by JJ Toner
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Max unwrapped the book and showed it to Anna.
She shied away from it as if it were a venomous spider that would bite her. “That’s the Communist book, Max. It’s banned. Where did you get it? Get rid of it.”
“A friend lent it to me.”
She flapped her hands. “Well, keep it hidden. I don’t want anyone to know that we have banned books in the apartment.”
Every night for a week, he waded through the book before sleeping. Much to Anna’s disgust. Soon his head was spinning with Marx’s theories of the value of labor. The more he read the more he felt he needed to go back and re-read what went before, and the more he became convinced that the book should be mandatory reading for everyone working in the Reich Labor Service. By the end of the second week his mind was grappling with serious ethical questions around the use of unpaid forced labor.
Chapter 23
November 1938
Max lived in a constant state of fear. He tried to lead a normal life, to give the appearance that nothing was troubling him, but the Gestapo was always in his thoughts. Germany was like a hospital patient emerging from a coma. The Nazis had injected new life into the country, but she had a new sickness – a patriotic fever that infected everyone. Brownshirts roamed the streets of Berlin. Armed with sticks and cudgels they hunted in groups of four or five, picking on anyone they considered weak, foreign, politically deviant or Jewish. Max’s nights were infested with bad dreams. He spent his days in a trancelike state that was the only way he could live with his unrelenting anxiety.
And then one day, while he was out of the office, a coworker took a telephone call for him. Herr Framzl would like him to call into his office tomorrow morning at 8:30.
Max’s heart skipped a beat. This was what he had been dreading. Framzl would be looking for answers and Max hadn’t crossed the first hurdle yet. He had heard nothing more from Frau Greta or Libertas the actress since she’d given him the Communist Manifesto. Should he have made it more obvious that he wanted to join the Red Orchestra? Should he have called back to the actress’s mansion?
It was November 2, All Souls Day. Max felt kinship with the dearly departed. Surely he would be joining them soon.
Framzl kept him waiting for 30 minutes before taking him into an office with a glass panel in the door. ‘Department B Race and Ethnic Affairs’ was stenciled on the panel in gothic script. Framed between two limp Swastika standards, an oversized picture of the Führer hung on the wall behind Framzl’s desk.
“How long has it been since we spoke?”
“A couple of weeks. Herr Framzl—”
“It’s been four weeks. I’m disappointed not to have heard from you in all that time. I trust you’ve made some progress.”
“I have spoken with the actress. I made it plain that I wished to join the organization, but I’m afraid they haven’t come back to me.”
“You made your intentions clear? You played the part of a disillusioned subversive, hell-bent on destroying the Reich? You played the part with passion?”
“Yes, Herr Framzl. I did as you told me, but they don’t seem to have taken the bait.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Noack. A person more cynical than me might wonder if you really wanted to marry your Mischling sweetheart. What was her name again?”
“Anna Weber.”
Framzl left the room. Max spent an unpleasant quarter of an hour under the critical gaze of the Führer on the wall.
Framzl returned clutching a folder. Max detected a gleam in the Gestapo man’s eyes.
“You will approach them again.” He handed the folder to Max. “Read the note in there. It contains some solid intelligence to trade. Give it to them. You will surely be admitted to the Red Orchestra after that.”
Max read the note. It bore the Wehrmacht insignia at the top, and was stamped ‘Top Secret.’ The typescript ran to no more than seven lines. It contained an order to withdraw the entire ‘Condor Legion’ from Spain. The Kriegsmarine were to evacuate the army units, the Luftwaffe were to return to their bases in Germany. Germany’s support of General Franco’s Nationalists was coming to an end! Max’s heart was racing by the time he reached the signature at the end: Wilhelm Keitel, Supreme Commander, Oberkommando der Wehrmacht (OKW).
“Is this real?”
“Of course.”
“How am I supposed to have found this? They’ll want an explanation. It’s not the sort of thing that the Labor Service deals with.”
Framzl frowned. “You recently received orders to find 50 workers for a secret mission overseas, did you not?”
“Yes, but I don’t see the connection.”
“Those workers are needed for vital maintenance work on the airbase runways in Spain.”
Chapter 24
November 1938
Greta received a telephone call from Max Noack on November 3. “Could we meet? I have something for you.”
They agreed to meet at noon in Hartmann’s restaurant in Nollendorf Platz, famous for its fresh fish. She wrapped Ule in his warmest blanket, put him in his pram and set off. She slipped a few leaflets into the pram. She could drop them off on the way back.
A police patrol in Winterfeldtstrasss stopped her. They checked her papers.
“Where are you going?”
She gave the young policeman her warmest smile. “I’m walking the baby. He should be sleeping but, as you can see, he’s wide awake.”
“Pick him up while we check the pram.”
Greta lifted Ule from the pram and the policeman searched it. “What are you looking for?”
She got no answer.
When he was satisfied that there was nothing to find in the pram, the policeman straightened his back. “Thank you for your cooperation, Frau Kuckhoff. You may go.”
She replaced Ule in the pram. “What on earth did you think I was hiding?”
