by Alex Gerlis
‘True, but then it will be in Soviet hands. What do you think, Hugh?’
Hugh Harper leaned back in his chair, his hands supporting his chin as though his head was weighed down in thought. ‘It’s possible… I went to this morning’s military intelligence briefing at the War Office – Johnny Oakley was there looking somewhat shamefaced, did his best to avoid me and I can’t say I blame him… Where was I?’
‘The War Office sir, for a briefing.’
‘Ah yes… A terribly bright chap hardly out of his teens said there are two main sections of the Red Army closing in on Berlin: Zhukov’s 1st Belorussian Front and Konev’s 1st Ukrainian Front: my money would be on Zhukov, brilliant general. Half a million Red Army troops in total… can you imagine? The latest assessment is that the assault on the centre of Berlin started late yesterday. This chap said they expect the city to be under Soviet control early next week.’
‘So is it feasible for Prince to go in?’
‘Our nearest army is the US 9th, and they’re twiddling their thumbs on the banks of the River Elbe. My understanding is that once the Soviets have control of Berlin, we can send in liaison officers. I’ll pull every string I can to get you in as one of those. We’d better get you sorted out with an emergency commission, though – uniform and rank and all that.’
‘We’re assuming this Rauter is still alive. From what one hears, the Soviet artillery has been hitting Berlin for ten days now. There won’t be much left of the place, and even if Rauter survives, how will Prince find him?’
‘I very much appreciate your concern, Lance, but if I don’t at least give it a try, what chance do we have?’
‘You do realise how dangerous the place will still be?’
‘I was there not that long ago, remember.’
‘And the Soviets won’t be falling over themselves to help.’ Hugh Harper bowed his head slightly. ‘I’m no fool, Prince, I know you’ll be wanting to find this woman, this…’
‘Hanne?’
‘Don’t blame you, and I admire the way you’ve been persistent about us looking for her. But I want you to be clear: finding Rauter and breaking the spy ring is the priority, no question about it. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir, but—’
‘Just listen: once you’ve done that, you have my word that you can travel back to Europe and take all the time you need to find her. Are you going up to Lincoln this weekend?’
‘Yes, sir, I’ve not seen my son all week.’
‘Be back here first thing Monday morning. By then Berlin ought to be under Soviet control. We’ll have a uniform ready for you. Enjoy your weekend.’
Chapter 26
Minsk, Nazi-occupied Soviet Union, August 1941
Life had never been particularly easy for the Gurevich family before that dreadful day in June 1941, but compared to how it was now, it seemed like they’d lived in paradise.
Mikhail and Yevgeniya Gurevich had a small top-floor apartment in a large tenement building on Shiroka Street, not far from the Svisloch river. They’d moved there once their children had left home. Their sons Iosif and Zelik had joined the Red Army – Iosif in particular had done well; he was now a commissar no less. He’d always been a very bright boy – his father worried he was too bright for his own good. But he’d been a committed Marxist-Leninist, which had certainly done him no harm: if only he’d meet a nice girl one day.
Their daughter Leya had married a boy called Motik – Mikhail had grown up in the same building as his father. The Gurevichs weren’t particularly observant Jews but Motik was more orthodox and in Mikhail’s opinion spent far too much time studying. Leya and Motik had lived on the other side of the river, close to the Jewish cemetery, not far from the railway line, with their daughter Riva and son Ilya. Earlier in 1941, Motik had been conscripted – though Mikhail couldn’t imagine why any army, let alone the Red Army, would want him fighting in it.
Because Leya could no longer afford the rent, she and the children had moved in with her parents. It was cramped in the apartment but manageable. Mikhail still had his work in the tailoring workshop and Yevgeniya was probably the best seamstress on Shiroka Street, and they thoroughly enjoyed having their grandchildren with them.
But all that had changed on a Sunday morning in June, the 22nd. Mikhail’s brother had woken them up early in the morning, knocking hard on the door.
Had they not heard the news? The Germans had invaded!
