Out of Mecklenburg

by James Remmer

‘I know, Carl, and I accept that much of what you’ve said is true.’ The General looked at his wife, who nodded her agreement. ‘We both do. Hitler’s fight is no longer for Germany. It’s not even for the preservation of the Nazi Party. It’s for himself. He’s trying to stave off the impossible; save his own neck! We cannot possibly win the war. In my opinion, all we have left is about six months.’ The General rose from the edge of the bed, walked over to his son and placed his hands about his shoulders. ‘But you must realise, Carl, that while we, the family, can talk like this, defeatist talk will not be tolerated by the Nazis. There are still many people who would willingly denounce those with such views and the penalties are very severe. The fact is, it’s not just Hitler; madness is endemic throughout the SS.’

  Von Menen couldn’t argue with that, but his own involvement weighed heavily. ‘Father, you mentioned on the telephone that a man visited Mother last February.’

  ‘Yes. Werner, I think his name was. That’s right, isn’t it, Anna?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Frau von Menen. ‘He didn’t say a great deal, just that you were doing something very special, as he put it. He was very discreet. We thought you might possibly have gone to Paraguay, Chile, or even Peru.’

  Von Menen nodded and gave his father a significant look.

  ‘Does this relate to what you wanted to ask me?’ enquired the General.

  Noting the immediacy of something sensitive, Frau von Menen, the lifelong epitome of discretion, made towards the door.

  Von Menen stretched out his arms. ‘Mother, please. You don’t have to leave. If I can’t trust you, who can I trust?’ He turned to the General. ‘In assessing my own situation, and by that, I mean the reason I am back in Germany, I need answers to some very pertinent questions.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The Abwehr is no longer part of the Wehrmacht, right?’

  ‘True. It’s been dissolved. The function of the Abwehr comes under the umbrella of the RSHA, Kaltenbrunner’s outfit. The man who now runs the foreign intelligence service is Walter Schellenberg, an SS Brigadier, a bright, scheming individual, only thirty-four and very slippery. Rumour has it he has immediate and unrestricted access to Himmler.’ He noted the searching look in his son’s eyes. ‘Sorry, Carl, I’ve no idea if he’s procured your outfit.’

  ‘Well, I have a meeting with someone tomorrow and I’m hoping he won’t be wearing the uniform of the SS.’

  ‘You do know that the whole of the Foreign Office has moved south?’ asked Frau von Menen.

  ‘Yes, Mother, that’s where I’m going tomorrow, Krummhübel.’

  ‘Any idea when you’re likely to be back? Only we’ve decided to stay in Berlin for a few days. It’s Great-aunt Helga’s ninetieth birthday tomorrow and since we’re here, we thought we’d pay her a surprise visit.’

  ‘By the end of the week, I hope, but I really can’t say for sure.’

  Frau von Menen glanced hurriedly at her watch. ‘Goodness, it’s nearly five o’clock. Hans and Greta will have been waiting downstairs for the past hour.’

  Von Menen picked up the phone, then stalled, tapping the handset slowly in the palm of his hand. ‘Tell me, Father… von Moltke…’

  The General saw the aching look in his son’s eyes and perceived the question instantly. ‘I knew all about your involvement with the Kreisau Circle, Carl,’ he said. ‘Your mother did, too. Call it intuition, if you like, or even a father’s expectation of his son. Had I not been a professional soldier, I’d have done the same.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I know… you’re concerned that your name might eventually come up… but I doubt it will. They’re all honourable men, and besides, you’ve been away far too long.’

  Unlike the view he held of his adopted uncle Manfred, Carl von Menen had never regarded the Steigers as anything other than an older brother and sister. It had been that way for over twenty years.

  Mesmerised by the sight and smiling eyes of her “little brother”, Greta Steiger stood motionless in the doorway, tears of joy welling in her eyes. Suddenly, she could wait no more. Throwing down her coat, she ran to him like a woman hurrying to catch the last bus. ‘Missed you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Missed you, too, Greta, and your apple pies.’

  ‘Oh, you…! You haven’t changed a bit.’

