Stattin Station jr-3

by David Downing

  Ten minutes later Strohm left the cafe, making some excuse to his colleagues, and walked off alone up Gartenstrasse. Russell walked faster to catch him up. When he did so, Strohm eyed him with some amusement. 'Is this for a story?' he asked.

  'I wish it was. The Gestapo are looking for me,' Russell announced without further preamble. He had spent most of the morning working out exactly what he needed to say in order to enlist Strohm's support.

  'That's not good,' the other man said, taking a quick glance over his shoulder.

  'I'm not being followed,' Russell told him. 'You didn't recognise me yourself when you walked into the cafe,' he added reassuringly.

  'True,' Strohm said, with only the faintest hint of a smile. 'So how can I help you?'

  'It's a long story, but I'll make it as short as possible. Two years ago - almost three now - I did some articles for the Soviet press at the request of the NKVD. Then, when I asked them for help in getting a Jewish boy out of Germany, they asked me to bring some secret papers out for them. We both kept our sides of the bargain - the boy got out, they got the papers, and everything seemed fine. Until now. The Gestapo have finally gotten hold of the whole story, and my part in it. So I need to get out, with my girlfriend. The comrades promised to get us out if things went wrong in 1939, and I'm hoping they'll help me now. And I'm hoping you'll know who to ask.'

  'Of course I can ask, but...'

  'I have something to offer in return,' Russell interrupted him. 'Back in June, Hitler told Mussolini that he would have bombers capable of hitting New York by the end of the year. If such bombers exist, they would also be capable of reaching Siberia, and bombing all the arms factories that the Soviets have just moved heaven and earth to relocate there.'

  'Do they?' Strohm asked ingenuously.

  'I don't know,' Russell said truthfully. 'But I can find out,' he added with more confidence than honesty.

  'Ah.'

  'I also have an answer to the question that we have been asking ourselves for the last month. They really do mean to wipe out the Jews.' He told Strohm about the Degesch pesticide and the SS ordering huge quantities without the usual indicator.

  That stopped Strohm in his tracks. 'You have proof of this?' he asked, as if he still couldn't quite believe it.

  'Yes,' Russell said, stretching the truth somewhat - Sullivan's hearsay was hardly proof in the usual sense of the word. 'And when I get out, I can tell the whole damn world what's happening.'

  'I'll see what I can do,' Strohm promised him. 'How can I contact you now?'

  Russell hesitated at the thought of giving out their new address, but it was a risk he had to take. He gave Strohm the details.

  'And what name are you using?'

  Russell's mind blanked for a moment. 'Rolf Vollmar,' he said eventually.

  They went their separate ways. Now that the efficacy of his disguise had been proven, Russell felt confident enough to lengthen his walk home in search of an early evening paper. He found one on Mullerstrasse. Thumbing through it, he came upon a most unflattering picture of himself, along with the information that he was armed, dangerous and urgently wanted for questioning on matters 'vital to the security of the Reich'. Though American by birth, 'Mister' John Russell had learned to speak German like a native, presumably with espionage in mind.

  More disturbingly, a recent studio photo of Effi accompanied his own. She had gone missing in suspicious circumstances, the writer claimed, before dropping a few heavy hints to the effect that she had been kidnapped by the American villain.

  As Russell walked back, he found himself wondering how the portierfrau at his old digs in Hallesches Tor would be taking the news of his treachery. He could just see Frau Heidegger skulking in her doorway, newspaper in hand, waiting to discuss the story with any passing tenant. Would she believe the worst of him? Probably not. They'd always got on pretty well, and no one with half a brain trusted official stories any more.

  Effi was not pleased with the photo - she thought it made her look like a simpering idiot - and the notion that she'd been abducted was laughable. 'No one who knows us would believe that you've carried me off against my will,' she said incredulously. 'And I can't imagine anyone else believing it - it all sounds like one of those white slaver romances they used to make in the twenties.'

  'Goebbels' kind of film,' Russell murmured. He was rather pleased by the newspaper story - they were clearly offering Effi a possible alibi, if only to preserve appearances.

