Prince of Spies

by Prince of Spies (retail) (epub)

  Prince told the SS officer he’d never heard anything quite so ridiculous. He’d been here for over a year, he said, and was as French as the next man.

  At first the SS officer looked inclined to believe him, or at least to let the matter go: frankly, there were much more important things to worry about than two French prisoners bickering. But the other man from Blois wouldn’t give up.

  Go on then, find out if he’s French!

  I’m telling you he was smuggled into the camp a few weeks ago.

  The others in his hut were all communists. Dead communists now – the best kind.

  I bet he’s got something to do with this bombing.

  A more senior SS officer walked over and asked what the hell was going on. ‘Can’t you see there’s work to be done?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but one of the prisoners says this man isn’t French and was smuggled into the camp a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Well, go and find Sturmbannführer Roux then, and stop wasting time.’

  * * *

  It was Richard Prince’s bad luck to be in the vicinity of an SS officer whose father was French and who was a native speaker. It took Sturmbannführer Roux less than two minutes to be certain that whatever and whoever Pierre Breton was, he wasn’t French.

  He was marched to a makeshift prison, where he joined a couple of dozen slave labourers suspected of being responsible for the bombing. As the day progressed, the number of prisoners increased to nearer one hundred, and more were being brought in each hour. Prince hoped there’d be a certain safety in numbers; certainly the area where they were being held became increasingly chaotic, and when he was finally questioned by an SS officer, it was a hurried interrogation.

  He stuck to his story: I’m Pierre Breton, from Lyon. I’ve been here over a year. My French is poor because I spent much of my life in Italy… He didn’t know whether they’d believe him, but he didn’t get the impression they thought he was an enemy agent or a saboteur – not yet, anyway.

  He was thrown back into a cell, and it was another twelve hours before he was hauled out of it along with a dozen others. He’d heard rifle shots during the night and was sure he faced summary execution. He tried to suppress his fear and rising panic; his main concern had to be getting a few minutes to write a letter to Henry, maybe the Red Cross…

  ‘You, come here!’

  Now resigned to his fate, he walked towards the SS officer who’d shouted at him.

  ‘We haven’t got time to deal with you bastards now. You’re one of the group that stole the bread, eh?’

  Prince nodded and said he was terribly sorry, but he’d been working non-stop and—

  ‘Shut up and go and join that lot there. You’ll soon wish you’d never left this place.’

  Prince shuffled over to a small group gathered by the entrance. They were all placed in handcuffs and loaded onto a lorry. The prisoner next to him was August, a German communist he knew from a nearby hut who always shared his cigarettes and constantly recited the poems of Schiller and Goethe, which he said was his way of keeping sane.

  ‘You know where they’re taking us, don’t you?’ August said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Neuengamme.’

  * * *

  Sophia von Naundorf heard the raid from her villa near Greifswald; it was hard not to. Like Prince, she’d been waiting for it for a couple of sleepless nights, and when she heard the drone of planes, she got out of bed, dressed and stood in the garden of her villa, making out the flashes and explosions to the east.

  She had an intense sense of satisfaction, aware that she’d played no small part in this. She was certain Peenemünde was being obliterated. She was wreaking her revenge in the best possible manner. Of course she was worried about the Englishman, but she was also aware what the message from London had said: the slave labourers’ camp would not be bombed.

  Her first visit to Usedom island to wait for Agent Laertes would be on the coming Sunday, three days after the raid. By now, courtesy of the orphanage where she was such a willing volunteer, she had acquired an impressive-looking nurse’s uniform, which, along with a sheaf of documentation from Oberführer Hausser in Greifswald and the Mercedes stuffed with provisions for the sentries at Wolgast, would hopefully ensure she’d get to Zempin with little difficulty.

  When there was no sign of the Englishman, she imagined he was still gathering information, or needed another few days before he could get on the right work detail, so she returned on the Tuesday and again on the Friday. There was still no sign of him. On the Friday, she managed to speak with a guard by the beach, who was grateful for the cigarettes she slipped into the pocket of his greatcoat. It must have been terrible, she said. Were many people killed?

  ‘Quite a number, my lady, but not as many as you’d expect, not given the number of planes that flew over us and the amount of bombs they dropped.’

  She told him how brave he was, and he must take this sausage, please… no, I insist. Was it mostly good Germans killed, or slave labourers?

  ‘A surprising number of slave labourers, my lady – hundreds of them actually: you’d have thought they’d have avoided that area, but maybe the RAF aren’t as smart as the Luftwaffe! Ah well…’

  But still she didn’t give up. She returned the next Sunday and the following Tuesday and Friday. On Friday she was questioned by a Gestapo officer at the checkpoint. He was respectful enough, but quite twitchy and not entirely trusting of her answers.

  It was now more than two weeks after the raid. She had to conclude that Agent Laertes had been killed, which was very sad, but now she had to think of herself.

  Her visits to Usedom appeared to be arousing suspicion.

  She must return to Berlin.

  * * *

  Back in Greifswald, she explained to the orphanage that she had received distressing news about her husband and was going home. She used the weekend to pack up the villa and prevail upon Oberführer Hausser to allow her enough fuel to get back to Berlin. On Sunday night, she retrieved the Englishman’s Danish and German identity cards from their hiding place and burnt them.

