by Alex Gerlis
He worked the Saturday night shift again and returned to his room in the boarding house for a few hours’ sleep. The Alte Donau was an easy 15 minutes’ walk from where he lived, but he’d no idea where he should meet them or at what time. That wasn’t unusual: he’d taught them both to avoid making arrangements that were too complicated. If you tie people down to too precise a time or location then things can go wrong more easily.
So he left his boarding house at 2.00 and, when he got to the Alte Donau, walked along its eastern bank. He seemed to have been joined by half of Vienna: more women and children rather than families, few men and, of those that there were, many were in a uniform of one kind or another. Nor was there the same merry and relaxed atmosphere he remembered: this was where the Viennese would traditionally let their hair down in their own restrained manner, but now even that felt subdued. People were still swimming in the clear water and the rowing boats were out, but there was an air of anxiety about the place.
He stopped at a stall selling cold lemonade and climbed up a grassy bank to drink in the shade. His guess was that Acheron and Styx would have been watching him, perhaps separately. When they were as sure as they could be he hadn’t been followed, one of them would approach him. Now would be a good time, he decided.
He didn’t have to wait long. He’d only met Styx on two or three occasions, and the last one would have been around seven years ago, but the thin man with thick spectacles who asked him if the area next to him was free was unquestionably Styx. He was clever and committed like the entire Hades cell were – and he’d somehow survived. The two apparent strangers exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather, very gradually shifting closer to each other.
‘Joachim will be watching us,’ said Styx quietly. ‘When he’s sure it’s safe he’ll join us. I never thought I’d see you again.’
‘The feeling’s mutual. How did you manage to survive?’
‘No one ever knew my true identity. My real name is Manfred Becker and, as far as far as the authorities are concerned, I’m a good citizen of the Reich and I’ve never been associated with the KPO. I’m a devout Roman Catholic, married with three children and a member of the Nazi Party since 1940. I’m even on the committee for our area. Once we decided to split up after Frieda and others were captured by the Gestapo I just carried on with my normal life.’
‘And how have you managed to avoid conscription?’
‘My eyesight…’ He removed his spectacles and waved them in front of Viktor before carefully polishing them. ‘Very short-sighted, I’d be useless in the armed forces, fortunately. As you can see, I fall someway short of the Aryan ideal.’
‘And your job?’
‘I work at the Heinkel Sud aircraft factory in Floridsdorf. I’m a specialist draughtsman, so I’m based in the research and development department. At the moment I’m working on designs for a high-altitude bomber.’
‘Really? Tell me more?’
‘Ha! I thought you’d be interested – you want the plans for the Soviet Air Force I suppose?’
‘In due course, yes. Tell me, I seem to remember you looked after the printing for Hades, is that right?’
‘It is: because of my job as a draughtsman I had access to a printer. It broke down and was thrown out because they thought it was beyond repair. I took it home, no one noticed – and repaired it. We used it for maybe three years. I still have large supplies of ink and paper. We keep it in the basement of my mother’s house.’
‘Does it still work?’
‘I haven’t tried it since early 1942, but I see no reason why not. What are you getting at…?’
‘I want to reactivate the cell, Styx. We need to create a climate in Vienna that will prepare the population for the Red Army. Would it be possible to produce leaflets again – and is it safe?’
‘It’s a large basement, part of which is under the garden – it’s more of a cellar really. The machine is well hidden and even when it’s running at full speed, you can’t hear it outside the house, we made sure of that. Ah, look – Joachim is joining us.’
***
So it was that on the banks of the Alte Donau on a sunny August afternoon Hades was reborn. Only two of the cell’s original seven members were still involved, but now they were under the firm direction of their Russian master.
Their priority, they decided, was to produce some leaflets. Viktor dictated the theme of each leaflet; Lang wrote the text while Becker produced the drawings and printed the leaflets. Each leaflet, Viktor said, should be simple and to the point. There should be no ambiguity about what the message was.
‘Remember how people will see these leaflets,’ he told them. ‘They pick them up and glance at them, maybe only for a few seconds. Then the most likely thing they’ll do is drop them or throw them away. Very few people – if anyone – will keep them and show them to others, so we must ensure that in those few seconds they make the maximum impact: one message, short sentences – that kind of thing.’
The message of the first leaflet was that the war was lost; the people of Austria were oppressed by the Germans. Becker’s drawing was a pornographic cartoon of an emasculated Hitler. Subsequent leaflets had different themes: the impending triumph of the Red Army; the appalling casualties suffered among ordinary soldiers; the deprivations being experienced by the Viennese and how this was only going to get worse; the Red Army is getting closer; the Nazi officials lining their pockets.
Becker did have someone who could help distribute the leaflets. Young Hans was 14 and lived on the same road as him. Hans’s father had been killed fighting on the Eastern Front two years ago and he did odd jobs for neighbours to help his mother. Becker would pay Hans to help him with gardening and it was there one day the boy asked a question.
‘We’re going to lose the war, aren’t we, Herr Becker?’
It was an extraordinary thing for a boy of Hans’s age to say. He’d lived under Nazi rule and been subject to its indoctrination for six years; and, as he’d turned 14 a few months earlier, he’d been obliged to join the Hitler Youth. Becker decided it was a trap.
