Making History

by Rick Wilber

  It is grueling work, as you must know, and demands a great deal of my thought and energy. But I have, from time to time, done some interesting maths to advance the S-Matrix work and so I am delighted to report to you that not only do I have something interesting to say at your little gathering, but Herr Hitler has personally endorsed my speaking to your group in Zurich in December.

  So I thank you most deeply for the invitation and am happy to report that I shall be able to attend. I am looking forward to seeing you and all my old friends in Switzerland at the Eidgenossische Technische Hochscule where, I am sure, much interesting work has been done even during these unfortunate times. I look forward to hearing from you and your colleagues and I hope that you will find what I have to say of some small interest.

  Elisabeth and the children were delighted to be invited but will be unable to attend. They do say hello and wish you and your family the best. Christine, especially, hopes to see your little Lisia sometime soon in a better, more peaceful world. I will see you in a few months, my friend, and I will look forward to that meeting with the greatest anticipation.

  Berg looked up. “And he signs it, “Werner.”

  He sat back and looked at Fermi, who was shaking his head in disbelief, and then they both looked at Scherrer, who was smiling broadly.

  “How did you do this, Paul?” Berg wanted to know. “Heisenberg? In Zurich? In the middle of a war? How did you even manage to contact him to make such a request?”

  “Paul,” Fermi added, leaning over the table, “You know Werner every bit as well as I do. You must know what this means. He must have intended the implications of this letter. Surely you agree?”

  Scherrer’s smiled faded. “Yes, Enrico, of course. And so we must take advantage of this opportunity, as Werner no doubt would wish us to do.”

  “Take advantage?” asked Berg. “He’s got a target on his back, gentlemen, and it’s been there since the start of the war. You think he means to offer himself up at this get-together you have planned? Why would he do such a thing?”

  “To tell us, to make it clear to us, that Germany does not have the super-bomb and will not build it. That could be Werner’s motive,” said Fermi. He leaned forward, his hands open, expressive. “Spero che sia così.” I hope it is so.

  Berg nodded. “Yes, that might be it.” There was a rumbling in the distance, the low sound of engines, several of them working in unison, slowly drawing closer. “That would make sense if he’s doing what you two think he is doing, finding ways to stall the creation of that super-bomb, pushing the development of it in the wrong direction.”

  The rumbling grew closer, the vibrations from it rattling the crockery on the table, the plates vibrating, the silverware jiggling in place. A tank column rumbling down the road? That’s what it sounded like.

  The proprietor, Gianluca, came out and looked up, pointed. “Once a day lately, three in the afternoon, like clockwork.”

  They looked up and a bulbous nose appeared over the hill behind them and then grew to include the entire zeppelin, flying low, an enormous thing, a giant when seen this close. It was the the Hindenburg.

  Safely interned in neutral Switzerland and renamed the Wilhelm Tell, she was still the pride of the German people, the mighty airship that had found safety here on the very day the Americans and English declared war on Germany.

  My god, it was an enormous airship. Berg knew the basics; it was capable of carrying a payload of half-a-million pounds, double that if one wanted to risk the dangers of using hydrogen instead of helium. It was more than eight-hundred feet long, had a cruising speed of seventy-five miles per hour and a range of an incredible ten-thousand miles. Beginning in 1936 it made regular two-day crossings of the Atlantic between Frankfurt and New York, less than half the time the best ocean liners could manage and in greater comfort.

  He wasn’t surprised to see her flying so low, the Hindenburg was known for flying just a few hundred feet up. It made for a great view for the passengers and impressed the hell out of those on the ground as they watched the huge thing go by with its giant swatztikas on the side and on the tail.

  Or at least that’s how it had been for her before the war. Since she’d been interned in neutral Switzerland, she no longer carried the Nazi banner. Now she was flying with giant red crosses on her, the deal with Hitler being that the Swiss would let her fly, and with her German crew, as long as the paint job was Swiss.

  By god, she was really something. He gaped, along with Fermi and Scherrer, as she passed overhead and made her way across the lake toward Lucarno.

