by Anton Gill
'What do you want to talk about?'
Oster twitched back his curtain and glanced out of the window at the trees that lined the street. 'It's a pleasant evening. I thought we'd go for a drive. Whiskey?' He pulled a flask and two cups from a compartment in the back of the seat in front of him.
'Will I need it?'
Oster laughed. 'Not sure.' He poured two drinks and handed one cup to Hoffmann. 'Zum Wohl!'
'Prost!'
They drove on in silence. Unable to see out, Hoffmann sensed that they had turned west, and so would be heading away from the centre.
'Nice city. You were born here, weren't you?'
'Yes.'
'I'm from Dresden myself.'
'I saw that on your file.'
Oster smiled broadly. 'Got a file on me have you? Of course you have!' He looked across at Hoffmann. 'Look, I won't beat about the bush. There is a strong element in the High Command which feels, shall we say, uneasy, about the new regime.'
'What do you mean?'
'These people feel that the National Socialists are going to have an adverse effect on Germany if they are allowed to continue in office.'
'They've only been in office four months.'
'And how long do you suppose they will stay there?' There was a pause. 'You're a Party man. Do you suppose that there will ever be elections again?'
Hoffmann shrugged. 'Democracy hasn't done us much good since the last war.'
'I agree. But what we are facing is dictatorship. Dictatorship, and a new war, which we cannot win, and the expulsion of about half a million of us.'
'You're being ridiculous.'
Oster was silent for a moment. 'We think you share our doubts.'
Hoffmann opened the curtain on his side a chink. The road and passing trees told him nothing. 'What do you want to do?'
'Stop him.'
'How?'
'You can help us. It won't be easy.'
'You're talking to a Party member.'
'Don't you think I haven't been through what you are going through? We love our country; we do not love the people running it.'
'What about your oath?'
'That, for many of us, is the hardest thing of all.'
'The army protects. It does not question.'
'Sometimes it is easier not to question.'
Hoffmann reached for the door. 'Tell your driver to stop. I won't listen to any more of this.'
'Of course, if you insist - but it's a long way back, and you won't get a taxi out here.' He looked out of the window again. 'Dark, too. Our dear Führer hasn't yet managed to rid our streets of quite all unruly elements, either.'
Hoffmann drank the whiskey. Oster was taking one hell of a risk. Hoffmann could agree to anything and then betray him. But Oster had his own men; and he worked for Göring, who didn't like his henchmen tampered with by anyone. It was tricky.
His thoughts were obviously easy to read. 'Contacting you has been a calculated risk,' said Oster. 'But not taken entirely at a venture. And not as risky for me as you might think.' Oster smiled at him, faintly. 'My job at the Research Department gives me wide powers.'
'Are you going to tell me why you think I am worth approaching for - for whatever it is you have in mind?'
Oster drank his Irish in two swallows, and said, 'I served with Colonel von Wildenbruch in the last war. Became a friend of the family. We fought together at Cambrai, and at Cantigny - the bloody Americans bolloxed us there; and that was where von Wildenbruch died.'
Hoffmann said nothing. He felt a curious emotion: part fury, part relief.
Oster leant forward and said something to the driver. The car turned back in the direction of Berlin.
'Just a chat while we take you back,' said Oster. 'We'll drop you in Pariser Platz, if you don't mind. I must go back to my office. No peace for the wicked!'
56
Kara had taken a risk, Hoffmann thought, as he drove along the main road to Leipzig; but the introduction to Oster, trading on his friendship with her father, had paid the dividend she expected. Oster had been discreet, persuasive. They had talked, in the end, for an hour.
Nevertheless, Hoffmann had rejected his proposal. Oster had let him go, though Hoffmann knew that every move he made would be covered from now on. But something prevented him from denouncing Oster. He let his indecision prey on him for ten days. Then he rang Oster's number again.
Their second meeting was followed by the most restful night's sleep Hoffmann had had in months. He had crossed the Rubicon: there could be no going back now.
