Return to Berlin

by Noel Hynd

  “I saw some elderly Jewish people at the train station,” Cochrane said. “They were being taken to a town named Theresienstadt.”

  “Oh?” she answered.

  “Theresienstadt is a model ghetto. The Jews are lucky to be relocated there,” came a voice from behind Cochrane.

  “It is also departure spot for those Jews moving to Palestine,” said Greta.

  Heinz slid awkwardly back onto the chair he had vacated. The burning brown cigarette was still in progress, though it was down to an ugly stub of about half an inch.

  He had a newspaper under his arm, folded. “The Yids will be happier there,” he said, loud enough to be heard at adjoining table. “Palestine. Far far away. Damn Jews. Parasites!”

  He spat on the ground. Cochrane wondered if he were being tested. If this conversation was bait, he wasn’t taking it.

  “Well, we’ve gotten away from the point of my story,” Greta said. “I was re-reading the story about the overcoat and my employers assigned me to make a coat for myself. I needed the coat. There are many hardships in Berlin this winter and I needed a coat. But isn’t that strange that this should happen when I’m reading the book again.”

  “Call it good fortune,” Cochrane said affably.

  Heinz snuffed out his cigarette in a tin ashtray. He put a copy of Der Sturmer on the table. Cochrane sighed. Heinz pulled out a second cigarette. Greta took one from his pack and they carefully lit both on the same match.

  “The factory is staffed by girls and women,” Greta said when she resumed her chatter. “And a few men too old to serve in the armed forces. My cousin Fritz works there, too, operating an ironing machine. He watches out for me.”

  “Who does he watch out for?” Cochrane asked.

  “Everyone. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  “My wife talks too much,” Heinz said. “Did she tell you about the story about the ghosts?”

  “She mentioned it. Interesting.”

  “She should shut up,” Heinz said.

  “I don’t mind listening,” Cochrane said.

  “Greta’s brother was in the Wehrmacht. He was killed in Poland by a Communist militia. Partisans. She’s been seeing her brother and talking about ghosts ever since.”

  “Oh,” Cochrane said. “I’m sorry.”

  Greta went very quiet very fast. Her husband shot her a glare. Then he apparently felt bad and put an arm around her shoulders. He hugged her and she leaned in sadly next to him.

  “Hitler says we will all have to make sacrifices,” she said. She tried to rebound the subject. “Are you married, Herr Stykowki?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Would you like to meet some German girls? Many of them are lovely. Their husbands are away in the army or in prison or dead. Inconvenient for them, convenient for you.”

  “Not right now, thank you.”

  “They’d probably enjoy the sex,” Heinz said.

  “Not interested.”

  Greta looked at him strangely. Then her mouth formed a perfect “O.” What were things coming to these wartime days?

  “Not interested in women? Are you homosexual?” she asked.

  “No, no, no!,” he answered. He shook his head. “Just busy,” he said.

  “Are there air raids?” Cochrane asked, pivoting the subject again. “I saw some damage on my way here from the Anhalter Bahnhof, the big train station.”

  They looked at each other. Heinz picked up the glass he had left behind and took a long drink. His eyes met Cochrane’s dead on. His hand shook slightly as he put the glass down.

  Then he answered. “There are occasional air raids during the nights,” he said. “But no serious attacks yet.”

  “Things can change,” Greta said. “And they probably will.”

  Heinz leaned in closer so as to not be overheard.

  “You should know what to do,” he said. “The air raid warning is a siren. Loud. Intense. Like American fire trucks from what I used to see when American movies were shown here. When the alarm sounds many people on this block go down to the cellar. You can do that in this building. We have reinforced the ceiling to make it more secure. But there is also an informal warning system. Everyone listens to the radio. On the government station they will say, ‘Bombers coming from Hanover-Braunschweig!’ When we hear that, we know that Berlin will be the target.”