At that moment a nightmare began that would never end. Mikhail had hurried down to the street with his brother, but within minutes the Germans had started bombing the city. There was panic among the civilian population of Minsk, and especially among the city’s Jews. They’d had very mixed feelings about the Soviet Union’s pact with Nazi Germany; of course they didn’t like it but they weren’t in a position to express their opinion and at least it ensured the Germans were nowhere near them. They’d heard such dreadful stories about what was happening in other parts of Europe, and especially Poland.
That Sunday, some people made plans to flee east, but for most it was easier said than done. It was difficult with families, and where would they go? Mikhail and Yevgeniya prayed that somehow Iosif would be able to rescue them, and they wrote to him at the address they had in Moscow, even paying for a special stamp to get the letter there quicker.
But by the following Saturday it was too late: the Germans marched into Minsk.
The family remained in their apartment, absolutely terrified and ruing their decision not to leave the city. Shiroka Street was a mixed area and Mikhail had a non-Jewish neighbour called Ivan who was a kind and decent man. His wife had died the previous year and Mikhail and Yevgeniya had helped him considerably. Ivan’s brother had a small farm south of Minsk, and he said he could smuggle Mikhail and Yevgeniya there but they’d have to leave Leya and their grandchildren behind.
Their daughter insisted they should go: after all, she said, it wasn’t as if the Germans were going to harm a woman and her children. Mikhail insisted they should stay: maybe any day now they’d hear from Iosif; he’d sort something out. He couldn’t sort something out if they weren’t at home, could he?
In the end, though, they had no choice. By the middle of July, the Nazis had created a ghetto for the city’s Jews, about half a mile away from where the Gurevichs lived. It was on the other side of the Svisloch, with everyone crammed into the streets around Jubilee Square. The family were put in a room in Chornaya Street – all five of them together, with one bed and a rough wooden floor, sharing one toilet and a tiny kitchen with a dozen other families. Mikhail was sent to work in the ghetto factory but tried not to despair. He was sure that once Iosif received their letter he’d do something. He was such a resourceful boy, and he was an officer now. Maybe he’d contact Zelik and they could rescue them together.
He even managed to get a message out to Ivan saying he’d like to go to his brother’s farm after all and please could he arrange it? Once there, he’d sort something out for the rest of the family. He never received a reply.
In fact Ivan had tried to help. Twice he’d tried to get into the ghetto and had been turned back; then one Monday morning in August – it was the 18th, as if he could ever forget – he did manage to get in.
What he saw there had haunted his every waking hour since.
He actually reached Chornaya Street, only to find the road blocked off. An Einsatzgruppen unit was rounding people up, forcing women and children into waiting trucks and pushing the men aside. Ivan spotted Mikhail Gurevich arguing with a German officer, but just at that moment a local policeman came over and demanded to see his papers.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘One of the Jews here owes me money.’
‘I wouldn’t hang around if I were you.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘They’re taking the women and children away. That fool is arguing with them. You see that German officer he’s talking to?’
Ivan nodded and move
d closer to the policeman, who clearly wanted to share gossip.
‘That’s Hauptsturmführer Alfred Strasser, the beast of the ghetto. He’s one person you certainly don’t argue with.’
But Mikhail was more than arguing now; he was remonstrating, and carried on doing so even when the officer pulled out his Mauser. He pushed Mikhail out of the way and aimed the semi-automatic at his wife, daughter and grandchildren, all cowering against the wall. He kept firing until the last of them had stopped moving.
Mikhail stood rooted to the spot, his mouth wide open and an expression of sheer horror on his face. As the full realisation of what he’d seen hit him, he looked round and for a brief moment his eyes met Ivan’s. It was at that moment that the German shot him. It wasn’t a clean shot, and he was allowed to moan and writhe on the ground for a while before Strasser eventually strolled nonchalantly away and told a nearby soldier to finish him off.
‘You see?’ The policeman was whispering. ‘I told you he shouldn’t have argued with Strasser. That’s the problem with these Jews: smart enough, but they always argue.’
