Winter of the World

by Ken Follett

"You will say you now realize there is no truth in the allegations you made in your first letter. You were misled by secret Communists. You will apologize to the minister for the trouble you have caused by your incautious actions, and assure him that you will never again speak of the matter to anyone."

  "Yes, yes, I will. What are they doing to my wife?"

  "Nothing. She is screaming because of what will happen to her if you fail to write the letter."

  "I want to see her."

  "It will be worse for her if you annoy me with stupid demands."

  "Of course, I'm sorry, I beg your pardon."

  The opponents of Nazism were so weak. "Write the letter this evening, and mail it in the morning."

  "Yes. Should I send you a copy?"

  "It will come to me anyway, you idiot. Do you think the minister himself reads your insane scribbling?"

  "No, no, of course not, I see that."

  Macke went to door. "And stay away from people like Walter von Ulrich."

  "I will, I promise."

  Macke went out, beckoning Wagner to follow. Lieselotte was sitting on the floor screaming hysterically. Macke opened the parlor door and summoned Richter and Schneider.

  They left the house.

  "Sometimes violence is quite unnecessary," Macke said reflectively as they got into the car.

  Wagner took the wheel and Macke gave him the address of the von Ulrich house.

  "And then again, sometimes it's the simplest way," he added.

  Von Ulrich lived in the neighborhood of the church. His house was a spacious old building that he evidently could not afford to maintain. The paint was peeling, the railings were rusty, and a broken window had been patched with cardboard. This was not unusual: wartime austerity meant that many houses were not kept up.

  The door was opened by a maid. Macke presumed this was the woman whose handicapped child had started the whole problem--but he did not bother to inquire. There was no point in arresting girls.

  Walter von Ulrich stepped into the hall from a side room.

  Macke remembered him. He was the cousin of the Robert von Ulrich whose restaurant Macke and his brother had bought eight years ago. In those days he had been proud and arrogant. Now he wore a shabby suit, but his manner was still bold. "What do you want?" he said, attempting to sound as if he still had the power to demand explanations.

  Macke did not intend to waste much time here. "Cuff him," he said.

  Wagner stepped forward with the handcuffs.

  A tall, handsome woman appeared and stood in front of von Ulrich. "Tell me who you are and what you want," she demanded. She was obviously the wife. She had the hint of a foreign accent. No surprise there.

  Wagner slapped her face, hard, and she staggered back.

  "Turn around and put your wrists together," Wagner said to von Ulrich. "Otherwise I'll knock her teeth down her throat."

  Von Ulrich obeyed.

  A pretty young woman dressed in a nurse's uniform came rushing down the stairs. "Father!" she said. "What's happening?"

  Macke wondered how many more people there might be in the house. He felt a twinge of anxiety. An ordinary family could not overcome trained police officers, but a crowd of them might create enough of a fracas for von Ulrich to slip away.

  However, the man himself did not want a fight. "Don't confront them!" he said to his daughter in a voice of urgency. "Stay back!"

  The nurse looked terrified and did as she was told.

  Macke said: "Put him in the car."

  Wagner walked von Ulrich out of the door.

  The wife began to sob.

  The nurse said: "Where are you taking him?"

  Macke went to the door. He looked at the three women: the maid, the wife, and the daughter. "All this trouble," he said, "for the sake of an eight-year-old moron. I will never understand you people."

  He went out and got into the car.

  They drove the short distance to Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Wagner parked at the back of the Gestapo headquarters building alongside a dozen identical black cars. They all got out.

  They took von Ulrich in through a back door and down the stairs to the basement, and put him in a white-tiled room.

  Macke opened a cupboard and took out three long, heavy clubs like American baseball bats. He gave one to each of his assistants.

  "Beat the shit out of him," he said, and he left them to it.

  vi

  Captain Volodya Peshkov, head of the Berlin section of Red Army Intelligence, met Werner Franck at the Invalids' Cemetery beside the Berlin-Spandau Ship Canal.

