They talked for almost an hour, until it became clear that Erna had exhausted herself. Caitlin helped her into the other room, but an offer of further assistance was given short shrift—“Most evenings I can still manage to undress myself. Let yourself out, my dear, and come again in a couple of days.”
On Thursday evening Caitlin caught another tram out to Friedrichshain, and this time a good-looking boy answered Erna’s door.
“This is Friedrich,” Erna told her. “He will take you to Rolf.”
“Wonderful. When?”
“This evening, of course,” Friedrich replied, as if surprised that she didn’t know.
He couldn’t be more than sixteen, Caitlin thought, which would explain why he wasn’t in uniform. She wondered whether the lack of advanced warning was deliberate, a sign that they didn’t completely trust her.
“We will leave now,” the boy added, gazing out at the gathering dusk. “By the time we get there, it will be dark.”
It was a long walk to the tram stop and a long wait once they reached it, which time Friedrich filled with questions about America. He seemed impressed by the fact that she’d had firsthand experience of the famous prewar strikes at Lawrence and Paterson and even more struck by the fact that she’d actually seen the American West, albeit from a train. “Are there still shoot-outs in the street?” he wanted to know, and he seemed disappointed when she told him there probably weren’t.
As predicted, night had fallen by the time they reached Niederbarnim. After turning off the wide Frankfurter Allee, they entered an area that reminded Caitlin of the Manhattan tenement districts she had visited as a cub reporter. Few of the closely packed buildings had electricity, and their courtyards were often piled high with rubbish, much of it reeking in the summer heat. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were still many children out on the street, some of them literally clothed in rags. Every last one stared at Caitlin as if she’d just come from the moon.
When they reached the corner of Rolf Wehler’s street, Friedrich called over one of the watching boys and sent him ahead, doubtless with instructions to check that the coast was clear. Once he’d returned a few minutes later with a grin and an upraised thumb, Friedrich led her along the street to one of the five-story blocks. Rolf Wehler lived on the fourth floor, and needless to say there wasn’t an elevator.
The flat was lit by candles. As far as she could see, it comprised two rooms, a kitchen and a living room, both of which doubled as bedrooms. They had passed the communal bathroom on the landing outside.
Wehler, who she guessed was in his forties, was a thin man with eyes that never seemed to settle. He introduced his blond wife, Anna, a tired-looking woman who had obviously once been a beauty, and her father, Grigor, who looked Caitlin over with an interest that didn’t seem purely platonic. Glancing round the meager flat, she realized that books were the only thing not in short supply. Piles rose up from the wooden floor like a three-dimensional map of Manhattan.
Clearly anxious to start, Friedrich asked for her first question.
She had it ready: What were those German socialists who rejected the war doing now?
Wehler’s answer made the others laugh. “Prison sentences, mostly,” Friedrich translated.
“And those who aren’t in prison?”
“We are spreading the word. This”—he handed her a roughly bound sheaf of paper with the words “Die Internationale” emblazoned on the top sheet—“was written in the spring and has been distributed throughout the country. Illegally, of course. The authorities have seized all the copies they could.”
“What’s in it?” she asked.
“Our explanation of what happened in August and our program for the future.” He smiled. “It’s very simple, really. Either the bourgeoisie and the proletariat have common interests or they don’t. The idea that they have none in peacetime yet suddenly acquire them when a war breaks out . . . well, that’s completely absurd, is it not?”
“It certainly sounds it.”
“And we are not alone,” Wehler continued. “The Independent Labour Party in England, comrades in neutral countries like Italy and Switzerland—they are saying the same thing. And others will join—the more prices rise to pay for the war, the more workers will see it for what it is, a struggle between rival imperialisms that serves no other interests. It is we who are fighting the real war, not Europe’s bourgeois governments.”
She couldn’t let that pass. “A war? Are you prepared to take your protest that far? To argue for civil war?”
He listened to Friedrich’s translation, then paused. “I am,” he said eventually. “Others are reluctant, I know. Some think we should fight their war with pacifism. Some still believe that socialism must win through the ballot box, if we are to avoid a new tyranny.”
“But you don’t?”
“Each government is rounding up its own working class and sending it out to be killed—I don’t think we can wait for democracy.”
“But what can you actually do? Would you consider sabotage, for example?”
“I would not rule it out. But you must understand—we are still recovering from the shock of August. Our best leaders are in prison, and those like me who are still at large are hunted by the police. So there is little we can actually do at the moment. But it will get easier—I am sure of that.”
Was he whistling in the dark? she wondered as she rode the tram back across Berlin. How many shared his vision? Only time would tell.
His phrase “the real war” had lodged in her brain. The war in the trenches was real enough for the men being maimed and killed each day. But was it real in the sense that a victory for either side would make a difference to the lives of ordinary people? She recalled the case that McColl had once made for the world’s needing an English victory and decided that even if he’d been right and the English were more civilized than the Germans, the difference could only be marginal. Whichever nation proved victorious, the world wouldn’t change that much.
