by Alex Gerlis
‘I’ve checked out the place thoroughly, as Basil instructed.’ She was speaking quietly against the sound of the water and Rolf had to lean in very close. When their shoulders touched, she didn’t flinch. Rolf noticed a distinctive smell of perfume, one so sweet he could taste it on his lips. ‘I can’t find anything out of order: I’m sure there aren’t any recording or listening devices. But I do think any conversations we have about operational matters should be conducted like this, or if we go out for a walk. Do you agree?’
Rolf nodded. Remington-Barber had told them as much.
‘Is the bank very far?’
‘Not at all: quite a pleasant walk actually,’ said Rolf. ‘Being back in Vienna’s so strange: part of me feels at home, but when I see the troops it’s terrible. Plaschke said he’ll take me to the employment office to sort out my permit on Monday, then both of us will need to go to another office – he’s given me the address – within two days to make sure all our paperwork’s in order. We’ll be given identity cards, then we need to register at the Swiss consulate.’
It was just before 11.00 that night when she said she was going to bed. She walked out of the lounge and held the door open for Rolf. He followed her then stood in the little hallway, hesitating.
‘Perhaps, um… it’ll be best if… I tell you what, I’ll take one of the pillows and a couple of blankets, and maybe if I sleep in the lounge – on the sofa?’
Katharina paused for no more than a second or two before fetching some blankets and pillows for Rolf.
‘So when do you think we should… you know…?’ he said as she handed them to him.
‘Do you mean make contact?’
‘Yes,’ said Rolf. ‘And the other matter.’
She shrugged. ‘They told us to wait, didn’t they – until we’re sure it’s safe.’
‘I know,’ said Rolf. ‘The problem is I can never imagine feeling safe again in this city.’
Chapter 1
Vienna, August 1941
On paper, Vernon Wanslake was the perfect spy. The more optimistic types in London certainly thought so. Mother’s from Salzburg… speaks German with a proper Austrian accent, bright young man… they were quick to point out. But British through and through… his father’s one of us, no politics… they reassured each other. Harrow and Sandhurst… family go to church… There was a strong emphasis on that last part, just in case anyone wondered what kind of émigré he was.
Edgar did his best to point out that espionage is mostly carried out on the dark streets of hostile cities rather than on paper and, in his opinion, Vernon Wanslake wasn’t quite ready to be sent on to any streets yet. I’m not convinced… he’s still a bit edgy… needs a few more months… prone to panic. But the Germans were halfway to Moscow and MI6 had precious few agents operating in Occupied Europe, so Edgar wasn’t allowed the luxury of a few more months. Vernon Wanslake had been dropped into Slovenia, crossed the border near Klagenfurt and had made his way up to Vienna.
His cover was decent enough, though Edgar did point out that was only half the story. The person carrying it needed to be convincing too. Vernon Wanslake was now Karl Urach, a doctor from Innsbruck, who was in Vienna for a few days training at the main teaching hospital. Gives him a week or two in the city, they assured Edgar. Should be enough for him to see what’s going on, rekindle a few fires, make some contacts, slip out again…
Things went wrong for Vernon Wanslake as soon as he entered Vienna early one August morning in 1941. The house in Brigittenau he’d been assured had a sympathetic landlady and a room for him to stay turned out to have neither. His fallback was a discreet hotel in Alsergrund, the kind where a doctor visiting the nearby hospital would stay. But no sooner had he entered the hotel’s small but smart lobby than it became apparent the hotel’s main patrons were now SS officers, most accompanied by ladies noticeably younger than themselves.
So Vernon Wanslake walked through the Innere Stadt towards the Danube, trying hard to control his fear and act as normally as possible. He paused for a while by the banks of the Danube Canal, smoking half a dozen cigarettes as he wondered what to do. He realised he had no alternative.
‘You use this number only in an emergency, you understand?’ George Whitlock had told him at his final briefing. ‘It’s not for if you’ve run out of money or fancy a friendly chat.’
Edgar had been even blunter: as they’d left the briefing he’d taken him aside. ‘Whitlock shouldn’t have given you that contact. Just remember, it’s only for the direst of emergencies. There’ll be hell to pay otherwise.’
Vernon Wanslake decided his predicament did constitute the direst of emergencies, so he walked to Wien Mitte station and found a payphone near the left-luggage office. ‘Only ring this number between 2.00 and 4.00 in the afternoon,’ Whitlock had told him when he’d made him memorise it. The telephone rang for longer than Wanslake was comfortable with before it was answered by a female voice, sounding out of breath.
‘Hello.’
‘I’ve a bible that needs repairing: a family bible.’
A slight pause, the breathing on the other end of the line was still heavy. ‘When?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘Are you in the city?’
‘Yes.’
Another pause. When the woman next spoke it was in a quieter voice. ‘Do you know St Ulrich’s church in the 7th District?’
‘I can find it.’
