by James Remmer
‘Which means we’ll lose everything.’
‘Everything.’
‘You’re sure the Russians will get here first?’
‘We are their main political objective, Anna. They have a burning desire to punish us.’
At that moment there was a faint knock on the door.
‘That will be Schwartz. I asked him to serve coffee at eight-thirty.’
Frau von Menen rose to her feet, adjusted her dressing gown and made to open the door. ‘Leave it on the table, please. I’ll serve it myself.’
Schwartz took his leave and left them to their privacy.
Anna von Menen poured coffee for both of them and sipped hers, staring pensively at a photograph of her parents on the dressing table. ‘Seems my father was right, “Hitler will ruin this country.” He said it often.’
‘It’s not just Hitler, Anna, it’s this whole, rotten stinking ideology they call Nazism. We should have done something about it… I mean, me and others like me.’ He shook his head, appalled at his own dereliction. ‘We saw it happening and we did nothing about it. “Hitler was elected to power democratically,” they said. “Using force to depose him would be contrary to the high principles and traditions of the German military.” I said it myself just three months ago: “Prussian officers do not mutiny.” And now, I’m ashamed of what happened to those who did try to change things – von Witzleben, Beck, Olbricht, Stauffenberg, von Stülpnagel, Speidel, Canaris…’ He paused, uncertain that he should say anything further, but he trusted his wife. ‘As for that evil organisation of Himmler’s… heaven alone knows what will happen when their vile, inhuman perversities come to light.’
‘What do you mean?’
The General buried his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘Do you recall me telling you about what had happened in Poland… and afterwards, in Russia? Units of Himmler’s Einsatzgruppen followed on behind the army, carrying out their so-called ethnic cleansing operations. General Blaskowitz tried to stop it, remember?’
She shuddered at the recollection. ‘Yes, I do. It was ghastly, quite ghastly.’
He reached out for her hand. ‘Anna, in the occupied territories, that kind of thing has been going on for years. And if we’re to believe the rumours about what’s been going on inside the so-called concentration camps, it’s been happening here, too, in Germany.’
Anna von Menen, a woman of charm, culture and great compassion, clenched her fists, pain rushing across her face. ‘We’ve heard the rumours, yes,’ she stuttered, ‘but surely, they… they can’t be true, can they? I mean, how could they do that to anyone, let alone their own countrymen?’
‘They, Anna, are not ordinary people; they’re crazed fanatics, madmen. Believe me, when this country finally falls, as it surely will, there’ll be widespread retributions, especially at the hands of the Russians. The Americans and British will insist on a more judicial approach, proper courts and proper trials.’ His eyes peeled wide open. ‘But you can be sure of one thing; some will pay the ultimate penalty.’
*
A light knock on the door and Schwartz walked into the dining room.
‘Sorry to disturb your lunch, General, ma’am, but there’s a gentleman on the telephone. Gave his name as Baumer, says it’s very important, sir.’
‘Very well, Schwartz, I’ll take it in the library.’
General von Menen looked at his wife, rolling his eyes in exasperation.
‘Who’s Baumer, darling?’ she asked.
‘Gestapo… A bumptious SS captain on Hitler’s staff… arrogant, conceited, coarse and not very intelligent. Does a lot of hawking for Bormann. He’s certainly no gentleman.’
Even though the door was closed, Frau von Menen could hear her husband’s fiery side of the conversation.
‘What! No, it’s not convenient. Can’t it wait a few days? You’re damn right I’m annoyed.’ There was a lull in the exchange. ‘Right, have a plane collect me at Priwall, tomorrow morning, ten o’clock sharp. And make sure it isn’t a Storch – I want to be there and back on the same day, with no stops! Really? Well, aren’t I the lucky one.’
General von Menen returned to the dining room, fait accompli written all over his face. ‘Sorry, Anna,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got to go to Rastenburg… Hitler’s headquarters. Nothing to worry about. I’ll only be gone for one day.’
