The Swiss Spy

by Alex Gerlis

  Edgar’s parting words had been menacing enough, but they hardly began to describe what Henry encountered at Anhalter. The station was busy, but unnaturally quiet apart from the noise of dogs barking in the distance. A number of the people were exiting the station as he entered it, looking over their shoulders and apparently relieved to be in the open air. He noticed there were a large number of troops milling around, dressed in the black uniform of the SS rather than the grey of the Wehrmacht. He purchased a return ticket to Botanischer Garten, making sure to ask the clerk behind the tiny window if he knew how long it would take for him to walk to the gardens from the station.

  Continuing to feel pleased with how things had gone, he headed for the platform, which was when he saw them. His first impression was it was a lot of people waiting for one train, especially at lunchtime. Maybe an outing. They were two platforms away, crowded together and hemmed in by the SS men in their black uniforms. Some of the SS had Alsatians with them, and though they held them on a short leash they allowed them to rear up at the people on the platform. All the while there was non-stop barking, which every so often orchestrated with the sound of a train’s whistle or a station announcement.

  Henry moved along his platform, trying to get a better view. The crowd was mixed: men, women and children; old and young. They seemed to be quite well-dressed and all the were either carrying suitcases or clutching bundles. From what he could see, the SS men were checking what the people had with them and a few of the bundles ended up being strewn on the platform, with some clothing spilling over onto the track.

  He was still trying to make some sense of it when his train pulled into the platform and there was a scramble to board. Henry positioned himself by a window looking out onto the crowded platform. The window was dirty and it was hard to make out much detail through the screen of soot and grease. With his sleeve, he tried to clean his side of the glass and as he did so he caught the eye of the woman who had sat down opposite him. She followed his gaze across the track then looked down, intently studying the rail ticket she was clutching in her gloved hands. He leaned forward to get a better view, but then the doors of the train slammed, a guard called out and the train lurched forward. Within seconds the crowd of people on the opposite platform became a blur and soon they were out of Anhalter.

  ‘Do you know who they were?’ he asked the lady.

  She looked around her before answering. ‘You don’t know?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Jews: they’ve started to take them away,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘Where to?’

  A ticket inspector had appeared next to them and they both silently handed him their tickets. She glanced up at him. Keep quiet. Over the crackly speaker the driver announced the next station: ‘Grossgorsenstrasse.’

  The lady stood up, smoothing her coat as she did so. Before moving into the aisle she bent down and, barely pausing, whispered into Henry’s ear. ‘Wherever it is they take them to, they don’t come back.’

  He got off the train at Botanischer Garten, crossed the Unter den Eichen and entered the gardens. He did his best to appear every bit the interested visitor and made leisurely progress to the Italian Garden, which was actually quite beautiful and in other circumstances would have been an ideal place to relax.

  If you’re not approached by him within ten minutes of entering the Italian Garden, walk back to the station and travel back to Anhalter then to the hotel. Just act normally. Just because he doesn’t turn up doesn’t necessarily mean something is wrong.

  He had been in the Italian Gardens approaching ten minutes when a smartly dressed man with a broad-brimmed hat came up to him and spoke in an educated Berlin accent.

  ‘Excuse me sir; could you point me in the direction of the greenhouses?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not very familiar with the gardens. I can tell you the lake is in that direction though,’ said Henry, sticking carefully to his script.

  The man held out his hand and shook Henry’s. ‘I’m Franz. I’m pleased to meet you. Everything appears to be in order. We’ll spend another few minutes separately in these gardens then I’ll head out. Follow me at a safe distance. We’ll exit through Königin-Luise-Strasse. If, at any stage, I remove my hat then that’s a signal something is wrong. In that case, keep on walking and make your way back to the station, for which you’ll need to take a circuitous route. Assuming everything is in order, you’ll see me enter a house – no more than five minutes from here. Allow two minutes from when I enter before you approach. There’s a small window above the front door. Only approach the house if the curtains in that window are open. If they’re closed, head back to the hotel. Have you got all that?’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘Good. Now point me in a northerly direction. I’m sure no-one’s watching us, but just in case they are, they’ll see you directing me.’