‘It’s on Burggasse. There’s a Mass tonight at 5.30. Sit towards the middle of the central aisle. I’ll be on my own in the front row of the right-hand aisle. When the service ends, come up to me and introduce yourself as Alfred, and ask if I know where you can get a bible repaired. Do you have a bag with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Describe it please – and your coat.’
‘It’s a long black raincoat. The briefcase is large, very light tan.’
‘Keep the briefcase in your left hand all the time. If there’s a problem, move it to your right hand.’
‘How will I know who you are?’
‘I’ll be the only nun there.’
***
Sister Ursula called the hospital and told them she’d be late, then hurried to the church, one of the few in the city where she still trusted the priest. Not that she’d tell him anything, but she knew he’d turn a blind eye in a real emergency and she may be able to hide someone at the church overnight – though she wasn’t even sure of that now.
Father Josef gave her a nervous look when she entered his office and asked if she could borrow the keys. He handed a bunch over to her before closing the door. ‘This’ll have to be the last time, you understand? It’s getting far too dangerous. You heard what happened in Penzing last week? I can’t risk it. I think there are informers at every service. You Daughters of Charity of Saint Vincent de Paul are far too charitable…’
She knew from experience he’d arrive early, calling her on that number meant he was desperate. She climbed the steep stone staircase until she reached the small landing above the sacristy and opened the narrow window that allowed her a clear view of Burggasse – the only route into the church across Sankt-Ulrich-Platz. Just before 5.15 there was a commotion on Burggasse as three or four police cars pulled up and a checkpoint was quickly erected, manned by a mixture of police, Gestapo and SS. They’d started to do this much more recently; it was a way of intimidating church-goers and showing who was in charge in Vienna. A minute or two later she spotted what must be Alfred; a tall, young man wearing a long black raincoat, walking uncertainly as if he was unsure of where he was. In his left hand was a large leather briefcase, light tan. He’d been so absorbed in looking for the church that he didn’t spot the checkpoint until he was almost upon it.
Then he panicked.
If he’d been told one thing in his training it was never to turn away from a checkpoint. That’s a sure way of drawing attention to yourself… have confidence in your cover… remember, checkpoints are routine…
Sister Ursula muttered a prayer as she watched, but soon stopped. She knew they’d catch him and she doubted someone who panicked at the sight of a checkpoint would be resilient under interrogation. She’d need to leave the church quickly. As she carefully closed the window she saw Alfred stop in the middle of the road, drop his briefcase and put a hand to his mouth. Moments later he tumbled over, writhing on the ground in agony for nearly half a minute before his body stopped moving and slumped.
The nun didn’t wait to see what happened next. She closed the window and hurried down the stairs to the sacristy. She was aware the British gave their agents suicide pills and she was grateful this agent had at least had the presence of mind to use his.
Chapter 2
Vienna, March 1942
Frieda Brauner hadn’t seen daylight for a week and sensed she never would do so again.
She was disorientated and her senses so dulled by pain that she’d only the vaguest recollection of what had happened since she’d been brought to the elegant building on Morzinplatz. She did remember leaving the safe house in Meidling on what was probably the Monday morning and checking the street was clear. There was some memory of bumping into an older woman, apologising and possibly bending down to pick up something she’d dropped. After that she seemed to fly, that was the only way she could remember it. She must have been picked up and thrown into the large car that had appeared alongside. Her head was forced face down into the hard leather seat as the car sped through central Vienna to its destination. When it slowed she was forced to sit up: they were turning off Morzinplatz and into Salztorgasse. She realised this was a deliberate act: they wanted her to know where she was being taken, a building she’d be unlikely to leave alive.
A young man with greasy, slicked-back hair and uneven eyebrows had turned around from the front passenger seat and leered at her, his tongue running between yellow teeth, moistening his lips.
‘Welcome to the Vienna Gestapo,’ he said.
The car pulled into a dark courtyard and she was hauled out into the building, where she was blindfolded and marched down a flight of narrow stairs. According to the rumours going around Vienna, prisoners were either taken to the basement or to the level below. The basement was nicknamed hell – which of course was ironic in her particular circumstances. Apparently some people did survive the basement, though only after a fashion, and what happened after that was another matter. For most of them, the basement was a staging post on the way to Mauthausen. But the level below the basement was reputed to be far worse. According to those same rumours, no one had ever survived it.
At the bottom of the first flight of stairs she’d been dragged along a corridor before being pushed against a rough wall: the basement. She heard screaming and a series of dull, thudding noises, followed by what sounded like metallic scraping. Then a noisy metal door alongside her was unlocked and she was dragged down another series of steps. The level below the basement. Worse than hell.
She could recall being pulled through a series of metal doors, and becoming aware of an uneven floor and a pervading sense of damp. But there’d been no sounds to be heard, other than the occasional drip, and her own footseps and those around her. Another metal door opened and her blindfold was removed before she was pushed in and the door slammed shut.
