by Alex Gerlis
‘How often would ‘every so often’ be, Hunter?’
‘I really couldn’t say. Once or twice a year, maybe.’
‘My very strong advice, Hunter,’ Remington-Barber had now dispensed with the bonhomie, ‘would be you’re totally honest from now on. You see, your first mission is to go up to Stuttgart and the more we know about your familiarity with the city, the better. I do hope you understand that.’
Shouldn’t be anything too dangerous; a warm-up, if you like.
‘Edgar implied my first mission would be within Switzerland.’
‘Did he now? Well, that’s Edgar for you: an officer but not quite a gentleman. Grammar school, I’m told. Now, tell me all about Stuttgart.’
‘My step-father had a fair amount of residential property in Stuttgart, in the best areas: quite a lot in Gänseheide to the east of the city centre and more in the north, Azenberg and Killesberg mostly. He had local agents that looked after them, but he liked me to go up there once a quarter to check everything was in order and to oversee the transfer of his rental income back to Switzerland.’
‘So you visited Stuttgart four times a year.’
‘Yes.’
‘For how many years?’
‘Seven or eight, possibly more.’
‘Mathematics was never my strongest subject, Hunter, but I make that somewhere in the region of 30 visits to Stuttgart.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. So you’re very familiar with the city?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Speak the local dialect?’
‘No, though I do understand it.’
‘And where did you stay?’
‘Usually at Hotel Marquardt in Schlossplatz.’
‘That is certainly quite an omission, Hunter. Don’t worry too much; I’m sure you’re about to more than make up for it.’
***
Henry Hunter could never quite see the point of Bern. It was a pretty enough place, with an undoubted medieval charm and the River Aare leant a certain picturesque drama to the city as it twisted through the centre. But in a typically Swiss way it was rather too aware of its virtues; a little bit too smug. For the past 90 years or so the city had been the capital of Switzerland and now all roads led to it and, in the case of Henry’s journey there on a windy Wednesday morning, so did the trains.
At the end of their briefing the previous day, the Hon Basil Remington-Barber had told him to get a move on. Henry had rather imagined this meant by the end of the month, possibly within a fortnight.
‘A fortnight? You must be joking Hunter. No, this week. Get up to Bern tomorrow, sort out your visa then I’ll give you your precise instructions.’
He explained to his mother he was visiting friends in Basle for a few days and took an early morning train to Bern, arriving at the station in Bahnhofplatz just in time for lunch. Henry had been pleasantly surprised when Remington-Barber suggested he book into the Schweizerhof, the best hotel in the city and no more than a short stroll from the station.
‘Rather goes against the grain Hunter and certainly pushes the expenses, but the point is you have to stick to your role: as far as the Germans are concerned, you’re an affluent Swiss gentleman who wishes to travel to Stuttgart on business. Such people stay at the Schweizerhof, I’m afraid. Make sure you’re seen out and about in the hotel. There are something like 115,000 people in this city and I think if you took the spies away, it’d be less than 100,000. Most of the spies hang around the Schweizerhof, so it’s good to be seen, just being yourself. Book yourself in for two nights. I just hope London buy it.’
Make sure you’re seen out and about in the hotel. Once he had checked in and changed he went down to the restaurant. The restaurant manager asked him to wait at the bar, where he found himself alongside two very formally dressed, middle-aged men speaking in German. The two Germans greeted him correctly, almost standing to attention as they did so.
‘What brings you to Bern?’ they asked. Henry explained he was from Geneva but was here in Bern to arrange a visa: he was hoping visit Germany soon on business.
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Stuttgart.’
‘Very good. Is Herr Hesse likely to be in Berlin at any time in the future?’
‘Maybe. You never know!’
‘You must look me up if you do,’ said one of the men. ‘There are so many misunderstandings about Germany these days. I’m sure you’re not one of those people who thinks nothing but bad of Germany; we are, after all, of the same race, yes?’
Henry nodded enthusiastically. Indeed.
‘But if you’re ever in Berlin, I could introduce you to people. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. I’d be happy to be of service.’
With that he presented Henry with a card, bowed slightly then left. Henry looked at it:
Alois Jäger
Rechtsanwalt
181 Friedrichstraße
Berlin
A Berlin lawyer; you never know.
***
The next morning, he visited the German Embassy on Willadingweg. As he planned his journey there he remembered Remington-Barber’s instructions.
‘Whatever you do, Hunter, keep well away from where we are in Thunstrasse. There’s a good chance you may be seen, the Germans pretty much keep a permanent watch outside our place. You know how you are to get hold of me.’
He breakfasted at the hotel, returned to his room briefly then strolled casually through the Old City, past the Münster – the enormous Gothic cathedral, over whose main entrance the sculpted participants in the Last Judgement gazed down at him, trying to decide whether he was wicked or virtuous.
He crossed the river on Kirchenfeldbrücke and soon found a taxi which took him to the German Embassy, located in a residential street in the east of the city. A large swastika hung limply over the entrance, which was guarded by half a dozen armed German soldiers. In the street outside were two Swiss policemen.
