‘Soon I hope. I want a good long chat about everything, but not right now. For the moment, can I put a couple of questions to you? What do you know of Colonel Dexter Flood from the War Department in Washington DC?’
‘Hmm. No more than you, I guess. Soldier academic with an interest in European politics going back a few years. Why?’
‘I met him at the White House. I didn’t take to him.’
‘The White House, eh? You’re flying high, my friend.’
‘You mean you didn’t know? I rather thought you had been behind the invitation.’
‘If I was, I wouldn’t say. As for Dexter Flood – why do you need to know?’
‘FDR wants me to maintain contact with him over certain matters here in England. Things I’d rather not talk about over the telephone.’
‘Well, I’ve heard nothing bad. But I’ll ask around, make a few inquiries for you.’
‘Thank you, but be careful. I don’t want to compromise you or your career prospects, Jim. This is my problem.’
‘Have no fear. I’ll be as discreet as a clap doctor.’ Vanderberg laughed. He was Wilde’s oldest friend. They had studied history and shared rooms in Chicago. They also shared an interest in espionage ancient and modern, and they had a similar world view. They had been fortunate in ending up in England at the same time. Now, though, Vanderberg’s posting as an attaché at the US Embassy in London was unlikely to last more than a few more months; Ambassador Kennedy wanted shot of him because their views on Germany and England diverged too sharply. The pay-off was that Jim would be promoted to a senior role in the State Department back home while awaiting his first appointment as an ambassador in his own right.
‘The other thing I wanted to pick your brain about was an American guy called Milt Hardiman and his wife Peggy. Have you heard of them?’
‘Milt Hardiman? Sweet Jesus, yes, Tom. He’s one of Kuhn’s backers. You’ve heard of Kuhn?’
‘The leader of the Nazis back home, the German American Bund?’
‘That’s him, Fritz Julius Kuhn. Well, Milton Hardiman is one of the big money men behind the Bund.’
Wilde found he wasn’t surprised. ‘He’s here in Cambridgeshire for the summer. I went to a party at his swanky estate last night. I didn’t like him, and I wasn’t sure about some of his friends. He sneered at FDR, called him Rosenfeld.’
Vanderberg laughed. ‘They all do that, all the German American Bund types. Their little joke. Do yourself a favour and stay away from him. He’s poison.’
So why had FDR’s man Flood asked him to use Hardiman as a go-between if he had unsound political leanings? ‘I think I need to know more about Dexter Flood as a matter of urgency, Jim.’
‘I’ll call you soonest.’
‘As to the Hardimans, there’s a slight complication. Clarissa Lancing is staying with them for the summer. Her brother is my good friend Geoff Lancing. We sort of hit it off, I think.’
‘Clarissa Lancing the movie star?’
‘The same.’
‘Well, goddamn it, Tom.’
He could almost hear Jim’s disapproval at the end of the line. Vanderberg was a happily married man with children. He knew and liked Lydia. Wilde rushed to reassure him. ‘Nothing like that, Jim. It’s just, you know, she asked me over for tennis and cocktails. Lydia’s in London. It’s harmless, isn’t it?’
‘Who are you kidding, Tom? Not me, not you. Lydia’s a good one; hang on to her. You want my friendly advice? Stay away from temptation, buddy. Keep away from the noxious Hardimans at all costs – and keep your pecker in your pants where it belongs. Do you read me loud and clear?’
Wilde heard him, but he wasn’t at all sure he was going to heed him. What was that stuff about moths and flames? Well, Clarissa Lancing burned awfully bright.
CHAPTER 17
Lydia was at a loss all day. She wandered the centre of Berlin like a tourist, looking with vacant eyes at the shops and stores in the busy thoroughfare of Leipzigerstrasse. The city was a blaze of red and white and black – the ubiquitous swastika pennants hanging everywhere. And the streets below them were preternaturally litter-free; no one dared drop even a cigarette end.
