by Richard Wake
"Maybe he's just playing for time. Maybe he's got a plan."
"He's definitely playing for time. But a plan? He doesn't have shit."
"Maybe he's hoping for Mussolini?"
"I don't think Il Duce is in the Austrian protection business anymore. I think that's over. I know he saved us in '34 when Dollfuss got killed, but four years is a long time. Somebody would have reported something by now if he was still on our side. But there's been nothing. I read everything I can get my hands on, and there hasn't been a hint."
Hitler droned on for a few more minutes, ending with, "Long live the National Socialist Movement, long live the National Socialist Army, long live our German Reich!" As the applause built again, Grundman snapped off the radio and said, "I'm not sure we have a month."
I asked him if he was still planning on resisting, and he laid out some of the plans he had made. Needing to unburden myself in reply, I told him everything -- about being a courier, and my suspicions about Uncle Otto's death, and my determination to find out more. I was looking for some kind of validation from him, I know. But after I finished telling him, his silence was unnerving.
"What?" I said. It was almost a panicked cry.
"I was just thinking about your mother and father. He would be cautious. I think she would be proud."
I felt like crying. "So you think I should keep pursuing how Otto died?"
"That's the part that worries me. The courier business is done for the right reasons, as a soldier in a just war. The rest is personal and personal scares me. Some of these kids I'm organizing, all they talk about is getting revenge against certain people: 'I'll strangle that so-and-so with his big red flag.' But that's not what this is. And getting revenge against the Gestapo? I'm as much of an idealist as you'll ever meet, but even I think that's fucking crazy."
"It's not revenge I'm looking for. I'm looking for information, that's all."
"Come on, that's bullshit. Make the assumption it was the Gestapo. There's your information. What are you going to do about it?"
I thought for a second. It's the question I was avoiding as best I could. I was barely audible when I said, "I don't know."
Grundman grabbed me by the shoulders. "That's why I'm scared."
37
Frankfurt was a complete waste of time. I never liked the city -- don't know why. Too many bankers, probably. But I got off the train, as instructed, ate lunch at Dimble's, went to the bathroom, checked under the lid of the toilet tank, and there was no envelope. Just the usual rust stains. And the food was crap. Three hours of my life I would never get back.
Because of the change in schedule, I was in Cologne by dinnertime, with nothing to do except pretend to be a detective. My first stop -- really, the only stop I had planned -- was at the Wasserhof, Otto's hotel of choice.
We both were slaves to our road routines. I always stayed at the Dom Hotel because it was nice and because they could accommodate me with the typewriter and supplies I needed. Otto always stayed at the Wasserhof, even though it had deteriorated over the years to the point where a nice person would call the appointments "tired." A less nice person, like me, went straight to "shithole." But whenever I asked Otto why he still stayed there, he told the story about being snowed in one year -- like in 1921 or something -- and how they kept the kitchen and the bar open for him and three other guests when nobody else was in the hotel, and how he felt he still owed them his loyalty "even though the old girl's undergarments are getting a bit frayed." That was Otto.
I got there and headed straight to the bar -- that made the most sense. It was a complete snooze. There was nobody in there except the bartender, who very much fit the surroundings -- meaning that, in all likelihood, he was probably working a shift the night of the armistice. When I sat down at the bar, I think I startled him. But he recovered nicely and returned quickly with a credible Manhattan.
He put down the drink. I reached into my breast pocket and removed the photo of Otto that Hannah had given me. I asked if he knew him.
The old gent didn't hesitate. "Ah, Mr. Kovacs. That's him, it is. It's a shame what happened. I have to tell you, the night manager and I drank a toast to him the next night, after we heard."
"What do you know about it?"
"Just what we read in the paper, that his body washed up along the river, and that it was presumed to be a suicide. It was a little, short article, a day or two after the police searched his room. We weren't surprised when we read it because the detective had told the night manager the same thing."
He stopped for a second, my inquisitiveness finally registering. "But who are you?"
I had rehearsed my story, which did not include the words "jealous husband" or "Gestapo." I told him I was Otto's nephew, and that our family was so shocked by the suicide, and that even though it was more than a year later, we still had so many questions, especially Otto's longtime girlfriend. So as a favor to her, and because I was here on business anyway, I figured I would take a little time and try to figure out whatever I could. This is the only place I knew to come.
The old man nodded. "That makes sense. But I don't know what I could tell you. I served him two or three drinks a night, three or four days a year. It does go back decades, that's true, but that was it. I didn't know anything about him -- nothing about you, or a girlfriend, or anything really."
He stopped, smiled. "Sometimes he would have a lady with him."
"Ever the same lady twice?"
"Never." And the old man smiled again.
"What about the last night you saw him? I know it's been a while, but do you remember anything?"
"I do because I told the detective when he asked. Mr. Kovacs was in from about 9 to 11, which was pretty typical. Soon after he got here, another gentleman joined him. They sat over there," he said, pointing to a table by the window.
"They seemed to know each other well, but I don't know if your uncle was expecting him when he arrived -- he had some notes he was looking through. They had three or four drinks, and they were laughing a lot -- I couldn't really hear much because it was pretty busy, believe it or not."