He had expected a short delay, but not the queue that greeted him. The visa office, the man in front of him explained, did not open until 11. It would close for lunch at one, re-open again at three and then close at five. The man looked up and down the queue. They do not hurry, he told Henry, but with some luck you may be seen sometime around four. Then you will have to return tomorrow to collect the visa.
He had been standing in the queue for an hour and a half when he heard a familiar voice behind him; Jäger, the Berlin lawyer.
‘My dear Hesse, what are you doing in the queue? Come with me.’
To the obvious annoyance of the people in front of him, Henry was removed from the queue and escorted straight into the Embassy.
Wait here.
It was 1.15 now and the visa office had closed for lunch. Ten minutes later and Jäger emerged from it with a clearly reluctant man in tow.
‘Hesse: Herr Soldner himself will look after you. You could not be in better hands. He has volunteered to curtail his lunch break in order to deal with your visa.’
It was evident that Herr Soldner was no mere clerk, as much as he looked like one. As they marched through the ground floor of the embassy to his office on the third floor, colleagues greeted him with a ‘Sieg Heil’, which he returned enthusiastically. His office was well appointed, overlooking the gardens at the rear. There was a portrait of Hitler on the wall and a large photograph on the desk of Herr Soldner shaking hands with some officers in black uniforms. Next to that was a smaller photograph of Herr Soldner with what he assumed was Frau Soldner and their children. On his lapel was a swastika badge. He gestured for Henry to sit down, removed his spectacles then read through Henry’s form, nodding at times, making notes in the margin in places.
‘Please explain the purpose of your visit to Stuttgart, Herr Hesse.’
Henry spoke in standard German, repeating the story he and Remington-Barber had agreed.
‘My step-father had some business interests in Stuttgart, property mostly. Unfortunately, he died two years ago and I want
to ensure there are no outstanding liabilities. Tying up loose ends, if you like.’
‘Do you have any bank accounts in Germany, Herr Hesse?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have friends in Stuttgart?’
‘More like acquaintances – business contacts.’
‘Their names please.’
Henry gave the names of the two lawyers they dealt with, along with the three agents who handled the various properties.
Herr Soldner wrote each name down. He then laid down his pen and put on his spectacles.
‘The last name you gave me, Herr Hesse – one of the agents.’
‘Bermann?’
‘Yes: first name please.’
‘Heinz: Heinz Bermann.’
‘A friend of yours?’
‘As I say, more of an acquaintance, a business associate.’
‘When did you last see Bermann?’
‘Last time I was in Stuttgart, some three years ago.’
‘And were you planning to see him this time?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Do you realise that if you did so, Herr Hesse, that would be in breach of the conditions of your visa?’
‘Really… Why’s that?’
‘The very strong likelihood is that Bermann is a Jew, an enemy of the state.’
With only the briefest hesitation, Henry slapped his thigh in annoyance.
‘You don’t say! Well that would explain a lot Herr Soldner. I didn’t want to say too much before I went there but we never totally trusted this Bermann. We always suspected he was being less than honest with us. That was one of the reasons for my visit, to find out whether he owed us money. Typical.’
‘If he’s still in Stuttgart, Herr Hesse, he will no longer have any assets in his own name.’
He wrote on a plain sheet of paper and attached it to the visa application, placing the complete document in a tray.
‘Your passport please Herr Hesse.’
He handed his Swiss passport over to the German.
‘Please wait in the reception on the ground floor. I will call you when I’m ready. You’ll understand I need to make some enquiries.’
***
‘The one thing we could get unstuck on is if they delve too far back,’ Remington-Barber had told him. ‘The only problem would be if they found out either you or your mother also has British nationality.’
‘That’d be most unlikely. My mother hated being Maureen Hunter, she thought it sounded common. She’s always regarded becoming Marlene Hesse and taking on Swiss nationality as the height of sophistication, and I’m certain she hasn’t used her English name or British identity in 17 years. Also, remember we moved from Zürich to Geneva after she married. I became a Swiss national in 1927 and, as far as the Swiss authorities are concerned, I’m Henri Hesse.’
‘Well, the Germans would have to dig very deep indeed to find all this out and they’re only going to do that if they suspect anything. Obviously, we hope they don’t.’
Obviously.
***
An hour later Adolf Hitler was once more staring at Henry Hunter, who was attempting to remain as calm as possible after being summoned back to Herr Soldner’s office.
‘Your visa is valid for 30 days from next Monday, which is the 1st of July. It expires on the 30th July. You’ll be in breach of your visa if you are in Germany after that date: do you understand?’
Henry nodded. He was hoping to be back in Switzerland long before then.
‘You’re only permitted to stay in Stuttgart. While in Germany you must not take part in any political activities; you are prohibited from meeting or consorting with Jews, criminals or other enemies of the state; you will register at a hotel within two hours of your arrival and are not permitted to stay anywhere else during your stay; you are not allowed to approach any military establishments or observe any movements of the armed forces; you are not permitted to take photographs. The only currency that you are allowed to use in Germany is Reichsmarks: upon your arrival you’re to go to a bank and exchange your Swiss Francs for Reichsmarks. I should warn you that using the black market is regarded as a serious criminal activity. It should not be necessary for me to warn you that should anyone approach you and ask for your help, particularly in regard to bringing information or messages back to Switzerland, that is also regarded as a very serious criminal activity. You should immediately report any such approach to the authorities. Do you understand?’