  “Many people don’t have electricity. Or you can lose electricity quickly,” Greta chimed in. “They have radios with a battery and a crystal, and we had to move the crystal to tune into the station. But some people listened to the BBC. It is prohibited by law, but people do it. London always knows what was happening before Berlin. Citizens go outside and bang their pots and pans with big wooden soup spoons. When you hear the noise, listen to the radio, and wait for the official warning. Even Horace knows people are listening to the BBC.”

  Mention of the BBC set Greta off in a new direction: the radio. The tenth anniversary of the Nazis' Machtergreifung was approaching, the day that was celebrated as the taking over of power. On January 30, 1933, Hitler had been named chancellor. The SA and SS had led torchlit parades throughout Berlin to celebrate. They did the same every January 30th since. This year both Göring and Goebbels were planning to give important speeches that were to be broadcast live by nation radio.

  “Everyone will be listening!” Greta said with apparent pride. “Everyone!”

  Heinz was right. Greta was a chatter box. Charming, but a true motormouth.

  “Who’s Horace?” Cochrane asked, going back one subject.

  “Horace is the local gauleiter,” Heinz said. “He’s the block caption for the Nazis and the SS. He used to be a farmer. He has a deformed arm from a threshing machine. The people who listen to the BBC might save his life, too, so he doesn’t report it to the SS or the Gestapo. He chooses not to know.”

  Heinz paused. “There is also a neighborhood bunker you can go to if the alarm sounds. It’s two streets over. That’s the safest place. Would you like us to show you?”

  Cochrane answered, “Sometime, maybe. Sure.”

  “Better sooner than sorry,” Greta said.

  “Okay. I would,” Cochrane said, picking up a hint. “That would be very kind of you. Could we do it now?”

  They paid at the beer garden and stood.

  “Air raids,” said Heinz as he limped along en route, “will soon be a major problem. That’s not being a defeatist. It’s just bound to happen.”

  “Of course,” Cochrane said. “Of course.”

  They walked two blocks. The afternoon had turned to evening. It was already dark.

  Chapter 31

  Berlin

  Berlin had been at the far end of the flying range of British bombers as recently as early 1940. The German capital was six hundred miles from London. It could be bombed only at night in summer when the days were longer and skies clear, though those factors also heightened the peril to Allied bombers.

  The first RAF raid on Berlin had taken place on the night of August 25, 1940. Nearly a hundred RAF aircraft bombed Tempelhof Airport near the center of Berlin. While the damage was slight, the psychological effect on Hitler and the populace was incalculable. Hitler had promised the German people that it couldn’t happen, that England would be punched out of the war before the RAF had the capacity to strike Berlin.

  And now attacks on the capital had happened! The raid on Berlin prompted Hitler to order the shift of the Luftwaffe's target from British airfields and air defenses to British cities. It was a questionable move that left the top Luftwaffe commanders muttering. British air defenses were becoming exhausted and overstretched and now there was to be a strategy shift?

  During the final months of 1940, there were more raids on Berlin, none of which did serious damage. The raids grew more frequent in 1941 but were ineffective in hitting important targets. The head of the Air Staff of the RAF, Sir Charles Portal, justified these raids by saying that to "get four million people out of bed and
into the shelters" was worth the losses involved.

  The Soviet Union initiated air attacks on Berlin on August 8, 1941.

  Bombers attached to the Soviet Navy, flying from the Baltic Sea off Estonia, conducted nearly a dozen limited raids on the Reich capital with three to ten aircraft in each raid. Bombers from the Soviet army, operating from Leningrad, executed several similar small raids on Berlin. The Soviet attacks were calling cards, a preview of horrible things to come.

  During most of 1941, however, the British Bomber Command's priority had been to attack Germany's U-boat ports as part of Britain's effort to win the Battle of the Atlantic. Then on November 7, 1941, Sir Richard Peirse, head of RAF Bomber Command, launched a large raid on Berlin, sending more than one hundred seventy bombers to the capital. Again, little damage was done due to bad weather. Seventy-five of the bombers crashed in Germany from anti-aircraft fire or engine malfunction. These disastrous results led to the dismissal of Peirse. Since then, there had been almost nothing from the air and the Americans were hardly even in the ball game.

