Into Darkness

by Anton Gill

  Both men laughed drily.

  'He'll get a directorate somewhere,' said Brandau. 'They're going to need people like him to run the country.'

  'And people like you?'

  Brandau smiled. 'I'm not that clean. I'd have to keep my back to the wall all the time. I'll stay here, or go to France.'

  'Or come to us. You've been a great help.'

  'We'll talk about that later.'

  The man tore the top sheet off his pad and placed it in his out-tray. 'That'll be processed by the end of the week. Then we'll get her on a ship out of Lisbon for New York.'

  137

  Emma didn't see any more of General Richter. The OSS moved him somewhere in the suburbs and broke off contact between them. They left her alone, more or less, though she had to check into the office once a day at ten. Otherwise, she idled about the hotel and the town, not quite able to believe that she was in a place that functioned normally, out of war, where things she'd half-forgotten were freely available. Real coffee. Real tea. Stockings, and shoes that weren't sensible. Brightly-lit cafés, the smell of cigars in the open air. But she remained in Germany in her heart. She thought of her family. She thought of Paul Kessler. She didn't think she would ever see him again.

  She sat in a café, gleaming chrome, boxwood and neon, sipping a hot chocolate and wondering what would happen next. She had had nothing but hints from the OSS officers, and imagined she was being kept in the dark deliberately, as a security measure. Departure for the USA had been Richter's idea, and the Americans had gone along with it once they'd located Kara's mother. The arrival, in Emma, of a grandchild of sorts was welcome, and Kara's mother could know nothing of Stefan.

  Emma decided she would tell her what she could of the truth, if they did let her go; and, although she was undecided herself, there was nothing she could do now to influence the decisions made on her behalf. She knew no-one in Switzerland, and her family was dispersed or dead. She was lucky that Kara's mother was willing to stand by her.

  And, she told herself, she could come back one day, if there was anything to come back for. Brandau would tell her if any hope arose; and he'd promised to pass news of her on to anyone she knew who might turn up in Bern looking for her; so it was not an irrevocable step that she was taking.

  But it was a big one. She looked down at her violin, in its case at her feet.

  'Hello, sweetheart.'

  A voice like a gravel pit, old, a voice whose owner over years had smoked too many cigarettes and drunk too much gin. But it was also familiar, sober and sad. Emma looked up.

  'Remember me?'

  She did, but it was the voice she recognised. She tried hard to conceal her shock when she saw him. He was smartly dressed, pinstripe suit and bow-tie, though he was the kind of person who makes any clothes somehow look shabby. But his face... A clobbered-looking face, heavy and lizard-like, was looking down at her from under what was a very obvious wig. One eye was gone, leaving a puckered flap of skin where it had been. His mouth could not smile properly, though he tried to make it, and when he opened it she could see the wreckage of his teeth. He leaned on a black walking-stick and when he moved it was with a heavy limp. His left leg bent at the knee at an unnatural angle. His other hand held a suitcase. He must have been in a terrible accident, whoever he was, for now she couldn't be sure she knew who he was after all.

  'I know I look worse than Boris Karloff, but they tell me that in a few months and with a handful of nips and tucks I'll be Johnny Weissmüller again.'

  He sat down carefully, placing the case between his feet, wincing; looked around for a waiter, failed to find one, looked at her instead.

  'You don't remember me at all, do you?'

  138

  Emma looked at him hard, but there was nothing. 'Not very well,' she lied.

  'That's what I like! A diplomat!' He waved vainly at an elderly waiter scurrying past, gave it up, turned to her again.

  'I suppose I should have introduced myself before I sat down. Veit Adamov.' he paused, searching her face, and now she could see sadness and pain in his. She wanted to know him, but her memory wouldn't obey her. 'Uncle Veit? Friend of your dad's?'

  Emma felt a rush of relief, and, equally, horror. What had happened to him? Had he been in a fire? 'Of course I know you!' she said. 'You were Kara's friend, too.'

  'I had that honour,' said Veit, quite seriously. His back hurt badly. Where the hell was a waiter? He needed a brandy. He turned on a smile. 'I expect you're wondering what brings me to the Land of Milk and Hallau?'