And what about Ireland? Wehler would probably agree that Colm had been fighting a real war, but only because his comrades were republican socialists rather than mere nationalists. A victory for the latter would lead to a shuffling of faces and flags, but would it change much else?
On the other hand, if the poor won their “war” against their exploiters or if women won their “war” against men, wouldn’t every last thing be turned upside down?
Was that what she wanted? It probably was.
She also knew that the majority of her American readers, warier of radical change, most certainly did not. Those fearful of eventual American involvement would be better served by a simple antiwar message, one that highlighted the existence of antiwar groups within the warring countries and the moral equivalence between the two sides that this suggested. She had to take her readers with her, she thought. If America was ready for more, then Kollontai was on the way.
She wanted to bounce ideas off Slaney, but there were no lights in his window—he was either out or already asleep. As she let herself into her room, she saw that an envelope had been pushed under her door; it contained a note from Rainer von Schön asking her to dinner that day or the next. He was leaving Berlin the coming weekend, so this would be their last chance to meet. A telephone number was appended. She could, he suggested, ring him from the Adlon.
Next morning she did so, and an evening rendezvous was arranged. The restaurant he had chosen was only a short distance from Uhlandstrasse, the evening clear but chilly for August. It had been a fine summer, she thought, approaching the entrance. She found herself wondering what sort of weather the men in the trenches preferred. Being sopping wet doubtless made them miserable, but sunny days were perfect for snipers. It was bad news either way.
Von Schön was already seated at their table. He was evasive when it came to explaining his imminent departure—“even water eng
ineers have secrets”—but did admit that he wouldn’t be seeing his wife and children.
The restaurant was small and surprisingly empty. Von Schön ordered a bottle of Alsatian wine and plied her with questions about Ireland as they waited for the fish—“We still have the Baltic at least!” For a German he was extremely well informed about Irish politics, a fact he put down to the trip that he and his wife had made there just before the war. “Such a beautiful country,” he said. “Such a sad history. When did your ancestors leave?”
She told him and found herself sharing stories of her Irish childhood in Brooklyn, all the ceilidhs and wakes she’d attended as a child, listening to tales of the Famine with a fiddle playing gaily in the background. All the villains from Cromwell to Asquith, the heroes and martyrs from Wolfe Tone to now, the collection tin making its rounds for the endless struggle “back home.”
And there, lurking in a corner of her mind, were the other Irish faces of her childhood, the violent, tyrannical men, as often drunk as sober, who thought themselves God’s gift to the women whose lives they blighted. “Did you know that Sir Roger Casement is here in Berlin?” von Schön was asking her.
“I didn’t,” she said, very surprised. Casement was an Irishman who had spent much of his career in the British diplomatic service and was famous for his prewar efforts on behalf of exploited natives in the Congo and Peru. He had recently become an outspoken advocate of Irish independence, and Caitlin knew from Michael Killen that he had traveled to America when war broke out to seek help for the republican cause. But she hadn’t heard of his visiting Germany.
“He is here,” von Schön confirmed, as if she might have doubted the fact.
She didn’t, but she was beginning to doubt von Schön. How would a water engineer know that Casement was in Berlin? Surely it hadn’t been publicized.
“I have friends in strange places,” von Schön told her, as if reading her mind. “I thought you might be interested. As a journalist, of course.”
“Of course.” If her suspicions were well founded and her dinner companion was now working for his government in some capacity or other, how could she turn the situation to her advantage? As a journalist she was interested in Casement, but if the Germans didn’t know that, they might offer a quid pro quo. “He might be worth meeting,” she conceded, “but what I really want is a trip to the front.”
“Have you asked?”
“Several times, but the answer is always ‘Wait and see.’”
They spent the rest of the evening discussing safer topics—their impressions of China, favorite foods, American suffragettes. Von Schön had news of the latter that Caitlin hadn’t heard and which brought a real surge of joy to her heart—back in the States a women’s Liberty Bell was being forged to further the suffragette cause. Its clapper didn’t ring, symbolizing the political silence their votelessness imposed on women.
The two of them parted amicably, with Caitlin fairly confident that she hadn’t revealed her suspicions. And thirty-six hours later, at her very next meeting with Gerhard Singer, his welcome news would more or less confirm them. She began by asking if she could interview Casement.
“Of course,” he said, as if surprised she should bother to ask. “He is a private citizen. You don’t need my permission,” he added, beaming at her with barely concealed satisfaction.
“I don’t know his address.”
“Oh, I can help you with that. Or better still, supply a driver to take you there. Will tomorrow do?”
“Why not? I don’t suppose a decision has been reached about my trip to the front?” she asked innocently.
“Ah, yes. I almost forgot. There is good news there. The army has agreed to let you visit a hospital just behind the fighting line. You’ll be able to talk to the staff and patients.”