I looked around. I was still the only customer.
"There really isn't much else to say. About 11, they paid up and walked out into the lobby together. That's all I know. And nobody saw them leave the hotel or go up to your uncle's room or anything -- I remember that, too, from when the detective was questioning all of the employees. The night manager was behind on his paperwork and was in his office behind the front desk. The police were here maybe three days later."
I asked him what the other guy looked like. He said he was about my uncle's age, nothing special, just a man in a suit. That's all he had. So I learned something, but I learned nothing. I don't know who I was kidding, thinking I could come up with an answer so many months after Otto died. Real detectives will tell you that the trail grows very cold after only 48 hours. Fourteen months later, what chance did a fake detective have?
The answer: no chance. Before I left, I bought the bartender a shot, and he drank with me. He raised his glass and said, "To Mr. Kovacs."
38
A terrible trip morphed into an absolute waste of time when the phone in my hotel room woke me at 7:30. It was the secretary for Michael Bader, owner of the family steel mill, my appointment for the day. He was Uncle Otto's client, maybe the company's oldest client in Germany. We didn't get along badly, but we didn't get along great, either. Anyway, the secretary was calling to tell me that Bader's wife suffered a heart attack the previous night and was hospitalized. She asked if the appointment could be rescheduled in about 10 days. I checked my calendar and agreed.
I managed to reschedule my train for that night, but still had a day to kill. My first thought was to grab a beer and head for the river until I looked out the window and saw the rain. Also, the idea of sitting along the river with a cold one had lost a bit of its traditional appeal, given that a quick glance to the right would always leave me staring at Uncle Otto's brid
ge. So, it was breakfast in the hotel dining room, accompanied by a newspaper that featured a front-page story about the persecution of German Nazis by the good citizens of Salzburg, and how this couldn't be allowed to stand. There had been a different story the day before, and there undoubtedly would be another one the day after, all pretty much the same article, just substituting the name of the town and the number of Nazis who were supposed to have been roughed up. It was all bullshit, but it was relentless -- and given the low growl I got from the waiter as he read the story over my shoulder, it also might just have been effective.
The rain stopped, so I decided to wander around. In Cologne, wanderers seemed drawn to the cathedral almost automatically. Something told me to go inside and sit in a pew. It was a massive place, not particularly beautiful but just so solid and imposing, comforting in its permanence. I hadn't been to Mass since Otto's funeral, and I couldn't remember the time before that, but I sat through the second half of this one, standing and kneeling at all of the right times, reciting the prayers by rote, the whole business burned somewhere into my consciousness. And when it was over, I just sat there and thought about I don't know what. I'm not sure how long I had been there when a priest in his black cassock slid into the pew next to me.
"Alex," he said. I looked up and didn't recognize him, except that I did. It was one of those situations where you see someone outside of their usual context and can't quite place them, although you know that you know them.
He smiled at my apparent confusion. "Peiper," he said. "Major Peiper."
Then it was my turn to smile. "So which one are you, a Luftwaffe major or a priest? Because if you're really a priest, I personally would be thrilled, although I think I should tell you that your superiors probably frown on your walks down the back corridor."
"This is a fact: there is no specific mention of back corridors in scripture -- so learn your bible. But I'm in the Luftwaffe. I borrowed this from a friend who happens to be posted in the rectory here. A friend who happens to agree with what I'm doing and occasionally helps me out."
That he knew my travel plans and had been following me was as evident as it was unsettling. That I was a pawn in this entire business had become plain in recent months, but the number of people whose fingerprints were on me, trying to push me around a board I didn't understand -- the major, the Gestapo, the Czechs -- seemed to be multiplying. And there was no way for me to just turn over the board and run away.
Peiper started to say something, but I stopped him.
"My Uncle Otto," I said. "Do you know about him."
Peiper looked quizzically. I told him the whole story. The last time I had seen Peiper, in August, I was still under the impression that it was suicide. I hadn't met Detective Muller in the bar, didn't know about the bruising on Otto's body. The Gestapo had not been a possibility that I had even considered.
So I told him everything, from the beginning. Peiper never interrupted, just taking it all in before answering.
"First thing -- I'm sorry about your uncle. But I didn't know him. I had never heard of him until you started talking five minutes ago. I'm sure you're wondering if he was an agent, but I'm pretty confident that he wasn't. I think I'd know. We're a pretty small circle. You know, I would definitely know if we were working with him. I would also know if he was working for the Gestapo against us because that would mean we killed him. And we didn't."
I had never even considered that Otto could have been working for the Germans as a spy. But if the Czechs thought I could be helpful because of my extensive traveling and my contacts, I guess the Germans could have felt the same thing. Then again, what would the Nazis need Otto for? They had ministers in the Austrian cabinet, for fuck's sake. They controlled half of the Vienna police department, at least.
No, that wasn't it -- and that was beside the fact that Otto hated the Nazis.
"Are you sure you would know?"
"Look -- there are only six of us in this area. I promise you, I would know. Your uncle just wasn't working for us."