  But Peirse had been replaced by Sir Arthur Travers Harris, who believed in both the efficacy and necessity of area bombing.

  "The Nazis entered this war under the rather childish delusion that they were going to bomb everyone else,” Harris remarked, “and nobody was going to bomb them. At Rotterdam, London, Warsaw, and half a hundred other places, they put their rather naïve theory into operation. They sowed the wind, and now they are going to reap the whirlwind."

  The whirlwind was coming in the form of new bombers with longer ranges, particularly the Avro Lancaster, large numbers of which were nearing completion on the other side of the channel. The British air defense industry had also developed another lethal weapon from above: the de Havilland DH.98 Mosquito.

  The ‘Mossy,’ as its pilots now called it, was shoulder-winged multi-role twin engine combat aircraft, its frame is constructed mostly of wood. It also became known as “The Wooden Wonder.” Light and nimble, it was one of the fastest operational aircraft in the world.

  Originally conceived as an unarmed fast bomber, the Mosquito was adaptable. It could also become a high-altitude night bomber, a fighter-bomber, an intruder, a low to medium-altitude daytime tactical bomber, a pathfinder, a day or night fighter or a maritime strike aircraft. It also served as a fast transport to carry small, high-value cargoes to and from neutral countries through enemy-controlled airspace. The crew of two, pilot and navigator, sat side by side. A single passenger could ride nervously in the aircraft's bomb bay as needed, while hoping that the bay wouldn’t open accidentally.

  Such was the bold talk. Such was the great war equipment in the offing. But not much had happened since the disastrous raid of November 1941. In a world at war, anything was always possible. Berliners remained ready.

  Cochrane and his two new German friends ambled the two blocks to the shelter.

  The evening was suddenly very chilly, but dry. Cochrane kept the pace slow so that Heinz could keep up. He shivered. There was a feeling in the air of imminent snow.

  They came to a concrete building that had been built earlier in 1941, according to Greta. This was the local bunker. It had heavily reinforced walls and could accommodate two hundred people, Heinz explained. They went in. Anyone could take refuge there during an air raid. The building contained a honeycomb of small rooms, each with a pair of bunk beds, and two benches for sitting. There were also full kitchens and bathrooms. Cochrane saw many children. The place was noisy, a barrage of voices bouncing off concrete walls and tiled floors.

  “Some Germans are living here full-time already,” Greta said quietly, speaking under the noise. “Their homes have been destroyed by English killers. Even though the raids were not successful, many working people were nevertheless killed or left homeless.”

  “I understand,” said Cochrane.

  “I’m sure you do,” Heinz answered in a strange tone.

  Heinz abruptly took three large steps. He stood away from Cochrane and Greta. It was a strange move. Cochrane watched him carefully. It appeared that he was standing guard, not letting anyone else get too close. At the same time, Greta moved close enough to Cochrane to be a dancing partner.

  “When you go back to North America, you’ll tell people what you have seen here, I hope,” she said.

  Cochrane held very still. He acknowledged nothing.

  “Hitler’s Germany is hell on earth,” she whispered. “No one knows when it will end. The only thing we fear more than the Nazis is the Russians. Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

  Almost imperceptibly, Cochrane gave a slight nod. Greta’s eyes were trained away in the direction of her husband. But she caught the gesture.

  “Danke shoen,” she said. “Viel Glück. That’s all. Be careful while you’re here.”

  She looked back to him. Cochrane glanced at her. He made no gesture and spoke not a syllable. His eyes said everything.

  They walked back to their building in the dark. They said good night in the lobby.

  Cochrane returned to his ground floor apartment. He heard the Kesslers’ door slam and opened his own door. He saw immediately that the coin was missing.

  He stepped in carefully, feeling vulnerable.

  He found a light switch and turned on a standing lamp. There was no one else there and nothing had been disturbed. But one thing had changed.

  On the small kitchen table there was a brown shoe box. Cochrane approached it carefully. There was no string on it, nor was it sealed. He opened it and looked it.