  It was a good choice. Looking around the graveyard carefully, Volodya was able to confirm that no one followed him or Werner in. The only other person present was an old woman in a black head scarf, and she was on her way out.

  Their rendezvous was the tomb of General von Scharnhorst, a large pedestal bearing a slumbering lion made of melted-down enemy cannons. It was a sunny day in spring, and the two young spies took off their jackets as they walked among the graves of German heroes.

  After the Hitler-Stalin pact almost two years ago, Soviet espionage had continued in Germany, and so had surveillance of Soviet embassy staff. Everyone saw the treaty as temporary, though no one knew how temporary. So counterintelligence agents were still tailing Volodya everywhere.

  They ought to be able to tell when he was going out on a genuine secret intelligence mission, he thought, for that was when he shook them off. If he went out to buy a frankfurter for lunch he let them shadow him. He wondered whether they were smart enough to figure that out.

  "Have you seen Lili Markgraf lately?" said Werner.

  She was a girl they had both dated at different times in the past. Volodya had now recruited her, and she had learned to encode and decode messages in the Red Army Intelligence cipher. Of course Volodya would not tell Werner that. "I haven't seen her for a while," he lied. "How about you?"

  Werner shook his head. "Someone else has won my heart." He seemed bashful. Perhaps he was embarrassed about belying his playboy reputation. "Anyway, why did you want to see me?"

  "We have received devastating information," Volodya said. "News that will change the course of history--if it is true."

  Werner looked skeptical.

  Volodya went on: "A source has told us that Germany will invade the Soviet Union in June." He thrilled again as he said it. It was a huge triumph for Red Army Intelligence, and a terrible threat to the USSR.

  Werner pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes in a gesture that probably made girls' hearts beat faster. He said: "A reliable source?"

  It was a journalist in Tokyo who was in the confidence of the German ambassador there, but was in fact a secret Communist. Everything he had said so far had turned out to be true. But Volodya could not tell Werner that. "Reliable," he said.

  "So you believe it?"

  Volodya hesitated. That was the problem. Stalin did not believe it. He thought it was Allied disinformation intended to sow mistrust between himself and Hitler. Stalin's skepticism about this intelligence coup had devastated Volodya's superiors, souring their jubilation. "We seek verification," he said.

  Werner looked around at the trees in the graveyard coming into leaf. "I hope to God it's true," he said with sudden savagery. "It will finish the damned Nazis."

  "Yes," said Volodya. "If the Red Army is prepared."

  Werner was surprised. "Are you not prepared?"

  Once again Volodya was not able to tell Werner the whole truth. Stalin believed the Germans would not attack before they had defeated the British, fearing a war on two fronts. While Britain continued to defy Germany, the Soviet Union was safe, he thought. In consequence the Red Army was nowhere near prepared for a German invasion.

  "We will be prepared," Volodya said, "if you can get me verification of the invasion plan."

  He could not help enjoying a moment of self-importance. His spy could be the key.

  Werner said: "Unfortunately, I can't help you."

&
nbsp; Volodya frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "I can't get verification, or otherwise, of this information, nor can I get you anything else. I'm about to be fired from my job at the Air Ministry. I'll probably be posted to France--or, if your intelligence is correct, sent to invade the Soviet Union."

  Volodya was horrified. Werner was his best spy. It was Werner's information that had won Volodya promotion to captain. He found he could hardly breathe. With an effort he said: "What the hell happened?"

  "My brother died in a home for the handicapped, and the same thing happened to my girlfriend's godson, and we're asking too many questions."

  "Why would you be demoted for that?"

  "The Nazis are killing off handicapped people, but it's a secret program."

  Volodya was momentarily diverted from his mission. "What? They just murder them?"

  "So it seems. We don't know the details yet. But if they had nothing to hide they wouldn't have punished me--and others--for asking questions."

  "How old was your brother?"

  "Fifteen."

  "God! Still a child!"

  "They're not going to get away with it. I refuse to shut up."