In a department store, she bought a felt hat with a pheasant feather protruding at a jaunty angle, then walked along Unter den Linden. At the Brandenburg Gate she watched a troop of Hitler Youth march by in lederhosen with white stockings and tassels at the knee. She bought a brown paper bag full of birdseed from a frail old Jew. He held out his shaking hand for a few pfennigs, but she gave him ten marks. He thanked her profusely and scurried away, while she went off to feed the pigeons. She resisted the temptation to buy hot bratwurst for herself from a street sausage seller although it smelt delicious. Instead she took in the old and new museums by the Spree and found herself profoundly unimpressed by the Nazis’ narrow vision of art. She also gazed with distaste up at the overweening Victory Column. In the afternoon, she refreshed herself at an outdoor cafe and listened to the soulful melody of a zither minstrel.
Wherever she went, she felt certain she was being followed. But was she being followed by Nazi agents or by the man who had agreed to meet her? Strangely, she felt least nervous outside the new Reich Chancellery building on Wilhelmstrasse; it was so outrageous in size and scale that it did not seem real; too cold and soulless and modern to be threatening. Gazing upon the home of the SS and SD on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse was less comfortable. Who knew what horrors took place behind those baleful walls, in painted rooms along institutional corridors, and in grimly lit dungeons?
At teatime, needing the warmth of decent human company, she went around the corner to Tiergartenstrasse and dragged Frank Foley’s secretary, Margaret Reid, out for coffee and cake. Margaret didn’t need much persuading. The queue of people waiting their turn to beg for a visa had not diminished overnight.
‘Another eighteen-hour day for Frank and me,’
‘I wish I could help.’
‘When you get home, kick up a stink. Tell them they need to allocate more visas to these people. Britain has an empire that reaches to all corners of the earth. Surely someone somewhere could provide a home.’
Margaret tried to turn the subject to the efforts to locate the missing boy, but Lydia hushed her. ‘Do you think we’re being watched here?’
‘Perhaps,’ Margaret said. ‘To tell the truth I’ve given up caring. What are they going to tell their bosses? Today Margaret Reid went to work, then she went back to her flat, exhausted.’ She laughed. ‘Not very exciting, is it?’
‘I need to know that I’m not being watched.’
‘Oh well, that’s easy.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Come back to 17 Tiergartenstrasse with me. We’ll slip you out the back.’
*
At five to six, Lydia found herself standing on the wide open space of Opernplatz, on the south-east side of the Unter den Linden. Opera-goers milled around waiting for the doors to open, either in evening dress or the uniform of senior military and Schutzstaffel officers. Lydia felt horribly conspicuous and was aware that she was shaking.
She kept her head down and walked towards St Hedwig’s Cathedral, with its six-columned frontage and its distinctive dome. A line of teenage boys were tripping down the broad stone steps, like choristers who had escaped practice. Keeping well away from them, she headed up in the other direction. At the top of the steps she checked her watch. One minute to six. Bells were about to chime around the city; she had to be inside.
Don’t look around. Walk straight in. She was supposed to wear her hat with the feather. But she couldn’t wear a hat, could she, not inside a Roman Catholic cathedral? Or was it the other way round – was she required to keep her hair covered? She removed the hat and held it under her arm, with the feather visible and prominent.
Light streamed in through the high windows. Banks of long, smoothly carved pews ranged across the stone floor of the great rotunda, facing the high altar. She walked down the aisle between the pews, aware of the e
choing click of her shoes at every step. She stopped, bowed and made the sign of the cross.
She heard the sound of other heels on the stone floor and turned to see a young priest in a cassock and lace-fringed surplice walking towards her. He bowed his head in her direction, but carried on towards the altar where he used a snuffer to extinguish two candles. Lydia sat down on one of the pews towards the left-hand side, wishing to be both easily visible and utterly inconspicuous. The air was heavy with incense. How very different this all was from the religion of her youth. No candles or incense or gold artefacts in the Cambridge meeting house of the Society of Friends. Such ornamentation was an affront to God, she had been told. And yet as she sat here in this holy place, she had to confess it had a certain attraction. Perhaps the spirit could soar here after all.