Chapter 27
Berlin, April–May 1945
On his fourteenth birthday Franz Rauter had been taken on a rite of passage by his maternal grandfather, a strict and humourless Prussian whose only passion beyond his work and possibly his family was hunting. He had treated the occasion like a religious ritual, waking Franz before dawn and then driving out north of Brandenburg.
They’d parked on the edge of a forest and walked through it for perhaps an hour, Franz worrying about the flies, about falling over and about how on earth they were going to find their way back to the car. When they arrived at a spot that seemed no different from the rest of the forest, his grandfather crouched down next to him and solemnly handed him a rifle. He spent a long time showing him how to use it: where to point, when to breathe, when to press the trigger, not to close his eyes, not to hesitate.
They waited another hour, Franz beginning to feel the cold and damp eating into him and desperate to relieve himself. His grandfather kept slapping him on the shoulder – the first time he could recall any kind of physical affection from him – and told him what fun it was. He even handed him a flask of schnapps and told him to drink some. It was the only part of the day Franz remembered with anything other than distaste.
Not long after his first schnapps, the deer came into sight: a beautiful animal with a stunning coat glistening in the dappled light and dark eyes glancing knowingly around the forest as its ears pricked up. His grandfather whispered in his ear: aim for the heart… be decisive… pull the trigger… now…
Franz hesitated: he was unsure what to do, unclear what order he was to do things in, whether he was meant to breathe in or out as he pressed the trigger, and most of all reluctant to kill such a beautiful animal. By the time he fired, it was too late: the deer had heard something and Franz’s shot hit a tree a few yards from it. The animal bolted, and his grandfather shouted that he was a fool. Franz realised he had to redeem himself: he stood and fired another shot, and somehow this one struck the fleeing animal on its hindquarters. It took them half an hour to find the deer to finish it off.
The journey back to Brandenburg was conducted in silence, his grandfather clearly disappointed. The only time he spoke was to mutter, ‘You hesitated… hesitated…’
This was all Franz Rauter could think about since the Soviet artillery bombardment had begun before dawn on that dreadful Monday in the middle of April. He’d had three opportunities to leave the city and each time he’d hesitated like his frightened fourteen-year-old self in the forest. The first time had been the most likely one: on the Tuesday morning, he’d made his way to the office in Tirpitzufer, where he found his boss supervising a chaotic scene as troops loaded files into a lorry parked in the courtyard.
‘They’re encircling the city,’ he told Rauter, as if he was letting him in on a confidence. ‘But there’s a gap to the north-west – between the Soviet and American armies. I’m taking these files; they’re bound to let me through. Come with me.’
Rauter wasn’t sure. Eventually he decided it was a good idea after all and hurried to his apartment in Schöneberg to collect some things, but by the time he returned to Tirpitzufer, it was too late: the lorry had gone.
Later that week – he couldn’t for the life of him remember which day it was – a friend told him the Luftwaffe was flying out key personnel from the airfield at their staff college in Gatow, in the south-west of the city. ‘You work with Schellenberg, don’t you, Franz? He’ll sign the papers for you.’ But he hesitated again before deciding that Brigadeführer Schellenberg was more likely to sign his death warrant than papers allowing him to leave the city.
A day or so later he was conscripted into the Volkssturm, the citizens’ militia, which was meant to hold back the might of the Red Army, and he assumed any chance of fleeing the city had gone. He was attached to a unit based around the Bendlerblock, the vast army headquarters where his office in Tirpitzufer was – or had been before a Soviet shell reduced it to rubble. The Bendlerblock did have the advantage of a network of excellent air-raid shelters and for a few days Rauter felt he was as safe there as he was anywhere in Berlin.
But then his unit came under the direct command of the 18th Panzergrenadier Division, which was supposedly responsible for the centre of Berlin, and he found himself being ordered around by fanatics whose behaviour veered between a state of utter panic and almost euphoria at the prospect of sacrificing their lives for the Fatherland.