But things had not gone as smoothly as hoped. Fewer people had joined the conspiracy than its leaders had expected, and a mixture of ill-luck and disunity meant that what was supposed to take no longer than a year had taken ten, the war had come, the beast had been freed, had become unstoppable. They had gone on trying, doggedly, despairingly, and met only failure as the destruction around them grew monstrous. The irony was that in order to continue the fight, the conspirators had to maintain their positions within the machinery that drew in and pulverised all morality, all ethics and all sense.
Once committed, either to the conspiracy or to the hegemony of the Party, there was no retreat. Hoffmann had to serve both. Though he knew his duties to the second were carried out in the interest of the first, he had for years now no longer known how to square them. He could only limit the evil of the second, and use his position to the greatest effect for the first. But what had it added up to? He felt like Sisyphus; and like that sad king in Hades, doomed to roll the boulder up the hill, but never to get it to the summit, he had gone on trying because, against all reason, he thought that, one day, he might.
For a time there had been the option of escape, and if that option hadn't been destroyed, he would have taken it. Oster had not insisted on any formal commitment, nor had he done more than tell Hoffmann to hold himself in readiness, they would call on him when the time came. He'd never been a hero, and now he was not even an idealist any more. All he could do was go on, following the path he'd condemned himself to, until it came to an end.
The motorised traffic was military, and the few unmarked cars were official. Private cars were a thing of the past, except for Party elite, favourites, and men like Hagen. Hoffmann wasn't challenged. Everyone was bent on his own business. Even at the checkpoints on the bridge over the Elbe, soon after he'd passed through Wittenberg, he was waved through after the guards had merely given his papers a cursory glance. The black Volkswagen and Galen's black trilby lent him authority still. Hoffmann was glad he had not yet abandoned his cover. The guards were tired, overburdened, and he had the impression that they didn't care anymore. Except for the dedicated few, most people were beginning to look over their shoulders. They knew that the enemy, above all the Americans, thousands of well-fed troops, with the latest equipment, were advancing on Paris; and word was beginning to spread that they would reach the city well within the month. In the east, the Russians were at the gates of Warsaw. No-one knew which way to flee, but most were heading west, since the Russians, so rumour ran, took no prisoners. There were stories about the 8th Guards Army and the Mongolian divisions, which chilled the blood.
Along the edges of the road, tattered groups of people trudged, pulling wooden handcarts, a few with horses and larger wagons, a few on bicycles. The wagons were piled with cupboards and chairs, beds and tables. Little children perched in front, behind, and on top of the piles. Old men in hats, shirtsleeves, the remains of suits, led the horses, or plodded between the shafts of the handcarts; women in grey dresses took up the rear. People struggled along alone, manhandling suitcases. Hoffmann saw one man throw his aside into a field. Another put his down and sat on it, his head in his hands, as the others marched by.
The traffic backed up as he approached Leipzig. It was 17.00 hours. At the roadblock here, the guards were SS, and took their duties seriously. But his luck held and he passed without difficulty, maybe because the official in the limousine in front of him gave
the guards a bollocking for wasting his time.
It was Sunday, and the streets of the city were empty. Everywhere dust, rubble and ruins. A few women, with wheelbarrows, picks and shovels, worked to clear masonry from one side-street he passed.
He had to find somewhere to stay, and somewhere to put the car where it would not attract attention. People here would want to know his business. He had his letter from the Ministry of Aviation, which gave him a roving brief to inspect 'any temporary structural damage attributable to enemy action', and several hotel dockets. He did not know whether the broadcast announcing his death was a blind or not; he couldn't depend on the search for him having been called off.
57
The old Imperial Hotel was untouched by the war, though buildings twenty metres away had been reduced to rubble. In the spacious entrance hall, flanked by enormous parlour palms, a bored female string quartet ploughed its way through Albinoni's Adagio. Elderly waiters moved between tables, serving beer to the handful of guests - all, Hoffmann guessed, there in some official capacity or other - who were occupying the armchairs grouped round tables. Most of the men were in uniform - army officers, a few SS, and one Luftwaffe. There were half-a-dozen women scattered amongst them, elegant creatures on the verge of middle-age, not linked to any of the men by blood or marriage. No-one paid any more than idle attention to him as he made his way to the reception desk.
