Enemy of the Tzar

by Lester S. Taube

  “No, Herr Inspector. The woman began shaking, and he started towards her. We had no way of knowing whether they would pass something between themselves if we allowed contact.”

  “Do they speak German?”

  “The woman does, Herr Inspector. The man apparently does not.”

  The inspector motioned with his finger at Hanna. “Step forward.” he said in fluent Russian. Hanna moved closer. “What is your name?”

  Hanna had decided to lie from the start. There would be no hope from the Germans, so anything she said would not forestall the inevitable–that they would be turned over to the Russians. “My name is Motlie Rennick,” she said, giving her mother’s maiden name.

  “Herr Inspector,” prompted the officer brusquely.

  “Herr Inspector,” she said at once.

  “You are a Jew?”

  “Yes, Herr Inspector.”

  “Why did you come into Prussia without a pass?”

  “Herr Inspector,” said Stephen.

  The German’s sharp eyes shifted at once. “Yes.”

  “Forgive me for interrupting, Herr Inspector, but it is my fault. The three of us were camping, and the other fellow was injured. I led them in the wrong direction. We were just looking for help.”

  The German’s eyes brightened. “So for help you planned to take him over forty kilometers away to the railroad station at Gumbinnen? I would think you would look for the nearest doctor. Furthermore, to seek help by traveling those forty kilometers, you paid one hundred rubles, which is four times the normal fare for such a trip.” He almost smiled at the dismay, which clouded Stephen’s face. Hanna turned to stone, knowing that they were now completely lost. “What is your name?”

  “Stephen Viktorovitch Timoshinkov, Your Honor,” he replied, slipping into the Russian title of respect.

  “Where are you from?” The German knew he had a talker.

  Stephen took a deep breath. It suddenly struck him that he had no logical story, nor even one that was plausible. Nothing he could say would undo the fact that he had already said too much. “I have nothing further to say, Your Honor,” he replied.

  “Oh, so suddenly you wish to stop speaking?” He tapped the bottom of the pen on the table to emphasize his point. “That is not up to you. It is up to me when you speak and don’t speak.” He looked back at Hanna. “Where are you from?”

  Hanna’s face grew pale with fear. “I have nothing more to say either, Herr Inspector.”

  The inspector turned to the sergeant. “Send the descriptions of the three to headquarters. If we have nothing on them, take them back to Russia.” He stood up and started walking towards the door.

  “Herr Inspector,” said Hanna desperately.

  He stopped and turned back. “Yes?”

  She swallowed. “We do not wish to go back to Russia.”

  He now allowed himself a small smile. “You don’t have a choice, do you?” With that, he went out of the room.

  Hanna was placed in a holding cell on one side of the corridor, and Stephen in a similar cell on the opposite side. The doors were of thick oak, with steel bands and studs as reinforcements. A narrow port could be opened from the outside to peek inside and to pass through food. A wooden pallet with straw mattress and a bucket with a top as a toilet were the only contents in the cell.

  She sank wearily to the pallet, her mind still spinning from the incidents of the past hour. Just a short time ago, she had been filled with the first relief since the killings in the square, for just a little way down the road was hope for escape. But after so much effort, after so much fear and anxiety, after such a high cost, to be caught like a trapped animal, by deceit and by greed. And because of her, Jakob and Stephen would pay a horrible price. It was she, and she alone, who was responsible for all these nightmares.

  She fell back onto the pallet, and the tears came.

  CHAPTER 21

  It was almost lunchtime. Inspector Helmut Koenig completed his report and placed it in a manila folder that he slid atop a number of other case files resting on a shelf. Another set piece affair. Jews escaping military service in Russia, and bringing along a companion for the road and the bed. His company had a working agreement with his Russian counterparts. Everyone goes back. Even if it is the village idiot who slobbers at every word, the Russians will take him. They are paranoid, those Russians, he was fully convinced. They were actually eager to get back the runaways. He would be delighted to round up a few thousand of his own miscreants, a few thousand additional socialists, labor agitators, all the Jews, and, as a good Nürnberg Protestant, a few thousand Bavarian Papists, and ship them all off to Russia. Good riddance to bad rubbish. And the way those Russians treated the returnees was worth a page in anyone’s book. They were fond of using whips that tore the flesh off backs like peeling an orange.