His third opportunity to leave the city came on the Monday morning, the last day of April, by which time the Red Army was in the city centre. Rauter found himself waiting for them in the rubble of a building in what he thought had been Schelling Strasse. On one side of him was a man in his seventies who kept muttering that he’d always been a communist and how pleased he was the Russians were coming. The old man on his other side told him civilians were still leaving the city. ‘Our best bet is through Wilmersdorf,’ he said.
Rauter hesitated for an hour, and then another barrage of shells made up his mind. He pulled off his Volkssturm armband, crawled out of the rubble and headed south, planning to stop at his apartment on Speyerer Strasse and gather the papers he’d been nurturing these past few months, the ones with a new identity. Then he’d head west out of the city, through Wilmersdorf. He managed to cross the canal and found himself in what looked like Karlsbad when he heard someone ordering him to halt.
He turned round and saw it was one of the Panzergrenadier officers.
‘Where do you think you’re going? You stay and fight! Traitor!’ The SS officer appeared to be injured and slowly drew his pistol. Rauter drew his Mauser automatic at the same time, taking aim at the officer. He was back in the forest north of Brandenburg, unsure of where to aim or when to breathe, but he pulled the trigger anyway and watched in shock as the man crumpled to the ground.
At that moment, a Red Army unit appeared in the road. Rauter threw down his weapon and sank to his knees, his hands in the air, hoping the bullet to finish him off would be swift.
* * *
‘Congratulations, Prince: you’ve joined the Royal Dragoons, one of our most prestigious cavalry regiments. My wife’s uncle was a major in it.’
‘I’ve never ridden a horse, sir, not sure I’ll be much use—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Prince, there’s more chance of you having high tea with Stalin than being asked to ride a bloody horse. It so happens the Royal Dragoons is our closest unit to Berlin, so it makes sense for you to be with them. Your uniform’s over there; try it on. It’s been a devil of a job to get this sorted so soon, I can tell you. And here are your papers: you’re now Captain John Hadley. You’d better get a move on.’
Prince arrived in Berlin on the afternoon of Friday 4 May. The city had come under complete Soviet control on the Wednesday, but the Red Army insisted on waiting a couple of days before allowing in liaison officers from the British
and American armies. The other British officers were aware that Prince was there on intelligence duties so left him to get on with it. It was clear he wasn’t the only one with that role.
Until the Saturday morning he was in a daze, quite unable to come to terms with the destruction and chaos around him. He’d been in Berlin in December 1942, posing then as a Danish businessman. With his innate sense of direction and his good memory he thought he had a feel for the city and assumed he’d find his way around. But it was clear he might as well be in a different city if not on a different planet: the landscape reminded him of the colour paintings of the moon from books he’d read as a child.
In any case his sense of direction would have been of little advantage. The Soviets insisted that as a matter of courtesy and hospitality they couldn’t possibly allow their comrades – their esteemed comrades indeed – to wander round the city on their own. It was still dangerous. Each liaison officer would be given the services of a car and a driver along with an officer to accompany them.
On the Saturday, Prince asked his driver to go to the area around Potsdamer Platz: they drove as far as the car could go and from there Prince walked first to Tirpitzufer, where the Abwehr had been based, and then to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, which had been the RSHA headquarters. Both had become heavily guarded mountains of rubble. It was clear that finding this Rauter was a hopeless task. He wasn’t sure Hugh Harper would approve, but he told the officer with him that he urgently needed to see a senior officer. His instinct was that any matter that appeared sensitive would be handled by the commissars he’d heard so much about – the political officers who apparently had all the influence in the Red Army.
His instinct was correct. At around six o’clock that evening, Captain John Hadley of the Royal Dragoons was escorted into one of the few buildings in the centre of Berlin that could be described as intact. As far as he could tell, it was somewhere between Friedrichstrasse and Wilhelm Strasse. He was shown into an office that had boarded-up windows but was otherwise immaculate. Behind a large desk sat a man of a similar age to him, his feet on the desktop displaying a pair of highly polished knee-high boots. Also on the desk was a blue officer’s cap. The man smiled and indicated the chair Prince was to sit in, then pushed an open box of cigars in his direction. Two oil paintings were propped up on the floor by the desk.