  ‘Neither have you, Greta. You look marvellous. It’s so good to see you again.’

  Greta Steiger moved aside, allowing the massive frame of her husband to envelope the “boy” he had taught to box almost twenty years ago. ‘Good to see you again, Carl.’

  ‘You, too, Hans. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘A few rounds in the courtyard?’

  ‘Look, I’m an old man now,’ joked Steiger.

  ‘A little heavier, too, I’d say, but I’d wager you haven’t changed.’ Von Menen flicked a quick glance at Greta. ‘Tell me, is this husband of yours still up to his old pranks?’ The two men exchanged a few playful punches.

  Greta, stunned with joy, brushed a tear from her cheek and nodded. ‘Your father thinks he’s a bit of a magician… can’t for the life of me think why.’ She flashed a smile at the General.

  ‘Best you don’t know, Carl,’ said the General. ‘I don’t. I’d rather not.’

  ‘Well, Hans?’ asked von Menen.

  ‘Your father gets very concerned about where all the extra petrol, wine and food comes from, but as I keep telling him, they’re presents from General Montgomery.’

  The room resounded with raucous laughter. It was the tonic everyone needed.

  They retired early that evening, but a little after ten o’clock, Berlin resounded to the sound of wailing sirens.

  Von Menen clambered from his bed, slipped on his clothes and headed for the basement, his parents and the Steigers already there, along with many others, including what looked like the entire staff of the Japanese legation, all sitting calmly on long wooden benches.

  No one spoke; the only noises an occasional cough, the shuffling of feet and the babble of overhead water pipes. Two candles flickered on an old table, the glow dancing on the brown-painted walls. An elderly man, the legs of his blue-and-green striped pyjamas showing beneath the hem of his coat, pulled out a half-bottle of schnapps and took a long swallow.

  Moments later came the incessant crack of flak and the crump of high explosive incendiaries, bells ringing, sirens howling. Von Menen looked up and held his breath, the walls trembling, dust fluttering down from the ceiling. Overhead, a water pipe began to hiss until finally it started to leak, a fine spray of water falling on the table, just missing the candles.

  ‘British Mosquitos, Carl,’ commented Steiger, ‘here to liven up the sirens, disrupt night-time factory work, cause as much mayhem as they can and get the emergency services flying around Berlin like racing pigeons.’

  At one o’clock, the “all clear” sounded. The Savoy was still standing. So was von Menen. His Berlin baptism was over.

  Welcome to the war.

  17

  Monday 23rd October 1944

  At the untimely hour of five o’clock, Steiger dropped von Menen at Görlitzer Station, the platform teeming with hundreds of cold and desperate people, their whole lives crammed into battered suitcases, prams, pitiful makeshift trolleys, crates and tattered cardboard boxes.

  A long line of carriages stretched down the platform, a giant locomotive at the front, hissing and spitting steam, the hazy orange hue radiating from its open firebox blissfully comforting.

  For most of those lucky enough to have a ticket, it was the train to salvation: an escape from the relentless Allied bombing offensive, the shortening odds of death and the unforgiving demands of Hitler’s heartless and brutal regime. For von Menen, it was the train of tormenting uncerta
inty.

  At the break of dawn, the train pulled out, every carriage packed, the corridors choked with people, arms outstretched through open windows, a cacophony of last farewells, the tears plentiful. It crossed the Landwehr Canal at walking pace, all eyes on the widespread destruction as it lumbered slowly through Treptow, the silence of incredulity almost palpable.

  Von Menen peered disconsolately through the window, his mind darting back to his grandfather’s advice again. ‘When the truth emerges, the people of this nation will realise that they’ve been duped by a despot. By then, of course, it will be too late; Germany will be in ruins.’ Now the reality was staring him right in the face. Berlin was on her knees. The unmistakeable signs of defeat were everywhere.

  When von Menen alighted at Hirschberg, he had been standing for eight hours. He was tired, hungry and numb with cold, but he cheered at the sense of calmness and the clean, crisp air that greeted him at Krummhübel. The carnage and misery of Hitler’s war was somewhere else; it was not in Krummhübel’s back yard.