The priest turned away from the altar and walked back towards the rear of the dome, then disappeared into the sacristy.
She heard another sound behind her and half-turned. An old, white-haired woman, bent and in widow’s weeds, had entered. She, too, made the sign of the cross, then went to a shrine at the side of the great rotunda, put a coin into a box and lit a candle that she placed among a blazing array of others. Each one represented a prayer, a request to God.
The young priest emerged once more and came her way again. This time he stopped beside her and asked her kindly whether she wished to be confessed. She said, ‘Nein, danke,’ and he immediately smiled. ‘Ah, you are English, yes? Can I help you at all? Vespers is hours away.’
‘I just wish to sit for a while . . .’
‘Are you Jewish? All are welcome, you know.’ His eyes went to her trembling hands. ‘Whatever your faith, you have no need to be nervous here.’
‘No, it’s not that. I just need some quiet reflection.’
He nodded, holding his hands together in front of him. ‘Forgive me. I have intruded. I will leave you alone, of course.’ He bowed again and left her to go about his business. She closed her eyes. Perhaps a prayer was indeed called for in this place, at this time. Tom should be here with her. What would he think when he discovered she had come to Germany without telling him? How would she feel in his place? Betrayed, of course.
She sensed she was not alone. She opened her eyes and turned briefly. A man had slid into the pew behind her. He was leaning forward, as though deep in prayer.
‘Miss Morris, keep your eyes to the front if you would.’
She had seen enough of him. It was a face she would recognise again.
He was a man in his late forties, with short fair hair and a clear complexion. She imagined he would be big, for he seemed to be squashed into the pew rather uncomfortably. He was wearing a black suit, a white shirt and a tie, and she could smell his sweat.
‘Can you help me?’ she asked.
‘That depends what you want. I can get you out of Germany. I can get anyone out, to the country of their choice, with a great deal of their jewels and gold. I am the Scarlet Pimpernel of Berlin. And my rates are very reasonable, considering the great risks I take. Fifty Reichsmarks for the exit papers, then fifty per cent of all gemstones, gold and currency smuggled out. It is a good deal, because the border guards would take one hundred per cent.’ His voice was businesslike; then it softened. ‘You can call me Fritz. It is what all you English call us Germans, is it not?’
‘I don’t want to get anyone out of Germany. I am trying to find a missing boy. A boy of eight named Albert Haas who disappeared from one of the Kindertransports en route to England.’
‘Indeed, that was what I was led to understand. A boy named Albert Haas . . .’ he said, as though mulling over the name.
‘I was told you might be able to help.’
‘All things are possible. How much money do you have?’
Lydia had not expected this. She was not short of cash because she had been left with a comfortable estate on the death of her parents when she was a child. She had brought fifty pounds with her to Berlin, half in Reichsmarks. Had she been so naive not to consider that bribes might be necessary?
‘I have some money. Not much, but I could try to get more from the bank in the morning.’
‘I have heard of this boy. It is a difficult, complicated matter.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘That depends who I am talking to. Who do you represent, Miss Morris?’
‘I am representing myself. If you have information – or if you can get it – just tell me how much you want. I’ll pay you, whatever it costs.’
‘Are you MI6? Has the British Government sent you?’
‘No, of course not. How could you possibly think I was MI6?’
He laughed.
She stiffened. ‘How can you laugh? A boy is missing. His mother is terrified.’
‘Of course, I am sorry. It is just the company you keep.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He didn’t explain, but pursued his question. ‘I must ask again – who do you represent?’
She sighed deeply. This conversation, with her back to the man, was draining her and felt as if it was going nowhere. And yet, he knew her name, had taken the trouble to come to meet her. He had either been trailing her as an agent of the regime, or he could truly help her. Most importantly, he had said he had heard of Albert Haas.
‘The Quakers,’ she said finally. ‘The Society of Friends. Perhaps you haven’t heard of them.’