  He walked through the corridor to the staircase and up a flight to the administrative area. At the end of a hall, he knocked upon his commander’s office door, and stepped inside.

  Captain Wilhelm Strauss looked up from his paperwork. “What about the three, Koenig?” he asked.

  “Jews, Herr Hauptmann. The usual thing.”

  “One is injured, is he not?”

  “Yes, Herr Hauptmann. The medical orderly says it was due to a saber or knife wound. Quite serious. He is not sure whether the man will live or die.”

  “I do not want him dying on this side, do you hear? Those Russians will build up a case that we killed him out of hand.”

  “I will get them out this afternoon. I have already sent a telegram to Central Station in Königsberg with their descriptions. It is my guess that they are not wanted.”

  “Very well, but do not let that one die.” He stood up, a tall, spare man, with prematurely gray hair. “Come along. We’ll take lunch.”

  They left the building and walked across the parade field to the military headquarters building. Koenig was delighted to be going along. The police company had only two officers–the captain and his executive, a lieutenant– not enough to set up an officers’ mess. Had he gotten promoted to chief inspector, he would have had officer’s rank. But that conflict of personalities three years ago between him and his senior in Frankfurt, that Bavarian Catholic piece of shit, had ended up with his transfer to this outpost of civilization without that coveted promotion. No theaters, concerts, museums. These Prussians were closer to the Huns than to Plato. His position of inspector was actually senior non-commissioned rank, but it was regarded as enough of a gray area at this remote station to allow him into officers’ country when invited. The grenadier battalion of fifteen officers and three officer candidates had an officer’s mess. Not only was the food better, the drinks of higher quality, but he felt more comfortable among those whom he regarded as his own class.

  Cooperation between the police and the military was founded on an uneasy truce. The grenadiers came under the Imperial Minister of War, while the police fell under the Imperial Minister of the Interior. Actually, if Germany went to war and a battle erupted on the border, the commander of the grenadier battalion, Major Westerhof, could no more order help from Captain Strauss than he could from the navy. Only if the Minister of War went to the Minister of the Interior to seek his help, or if he went directly to the Kaiser and asked, could the police company come under the jurisdiction of the military.

  But here, where the only shield between their forces and those of the Russians were military screening patrols, which the Jews had managed to elude, well, it was more practical to work together. So the two police officers, and Koenig as a guest, were invited to join the grenadier’s mess.

  While Koenig went to a junior officer’s section, Strauss approached Westerhof’s table and gave a sharp bow of greeting. A young, red-faced major was seated to Westerhof’s right. His purple tabs identified him as an Imperial General Staff member.

  “Major von Raasch,” said Westerhof, by way of introduction.

  Strauss bowed quickly in his direction. “An honor
, Herr Major.”

  Von Raasch raised his hand casually in greeting. The police captain promptly took his seat across from Westerhof. “Strauss is commander of the border police company stationed across the parade,” explained Westerhof. “He is responsible for frontier security.” He turned to Strauss. “Major von Raasch is the Division Chief of Staff, down to inspect the battalion.”

  So young to be a chief of staff, thought Strauss with envy. Well, the whole General Staff business is more politics than substance. In each major unit, the chief of staff was appointed by the Imperial General Staff, not by the commander, who selected the remainder of his staff. While the commander had to go through his chain of command for assistance or responses, the purple tabbed officers reported directly to the General Staff, bypassing all of their nominal commanders. It was resented by everybody except the General Staff, of course, but everyone took pains to step lightly in the presence of a GS officer. He could send up a secret message, which could ruin a man’s career.