  To the south, a mantle of smoky grey mist covered the high peaks of the Giant Mountains. It was too early for snow, but the sudden snap of cold weather gave rise to the thought that it must only be a few days away.

  A man in a full-length astrakhan coat greeted von Menen on the platform. ‘Helmut Maier, Foreign Office,’ he said, his voice as deep as a tuba. ‘Herr von Althoff sends his apologies, but he’s been called to Prague.’

  Von Menen stuck out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Herr Maier.’

  They drove to the edge of the village, halting outside a neat little chalet, part-hidden by a planting of pines; a crisp, white building with brown-varnished windows, a studded oak door and ornate wooden window boxes.

  ‘We’ve requisitioned most of everything around here,’ said Maier: ‘hotels, guest houses, chalets, anything with a bed and a front door. They keep telling us that it’s only temporary, but I can’t see us ever going back to Berlin. Anyway, you’ve been billeted here. It’s comfortable and quiet, but Frau Hirscher has a reputation for being frugal with the heating.’ Maier stole a glance at his watch, reached over to the passenger door and pushed down the handle. ‘Sorry to have to dash,’ he said, ‘but I’ve an appointment elsewhere.’

  ‘I won’t be seeing anyone today, then?’ asked von Menen.

  ‘Ah, should have mentioned. Herr von Althoff said to tell you that you’re expected at nine in the morning.’

  ‘I’m to see Herr von Althoff tomorrow morning?’ asked von Menen.

  ‘No, sir, he won’t be back for another three days.’

  ‘Then who?’ asked von Menen, cautiously.

  Maier shrugged. ‘Sorry, I’m only the driver. I know where to take you, but who you’ll be seeing I’ve no idea. I’ll call for you at eight.’

  It was, as Maier had hinted, as cold as an icebox. No heating, no hot water and no hot food. Even the “welcome” was icy. Frau Hirscher was a stern-looking woman, about sixty, tall and slim, with features so sharp she looked like a stick insect in half-moon glasses.

  Exhausted, von Menen managed as best he could on a dinner of one cold sausage, a portion of cold potatoes and a lukewarm beverage that the frosty Frau Hirscher called coffee. In bed, he wore long johns, pyjamas and two sweaters. Even with his topcoat flung over the duvet, he still shivered.

  But it was not the cold that kept him awake. It was the thought of who he would face at nine o’clock in the morning – the likeable and amiable Werner, the unknown Schellenberg or the malevolent Kaltenbrunner?

  Tuesday 24th October 1944

  They pulled up beside a large wooden chalet, fronted with ornate shuttered windows and a heavy green door.

  ‘This is it, sir,’ said Maier, casting an eye over the crumpled piece of paper which bore the address.

  Von Menen took a deep breath, tightened his stomach and stepped from the car. ‘Thanks,’ he said, staring up at the high stone chimney. He walked up to the door and pressed the bell, a deep ominous chime sounding inside.

  A woman of about forty, with cold grey eyes and an austere look, wearing tweeds, thick brown stockings and lace-up brogues, answered the door. Von Menen wagered with himself that she would have a Kalkhoff bicycle around the side, a wicker basket at the front and a dress guard over the back wheel.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, brusquely.

  ‘I’m Carl von Menen. I believe I’m expected.’

  ‘Come in.’

  Another icy welcome. Von Menen followed her along a narrow hallway until they reached an open door on the right.

  ‘You’re to wait in here,’ she said, with not a hint of civility. ‘There’s coffee in the thermos flask, milk and sugar by the side. Be sparing with the sugar, mind, and the milk!’

  ‘Who—?’ The door closed shut at the start of his question.

  He sat by the hearth and waited, his anxiety deepening, the pressure building.

  Some minutes later came the sound of muffled voices in the hall outside, the high monotone of the woman who had met him at the door and someone else, a man. Which man?

