by James Remmer
‘Can you talk about it? I might be able to help you.’
For the next two hours, von Menen related the whole tale, ending with the fact that he was convinced Vidal was trying to seize power and that Maria’s life was at stake because of it. Fascinated by the entire story, Cortes listened like the astute lawyer he was, not missing a word. He said nothing until the moment von Menen fell back in his chair, exhausted.
‘Let me get this straight, Carl. If you can’t persuade von Ribbentrop to agree to this Colonel Vidal’s demands, you think Maria will end up…?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
‘Even though he’s her uncle?’
‘Where Vidal is concerned, Juan, family doesn’t come into it.’
‘Did you warn her about him before you left?’
‘No, she only would have challenged him, which would have been highly dangerous. She’s a singularly-minded individual, too forthright for her own good.’
‘A bit like Fabia,’ grinned Cortes. ‘But… the Kreisau Circle. Surely, going back to Germany will be an even greater risk?’
‘That’s the dilemma, Juan. If I don’t appease Vidal, Maria’s at risk; if the Gestapo know about my connections, I’m at risk, as will be my entire family.’ Von Menen buried his face in his hands. ‘Whichever way you look at it,’ he mumbled through his fingers, ‘it’s a damn mess. Even if I escape the Gestapo, there’s always the possibility that von Ribbentrop won’t agree to Vidal’s request. Then it’s almost certain that I’ll end up on the Russian Front!’ He took a deep breath, forcing himself to regain his composure. ‘But… if the Nazis do buy into Vidal’s scheme, then you might, perhaps, be able to help me.’
Cortes shook his head. ‘But what can I do that the German authorities can’t?’
‘If I return to Argentina, I’d like it to be on my terms, via Madrid and Lisbon. No submarines, thank you.’
‘Using a false identity?’
‘Yes… an identity which not even the German Foreign Office would know about.’
Cortes drew the cork from a bottle of von Menen’s favourite Vega Sicilia and poured two glasses. ‘Carl, I’ll do anything humanly possible to help you. And if you’re concerned about my discretion, don’t be. As a Cortes, I give you my word that whatever you confide in me will remain locked in my head.’
‘I know that, Juan. I appreciate it greatly.’
‘So, what do you want – another false identity, one you can fall back on the moment you arrive in Spain? A Spanish or Portuguese passport, maybe?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary…’
Von Menen popped into his bedroom, brought back his Argentine passport and dropped it in Cortes’s lap. ‘All I need to get back to Argentina, Juan, is that and a ticket in the same name.’
Cortes opened the passport, noted the name and laughed. ‘Carlos Menendez? Did you use this to cross the Portuguese border?’
‘No, I used a Swiss passport, which I obtained in Lisbon.’
‘So, you smuggled this one into Spain? Where did you hide it?’
‘Between two pieces of bread, a slice of cold ham and some lettuce!’
Cortes laughed loudly.
‘What I’d like now,’ said von Menen, ‘is for you to keep it in a secure place until I get back.’
‘I’ll keep it in my safe.’
‘Maybe you could keep an eye on shipping movements to the South Atlantic, also.’
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘But we’re still left with the problem of communication.’
‘Well… we still receive airmail from Germany. It’s fairly infrequent, but it does happen. It’s a service we provide for a few very special clients, if you get my meaning. The difficulty is, it can take anything up to four weeks and when it does arrive, invariably it’s been opened by the censors.’
‘I assume you use a post office box?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who picks up the mail?’
‘Emilio Gazala. He takes charge of it until the client collects it. It’s quite legitimate. We keep proper records, a ledger, everything.’
Von Menen wrote down a name on a piece of paper and handed it to Cortes, who studied it with some amusement.
‘Who the hell is Señor Marante?’
‘He plays full back for the Boca Juniors,’ grinned von Menen, ‘but from now on, he’s you! Tell Gazala that if he receives any mail in the name of Marante, he’s to hand it directly to you, no one else.’
‘Anything you write will have to sound meaningless and very innocuous,’ advised Cortes.