  Over an early supper he told her how it had gone with Strohm and the comrades. She agreed that they had little to lose by approaching Knieriem, but still felt queasy at the prospect. 'What do you really know about him?' she asked.

  'He's a forty-three-year-old Berliner with a high-placed job at the Air Ministry. He was a Social Democrat until 1933 and, according to one of his old friends who now lives in America, he always despised the Nazis. He married in the twenties, divorced in the early thirties. His older brother Kurt was sent to Dachau in 1933 after one of the round-ups in Neukolln, and died there a few days later, supposedly in a fight with other inmates. The Americans found nothing to suggest that Franz was hungry for revenge, but he has access to really important information, so they thought he was worth a shot. Particularly since it was my head they were raising above the parapet.'

  'If I had to guess,' Effi said, 'I'd say his brother's death scared him into permanent submission.'

  'It's not unlikely.'

  'So what if he says no?'

  'Then I beat a hasty retreat.'

  'How big is he?'

  'Big, but in the fat sense. I don't think I'll have any trouble getting away from him.'

  'He might recognise you.'

  'Strohm didn't. And what if he does?'

  'He'll have the police swarming all over the place.'

  'They'd be lucky to catch me in the blackout. But we shouldn't assume the worst - Knieriem may welcome the chance to betray his bosses. He was a Social Democrat once.'

  Effi snorted. 'Wasn't it you who used to say that Mussolini was a communist once?'

  'He was.'

  'I rest my case.'

  She might be right, Russell thought later as he lay there unable to sleep. Perhaps they were being foolish in trusting to Knieriem's former allegiances. And asking for information was not the only way of obtaining it.

  Lying there, listening to Effi's breathing and the faint hum of the city outside, a plan began to take shape.

  The next three days were spent in waiting. Neither of them was used to spending much of the day at home, let alone a home with so few possibilities for diversion. There was only uninspiring food, the radio, the jigsaw and each other, and by Wednesday the picture of Rugen Island had been completed. Effi insisted that it was her turn to go out for a newspaper, and overrode Russell's argument that she was more likely to be recognised. 'The neighbours know I'm here,' she said, 'and it would be suspicious if I never went out.'

  She returned with a Volkischer Beobachter which contained fresh pictures of them both, along with news from the family. The well-known industrialist Thomas Schade had expressed his 'astonishment' at the charges facing his former brother-in-law, and earnestly entreated him to give himself up. Russell smiled at that, but not at the mention of his 'equally astonished' son, an exemplary member of the Hitlerjugend. Paul really would be shocked, if only at the seriousness of the alleged crime. He didn't like to think what else the boy might be feeling.

  Zarah, too, had been interviewed. She was 'sick with worry' for her sister, and refused to believe that Effi had done anything wrong.

  Effi, Russell noticed, was fighting off tears. 'We can't afford to waste the make-up,' she said angrily.

  That evening the sirens sounded. They had debated the pros and cons of going down to the shelter, and decided that incurring the wrath of the block warden would be more dangerous than testing their disguises. The thought of being bombed didn't come into it - if they lost the bolthole, they were doomed in any case.


  In the event, the three hours spent with the rest of the building's inhabitants passed uneventfully. The block warden seemed suspicious of them, but only, they quickly realised, because he was suspicious of everyone. Most people dozed or fussed over their children, and the light was dim enough to hide a circumcision ceremony, let alone their brilliant disguises. Watching the way Effi climbed the stairs after the all-clear sounded, Russell was almost convinced that she had aged twenty years in a couple of days. He was also quite pleased with his own simulation until she put him right. 'You're walking like an eighty-year-old with gout,' she told him once they were back in their room. 'I'll have to give you some lessons.'