  The door pushed open, a hatless head appeared, its face wrapped neck-to-nose in a thick woollen scarf, a mystery on two legs.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ muttered the man through his scarf, ‘but I had an urgent dental appointment. Damn tooth.’ Peeling off his scarf, he draped it over the back of a chair, von Menen seeing his face for the first time: old and drawn, eyes heavy and listless. At first, he was none too sure, but slowly, a face from the past emerged. Von Menen restrained himself, an inner feeling of joyous relief nigh on consuming him.

  Werner walked across the room, placed a hand on von Menen’s shoulder and shook him warmly by the hand. ‘It’s very good to see you again, Carl.’

  ‘It’s good to see you, too, sir.’

  ‘Fortunate that Hausser spotted you.’

  ‘Hausser? The man in Lisbon?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fortunate indeed. The passport came in very handy, as did the air ticket.’

  ‘Hausser’s a good man,’ said Werner. ‘Works solo and follows his nose.’ He shot von Menen a dry smile. ‘On this occasion, he followed yours. Anyway, can’t be too careful. In Lisbon, Schellenberg’s spies are all over the place, shipping agencies included.’

  ‘Then am I to understand that Information Department Three is still part of the Foreign Office, sir, because—?’

  ‘Because you’ve heard that Schellenberg has taken over the Abwehr,’ interrupted Werner, ‘and you thought, maybe, he’d suddenly become your new boss?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘Well, no need to concern yourself on that account. Information Department Three remains completely autonomous.’

  Thank God.

  Werner moved to pick up the thermos flask, cursing his tooth in the process. ‘So, how was Argentina?’

  ‘Enterprising and adventurous, sir.’

  Werner poured the coffee and beckoned von Menen to the fireside. ‘Forgive me for asking to see you so soon,’ he said, ‘but I’m curious to know the reason for your urgent return. The Minister would like to know, too. In fact, he wants a full report by this evening. But first, I’ll deal with the laudatory bit. I’ve been instructed by Minister von Ribbentrop to offer you his warmest congratulations. He thinks – and I agree with him – that your product has been the best we’ve had. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Something else, too… You’re anxious to see your family, I expect?’

  ‘Yes, I was going to ask you about that, sir.’

  ‘No need… Everything’s arranged. There’s a courier bus leaving Krummhübel for Berlin at two o’clock this afternoon. You will be on it. You’ve been ordered to take a spot of leave.’

  Von Menen was scarcely interested in tri
butes, but the word “leave” and the notion that he would be returning to Berlin that afternoon prompted a new thinking: he could accompany his parents back to Mecklenburg.

  Finishing his coffee, Werner leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, shall we begin?’

  Von Menen raised an eyebrow, looked over his shoulder and gestured in the direction of the door.

  ‘Our conversation will not carry as far as Fraulein Feitz’s office.’

  Von Menen hesitated, Maria flashing through his mind, chased by the image of his dear friend, Gustav Helldorf, Lutzi’s incarceration at Flossenbürg, the executions, the demise of the Kreisau Circle and the wreck of his beloved Berlin. Then he considered Werner. He wanted to believe Werner was one of the many who didn’t like what he was doing, yet did it all the same because he wanted to survive, care for his family and live to a ripe old age.

  ‘Well?’ prompted Werner.

  Von Menen drew himself forward, the script already written in his head, his sights set firmly on the gathering weakness of the Nazi hierarchy and their need to escape, the manner in which he was about to portray Vidal fit only for fiction.

  ‘It is my considered judgement, sir,’ he began, ‘that it is only a matter of months, perhaps weeks, before Argentina declares war against Germany. Doubtless, Farrell and Perón will try to avert it, but the United States will, eventually, force it upon them.’

  ‘Can’t say I’d argue with that.’

  ‘But, it can be avoided, sir.’ Werner’s look brought von Menen to the edge of his chair. ‘You see, there’s a very interesting scenario fermenting in Argentina. If we coax it along, I’m sure it will avert the threat of a declaration of war against Germany and, perhaps, lead to the restoration of diplomatic relations between our two countries.’

  Werner’s head shot forward, his eyes narrow. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Very. You might find this difficult to believe, sir, but I have irrefutable evidence of a coalition between the Argentine navy and a disillusioned element within the army. Together, they have one aim – to seize power from Farrell and Perón!’