“Amanda, you were marvelous,” York said softly, expressing his admiration. “That could have been a nasty situation.”
She grinned. “I told no lies.”
“The music critic was a stretch.”
“Not really,” she said innocently. “Anyone can be a critic. He assumed you were a professional. But I never said you were.”
While keeping a wary eye on the Gestapo, York glanced through the photographs again. There were about thirty in total. After a quick survey, he put them in his pocket.
“What do you have on your calendar for the next few weeks?” he asked, returning to their original topic.
She thought for a moment. “I think there’s a party at the Goebbels. I’m not sure exactly when. I don’t know if the Fuhrer will be there, but other leaders will.”
“I’ll coach you on what to listen for,” he said. “It’s primarily anything related to the military: weapons, troop movements, strategies. Anything.”
“I’m not sure how effective I’ll be,” she said. “I’m much better with photographs.”
He looked at the soldiers, standing guard. They were watching pedestrians, not interested in the patrons. Then he glanced in the café. The Gestapo officer was reading his newspaper, sipping a cup of coffee. A half-eaten piece of schnitzel and some noodles remained on his plate. With his eyes on the paper, he moved his fork into the noodles and took a mouthful.
York turned to Amanda. “There are about thirty pictures here. Do you have more?”
She smiled, her eyes lighting with laughter. “My hobby is photography. Do you think I have more than thirty pictures? I have thirty boxes.”
“More like these?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Mostly birds, but I know you’re not interested in them. And buildings, especially those that are architecturally significant. Some history and natural landscapes. I tried to document the ten years I’ve been here.” She paused and her face hardened. “I have one box that is very important. I must get it to you as soon as possible, and you must send it to London.”
“What’s in it?”
“I’ll bring the photos the next time we meet,” she said evasively. “Only that box is unique. The rest are buildings and birds, and Berlin during the last ten years.”
He was intrigued. “I want to know what’s in that box.”
“You will,” she said, shifting uncomfortably.
He watched her a moment and decided not to press the issue. “Actually, I would love to see them all. But not for what you think. When the world isn’t at war, I’m a history teacher. History and languages, German and French.”
“Really?” she asked, surprised. “I never would have guessed.”
He shrugged. “My livelihood, I suppose.”
“I would love to show you more, if you think you’re interested.”
He looked at her, the smile brightening her face, her dark eyes twinkling. She was enjoying this. He suspected no one ever showed any interest in her, not even her husband.
“I would like to see the buildings, too. I love architecture. I guess you could say it’s my hobby. But you’ll have to teach me about the birds.”
“We’ll have to take a walk some time,” she said. “There are many beautiful buildings right in this area.”
The Gestapo officer rose, preparing to leave, reminding York of the potential danger.
“Do you have more pictures like those that you gave me?”
“Yes, probably a few boxes.”
“Can we meet tomorrow? You can bring the photos from the box you told me about, and we can look at some more like these.”
“I suppose,” she said, a flicker of anxiety crossing her face. She looked up and down the street. “But this is not a good place. I know too many people in this area. I don’t want to be seen with you repeatedly. It looks suspicious.” She added softly: “Like we are lovers.”
Their eyes met and for a brief instant he wondered if they had found something more than an interest in ending the war. Their gaze was interrupted by the Gestapo officer opening the door.
He paused at their table, bowed courteously and then motioned to the soldiers. They walked to a streetlamp on the edge of the pavement and taped a small poster on it so that anyone passing would see it. When satisfied it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze, a soldier opened the rear door and the officer climbed in. The soldiers got in the front, the engine started and the car pulled away from the curb.
York excused himself and went to the streetlamp to look at the placard, shocked at what he saw. He could see a face on it, and the warning: Wanted by the Gestapo.
He glanced at the other patrons, and then the passersby. No one had been watching the officer; they didn’t see what he had posted. After making sure he wasn’t being observed, he took the notice down and returned to the table.
“What’s the matter?” Amanda asked, sensing something was wrong.
He showed her the poster. “I know this man. Have you ever seen him?”
She looked at it and shrugged. “No, not that I remember.”
“We had better go,” he said, glancing around. “I’ll meet you tomorrow at nine a.m.”
She rose from the table, reluctantly. “Can we make it ten? I have to practice.”
“Ten a.m. How about at Olivaer Platz, where we met Friday?”
“Yes, that’s fine. But wait, don’t go yet.”
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“You said you have a favor to ask me?”
He had forgotten. But he didn’t have time. Not now. He had to go. “I do. And it’s very important to me. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”
“I suppose.”
“The park is more isolated. We can spend more time together there.”
“Until tomorrow,” she said, smiling.
He paused. There was something he wanted to say, even though he knew he shouldn’t. But he said it anyway.
“You’re a very special person.”
He turned and walked away, his limp noticeable, a look of surprise draped across her face. He wanted to stay, but couldn’t. It was too dangerous. He had to contact the man whose face was on the wanted poster.
It was Max.