‘It will. If any of my correspondence contains a reference to Vasco da Gama, in whatever context, you can take it as meaning that I’m on my way back.’
*
On 15th October, Spanish radio announced the sudden death of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. Once described by von Menen’s father as the soldier of unprecedented military intellect, Rommel was reported to have suffered an embolism on the previous day.
*
After four days of waiting, a clerk from the Wagons-Lits office at Madrid’s Palace Hotel telephoned to say that he had received confirmation of a Deutsche Lufthansa Focke Wulf 200 leaving Munich for Barcelona and Madrid.
‘When is it scheduled to return?’ asked von Menen.
‘Saturday 21st… It leaves Madrid at two o’clock in the afternoon, calls at Barcelona and Munich…’
‘Calls at Munich?’ asked von Menen frantically.
‘Yes, señor, it terminates at Berlin.’
Heart thumping, von Menen dare hardly ask the next question. ‘Is there a reservation in the name of Lindemann?’
‘Yes, señor, initial “K”.’
A taxi was waiting outside, but von Menen was adamant he would go to the airport alone. Glancing at his watch, he held it to his ear, tapped the face with his finger and frowned. ‘What time do you make it, Juan?’
‘Eleven fifty-five.’
‘Thought so. My damn watch is kaput.’
Cortes disappeared into his room, returning with a silver fob watch. ‘Here, take this. It keeps excellent time.’
‘But Juan, I couldn’t… I remember you inheriting it from your grandfather, in your final year at university.’
Cortes pressed the timepiece into von Menen’s hand. ‘No arguing. Take it. Think of it as an added incentive to get back to Argentina – not that I think you need an incentive.’
Von Menen picked up his bags and made his way along the hall, hesitating at the door. ‘You know, Juan,’ he said, ‘it’s ironic, really. When I left Berlin for Buenos Aires in ’41, someone warned me that I might be walking into a lion’s den. Here I am now, going back to Berlin, plagued by the thought of being thrown into a snake pit.’ A strange look fed into his eyes. He reached out and shook his friend’s hand. ‘Frankly, I think I prefer lions.’
14
Monday 16th October 1944
Zossen
One metre ninety and with a face like the north side of the Matterhorn, Hans Otto Steiger, the highest-decorated warrant officer in the entire German army, stood with his hand on the open door of a black Mercedes, waiting for a man he had served under for twenty-eight years.
General Klaus von Menen made his way towards the Mercedes as quickly as his lame gait would allow. Returning Steiger’s salute, he threw his walking cane and cap into the back of the car, then slipped into the front passenger seat.
‘I’m redundant, Hans!’ he said, as the car swept through the gates of the German Army High Command HQ.
Steiger grinned, supposing the General to be joking.
‘I’m through, my friend, finished, washed up. As of today, I’m another name on the Führer Reserve – that is, until they officially retire me.’
Sensin
g that it was no joke, after all, the amusement drained quickly from Steiger’s face. ‘Seriously, sir?’
‘General Guderian told me an hour ago. Never liked Zossen, anyway.’
‘I suppose that means I’ll be heading back to the Eastern Front, then, sir.’
General von Menen fixed Steiger with a devilish smile. ‘The only front you’re heading for, Hans, is in Mecklenburg. You’re staying with me. Guderian’s orders.’
‘Heavens. No more soldiering. What will we do?’
‘There’s a one-off job for us sometime in the next few weeks, but Guderian doesn’t know what it is.’
Steiger followed his usual route, through Steglitz, Wilmersdorf and on to Charlottenburg, dodging the legacy of the latest air attack – piles of rubble, potholes, makeshift barriers and the bewildered souls of Berlin. Beyond the southern fringes of Spandau, the Mercedes gathered speed, racing into the rain-swept darkness.
Lulled by the comforting purr of the engine, the General succumbed to his weariness and fell asleep, head flopping forward like a rag doll. Alone in his thoughts, Steiger’s mind delved back in time: the Somme, a moonless night, a badly wounded officer and a death-defying sprint across no-man’s-land, bucking the menacing threat of machine gun fire, a hushed, cheering chorus spurring him on. ‘Run, Hans, run, run, run.’
