by Ken Follett
Frieda was upset, but baffled too. "He is different," she said. "I've known him all my life. Something else is going on, something he's not telling us about."
Carla's mother approached. She did not notice Carla's distress, which was unusual. "Nobody knows anything!" she said despairingly. "I can't find out where your father might be."
"We'll keep trying," Carla said. "Didn't he have friends at the American embassy?"
"Acquaintances. I've asked them already, but they haven't come up with any information."
"We'll ask them again tomorrow."
"Oh, God, I suppose there are a million German wives in the same situation as me."
Carla nodded. "Let's go home, Mother."
They walked back slowly, not talking, each with her own thoughts. Carla was angry with Werner, the more so because she had badly mistaken his character. How could she have fallen for someone so weak?
They reached their street. "I shall go to the American embassy in the morning," Maud said as they approached the house. "I'll wait in the lobby all day if necessary. I'll beg them to do something. If they really want to they can make a semiofficial inquiry about the brother-in-law of a British government minister. Oh! Why is our front door open?"
Carla's first thought was that the Gestapo had paid them a second visit. But there was no black car parked at the curb. And a key was sticking out of the lock.
Maud stepped into the hall and screamed.
Carla rushed in after her.
There was a man lying on the floor covered in blood.
Carla managed to stop herself screaming. "Who is it?" she said.
Maud knelt beside the man. "Walter," she said. "Oh, Walter, what have they done to you?"
Then Carla saw that it was her father. He was so badly injured he was almost unrecognizable. One eye was closed, his mouth was swollen into a single huge bruise, and his hair was covered with congealed blood. One arm was twisted oddly. The front of his jacket was stained with vomit.
Maud said: "Walter, speak to me, speak to me!"
He opened his ruined mouth and groaned.
Carla suppressed the hysterical grief that bubbled up inside her by shifting into professional gear. She fetched a cushion and propped up his head. She got a cup of water from the kitchen and dribbled a little on his lips. He swallowed and opened his mouth for more. When he seemed to have had enough, she went into his study and got a bottle of schnapps and gave him a few drops. He swallowed them and coughed.
"I'm going for Dr. Rothmann," Carla said. "Wash his face and give him more water. Don't try to move him."
Maud said: "Yes, yes--hurry!"
Carla wheeled her bike out of the house and pedaled away. Dr. Rothmann was not allowed to practise any longer--Jews could not be doctors--but, unofficially, he still attended poor people.
Carla pedaled furiously. How had her father got home? She guessed they had brought him in a car, and he had managed to stagger from the curbside into the house, then collapsed.
She reached the Rothmann house. Like her own home, it was in bad repair. Most of the windows had been broken by Jew-haters. Frau Rothmann opened the door. "My father has been beaten," Carla said breathlessly. "The Gestapo."
"My husband will come," said Frau Rothmann. She turned and called up the stairs. "Isaac!"
The doctor came down.
"It's Herr von Ulrich," said Frau Rothmann.
The doctor picked up a canvas shopping bag that stood near the door. Because he was banned from practising medicine, Carla guessed he could not carry anything that looked like an instrument case.
They left the house. "I'll cycle on ahead," Carla said.
When she got home she found her mother sitting on the doorstep, weeping.
"The doctor's on his way!" Carla said.
"He is too late," said Maud. "Your father's dead."
viii
Volodya was outside the Wertheim department store, just off the Alexander Platz, at half past two in the afternoon. He patrolled the area several times, looking for men who might be plainclothes police officers. He was sure he had not been followed here, but it was not impossible that a passing Gestapo agent might recognize him and wonder what he was up to. A busy place with crowds was the best camouflage, but it was not perfect.
