Judgment in Berlin: A Spy Story

by Noel Hynd

  The case remained open for Colonel Markgraf’s people. Some of the blood and particles of Kovalyov’s brain had sprayed onto his uniform. Increasingly, the police under Markgraf’s command were extended far beyond Berlin and throughout the Eastern Sector of the country, just as the Gestapo had been. So Markgraf had more than a passing interest in the case. A few pro-Soviet functionaries were sent to the local town halls to prowl through records to see what could be learned. But the ledgers were in disarray, many were missing, and the clerks and the people from the mortician’s office were not interested in assisting a Soviet inquiry.

  The second week of March arrived. The brutal winter weather eased. A neighbor tipped Heinrich’s Uncle Kurt that a squad of Soviet soldiers was in the area. Someone had overheard a rumor that Kurt and Greta, his wife, had a younger couple living with them. The local police reported to the Soviet military commander now, so uniformed people were planning to visit Kurt to see what was what.

  Anna and Heinrich departed that evening. One of Kurt’s friends who hated the Russians gave the couple a lift to the next town. The couple knew their next destination. Anna and Heinrich had frequently discussed their past and its sorrows. Anna often recalled fondly the remote spot in the woods that she and her sister had called unser geheimes Haus, our secret house, the obscure place in the remote woods north of Demmin where her parents had tried to get them to safety before Soviet troops had stopped them.

  They set out on foot for the last fifty kilometers. They arrived at the location where Anna’s parents had been killed. She broke into tears, but they kept going. She knew the way. Roth bought food from a local farmer and Anna stayed out of sight to avoid any chance of being recognized. It was another winding, tricky route through the woods. Anna made a coded map for Heinrich so that he could come and go until he memorized the route, tree by tree, stone wall by stone wall, abandoned church by narrow stream.

  They arrived there in late April, stayed, remained undiscovered, and pondered their next move. To both of them, it was clear that Soviet rule would be permanent in the Eastern Zone of Germany. To survive, they knew they would need to at least get to the Western Zone or at minimum to the Western Zone of Berlin.

  “Do we know anyone there?” Anna asked.

  “I knew a Major Lewis,” he said.

  “I met him also,” Anna answered. “How would we contact him and would he help us?”

  Roth did not know the answer to either question. But he did remember his best friend from cargo handling and hoped the man was still at Tempelhof. He would have to make the dangerous trip all the way back to Berlin to find out. Then from the deepest recesses of his memory, he remembered a single word that might be useful.

  Centerfield. He had forgotten what the term meant aside from the fact that it might be his key to survival.

  Chapter 82

  Bethesda, Maryland – April – May 1949

  On April 2, a doctor admitted James Forrestal to Bethesda Naval Hospital with what was described formally as, “reactive depression.” News reports called him “worn out” and the diagnosis for public consumption was “operational fatigue.” As he stepped out of the limousine that had brought him, he looked like a ghost. He had lost twenty-two pounds in three months.

  Forrestal looked up at the twenty-story building where he would be treated. He shook his head sadly. He spoke to a close friend and a doctor who had traveled with him. “I don’t expect to leave this place alive,” he said.

  “Jim, everyone is here to help you,” his friend said.

  “We’ll see,” Forrestal answered sullenly.

  The administration assigned Forrestal to the VIP suite at the top of Bethesda's tower, although psychiatric patients were normally quartered in a nearby one-story building. For one who had lived in great wealth, his hospital room was simply furnished. There was a narrow bed, a straight-back chair, an Oriental carpet on the dark tile floor, a rotating fan on the wall by a closed window. Closed and locked. Three windows in the room, all securely locked. Across the hall was a tiny kitchen, with locked drawers – no knives, nothing sharp — with white tile walls, stainless steel, and sturdy glass cabinets. There, above a radiator, was a half-open window.

  Naval corpsmen kept round-the-clock shifts on Forrestal in his room. Physicians also kept a regular eye on him. The doctors noted that his anxiety surged on the days when Drew Pearson, the antagonistic political commentator, had his radio show. Pearson’s show was very popular among people who agreed with it, ridiculed by those who disagreed. Pearson had been attacking Forrestal for years, often recklessly and personally.