Somehow, he had made it back to the German line, the young Oberleutnant Klaus von Menen across his back, lucky not to have lost his life, let alone his badly wounded leg. The deed of heroism earned Corporal Hans Otto Steiger the Pour le Mérite, instant promotion to sergeant and an undimming friendship with the man whose life he had saved.
Steiger pushed on through Perleberg, the memories still rising – the Armistice; a weak and exhausted Germany; an army in disarray; an empire gone, cities and towns in disorder and the ever-increasing threat of Russia’s new Red Army. He looked at the sleeping General and smiled. It’s been a long road, Klaus.
Beyond Dassow, a high stone wall came into view; up ahead, a wide open entrance flanked by two stone pillars. Steiger made a right, rumbled across a cattle grid and swept up the long tree-lined drive, gliding to a halt before the horseshoe flight of steps which curved down from the huge brick-built edifice.
The General stirred. Steiger leapt out of the car, hurried to the far side of the vehicle, held open the door and waited, umbrella at the ready. General von Menen climbed out of the car, field-grey topcoat draped over his shoulders. Steiger stepped back, stood rigidly to attention and saluted, military fashion. For the General, and Steiger, the “party” salute held no place in German military etiquette.
General von Menen waved his stick and smiled approvingly. ‘Thank you, Hans. I don’t need the umbrella. I’ll call you in the morning. We have a lot to discuss.’
A white-jacketed orderly rushed down the steps, beaten to the car by an excited black Labrador. ‘Evening, General… Evening, Sergeant Steiger.’
‘Evening, Schwartz,’ said Steiger. ‘The General’s bags are in the back.’
Schwartz collected a large leather suitcase from the boot, leaving the General to fuss over the dog and say his goodbyes to Steiger.
‘Have a pleasant evening, Hans, and give my love to Greta. Come on, Yeremenko.’
The Labrador ran ahead, the General taking considerably longer to join Schwartz at the top of the fourteen steps.
‘How’s my wife?’ he asked, as they entered the house.
‘Much better, General,’ replied Schwartz, closing the door and switching on the lights. ‘She retired to bed a short while ago, saying she would wait up for you. Oh, and cook has prepared a cold supper for you, sir. Would you like me to serve it in the dining room?’
‘Thank you, Schwartz, but I think I’ll skip supper. I’ll catch the news on the radio and retire.’ Retire? The word was already beginning to haunt him. ‘Perhaps you could arrange some coffee in the morning – not too early; say about eight-thirty.’
‘Very good, General.’
Steiger turned through a high arched entrance into a cobbled courtyard the size of a tennis court, where stood the fading remnants of German imperial greatness: obsolete stables, deserted groom’s quarters, storerooms, laundry house, boiler house, fully-equipped workshop with its own blacksmith’s forge and enough garaging for six limousines.
He coasted into the garage, parking the Mercedes between a BMW saloon and his own pride and joy – a Steyr 1500 command car.
His wife was standing by the front door, waiting to greet her “hero”. Greta Steiger was a solid, matronly lady, with prominent cheekbones, a glowing complexion and thick, shoulder-length flaxen hair. She had a warm, radiant face, amethyst eyes and looked younger than her forty-six years.
Steiger smiled, dropped his case to the floor and threw his arms around her. One heave and his wife was suspended, her feet barely touching the floor.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.
‘Hans!’ she giggled. ‘I’m not nine stone anymore!’
‘No, but you’re just as nimble.’ He lowered her to the floor and closed the front door behind them, breathing in the smell of home. ‘How’ve you been?’
Greta Steiger could contain herself no longer, her eyes moistening, a tear trickling down her cheek. ‘Oh, Hans…’
‘I know. It’s fourteen years to the day.’
‘You remembered. Fourteen years… It seems like only yesterday.’
‘Come on, let me give you a cuddle.’ He squeezed her tightly, then let go to get another good look at her face. ‘That’s better,’ he said, brushing away her tears.
She forced a smile into her eyes. ‘I’m okay.’
‘And Anna?’
‘She’s much better.’