There was no light in the room, no window as far as she could make out. Even after a few hours there was nothing to help her eyes acclimatise. After a while she had an approximate idea of its dimensions: six steps long, four steps wide, the ceiling too high to touch. Along one of the walls was a rough wooden bench that was just wide enough for her to lie on, but there was no mattress or blankets. Nor was there a toilet.
And there she remained, for perhaps three days, possibly four. Twice a day the cell door would open, and a bowl of water and a plate of dry bread would be pushed in.
As the terror of the first few hours abated she felt an odd sense of relief. To have remained free for the four years since the Germans had rolled into Vienna was something of a miracle, so while being arrested had been a shock it wasn’t completely unexpected. The one thing they all knew and reminded each other of all the time was what to do in the event of being arrested. Reveal nothing for as long as possible. Every minute will count; every hour could save a comrade’s life. The longer you can hold out, the more chance the others will have to save themselves. So she’d expected the interrogation to begin quickly and the fact it hadn’t was a source of some comfort.
But after a day or so, that small comfort was replaced by confusion. Why would the Gestapo wait so long? They, more than anyone, would know how important it was to prise information from her as soon as possible. After a while, the fact they weren’t doing so brought its own terror, one that wrapped itself around her in the dark and damp dungeon.
By the time they came for her she’d developed a fever, unbearably hot one minute, chilled to her bones the next: her dress was soiled and drenched with sweat, and she couldn’t stop trembling. She’d no idea whether it was day or night, let alone what day of the week it was. The cell door had opened and she’d been instructed to come out. She had to close her eyes in the corridor as they were so unused to the light, but then they blindfolded her and she was dragged along a corridor into a warm room where she was forced into a chair and the blindfold was removed.
She was aware of people around her, but no one said a word and it was a few minutes before her eyes could focus properly. In front of her a stocky man looking very pleased with himself was leaning back in a chair, his arms folded high on his chest. A taller, younger man was standing behind him. She could just make out two people on either side of her. The stocky man had a short, pointed, dirty-yellow beard that he played with as he studied her, smoothing out his moustache as if he was keen she admired it.
‘Your name?’
‘Dreschner. Maria Dreschner.’ Her voice sounded hoarse, it was the first time she’d used it since arriving at Morzinplatz.
The man continued to stare at her, nodding very slightly as if that was the answer he was expecting. ‘Yes, yes, I can read you know. Your paperwork says you’re Maria Dreschner but we know you’re not Maria Dreschner. We know your real name but I need you to tell us what it is. That way, I’ll know you’re being honest and it’ll be a good way to start our… acquaintance.’
He looked at her, slightly lowering his head and raising his eyebrows, as if to say ‘understand?’ His accent was coarse, certainly not Viennese. He wasn’t German either. As far as she could tell he was from Carinthia or somewhere near there: from the south of Austria, or what used to be Austria.
‘How about…?’ He was edging his chair closer to hers, now he was no more than a foot away. There was an unpleasant smell as he came closer.
‘… How about if I tell you your first name and you tell me the rest? It’ll be like a game.’ He raised his eyebrows and allowed a brief smile, as if this really was a game and he was enjoying playing it.
She shrugged, desperately trying to work out what to do. Always give them a little something at first, she’d been told. Did her real name count as a little something?
‘Frieda,’ he said. He’d shouted it out in a dramatic fashion, like an actor. ‘Is that correct?’
Her head dropped and she could f
eel the room moving slowly around her. Someone prodded her sharply in the back.
‘Is that correct?’ The man was shouting at her.
‘Is what correct?’
‘Frieda. It’s your first name, yes?’
She nodded.
‘Good. And now…’ his chair edged even closer so his knees were touching hers, ‘you tell me your full name. Remember the game?’
Her whole body slumped in the chair and it took three or four prods in her back before she was able to sit up again. It sounded as if they knew her name, but to admit it would feel like a betrayal. At least it would only be herself she was betraying. She cleared her throat and spoke softly.
‘Brauner.’
‘I can’t hear you!’
‘Brauner. My name is Frieda Brauner.’
‘Good. And my name is Strobel. Kriminaldirektor Karl Strobel.’ He emphasised his Gestapo rank with pride and in such a manner that she’d be in no doubt whose company she was in. ‘As well as knowing your name, we also know you’re a member of a Communist resistance cell, so I’d be obliged if you could tell me the names and addresses of the other members in that cell… oh, and its name.’
She felt the fear rise in her. She hesitated for as long as she could in the hope it’d appear her answer was a reluctant one.
‘Franz Josef…’
‘Franz Josef who?’
Another pause. She could feel herself weeping now and she allowed the tears to flow freely. They could help. ‘Mayer. I believe: Franz Josef Mayer. And another man called Wolfgang.’
Strobel didn’t look impressed. She hadn’t expected him to.
‘Surname?’ he asked wearily.
‘Fischer, if I remember right. They’re the only ones I know: Franz Josef Mayer and Wolfgang Fischer. But I promise you, I was a messenger: no more than that and, even then, only on a few occasions. I’ve no idea of the name of the cell; I didn’t even know there was a cell. I wish I could help…’