They were now on Anhalter Strasse, with Anhalter station – the gateway to Munich and Frankfurt – to their left and on their right an enormous and rather ornate building.
‘That building on your right – please don’t stare at it, just keep looking ahead or at me – is the headquarters of the Gestapo. This is the rear of the building; the main entrance is on Prinz Albrecht Strasse. The high iron gates we’re just walking past are where prisoners are driven in. They say very few who enter that way leave it alive. Here’s our hotel.’
Prince was overwhelmed by the size of Hotel Excelsior as they climbed the steps to the entrance. Armed soldiers in grey greatcoats stood on either side of enormous doors. From the parapets hung flags the size of houses, giant swastikas set against a blood-red background, draped like the sails on a Viking ship.
‘Five hundred rooms, nine restaurants, the largest hotel in Berlin,’ said Otto. ‘I like to think there’s a degree of anonymity in staying here, but I don’t doubt I’m deluding myself. There are Gestapo everywhere.’
While they waited to check in, Prince noticed a woman standing behind them, apparently studying a noticeboard with that day’s menus pinned to it. He’d glimpsed her as they walked into reception and something about her caught his attention, but he couldn’t be sure what it was. He turned round again, and this time the woman was facing the reception desk, though not looking in his direction. She had extraordinary dark eyes that darted around, and was wearing a turban-style hat. Ignoring Prince and Knudsen, she caught the attention of the reception clerk they were about to deal with. She spoke in a gentle accent, quite a cultured one. Could he check once more about her table reservation, please?
They signed the register and were allocated rooms next to each other on the fourth floor, overlooking Saarland Strasse. Before they went upstairs, the concierge called them over.
‘Have you been in Berlin during an air raid?’
Both men shook their heads. Prince resisted the temptation to mention that he’d most probably seen the bombers as they left their Lincolnshire bases.
‘We haven’t had any raids recently, but if there is one, I urge you to take it seriously.’ The concierge dropped his voice and moved closer to them, as if he was imparting something confidential. ‘Last September they destroyed Potsdamer station, just across the road from here. Most of our windows were blown out. Of course,’ he smiled, exposing a mouthful of yellow teeth, all at different angles, ‘we are defeating the enemy, but in the unlikely event of a raid while you are our guests, there are three bomb shelters in the hotel. Please allow me to show you where they are.’
* * *
‘Just keep walking, Peter. We’ll have a proper chat once we’re in the park. In the meantime, it’s not a particularly good idea to stare for too long at the bombed buildings, and don’t take too much notice of soldiers either – especially if they’re wearing black uniforms like those over there: they’re the SS. Remember, we’re most probably being followed, so this needs to look like two colleagues out for a stroll.’
After leaving the hotel, they’d headed up Saarland Strasse to Leipziger Platz and then north along Hermann Göring Strasse. Apart from the pale yellow trams, almost all the traffic was military, lorries moving noisily through their gears, armoured cars acting as if the road belonged to them, and the occasional long black Daimler or Horch with curtained rear windows and a motorbike outrider. Ahead of them loomed the Reichstag, its grim blackened exterior setting the mood for the surrounding area.
No one made eye contact and everyone seemed to be in a hurry: it was as if every pedestrian had been permitted an unreasonably short period of time in which to reach their destination. Prince couldn’t quite place it, but there was an unfamiliar smell to the city.
‘What’s the smell – it seems unusual?’
‘I’m not sure. I always notice it too: it’s got worse as the war’s gone on. I think it must be a combination of the air raids, the cheap coal they use and the lack of hygiene – it can be quite overpowering at times. You know…’ Otto paused while two women walked briskly past them, as if trying to keep in step with each other, ‘I was here just before the war started in 1939, and even then there was an odour about the city. I was told it was because the place was built on a swamp. I asked one of the Nazis who’d been made a manager at the factory about it and he told me it was the smell of Jews.’
They walked on. ‘There were over a hundred and fifty thousand Jews in Berlin in the early 1930s, you know. Half of them left the city, and since the war started, they’ve been sending the others away, a thousand at a time, by train – many of them from Anhalter station, near the hotel.’
‘Where are they being sent to?’
‘Keep your voice down, Peter. Here’s the park, let’s go down this path. Where are they being sent to? Who knows? I never ask, I just hear things. There are terrible rumours about them being transported to special camps in the east, where many of them are killed. I don’t know how true it is, but it wouldn’t surprise me; after all, the Nazis have always said they want to annihilate the Jews. When you asked me in Copenhagen why I’m helping the British – well, perhaps that helps answer your question.’
They were inside the park now, and Otto pointed to an isolated bench.
‘Anyone following us will hate this. They’ll have to keep their distance; they’re not going to be able to get near us without looking ridiculous. At least we can now talk properly. The irony of that Nazi telling me the smell was due to the Jews is that the city smells even worse now that they’ve almost all gone!’
‘Perhaps it’s the smell of Nazis?’
‘Exactly, Peter, exactly.’
‘What’s happened to all the trees? So many appear to be missing.’