Was the invasion story true? If so, Volodya would not be in Berlin much longer. He would kiss good-bye to Gerda and Sabine. He would presumably return to Red Army Intelligence headquarters in Moscow. He looked forward to spending some time with his family. His sister, Anya, had twin babies whom he had never seen. And he felt he could do with a rest. Undercover work meant continual stress: losing Gestapo shadows, holding clandestine meetings, recruiting agents, and worrying about betrayal. He would welcome a year or two at headquarters, assuming the Soviet Union survived that long. Alternatively, he might be sent on another foreign posting. He fancied Washington. He had always had a yen to see America.
He took from his pocket a ball of crumpled tissue paper and dropped it into a litter bin. At one minute to three he lit a cigarette, although he did not smoke. He dropped the lighted match carefully into the bin so that it landed in the nest of tissue paper. Then he walked away.
Seconds later, someone cried: "Fire!"
Just when everyone in the vicinity was looking at the fire in the litter bin, a taxi drew up at the entrance to the store, a regular black Mercedes 260D. A handsome young man in the uniform of an air force lieutenant jumped out. As the lieutenant was paying the driver, Volodya jumped into the cab and slammed the door.
On the floor of the cab, where the driver could not see it, was a copy of Neues Volk, the Nazi magazine of racial propaganda. Volodya picked it up, but did not read it.
"Some idiot has set fire to a litter bin," said the driver.
"Hotel Adlon," Volodya said, and the car pulled away.
He riffled the pages of the magazine and verified that a buff-colored envelope was concealed within.
He longed to open it, but he waited.
He got out of the cab at the hotel, but did not go inside. Instead he walked through the Brandenburg Gate and into the park. The trees were showing bright new leaves. It was a warm spring day and there were plenty of afternoon strollers.
The magazine seemed to burn the skin of Volodya's hand. He found an unobtrusive bench and sat down.
He unfolded the magazine and, behind its screen, he opened the buff-colored envelope.
He drew out a document. It was a carbon copy, typed and a bit faint, but legible. It was headed:
Directive No. 21: Case "Barbarossa"
Friedrich Barbarossa was the German emperor who had led the Third Crusade in the year 1189.
The text began: "The German Wehrmacht must be prepared, even before the completion of the war against England, to overthrow Russia in a rapid campaign."
Volodya found himself gasping for breath. This was dynamite. The Tokyo spy had been right, and Stalin wrong. And the Soviet Union was in mortal danger.
Heart pounding, Volodya looked at the end of the document. It was signed: "Adolf Hitler."
He scanned the pages, looking for a date, and found one. The invasion was scheduled for May 15, 1941.
Next to this was a penciled note in Werner Franck's handwriting: "The date has now been changed to 22 June."
"Oh, my God, he's done it," Volodya said aloud. "He's confirmed the invasion."
He put the document back into the envelope and the envelope into the magazine.
This changed everything.
He got up from the bench and walked back to the Soviet embassy to give them the news.
ix
There was no railway station at Akelberg, so Carla and Frieda got off at the nearest stop, ten miles away, and wheeled their bicycles off the train.
They wore shorts, sweaters, and utilitarian sandals, and they had put their hair up in plaits. They looked like members of the League of German Girls, the Bund Deutscher Madel, or BDM. Such girls often took cycling holidays. Whet
her they did anything other than cycle, especially during the evenings in the spartan hostels at which they stayed, was the subject of much speculation. Boys said BDM stood for "Bubi Druck Mir," "Baby, Do Me."
Carla and Frieda consulted their map, then rode out of town in the direction of Akelberg.
Carla thought about her father every hour of every day. She knew she would never get over the horror of finding him savagely beaten and dying. She had cried for days. But alongside her grief was another emotion: rage. She was not merely going to be sad. She was going to do something about it.
Maud, distraught with grief, had at first tried to persuade Carla not to go to Akelberg. "My husband is dead, my son is in the army, I don't want my daughter to put her life on the line too!" she had wailed.
After the funeral, when horror and hysteria gave way to a calmer, more profound mourning, Carla had asked her what Walter would have wanted. Maud had thought for a long time. It was not until the next day that she answered. "He would have wanted you to carry on the fight."