  The Fuhrer's return to Berlin had been announced the previous day, and on Thursday afternoon he spoke to the Reichstag. The whole nation was obliged to listen: turning their own radio off for a few seconds, they could still hear the voice in the distance, emanating from so many street and factory loudspeakers that it seemed to be seeping out of the earth and sky. The speech lasted for an hour and a half. Hitler began with a long, triumphalist report on how the war was going, though details of the current position were noticeably sparse. He claimed that the German war dead now amounted to 160,000, a figure which astonished and appalled Effi, but which Russell thought was probably an under-estimate. The second half of the speech was a long diatribe against Roosevelt, a man backed by the 'entire satanic insidiousness' of the Jews, a man bent only on destroying Germany on their behalf. It ended, predictably enough, with a list of the provocations that Germany had been forced to endure, and their necessary corollary, a formal declaration of war on the United States.

  'He's done it,' Russell murmured with deep satisfaction. If ever the prospect of another nation entering a war was cause for celebration, then this was that moment. It was all over bar the dying, he thought.

  Next morning a letter arrived for Rolf Vollmar. Its message was short and extremely sweet - 'The Kaiser Bar, Schwedter Strasse, 7pm on December 13. Ask for Rainer.'

  Russell took a deep breath. Perhaps they would get out after all.

  'That's tomorrow,' Effi pointed out.

  'I'll go to Knieriem this evening. Just after dark.'

  'Tell me if I'm being stupid,' Effi said, 'but surely the best you can get from this man is information. I mean, he's not going to have official documents at his home, is he? So there'll be nothing to show the comrades. You might just as well make something up.'

  'That had occurred to me,' Russell admitted. 'If the worst comes to the worst, and Knieriem won't cooperate, that's what I'll have to do. But the real facts will come out eventually, and if it turns out that I've given false information to the Soviets there will be consequences. If Hitler loses this war, then Stalin will win it, and the NKVD will be settling a lot of old scores. I don't want us to be one of them. So while there's a chance of getting them the right information I think we should take it.'

  'I suppose that makes sense,' she agreed reluctantly.

  'Besides,' he added with a smile, 'I'd like to do something for the war effort.'

  Franz Knieriem lived in Charlottenburg, about halfway between the S-Bahn station of that name and the Bismarckstrasse U-Bahn station. It would have been quicker to take the overground train, but Russell felt safer in the overcrowded U-Bahn. He also needed a public toilet without a resident attendant, and the only one he knew in central Berlin was secreted away next to the suburban platforms at Potsdam Station.

  The first leg on the U-Bahn was uneventful. He got a seat, wedged the large travel bag between his legs, and hid behind his paper until the time came to change at Leipzigerstrasse. Another stop, and he was soon wending his way across the Potsdam Station concourse. Reaching the chosen toilet, he shut himself in a cubicle, waited until the man next door had departed, and pulled the SS uniform from the bag. The Sicherheitsdienst were as likely to wear plain clothes as uniforms, but someone like Knieriem would probably ask to see identification if he was wearing the latter. The uniform spoke for itself.

  Back at Prinz-Eugen-Strasse he had tried it on, and discovered that the sleeves and trousers were overlong. Effi had shortened the former, and the latter now disappeared into the shiny boots. He placed the peaked cap on his head, rammed his own suit jacket and trousers into the travel bag, and waited a few minutes, hoping to ensure that anyone who had seen him arrive would not be around to watch him depart.

  He flushed and walked out, just as another man entered the toilet. The latter saw him and instantly looked away. Russell admired himself in the mirror, and couldn't help noticing that the new arrival was suffering a little stage fright at the adjoining urinal. 'Heil Hitler,' he murmured spontaneously, inducing a strangled echo from the other man.

  If the Nazis didn't get him, his sense of humour would.

  He walked back out onto the concourse, and down the steps to the U-Bahn platform. His fellow-passengers seemed disinclined to jostle him, and some even managed ingratiating smiles. Two trains and twenty-five minutes later he was climbing out onto Bismarckstrasse. It was fully dark now, and the overcast sky blotted out moon and stars. He had memorised the way to Knieriem's house before leaving, but checked it with a kiosk proprietor before heading off into the even darker side streets. What he most looked forward to in the world beyond Germany was a night full of bright lights and laughter.

  It took him about ten minutes to find the street and the house. Rather to his surprise, a young woman in a Nachrichtenhelferinnen uniform answered his knock on the door.