  Recently, Pearson’s attacks had increased in their savagery, even though Forrestal was out of office. Even within the walls of a psychiatric hospital, Jim Forrestal couldn’t escape his enemies, real and imagined.

  The world would not leave the man alone.

  Chapter 83

  New York City - May 12, 1949

  As the Pan American Airlines Stratocruiser from London-Heathrow approached Idlewild in New York, Bill Cochrane peered out the window at the cityscape of New York City, its skyscrapers, and its bridges. The sight always thrilled him. In the distance in the harbor, he could see the Statue of Liberty. He had known returning soldiers who had cried at the sight of “the lady in the harbor,” having never thought they would return home alive. Cochrane understood the sentiment, perhaps better than ever before.

  He and his family sat three across in the roomy aircraft. They adjusted their seatbelts. Increasingly protective of his daughter, he helped Caroline buckle up. She sat between her parents. This was her first trip in an aircraft. Fortunately, the eight-hour trip had been uneventful.

  Cochrane reached across Caroline and held Laura’s hand. Then he withdrew it, gave his daughter’s hand a squeeze, and let his hand eventually settle on his lap. While New York was on the other side of the window and while they were on their final approach, Berlin haunted him. He had no right to be anything but pleased, he told himself. But the human cost, the loss of Anna and Heinrich, as far as he knew, still troubled him. Equally unsettling was the ongoing situation with Jim Forrestal, his former big boss, who had okayed his mission and his ability to operate under the cover of the airlift. Another little hitch had also developed in the weeks before departure. The physical challenges of working a farm were more than Bettina and Horst had anticipated. Beatrice, never an easy person to please, was already looking for a younger couple.

  The aircraft landed. The roaring rumble of the engines, the bump of the tires on the runway, and the skidding, bouncing halt reminded him of the Big Lift. Well, he had been part of it, he reminded himself. It was ongoing and the world was rallying behind it.

  He and his family passed through customs in New York. But when they reached the concourse of the airport, Cochrane saw a flurry of activity around a large newsstand.

  “Wait here with Caroline,” Bill said to Laura. “Something has happened.”

  Something had.

  Cochrane bought a copy of the tabloid New York Mirror, the only paper remaining at the newsstand. The newsagent had otherwise been stripped clean of New York papers.

  His eyes widened. While he and his family had been in flight over the Atlantic Ocean, the Soviet Union made a remarkable announcement. There it was in screaming bold letters on the front page.

  The Soviet Union had badly miscalculated the will of the Western democracies working together. Stalin had abandoned its blockade of Berlin. In the German capital, people were dancing in the streets.

  Cochrane turned to an inside page and read the account, though he knew the inside story probably better than the reporter. The counter-blockade had had a crippling impact on the Soviet Sector of Germany. The drying up of coal and steel shipments to the East had seriously hindered industrial development in the Soviet Zone. And by this time, the United States and Great Britain had flown in more than a quarter of a million supplies to keep Berlin alive and free. Buried in the article was something else: President Truman
announced that the Lift would continue into September to make sure Berlin was well supplied for the winter. There was no point to start trusting the Russians now.

  Over the next few days, the first British and American motor convoys would load quickly, arm themselves, and drive through one hundred ten miles of the Eastern Zone of Germany to reach West Berlin. They would be monitored along the way by units of the Red Army. Many of the Red Army soldiers were barely out of their teens. Some would wave at the Americans and some of the Americans would wave back. There were no serious incidents and no efforts to impede the goods brought in from the West. The world had taken a step back from a third world war.

  Cochrane would forever remember this afternoon and the news that waited for them as they returned from England. He walked through the crowded airport to Laura and showed her the front page of the newspaper.

  “We won,” he said.

  Chapter 84

  Bethesda, Maryland – May 21 & 22, 1949

  James Forrestal spent a month quietly confined to the Bethesda Naval Hospital. He passed Sunday, May 21, in a tranquil state of mind, eating a large steak for lunch. Special suicide-watch restrictions had been lifted, and he had been given back his robe with a sash belt. There was even an upbeat event on the calendar that Jim Forrestal was looking forward to. Henry Forrestal was preparing to have his brother discharged and taken to a restful location in the country on May 22, the next day.