It was hard for Maud to say it, but they both knew it was true.
Frieda had had no such discussion with her parents. Her mother, Monika, had once loved Walter, and was devastated by his death; nonetheless she would have been horrified if she knew what Frieda was doing. Her father, Ludi, would have locked her in the cellar. But they believed she was going bicycling. If anything, they might have suspected she was meeting some unsuitable boyfriend.
The countryside was hilly, but they were both in good shape, and an hour later they coasted down a slope into the small town of Akelberg. Carla felt apprehensive: they were entering enemy territory.
They went into a cafe. There was no Coca-Cola. "This isn't Berlin!" said the woman behind the counter, with as much indignation as if they had asked to be serenaded by an orchestra. Carla wondered why someone who disliked strangers would run a cafe.
They got glasses of Fanta, a German product, and took the opportunity to refill their water bottles.
They did not know the precise location of the hospital. They needed to ask directions, but Carla was concerned about arousing suspicion. The local Nazis might take an interest in strangers asking questions. As they were paying, Carla said: "We're supposed to meet the rest of our group at the crossroads by the hospital. Which way is that?"
The woman would not meet her eye. "There's no hospital here."
"The Akelberg Medical Institution," Carla persisted, quoting from the letterhead.
"Must be another Akelberg."
Carla thought she was lying. "How strange," she said, keeping up the pretense. "I hope we're not in the wrong place."
They wheeled their bikes along the high street. There was nothing else for it, Carla thought: she had to ask the way.
A harmless-looking old man was sitting on a bench outside a bar, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. "Where's the hospital?" Carla asked him, covering her anxiety with a cheery veneer.
"Through the town and up the hill on your left," he said. "Don't go inside, though--not many people come out!" He cackled as if he had made a joke.
The directions were a bit vague, but might suffice, Carla thought. She decided she would not draw further attention by asking again.
A woman in a head scarf took the arm of the old man. "Pay no attention to him--he doesn't know what he's saying," she said, looking worried. She jerked him to his feet and hustled him along the sidewalk. "Keep your mouth shut, you old fool," she muttered.
It seemed these people had an inkling of what was going on in their neighborhood. Fortunately their main reaction was to act surly and not get involved. Perhaps they would not be in a hurry to give information to the police or the Nazi Party.
Carla and Frieda went farther along the street and found the youth hostel. There were thousands of such places in Germany, designed to cater for exactly such people as they were pretending to be, athletic youngsters on a vigorous open-air holiday. They checked in. The facilities were primitive, with three-tiered bunk beds, but the place was cheap.
It was late afternoon when they cycled out of town. After a mile they came to a left turn. There was no signpost, but the road led uphill, so they took it.
Carla's apprehension intensified. The nearer they got, the harder it would be to seem innocent under questioning.
A mile later they saw a large house in a park. It did not seem to be walled or fenced, and the road led up to the door. Once again there were no signs.
Unconsciously, Carla had been expecting a hilltop castle of forbidding gray stone, with barred windows and ironbound oak doors. But this was a Bavarian country house, with steep overhanging roofs, wooden balconies, and a little bell tower. Surely nothing as horrible as child murder could go on here? It also seemed small, for a hospital. Then she saw that a modern extension had been added to one side, with a tall chimney.
They dismounted and leaned their bikes against the side of the building. Carla's heart was in her mouth as they walked up the steps to the entrance. Why were there no guards? Because no one would be so foolhardy as to try to investigate the place?
There was no bell or knocker, but when Carla pushed the door it opened. She stepped inside, and Frieda followed. They found themselves in a cool hall with a stone floor and bare white walls. There were several rooms off the hall, but all the doors were closed. A middle-aged woman in spectacles was coming down a broad staircase. She wore a smart gray dress. "Yes?" she said.
"Hello," said Frieda casually.
"What are you doing? You can't come in here."