  And then, once she was gone, the three of them got down to making some plans for December in Zurich.

  Before the afternoon ended and Moe and Enrico wandered back into the Italian Republic and their bicycles, the three of them had an idea of what to do. And, more importantly, how to do it.

  ***

  December 12, 1944

  Paul Scherrer’s home was a lakefront, two-story chalet, across the Seestrasse Boulevard from Rieterpark, with its woods and playing fields. Berg had spent a couple of weeks with Scherrer and his family back in mid-October and came to very much like Ilse, Scherrer’s wife and the real master of the house. He also liked the three children, all girls ranging from eight to fourteen. By the end of those two weeks he’d put the family onto his mental list of people he would have to save from Hitler’s anger if push came to shove on this Heisenberg thing. Fermi and his family were already on the list so, with a deep internal smile, Berg was starting to think of the list as his Phavorite Physicists list.

  Heisenberg was not a phavorite.

  Moe walked up the long driveway. It was snowing hard now, an inch or two on the ground already and a lot more to come, looked like. There were half-a-dozen cars parked on the grass to the side, showing off Zurich’s relative wealth even during this war. A couple of Bugattis and a Mercedes spoke to the presence of some local politicians and leading businessmen. Some lesser Renaults and Citroens probably belonged to professors.

  Berg was about to knock on the door when Jeanine, the eight-year-old, beat him to it. “Mr. Berg!” she said with delight, and came to him for a hug. She was the most delightful of the three charming daughters, so “How wonderful to see you, Jeanine,” he said, hugging her back. “How are your sisters? And your mother? “

  She laughed. “You’re so silly, Mr. Berg. Amelie is fine, but she’s the only sister I have and she’s nearly eleven, so there’s no talking with her, really. And Mother is fine, too. And Father. They’re so happy you’re here, and so am I!”

  She prattled on a little longer, taking him by the hand and leading him into the house, presumably to meet the hosts before she would let go of him. Well, that was fine, but what was this thing about having just one sister? He knew, firmly, there were three. Was his memory wrong? He’d seen his father slip away into dementia and he didn’t like considering the implications of these doubts about himself. Just nerves, perhaps, and that, he decided, he could handle.

  Firmly in tow behind Jeanine, he rounded a corner and there was Paul Scherrer and beside him, Ilse. Hellos and handshakes and hugs and polite kisses on the cheek all around and soon Jeanine was back with her sister and the adults were talking, mostly about the weather and the children, since most topics of interest were off-limits in a group like this, where there was certainly a Gestapo agent or two in the crowd, along with several admitted Nazi sympathizers like Weizsäcker.

  “By the way, our mutual friend is here,” was all Scherrer had to say after the small talk ended. “I do believe he’s out in the back room, the one with the view of the lake.”

  Berg nodded, shook his friend’s hand again, very knowingly, since they both knew it might be the last time they’d see each other, and then left the Scherrers and walked past the likes of Gregor Wentzel and Ernst Stueckelberg, nodding and saying hello but moving, moving toward the far room, the one with the view of the lake, the one with Heisenberg.

  ***

  Augus
t 23, 1943

  Will Bill Donovan was setting up a special kind of operation, a unit filled with people who would risk their lives for their country, working behind enemy lines, finding out things, causing trouble for the enemy.

  What he had in mind for Moe Berg was work in Europe, dangerous work. He needed someone who could speak all those damn languages, someone with nerve, someone smart, someone with some physical skills and the willingness to do what had to be done. Was Moe Berg that man, Donovan wanted to know?

  Sure he was. Sign me up, he said to Donovan after a half-hour conversation. And when do I start?

  But it wasn’t that simple. It would be best to finish the baseball season and then disappear into the woodwork, quietly, unobserved. Could Moe do that? Could he play ball for both the White Sox and his country? Could he finish things out in September and then go into training in October and, probably, be in action by the spring?

  Sure he could. Sign me up, he said again to Donovan. And so it was.

