“Naïve? Me? I have in my possession documentation on the deportation of Jews, massacres in Russia committed by the Wehrmacht and SS, agent networks in North Africa and Turkey, and tungsten deliveries from Spain, which are crucial for the war effort. We can save lives with these documents, Eugen. I don’t need to tell you what the Nazis are doing to the Jews, do I? I can shorten the war. I can arrange for the Jews to be saved. So don’t call me naïve. You’re the one who should think. Who else do you know in Bern? What other connections do you have? Is there anyone else who can help?”
Fritz could barely restrain himself. Rage howled within him, making his whole body ache. He needed to get out of this bar. He waved to Eugen to follow and headed up to his room. So as not to cause a racket, he grabbed a pillow and beat it against the bed until feathers flew and he was left panting. He could have been bound to a chair naked by now for his efforts, beaten and humiliated, debased and then murdered. And the British didn’t want to talk to him?
“The Americans,” Eugen said. “There definitely are a couple of contacts I could try. I’ll drop in on the Americans. All right?”
Fritz stood among the feathers, the shredded, empty pillow in his hands, feeling as grateful as he had the day Katrin was born.
“I don’t have much time, Eugen.”
“I’m on it, Fritz. Try and calm down now. Get some sleep.”
Fritz spent half the next day with von Lützow and Weygand and, after that, worked with various consular departments, going through the bulk mail with staffers and pointing out various issues. Later, he had an appointment at the bank that arranged the Foreign Office’s secret payments abroad. In nearly every room and hallway, Hitler and von Ribbentrop, in black and white, eyed him from the walls. Fritz was constantly going into the restroom to sit on the toilet and massage his temples. He could hardly bear the turmoil inside him. He was sweating, and it felt as though his heart were pounding up into his throat. He could no longer tell what acting normal was supposed to look like. Every time someone entered a room he heard handcuffs locking shut. He smiled plenty, said his “Hi Hitler”; once his agitation got really bad, he declined every cup of coffee offered him, for fear it would slip out of his fingers. At five o’clock he called Eugen from a phone booth.
“I have a contact, Fritz. Tonight. One a.m.”
Fritz went into a candy shop on Rathausgasse and bought several big bars of chocolate for Marlene Wiese. In his excitement he devoured one on the spot and bought another to replace it. In the A. Francke bookstore, right behind his hotel on Bubenbergplatz, he bought splendid editions of Tolstoy’s War and Peace and Melville’s Moby Dick. He paged through both novels, read some passages, and thought to himself that everything he was doing here would need to be written down. He’d never written anything before, but he suddenly found himself wondering where he should begin if he ever found the spare time to chronicle his life up to this moment on a park bench in Bern. He shut his eyes and turned his face to the sun, and felt it shining through his eyelids, warming his skin and relaxing him for a few seconds.
Maybe he had drawn too much attention to himself already in the way he’d kept asking Frau Hansen about possible trips to Switzerland, by being too open about seeking contact with the Brits here in Bern. Who knew? If he were to fail at this point, no one would ever learn what he had planned. And how could he know that Eugen hadn’t stumbled into a trap? He held up the novels, one in his left hand, the other in his right: books with heft to them, physically as well as emotionally. Good books. He overheard mothers speaking with their children, the streetcar jingling, and the Aare River rushing by, flowing around Old Town in the shape of a U—no soldiers, no swastika flags, no air-raid sirens turning people into wide-eyed, scampering hordes disappearing deep underground through some bottleneck of an entrance. Peace. The sky above was that same African blue. Flowers bloomed in window boxes and the shop windows were full of cheese and sausages, fresh fruits and bread. If only the tip of Marlene’s lovely nose could touch one of these shop windows. Berlin was a pestilent boil compared to this town.
Fritz crept into the car and gently shut the door as he turned to Eugen in the driver’s seat.
“Who are we meeting?”
Eugen, not quite hearing Fritz, only stared as if he still couldn’t believe this was happening. Fritz cleared his throat and repeated the question.