The clerk looked at him. Hoffmann was aware that his appearance let him down.
'I've left my car outside. Have someone park it for me, will you?' he said, rattling the keys as he placed them on the counter.
'Of course, Herr Friedmann,' said the clerk, without enthusiasm. 'As for your room: with or without bath?'
'With,' said Hoffmann.
The clerk pushed a key across the desk towards him. There followed the usual form-filling. 'Water is available in the rooms from six until eight in the mornings and from seven until ten in the evenings. The dining room is open from six until nine, from twelve until two, and from seven until ten. How long may we expect the pleasure of your company?'
'Two or three days.'
'Very well.' The clerk signalled to a woman of about sixty in a bellhop's uniform, who took his luggage and preceded him towards the broad staircase at the rear, whose carpeting, Hoffmann noticed, was in need of replacing. But the Imperial was doing its best to keep up appearances. He might even get some laundry done. Once he was shaved and changed, even without a fresh suit to wear, he felt he'd be able to cut a convincing figure. Better after all to look smart than shabby, given that he was still able to keep his current persona. The problem with a city was that although it had the advantage of anonymity, there would be more people to take notice. The hotel would be sending his details to the local police the following morning, if not that night. He could only pray that he wouldn't attract attention.
He had to wait for the water to come on. He had a beer and a sandwich sent up, and asked for a newspaper. They eventually arrived, with yesterday's copy of the Beobachter, in which there was no news of him at all. It was time to take stock. He knew the city well. That night, he'd wander over to the Grimmaische Straße and have a drink in Auerbach's Keller. It was a long shot, but one or two of the old crowd might still be around. If he drew a blank there, he'd try a bar he knew on the Rittergasse, if it was still standing. He had no intention of staying three nights at the Imperial.
At 8.00pm, bathed and changed, he set off. The streets were all but deserted, and reminded him of a film set, they were so quiet. It was a five-minute walk to Auerbach's, and in the time it took him to get there he passed three people, all old men, none of whom greeted him or met his eye. But, though didn't feel safe, he felt better, and for a few precious moments, while walking, the stress, which was his usual companion, left him in peace.
Auerbach's, that dark-brown, underground cathedral of a place, whence Faust, with the Devil's help, once rode a wine-barrel up into the street, was oddly comforting. He wandered through the dining-rooms without seeing anyone he knew, until he came to the Großes Keller, which was full, mainly officers and their women companions, some drunk. He waved a waiter away and scanned the room. None of the old gang was here. He hesitated, on the point of leaving, when he sensed someone's eyes on him. Sitting alone at a table which was spread with a cloth as white as it could be, given that there was a war on, and at his ease, a half-finished bottle of Goldkapsel before him, sat Veit Adamov.
58
For an instant, Hoffmann considered flight. He hadn't seen Adamov for a long time, but he knew how he'd survived, and who his friends were. On the other hand, if he left, he'd lose the chance of finding out whose side his old acquaintance was on.
His Walther 9 was in his pocket. He would talk to Adamov. If things turned out badly, he'd kill the man and run.
Adamov raised his glass, and indicated the empty chair opposite him. The table was in a corner; Adamov sat with his back to the wall. Hoffmann didn't like the idea of sitting with his own back to the room, but there was no alternative. He glanced around the diners again: they all seemed to be absorbed with their own company. The room was dimly, cosily lit, candles on the tables, the lamps on the walls heavily shaded. He made his way over.
'I wondered if you were ever going to get here,' said Adamov, grinning. 'Have a drink. A little on the sweet side for our taste, but they talked me into it.'
'What are you doing here?'
Adamov waved to a waiter, who brought another glass, and two menus. 'Me? Bird of passage.' He leant forward, 'And waiting for you, obviously. I'd have sat here all night. Where else would you come to?' He paused, drawing heavily on his cigarette. 'You really come straight to the point, don't you? No small talk, not even after - how long's it been? Four years? Five?'
'Longer than that.'