‘No, no…’ replied Becker. ‘What makes you say that, Hans?’
‘So many people are being killed. In my year at school, more than 20 of us of have lost a parent – that’s 20 out of a 100, Herr Becker. In a school they can’t keep things like that a secret.’
‘You mustn’t talk like this, Hans. We’re assured our armies are repelling the attacks on both fronts and once the winter…’
‘But there’s never any positive news is there, Herr Becker? We used to hear about the Reich conquering this country and that country, but now all we hear is that our forces are defending this and that, and fighting bravely.’
There was such conviction in the boy’s voice that Becker was inclined to believe him, but not foolish enough to show it. ‘I told you, Hans, don’t talk like that.’
But over the following weeks Hans continued to do so and Becker, as cautious as he was, began to believe the boy.
‘Why do you confide in me like this?’ Becker asked Hans one day.
‘Because I trust you, Herr Becker, and because I think you agree with me.’
‘What on earth makes you say that?’
‘Because if you didn’t, you’d have reported me, wouldn’t you?’
Just the day before Lang and Becker had met with Viktor on the Alte Donau, Hans was helping Becker repair the front gate of his house. When they’d finished, he and the boy sat in the kitchen having a cold drink. ‘Do you think I’ll be made to fight, Herr Becker?’ said Hans suddenly.
Becker’s first thought was why was Hans asking him this? Then he realised Hans now regarded him as some kind of father figure.
‘I keep telling you, Hans, call me Manfred,’ he said eventually. ‘In answer to your question, well – you’re 14 and…’
‘… Nearly 15, actually.’
‘Even so, you’re not due to be called up for another three years, when you’re 18, and I dou
bt very much whether the war…’ Becker stopped himself. It was the first time in weeks he’d allowed Hans a glimpse of his own views and the boy was no fool.
‘Ah! So you agree with me, Manfred, the war will be over soon!’
Becker leaned across the table and clasped the boy’s hand in a firm and less-than-friendly manner, leaning close to him and speaking in an urgent whisper. ‘Now listen to me, Hans, you never speak like this to anyone else, understand? It can be our secret. Away from here, you’ll be as loyal a member of the Hitler Youth as the next boy, you understand?’
‘We have more military training these days,’ said Hans. ‘There are rumours that 16- and 17-year-olds may be conscripted soon and…’
‘Well, just make sure you shout “Heil Hitler” the loudest – and wear your Hitler Youth uniform with pride,’ said Becker. ‘You remember that fairy tale – the one in which the knight had a special suit of armour that meant he could never be hurt? Well, regard your uniform as your magic suit of armour.’
***
Along with Lang, Becker and Viktor – and with the help of Irma and Paul the Plumber – there was a group of just six people to distribute the leaflets around the city. The conditions Viktor set were strict: no one should carry more than a dozen leaflets at a time and each leaflet should be distributed over one 24-hour period in as many districts of the city as possible.
‘Look,’ Viktor told Lang and Becker one night as they prepared the print run for another leaflet. ‘Don’t expect to incite some mass uprising against the Nazis, that wouldn’t happen even if we were to distribute tens of thousands of leaflets. But we can unsettle them: they’ll be confused and angry, and they won’t be sure how many leaflets there are. The Gestapo will probably panic and worry that for every leaflet they get their hands on, there are dozens that people have read and are passing on to others.’
Hans had the perfect cover, cycling around Vienna in his Hitler Youth uniform, with its khaki top and dark shorts. He always carried with him a satchel stuffed with leaflets distributed by his and other groups, urging the good citizens of Vienna to donate warm clothes for the troops in the east. And he also had the perfect excuse to travel across the city and especially through the Innere Stadt: twice a week he volunteered to visit the AKH, helping injured soldiers there, sometimes reading to them or assisting with meals.
No one would suspect this cheerful and good-looking boy with his blond hair, blue eyes and a ready ‘Heil Hitler’. Inside his satchel there was a thin compartment, in which he hid his Hades leaflets. He would leave a few at a time, on a park bench, in the stairwell of an apartment block, in an alley, through the letterbox of a closed shop. He made a point of not leaving the Hades leaflets in the same place as the Hitler Youth ones; it wouldn’t do for people to put one and one together. Hans had become so prolific that Becker worried he could be too exposed, but Viktor was delighted with him and, anyway, he now had other plans. Hades needed to expand its operations.
***
‘If the Nazis can link it to Hades then it’ll further increase any sense of… how shall I put it…? paranoia in the Gestapo,’ said Viktor.
They were in the basement of Becker’s mother’s house, having just completed the print run of another leaflet. The heat of the machine and the August warmth made the temperature in the basement almost unbearable. The Russian had removed his jacket and tie, but he was still dripping with sweat as he talked about their plans. ‘We’re not pretending that sabotaging machinery is going to bring the Nazi industrial machine grinding to a halt, any more than the leaflets are going to lead to civil insurrection. But it’ll unsettle them.’