CHAPTER 23
Amanda left the café and walked back to her house, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She kept thinking about Michael, evaluating the risk but unable to see the reward. Maybe she could help shorten the war, a major contribution to mankind, but she didn’t understand how some old photographs would do that.
Right or wrong, it took courage and soul-searching to do what she was doing. But she knew she couldn’t turn back, even if she did change her mind. It had already gone too far. She was guilty in the eyes of the Gestapo and, if apprehended, it would cost her life. So whatever danger Michael confronted, she faced, also.
She knew the Gestapo poster was an unexpected danger, but she wasn’t sure why. Her impression of Michael was that he was careful, methodical, with a calmness that came with being prepared. He wasn’t prepared for the poster.
She had to make sure she never did anything to hurt him, even if protecting herself. That might mean only a few more meetings, just a handful of photographs, or revealing a dozen whispered words she might overhear. Maybe it meant a few more days, or weeks, but not more. But somehow she didn’t think so.
When she looked at him she saw honesty and sincerity, compassion and commitment. He was handsome, with piercing brown eyes muted by an inner sadness just like hers, a vulnerability that was hidden and sheltered, with a mental wall built around his heart for protection. She knew he was much more than a British agent; he was a teacher, historian, musician, and someone with interests similar to hers.
He seemed to genuinely care about who she was and what she did. And she couldn’t remember anyone else in her life that ever did. Not her mother or father. Not Manfred or Kurt. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she knew her life was about to cha
nge dramatically. But she didn’t know if it would be good or bad, happy or sad. She only knew it was because of him. And that she couldn’t control it.
Neither Kurt nor Manfred were home when she got there. Not that Manfred would be. And not that she cared. She went to her photography studio and started going through files, choosing snapshots she thought Michael could use. She was sensitive to military information: generals, troops with insignia visible, locations, major contributors to strategy, and she weighted the selections to the more recent, using a scattered few to offer a timeline of Berlin. When she finished, she had chosen about forty photos to represent her collection, knowing she had many more if needed. She put them with the special box of photographs she had told Michael about, a box she always kept hidden.
She was about to put everything away when she remembered their conversation. He was interested in architecture, and even asked about birds. She went through her files again and picked a handful of Berlin buildings: the University of Berlin, the Pergamon Museum, the Brandenburg Gate, the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, and three bridges, the Castle Bridge, Frederick’s Bridge, and the Kaiser Wilhelm Bridge. Then she scanned her collection of bird photographs, selecting six more.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon with her violin, drifting into the mystical world where music always took her. Her eyes closed as her fingers caressed the neck, the bow moving gracefully across the strings. She was always amazed at how much time passed while she played, immersed in a trance-like cocoon.
When she left the music room and went downstairs, she was surprised to see Manfred and Kurt in the parlor, immersed in discussion, a fatherly dissertation on the world and those who lived within it. Manfred frequently lectured Kurt, usually correcting some trivial shortcoming that was barely worth mentioning. He was extremely critical, which he had learned from his Prussian father, who probably treated him the same way. He had a drink in his hand, as he usually did before dinner, and already seemed a bit drunk.
“Manfred, I’m surprised to see you,” she said sternly, the memory of their last encounter not a pleasant one. She found the mere sight of him revolting. “Are you having dinner with us?”
He knew she was uncomfortable, and he seemed to enjoy it. “Yes, I am,” he said. “I can’t resist Hannah’s home-cooked meals.”
Amanda sensed something wrong. Manfred was never home during the week. She searched his face for a reason, something that may have made him suspicious, but she found nothing. Did he know about her meeting with Michael? What made today different?
“I was just showing Kurt this poster,” he said, dropping it on the table.
Amanda looked at it, struggling to hide her emotions, fighting to control herself. It was the same picture the Gestapo posted at the café; it was the man that Michael knew.
“Can you imagine that?” Manfred was saying to Kurt. “A British spy foolish enough to come to Berlin? Did he think no one would notice?” He started laughing, as if the enemy were all idiots, and sipped his drink.
Amanda felt beads of perspiration dotting her forehead. She sat down on the chair next to the sofa, and pretended to be interested. This was one of the opportunities that Michael had described. Listen, try to ask harmless questions, and remember all that was said.
“The Hitler Youth can find him,” Manfred said, his words slurring just a bit. “Why waste the Gestapo’s time? You’ll enjoy it, Kurt. It’s more fun than marching and map reading.”
“How can you tell he’s a British spy?” Amanda asked. “He looks innocent enough. He can easily pass for German.”
“An informant told us,” Manfred said. “He’ll get caught, though. I give him two or three days at most.”
Amanda looked at her stepson, memorizing the picture.
“Isn’t this too dangerous for Kurt?” she asked, looking to her husband with concern.
“Of course not,” Manfred scoffed. “If he sees the man, he tells the authorities. There’s no danger in that.”
“And I want to do it,” Kurt told her. “It’s like being a soldier.”
“But this man is the enemy,” Amanda said. “You need to be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Kurt ignored her and turned to Manfred. “What happens after he’s caught? Does he go to prison?”
