Flowers From Berlin (25th Anniversary Edition)

by Noel Hynd

  Cochrane reasoned correctly that Herr and Frau Mauer had not been on a bus in their adult lives. Just before dinner, Natalie Mauer changed into a delicate pink and blue Chinese kimono. She was ten years younger than her husband and beautiful in a way typical of German women—tall and strong, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, brown hair, and a perfect smile. Her legs were long. Her arms were slim. She introduced her husband's guest to five-year-old Rudy, their son, an angelic blond child with a crown of tousled curly hair. Then a nurse with an Austrian accent guided the boy to his own play area and bedroom.

  Dinner followed. Their cook had prepared a spectacular meal of wild boar, roasted apples and potatoes, and diced chard, all complemented by a 1928 Chambolle Musigny from the cellar.

  "The last good year of the Chambolle Musignys," Mauer lamented with sincerity. He added that he was sadly down to his last two cases.

  After dinner there was German brandy, which Cochrane accepted, and cigars which he declined. He might also have declined the drift of the conversation— contemporary Germany politics. But Natalie Mauer sat in rapt attention, studying Cochrane after they had moved from the table to the salon. And Otto Mauer seemed intent upon the subject. Natalie turned on a radio, which began a broadcast of an evening of Strauss from the philharmonic in Munich.

  Meanwhile Mauer pressed his guest.

  "But what about these National Socialists? You've been in the Reich for a year now. Surely you must have an opinion."

  "Hitler has restored respect to the German people," Cochrane said. "Where they laughed at Germany in the 1920s, they now fear the might of the new Germany."

  There was a silence as Otto Mauer gravely studied his cognac. Natalie Mauer looked Cochrane firmly in the eye from across the room.

  "Hitler is a swine," she said. "And so are the murderers who surround him. Educated people realize this."

  With those words she returned her glass to the table and left the room. Cochrane, rebuked by the outburst, felt the gaze of Otto Mauer upon him. He turned to his host.

  "I'm sorry if my opinion is not welcome," he said.

  A smile crossed Mauer's face. He agitated his cognac slightly in the glass, warming it with his palm.

  "We take you to be a man of breeding," Mauer began coyly. "My wife spent time in England and the United States in the 1920s. I studied at an American university. We recognize Americans a bit better than most Germans do. One pays lip service in public these days to the Nazis. One must. But a man of your station, Mr. Cochrane, does not sympathize with political liars and criminals. Far from it, I suspect."

  And now Cochrane knew. This whole weekend was a test.

  "You are an observant man," Mauer continued. "You have noticed that many Germans recognize Hitler's madness. There are influential people in the Reich who would curb his influence. Perhaps through the Abwehr, where there are many who oppose him. But we lack the power now."

  Cochrane opened his mouth to interject. But Mauer silenced him with an upraised hand.

  "The youth has been raised to worship Hitler," Mauer grumbled. "And the army is partially controlled by the same monsters that control the party. To stage a successful coup d’état, one must have the people on one's side in addition to the army. The opposition to Hitler has neither."

  Cochrane was quiet.

  Mauer relit his cigar, and for the first time since speaking of the Chambolle Musigny, a legitimately mournful expression crossed his face. He blew out a long cloud of cottony white smoke. "No one in America understands. Hitler did not rise by acclamation in Germany. And all the people did not blindly accept Nazi doctrine. If they had there would have been no need for a Gestapo or an SS. But now all opposition lives in danger of persecution—loss of jobs, labor camps, or worse. As an opposition, we complain a lot in private. But we are passive. Eunuchs. Heaven help us all!" Mauer concluded. "We are all cowards."

  Cochrane was both chagrined and confused. Exactly what sort of test was Mauer giving him? He wondered. Cochrane felt the German's eyes boring in on him during the pauses as Mauer spoke. Yet Cochrane's only fidget was to remove an invisible smudge from the side of the brandy snifter.

  "Really, Otto," Cochrane finally said. "I don't know why you talk in such a seditious way. At the least, Hitler has brought Germany back from economic ruin."

  "And at what cost? A nation's destruction? A nation's soul?"