  She left Greifswald at first light on the Monday and was in Berlin that afternoon. A letter from Karl-Heinrich had arrived that morning and was waiting on the beautifully polished hall table with ivory inlays that he’d stolen from the Goldmanns. She managed to send a detailed message to London: the raid appeared to have had limited success; many slave labourers had been killed; she feared the Englishman was one of them. They were not to expect to hear from her for a long while.

  On Tuesday morning, she went to visit Konrad, her husband’s closest friend and fellow SS Brigadeführer. He’d been sent back from Stalingrad because of his injuries and was now working at SS headquarters.

  ‘We must regard no news as good news, Sophia. Karl-Heinrich is so smart, I’m sure if anyone can get out of there it’s him. You mark my words.’

  ‘But it sounds so unlikely, Konrad. Paulus surrendered over a month ago. Surely I’d have heard something by now.’

  ‘Don’t be defeatist, Sophia. But tell me, is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘There is one small favour, Konrad. Karl-Heinrich told me that if anything ever happened to him – or even if it looked as if he might be in danger –I was to go to Zurich to collect some gold he has in a bank there and bring it back here. I think I should do that now, but I’ll need papers to allow me to leave the Reich and get into Switzerland.’

  ‘That’s not a small favour, Sophia, it’s—’

  ‘He also said what a good friend you’ve been, so loyal and trustworthy. There is a lot of gold, Konrad; he got it from Jews before he sent them on their holidays in the east. I know he would wish you to have some of it, as a small token of his respect for you.’

  The SS Brigadeführer told her that he needed a few days to work on this: perhaps by Friday?

  She said Thursday would be better, as then she’d be able to take the train on the Friday. ‘With luck, Konrad, I’ll be
back here this time next week, with a certain something weighing down my bags. If it is possible also to have papers to show I’m on state business – for the SS perhaps – that would be so helpful.’

  He told her to come back on Thursday, and she returned to the apartment in Charlottenburg. She had so much to do and so little time in which to do it. She knew it would arouse suspicion if she took more than one suitcase, and it was hard to know what to leave behind. She’d wear her furs and jewellery, and she packed more jewellery along with the silver candlesticks belonging to the Goldmanns. She knew how important they were to the family and hoped one day to be able to return them. The final item to go into the case was perhaps the most important one: her husband’s diary.

  She took care to ensure her maid was not aware of what was going on. She gave her a few days off and told her she’d be back by Monday.

  When the maid had left, she took out Karl-Heinrich’s letter and read it a few times, savouring it the way one does a compelling novel. Then she opened one of the bottles of what he had assured her was an excellent vintage champagne: Mumm, his favourite.

  She ran a bath and stayed in it for an hour, then put on her silk dressing gown before pouring her fourth glass of champagne and reading the letter once again.

  Chapter 19

  Stalingrad; Switzerland, January–February 1943

  Headquarters of the 6th Army

  Gumrak Airbase

  20 January 1943

  My darling, darling Sophia,

  I write this letter with a heavy heart because I fear it is possible this may be the last time you hear from me, your devoted and loving husband.

  I cannot describe how difficult the circumstances are in which I write. The cold is unimaginable; we no longer have fuel for any form of heating or for cooking, though there is hardly any food left to cook anyway.

  We are now completely encircled by the Soviets and it can only be a matter of days if not hours before they capture Gumrak. I should have taken the opportunity to get out of here last week when I actually had the chance to do so on a Heinkel. However, Colonel General Paulus has made this his headquarters and I decided to remain. In truth, it is some weeks now since there was any need for the SS, since our role was to help in the capture of Stalingrad and then deal with those who’d remained in it.

  The Heinkel and Junkers pilots have been quite heroic, flying through the most atrocious conditions to deliver a few supplies and along with those our mail. There is a Junkers preparing to depart here in a few minutes and I will make sure this letter gets on it. I have no doubt this will be the final Luftwaffe flight out of Gumrak.

  The last letter I received from you was dated 26 December, when you told me you were going to volunteer at the Frauenschaft orphanage in Greifswald. I had hoped to hear from you since then, but I imagine you have been too busy doing your bit to help our noble cause. That you have been so selfless and think only of others comes as little surprise to me.

  There is much defeatist talk here of surrender: it seems Paulus is inclined in that direction. There are rumours that the Führer is about to promote him to field marshal, as no German field marshal has ever surrendered, but I doubt even this will persuade him. Although this is shameful, I have to take my lead from the commanding officer. If I remain alive after the fall of Gumrak, then I will no doubt be taken prisoner. The rumours are that the Soviets treat German prisoners properly, but that does not apply to the SS. I have therefore obtained a Wehrmacht uniform and have given myself a junior rank. Imagine – your husband has demoted himself! At least this should ensure I survive, albeit in captivity. Please continue to write to me, and hopefully your letters will reach me through the usual channels. Ensure you use my new identity, Oberleutnant Karl Naundorf.