*
Deep in the Görlitz Forest, a hundred kilometres south-east of Königsberg, Hitler’s Supreme Headquarters made for a dismal and ominous setting; a series of purpose-built wooden huts and fortified concrete bunkers surrounded by impenetrable barbed wire fences.
Baumer, thirty-two years old, one metre seventy-five, with a bull neck and a face like a fairground boxer, walked into the room. The three-inch scar along his left cheek lent him the image of a foil-parrying member of the German aristocracy, but in truth, it was the mark of a chiv, put there by a left-wing agitator during his street-brawling days with the Nazi SA.
‘Ah, General, you’ve arrived at last.’
General von Menen regarded the insult calmly, peeled off his gloves and laid them on top of the desk. ‘Hauptsturmführer Baumer,’ he said quietly, ‘if you can find time to restrain your effrontery for a moment, you will see that I am not a figment of your imagination, I am actually standing here, before you, in reality – an infantry general of the German army! Why I’m here, I do not know.’
‘I know who you are, General,’ replied Baumer, eyes riveted on the large brown envelope that he pushed disdainfully across his desk. ‘You’re here to see the Head of the Party Chancellery.’
‘Herr Bormann?’
‘Yes, but he’s otherwise engaged with the Führer, discussing certain matters with some of your… er… former colleagues. You are to read the contents of this in my presence, memorise the instructions and then’ – he flicked a glance at the fire which was crackling furiously at the far side of the room – ‘burn them!’
General von Menen lifted the envelope, seated himself by the fireplace and sliced it open to reveal two sheets of paper, each marked TOP SECRET. He had just reached the foot of the second page when the door to the adjoining office pushed open, revealing the clockwork figure of an SS Standartenführer. Baumer stood, saluted the Standartenführer and gestured discreetly in the direction of the seated General von Menen.
The Standartenführer proceeded towards the fireplace. ‘Good day, General von Menen, I am Standartenführer Keppler. Herr Bormann sends his apologies, but he is otherwise engaged, hence he has instructed me to speak to you. I trust you had a good flight?’
The General looked up. ‘I did, thank you, but having read this, I’m not so sure that I should be here. I am a General of Infantry, not a transport sergeant.’
Keppler regarded the distinguished infantry commander with some reverence. ‘I am aware of your legendary deeds, General, but you will note that the order has been signed at the very highest level. We are not talking about a simple matter of transportation; we are talking about a very special convoy.’ He reclined into the chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘You are about to assume responsibility for a highly secret operation, General, an operation which is of vital importance to the future of the Third Reich. I’m—’
Keppler broke off abruptly. The door to the room from which he had emerged was still ajar and from it spewed the high-pitched shrill of a man who, by some fluke of history, had endeared a maniacal, disciple-like following, his ranting cutting through the stillness of the Görlitz Forest, the words ‘betrayal’, ‘disloyalty’, ‘duplicity’ and ‘treason’ peppered with frequent utterances of ‘useless’, ‘craven’ and ‘renegade’ reaching through to the anteroom. Two morose-looking generals emerged, smiled weakly and headed straight for the door.
Sighing in dismay, General von Menen picked up the order and turned back to Keppler. ‘
There’s no mention of logistics.’
‘I’m working on that right now. As soon as I have the information, I will contact you. You’ll then have two days in which to report to Berlin for a second briefing.’
‘Berlin – what’s left of it – is a big city,’ retorted the General. ‘Where and to whom do I report?’
A wry smile adorned Keppler’s face. ‘You will receive that information ahead of your departure. Hauptsturmführer Baumer will be there to meet you. He will explain everything.’
‘Why the delay?’
‘It’s a question of storage. I’m hoping to resolve it within the next couple of weeks, but it could take a little longer.’
The General replied with weighted cynicism. ‘Standartenführer Keppler, I can wait as long as you like, but I doubt the Russians will afford you the same amount of patience!’
15
Saturday 21st October 1944
As twilight settled over eastern Spain, the four-engine Condor airliner raced down the runway at Barcelona Airport and clawed its way into the firmament. Ahead lay over 600 kilometres of hostile skies.
