At Magdeburg we’ve a ten-minute stop. I’ll jump off and get something more filling for everybody. Meanwhile, let me see if there’s something to drink from the dining car.”
Leo approved the idea with a nod, his mouth already filled with sandwich. He swung his feet against the bench as he chewed.
Ryan affixed the second object taken from Horst’s study to his lapel. Its gold on burgundy lettering encircled a black swastika on white ground. Ryan was now a credible member of the Nazi Party, with an expensive pin to prove it. He opened the compartment door and disappeared up the corridor. As he crossed the vestibule he dropped a small package in a waste bin, the Minox camera, wrapped securely in the SS propaganda sheet.
Minna Breitling doubted Parisian breakfast rolls would ever be as appealing as the fresh poppy seed rolls she carried in a thin paper sack. Early each day but Sunday she left their home in the Barfüsserstrasse and walked four streets over to Lauschner’s Bakery. The yeasty aroma of freshly-baked bread drew her from a block away, and Minna appreciated Frau Lauschner’s friendly gift of two cinnamon buns, always added without charge to her standing order of Brötchen.
In the apartment, Joachim would already be taking the good china from the credenza and preparing their morning coffee. By now he would have set out butter and preserves, sugar and cream. For the last two weeks she had insisted they use the heirloom pieces every day, and this morning she directed him to also take out the fine silver cutlery for breakfast.
She had often said one never knew in life when things could change and finer things would have to be left behind. Now she knew. This day at noon, she and Joachim would join their daughter and grandson at the station and leave Germany. She could only assume forever. She fought back the tears, distracting herself by holding the bag of warm rolls to her nose, appreciating the aroma. She had asked Joachim to uncover the last of the marble cake, as well. It would be a hearty breakfast, befitting a long trip to who-knows-where and who-knows-what. But it was a journey fate had scheduled for them, and they would not miss their train.
The streets were littered with shattered glass. Crude graffiti marred the ancient stone walls and sidewalks. Out with the Jews. She wondered how many of her acquaintances actually believed that she and her physician husband—he who had unknowingly married a half-Jew—truly presented some threat to the Reich and their personal well-being. The Jews are our misfortune. It did not matter. Their being baptized Lutherans held no meaning, for this bigotry was all about perceived race, not religion. Their leaders had decreed it so, and the people were content to condemn the Jews and banish them from their midst, or allow others to do it for them.
Pallid smoke from Marburg’s synagogue drifted through the narrow streets. The Krauthammers from 1A had stopped her on the landing to share the exciting news of the torching. “High time,” they had said with great enthusiasm. Frau Krauthammer was their block warden and took her role very seriously, diligent in completing the monthly loyalty reports on each of the forty or so households in her domain. Minna had merely nodded politely in passing and hastened on her shopping
errand.
As their apartment building came into view her heart missed a beat. A large black sedan rolled to a stop before her stoop and several armed men ran up to the entrance. Minna stood frozen on the pavement, her hand to her mouth, in full sight of the police. The bag of rolls lay on the cobbles. She knew there would be no final Marburg breakfast. She forced herself back into the side street and peered cautiously around the corner, her heart racing out of fear for her husband. The agents disappeared as someone buzzed them in.
She counted the familiar steps in her mind as she visualized their ascent to her apartment. She knew they would have no need to break down the door. She knew that dear Joachim would protest loudly, but not fight the inevitable. It seemed forever, but within minutes they emerged from the building, shoving her husband and forcing him into the back of the car. They had not even allowed him his hat. Frau Krauthammer followed on their heels, ever ready to help. Minna heard her shout while pointing up the street in her direction: “She’s at Lauschner’s, she should be right back.” Two men stationed themselves just inside the entry as the car with her husband raced away.
Minna backed down the alley, her vision blurred by tears. She had left him this morning without a kiss. At the train station she took little notice of the milling crowds, the worried mood. She stood patiently in line and bought a ticket and immediately passed through the control gate onto the covered platform. There she sat hunched on a bench, watching and waiting, fearful of discovery.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The insight struck Horst as he crossed the red carpet of Heydrich’s office—management of anger is no different than management of chronic pain. Acknowledge that the anger must be dealt with over the long run. Focus instead on the challenges at hand to allow effective action. Make decisions to the steady drumbeat of the anger, but don’t allow it to determine them. A personal recipe for success.
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