There was silence behind her. The young priest was walking past them again, this time accompanied by an older priest. The man behind Lydia waited until they were out of earshot, then he prodded her in the back with his finger. ‘Take this,’ he said. She put her hand to her shoulder and he slipped a piece of card into her fingers. Not just a card, a photograph.
The picture showed a young man and woman, both aged about twenty. Both healthy and smiling, lying on their backs on the grass, as though enjoying a picnic.
‘My son and daughter,’ the man said. ‘They are twins, fine young people. There was a time after the war when they were wasting away to nothing. It was the Quakers who saved them from starvation in 1920. Your people provided milk each day. You saved many lives when the world turned its back on us.’
It was said that for five long years after the end of the war the Quakers fed a million German children every day with milk and rice, soup and bread. She looked at the photograph again, then handed it back.
‘Then perhaps you could repay the Quakers by finding Albert Haas.’
‘He was not taken from the train, I can tell you that much. And for you, Miss Morris, no charge.’
What use was this? ‘He was taken from the train, sir,’ she said, her voice insistent. ‘It happened at the Dutch border. Other children in his compartment have testified that he was taken away by uniformed men.’
‘Perhaps he was moved to another part of the train. I have certain knowledge that he made the journey to England as planned. He has been there all along.’
‘No. That’s not possible.’
‘I swear it, on my own children’s lives. You are wasting your time in Berlin, Miss Morris.’
She turned around to face him. ‘Who are you? Why should I believe you? And how do you have the power to get people out of Germany?’
‘Please, turn around. You are endangering us both.’ She turned back away from him and he whispered hoarsely into her ear. ‘My father was a writer. They burned his books along with twenty thousand other books on the Opernplatz outside this very church. And now, I pretend to be one of them, the Nazis. That is how I can do what I do. That is how I hear things.’
‘Then if what you say is true, if Albert is in England, where exactly is he?’
‘I don’t know. But I must tell you one other thing.’
Once again, silence.
‘Yes?’
A long pause, then a sigh. ‘Perhaps I should not be telling you this, but I must caution you: Frau Dr Haas is not all she seems.’
The words might have ch
illed her, but she was already thinking much the same. If the SD was involved in Lindberg’s escape, how could Eva not have known – or at least have suspected something? But these thoughts did not help with the immediate problem of finding Albert. ‘Are you certain that the boy is in England?’
‘I am certain he was taken there. After that, I cannot say.’
‘Please tell me more, where did you come by this information? Who are you?’
‘I will say only this: you should get out of Germany now, Miss Morris. It is probable that the only thing keeping you alive is that you are a Quaker. Even Heydrich respects your organisation. But it may not last.’
‘Are you trying to scare me?’
‘You should be scared. The whole world should be scared. Tell Foley to look into the activities of IG Farben and the work of Gerhard Schrader and Otto Ambros. They scare me, Miss Morris.’
And then she heard him rising from his pew, the scrape of his shoes on stone, and when she turned, he was gone.
*
After a minute, she rose and began to make her own way out of the Cathedral. The young priest was near the door. ‘I hope you found the peace you were seeking,’ he said.
She had found something. But it wasn’t peace. ‘Thank you,’ was all she said.
‘Go with God.’
From outside there was the muffled but distinctive sound of a gunshot. Their eyes met. Together, they hurried out into the evening air. From the top of the steps, they looked down at the body of the man who had called himself Fritz. Blood was pouring from his head onto the stone of Opernplatz, where, he said, his father’s books had been burnt.
The sunlit square was teeming with opera-goers, early evening diners and sensation-seekers. They turned their eyes away, though all must have heard the shot and seen the man fall. No one approached. No one wanted to be involved. Among them was a large man in an unnecessary coat, silhouetted against the mass of people, the black shadow of a pistol dangling from his right hand as he lumbered away, unchallenged, towards Unter den Linden. Even at this distance there was something horribly familiar about him. She had seen him before somewhere, but where?
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