At eight o’clock, an announcement echoed through the cabin. ‘Ladies and Gentleman… Captain speaking. Perhaps you sensed our last manoeuvre… We have crossed the Italian Riviera.’ The announcement was greeted with spontaneous applause.
Von Menen settled back in relief and drifted into a deep sleep. The plane rolled down the runway at Munich’s Riem Airport, made a half-hour stop-over and then took off again. Still he didn’t stir.
‘Carl… Carl… Carl.’
The incessant whispering in his ear and the repeated nudging at his arm finally roused him. Von Menen opened his eyes to see a face leaning towards him. He shook himself from his daze and sat bolt upright.
‘My God, Ulricht? Ulricht Hoffman?’
‘Yes,’ smiled the man in the seat across the aisle.
‘Goodness, I haven’t seen you for—’
‘Six years, just after I left the army,’ supplied Hoffman.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked von Menen, as they shook hands.
Hoffman laughed. ‘The same as you; going to Berlin!’
Von Menen stared at his dark blue uniform. ‘But I thought you were serving with the Luftwaffe?’
‘I was, until I was shot down over France… May, ’40. They gave me a medal, a small pension and then kicked me out. Since then, I’ve been a pilot with this outfit.’
‘Deutsche Lufthansa?’
‘Yes, for over three and a half years. And you? I heard you’d joined the Foreign Office?’
‘That’s right. I’ve been away for the past three years — Argentina…’ – von Menen halted, his covert past pricking at his mind – ‘and then Madrid for a year,’ he added hurriedly.
‘Lovely city; I’ve been on the Madrid route for the past month. Going there again next week.’
Von Menen was now wide awake, eyes as bright as beacons.
‘Must be all of three years since you last saw Berlin?’ mused Hoffman.
‘June, ’41. Evidently, I’m in for a bit of a shock.’
‘You certainly are. Married?’
‘No… you?’
Hoffman steeled himself to reply. ‘I was,’ he said, his smile melting away. ‘My wife was killed in an air raid last March. I was on a trip to Stockholm at the time.’
Von Menen leaned across the aisle. ‘Ulricht, I’m very sorry. It must have been a dreadful shock to you. Do you have children?’
‘Yes, a little girl. Miraculously, she survived. My mother looks after her.’
The pitch of the engines changed as the airliner altered course, Tempelhof just a few kilometres away. They flew over the Havel and the Berliner Forest. Up ahead, the sprawling conurbation of Berlin, dotted with a patchwork of glowing fires, came into view.
Hoffman noted von Menen’s look of unease. ‘Don’t even think about it, Carl. You’ll get used to it.’
‘Will I?’
‘Everyone does, in time. Where are you heading when we arrive?’
‘I’ll check out my parents’ house first. If I can’t get in, I’ll find a hotel.’
‘I’ll give you a lift into town,’ said Hoffman. ‘There’s no public transport at this time of night and finding a hotel just isn’t that simple. If the worst comes to the worst, you can stay at my place. I live with my mother, back in Dahlem.’ Hoffman flicked his head over his shoulder, as if Dahlem was at the rear of the cabin. ‘When we arrive at Tempelhof, I have to report to crew scheduling, so I won’t be taking the same route into the building. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll meet you outside.’
Von Menen ambled towards the terminal with a growing unwillingness, his only solace being that he would not be asked any searching questions about “Herr Lindemann” in the company of Ulricht Hoffman.
He was the last in the queue, the crushing image of the Gestapo’s Frontier Police already in sight – two desks, two officers, two Walther P38s and all the paraphernalia of Nazi bureaucracy.
‘Next!’ called the officer on the left. Von Menen closed the last three yards with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy heading for a caning, the hairs at the nape of his neck bristling like the needles on a porcupine’s back. ‘Passport!’ ordered the officer gruffly. Von Menen coughed nervously, laid the document on the desk and waited.
‘Ah, so you are Herr Lindemann?’