‘I think some must have been destroyed in the bombing raids, but others would have been chopped down for fuel. That will really hurt the Berliners, having to cut down trees in their beloved Tiergarten. Now, let me tell you about Bruno, my contact here.’ Knudsen removed his hat and placed it on his knee, turning it round to find the right position. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t we speak in German? If it’s too difficult to follow, just tell me, but it will be useful for me to have an idea how fluent you are.’
Prince nodded and unbuttoned his raincoat, also removing his hat. Despite the time of year, it wasn’t cold.
‘Feuchtwanger and Wolff was an engineering company founded in the 1890s. They were originally based in Potsdam but moved to Spandau around the turn of the century. Do you know where Spandau is?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘It’s a suburb of Berlin, not too far from here. In fact, it’s right across the Tiergarten – that way. So, Feuchtwanger and Wolff – they soon became universally known as F&W – developed a very fine reputation for the quality of their work. They started off by making all kinds of engines, but after the Great War, they specialised in locomotives: my company’s relationship with them goes back to that time. Both Harald Feuchtwanger and Fritz Wolff were Jewish, and in 1936 the company was taken from them and nationalised. Hitler’s laws meant Jews weren’t able to own businesses. Fritz Wolff had died in the 1920s and his son was involved in the company. Harald Feuchtwanger was still alive in 1936, though in his eighties. He was still active in the business, but after it was taken over, he went to live in Switzerland. As I understand it, the Wolff family also emigrated, possibly to Holland, I’m not sure. Most of the management at the time were sacked and Nazi Party members put in their place. You seem to be following me, Peter. Your German must be good.’
‘I understand it well enough, much better than I speak it.’
‘Don’t worry, that could be important. So they nationalised the company and kicked out the senior managers. They even renamed it, calling it Spandau Locomotive Engineering, though I still hear people refer to it as F&W. Now, Bruno Bergmann was a very bright young engineer at F&W when Mortensen Machinery Parts started supplying them. By the time the Nazis took it over, he was
director of engineering, and of course he was sacked. But nationalising the company and getting rid of the senior managers turned out to be a disaster. The Nazi Party officials who took it over had no idea what they were doing. Their main customer was DRG, the German state railway company. Because of the need to move heavy armour by rail, they demanded more powerful locomotives, but there was no longer the expertise at F&W, and their engines kept failing.
‘Eventually they realised they had to bring back some of the senior managers they’d sacked, and Bruno was one of them. He technically has a director of engineering above him, but he effectively runs that side of the company. Since he returned – which would have been around two years ago now – the locomotive engines they’re building have significantly improved. He’s very good at identifying and specifying the parts he needs and we’re very good at manufacturing them. It’s an effective relationship.’
‘What about him as a person? He’s obviously not a Nazi.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t know. He wasn’t a Nazi Party member in 1936, otherwise they wouldn’t have sacked him, but you’ll understand that I’ve never discussed politics with him. You simply don’t do that here. However, I always got the impression – and it’s only an impression, Peter – that he’s not a Nazi. The phrase he constantly uses is “I’m only an engineer”, but over the past couple of years there has been the odd remark. He may refer to food shortages, or a neighbour’s son missing in the east, or having to be careful when he speaks in front of the children. But you must realise, I do nothing to embarrass him: I don’t ask questions or discuss the war. It’s a cordial relationship certainly, but a guarded one, and more than anything else, it’s business.’
‘So how did the meeting with the Luftwaffe officer come about?’
Otto frowned, thinking about his answer. He waited while a woman walked past with her dog, the first person to have been near them in a while.
‘I’ve no idea, and to be honest, I still don’t know quite what the meeting was about. I don’t usually socialise with Bruno outside of work: they’re long days and he wants to get back to his family. I’m usually tired and I prefer to stay around the hotel, eating there. I have been to dinner with him once or twice, though, so it was not so unusual when… hang on, Peter…’
A shabbily dressed man shuffled past them, doffing his hat as he did so. His stained raincoat was tied up with a length of rope and his shoes were filthy.
‘Guten Nachmittag.’
They wished him a good afternoon in return, but he’d paused – more or less stopped, in fact – when he’d greeted them and looked as if he wanted to linger. When he eventually walked on, he turned round a couple of times, checking they were still there.
‘Gestapo?’
‘I’m not sure, Peter. How old would you say he was… mid-thirties? Quite young not to be in uniform. Where was I? Ah yes, so on the trip in August, Bruno suggested we go out to a restaurant one night for dinner. Outside of the hotels, it’s hard to get a good meal in Berlin, and it’s always complicated by the fact that you need food stamps too. Those restaurants that are decent and have a good supply of food are very hard to get into. But Bruno said he had a special voucher for a place on Donhoff Strasse and suggested we went there. It was a Bavarian restaurant, I don’t remember the name, and the voucher meant we didn’t need to present food stamps.’
‘Is the restaurant near the factory?’