  There was an object wrapped in brown paper. He knew immediately that it was a pistol, the only a question was what sort. It turned out to be a Mauser, German made. There was a leather holster for it, the type that could attach to a belt. There were also a two packs of nine millimeter bullets, twenty-four to a pack.

  He sighed. Yes, unfortunately he needed this.

  Other questions posed themselves and answered themselves just as quickly. The odor of brown cigarettes hung faintly in the air.

  It was unmistakable. Heinz was the local underground contact in this neighborhood, which was why Dulles had arranged this residence. Similarly, this was why Heinz and Greta had introduced themselves so readily, and, to take things one step further, Heinz had delivered the weapon in the few minutes that he had gotten up from the table, disappeared and returned.

  Weak bladder? Maybe? Limp from an injury in the Great War?

  Most likely. Pro-Nazi and an anti-Semite?

  Not very probable.

  Cochrane lifted the box. He saw something else which had been placed under the box. He grimaced and smiled at the same time.

  It was the one pfennig zinc coin that he had used as a door marker. It was Heinz’s message that Cochrane wasn’t being careful enough. Cochrane needed to raise the quality of his game. Cochrane appreciated the message. Casualness or carelessness could cost him his life and doom his mission.

  Cochrane loaded his new pistol. He stashed the box and hid the bullets.

  He settled in at the kitchen table. He read for a while, played a few games of dominos, then quit for the day. There was a chain on his window. He set it. There was a bolt lock and chain in his front door. He put both in use.

  He placed the pistol at bedside and slept, happy to have survived another day behind enemy lines. There were no nighttime intruders and, better still, no air raids.

  Then next morning, Cochrane saw Heinz in the front foyer, sweeping the floor before reporting to work. As Cochrane passed, he dropped two packs of cigarettes in Heinz’s coat pocket. Cochrane turned to look when he reached the front door.

  Heinz gave him a wink but no smile. The message couldn’t have been any clearer if it had been concealed in blips, dots and dashes as they shot through the night skies to Bern and Washington.

  Chapter 32

  Berlin

  There was a café attached to the beer garden. It was open the next morning for coffee and pumpernickel rolls. Cochrane stopp
ed there for breakfast, then set out to see of he could contact any of the sources that Dulles had provided.

  His first stop was the building that housed the many restaurants known as Haus Vaterland, where Dulles’s files indicated they had a contact, a waiter who worked in a restaurant. Cochrane was punched in the face with an unpleasant surprise.

  The hulking building on the southwest side of Potsdamer Platz in central Berlin stood gray and forlorn, padlocked with iron grates pulled across the doorways. It was sad, borderline tragic, much like the theaters and bookstores that he had patronized when he lived in Berlin. They too were now sad, shuttered and abandoned. As he stood in front of the location of such past gaiety, snow began to fall out of an iron sky. The dreary weather capped a dreary mood in a city which suddenly seemed oppressive beyond belief.

  Before the war, Haus Vaterland been the most famous eating place in the world. On the third floor there had been a restaurant called the Rheinterrasse. The Rheinterrasse had a diorama to give the illusion of sitting outdoors overlooking the river between Sankt Goar and the Lorelei rock. A troupe of twenty women, beautiful and scantily clad "Rhine maidens," danced between the tables under hoops twined with grape vines. For a single young man, what was not to like?

  Lighting and sound effects created hourly thunderstorms during which the diaphanous attired of the dancers got naughty and wet. The spectacle was made even more lush, as one might imagine, by glass after glass of Moselle wine and the occasional presence of a friendly water nymph at one’s table to nudge along the alcohol consumption.

  A mischievous echo in Cochrane’s head recalled the many hours he spent there admiring the maidens. He was lucky enough to meet a few and luckier still to have one special evening in his memory: a Rhine maiden named Annalise had taken a casual liking to him and invited him to splash down at her place overnight. Then a few more overnights.

  No such luck today. The contrast between the remembered happiness of the early part of his previous stay in Berlin contrasted sharply with the chilly present. Compared with the more egregious excesses of the Weimar years, the doings of the Rhine maidens had been innocuous. But now the padlocks were in place in the interest of moral rearmaments and the cleansing the German spirit.