  "I can't answer that," Cochrane countered. "I am not German."

  "Then I will ask you a question you can answer," Mauer said, setting down his brandy with a click on the table. "Come. Follow."

  Mauer led Cochrane up a flight of back stairs to the second floor. They followed a hallway and entered a darkened room. Mauer's voice grew soft as he closed the door to maintain the darkness.

  "Don't even touch the curtain," Mauer said as he quietly led Cochrane to a window. "Just look between the curtain and the window frame. Your eyes are good? Look down the road fifty meters to the bus stop."

  Cochrane looked and saw two men waiting. They wore dark raincoats and sat on the concrete slab that served as a bench.

  "Who are those men? What are they doing?" Mauer asked rhetorically. "One carries a walking stick, but he has been there for three hours. Another merely sits and waits. For a bus you think? The buses have passed each fifteen minutes for the past five hours. But still they wait."

  Mauer stepped away from the window.

  "Well?"

  "I don't know them," said Cochrane.

  "Shame on you," Mauer chided sullenly. "You recognize Gestapo, don't you? Now drop your pretensions and listen to me. There are only three reasons why the Gestapo would be watching this house. You. Me. Or both of us."

  Cochrane stifled a surge of fear and searched the eyes of Mauer. For a split second he thought he saw something.

  "It is essential that you and I trust each other," Mauer said.

  "Why is that?"

  "Because, my friend," Mauer said, leading his guest back out toward the hallway, "my hunch—and the hunch of those Gestapo out there—is that you are nothing as simple as a securities broker. You are most likely a spy. And I do not work for the Labor Ministry. I work for the Abwehr Section Z and could have you arrested in two minutes. Should I do that?”

  Cochrane felt a cold tingling running through him. Suddenly Frank Lerrick's words flashed back to him: "Don't get caught. We won't be able to get you out."

  "You are absolutely mistaken," Cochrane replied indignantly. "I can't even imagine where you would manufacture such an idea."

  "Your contact in Berlin was probably a man named Kurkevics. He was tortured to death a week before your arrival. But he did reveal that he expected an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation to arrive in Berlin. I began thinking the other day in my office. You arrived in Berlin at exactly that time."

  Mauer smiled gamely. "Do you deny that, too?"

  "I deny all of this categorically," Cochrane answered sharply. But there had been an uncertainty in his voice, a slight hesitation, a slight shakiness. And they both knew it.

  Mauer wrapped his arm around his guest's shoulders and led him down the stairs. Cochrane wondered if he should whirl, blast Mauer in the face, and flee. But Mauer continued to speak in a calm, conciliatory tone. So Cochrane tried a slight change of tactic.

  "I don't understand any of this," Cochrane said. "Explain all this to me! Tell me what you want!"

  Then they were in the drawing room again and Strauss was still on the radio. Natalie Mauer was refreshing the brandy snifters. She was as beautiful as before, tall and handsome in her kimono. She had placed dark Swiss chocolates in an orderly pile on a silver tray.

  "I'm telling you all this because I believe I am right," Mauer said. "And I also believe you are a man of principles, even if you are engaged in espionage."

  Cochrane took a strategic seat, not far from the door.

  "If I am wrong," Mauer continued, "you cannot hurt me because of my family and my position. If you reveal what I have said to
you, no one will believe you. But if I am right, you can help me."

  "Help you how?" Cochrane asked.

  Natalie Mauer was now witness to their conversation.

  "We wish to leave Germany, Mr. Cochrane," Natalie said in perfect English. "With our son. Before it is too late."

  "We will help you considerably in your task," Otto Mauer promised. "But you must also promise to help us."

  "Help you how?" Cochrane almost exploded.

  "We have been denied permission to obtain passports," Otto Mauer said. "If you are a spy, you can get us American passports."

  “I’m sorry! But this is absurd!"

  "My grandmother was half Jewish," said Mauer softly. "Therefore I am one-eighth Jewish. My son is one-sixteenth. There are people who will eventually find this out. My world will change then. I don't consider myself Jewish and I don't care much for some of the Jews either. But I also have nothing against them. They are a brilliant people and work hard. They value education and culture, which is more than can be said for these Nazi hoodlums. And yet I know someday, for me, there will be trouble," Mauer's eyes were intense. "There! You know my secret and I know yours. Now perhaps we can talk. Tomorrow. In the morning. I will tell you everything about the Abwehr. But you must promise to get us out of this country."