  For the next few minutes they strolled apart around the Italian garden. Henry did his best to appear fascinated by the plants. A group of young Luftwaffe officers were also walking around and he wondered if their presence might cause a delay, but then he noticed the lawyer head out of the gardens. He followed him until he entered the white house on the corner of Arno-Holz Strasse.

  Allow two minutes from when I enter before you approach.

  He had slowed his pace right down and allowed himself one quick glance behind him. The area appeared to be deserted. In a house across the street a maid had come out to put something in a bin and was looking at him. He bent down to tie his shoelaces and a glance at his watch told him a minute and a half had elapsed since Hermann had entered the house. He would head over now.

  The curtains in the small window above the porch were open and as he walked down the path the front door opened. Hermann was in the hall, gesturing for him to go upstairs. The landing was dark; he could only just make out two doorways in a corridor. One of them opened and at first the woman in the doorway was only in silhouette, with the light flooding in behind her. She gestured for him to come into the room. It was a small lounge with two sofas and a table in the corner: a boy and a girl were sitting on the sofa. By now, Franz Hermann had joined him and made the introductions. ‘Alfred and Sophia.’ The boy and the girl both stood up and shook his hand, the girl only after being prompted to do so by her brother. ‘Herr Hesse is a friend of the family from Switzerland, from Zürich,’ said Hermann.

  Alfred looked younger than his 12 years: he had a pleasant face that showed signs of beginning to turn handsome and the fair hair his father had described. He was thin and slightly gaunt-looking, with a pale, unhealthy complexion that no doubt owed much to having been confined indoors for so long. He had a natural smile, but it did reveal a set of yellow teeth.

  Henry was unable to gauge whether Alfred’s sister looked older or younger than five, but Sophia did share her brother’s unhealthily pale complexion. She held her head down and stared up at whoever she was looking at with enormous, dark eyes that managed to appear both innocent and knowing at the same time. She had a head of thick, dark hair that fell over her thin shoulders and was a clutching a dirty toy rabbit close to her.

  And this is Rosa.

  Rosa.

  Roza.

  With long, dark hair that flowed over her slim shoulders and dark eyes that sparkled, this Rosa looked too much like her Russian namesake. In a lesser light she could easily be mistaken for her. And though it was ten years since Henry had last seen Roza in the flesh, in truth he’d seen her image most nights since then, far too stark and too lifelike to have allowed her to fade from his memory. This Rosa was as he imagined Roza would have grown up to be: the face slightly more lined, the small breasts now fuller under the blouse and cardigan, the eyes having lived that much longer and experienced that much more. He fully expected her to gently touch his wrist and then, as she was wont to do in the dreams, grip him tightly and admonish him. ‘You were the one person I thought understood me, you were someone I trusted,’ she’d said t
hen, certain in the knowledge of the fate that awaited her.

  Roza.

  Rosa smiled and shook his hand then asked the children to leave the room.

  ‘Go upstairs. I’ll call you down later. And remember, be quiet!’

  The children silently shuffled out of the room. When Rosa spoke again Henry noticed she did so in such a soft voice it was barely above a whisper.

  ‘This is the house of Franz’s mother. She is elderly and infirm, and I look after her. I’m a doctor, but as far as she’s concerned, I’m a nurse. She has no idea I’m Jewish and nor does she have any inkling the children are here, which is why we have to be so quiet. Her hearing is very bad, but we’re careful nonetheless. The children never go downstairs. We have been here for well over a year and life is barely tolerable. The children have to live in silence: we can’t risk putting the lights on when it gets dark. We’re so grateful to Franz, but life is difficult: we have limited food, despite Franz’s generosity. Gunter helps too, but he has to be careful as his wife knows nothing. We live in constant fear that someone will find out about us. Gunter feels that at least we should try to get Alfred out, he’s insistent about that and I’ve come round to accepting it, even though it breaks my heart. I understand you’ve come to help; I’m so grateful. Please tell us everything.’