“Officially, an American trade representative. I was on the phone for hours and met with people I’m sure weren’t really who they claimed to be. Still, I get the impression the Americans are somewhat more interested.”
“Were you on the phone with a lot of people?”
“Several, yes.”
“And you’re certain they were all Americans?”
“Yes. Well, I mean, how was I supposed to know?”
The car rolled quietly down the narrow, old lanes, the buildings drifting by Fritz as if on film, dreamlike: stretches of wall yellowing in the headlights, hundreds of dark windows eyeing him.
“I wrote my will, Eugen. Here. Open it only if something happens to me. There’s a letter to Katrin. But only send it once Hitler is dead.”
Eugen slid the envelope inside his coat. “If something happens to you,” he said, “I might not learn of it until years later.”
“Katrin has to know why I never got in touch with her.”
“Everything is going to be fine.”
“A nice saying. But only when it’s true.”
Eugen slowed the car and let it roll to a stop along the sidewalk, looking around them. “How are things in Germany, by the way?”
“Horrible as ever. Hitler keeps an iron grip on everything and everyone. Do you know how he does it? Give the petty dumbshits some power, just a little, then let them go order the others around. They’ll all crawl so far up your ass, they’ll never get out again.”
“You never would have talked like that in the old days.”
“They threw a man out a window right in front of his son, Eugen. Just like that. Such things are allowed now. It’s completely out of control. Inhumanity has become a virtue. It’s madness, old friend. Madness.”
Together they looked out onto the street, at stately homes forming dark silhouettes in the night, the overhangs of windows and doorways tawny in the streetlamp glow.
“See that lovely mansion there, Fritz? Herrengasse 23. You’re supposed to go around back to the right and through the yard. Someone’s expecting you at the back door. If you think you’ve been followed, you’re supposed to stay away. You have the documents?”
Fritz pulled up his trouser leg, loosened the string, and held up the papers. They smelled like him and were shaped like a plaster mold of his leg.
“I’ll wait here,” Eugen said. “Doesn’t matter how long it takes. Really a lovely mansion.”
Fritz wiped sweat from his forehead. “A car only makes us stick out more. But have it your way.”
He climbed out of the car and quietly closed the door. He looked around, the night pressing at him from all sides. He tapped gingerly on the side window. Eugen leaned across the seat and rolled down the window.
“What if we have it wrong, Eugen? What if it’s a trap?”
“You don’t have to do this,” Eugen whispered, cupping his mouth.
Fritz took a deep breath. The air was nice and cool. He could feel fear battling to keep him from taking action.
The city was still, the shadows deep and never-ending. He walked down the street until he reached the three-story building, then stopped and looked around. He saw blackness enveloping the street, places to hide, ribbons of light from windows above. He turned down the narrow lane along the side of the building and found a wooden garden gate.
It was dark in the backyard, the shrubs forming black talons against the gray-lit lawn. A door was opened and dim light rolled a yellowish carpet onto the steps. Fritz saw the silhouette of a slender man in the doorframe. Was this his contact? Was this shadow the person he would be trusting with his life?
�
��Are you the official from Berlin?”
Fritz felt the gate’s wood grain, dry to the touch. Who was this shadow man?
“Well?”
“I am.”
“Come in. Quick.”
Fritz pushed the gate open and walked toward the light. The American shut the door and looked out its round window into the backyard. Then they faced each other in a narrow hallway that was tiled halfway up the walls. The man was young and wiry, and had brown hair. He stared into Fritz’s eyes, his features unmoving.
“Arms up.”
“What?”
“Arms up!”
Fritz only raised his hands.
“Mister, you don’t need to go surrendering just yet. I need to search you for weapons.”
“I’m not carrying a weapon.”
“Arms up.”
The American felt under his armpits and around his hips and upper thighs. The search was intimate and offensive.
Another man emerged from a cellar door, yanked up his overcoat collar, and slipped outside.
“He’s going to make sure no one’s followed you.”
“There wasn’t anyone.”