  “Caught some more Jews, eh?” said Westerhof.

  “Yes. Three,” replied Strauss.

  “Spies?” asked von Raasch.

  “I do not think so, Herr Major. They do not appear to be the type.” He gave his order to the waiter.

  “What is the type?” went on von Raasch.

  “It is easier to describe what is not the type. Our prisoners consist of a woman, and what appears to be her lover. The inspector said they gave such bumbling explanations that he did not bother with a grilling. It is obvious that they are Jews trying to escape from Russia.”

  “You said there was a third,” said Westerhof.

  “He is in the medical ward. Got a saber or knife wound in his chest.”

  “By your people?” asked Westerhof.

  “No. My men took them by surprise. From the report, the wound seems a few days old.”

  Von Raasch stopped ladling soup to his lips. “What makes you think it is a saber wound?”

  “It is rather deep. But then, we have only the orderly’s word on that.”

  “That seems strange,” mused von Raasch. “A saber wound in a Jew’s chest.”

  “As I said,” went on Strauss quickly. “It could also be a knife wound.”

  Von Raasch paid no attention to the remark. He sat back in his chair and pulled at the lobe of his ear. Something seemed to drag at his memory. Oh, yes, now he had it. The report by the intelligence officer at the division briefing just two or three days ago that the Russians were working over their Jews again. The division commander had looked askance at the officer for having brought up the subject. Thrashing the Jews did not constitute a military exercise, nor did it require military consideration. Now, if there were reports of Russian artillery being moved towards the border, or the stockpiling of grain for horses or ammunition at forward areas, or any of a score of criteria for a sudden attack, he would find it pertinent. But knocking the Jews about. Indeed. The general had raised his brows at von Raasch, who, as chief of staff, should have known what the staff officers planned to say at the briefing.

  Later in the morning, von Raasch had cornered the intelligence officer in his cubbyhole and asked for an explanation.

  “I am sorry I brought it up,” said the officer. “It probably has no relationship, but at a corps briefing a few months ago, we met a liaison from headquarters who explained that undercover agents had been placed in Russia to undermine the government. They planned to stir up minority groups, and other such rot. All of the officers were offended by this immoral activity, but apparently some dunderheads have the ear of headquarters. The briefing was conducted to let us know that some of the covert actions might be launched from our sectors, and that if we were called upon for assistance, we would have some idea what it was all about. Major Reiner of the Thirty-Second whispered, quite loudly, of course, that if one of the provocateurs came to him for help, he would drop him in the nearest river.”

  “What has this to do with your comment?” asked von Raasch impatiently.

  “Well, the city where the principal action against the Jews is taking place is one of the areas mentioned at the briefing. It is Kovno. It has spread to other parts now, but something happened there.”

  Von Raasch turned his thoughts back to Strauss. “Hauptmann, is it possible to hold onto those Jews until I check on something at division?”

  Strauss was delighted to be of service to von Raasch. “Of course, Herr Major. I wait your command.”

  Von Raasch began ladling soup again. “Please try to get their names and where they are from.”

  “I will start directly after lunch.”

  “Don’t be rough on them.” He passed his empty soup bowl to the waiter and accepted with relish a large plate of pig’s knuckles and sauerkraut. He took a large mouthful, and then stopped chewing. “You did say that they seemed bent on getting out of Russia?”

  “Without a doubt. The girl pleaded with the inspector not to send them back.”

  Von Raasch silently ate two or three more mouthfuls, and then he abruptly stood up. “Excuse me, meine Herren,” he said, and swiftly left the table.

  The officers seated there eyed Westerhof. Polite manners at the mess were a fetish, and to leave in the middle of a meal was rude, except for a sudden emergency. Westerhof eyed them in return. “The Herr Major, regardless of his youth, is one of our most brilliant associates. No more need be said nor implied.” Deliberately, he took a long swig of beer to quiet any possible comment.