'I know when it was,' said Adamov, seriously; and Hoffmann remembered, whatever else he might think of the man, that he hadn't been mistaken in trusting him then. Adamov poured wine, and drank, grimacing. 'I've had enough of this. They've got some rough old Frankenwein here. What do you say to a Boxbeutel of something?'
Hoffmann watched Adamov's face, but, except when he was trying to attract a waiter's attention, his eyes never left Hoffmann. So he wasn't signalling to anyone else in the room. Not that he'd need to. All Judas had to do was plant a kiss. Was Adamov a Judas? No - Adamov was simply a survivor. Hoffmann had learned that by the end of the last decade, when everyone sensed war was just round the corner, and the exodus of dispossessed Jews and dissident artists, writers, teachers, had become a flood, Adamov had seriously considered leaving for Moscow. But he hadn't. He'd told departing friends that he'd decided to stay, to fight the system from within. Few had believed him.
He reinvented himself as a producer-director, of hard-core porn movies, tailored to the tastes of senior SS. It all had to be done without either Hitler's or Himmler's knowledge, but demand had grown as war came, and increased after Stalingrad, when most officers with any nous realised that the jig was up. Drink and porn were standard escape routes.
Hoffmann had ordered the Vice Squad to keep an eye on Adamov's studio - a disused button factory in Wilmersdorf - but as no small children, or animals, were involved, at least to their knowledge, he'd taken no action.
He wasn't entirely surprised to see Adamov. People were leaving Berlin, if they could, and Leipzig was the nearest big city. He couldn't imagine Adamov ever existing outside a big city: he wouldn't know what to do with himself. But why had the man been expecting him?
The Boxbeutel arrived and Adamov sampled it. Satisfied, he poured two drinks into green-stemmed rummers. 'I'm here because Brandau told me to wait for you.' He held up his hand. 'He didn't know for sure that you'd choose this direction, but he guessed you'd be coming south - no cigars for guessing that!'
Hoffmann thought fast - no-one, apart from Brandau, and Adamov, who'd been close to Kara, could have known where he'd be headed, or why. Even they might not have considered it, but they had,
and now he had to play with the cards he'd been dealt.
'How long have you been here?'
'Three days. Berlin's too hot now. The Gestapo's arresting everything that moves.' He spread his hands. 'I was going to give you until tomorrow.'
'Where are you going?'
'You're not a policeman anymore, so I don't have to answer that.'
'How the hell do you know Brandau?'
'We've been in touch, now and then, over the years. I'm surprised you didn't know. War makes strange bedfellows.' Adamov laughed briefly.
'I know how you've been making ends meet.'
'Yes - but your Vice boys were very discreet - thank you for that. I think we'd better order. I'm not the drinker I used to be, this stuff's going to my head, and it'll look better if we eat. My party.'
The menu was old and elaborate, though most of the items on it were struck out. They settled for silverside and potatoes.
'Brandau's train stopped here for forty minutes. Scheduled to take on more passengers. You know what the station here's like, hub of the bloody universe. How the Lancasters have missed it is beyond me. By the grace of God, his train was on time.'
'How much else did he tell you?'
' Just that he'd be on that train.'
'And if he wasn't?'
'To walk away.'
Hoffmann smiled to himself. He'd underestimated Brandau. And Adamov, come to that. 'When did Brandau recruit you?'
Adamov looked surprised. 'Oh dear, it wasn't anything so formal. You know me, always ready to lend a hand.' He propelled a forkful of meat into his large mouth. 'If this is beef, I'm Winston-fucking-Churchill.'
'What are you supposed to do for me?'
'I'm supposed to be of assistance.' Adamov poured more wine. 'Shall we have another bottle? Maybe not. Some schnapps to finish, then. They do a good Himbeergeist.' He speared a potato. 'The problem is, most of the old friends we thought we'd find here have gone. Flown the coop. Buggered off to Frankfurt and Munich. The ones with real money are already in Zurich and Madrid. But I've made a couple of contacts and they're arranging my transport. For a consideration, they'll look after you, too.'