  Over the following hour Henry went through the plan in detail. Rosa was impassive, perched on the edge of the sofa, straight-backed and occasionally asking him to repeat himself. Once, Rosa placed her hand on his, allowing her long, thin fingers to brush his wrist. Henry must have showed his emotions because Franz Hermann leant forward.

  ‘Are you alright, Henri?’

  ‘Pardon?’ He felt as if though he’d just woken up, momentarily unsure of exactly where he was.

  ‘Are you alright? You look worried.’

  ‘No, no… I’m fine. I was just thinking about what we have to do. There’s so much detail to think about.’

  They both agreed that if Alfred’s hair could be dyed and styled like that of Andreas, then, along with the glasses, he would have a reasonable resemblance to the Swiss boy, especially given that the passport photograph was taken two years previously. Even the most rigorous person inspecting it would have to acknowledge Andreas had aged.

  ‘Alfred is an intelligent boy,’ said Rosa. ‘I know that most mothers would say that, but he is. I’m sure he’ll be able to remember the details of the cover story, but how he’ll act under pressure is a different matter: we simply don’t know, do we? He’s well aware of how much danger we’re in. He’ll know he may never see us again.’

  Henry only realised Rosa was crying when he saw Franz had moved closer to her and had a comforting arm around her shoulder. Henry looked first at the floor then at the window, awkward and unsure of what to say. At first he slid along the sofa towards Rosa, thinking it was his place to comfort her too, but then he checked himself. It would not do to appear too familiar. How could he begin to explain himself?

  ‘In many respects, we’re well-prepared,’ said Franz. ‘You have the passport and the rail ticket, and you said something about the Swiss side of the border being potentially the hardest part of the journey. From what I’ve also heard, that’s correct: the Swiss are very strict about who they let in: one of their own citizens ought not to be a problem. The Germans will be more concerned with someone who has a German passport trying to leave the country. The priority now is to start work with Alfred.’

  Rosa stood up and walked over to the window, drawing the curtain.

  ‘I’d better go and check on your mother, Franz. Then let me have some time alone with Alfred. I’d like to tell him myself. How long can you stay, Herr Hesse?’

  ‘I suppose I have a few hours?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Hermann. ‘It’ll look suspicious if you arrive back too late at the Kaiserhof. There’s no question they’ll be keeping a note on your movements, which happens with all foreign visitors. You can have one hour with Alfred then come back tomorrow, when you’ll have all day.’

  ***

  It was the Friday, the last day of February, and as the train pulled out of Potsdam station Henry noticed that Alfred, who he could now only think of as Andreas Hedinger, was crying.

  It was a very private cry, the silent type where a few tears trickle down the cheek and any sobs are suppressed by a cough and biting the lip. Andreas had shifted in his seat so he was looking directly out of the window and neither of the other passengers in the carriage could possibly see his face. Henry caught glimpses of him in profile, along with the reflection of his face on the window.

  Alfred had held himself together so far that morning and over the previous two days. Ten minutes previously, he’d passed his first major test. Security at the station had been lighter than they’d expected, with the main check being to ensure the tickets were in order. But Henry knew that sooner or later they would be questioned, and that had happened during the wait at Potsdam station when a Gestapo officer had entered their compartment, with two Wehrmacht soldiers waiting in corridor outside.

  Tickets. Identity documents. Quick.

  The Gestapo officer’s eyes darted from Henry to Andreas and back again, then to the other two men. Both appeared to be travelling on business: one to Jena and the other to Würzburg. The Gestapo officer seemed satisfied with their papers. Then it was Henry’s turn.

  ‘Your ticket is to Stuttgart.’

  ‘Yes: then we’re travelling to Zürich.’

  ‘Let me see those tickets.’