‘Not at all: it’s actually not too far from the hotel, near Friedrichstrasse. It turned out to be a very small restaurant, and rather cramped. Not long after we’d sat down, the manager asked if we’d be more comfortable upstairs, as our table was very narrow. It was a bit annoying, to be frank, because we’d just settled down. But we went upstairs and the room he showed us into had just the one table, quite large – you could have got eight people round it. It was a private dining room, apparently just for us. Even before we’d sat down, a man in uniform entered, not through the door we’d come in but through another entrance, one I hadn’t even noticed. He joined us at the table and Bruno introduced him. He said something like “This is my friend Kurt: he’s a Luftwaffe officer. He’s very interested to meet you” – words to that effect, anyway.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘We ordered our meal; it was a Bavarian pork stew, I recall. I’ve eaten better, but the beer was good – that was Bavarian too. Kurt asked me a lot of questions about the challenges of fabricating parts for engines that can withstand very high temperatures. Then he started to talk about how he had some understanding of the problem because he was involved in a programme to develop a pilotless aircraft – he never called it a rocket. I was quite unsure of how to react. He was certainly telling me things he shouldn’t have – you know all the detail, Peter, I gave it to you when we first met in Copenhagen. He left before us and said something about hoping we’d meet again. I know London have a lot of questions they want you to ask him, but I can’t guarantee we will get to meet him. Whatever happens, I can’t be seen to be pushing matters. We’ll go to the factory tomorrow and at some stage I’ll ask Bruno if he’ll have dinner with us. If it feels right, I’ll ask him if Kurt wants to join us.’
‘London will not be happy if I come all the way here and don’t get to see Kurt.’
‘I shouldn’t imagine they will be, but we’re very exposed here. We have to be careful. And you know what I was saying about your German?’
Prince nodded.
‘Don’t speak it at all and don’t let on you understand any. The fact that people will think you have no knowledge of the language may work to our advantage, you never know.’
* * *
Richard Prince slept fitfully that night. The heating was on constantly and the window only opened an inch or two at the top, making the room quite unbearably stuffy. Despite the curfew, there was a surprising amount of traffic on Saarland Strasse, mostly, as far as he could tell, army trucks. The bathroom was further down the corridor, but he did have a small sink in his room, and every hour or so he got up to run cold water over his face. The carpet was uncomfortable to walk on in his bare feet; it had an almost wiry texture to it.
But it was not just the noise and discomfort that kept him awake. As he lay in bed, he reflected incredulously on the developments of the past few weeks. As a police officer in Lincolnshire, his work had been interesting enough; not without some degree of excitement and certainly professionally fulfilling. He had an impressive degree of seniority for his age, and his strong reputation enabled him to be the master of his own fate. He could choose what cases to work on and he decided how to run them and who worked with him.
On the few occasions he allowed himself to indulge in fleeting personal reflection, he would think with satisfaction about how he was managing to bring his son up so well. If anyone had asked, which they didn’t, he’d have assured them he’d recovered well enough from the death of his wife and daughter and both he and Henry were doing fine, thank you.
In Copenhagen, though, he’d had plenty of time to reflect, and it had become obvious that neither of them was doing quite as well as he’d liked to imagine. The reason he so rarely indulged in thinking about how he felt was because he missed Jane and Grace so much that anything more than a passing thought was far too painful. The fact that Henry was so young didn’t mean he was immune from grief either: life would be a constant reminder to him of what had happened.
But as much as Prince loved and missed his son, he had to admit that his secondment to Copenhagen, and now this trip to Berlin, had brought him a surprisingly enjoyable degree of excitement. It was a familiar excitement, the kind he experienced at the start of a serious case and at the moment of solving it. It was the thrill of the chase and the personal challenge involved. And he had come to realise that despite the uncertainty and the constant threat of discovery, he wouldn’t swap it for the world.
There was another unexpected emotion too: the way he found himself thinking about Hanne. It was a feeling of fondness;
he realised he was missing her. He wished he was sitting next to her on the sofa, edging closer to her.
* * *
He and Otto met in reception at seven o’clock. His colleague had already had breakfast and looked as if he’d slept well. He was sitting on a chair reading Völkischer Beobachter, which he folded up as soon as Prince arrived, though not before Prince spotted the words ‘Heroes’ and ‘Stalingrad’ on the front page.
As they walked towards the entrance, a woman swept past them, her long coat brushing Prince and the scent of a powerful perfume following in her wake. As she turned to say something to a porter, he realised it was the same woman he’d seen the previous afternoon: the gentle accent, the remarkable eyes. This time she was wearing a fawn bonnet-style hat with a wide dark ribbon round it, tied into a large bow at the back. For a brief moment she glanced at Prince. It was not a look of recognition or communication, nothing like that. But she was clearly looking at him rather than his companion. Then she turned again, said something to the porter and disappeared down the steps.
* * *
Bruno Bergmann had sent a car to collect them: the journey across the city took forty minutes. They were stopped at two checkpoints, there was another delay when they were halted for a military convoy to pass, and Prince noticed that at least two roads on their route were closed due to what appeared to be bomb damage.
Prince of Spies Page 16