  But if the plan was to keep it quiet, Moe failed at that. Flush with his new calling, filled with self-confidence, the old Moe faded away into the rainy days of August and a new, bolder, Moe Berg was playing first base now for the Sox. A Moe who was hitting a ton, making the picks at first, running the bases like a madman. Freedom from worry was a wonderful thing and Moe tore the cover off the ball for the last three weeks of the season, hitting .342 and playing great defense. He led the White Sox in a climb from fourth place to third and then to second in the American League. Hell, still five games back at the end of the season but in that last month Moe Berg, baseball player, went from has-been to a hot item. Manager Jimmy Dykes professed loudly that he loved Moe’s heart and his determination. General Manager Harry Grabiner praised Moe and swore he wouldn’t trade him, and then started trying to make a deal with the Senators.

  This was not exactly how Donovan wanted it to go, since it brought attention to Moe, but that was all right, in the off-season most people would forget baseball. There was, after all, a war going on. A hell of a war, what with Rommel revitalized in North Africa taking back Tobruk and knocking on the door of Cairo, and Germany launching those damn rockets at London, and the Luftwaffe’s new jet aircraft regaining superiority over Europe. Things were teetering. There were a lot of people, important people, saying it was time for an armistice with Hitler so America could concentrate on the Japanese, where the war was going better since the cakewalk at Tinian.

  Wild Bill was not interested in talking peace with Hitler. Wild Bill knew what most Americans didn’t: the Nazis were working on a super-bomb, and with jets and rockets and those new, larger U-boats they had a way to deliver one if they got the damn bomb built. If that happened, the Japanese wouldn’t matter, Oppy told him time and again. If the Germans got the bomb first, nothing mattered. The war was over and the good guys lost.

  Moe Berg, spy, and the key to it all, really, found himself on the fast track.

  ***

  December 12, 1944

  Moe got caught in two brief conversations as he worked his way toward the back room, but he had to stay quiet and unobtrusive, blend in, and so he chatted about S-matrix and then about the weather and then, finally, he got to the double-doors at the back of the chalet that opened up to the added-on back room. One of the doors was open and he walked through it and there, at the window at the back of the room, the window with the great view of Lake Zurich, was Werner Heisenberg, chatting with several people, smiling, nodding his head.

  One of those people was a woman. Was the woman, Moe’s mysterious friend from the past two years and the conversation from a couple of hours ago. It was her, he was sure of it, though she was dressed differently now, more elegant and less business, her hair piled up on top and a smart, little hat on top of that. There were long earrings and red lipstick and padded shoulders. Putting on the Ritz. Damn, she was a knockout.

  He walked toward the little group. The woman saw him coming, smiled, looked at her watch. “Werner, dear, here is the man I was telling you about –the Italian physicist who worked with Fermi? –Mario Antonacci.”

  Then she turned to Moe, offered her hand. “So good to see you, Mario. I’m so happy you were able to come.”

  Heisenberg reached out to take Moe’s hand in his own. “It is a great pleasure, Herr Professor. As you must know, I am a good friend and a great admirer of your colleague, Professor Fermi. I had hoped he might be able to attend here this weekend.”

  “I was with him just a few weeks ago, Professor,” Moe was able to say truthfully. “He had hoped to attend, but with the political situation as it is . . . “ Moe shrugged.

  Heisenberg nodded. “Of course, Professor. These are difficult times for us all.”

  Berg felt a hand on his shoulder, that flash of stomach-churning disorientation. It was the woman, and she was putting a hand on Heisenberg’s shoulder, as well. “Boys,” she said with a little laugh, “time enough for small talk later. Right now I was hoping to take the two of you outside.” She took a look at her watch again. “I’m told we’re going to see quite a sight in the next few minutes. A very special visit from an old friend of mine. Would you come with me, both of you, please?”

  There was nothing to do but follow, as the woman took them both by the hand and walked toward the doors that led out to the back yard of the chalet, where a path led to a wooden walkway that, in turn, led out to a dock. No boats tied up this time of year, but no ice on the water yet, either.