  The former defense secretary’s regimen of tranquilizers had been reduced. He declined the one pill that he was offered Saturday night. He stayed up late, reading. A regular corpsman whom Forrestal liked had just gone off watch at midnight and was replaced by a new man. The new man checked in on Forrestal at 1:45 AM. Or at least that was what was on the official reports.

  Who knew what really happened? Now it was Sunday, May 22, 1949, the reports continued, the day of Pearson's shrill weekly broadcast, the half-hour of radio which had become so agitating to Forrestal. According to reports in the next day’s extra editions, Forrestal was reading a poetry anthology that he had loved at Princeton. He began to copy it down from Chorus from Ajax by Sophocles.

  He stopped after the first syllable of the word "nightingale" and — apparently during the guard's five-minute break — walked out of his room, across a hall, into the adjoining kitchen. He took off the sash from his robe and tied one end to the radiator under the kitchen window. He tied the other end around his neck. He undid a protective screen and climbed out the window.

  There were no known witnesses.

  According to the coroner's report several weeks later, Forrestal probably jumped out the window and hung for some seconds suspended. The report also notes scuff marks on the cement work underneath the window, indicating reflexive kicking, or possibly terrified second thoughts. Or perhaps a struggle of some sort, much as Jan Masaryk had once left as evidence of a struggle.

  The sash ripped away. Forrestal plunged thirteen floors, landing on an asphalt-and-crushed-stone surface of a third-floor passageway roof.

  When police found his bloody, battered body, the sash was still tightly tied around his neck. Odd. The front of his skull was crushed, unusual considering how he landed, his abdomen burst open, possibly from the impact, perhaps not, and his lower left leg severed, most likely from impact against the outside of the building as he plunged.

  His Rolex was still running.

  He would not be discharged and join his brother in the country.

  Death had been instantaneous.

  Chapter 85

  Berlin – May 23, 1949

  Sgt. Pearson was waiting for Major Pickford when the latter returned to his office from lunch. It was a busy Saturday at Tempelhof. The mood among the workers at the airport was high. They felt they deserved much of the credit for breaking the blockade and no one was in a mood to dissuade them.

  Pearson saluted the major as Pickford approached. Pickford returned the salute. “Waiting for me, Sergeant?” Pickford asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Something we need to address?”

  “Yes, sir. In private, sir.”

  Pickford nodded toward his office door. He unlocked the door and led the sergeant in, closing the door behind him.

  They entered Pickford’s office. Pickford took his place behind his desk. “At ease, Jerome,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Talk to me,” Pickford said.

  A hesitation. Then, “Centerfielder, sir,” he said, giving the telex code for Otto Kern. “Kern heard from Roth.”

  “Roth is alive?” Pickford said.

  “Apparently, sir,” he said. “He sent a message to Kern through the café operator across the terminal. Helmut, sir. Helmut’s a conduit for a lot of the DPs and the German cargo workers.”

  Pickford leaned back in his chair. In some ways, Roth was more convenient if he were dead and out of the picture. On the other hand, as Bill Cochrane always said, there were a million uses for such a man. As he thought about it while Sgt. Pearson stood silently before him, Pickford immediately warmed up to the idea of assisting Roth.

  “Okay,” Pickford said. “So?”

  “Roth wants to leave Germany with his woman,” Pearson said. “That’s the message Centerfielder received. He’s hiding somewhere north of here. We get the idea the location is rural.”

  “Okay? So we go get him? He will be useful in the time ahead. How do we find him?”

  “There’s a coded map, sir,” Pearson said. “I have a copy of part of it. Roth will only meet with his former officer here, however. He says informants are all over and he’ll only deal with Major Lewis.”

  Pickford laughed, not a merry laugh, but a rueful one.

  “‘Lewis’ is gone,” he said. “Not available. No longer works here.”

