“Kurt, that looks fantastic,” she said, surprised by the results. “I know how long you’ve been working on it. Congratulations. Now you’ve mastered it.”
“It did take a long time,” he said, beaming, pleased that she recognized how difficult it was. “But I think the next one will be much easier.”
She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and kissed the top of his head. “Good for you. I’m proud of you. You never gave up.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling. “I can’t wait to show father.”
*
Manfred Richter did not come home for dinner, his aide calling to say he had prior obligations. He was rarely home evenings; his Nazi party responsibilities demanded commitments beyond the normal work day: meetings, conferences, entertaining clients at theaters or cabarets. And Manfred Richter thrived in social environments.
They lived in a luxurious house with live-in domestic help, a young woman named Hannah. Olive-complexioned with black hair, she was married to a German soldier stationed in Norway.
As Hannah served dinner, Amanda asked Kurt about school, his friends, and lent a sympathetic ear to the trials he experienced as a teenager in Berlin. They were close. Amanda listened to what he had to say; she paid attention to him. He appreciated it.
After dinner he left to see his friends, as he normally did. They were all classmates, most of whom lived within a few blocks. Amanda liked them; they were polite and well-behaved.
Amanda had a last cup of coffee as Hannah cleaned up from dinner. She talked about her husband, the last letter she had gotten, the winter he endured in Norway, and how much she missed him. Amanda listened, but didn’t say much. She didn’t think she had to. Hannah just needed to talk, and Amanda understood that.
When Hannah retired to her room, Amanda was alone. She treasured these hours, which she spent not practicing the violin, but tucked away in a private study for her use only. The room housed her camera, a dark room to develop the film, large folios of photographs, from nature to architecture to pictures of the Nazi elite, including Hitler and Goebbels and Göring and Hess, all meticulously filed. The walls were crammed with framed examples of her work, her favorite a large picture of the Fuhrer that hung above the fireplace. Photography was Amanda’s true passion, the hobby she loved above all else, even playing the violin.
She removed some negatives from her camera, and went into the dark room to process them. She studied the photographs as the images developed, slowly coming into focus, vague and hazy at first, then becoming crisp and clear. There were three different rolls, all taken in the last few weeks. She sorted through them as she hung them to dry, pictures of birds on one side, buildings on another, people in the center.
Suddenly, with a start, she looked at one photo, shocked by what the camera had captured.
CHAPTER 11
By the time he left the café, York was obsessed with Amanda Hamilton. She was fragile, like a cracked porcelain vase, yet an inner strength filtered through each flaw, hinting of a depth that was easy to underestimate. An aura of sadness surrounded her, like a clouded halo, her eyes dull, mirroring pain, all understandable given the loss of her baby, especially since the tragedy was published in the Berlin newspapers. Another private matter, her unfaithful husband, had also been made public.
She seemed modest and unassuming, her intellect impressive, but wrapped in a quiet, calm demeanor that showed no need to impress, no desire to brag, comfortable with who she was and what she had become. He found her interesting but mysterious, and he couldn’t determine why. At least not yet.
Nothing from their brief discussion hinted that she offered information to Kent, his predecessor. Just as there was no indication she betrayed him. He realized he didn’t know enough to form conclusions. But he did know what café she frequented. And for now, or at least until there was a message in the drop, he would continue to arrange chance meetings. Then he could get to know her better. But he had to be careful. Just because he thought she was vulnerable didn’t mean that she actually was.
He got a taxi, waiting for almost ten minutes to find one, and went to the cemetery to check the drop. It was a beautiful area of the city, blanketed with trees, the residences and apartment buildings around it evenly spaced, hidden with foliage and fences and walls. The lake in the middle of the graveyard offered serenity, a quiet solitude not available in sections of the city more densely populated. It was a nice place to spend eternity.
He entered the cemetery, cautiously studying those who walked by, looking for graves not recently visited, or moving to tombs they had seen many times before. There was a respectful silence, and it seemed only whispers were used to not offend the dead.
York walked through the lanes near the drop and, when satisfied that no one was watching, he went to the tomb and removed the finial from the wrought iron fence. It was empty. He quickly replaced it, glancing in all directions, noticing nothing suspicious. He then stood there for a moment, pretending to mourn a loved one.
He was beginning to wonder if there really was a spy. Or an informant, for that matter. Maybe Kent, his predecessor, had hoped to enlist one of the quartet, most likely Amanda Hamilton, but had been caught by the Gestapo before he could. The members of the string quartet may have had nothing to do with it, especially with a drop in such a public location.
He waited a moment more, contemplating, before walking away. He turned the corner, moving towards the exit, when he saw a woman a few meters ahead of him, blonde, slender and attractive, looking familiar. It was Erika Jaeger.
York was startled, not expecting to see her. His mind raced, recalling the faces he had seen near the tomb where the drop was located. Could she have been there without him noticing? She might have checked the drop just before he got there. Maybe that’s why there weren’t any messages. She was waiting for him to leave one.