  Von Raasch walked into the communications room. The soldier on duty at the switchboard rose to attention. “Get me Imperial General Staff, intelligence, at Berlin. I will speak with the deputy, Oberst Wetterstein. Pass the call to the battalion commander’s office. I will take it there.”

  He waited in Westerhof’s office for almost ten minutes. Getting through to his division was relatively simple, but moving out of the chain of command communications into that of General Staff took some doing. When the phone rang, he found Colonel Wetterstein on the other end.

  “Herr Oberst,” he said. “Von Raasch, here. I have heard there is a section that deals with covert actions. Do you know of it?”

  “Oh, yes, von Raasch. It was argued back and forth for some time. I think it became operational some years ago. Why do you ask?”

  “A hunch, Herr Oberst.”

  Wetterstein laughed. “Those hunches of yours have made you a major ten years before your time. I will not quarrel with them.”

  “Do you know the name of the organization?”

  “I do not remember. I think it was called Sectel, or the Area Study Bureau, or some such obscure name.”

  “Does it come under General Staff?”

  “Of course not. We were, and still are, completely opposed to such operations. I believe it is under the Ministry of the Interior.”

  “I would like to contact them.”

  “Very well. I’ll have some of my people check about and let you know.”

  “Thank you, Herr Oberst.” He hung up and leaned back into the chair.

  The blood was coursing through his veins and his hands shook ever so slightly. He recognized the signs. Somewhere in his brain a signal beacon had flashed, and experience had taught him that when it did, he must pay close attention, even though he did not have the foggiest notion why. As an ardent student of history, he had come upon stories of people who had mentioned this unusual ability a number of times. For a short period of time, he was tempted to delve into the occult to seek an explanation. Then he realized that he was treading on thin ice, so he just accepted the fact that it was a good thing to have.

  In two hours or so, a call came to Von Raasch from Berlin. On the other end was a soft, yet driving voice. “Major von Raasch?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Oberst Dannetz. I am the commanding officer of the Imperial Area Study Bureau. We are known as J Seven.”

  Von Raasch sat up straighter in his chair. On the distribution list of every major intelligence
report was the code J7. His brother officers had discussed it many times, trying to decipher the identity of J7. One quipster had even remarked that he was positive J7 was an enormous garbage can into which all normal, reasonable, logical suggestions were sorted from those of the absurd and swiftly burned to ashes. “Yes, Herr Oberst,” he said with great politeness. “I know of the code.”

  “Excellent,” came the reply. “Oberst Wetterstein of IGS has asked us to call you. Would you be good enough to explain the details.”

  Von Raasch gave a quick briefing of the comments of the division intelligence officer and the circumstances he had come upon.

  When he had finished, Dannetz was quiet for a few moments. “I commend you, Major von Raasch, for being especially alert. We may be interested in learning more about these people. Have they been interrogated any further?”

  “Yes, Herr Oberst. Hauptmann Strauss of the border police reported a short while ago that he spoke to them again, but they refused to give their names or homes. I had requested that he not use force.”

  “You have done exactly right.” He hesitated a few more moments to consider his next words. “I would like you to question each one separately. Explain who you are, and that you are there to help them. They will not believe you, of course, but try to act as understanding as possible. During your conversation, casually ask the following question: “Is Hershel all right?” Do not pay too much heed to what they say. Watch carefully their reaction.”

  “Yes, Herr Oberst.”

  “How is the wounded one? Can he talk?”

  “The medical orderly said he was semi-comatose.”

  “Get the best medical attention at once. I want him brought to the point of understanding the question.”

  “Very well, Herr Oberst.” Dannetz gave instructions how to reach him by phone, and then hung up.

  Within the hour, von Raasch was back on the wire. “Herr Oberst,” he said, keeping a tight rein on his excitement.

  “Yes, Major von Raasch.”

  “The woman was like iron. She did not blink an eye. But the Russian man’s jaw dropped ever so slightly before he regained control. The wounded man turned his head away at the question. I think you have scored.”