So von Schön had arranged that her price would be paid. “How far behind the fighting line?”
“Oh, a few kilometers. Quite close enough.”
She would get to it somehow, she thought.
“You will leave on Friday—an overnight train to Trier, I think.”
“That’s marvelous,” she said, and meant it—the prospect really excited her.
“But first Herr Casement. He lives in Dahlem, so it would be easier for the driver to pick you up at your lodgings. Shall we say ten o’clock?”
“Fine.” One thing seemed certain: for reasons that weren’t yet clear, the Germans wanted her to meet Casement and to go along with whatever it was the Irishman wanted. Where the first was concerned, she was happy to oblige. Meeting him would cost her nothing, and German gratitude might open doors that would otherwise stay closed.
Sir Roger Casement’s Berlin lodgings were considerably more luxurious than Caitlin’s. The tree-lined street close to the Grunewald was clearly a preserve of the rich, and Casement’s villa was no smaller than any of the others. He had it all to himself, moreover, if one excluded the servants and the fresh-faced young man who answered the door. One of Michael Killen’s asides suddenly made sense, not that Casement’s sexual proclivities were any of her business.
The ex-diplomat appeared, a man of around fifty with dark hair and beard. His smile seemed forced to Caitlin, and he didn’t look particularly well. “My condolences for the loss of your brother,” he said, taking her outstretched hand in both his own. “To come all the way from America and serve in the way he did—that showed great courage and determination.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I hope you will accompany me to Zossen this morning. Herr Singer has already sanctioned the use of your automobile.”
“What’s in Zossen?”
“Let me surprise you. It’s not a long ride, and I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. And we can talk on the journey.”
“Very well.”
Zossen was apparently less than an hour’s drive away. They were soon out of the city and motoring through a mixed landscape of woods and farms. Those harvesting the summer crops, she noticed, were mostly women and children.
She asked Casement how long he had been in Berlin.
“Ten months,” he told her.
“And what are you doing here?”
“Seeking help, of course.”
“Do the English know you’re here?”
“Oh, yes. They tried to have me arrested in Norway.”
She had a vague memory of this, but at the time her attention had been mostly on Colm. “So have you been successful?”
“You’ll be able to judge that for yourself when we reach Zossen.” He turned his eyes to the window. “It’s a beautiful day, is it not?”
She took the cue and sat in silence, enjoying her escape from the city, wondering what his secret was. A warehouse full of rifles seemed the best bet, but how would he get them to Ireland?
They eventually arrived at a gateway manned by soldiers. Behind this, surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence, was a field containing four identical barracks, which bore all the signs of a small prisoner-of-war camp.
It was and wasn’t, Casement explained. The occupants, many of whom were currently engaged in some energetic game with a ball, were all Irishmen who had volunteered for the British army and subsequently been captured by the Germans. “And now,” he concluded triumphantly, “they have agreed to fight for Ireland.”
They weren’t very many, was Caitlin’s first thought. She asked Casement for a figure.
“Fifty-six,” he said proudly. “My Irish Brigade. You have to remember,” he went on, seeing her expression, “these men volunteered for the British army. They’re not natural republicans.”
It still seemed a poor return on ten months’ effort, Caitlin thought, but deemed it churlish to say so. “Can I talk to some of them?”
“Of course. We’ll use the office”—he gestured toward what looked like an administration block—“as an intervie
w room.”
Five minutes later she was talking to two young boys from Limerick. They seemed willing enough to fight the English, though Casement’s presence, there at her shoulder, might have had something to do with that. And so, she thought, might the prospect of years twiddling their thumbs in a camp like this one. Both these boys and those who followed offered lip service to the cause of Irish independence, but she saw no sign that any were truly committed. They had joined this group for much the same reasons they had joined the British army: because it offered comradeship, a living, and a way out of their present circumstances.
Casement, she knew, would not want to hear this.
As they began their ride back, he tried to enlist her dead brother in support of his venture. “I only knew about his operation after the event,” he said, “and at the time . . . well, I must admit I had my doubts about the usefulness of such action. But time has cured me of such timidity. Brave men should always be saluted, and if this is not an appropriate time to take the battle to the English, then I don’t know what would be.”
“What exactly are we talking about?” she asked, looking out at a row of elegant houses. On the front steps of one, a little girl was watching them pass, a doll clutched tight to her chest.
Casement didn’t notice her. “In the medium term, a rising in Ireland, supported by German troops. Which will not only cost the English Ireland but most likely lose them the war. An outcome I’m sure you would welcome.”
“I don’t know.” The English had killed her brother, but did she long for their defeat? She had found many Germans good company but saw little to admire in their leaders. In truth, she wanted both sides to lose.
He noticed her hesitation and probably misread it as a woman’s aversion to violence. “This is Ireland’s opportunity,” he reminded her.
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