  They stopped in front of the tomb of Manfred von Richthofen, the air ace. It was a huge slab, six feet high and twice as wide. On it was carved, in elegant capital letters, the single word RICHTHOFEN. Volodya always found its simplicity moving.

  He tried to recover his composure. He told himself that the Soviet secret police murdered people, after all, especially anyone suspected of disloyalty. The head of the NKVD, Lavrentiy Beria, was a torturer whose favorite trick was to have his men pull a couple of pretty girls off the street for him to rape as his evening's entertainment, according to rumor. But the thought that Communists could be as bestial as Nazis was no consolation. One day, he reminded himself, the Soviets would get rid of Beria and his kind, then they could begin to build true Communism. Meanwhile, the priority was to defeat the Nazis.

  They came to the canal wall and stood there, watching a barge make its slow progress along the waterway, belching oily black smoke. Volodya mulled over Werner's alarming confession. "What would happen if you stopped investigating these deaths of handicapped children?" he asked.

  "I'd lose my girlfriend," Werner said. "She's as angry about it as I am."

  Volodya was struck by the scary thought that Werner might reveal the truth to his girlfriend. "You certainly couldn't tell her the real reason for your change of mind," he said emphatically.

  Werner looked stricken, but he did not argue.

  Volodya realized that by persuading Werner to abandon his campaign he would be helping the Nazis hide their crimes. He pushed the uncomfortable thought aside. "But would you be allowed to keep your job with General Dorn if you promised to drop the matter?"

  "Yes. That's what they want. But I'm not letting them murder my brother, then cover it up. They'll send me to the front line, but I won't shut up."

  "What do you think they'll do to you when they realize how determined you are?"

  "They'll throw me in some camp."

  "And what good will that do?"

  "I just can't lie down for this."

  Volodya had to get Werner back on his side, but so far he had failed to get through. Werner had an answer for everything. He was a smart guy. That was why he was such a valuable spy.

  "What about the others?" Volodya said.

  "What others?"

  "There must be thousands more handicapped adults and children. Are the Nazis going to kill them all?"

  "Probably."

  "You certainly won't be able to stop them, if you're in a prison camp."

  For the first time, Werner did not have a comeback.

  Volodya turned away from the water and surveyed the cemetery. A young man in a suit was kneeling at a small tombstone. Was he a tail? Volodya watched carefully. The man was shaking with sobs. He seemed genuine: counterintelligence agents were not good actors.

  "Look at him," Volodya said to Werner.

  "Why?"

  "He's grieving. Which is what you're doing."

  "So what?"

  "Just watch."

  After a minute the man got up, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and walked away.

  Volodya said: "Now he's happy. That's what grieving is about. It doesn't achieve anything, it just makes you feel better."

  "You think my asking questions is just to make me feel better."

  Volodya turned and looked him in the eye. "I don't criticize you," he said. "You want to discover the truth, and shout it out loud. But think about it logically. The only way to end this is to bring down the regime. And the only way that's going to happen is if the Nazis are defeated by the Red Army."

  "Maybe."

  Werner was weakening, Volodya perceived with a surge of hope. "Maybe?" he said. "Who else is there? The British are on their knees, desperately trying to fight off the Luftwaffe. The Americans are not interested in European squabbles. Everyone else supports the Fascists." He put his hands on Werner's shoulders. "The Red Army is your only hope, my friend. If we lose, those Nazis will be murdering handicapped children--and Jews, and Communists, and homosexuals--for a thousand more blood-soaked years."

  "Hell," said Werner. "You're right."

  vii

  Carla and her mother went to church on Sunday. Maud was distraught about Walter's arrest and desperate to find out where he had been taken. Of course the Gestapo refused to give out any information. But Pastor Ochs's church was a fashionable one, people came in from the wealthier suburbs to attend, and the congregation included some powerful men, one or two of whom might be able to make inquiries.

  Carla bowed her head and prayed that her father might not be beaten or tortured. She did not really believe in prayer but she was desperate enough to try anything.