  'I wish to see Herr Knieriem,' Russell said, with the air of someone who expected compliance.

  She flushed for no apparent reason. 'Oh, I'm just going out. Is my father expecting you?'

  'No,' he said, walking past her and into the spacious hallway. 'Please tell him Sturmbannfuhrer Scheel wishes to see him.'

  She disappeared, leaving Russell to congratulate himself for not trusting an old Social Democrat. Anyone with a daughter keen enough to join an army auxiliary unit was unlikely to be handing out military secrets.

  Franz Knieriem emerged, kissed his daughter goodbye, and invited Russell through to a spacious, well-heated room at the back of the house. He had lost weight since Russell had last seen him, but he still didn't look like a fighter. Thinning hair, neatly parted down the centre, topped a head that seemed too large for its features - piggy eyes, a knob of a nose, and a small fleshy mouth. Your typical Aryan.

  He offered Russell a moist grip, but looked somewhat wary. 'How can I help you, Sturmbannfuhrer?'

  Russell lowered himself into a plush armchair. 'Please shut the door, Herr Knieriem. This is a security matter.'

  'There's no else in the house.'

  'Very well. I belong to the Sicherheitsdienst, Herr Knieriem. You know who we are and what we do?'

  'You...'

  'We protect the Reich from its less visible enemies - spies, Bolsheviks, dissidents of all kinds.'

  'But what has that to do with me?'

  'Please, Herr Knieriem, do not be concerned. I did not mean to imply that you were such an enemy. The reason for my visit is this - we have information that you are about to be approached by a foreign agent. This man is a German, but he works for the Reds. You yourself were a Social Democrat, I believe?'

  'A great many years ago,' Knieriem protested.

  'Of course. But the Reds no doubt believe that they can play on past sympathies, and on family loyalties of course - your brother was a communist, was he not?'

  'He was, but I can assure you...'

  'Of course. You would no more pass on secrets than I would. The point, however, is that this misapprehension on the part of the enemy has presented us with a golden opportunity to mislead him.'

  'I don't understand.'

  Russell's hopes rose. Knieriem was clearly not the brightest spark in the blackout. 'The information which the Reds are interested in concerns our long-range bomber force. Which you, of course, are in a position to tell them about. If you tell them we will soon have a long-range
capability they will believe it. And if you tell them we will not, the same will apply.'

  'So what should I tell them?'

  'We think dishonesty would be the best policy. You understand?'

  'You mean I should tell them that such bombers will soon be ready?' Russell breathed an inner sigh of satisfaction. 'Exactly. But you'll have to say more than that. The more details you can offer, the more convincing the lie will be.'

  Knieriem thought about it. 'Well, there are plans,' he said. 'The Me264, for example, and there are several other prototypes. The Ju390 looks promising. But none of them will be ready before 1943 at the very earliest, and only in very small numbers even then. I suppose I could speed up the development times for our Red friend, and multiply the production orders.'

  'That would be ideal. You could outline the real difficulties that we are having, but then assure him that they have all been overcome. The more details the better.'

  'Well, the main difficulty is the lack of resources. The need for more fighters and shorter-range bombers is considered more urgent, so they have a higher priority.' Knieriem smiled almost wistfully.

  Russell frowned. 'Perhaps too much detail would be counter-productive. Perhaps it would be better if you simply told the agent that our long-range bombers are almost ready. Give the Reds something to worry about, eh? They can use up all their resources moving their factories another thousand kilometres to the East.'

  'When should I expect this man to approach me? He won't come here, will he?'

  'Probably not. But once he has contacted you, you must report to me at Wilhelmstrasse 102.'

  'And if he doesn't?'

  'Then do nothing,' Russell said, levering himself out of the armchair. 'He may be watching to make sure you are not in contact with us. That's why I came here after dark,' he added, as the obvious question dawned in the other man's eyes.

  Russell got to his feet, placed the peaked cap on his head, and did up the buttons on his outside coat. 'We are relying on you, Herr Knieriem,' he said by way of farewell. 'Do not fail us.'