  Sgt. Pearson stood and waited. Pickford looked him up and down.

  “Jerome,” Pickford asked next. “Remind me again. Where did you grow up?”

  “Long Island City, New York, sir.”

  “Is that near Manhattan?”

  “It’s across the East River, sir.”

  “So you’re right across the water from all those big buildings with the rich people?”

  “I could reach out and touch them, Major. If I wanted to.”

  “You got folks back in Long Island City?”

  “A mom, a dad, and two sisters.”

  “Miss them? When was the last time you were home on leave?” Pickford asked.

  “Not since I got here in 1947, sir.”

  “Go pack a travel bag, Jerome,” Pickford said. “I got an assignment for you.”

  Chapter 86

  Washington and Arlington, Va. – May 23 & 24, 1949

  At the time of James Forrestal’s death, Jo Forrestal and one of her two sons were in France, looking for a favorable spot where the former secretary of defense could recuperate from his depression. Secretary of State Dean Acheson was also in France, having flown to Paris in President Truman's plane for a meeting of the Council of Foreign Ministers.

  The president's airplane, The Independence, was placed at the disposal of Mrs. Forrestal. She flew back to Washington with her son. They arrived at National Airport in the early morning hours of May twenty-third. Mr. Forrestal was to be given a state funeral. Secretary of Defense Johnson designated Maj. Gen. Hobart R. Gay, commander of the Military District of Washington, as his representative, responsible for planning the funeral ceremonies.

  The planning took place on May 23 – the same day that the Federal Republic of Germany, later to be known as West Germany, was formally proclaimed — and May 24. The funeral was kept as simple as possible, in keeping with the wishes of the Forrestal family and those of Mr. Forrestal. Services and burial were scheduled to take place in Arlington National Cemetery. The gravesite was in Section 30, not far from the grave of William Howard Taft.

  Even though attendance was to be limited to relatives, personal friends, and the official government family, the number of per
sons expected expanded quickly. Still in shock from Forrestal’s death, which he considered suspicious, Bill Cochrane received an invitation to attend. Laura was invited too but chose to remain with their daughter in New York.

  On the morning of May 25, Rear Adm. John E. Gingrich, a long-time friend and aide to Mr. Forrestal, accompanied the former secretary's casket in the hearse from the Naval Hospital to the Memorial Gate of the cemetery. The military escort was already in position at the gate when the hearse arrived about 10:50 AM. The U.S. Navy Band was on tour, so to lead the procession, the U.S. Naval Academy Band filled in.

  After the body bearers transferred the casket to the caisson, the funeral procession moved into the cemetery. The Forrestal family, clergy, and honorary pallbearers – which included President Truman, former Secretary of State George Marshall, and General of the Army Eisenhower — did not accompany the cortege but awaited the procession at the amphitheater. As the column proceeded to the slow cadence of funeral marches played by the band, the 3d Infantry Saluting Battery fired nineteen guns, spacing the rounds so that the last one was fired as the caisson reached the west entrance of the amphitheater at 11:15 AM.

  All persons attending the service in the amphitheater had been seated before the procession arrived. An atmosphere of shock and sorrow gripped the proceedings. There were twenty-five hundred guests, among whom were President and Mrs. Harry S. Truman and their daughter, Margaret, Vice President Alben W. Barkley, members of the Cabinet, Congress, and Supreme Court, the highest military officials of all the armed forces, and representatives of the diplomatic corps.

  Bill Cochrane found a single seat in the fifth row on the southeast side. He spotted many men and women whom he knew socially and others whom he knew from the American intelligence community. The few that he acknowledged or who acknowledged him exchanged only glances and looks, no words. Members of the public were permitted to fill unoccupied seats once all invited guests were seated. Outside the amphitheater, some five thousand additional onlookers stood behind ropes to watch the arrival of the procession, the largest seen by official Washington since the funeral of Franklin Roosevelt in 1945. The parallels were unmistakable. Jim Forrestal had been a special administrative assistant to FDR in 1940, before becoming undersecretary of the U.S. Navy. Forrestal might have become president, but it was not meant to be.