“Only if he’s lucky,” Manfred chuckled. “And smart enough to betray his friends. That’s the problem; we think there’s more than one.”
CHAPTER 24
York hurried from the café and took a taxi to the Die Welt newspaper office, arriving just after two p.m. He wanted to warn Max with a personal ad, the emergency contact method they established in Switzerland. Although Max was now in Berlin, and the ad was intended as an interim measure until he got there, York didn’t know how else to communicate. It was a long shot, but he had to do something. He only hoped Max would see it.
He walked up to a window labeled advertisements, finding a bored clerk on the other side. The man was young, with the left side of his face horribly scarred, the eye missing and sewn shut, the cheek disfigured, skin pulled taut.
“Good afternoon,” York said politely, pretending not to notice the man’s mutilated face. “I want to place a personal advertisement in this evening’s edition.”
The clerk looked at a clock on the wall with his good eye. “You’re too late. It has to be in by two p.m.”
York was annoyed by his abruptness. “But the office is still open. And I’m only ten minutes late.”
He shrugged. “Sorry, it’s policy.”
“But it’s very important,” York said.
“Can’t be helped,” the clerk replied. As if to emphasize his apathy, he picked up a newspaper and scanned the front page.
York hid his frustration, knowing the battle was lost. “All right, fine. I need to place a personal advertisement for tomorrow’s edition.”
The man put down the paper and again eyed the clock. “I hope it makes it,” he said sarcastically. “I may have to push it through.”
“And why is that?” York asked tersely, wondering if he had to bribe the man. “What’s the problem?”
The clerk yawned. “No problem,” he said, tiring of the game. He pushed a slip across the counter. “Fill this out.”
York scribbled the message he and Max had agreed on in Switzerland: Max, mother is looking for you. He handed it to the clerk.
He read the note and stamped a date and time on the form.
“Are you sure that will be in tomorrow’s paper?”
“I said it would, didn’t I?” the clerk asked. He put the advertisement in a slot behind him, where several openings, all labeled, lined the wall. Then he sat down with his newspaper.
York remembered the agreement he and Max made in Switzerland. The ad would be in Tuesday’s edition, which meant York would meet him at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church on Wednesday at noon. That’s assuming Max saw it. If he didn’t, York couldn’t warn him until their scheduled meeting on Friday. And that might be too late.
York’s mind was racing as he left the Die Welt office, still searching for answers. How was Max betrayed? He had just seen him on Friday. The Gestapo issued the wanted poster on Monday. Sometime over the weekend he had either been seen by someone who knew him, or betrayed by the quartet informant. And the only one he intended to observe, and possibly contact, was Albert Kaiser, the cello player.
York got another taxi and returned to his hotel. He was starting to feel caged and cornered. He mulled over what he knew, what he had determined was fact, trying to use logic to form conclusions.
Amanda Hamilton probably did not betray Kent or Max. If she did, York would already be in Gestapo custody, unless the Gestapo was watching him, trying to find Max. But he always ensured he wasn’t being followed, so that seemed like a remote possibility.
He was sure Amanda did not offer information to Kent. She had been too shocked when York approached her, and too naïve when they met at the café. But she had shown she could be usef
ul. Her photographs proved that.
Even though Erika Jaeger was at the cemetery, she didn’t retrieve the note York left. Somebody else did. But she did have a secret; frequent food purchases on the black market and a constant need for money. As far as he knew, she had no contact with Max, at least not on Saturday because he watched her all day, but he didn’t know about Friday night or Sunday. So she could be the informant, selling information to the Gestapo. And she could have betrayed Max.
The last member of the quartet was Gerhard Faber, the one-eyed viola player. York had barely thought about him. He planned to follow him on Tuesday, even though he would be at the Ministry of Armaments, his primary source of income. But he could still learn something about him, especially when he left work. York didn’t know if he ever offered Kent information, could be the Gestapo informant, or if he knew who Max was. He remained a mystery, at least for the present.
And then there was one last possibility. Maybe Kent had betrayed Max before the Gestapo killed him. He could have been tortured, talked under duress, or tried to bargain for his own life. There was no way for York to know. But it was a plausible explanation.
He opened a bottle of whiskey and took a swig. He was confused and overwhelmed. There were too many possibilities, and too many people involved. He suddenly had tremendous respect for Kent, his predecessor. He had gotten farther than York did. At least he obtained information from one of the four.
He took another sip of whiskey. Nothing made sense. But he wasn’t sure why.
CHAPTER 25
The man wore civilian clothes, but was young enough to serve in the military. He leaned against the brick wall of a tailor shop, smoking a cigarette. He might be waiting for clothes to be altered, or he may be waiting for a bus or a tram. Or he could be watching the alley that led to the tiny room where York and a few others translated documents for German Intelligence.
York entered the room, the décor unchanged: four tables with chairs, newspapers sitting on each. He sat in the same chair every time he went, as did the others. But this time when he entered the room, it was empty. For the first time since his arrival in Berlin, he sat in the room alone.
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