‘Good… Klaus has been very concerned about her.’
‘She’s still a little weak, of course, but improving. And you?’ she asked, leading him by the arm into the parlour.
‘Tired, but otherwise fine.’ Steiger shook his head. ‘Klaus, though. He’s so morose these days, rarely says anything, hardly a word, no jokes, nothing.’
‘It’s the worry, Hans, the responsibility.’
‘That’s another problem,’ sighed Steiger. ‘It’s not his responsibility anymore. He’s been transferred to Führer Reserve, awaiting retirement.’
‘Retirement?’
‘Yes; as far as the General is concerned, the war is over.’
Greta Steiger stared at her husband in utter amazement. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Oh, but I am. No more Zossen, no more Russian Front, no more anywhere… except here, of course.’
Greta steeled herself to ask the question. ‘And… you?’
‘I’m finished, too.’
‘You mean…?’
‘I mean from now on, you’ve got me all day and every day.’
She flung her arms around him. ‘Oh, thank God, Hans… thank God.’
General von Menen pushed open the bedroom door, a faint glow washing across the landing. His wife was still awake, her face bathed in the soft light of a bedside lamp, her much-treasured copy of Miguel de Cervantes’ Don Quixote in her hands.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and kissed her. ‘Schwartz tells me you’re a lot better.’
‘Much better, darling, thank you,’ she smiled.
‘That’s good, but you really need to be careful, Anna. Remember what the doctor said the last time: bronchitis can easily turn into pneumonia.’
She looked lovingly at him. ‘Klaus, darling, please, stop worrying about me. Greta has taken very good care of me. She’s been marvellous, so kind. She’s such a good friend. I don’t know what I would do without her.’ Anna touched his brow, her hand drifting slowly down the side of his face. ‘You look so tired,’ she said.
That night, Frau von Menen slept the sl
eep of the blissfully content, but not so her husband.
The burden of command had been lifted, but General von Menen still felt the agonising torment of the Russian Front, where German soldiers – cold, hungry and weary – faced the insurmountable odds of the Red Army: enough T-34 tanks to line the autobahn between Berlin and Hamburg, more YAK fighter planes than a flock of starlings on a migratory flight south, and enough troops to fill the Berlin Olympic Stadium over and over and over again. Yet Hitler continued to complain that his armies were not doing enough.
The rain had stopped, the silence broken only by Anna’s hushed breathing. Exhausted, with all hope of sleep abandoned, the General slipped silently from his bed, sat down by the window, parted the curtains and peered out across the dark, vast expanse of his beloved Mecklenburg.
His wife stirred just as dawn broke. ‘What’s the matter, Klaus?’
The question went unanswered. General von Menen was lost in an ocean of misery, his mind tangled by the thought of a future where only agony and despair would exist. Anna slipped out of bed and hurried across the room, the light of day settling on a tortured face, a husband she hardly recognised. Kneeling beside him, she placed her arm around his shoulder.
‘What is it, Klaus?’
‘I’m not so sure you’d want to know,’ he said.
‘I do. Please tell me… I’m your wife, I love you.’
He looked at her pensively. ‘I’m finished, Anna. They have no further use for me. I’ve been transferred to the Führer Reserve.’
She stared at him, a hail of conflicting thoughts rushing through her mind. ‘And Hans?’ she asked carefully.
‘The same.’
‘Couldn’t Heinz have done anything for you? I mean…’
A wry smile slipped across the General’s face. ‘Guderian may be a little unconventional, my dear, but these days, he’s as invalid as the rest of us. Three more months and he’ll be the same as me – gone! In any case, it’s all rather academic.’ Gently squeezing her hand, he looked into her eyes. ‘Anna, my dear, we’ve lost. Germany cannot hope to stem the tidal wave of defeat. The Allies are unstoppable… It will all be over by next spring. And when it is over, we won’t just be beaten, we’ll be humiliated.’ He sighed heavily. ‘My greatest fear is that the Russians will be at the gates of Berlin before either the Americans or the British. At the rate they’re going, they could easily occupy the whole of Mecklenburg.’