Henry did.
‘Good. I do hope you enjoy your visit to Germany, Herr Hesse.’
***
An hour later Henry Hunter entered a cobblers on an arcade on Kramgasse and explained to the bearded man just visible behind a mound of shoes on the counter he had caught the heel of one of his shoes in the tramline by the station. The cobbler nodded and lifted the counter top, beckoning for Henry to come through.
‘Go up the stairs to the very top. He is waiting for you.’
The Hon Basil Remington-Barber greeted Henry warmly.
‘Beauty of this place is I can get into it through the back of a café about five doors along. Now, tell me how you got on.’
Remington-Barber checked the passport and the visa. All in order: good. He was, he said, as certain as he could be the Germans suspected nothing. For the next hour he gave Henry a detailed briefing on the Stuttgart mission.
‘You’ve got everything Henry. All clear?’
‘Yes, though you say I’m going to be contacted by this Milo. I’m still not sure how I’ll know it’s him?’
‘And I told you, don’t worry. Milo will find you: you have memorised the codes so you will know. The less you know before you meet up, the safer it is.’
‘In case I’m caught?’
‘Exactly, in case you’re caught. Remember, you do whatever Milo tells you, understand?’
Henry said he did.
‘There are plenty of Swiss Francs in this envelope here: change them into Reichsmarks as soon as you arrive – don’t risk hiding any on you. Go back now to the Schweizerhof and check out: there’s a direct train to Geneva at 6.30. Before you leave the Schweizerhof, ask them to make you a reservation at the Hotel Victoria in Stuttgart, arriving on Tuesday the 16th, leaving on the Friday – the 19th. It looks better if you leave a couple of weeks between the visa being granted and you actually travelling there: makes it appear you’re not rushing. Understand?’
Henry nodded.
‘One other thing: be careful at night in Stuttgart. There’s a curfew on and few places to eat, so you’re to stay in the hotel. On the first night certainly you should order room service: in my experience that tends to draw less attention to yourself.’
‘And how would you like me to get to Stuttgart?’
‘On the Monday morning, you take the train from Geneva to Zürich: tell your mother you’ll be there all week. Give her this address; we’ll cover any contacts there. Stay overnight at the Central Plaza hotel by Oetenbachgasse, it’s very near the station: a room has been booked for you there. On Tuesday morning there’s a Swissair flight from Zürich to Stuttgart. It should only take 50 minutes, here’s hoping the RAF doesn’t shoot you down!’
***
Chapter 9: Salzburg Airport, July 1940
Early in the afternoon of the last Tuesday in July, at the height of summer, half a dozen men were doing their best to avoid each other in a stuffy room overlooking the runway at Salzburg Airport. The men were all dressed in uniforms denoting high rank in various branches of the German armed forces: two stood by the large window but well apart from each other; another appeared to be asleep; two others were leafing through their copies of the Vőlkischer Beobachter and another was pacing the room, drawing hard on a cigarette.
A short while after the clock struck two a nervous young Luftwaffe officer entered the room. A delay: many apologies. The plane was delayed after refuelling in Munich. Departure will now be at three o’clock – four at the latest.
Much muttering and shakin
g of heads around the room: the young Luftwaffe officer paused in the doorway just long enough to remember to give a hurried Heil Hitler salute, which was ignored by all the others.
The man who had appeared to be asleep stood up and carefully straightened his Kriegsmarine uniform before leaving the room. Outside was a small lawn with flowers planted neatly around its edges. He strolled up and down, and was soon joined by an army officer, one of the two men who had been by the window. The admiral and the general walked in step alongside each other in silence for a while. The general took his time lighting a large cigar before addressing his companion.
‘I see we cannot even rely on the Luftwaffe to get us back to Berlin on time! I imagine Jodl’s plane wasn’t delayed.’
‘He flew back last night, I understand: soon after the briefing,’ said the admiral, looking around as he spoke. ‘He probably didn’t want to hang around too long.’
‘Indeed. I assume he wanted to avoid our questions,’ said the general, speaking in a louder voice than his companion.
The admiral nodded and looked over each shoulder before he spoke. ‘And how is your son?’
The Generalmajor paused, slightly surprised by the question. In the circles he moved in, in Berlin, asking questions about an acquaintance’s family, especially about sons in the armed forces, was a form of code – a way of broaching the sensitive issue of what one really thought about the war. It was the same as discussing food shortages with people: questions only asked to people you could really trust.
‘Karl is well thank you; he’s an Oberleutnant now, based in Poland. And yours – you have two don’t you?’
‘One son, one daughter. Ernst joined the Kriegsmarine naturally, but unlike his father, uncles and grandfather, he seems to prefer to be under the water rather than on its surface. He’s with the 7th U-boat flotilla based in Kiel.’
The two men paused to watch a Luftwaffe Junkers passenger plane pass low overhead from the south, neatly framed against Untersberg mountain. The plane banked to the left and began its noisy approach to the runway.