by Richard Wake
"So which is worse?"
"The first would have been worse for people like me. The second is worse for everybody. Fucking French cowards."
I remembered what my Czech handler had told me, that the German army wasn't as strong as we all thought it was, but I had no idea it was this bad. I wasn’t not sure anybody knew. And it seemed that Peiper was really telling me two things: that not only was the German army nothing like advertised, but that the German general staff was continually advising Hitler to slow down and continually being ignored. That disconnect between Hitler and his high command might have been the most interesting part of the information, which was what I told Peiper.
"It is the key thing," he said. "The generals are the ones to watch. I don't know what might get them to act, but they're probably the only ones who can stop Hitler at this point. And they think we need years more to rearm—years, not months—before launching out on the Corporal's next adventures."
"To Austria? Czechoslovakia?"
"Both. And then beyond."
"Are you sure?"
"Can you read a map?"
"So it's just your military intuition?"
"No," the major said. "It's more than that."
He went on to tell a story that had been told to him by his immediate superior, of a meeting attended by a handful of the top military—Blomberg, Fritsch, Göring, some others—in which Hitler outlined the whole thing, using small wars as spurs to the economy, and for the creation of Lebensraum, living space. Peiper said the generals weren't sure if it was an actual plan, or just a general statement of principles, but whatever—all the dominoes were there, waiting to be toppled, Austria followed by Czechoslovakia followed by the rest.
I asked, "But Austria first?"
"Absolutely. Austria first. But if somebody would just confront Hitler, the whole thing might crumble. Mussolini, the French, the English, the Czechs, someone. It wouldn't take much to embarrass Hitler, and that might be all the generals need to get him out of the way. Because the thing is, it's only going to get worse. We might not be strong now, but the army gets stronger every day. Hell, you know that. You can't mine that shit you sell to the blast furnaces fast enough, am I right? And they're all running three shifts, 24 hours a day. Am I right?"
This was just the kind of information that could make a difference. I knew that. It was exciting just to know it. It was the other side of the fear, the exhilaration of possessing knowledge that few others possessed. The whole spying business, I liked to tell myself that I was involved for all of the right and noble reasons—but the excitement was at least a part of it, just a bit of a drug. And if it didn't completely balance out the fear of getting caught, it wasn't nothing. It was all I was feeling as I was standing there in the most ridiculous setting, leaning on a sink.
"So," I said, "you want me to go back and tell my handler what you have told me?"
"Yes," he said. "but there also is some more documentation, more about troop strengths and armaments. More microfilm. It is hidden and you will need to pick it up tomorrow before you get the train."
26
My hangover cure after a long night out in Cologne, be it the winter trip or the late summer trip, was the same. At about 10 a.m., no later, I got my sorry ass out of bed, pulled on some clothes, left the hotel, and headed toward the river. The Rhine.
It was about a half-mile walk from bed to riverbank. About halfway there, regardless of the weather, I ducked into a café that was always willing to sell me a bottle of Kölsch to take away. Admittedly, this worked better in the summer—I often needed to wear gloves to hold the beer in the winter—but it was more than okay either way. I'd take the bottle down to the riverbank, sit on one of the wooden benches, and consume the victor's breakfast in the presence of grandeur.
Grandeur? From someone who lived in a city hugged by the fabled Danube? Yes, grandeur.
Nobody would ever write a waltz about it, but I'd take the Rhine. It was a real river, not a dance. It was, at once, a great working river—you sometimes wondered who kept track of all of the coal barges, so that they didn’t collide—and, at the same time, if you took one of the tourist boats, the view of the cathedral was nothing short of breathtaking. Even in February, bundled up against the inevitable cold wind, the Kölsch-and-Rhine cure never failed. And on a day like that August day, sunny and calm and warm and inviting, it was without a doubt better than any patent medicine on the shelves of any apothecary. And that was true, even while acknowledging the new reality: that the Rhine was where they’d found Otto's body.
I looked to my right. The bridge was out in the distance, maybe a mile, really not close to where I was. The place where the body washed up wasn't close, either, and it was on the other bank. I turned and looked to my left. The nerves soon crowded out the thought of Otto. The truth was, maybe I was just too nervous to be hungover, from the night before and from the knowledge that a small envelope containing some more microfilm to be ferried back to Vienna was supposed to be taped to the bottom of the wooden bench upon which I was now lounging.
I had arrived at the riverbank at the agreed-upon spot. I had sat on the proper bench, the first one after the small red brick building that housed an antique shop full of nautical-themed crap. Now it was just a matter of reaching beneath the bench on the right side as I faced the river and finding the small envelope that was supposed to be taped there. But as I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, beer in both hands, staring at the river, and then sat back slowly and nonchalantly reached beneath the bench seat with my right hand, there was a problem. No envelope. Which meant I was going to have to get down on my hands and knees and look under the bench to see if it was there, just out of reach.
The problem was that, on this beautiful morning, there were all manner of people on the river walk: old people, mothers with prams, messengers dawdling, office workers enticed into a few minutes of playing hooky by a spectacular day, maybe one of the last ones of the summer. And, for some reason, every 10 minutes or so, policemen—sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, also drawn away from their routine work, from the beats they walked in the nearby Cologne neighborhoods, by the weather and the water.