  There is so much I could say to you, about my love for you and how you have been a loyal wife and a proud National Socialist. However, I have to hurry: I can see the Junkers is getting ready to leave and I must ensure this letter gets on board.

  Until we meet again, have utter faith in Ultimate Victory!

  With my eternal love,

  Heil Hitler!

  Your devoted husband,

  Karl-Heinrich

  * * *

  Bern, Switzerland

  23 March 1943

  Dear Karl-Heinrich,

  I have so much to say I hardly know where to begin. I think perhaps the best thing to do would be for me to recount everything in the order it happened.

  However, first I need to acknowledge that if you are reading this letter then I hope you will already be aware of the part I have played in whatever fate awaits you, a fate you fully deserve.

  I should also acknowledge that to an extent, I am to blame for the predicament I have found myself in. When you gave up being a lawyer and joined the SS, I should have left you, or at the very least objected. When you started to espouse the most appalling views, I should have divorced you. When you treated the Goldmanns so dreadfully, I should have done something about it. That I didn’t is a source of considerable regret and shame.

  Then the war started and you were in your element. When you started boasting of your part in the massacres of Jews and others, I decided I’d had enough, but by then it was very difficult for me to do much about it. I had no means of my own and divorcing an SS officer would have had serious consequences for me.

  I was ashamed of myself for doing nothing, and then, in late 1940, two things happened. The first was when you were in Poland, not long after you’d been home on leave. I was getting ready for bed one night when I heard the maid scream. I went into the corridor to see what was happening and she was in a real state: she’d seen a mouse in her room. She’d chased it out and it had gone under the door of your study. We went in to look for it, and saw something dart under the desk. We managed to move the desk and pulled away the carpet to reveal the floorboards, one of which had a hole in it large enough to get two fingers in. I did this and was surprised at how easily I could pull the board up. I spotted a package wrapped in cloth hidden beneath it and realised it could be important, but told the maid I couldn’t see anything and we’d better put everything back. The following day when she was out shopping, I took the package out.

  You know of course what was in it: the details of a Swiss bank account in your name, held at Bank Leu on Paradeplatz in Zurich. The other item was a diary you had kept from August 1939 to October 1940. Over the next few days I read every word of that diary. The events you wrote about, the casual way you recorded them, the detailed descriptions – they were so shocking I could only manage a few pages at a time. But when I finished reading, I determined I would do something with that diary. If nothing else, it was proof that you had committed terrible and unforgivable crimes against innocent civilians. I decided I must use it to help ensure you were held to account for these crimes.

  Of course, there was always the possibility that when you were home on leave you could remove the diary, so I decided to copy every word of it, to transcribe all of its contents.

  We’ll come back to the diary soon, but just think, Karl-Heinrich – you were undone by a mouse!

  I mentioned two events in late 1940. The second one – and you’ll understand if I’m somewhat vague here – was that I met a person from a neutral country who had links with Allied intelligence. To cut a long story short, I became an Allied agent. Again, I do not propose to go into detail, but I want you to know I’ve been an active and effective agent for them. I have done what I can to undermine the Nazis. My trip to Greifswald, of which you were so proud, was simply to provide me with cover to assist the Allies in their spying on the nearby Peenemünde rocket base. The base was destroyed in February and I’d like to think I played no small part in that.

  But after that happened, I decided that now was the time to leave Germany. I’d been an agent for over two years and I felt my luck could run out soon.

  So I returned to Berlin, and with the help of your dear friend Konrad, I was able to obtain papers to allo
w me to travel to Switzerland. I told him it was to collect gold you had there and bring it back, promising him his cut. His greed ensured I received an excellent set of papers.

  I took the train to Zurich, where, thanks to your paperwork and the fact that I was able to prove I was your wife, I was able to access your account. It is now empty, Karl-Heinrich, and I have used the funds to open an account of my own that will ensure I never want for money. I used some of it to pay for a new identity as a Swiss citizen. It was expensive, but the identity is excellent: no one will ever be able to link me with Sophia von Naundorf.

  From Zurich I travelled to Geneva, which is where the International Red Cross is based. You see, the diary was still under the floorboards when it was time for me to leave Berlin, so I was able to take the original with me as well as the copy I made. My idea was to hand the diary over to them along with this letter for you, as I understood they delivered letters for prisoners. But this did not work out. The Red Cross could not have been less interested – they said they couldn’t deliver letters to German prisoners in the Soviet Union, and as for the diary, either they didn’t understand or more likely they didn’t care.

  But when I left, a secretary followed me out. She said she’d overheard what had happened: why didn’t I take the matter to the Soviet Embassy in Bern?

  So I took her advice and travelled to Bern – I have to tell you, Karl-Heinrich, Switzerland is the most peaceful country, with wonderful scenery, and travelling through it by train (first class, thanks to your generosity!) is a most satisfying experience.

  At first the Soviet Embassy was rather sceptical. I saw a junior diplomat to begin with, but he referred the matter to someone more senior, and then someone else investigated it in detail. It seems they were able to check out some of the facts in your diary, and especially the entry from January 1940 regarding Kielce. I am sure you remember it, but just in case, I am enclosing in this letter another copy I have made of that entry.