The policemen blew on his hands and then waved her on impatiently.
Hartmann’s had an extended patio area planted with young trees, popular for al fresco eating in the summer. The tables were deserted, the trees bare. They found a table inside, in a quiet corner.
Max ordered a platter of white fish freshly caught in one of the Berlin lakes. Greta ordered a simple ham omelet that she could share with the baby.
Max was unusually animated. He whispered news of an imminent withdrawal of all German fighting units from Spain.
“How did you come by this information?” It was common knowledge that a German infantry unit and several squadrons of Luftwaffe bombers, collectively called the Condor Legion, was fighting on Franco’s side, but it seemed unlikely that they would withdraw before the outcome of the civil war was assured.
“We have been given the task of repairing the runways in Spain. I found a top secret OKW order on my boss’s desk.”
#
Arvid was highly skeptical of Max’s information. “Why would Hitler move the Condor Legion out of Spain when the outcome of the civil war is still in the balance? It makes no sense.”
“So you propose to ignore the information?”
“I’ll speak with Schulze-Boysen. And I’ll check it out at work. That level of activity would surely generate some waves in the Economics Ministry.”
To Greta’s surprise, Harro Schulze-Boysen was able to confirm the intelligence within 24-hours. The Wehrmacht did indeed have a plan to pull out of the civil war in Spain. Franco’s forces would have to fight on without further assistance from Germany. A Kriegsmarine vessel was standing by in the Mediterranean to evacuate the ground forces.
Arvid encoded the information in the usual way on a roll of rice paper hidden inside a cigarette, and arranged for one of his couriers to pass the cigarette pack to Alexander Korotkov, his contact at the Soviet Embassy. The Soviets, who were actively supporting the Spanish Republicans, would devour this information.
#
That evening after Ule had settled, Greta spoke to Adam. “Arvid seemed pleased with Max’s
information.”
“He was, but it’s not clear how he came by it. The Reich Labor Service is hardly an obvious place for information about large troop movements.”
“I thought he explained that.”
Adam nodded. “He did, but I wasn’t entirely convinced.”
He fetched a bottle of wine and two glasses from the kitchen.
“What are you suggesting, Adam? Arvid has asked me to sign him up. You think he might be a Gestapo plant?”
“I didn’t say that, Greta, but you know it is possible. Set up a meeting. I’d like to talk to him.”
Greta sipped her wine. “Perhaps you could get him and his fiancée an invitation to the Thanksgiving party at the American Embassy.”
Chapter 25
November 1938
On November 10 Greta made her way to the Rosens’ apartment building. She’d slept badly. The Brownshirts had been active in the streets all night. A smell of burning lingered in the air and plumes of smoke rose into the sky over the center and east of the city. She knocked on the door of the Rosens’ apartment, waited a minute and tried again. Ule was crying in his pram.
“Who’s there?” Matilde’s voice from behind the door.
“It’s Greta Kuckhoff.”
The door opened. Greta wheeled the pram inside, put the brake on and lifted Ule out. The expression on Matilde’s face told Greta that something was seriously wrong. “What’s happened?”
“The shop was looted last night. David went in to check on the stock and found the place burnt out. He was attacked again on the way home. They broke…” Matilde broke down.
Oh god! “What? Where is he?”
“He’s upstairs, in bed. The Brownshirts broke his arm. He was lucky. He could have been killed or transported to a labor camp. We’re finished now, Greta. There’s nothing left.”
Ule was exercising his lungs. Matilde gave him a weak smile that did nothing to improve his mood. “What’s the matter with little Ule? He looks feverish.”
“He is. I have a bottle for him, and I’m sure he needs a new diaper.”
They moved into the kitchen to attend to the baby’s needs. Within five minutes Ule was back in his pram wearing a clean diaper and enjoying a bottle of milk.
Greta said, “Will you leave the country?”
Matilde ran a hand across her eyes. “You know how David feels about that. He says it’s unpatriotic.”
“How can it be unpatriotic when the government want you to leave, when marauding gangs are killing your people?”
“I know. I’ve tried talking to him, but he’s so stubborn.”
“Where’s Sophie?”
“She’s gone to a friend’s house. She kept pestering me. I couldn’t keep her cooped up any longer. She passes for Aryan when she’s on her own. She should be all right.”
Greta bit her lip. “Let me talk to David.”
Matilde took her upstairs. David lay in bed facing the wall. The air in the room was foul.
Matilde opened a window. “David darling, Greta’s here.”
A grunt from David indicated that he had heard, but he made no move to emerge from under the bedclothes.
“Darling?”
The bedclothes stirred. A bleary-eyed David Rosen stuck a head out. “What does she want?”
“She would like to talk to you. Please be polite.”
David rubbed his eyes. He sat up in the bed. He looked terrible. He hadn’t shaved or washed his hair for a week, and his arm was in a splint.
“Good morning, Herr Rosen. Matilde has told me the bad news. You were attacked again?”
David coughed. Matilde handed him a handkerchief. He wiped his mouth.
“You found someone to set your arm, I see.”