Frieda and Carla had prepared a story. "I just wanted to visit the place where my brother died," Frieda said. "He was fifteen--"
"This isn't a public facility!" the woman said indignantly.
"Yes it is." Frieda had been brought up in a wealthy family, and was not cowed by minor functionaries.
A nurse of about nineteen appeared from a side door and stared at them. The woman in the gray dress spoke to her. "Nurse Konig, fetch Herr Romer immediately."
The nurse hurried away.
The woman said: "You should have written in advance."
"Did you not get my letter?" said Frieda. "I wrote to the senior physician." This was not true; Frieda was improvising.
"No such letter has been received!" Clearly the woman felt that Frieda's outrageous request could not possibly have gone unnoticed.
Carla was listening. The place was strangely quiet. She had dealt with physically and mentally handicapped people, adults and children, and they were not often silent. Even through these closed doors she should have been able to hear shouts, laughter, crying, voices raised in protest, and nonsensical ravings. But there was nothing. It was more like a morgue.
Frieda tried a new tack. "Perhaps you can tell me where my brother's grave is. I'd like to visit it."
"There are no graves. We have an incinerator." She immediately corrected herself. "A cremation facility."
Carla said: "I noticed the chimney."
Frieda said: "What happened to my brother's ashes?"
"They will be sent to you in due course."
"Don't mix them up with anyone else's, will you?"
The woman's neck reddened in a blush, and Carla guessed they did mix up the ashes, figuring that no one would know.
Nurse Konig reappeared, followed by a burly man in the white uniform of a male nurse. The woman said: "Ah, Romer. Please escort these girls off the premises."
"Just a minute," said Frieda. "Are you quite sure you're doing the right thing? I only wanted to see the place where my brother died."
"Quite sure."
"Then you won't mind letting me know your name."
There was a second's hesitation. "Frau Schmidt. Now please leave us."
Romer moved toward them in a menacing way.
"We're going," Frieda said frostily. "We have no intention of giving Herr Romer an excuse to molest us."
The man changed course and opened the door for them.
They went out,
climbed on their bikes, and rode down the drive. Frieda said: "Do you think she believed our story?"
"Totally," said Carla. "She didn't even ask our names. If she had suspected the truth she would have called the police right away."
"But we didn't learn much. We saw the chimney. But we didn't find anything we could call proof."
Carla felt a bit down. Getting evidence was not as easy as it sounded.
They returned to the hostel. They washed and changed and went out in search of something to eat. The only cafe was the one with the grumpy proprietress. They ate potato pancakes with sausage. Afterward they went to the town's bar. They ordered beers and spoke cheerfully to the other customers, but no one wanted to talk to them. This in itself was suspicious. People everywhere were wary of strangers, for anyone might be a Nazi snitch, but even so Carla wondered how many towns there were where two young girls could spend an hour in a bar without anyone even trying to flirt with them.
They returned to the hostel for an early night. Carla could not think what else to do. Tomorrow they would return home empty-handed. It seemed incredible that she should know about these awful killings yet be unable to stop them. She felt so frustrated she wanted to scream.
It occurred to her that Frau Schmidt--if that really was her name--might have further thoughts about her visitors. At the time, she had taken Carla and Frieda for what they claimed to be, but she might develop suspicions later, and call the police just to be safe. If that happened, Carla and Frieda would not be hard to find. There were just five people at the hostel tonight and they were the only girls. She listened in fear for the fatal knock on the door.
If they were questioned, they would tell part of the truth, saying that Frieda's brother and Carla's godson had died at Akelberg, and they wanted to visit their graves, or at least see the place where they died and spend a few minutes in remembrance. The local police might buy that story. But if they checked with Berlin they would swiftly learn the connection with Walter von Ulrich and Werner Franck, two men who had been investigated by the Gestapo for asking disloyal questions about Akelberg. Then Carla and Frieda would be deep in trouble.
As they were getting ready to go to bed in the uncomfortable-looking bunks, there was a knock at the door.