  Across the salon, Natalie Mauer's face was lined with tension. She stared at Bill Cochrane and now so did her husband. It was an odd stare. Part contemptuous, part fearful, part expectant and hopeful.

  Cochrane searched their faces. First his, then hers. And then, from his position across the room, he risked his life.

  "I'll be happy to listen to whatever you'd like to tell me," he said. "Then if I can help you, I will."

  Cochrane could have bottled the sighs of relief that rose from the Mauers. So, sensing himself on steadier ground, he raised his brandy glass to his lips.

  "That's a promise," he said gently, before taking a sip. "A promise between gentlemen, right?"

  Natalie’s gaze rose from the floor. “God bless you, Herr Cochrane,” she said. There were tears in her eyes.

  EIGHT

  It was September 6, 1938, when Thomas Cochrane took a long walk through the woods surrounding the Mauer estate. And it was the first American penetration of the Abwehr.

  "You cannot take any notes, coded or otherwise," Mauer informed Cochrane as they walked. "You'll be the object of searches eventually. Everything has to be committed to memory. Everything."

  Cochrane nodded.

  "You told me once that you did some acting. At a summer playhouse, was it? Massachusetts?"

  "Provincetown."

  "Then your memory should be trained for names and places," Mauer said. "If it's not, that's your loss. I'm only going through things once."

  "I'm ready when you are," Cochrane said.

  They were far from the manor house, and it crossed Cochrane's mind that Mauer still might be leading him into a trap. Suppose his two Gestapo babysitters arrived deep in the forest where Mauer, having lured Cochrane into revealing his purposes in Berlin, could hand Cochrane over to them? What had been done to Kurkevics would seem a picnic in comparison.

  So Cochrane maintained his guard. He breathed easier when Mauer led them to a shaded area beneath a single tree at the center of a clearing. Mauer was no fool. No one could hear them in this place. Probably no one other than Mauer's dog could even find them. And no one could approach without being seen.

  For whatever purpose, Mauer carried his deer rifle. A man could never be too careful, even if venison was long out of season.

  They seated themselves under the tree and Cochrane positioned himself in the shade.

  "Well, then," Cochrane finally said. "School's out. Start at the top. Structure. How much do you know?"

  "A lot."

  "I'm waiting."

  "Yes," said Mauer, "I see that you are."

  And then it all poured out, first in a trickle and then in a flood. Mauer had been in the Section Z of the Abwehr, usually called Abteilung Z. Z was the central administrative department. It held the files and coordinated the work of the four other units.

  "Anything not in our files doesn't exist," Mauer said boastfully. "We coordinate the work of the other four sections. Colonel Hans Oster is the head of the division. I'm his assistant. There's nothing that doesn't pass right in front of me. But I'm jumping ahead."

  "What about the other four divisions," Cochrane asked. "Let's start there."

  Mauer obliged, growing more loquacious as the sun rose in the sky.

  "The Abwehr is divided into five sections, or Abteilungs. Abteilung One deals with straight intelligence abroad. It is headed by General Pieckenbrock, a close friend of Admiral Canaris himself,” he said. "Abteilung Two is perhaps the most important— and most powerful—section. It deals with sabotage within Germany and abroad. The titular commander is Colonel von Freytag-Loringhoven. But the genuine power within the section is Brigadefuhrer Walter Schellenberg. Schellenberg is a Nazi and a close personal friend of Hitler. Of all five sections, Abteilung Two is the tightest run, the most secure."

  Mauer's eyes narrowed. For a moment he watched a small flock of meadowlarks that swooped noisily across the clearing and then disappeared across the treetops.

  Cochrane offered nothing, preferring to let Mauer talk.