  'How long have you been here?'

  He looked at his watch. 'Twenty-four hours. Enough to make contact. get a change of clothes and so on. Sorry I can't make a better impression than I do.'

  She couldn't bring herself - didn't dare - to ask him what had happened. She hoped he would tell her himself when he wanted to. 'How did you get here?' she said instead.

  'Lorry. Hitched a lift. I'm a travelling salesman these days. In canvas. That's what the papers they gave me in Munich say.'

  Emma looked at the suitcase. 'You can't have much canvas in there.'

  'That's film-footage of the canvas-making process,' said Adamov. 'In there.' He gave the case a protective nudge with his foot. A waiter finally appeared.

  'Cognac,' said Adamov. 'Bring the bottle. And whatever the lady wants.'

  'Cognac will do fine,' she said.

  He took out his wallet and reviewed its contents anxiously as the waiter withdrew. 'You might have to sub me,' he said. 'I've splashed out on clothes and makeup.'

  She looked at him. 'Does anyone know you're here?'

  'Christ, I hope not!'

  'What are you going to do with the film?'

  'Take it with me.'

  'Where?'

  Adamov grinned as the waiter arrived with the brandy. 'The USA.'

  She wondered what was coming. 'How are you going to get there?'

  Adamov spread his hands. 'I read somewhere that the Americans have a presence in this town.'

  'It's possible.'

  'I imagine, with your father's contacts... '

  'No.'

  'No?'

  'I can't. I'd like to help you, Uncle Veit, but I can't just – I mean, I don't have any…'

  Adamov poured their brandy and took a gulp of his without waiting. He'd have liked to drain the glass, but he had to make the thing last. He didn't even know how much they were going to charge him for it, and the girl hadn't agreed to sub him yet. 'It's because I'm a Communist, n'est-ce pas?' He pointed at his face. 'I daresay you've noticed what they did to me, back in the Fatherland.'

  He was ashamed of his outburst, and he didn't want to embarrass the girl, still less antagonise her.

  'Go to the police here,' said Emma, after a pause. A thought struck her. 'Do you know someone called Hans Brandau?'

  'Heard of him.'

  'He has an office of his own. He's a lawyer. He's a friend of my father's too.'

  'So Brandau got away? The old rogue. And your dad?'

  'I don't know.'

  Adamov hesitated, then reached across, squeezed her hand. 'You dad's like me. Indestructible.'

  Emma looked anxious. 'Maybe you should see Brandau.'

  Adamov nodded, but he was worried, his mind immediately back on his own affairs. He tapped his suitcase. 'This needs to go in a diplomatic bag. It's important stuff. Classified.'

  'Show it to Brandau.' She hesitated. 'He has contacts.'

  'Got his address?'

  'Yes.'

  Veit polished off his cognac. What the hell? He was feeling better already. 'Do they run a tab in this place?' he asked.

  Ten days later, Emma, feeling more lonely and more nervous than she ever had, sat on a bunk in a shared cabin in a ship slowly churning its way out of Lisbon harbour. At the same time General Richter, dressed now in a dark suit, wearily presented himself for another round of questions in a nondescript room in the suburbs of Bern. At the same time Adamov, clutching his suitcase, was l
eaving Brandau's office for the last time after a series of interviews, smiling broadly. And at the same time Brandau, having written a memo to arrange Adamov's transport to New York, 'in order for my representative to demonstrate to the relevant authorities the full extent of Nazi sexual degeneracy at high levels', picked up a telephone and addressed himself once more to the more important problem of organising the collection of Hitler's aerospace designers before the Russians could get them.

  It was the morning of the third day. Hoffmann, footsore, completed a broad curve round the foot of a hill and saw on its crag the lonely, red-roofed tower of the Altenburg, a thin pillar interrupting the easy slouch of the wooded hills on the horizon. Below the little fortress, and just visible, were the four green spires of Bamberg cathedral.

  139

  Rain fell as Hoffmann made his way the last few kilometres towards the town. Despite two nights of sleeping rough again, and two days of slogging through the countryside avoiding roadblocks and routine police checkpoints, he felt good. He'd recovered his strength at Tilli's, he knew this countryside; and he was experienced in roughing it - a lifetime after driving out of Berlin with Brandau. This was the endgame. He was calm. He felt as if he were watching an actor in a film, playing his part.