  He studied them then said to Alfred, ‘You are travelling together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are related?’

  ‘No, Andreas is the son of a friend and colleague. He’s been in Berlin visiting while I was on business in the city. His parents asked me to look after him.’

  ‘What is your business?’

  ‘I work for a bank: Bank Leu. Here’s my letter of accreditation.’

  The Gestapo man read every word then turned to Alfred. ‘You: your papers.’

  Alfred handed over the passport.

  Say as little as possible and, when you do, don’t speak too clearly: the Germans will obviously expect a Swiss person to have an accent.

  ‘What’s your date of birth?’

  That was no problem. They’d been working very hard over the past couple of days.

  Two more questions and I’ll begin to worry.

  ‘And where did you visit in Berlin?’

  Henry did begin to worry. Surely the Gestapo man would spot Alfred was speaking with a Berlin accent, certainly not a Swiss one.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, where did you visit in Berlin?’

  The carriage door opened and one of the Wehrmacht soldiers came in.

  ‘Otto wants your help in the front: there’s a problem.’

  Too easy. Every minute of your visit will be laced with danger.

  But that was that. Henry wanted to tell Alfred how well he had done, but all he was able to do was smile.

  ***

  Alfred had been a model student, carefully writing down the details he needed to remember to pass as Andreas Hedinger from Zürich and memorising the story about how he had come to be in Berlin with Herr Hesse, who was such a good friend of his parents. He was so good to have agreed to take him to Berlin with him.

  My father is so busy, I hardly see him these days! He kept promising to take me to Berlin and was always cancelling. Herr Hesse has been so very kind!

  That was the agreed line they would take if anyone questioned why he was in Berlin with Henry. In an effort to persuade Alfred to believe in the story, they all kept up the pretence of how plausible it was. The adults knew the first line of their defence lay in the paperwork: if that in any way failed to convince, then the story would be probed and Henry knew it would not stand up to a lot of scrutiny. Their displays of confidence in the story must have worked: by the time they got on the train in Berlin, Henry had even come to believe it himse
lf.

  Henry had gone to the Reichsbank first thing on the Wednesday morning – the briefest of trips, just enough to be able to show the hotel where he was going. From there, he travelled down to Dahlem and spent the whole day with Alfred. Gunter Reinhart had joined them for an hour in the afternoon: when he left, it was to say farewell to Alfred. He followed the same pattern on the Thursday. Franz brought Alfred to the station on the Friday morning. His hair had been cut and dyed, and along with the wire-framed spectacles, the passage of time and the relatively poor quality of the photograph, he presented more than a passing resemblance to Andreas Hedinger. Alfred stood on the platform clutching his small knapsack with a few clothes and one or two other innocuous items in it. In the pocket of his jacket was the Swiss passport, his lifeline. Franz shook hands briefly with both of them and disappeared into the crowd.

  ***

  After Potsdam, there had been a long wait in Leipzig and when the train finally left the city it moved very slowly through Saxony, meaning they were more than two hours behind schedule when they arrived in Jena. Henry spent the long hours alternating between staring out of the window and closing his eyes but, when he did so, Roza was staring at him as always.

  Henry knew their chances of getting into Switzerland that night were remote. By the time the train crossed over from Thuringia into Bavaria, the rain that had accompanied them since Jena had become incessant. Alfred sat quietly in one position: he had eaten very little apart from a sausage and milk Henry had bought on the platform at Leipzig. Since Potsdam he had appeared composed.

  There was another long wait in Würzburg and they were joined in their carriage by three new passengers: a woman with a pinched face accompanied by a pretty teenage daughter and a Waffen SS Obersturmführer who was one small glass of something short of being drunk. Henry saw the boy tense as the SS officer stumbled into the carriage. At the sight of the girl, who could have been no more than 17, the Obersturmführer’s eyes lit up. For the next half hour he did his best to impress her, while the girl tried to ignore him, helped by the clear disapproval of her mother.