It was easy enough to see when a policeman was coming. The problem was the civilians. In Germany in 1937, Hitler had been in power for four years, which meant the Gestapo had been in power for four years, which meant that it was getting harder and harder to trust anyone. Sometimes out of belief, sometimes out of fear, sometimes out of indoctrination, people who would have otherwise spent their lives minding their own business now reported friends and neighbors and strangers to the Gestapo for crimes, real and imagined. So, maybe out of spite because of his noisy dog, the man in the first floor flat was reported by the widow on the second floor for holding what seemed to her to be clandestine, late night meetings with strange men. Or, maybe because he was a true believer, a man would call the Gestapo and tell them about a coworker who told a Hitler joke in the lunchroom at the plant. Maybe it would lead to an arrest and Dachau. Or perhaps just a warning and another name written in meticulous penmanship in another small notebook with a leather cover. Either way, the effect on the population at large was the same. It was paralyzing and exhausting, always walking with your eyes down while simultaneously trying to look back over your shoulder.
So would the cute old couple, holding hands, saying nothing, looking so content, be the ones to call the Gestapo because they saw a stranger on the riverbank on his hands and knees, feeling around for something underneath one of the wooden benches? Or the young woman walking hand in hand with a four-year-old who was hugging a small white blanket? What about her?
You could drive yourself crazy with this stuff, I knew. So I finally settled on the old man who appeared to be mumbling to himself as he approached. I leaned forward again, elbows on knees again, this time jangling a handful of change in my hand, then clumsily dropping it, then getting down on my hands and knees and picking up the runaway pfennigs, reaching for the last one
and getting my head all the way beneath the bench and looking up and seeing it: a small envelope, just like the previous time, taped to the slat. It came away quickly when I snatched it.
Gathering myself, the old man was now even with the bench, not five feet away from me as I sat down again. He was still mumbling.
The rest would be easy enough. Major Peiper told me to remove the three strips of microfilm from the envelope and place them beneath the thin piece of leather on the inside sole of my shoe. He said it was just glued down and would come up easily, and it did when I yanked on it back in the hotel. Peiper said, "It's not good enough for a professional search—you should do the thing with the wine bottle again, same code phrases, same everything—but it's good enough for a casual search, especially if you glue the leather back down when you're done. Ninety percent of the time, that's plenty."
And the other 10 percent? I did everything I could not to think about it as I untied my shoe, took it off, and shook it exaggeratedly for whoever might be watching, as if I were trying to dislodge a small stone that had been pestering me. It was easy enough to slip the microfilm beneath the leather without anyone possibly seeing or being suspicious about what I was doing. Which left me with the tiny envelope. On the train the last time, I’d burned it. This time, I balled it up and tossed it into the river.
I still had about two sips of beer left in the bottle as I got up and began walking back to the hotel. In the distance, I saw the mumbling old man talking to two policemen. I knew it almost certainly had nothing to do with me, but I immediately turned and walked the other way.
27
I was almost back to the hotel, right near the cathedral, when a big black Mercedes pulled up beside me. The window rolled down, and Captain Vogl leaned out and offered a hearty, "Herr Kovacs! So nice to run into you!"
Whatever good feelings I was carrying after successfully collecting the microfilm were gone before Vogl got the words out. Last time, back in March, in the hotel lobby. Now, here. This could be random, sure. But was it? At a certain point, coincidences nag, like when you are out for a walk, and there is something in your shoe that shouldn't be there.
Standing there at the curb, I chatted with him about the weather. He asked if business was good and I told him it was. I was going to ask him how his business was but thought better of it. The conversation was going nowhere, and part of me honestly felt as if it was about to wrap up, when Vogl said, "You must let me show you my office."
I attempted to beg off, citing work demands. He correctly pointed out that my train wasn't for 14 hours. I thought about inventing a phantom appointment but reconsidered; if he knew my train reservation, he likely knew my meeting schedule and my work habits, how I always spent the day before traveling typing up orders and other paperwork in the hotel. Hell, he probably knew about my hangover routine, which might explain our chance meeting, and made me feel even worse about how he might have been watching me on the bench along the river.
"It's a quick drive, not five minutes, and the building is so interesting. You must see it," he said, opening the door and sliding over in the back seat. There was no way to say no.
Vogl was right; the drive didn't take five minutes. We pulled up in front of a brownstone building with a plaque on the front. "EL-DE Haus? What's that stand for?" I asked.
"We rent the building from a jeweler. His name is Leopold Dahmen. Those are his initials—L. D."
Standing on the sidewalk outside, there were a series of grated windows that reached from the ground to about our knees. They were open, and we were hit by two waves that pummeled our senses: the stench of an open sewer, and the screaming of a man in severe distress.
"Yes, the smell can be difficult in the summer," Vogl said. He did not mention the screaming.
The building was unremarkable upon entrance: a foyer, a central staircase that wound up and up, with marble tile floors, and marble walls up to about hip level, framed in black. There was white-painted plaster above the marble, all the way to the ceiling. The banister was black iron.