Von Menen swallowed hard. ‘Yes.’ The officer turned and raised his hand. A man in a dark brown suit hurried across the hall, footsteps ringing on the marble floor. This is it. Werner’s coded signal was a dupe. No more worries about accommodation; next stop, Gestapo Headquarters. Today I have a full set of teeth, tomorrow…
‘Herr Lindemann?’
‘Yes, I’m Lindemann,’ confirmed von Menen.
‘SS Captain Josef Daufenbach, Gestapo Frontier Police.’ His voice was staid, his face void of expression. He reached into his pocket, von Menen unmoving, waiting for manacles. ‘I’ve been asked to give you this,’ said Daufenbach, handing von Menen a wax-sealed envelope. ‘An official from the Foreign Office delivered it this afternoon.’
Relief zipped through von Menen’s body. He felt weak and mentally battered but his heartbeat was normal again.
‘Thank you,’ he answered politely. He picked up his passport and walked away. Through the swing doors at the end of the hall, he ripped open the envelope and read the handwritten message.
Welcome home. Go to Wilhelmstrasse tomorrow morning. W.
Hoffman picked his way cautiously through the darkness, a fine sickle moon in the sky. Von Menen sat motionless, eyes glued to the windscreen, the sight spearing his mind like a red-hot needle. It was worse than he’d envisaged, much worse.
Even in darkness, the destruction was mind-numbingly visible: burned-out carcasses of cars, trucks and trams; bombed-out buildings and flattened streets; mountains of debris everywhere.
Along Wilhelmstrasse, the scene was one of widespread devastation. The Foreign Office, bleak and desolate, looked like an unfinished building smothered by a patchwork of tarpaulin sheets, flapping in the wind like the sails of Mary Celeste. Ahead lay the ruins of the Hotel Bristol, and opposite, the gutted shell of the British Embassy. The Hotel Adlon, a relic of its majestic past, was a pitiful sight.
Hoffman made a right into Unter den Linden. Its destruction was unimaginable. The once magnificent avenue looked like the aftermath of an earthquake, the smell of tragedy rising from every pile of rubble. Von Menen jabbed at Hoffman’s arm, urged him to make a left. A hundred yards further, his face turned ashen grey.
‘Ulricht, STOP!’ He gaped silently at the scene across the road, cold beads of sweat emerging from his brow. ‘Please, God, no!’
Leaping from the car, he raced across the street. The once ele
gant town house lay in ruins, the whole front missing. All that remained was the rear wall. Numbed by the sight, von Menen clasped his hands to his face.
‘I’m sorry, Carl. Someone you know?’ asked Hoffman.
‘My parents,’ choked von Menen.
Ulricht took hold of his arm. They scrambled towards a piece of timber, standing starkly upright among a pile of debris at the back. On it, in smudged white paint, was the inscription: “Von Menen family – all safe.”
Gasping a long sigh of relief, von Menen flopped down on a slab of concrete. ‘Thank God… Thank God, they’re safe. You know, Ulricht, I was so damn naive, I’d no idea it would be so bad.’
Hoffman sat down beside him. ‘The major raids started last November,’ he explained. ‘The Royal Air Force sent 750 bombers in just one night. It was like Armageddon… Huge blankets of fire and smoke over much of Berlin… The fires burned well into the next day. Wilhelmstrasse, Unter den Linden, Friedrichstrasse, all badly hit. Nowadays, they send Mosquitos. There’s no warning, they just appear, anywhere, anytime. It really plays on the nerves. By day there are also the Americans, wave after wave, like birds migrating south.’ Hoffman was lost in thought, recalling the bombs that fell like blossom in an orchard. Then he shook himself and jumped to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s go. We’ve been brooding for long enough. And I’ve just thought where you’ll find a room.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘The Savoy.’
‘Off Kurfürstendamm?’
‘Yes, wonderful place, even nowadays. I stayed there on the first night of my honeymoon. I know the front of house director, Johann Ritter, splendid chap. I’m sure he’ll find a room for you.’