Lang explained to Viktor how Cocytus had made a solution they’d used to sabotage machinery. ‘It was quite ingenious – he was an industrial chemist, so he knew what he was doing. I don’t know exactly what the solution was made up of but I think it was mainly lubricating oil, the kind all machines need to keep running smoothly. But Cocytus added a highly caustic element and also sand – then tiny shards of glass and metal. The beauty of this was it took a few hours before the damage began, so it was less risky for the person applying it.’
‘And you think Cocytus is in Slovenia?’
‘Possibly, he’s certainly not in Vienna.’
‘And only he knows the formula?’
‘Yes,’ replied Becker ‘but…’
‘… So it’s pointless.’
‘What I was trying to say was we still have a barrel remaining.’
‘Really? Where is it?’
‘You’re sitting on it Viktor.’
***
They decided to attempt two sabotage attacks, if only to see whether the solution still worked. Viktor agreed he’d look after one of these: he was in an ideal position to do so as he’d the run of the locomotive works, especially on night shifts when there were fewer supervisors around. His job was to repair machinery and if he or any of the other electricians had no repairs they were expected to perform routine maintenance on other machines and equipment.
The 20th August was a Sunday night, which was usually a quiet shift, and Viktor took a small bottle of the oil solution in with his snack. No opportunity presented itself that night but on the following night he found himself alone at around 3.00 in the morning, having completed the repair of one machine sooner than expected. In another part of the factory was a piece of equipment he’d had his eye on. As far as he understood, it calibrated the brakes for the locomotives, but was only used for a few hours each day. He entered the shed where the machine was located and all was quiet. He slipped under the machine and checked some of the electrical parts: if anyone came in they’d see what he was doing. He found the port where the oil went in and poured in the contents of the bottle, then slid back under the machine and checked some wires. Once he was sure no one had seen him, he hurried out. What he didn’t do was sign the maintenance log to show an electrician had checked the machine. With some luck, he wouldn’t be linked with the sabotage.
He was next back at work on the Wednesday, this time for a shift that began at 6.00 in the morning. When he walked past the brake calibrating shed he noticed the machine had been completely dismantled. His supervisor was in a sanguine mood. ‘Everything’s ground to a halt, Otto, he said. ‘The brake calibrating machine broke down yesterday, it’s holding up the whole production line.’
The supervisor turned conspiratorially towards Viktor, leaning close to him as he spoke quietly. ‘Jürgen says they suspect sabotage and they’re going to investigate. You’re lucky you weren’t working yesterday.’
Although the Gestapo investigated, they only seemed interested in people who’d worked on the Tuesday, the day the machine broke down. Viktor remained above suspicion.
Becker had another contact, a mechanic who worked at a military lorry repair workshop in Donnaustadt. Franz was another anti-Nazi who’d had the good fortune to keep his past concealed. One night in September he managed to slip into the workshop using a set of keys he’d stolen. He knew that in the past week or so the number of guards on duty at night had been reduced to two, the others had been conscripted. Franz managed to pour the contaminated oil into four of the workshop’s five hydraulic hoists. The first of them seized at noon the next day: by 2.00 it was chaos. And when the Gestapo arrived the next day, Franz was no more a suspect than the other 100 staff at the workshop.
Chapter 18
Vienna, Bratislava and Moscow, October 1944
Paris had been liberated on the 24th August, and two days before it fell Irma’s husband had somehow managed to flee the city, even though most of the German garrison remained there. With the assistance of a sympathetic doctor he’d managed to turn a badly bruised elbow into a war wound. He arrived back in Vienna without warning two days later and turned up at their apartment at 6.00 on the Thursday evening: had he arrived just two hours earlier then it would have been to the sight of Viktor and his wife in the marital bed. Viktor rarely visited Irma these days and, as always, once he left she
was quick to remove any signs he’d been there: changing the bedsheets and cleaning the flat. When her husband arrived there was no sign of anything out of place. Irma did appear flustered, but he assumed that was because she feared he’d been captured in Paris. When he went in the bathroom to refresh himself, she swiftly removed the tall porcelain vase from its place on the window ledge overlooking the front of the apartment: Viktor would now know it was no longer safe to visit.
It would be another month before she met with Viktor and it wasn’t an easy meeting. He needed her to deliver a message and was telling her how.
‘I told you, I’ve no idea how long he’s going to be here,’ she told the Russian. ‘He fears they’re unhappy he left Paris in the way he did: apparently other officers who did so are being sent to the east. Please leave me for a while, Viktor: he may only be here for another week or two. If he’s sent east then I’m sure I’ll never see him again.’
‘I don’t care, Irma. I’m not interested in your feelings for this Nazi officer…’
‘He’s my husband, Viktor, and he’s not a Nazi like…’
‘… Oh, for heaven’s sake, Irma! Listen to yourself! He’s an officer in the Wehrmacht and a member of the Nazi Party. One can only imagine what he was up to in Paris. You’re now going to tell me some of his best friends there were Jews!’
‘Well, actually…’
‘Look, Irma, there are far more urgent matters that need dealing with now. You have to do this one task I ask of you: it’s vital. I have to get a message to Moscow. They haven’t heard from me for months. They need to know how things are going and especially about Leitner and this Rolf.’