Vogl's office was just an office, not big, not small, not well decorated, pretty standard—desk, two chairs, file cabinet. A picture of his family sat on the small table behind him. Hitler looked down from the wall to his right. There was nothing particularly ominous about it, or creepy—except, that is, for the person sitting behind the desk.
"Cologne is such an enjoyable city," Vogl said. "The cathedral. The river. It brings in so many visitors from all over the region. But the mixture makes this a hub of problems, too. We are quite busy."
He pointed to the file cabinet. "They are bringing me another of those later today—this one is bursting. Quite busy."
I wondered about my file. There was no question in my mind that I had one, and that Vogl would remove it when I left and make a notation. Assuming I left, that is. As I recrossed my legs and my right foot hit the floor, I felt the microfilm hidden there, ever so slightly.
Vogl said, "I can see you are thinking. Most people have a misapprehension about our work. The files are mostly for the protection of our citizens. Many—no, most—identify individuals whose loyalty to the Führer is unquestioned. There are enemies sprinkled in, to be sure, and they do take up a significant part of my time, but the bulk of those files are a celebration of men and women who place the Führer and the Fatherland first in their hearts, and whose loyalty is demonstrated by action."
Ah, so the snitches get files, too. Of course.
"But you must be busy—so many reports to write, as with me. It is difficult to keep up sometimes, but I pride myself on knowing everything that happens on my watch, everything in this station. I must get back to it. But here, let me walk you out and show you the rest of the building."
There was nothing to see on the third and second floors, just more offices. As we reached the level where we came in, I made for the door and began saying my thank you-s for the tour when Vogl grabbed my arm. "No, the basement. You must see the basement. It won't take but a minute."
Down we went, through an iron door. The smell was overpowering again. There was no screaming.
I counted quickly as we walked. There were 10 cells, all with locked iron doors and peepholes. One of the doors was open, and I looked inside at an empty room, maybe 30 feet square but one about four feet wide. There was one window, up at the level of the ceiling, and it was barred. There was a bed, bolted to the floor. In the corner was an empty bucket. All manner of graffiti decorated the walls—crude calendars with x's in the squares, simple strokes as if counting off the days, and words. One read, Everything will pass so keep your head up high.
Vogl caught me reading, and I hesitated. "No, no, go ahead. We have left the writing there for a reason. It is just as easy to paint over the words, but we decided to leave them there for subsequent prisoners to see. Some of our guards believe it gives the prisoners too much hope, makes them less cooperative. I disagree. Besides, we are not savages. We are not in the business of taking away people’s hope."
He guided me to the next cell and signaled for a guard to open the door. Inside, in a room that wasn't 10 feet wide, were five men, barefoot and in their underwear. Two sitting on the bed, two leaning against the walls with their arms folded, one finishing up a piss in the bucket in the corner.
They made no eye contact with Vogl, but all looked at me with a kind of tired, questioning look. What was I doing here? Was I to join them in the cell? I was wondering that myself.
Vogl snapped his fingers to get the attention of one of the men leaning against the wall. He motioned for the prisoner to move out of the way, which he quickly did. Then Vogl pointed at the wall and said, "Look at this one, Alex. It is my personal favorite."
These were the words, tortured graffiti, scrawled by a prisoner who was faceless now and unknown:
Perhaps the hour will arrive. Perhaps they'll let me go. Perhaps we will be able to say farewell to the Gestapo in my homeland, in my homeland, to a reunion we will strive.
&n
bsp; Vogl said, "It is beautifully expressed, but so naïve. We need to better communicate the mission of the Gestapo to the population. It is our greatest failing, that communication. If people understood our goals, they would understand why saying farewell to the Gestapo would be Germany's biggest mistake."
As we left the cell and the door was shut, the enormous hinges screamed and then there was a heavy clang. We walked further. There was a common room where two Gestapo guards lounged and read the newspaper, secure behind an iron gate. Farther down the hall was clearly another room of some sort because it was from that direction that the silence was pierced by a scream that was equal parts terrifying and heartbreaking. It was also loud enough to actually make me jump just a little in place. Neither Vogl nor the two guards reading the paper reacted in any way.
Vogl began walking back to where we had come in. I followed without prompting. Soon we were up the stairs and opening the front door, standing on the threshold and saying our goodbyes.
Vogl said, "Do not let what you have seen leave you with a false impression. There are 23 men and two women in the cells today. In all likelihood, at least 20 of them will be home tonight with their families. We are here to gather information about potential enemies, to protect the Fatherland from those who would harm us. It is what every nation does. Self-defense is the first obligation of every government. Did you know that in the American citizenship oath, all new citizens swear to protect the country against, and I quote, 'all enemies, foreign and domestic.' That is all we are doing—but we do it with vigilance."
He paused, then pointed over my right shoulder. "I'm sorry I don't have time to drive you back to the hotel, but it is a beautiful day, I am sure you would agree. Right down that street."
I agreed. It was a beautiful day. When I got about a block away from EL-DE Haus, I threw up in the gutter.