An old woman came into the pew behind us. It was a vast, empty church and she was right up our ass. Peiper leaned closer and whispered. "Stay here for five minutes and then meet me on the other side, in the last confessional on the right."
39
After five minutes, I approached the confessional -- but the red light was on above the booth. Somebody else was in there, which didn't seem possible. I surveyed the area, and it was, indeed, the last confessional on the right. So I waited in a nearby pew. A minute or two later, an ancient woman wearing a rain bonnet tied tightly beneath her chin emerged. She walked with a cane.
I took her place in the booth and kneeled down. The partition slid open, but the priest was in the shadows behind a screen, so I wasn't 100 percent sure it was Peiper. I began the rite from memory, just in case. But it must have sounded like a question as I said it.
"Bless me, father, for I have sinned --."
"Alex?"
"Thank God, You didn't really hear that old lady's confession, did you?"
"I did. There was nothing I could do -- she followed me right in."
I was laughing, which is something I had never done in a confessional. "Anything juicy?"
"Haven't you ever heard of the seal of the confessional?"
"Yeah, but that's for real priests."
"All right. Let's just say she had some impure thoughts, the old girl did. I gave her three Hail Mary's for her penance, but what I really wanted to do was congratulate her. God, she sounded like she was 80."
"She walked like she was 90."
We eventually got down to the reason why Peiper was following me into the cathedral in the first place. He said there was nothing physical to bring home this time. He just wanted me to listen and give a verbal report to my contact in Vienna.
"Just listen," he said. "About six months ago, Hitler and his generals had a meeting where he told them his plans -- general plans, no timetables or anything like that. There wasn't supposed to be a record, but one of the junior officers, a guy named Hossbach, took some notes that we've seen. The basic summary is that he's about to move east -- Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, you get the picture, for raw materials needed to continue the military buildup. The decision is made. We already kind of knew that, but now we really know it. It's not if, it's when.
"OK, so there's that piece. The second piece is that a group of the big names -- Blomberg and Fritsch from the military, Neurath from the foreign office -- all thought the idea was crazy. They thought the army wasn't ready and that any move -- against the Czechs especially -- would bring the French into a war against Germany, and that the French army could kick their ass blindfolded. I should say our ass. And that's why all three of them have been replaced. Again, it's what people suspected, but this is the confirmation. It was all quite fishy -- right after they expressed their skepticism, there was suddenly a rumor about Blomberg's wife and some nude pictures, and another rumor about Fritsch and a young boy in a public restroom, and they were both gone. Pretty convenient, it seems to me. When in doubt, sex it up."
"But you don't know when?"
"No. There's nothing from Hossbach about when, and I haven't seen any planning documents. Nobody here has. You have to think Austria is first, but there aren't any plans. Well, there's this thing called 'Case Otto,' but it's really just a training exercise that somebody drew up a couple of years ago in case somebody tried a Hapsburg restoration. But it's nothing, a piece of shit. So there aren't any concrete plans that we know of. But really, how long would it take to draw up a battle plan to take over a country that is going to have brass bands playing to serenade us when we enter?"
"But what about the French?"
"Nah, nobody thinks they care about Austria. You know there are a lot of people in Europe who think Austria should have been a part of Germany to start with."
"A lot of people in Austria think that, too."
"Brass bands, I'm telling you."
"And you
're telling me that there's nobody in Germany who can stop it?"
"That's what I'm telling you. You should go now."
"No Hail Marys?"
"I'll say a couple for you. And for Austria."
40
There wasn't a lot to do, or think about. On the one hand, Peiper didn't tell me anything I didn't already know -- in fact, he kind of told me the same story the last time. I mean, everybody knew, deep down. Hitler was coming, and there was no stopping him. Once he got Austria, Czechoslovakia was next. It was just that plain, that certain, that final.
I was walking vaguely back toward the hotel, and some lunch, when the big-ass black Mercedes 260D, the spare tire sitting there on the running board, pulled up beside me and two black leather trench coats got out and sandwiched me, front and back, each then grabbing an arm. From the front passenger seat, the window rolled down, and a Gestapo officer I had not seen before said, "Herr Kovacs, your presence is needed at EL-DE Haus. I hope this is not too much of an inconvenience."
I had rehearsed for this moment, more than once, always praying it would never come but practicing just in case. And what I had decided on was to act naturally. That is to say, scared beyond belief. That was always the plan, and it didn't take a lot of acting. But as I settled into the back seat, between my minders, I did ad lib one question.
"Am I to see Captain Vogl?"
The officer in the passenger seat turned and smiled. "Eventually," he said.
The ride wasn't five minutes. We pulled up right in front. There were no screams that day from the array of knee-high windows along the sidewalk. On a cold February day, there were none of the fetid smells that were there in August. When they let me walk into the building without holding me by each arm, I allowed myself a few seconds of hope. But it ended quickly. We were not headed straight, up the staircase to the offices. We headed right, toward the big iron door, the door whose hinges screamed when they opened it, and the cellar behind it. The officer continued up the stairs; the trench coats and I headed down.