Matilde fluffed up the pillows behind her husband’s head. “We went to our doctor. He’s one of us, one of the few still practicing in Berlin.”
“Matilde tells me you’ve decided to sell up. I would like to help if I can. If you decide to leave the country you should consider France. I know many people who have moved there. It’s a good country. You could apply for visas.”
“We’re not leaving Germany.” David’s voice was more gravelly than usual. “Now leave us alone.”
“There’s no future for you in Germany. Surely you can see that?”
“What business is it of yours? You’re not one of us.” He slid back under the covers until only his nose and the top of his head was visible.
Greta strode back to the bedroom door. “Think about it, David. You and your family could build a new life in France.”
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Matilde held Greta’s arm. “Do you think the French Embassy would help us?”
“I’m sure they would. And I’m sure David will come to realize that it’s the best course of action. For Sophie’s sake, I hope he doesn’t leave it too long.”
Matilde gave Greta a steely look. “I’ll talk to him.”
#
Greta parked the pram in the hallway and carried Ule up the stairs to the apartment.
Adam was waiting for her. He opened the door and immediately began to harangue her again about her visits to the Rosen family. “Have you any idea what happened last night? The Brownshirts attacked Jewish businesses all over the country. They’re calling it Kristallnacht.”
The blood drained from Greta’s face. “David Rosen’s shop was targeted.”
“I told you associating with them is not a good idea.”
“What are you suggesting? The Rosens are under siege from the Brownshirts. They deserve our support. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you should be more careful where you take our son.”
“The Rosens are a family, just like ours. David Rosen has been attacked. The Brownshirts looted his stock and burned down his shop. They broke his arm. Matilde is desperately worried. She has no idea how they can survive. They need my help now more than ever.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s too dangerous. Every time you visit them you risk attack yourself. And drawing attention to yourself puts our work at risk. Can’t you see that? We have much more important work to do than supporting a family of Jews.”
A wide-eyed Ule had been watching the exchange. He burst into tears. Greta picked him up to comfort him. Adam left the room.
Later, when Ule was asleep in his cot, Adam turned the radio on and tuned in to the BBC, barely audible above the crackle.
Greta leapt from her chair and switched it off. “What gives you the right to tell me what to do? Do I tell you what to write in your miserable leaflets?”
Adam raised an eyebrow. “Miserable?” He turned the radio on again. “I need to listen to the news from London.”
Greta ignored him. “And what happened to joint editorial input? Since Ule was born, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times you have consulted me on any of the leaflets’ content.”
“I’ve been trying to shield you and Ule from danger. I thought you understood that, Greta.”
She placed both fists on her hips. “Hah! Editorial input is too dangerous, visiting the Rosens is too dangerous. What about carrying your ridiculous leaflets around the streets of Berlin in the pram in broad daylight, that’s not dangerous at all, I suppose?”
Three bleeps cut through the crackle. Adam turned up the volume. “This is the BBC Overseas Service. Here is the nine o’clock news, and this is Alvar Lidell reading it…”
Chapter 26
November 1938
The following Monday Greta called Max at work and arranged to meet for lunch again at the same fish restaurant in Nollendorf Platz.
Max ordered a bucket of mussels and a glass of Bavarian Helles beer. Greta ordered a pasta dish with extra tomato sauce that she could share with Ule.
Greta shoveled the sauce into Ule’s mouth. “I’ve arranged an invitation for Anna and you to attend a party at the American Embassy.”
“That’s very kind, Frau Greta. When is it?”
Max was struggling with a mussel.
“Thanksgiving, November 24 at eight o’clock for nine. It’s black tie, of course.”
“Of course. I’m sure Anna will be delighted.” The mussel shot across the floor. A passing waiter picked it up without breaking stride.
Ule was blowing red bubbles. Greta used a napkin to wipe his mouth. He blew some more. “We’d like you to join our Orchestra. Your Bass Alpenhorn is just what we need.”
Max looked around nervously at the other diners. No one was showing any interest in him or Greta.
“Thank you, Frau. When is the first concert?”
“There are certain preliminaries to attend to first, Max. You will have to be fitted for a costume. I will alert the tailor and send him to your apartment. Would this evening at seven o’clock be a good time?”
“I would prefer Wednesday evening, Frau Greta, and could you make it earlier? Say six o’clock? Anna works late on Wednesdays, you understand.”
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When he told Anna that they were invited to a party at the American Embassy, she squealed in delight. Five seconds later she spotted the hair in her soup. “I have nothing to wear!”
The following day Anna and her best friend, Ebba, went shopping. Within an hour Anna had found the dress she wanted. Made from fine wool in cream, decorated with gold thread, it swept to the floor in a long, flared hemline. It had a plunging neckline. Ebba was entranced when Anna tried it on. “Oh, Anna, it’s stunning.”
The shop assistant agreed, saying the fit was almost perfect. It would require only minor alterations by the in-house seamstresses. She inserted some pins around the bust and waist and marked it with a piece of tailor’s chalk. “When will the gown be needed?”
“Thursday November 24,” Anna replied.
“For the Thanksgiving ball at the American Embassy,” said Ebba in a sing-song voice.