  The rain ceased at last, and the clouds dispersed, as if by a theatrical trick, to reveal a warm sun. Hoffmann's shoes, damp and on his feet for two days, were beginning to pinch. He'd have to change them soon. He shared the preoccupation of every pursuer and every fugitive – take care of your feet; never risk being immobile. But then, he thought wryly, perhaps it would not after all be necessary to change his shoes again, ever.

  As the town came increasingly into view – the delicate green spires of the cathedral, the two black needles of the Michelskirche – his resolve strengthened. He'd done what he could for his family. He'd got this far. Now he had his own account to settle.

  After Stegaurach he walked over the fields to Wildensorg, passing the Altenburg on his right, crossing the Michelsberg and descending to the river, to the foot of the Markusbrücke. There, he passed Paul Krauss' greengrocery, now selling nothing but black radishes, but even before he reached it, he could smell Dels' leatherworks from the courtyard of 14, Untere Sandstraße.

  He went down to the river and turned right along the heavy cobbles of Am Leinritt, glancing at the wooden fishing boats on his left, moored in the reeds, and looking across the river at the pretty collection of medieval houses on the opposite bank known for some dotty reason or other as Klein Venedig.

  The river flowed slowly and easily here, a gentle river, and he followed it as far as the yellow prison, where he turned right again and away from it, back to more populated streets. He passed the house where a Jewish tailor worked, protected by a discreet Gestapo guard outside. Groceries and laundry were regularly collected and delivered, Hoffmann knew all about it. The tailor had been spared because he was good; he'd spent years making uniforms for the local SS.

  Bamberg had been a Nazi hotspot; but it was also the town in which Count von Stauffenberg had made his home, and married. His large flat was empty now. Countess Nina had been arrested, of course, after her husband's coup failed - the failure which had brought all of them down.

  But Adamov had been right - it had been worth making the attempt. Hoffmann was finally proud. It was all that had made sense of his life over the past decade.

  As he walked, he kept his eyes open. The people in the streets didn't look twice at this large man in country clothes; but Bamberg wasn't a large enough town for strangers to pass un-noted. He'd passed the checkpoint into town without any of the problems he'd anticipated, knowing that a net would have been spread for him since his escape from Tilli's. But no-one had challenged him, or questioned his papers. The good clothes and his physical stature gave him an aura few provincial Nazis would question, and perhaps Kessler had succeeded in throwing them off the scent - perhaps they were concentrating their search southwards. His papers were still good, though Hoffmann knew that he didn't have long, and that when any net they cast to the south yielded no fish, it would be cast again elsewhere. He had no idea who Hagen could be in touch with, or how much clout Hagen still had - if the man were here at all. But he knew he was. He knew this was inevitable. He had to do his work fast.

  The centre of Bamberg, though it is steeply hilly on the cathedral-side of the Regnitz, is small. Hoffmann didn't have far to go. Towards the Concordia mansion, near what used, before the war, to be called the Judenstraße, was an elegant little street, Kunigundagasse. Its Baroque town houses were jewels. Tourists before the war came here to photograph their sandstone exteriors, their ornate little porte-cochères.

  Hoffmann had long since memorised the address Kessler had given him, destroyed the piece of paper it'd been written on. He glanced at house numbers, keeping to the side where the house he was looking for would be - he didn't want to be seen from a window across the street. He slowed. There was a Wirtshaus halfway down - Zum Sankt Georg. Three doors beyond it was the house. He touched the door, craned as he looked up. The place seemed, felt, deserted.

  As the sun began to set, he walked on, making the circuit of a long block. His feet were tired. He had to stay alert. He made his way back to the river, crossing it by the Town Hall Bridge, finding a large bar on the Obstmarkt. He went in and ordered a Stein of beer, enough to cover the time he intended to spend, but he would scarcely touch it. He would give it an hour. He'd go back when it was dark. If there were a chink of light behind the blinds somewhere among the windows facing the street, he would chance it.