He considered calling out to her, but knew it was too risky. He had judged Erika Jaeger and Gerhard Faber as the most dangerous of the quartet. The Gestapo informant might also know about the drop, and maybe that was her. He decided not to approach her, but to follow her instead.
He stayed a discreet distance behind, minimizing his limp but still leaning on his cane, following her to the exit. He passed an elderly couple, the woman’s hand wrapped in her husband’s arm, an empty, saddened glaze on their faces. York thought they might be visiting their son’s grave, probably a soldier. He wondered how many other parents and wives and children made similar visits with the same pained expression and hollow hearts.
He watched Jaeger subtly, maintaining a safe distance, nonchalantly walking to the exit like any other mourner would. She never turned or seemed worried she was being followed. He continued walking behind her, occasionally pausing at a tombstone, or stopping to study a bird that sat on a branch, singing. When she left the cemetery, he too moved to the exit, glancing at his watch as if he were waiting for someone. She walked ten or fifteen meters down the pavement and stopped at a bicycle that was chained and locked to the iron fence.
It wouldn’t be easy to follow her. The cemetery was on the western edge of the city; Erika Jaeger’s house was not nearby. She lived close to Amanda Hamilton, which was four or five kilometers away. But what better way to travel than by bicycle. It was the most popular mode of transportation in the city, if not the entire continent.
He watched her pedal away, knowing the route, ensuring she didn’t divert from it. If she stopped to meet a contact, or even talked briefly to someone, it could be the Gestapo. She could be reporting her progress, or receiving instruction.
She turned down Sensburger Allee, disappearing from sight. York knew it led to Heerstrasse, which was the main road towards the city proper and her home. The route was correct. He just needed to make sure she didn’t deviate along the way.
The taxi was waiting for him. He told the driver he wanted to follow the woman on the bicycle, but without her knowing it. The man listened closely, a sly smile creeping a
cross his face. He probably thought York was a secret admirer.
They let her have a few minutes start and then followed at a distance, maintaining enough space to avoid suspicion. Traffic increased with each kilometer they traveled, making it easier to avoid detection, merge with other vehicles, or pull off to the side of the road and wait if they got too close. Eventually they reached the Ku’damm, passing York’s hotel and the street that led to Amanda Hamilton’s house.
Jaeger turned off the boulevard and onto a residential street several blocks from where she lived. York knew her address, even though he had yet to visit it. The homes were respectable, but not luxurious, more working class than Amanda Hamilton’s neighborhood.
She continued pedaling, traveling the street parallel to hers. The homes were intersected with alleys, each with a few carriage houses designed for wagons but now housing automobiles. Eventually she turned down a dirt lane, stopping behind a paneled truck, the green paint fading, with no lettering on it.
“Go past the alley and park,” York told the driver. “Wait for me. I won’t be long.”
He got out of the car and moved quickly to the alley entrance. The street was alive with people. Some sat on their steps, neighbors talking, a man walked his dog, and two small girls passed on bicycles. No one paid attention to a man with a cane. He peered around the corner.
The truck was parked fifty meters away from the street, perched in the dirt lane next to a small carriage house. The driver stood in the rear of the vehicle, doors open. York could see shelves in the interior, stacked against the sides, boxes and open crates perched on them, but he couldn’t see what was in them.
Erika Jaeger removed two cloth bags that were clamped in the storage rack on the rear of her bicycle. She reached in the pocket of her skirt and withdrew money, handing it to the man. He took the cloth bags and started to fill them with packages wrapped in paper, round items that he handled delicately, then larger pouches. After he filled the bags he handed them back to her. She put them over her handlebars and gave him two more. He filled those as well, but now with produce: lettuce and carrots and peppers and onions.
York hurried back to the driver and gave him the name of his hotel. When Erika Jaeger pedaled out of the alley and turned towards the taxi, he ducked down while she moved past. After she was thirty or forty meters in front of them, the taxi pulled away from the curb and turned at the next cross street. She never noticed them.
York wondered why she had purchased four bags of food from an unmarked van. Many Berliners bought food on the black market, especially items with limited availability. But Erika Jaeger lived with her mother. There were only two people in their household.
Why did she need so much food?
CHAPTER 12
York went to his translator assignment every Monday and Wednesday. Since the availability of British newspapers was sporadic and sometimes non-existent, he sometimes went on Friday, also. Even then, he rarely had much to do.
The scenario was always the same. He walked in the room with four tables, a single chair at each. A pad of paper, a pen and, occasionally, a newspaper that needed translation was waiting for him. But sometimes when he arrived the table was bare. He would wait awhile, in case someone arrived with a newspaper, but no one ever did.
He never saw the lieutenant who had given him the assignment, but each time he went, one of the four men who was there during his indoctrination waited, reading their newspaper rather than translating it, but always watching York very carefully. He now knew they were Gestapo, but he acted as innocent as possible, leaning heavily on his cane, exaggerating his limp, favoring his right arm and occasionally massaging his healed bullet wound, perfectly playing the role of a front line soldier on convalescent leave.