  She was glad to see the Franck family, sitting a few rows in front. She studied the back of Werner's head. His hair curled a little at the neck, in contrast with most of the men, who were close-cropped. She had touched his neck and kissed his throat. He was adorable. He was easily the nicest boy who had ever kissed her. Every night before sleeping she relived that evening when they had driven to the Grunewald.

  But she was not in love with him, she told herself.

  Not yet.

  When Pastor Ochs entered, she saw at once that he had been crushed. The change in him was horrifying. He walked slowly to the lectern, head bent and shoulders slumped, causing a few in the congregation to exchange concerned whispers. He recited the prayers without expression, then read the sermon from a book. Carla had been a nurse for two years now and she recognized in him the symptoms of depression. She guessed that he, too, had received a visit from the Gestapo.

  She noticed that Frau Ochs and the five children were not in their usual places in the front pew.

  As they sang the last hymn Carla vowed that she would not give up, scared though she was. She still had allies: Frieda and Werner and Heinrich. But what could they do?

  She wished she had solid proof of what the Nazis were doing. She had no doubts, herself, that they were exterminating the handicapped--this Gestapo crackdown made it obvious. But she could not convince others without concrete evidence.

  How could she get it?

  After the service she walked out of the church with Frieda and Werner. Drawing them away from their parents, she said: "I think we have to get evidence of what's going on."

  Frieda immediately saw what she meant. "We should go to Akelberg," she said. "Visit the hospital."

  Werner had proposed that, right at the start, but they had decided to begin their inquiries here in Berlin. Now Carla considered the idea afresh. "We'd need permits to travel."

  "How could we manage that?"

  Carla snapped her fingers. "We both belong to the Mercury Cycling Club. They can get permits for bicycle holidays." It was just the kind of thing the Nazis were keen on, healthy outdoor exercise for young people.

  "Could we get insi
de the hospital?"

  "We could try."

  Werner said: "I think you should drop the whole thing."

  Carla was startled. "What do you mean?"

  "Pastor Ochs has obviously been scared half to death. This is a very dangerous business. You could be imprisoned, tortured. And it won't bring back Axel or Kurt."

  She stared at him incredulously. "You want us to give it up?"

  "You must give it up. You're talking as if Germany were a free country! You'll get yourselves killed, both of you."

  "We have to take risks!" Carla said angrily.

  "Leave me out of this," he said. "I've had a visit from the Gestapo, too."

  Carla was immediately concerned. "Oh, Werner--what happened?"

  "Just threats, so far. If I ask any more questions I'll be sent to the front line."

  "Oh, well, thank God it's not worse."

  "It's bad enough."

  The girls were silent for a few moments, then Frieda said what Carla was thinking. "This is more important than your job, you must see that."

  "Don't tell me what I must see," Werner replied. He was superficially angry, but underneath that, Carla could tell he was in fact ashamed. "It's not your career that's at stake," he went on. "And you haven't met the Gestapo yet."

  Carla was astonished. She thought she knew Werner. She would have been sure he would see this the way she did. "Actually, I have met them," she said. "They arrested my father."

  Frieda was appalled. "Oh, Carla!" she said, and put her arm around Carla's shoulders.

  "We can't find out where he is," Carla added.

  Werner showed no sympathy. "Then you should know better than to defy them!" he said. "They would have arrested you, too, except that Inspector Macke thinks girls aren't dangerous."

  Carla wanted to cry. She had been on the point of falling in love with Werner, and now he turned out to be a coward.

  Frieda said: "Are you saying you won't help us?"

  "Yes."

  "Because you want to keep your job?"

  "It's pointless--you can't beat them!"

  Carla was furious with him for his cowardice and defeatism. "We can't just let this happen!"

  "Open confrontation is insane. There are other ways to oppose them."

  Carla said: "How, by working slowly, like those leaflets say? That won't stop them killing handicapped children!"

  "Defying the government is suicidal!"

  "Anything else is cowardice!"

  "I refuse to be judged by two girls!" With that he stalked off.

  Carla fought back tears. She could not cry in front of two hundred people standing outside the church in the sunshine. "I thought he was different," she said.