  "Abteilung Three is counterintelligence, run capably by Colonel Hans Bentivegni. There has been little real counterintelligence to date. There has been harassment of certain Jews and foreign diplomats through A3," Mauer declared, "but little substantive work. However, the bureau is well prepared and ready. They receive reports from the SS and the Gestapo. They are empowered to act and won't hesitate."

  Particularly in cases like mine, Cochrane thought to himself. "Please continue," he urged Mauer.

  "Abteilung Four is open intelligence. Exactly as you'd expect. Reports from missions abroad and military attaches. Newspapers and radio reports. Remarkably effective bureau, considering their product is laid cleanly at their feet."

  "And Abteilung Five is yourself," Cochrane volunteered. "Section Z. Central administration, coordination of the other four."

  Mauer nodded. "The hub upon which the wheel revolves," said Mauer, reaching for his cigarettes. "Not a bad vantage point, I'd say."

  "What about Gestapo and SS?" Cochrane asked. "Abteilung Two, under Schellenberg?"

  "Not exactly," Mauer answered. "Gestapo and SS are products of the party. As such, they have remained completely independent of the Abwehr. It's no small difficulty for the non-party members within the intelligence community. Gestapo and SS report solely to Himmler and Goebbels. Abteilung Two has a lateral relationship with them, receiving and sending reports. But the truth is that the entire Abwehr attempts to stay clear of them. Nazis, you know. Strong, stupid, and mean—and excellent at following orders."

  Cochrane nodded. Then for the next two hours he barely spoke. The entire framework, spirit, and structure of the Abwehr gradually unfolded before him, name by name, place by place, operation by operation.

  Mauer opened a bottle of white wine that he had kept chilled in a canvas sack. He brought forth two cheeses, a loaf of bread and some fruit. The men lunched, Mauer talking and Cochrane trying to memorize. Certain visions stuck:

  "Canaris remains the rallying point in the government for all those dissatisfied with Hitler. Hitler needs Canaris to administer the Abwehr. No one else is capable. But the generals are loyal to Hitler and would just as soon have Canaris shot.

  "Counterintelligence is in its infancy, compared particularly to the British, who have its tradition. Hitler relies on terror at home and military might abroad in place of diplomacy. With enough armament, he feels he renders espionage useless. . ."

  Here Mauer and Cochrane exchanged a smile of irony.

  "Ribbentrop, the Foreign Minister, and Canaris despise each other. They rarely miss an opportunity to undercut each other's bureau…

  "Abteilung Four insists that the Luftwaffe could
destroy the British Navy within five weeks, should Chamberlain blunder the English into a war. General Pieckenbrock at A-1 has suggested that three thousand barges be ready for a Wehrmacht invasion through Sussex. A flotilla of a hundred fifty ships would also be necessary, but these are already commissioned and sailing. I've seen the reports from naval intelligence myself. There is a good chance that Britain could be knocked out of the war quickly, which would effectively end hostilities in Western Europe. Then full attention could be given to the Soviet Union . . ."

  One by one, Cochrane picked grapes from a bunch that lay beside the two men. He felt the moisture on the palm of his hands. He wondered idly how he would ever be able to return such a volume of information to Washington. Would he have to send a written dispatch through a diplomatic courier, say through Geneva or Madrid? Or would he have to bear the torch in his own hand?

  "It is Hitler's feeling that America has no real strategic interest in Europe," Mauer related. "The real enemy is Bolshevism, an enemy common to England and America as well as the Reich. But the Fuehrer understands that Roosevelt is surrounded by advisors who promote pro-English and pro-Jewish positions. So it is conceivable that a European war could again become a world war. Accordingly, Abteilung One has embarked on intelligence-gathering procedures within the United States and England. I know for a certainty that hundreds of agents have been sent out or contracted. Not all of them German, I might add."

  "Have they been successful?" Cochrane inquired.

  "So far, volume has outweighed quality," Mauer responded. "But really, when one considers espionage, one only hopes that one or two men will be totally successful. One man in the proper place can defeat an army or instigate the collapse of a government. Take yourself, for example."

  "I've done neither," Cochrane said.

  "But not for lack of trying," Mauer answered without a smile. "Considering the quality of work which you will now be returning to Washington, I would say that you are the most dangerous man in Germany."