“Is there anything interesting in the Moscow newspaper?” York asked that Wednesday, directing his comment to the other occupant in the room.
The man looked at him sullenly, as if he didn’t want to be bothered. He didn’t voice a reply, frowned, and shook his head. He raised the paper a bit higher, so York couldn’t see his face.
York got the message, although he had enjoyed irritating the man. He returned to his paper, translating the personals, and finished as quickly as he could.
An hour later he walked out of the office. The man with the Russian newspaper was still in there; no one else had come or gone. He exited into the alley, walking past the rubbish cans, and went down the side street and up to the Ku’damm.
It was a beautiful day, with thick, cottony clouds sprinkled across the sky. Pedestrians passed, shopping or hurrying to work. Cars and bicycles moved down the road, competing with taxis and trolleys. York paused, enjoying the weather and watching the bustling city. For a minute, he almost felt like he was in London. And then the Nazi flags draped from the buildings reminded him that he wasn’t.
He gazed across the street, studying a crowded café, and noticed an attractive brunette, her wavy hair almost to her shoulder, standing on the pavement. It was Amanda Hamilton.
He wondered whether to shout and wave, or to hurry across the boulevard to greet her. For some reason, his instinct told him not to. He remained where he was, moved behind the stout trunk of a tree, and pretended to wait for the tram. But his eyes never left her.
She stood still, her hand at her mouth, her attention riveted to a black Mercedes parked a half block down the road. A German soldier sat in the driver’s seat, his eyes directed forward.
A few minutes later the rear door opened, and a man dressed in a grey suit got out. He reached in the car for another passenger, and a feminine hand became visible, followed by a shapely leg. A slender brunette emerged, smiling, dressed smartly.
The man was Manfred Richter. He hugged the woman tightly, holding her for a moment, and then he kissed her, lingering on her lips. She pulled away, smiling, and started walking down the street. Richter turned and watched her, staring for a moment, and then climbed in the car, a smile on his face.
Amanda Hamilton stood motionless, her eyes wide, her face pale.
CHAPTER 13
Amanda was nauseated, her heart breaking, as she watched Manfred embrace another woman. Her eyes misted, tears slowly dripping down her cheeks, and then she closed them, wishing the image would go away. But she knew it wouldn’t. Just like it didn’t six months before. Only then it was a different woman, a redhead.
She opened her eyes and watched as the Mercedes pulled away from the curb. The woman walked towards her, almost to the café, but turned into a gray granite building housing the Berlin Bank. She was older, probably early forties, dressed in an expensive charcoal skirt and blue silk blouse. She seemed happy, with a bounce to her step and a smile on her face, as if her life had changed for the better.
Without even knowing why, Amanda followed her into the bank. She was numb, stunned and shocked, feeling like a fool for forgiving a man who didn’t deserve it. But what would she do now? She couldn’t confront the woman. But she still wanted to know more about her. She kept at a distance, staying near a handful of customers filling out deposit slips.
The woman went to an office located just past the tellers. It was plush; two leather chairs sat in front of a mahogany desk. She walked to a window, pushed the drapes open a bit farther to capture both the sunlight and a view of the side street, and then scanned some papers on the desk. She then looked up, as if she realized she was being watched.
Amanda didn’t move. She stared at the woman, her expression pained, her eyes misty. Even though she wanted to, she couldn’t seem to avert her gaze.
The woman looked at her curiously and, when Amanda’s stare continued unabated, she walked to her office door and closed it. The sign, now visible, read: Gretchen Baumgartner, Bank Manager.
Amanda left the bank, dazed, and climbed into a taxi, mumbling her destination to the driver. As he pulled away she stared out the window, seeing nothing. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream, but she knew that sooner or later, she would figure out which.
When she arrived home she fled to the sanctity of her music room, but didn’t play her violin. She stared at the walls, a vacant look in her eyes, an occasional tear dripping down her cheeks. She felt like a fool. Manfred had convinced her he had only strayed once, that he was sorry, that he was a good husband, and it would never happen again. But in reality, it had been happening all along, and with more than one woman. She had devoted ten years of her life to someone who could care less. She had given up everything for him, and now she was a British island in a German sea.
Her sadness eventually turned to anger and, if Manfred was there, she probably would have hit him. But instead she only fumed at her predicament, annoyed for not having seen it, mourning the years she squandered. She didn’t want to waste another minute with a man she didn’t trust, regardless of how much she loved him, if it was even possible to love him knowing what he was.
She was even angrier at herself. She was stranded, stuck, no escape possible, and there was no one else to blame. She understood the risks when she married him and moved to Germany, but she had somehow managed to minimize them. Now, even if she could flee Berlin, Manfred would find her. And she could never get back to the United Kingdom. She didn’t have many options.
Two days passed before he finally came home. He had sent no message, never called, offered no explanation why he was gone. He just appeared, as if he had left only minutes before, expecting to be welcomed by his loving wife.
She confronted him as soon as he walked in the door. “I saw you with the bank manager the other day,” she said, amazingly calm given the situation.
In Satan's Shadow Page 6