  The night was warm for December, well above freezing. They walked out onto the dock, the three of them, alone, the house behind them dimly lit, quiet, as the Scherrers prepared for bed and the servants finished cleaning up the remnants of the small dinner party. A cloudless, moonless night and few wartime lights made for a beautiful sky, the Milky Way arching across in full glory, a reminder, in its own way, of the hell that was nighttime bombing. There was a distance rumble, a rhythmic beat to it, a deep cadence that Berg remembered from a few months ago. Engines. Big twelve-hundred horsepower Daimler-Benz diesels, four of them, sixteen-cylinder behemoths, driving the great beast forward. The Hindenburg. The Wilhelm Tell.

  The great dark shadow of it emerged from the east, over the alpine ridges to the back of the lake. Low in the sky, as always, it seemed to take forever to finally clear the ridgeline and establish itself in its full glory.

  It came toward them, slowing, slowing and then, no more than one-hundred feet above them, a huge thing nearly three football fields long, easing to a stop, the roar of the engines quieting to an idle. Directly above the three of them was the fuhrergondel, the control car, where the crew did its work. The passengers and the cargo were inside the envelope.

  “She’s magnificent, isn’t she, Moe?” the woman asked. “I told you that you’d see her again.”

  “You never mentioned the Hindenburg,” Moe said, and took his eyes of the huge shape above him and turned to look at the woman.

  She was holding a gun. Moe’s gun, the Beretta. He reached into this pocket and wasn’t surprised to find it wasn’t there.

  “You know this has to be, Mr. Berg,” said Heisenberg, walking over to stand next to her, admitting he knew who Moe really was. “Tomorrow morning, at the Eagle’s Nest, Herr Hitler and the others –Goring, Hess, Von Braun, Goebbels, Hausser, Messerschmitt, Ribbentrop, Himmler, and many more –will be gathered to meet with me as I return from Zurich aboard the Hindenburg.

  “Hitler has an announcement for them. He plans to tell them that the super-bomb is ready, and that Messerschmitt has a plane that can deliver it. He plans to introduce me to them and I will explain how the bomb works, and the damage it will do to London, and how we are building three more of these super-bombs, these atomic bombs.”

  “So killing you now is too late. I get that,” said Berg.

  “No, Moe,” the woman said. “In about five minutes they’re going to lower a ladder down from that control car. We’re going to help Herr Heisenberg get on that ladder and climb up to the c
ontrol car. Then we’re going to watch the Hindenburg leave, heading for the border, and then the Eagle’s Nest.”

  “We’re not going to stop him?”

  Heisenberg shrugged. “No, I don’t think so, Mr. Berg. There are no bombs made of the size the Fuhrer thinks they are. There is only one bomb –we have built that –and it’s enormous. It weights nearly twenty of your tons, and it’s twice the size of a train car. There is no way for a plane or a rocket to deliver such a weapon.”

  “It’s already built?” Jesus, the game was over, then.

  And then it dawned on Moe Berg, spy. The game was nearly over, yes, heading into the ninth. But if that bomb. . .

  “That bomb is in the Hindenburg? It’s in there right now?”

  The woman and Heisenberg both nodded.

  There was a creak from just above, and then a bang as a hatch slammed open and then was tied off. A ladder started inching down from that hatch. The great hulk of the zeppelin was only twenty feet above them now, surreal in its enormity, silver in the darkness, only the single flashlight coming from the control car illuminating the ladder, aluminum, as it cranked slowly down.

  “And you’re taking it to the Eagle’s Nest?”

  “Yes, Moe, he is. That’s a crew of volunteers in there. The super-bomb is in the hold, the gas cells filled with hydrogen for extra lift. Tomorrow, before noon, they will reach the Eagle’s Nest and tie off at the landing tower. Professor Heisenberg will exit the zeppelin. Herr Hitler and the others will be at the landing pad to meet the creator of the great bomb and then they expect to board the Hindenburg and see more of the bombs, brought to them safely through neutral Switzerland.”