  He looked around the room. It was a humdrum sort of place. A few local bigwigs seated at the Stammtisch, talking loudly about nothing - the hunting season, the unseasonable showers. A handful of men in uniform, bent over their beers and not too talkative at all. A couple of farmers working their way through a mound of sauerkraut garnished with sad little sausages fifty-per-cent made of acorn. Moving between the groups in the dim yellow light, two bargirls with their hair in braids and dirndls on.

  The One-Thousand-Year Reich, as 1944 began to creep to its end. Eleven years since it began. Ten years of fighting, for Hoffmann. He lit a cigarette and sipped his beer. Cold and good. A Michelsberger from the Peßler brewery. He watched as the windows beyond the net curtains grew dark.

  He thought of Kara. He thought of his children. And he thought, vaguely, of all the people he knew, tried to imagine what they were doing, at this moment, wherever they were. They existed, they had their preoccupations. Were they eating, working, fucking, sleeping, reading, shopping, walking, gazing into space?

  What a daft thought: as daft as contemplating eternity or the universe.

  But how strange, now and then, in the midst of one's day-to-day tasks, to imagine your friends, even your distant acquaintances, calling you to mind: for you to be there, involved in imagined occupations, in another person's head?

  And did it work as telepathy? There had been some top-level research on this: Hitler took a keen interest in the supernatural. But there was a scientific basis. Serious papers had been written. Might Hagen know he was coming?

  What bollocks.

  Some time later, the landlady closed the shutters. Hoffmann looked at his watch. His hour had passed. He smoked one more cigarette. He paid for his beer, got up stiffly, and made his way out into the gathering gloom.

  140

  He took his time. He didn't want to be disappointed. He'd come so far. Suddenly he felt very tired. But when he reached the corner of Kunigundagasse again, he saw dim light through the shutters of the first floor of the house three doors down from the Sankt Georg. As he drew closer, he saw a shadow move across the room beyond the windows, coming and going, bulky; bending and turning; deliberate, busy movements. Someone packing.

  Hoffmann checked his Walther 9, drew in his breath, knocked firmly on the door.

  A pause. Silence. Then footsteps. Another hesitation. Any kind of trap could be set. Then the door swung wide. W
arm light behind it, pale yellow walls and wood, bookcases, landscapes in golden frames.

  'Hoffmann, here you are at last. I suppose you'd better come in.' Wolf Hagen stood aside. Blue business suit, striped shirt, polka-dot bow tie, like Churchill's. Heavy cufflinks. Weapon? Possibly.

  Hagen didn't seem surprised, though his eyes were busy. There was dust on his jacket. Hagen's eyes were trying to smile now, but they stayed hard.

  'Expecting me?'

  'Well, you got through the net. I thought, either you'd go south of the border, or you'd want to settle accounts first.' Hagen sucked at his cigar. 'Pity. For me. Twelve hours later and you'd've missed me. Still, one has to see the positive side of everything. Despite that idiot Schiffer. I expected more of him, given that you trained him.'

  They'd reached the drawing-room, a large space with dark walls and o lot of reproductions of Greek statuary. There were Louis XV chairs, fragile side-tables, two settees in crimson and white, and oriental carpets on the parquet.

  'Drink?' asked Hagen.

  'Brandy.'

  Hagen poured from a heavy decanter into cut-glass balloons. 'We both need one of those. But no toasts. I don't suppose you're in the mood.'

  'No.'

  'Let's sit down, at least. And let me reassure you, on whatever honour I have left, that I am alone. I don't have a gun either. There's no ambush.'

  'But you were expecting me?'

  Hagen spread his hands. 'You must have known that I would be. Not that I particularly wanted this meeting. I suppose I hoped they'd get you before you reached me. I should have been in more of a hurry, but I've always liked to see whatever work I've had to do… finished.' Hagen looked at him. 'I do have you at an advantage. You are on the run. I am not. Officially, I am still respectable. And valued. That's why they let you through the town checkpoint. I didn't want those idiots to arrest you and then have you slip through their fingers. No.' Hagen smiled. 'I wanted you to myself. To be sure of you. And to have a last little chat.'