“If there was, you definitely wouldn’t have noticed. Now follow me.”
“Please.”
“What?”
“Now follow me . . . please.” On top of his fear, on top of the sweat and the nerves burrowing inside him, Fritz was in no mood to be ordered around in Bern too.
“Listen here. You might be some kind of joker but don’t go getting funny on me. You Nazis—”
Fritz shoved him up against the wall. The young man freed himself from Fritz’s hold in a split second and yanked his arm up behind his back. Fritz’s right shoulder strained against the man’s grip, the joint wanting to pop. He groaned with pain and anger.
“Don’t ever call me a Nazi again. You hear me? Never again. You asshole.”
“You don’t want to pick a fight with me.”
“Let me go, for God’s sake.”
The young man pushed him away and plucked his lapels to straighten them. “If I may introduce myself, Herr . . . ?”
“Kolbe, Fritz Kolbe. I’m bringing you important intelligence.”
“We’ll see about that, Herr Fritz Kolbe. Now follow me, please. With plenty of sugar on top.”
Furious, Fritz followed him down the hallway. They walked up a wide and echoing stairwell to the second floor and entered an outer office. Inside, a woman was sitting at a desk. When she saw Fritz, she let out a puff of cigarette smoke. She wore her hair up and had on a white blouse. On the desk stood a bouquet of flowers in a crystal vase. The young man knocked on the only other door in the room, then opened it and waved Fritz through, the woman watching him go. Fritz wasn’t sure, but he thought she’d just winked at him.
The office was lit by two floor lamps and the desk lamp. The fireplace held an unusually large amount of ash for summertime. The man behind the desk looked big. He had a mustache, wore glasses, and was dressed in a three-piece suit. He was puffing on a pipe.
“This is Fritz Kolbe,” the younger man said. He had left the door open and Fritz could hear the woman rustling paper in the next room. The older man came around the desk and shook Fritz’s hand, his grip as firm as Fritz’s. No one said anything. No one moved. The whole scene seemed frozen in time. The younger man walked around Fritz like a museum visitor around a statue. He exchanged glances with the older man. Were they about to start laughing? Would they pull out their Gestapo IDs? Had poor Eugen already been arrested down at his car? Fritz cleared his throat. The older man smiled, offered him a seat, and asked him if he’d like a drink.
“I am Mr. D,” he said. “The young man there is Mr. P, trade representative.”
Mr. P poured three glasses of whisky. Mr. D leaned against the desk and watched Fritz. They toasted.
“Our Mr. P here gets a little forceful,” Mr. D said. “Don’t take it personally. He’s a good man. I only have good people here, Herr Kolbe. We’re constantly exposed. International trade. Such are the times. Business is not exactly easy. Now, this contact of yours—”
“Sacher,” Mr. P said. “Born February the third—”
“Okay, Mr. P, okay,” said Mr. D. “This Sacher fellow has indicated you might have something for us. Something important.”
Fritz hesitated. It was maybe five steps to the door, then the woman’s office, then the stairwell.
“Well, Herr Kolbe?” Mr. D asked.
The details of Fritz’s whole life blurred into this one moment; the past and future were pulled into a whirlpool, small and dark. He took the smuggled documents from his jacket pocket and handed them to Mr. D.
“These are secret documents from the Foreign Office in Berlin, Mr. D. I work there as secretary to Ambassador with Special Duty Ernst von Günther. I have access to many top-secret files—they cross my desk daily.”
Mr. D folded up the papers without looking at them, then rubbed his mustache and glanced at Mr. P. He held the folded papers up to his temple. “So these are what, exactly?”
“A Nazi agent in Ankara, plans for deporting Roman Jews, memoranda about tungsten deliveries to Germany from Spain, along with documentation about other matters.”
The woman stepped into the doorframe and crossed her arms at her chest. Fritz saw Mr. D exchange a lightning-quick glance with her. “That’s quite a lot,” she said.
“If it’s even real,” Mr. P remarked.
“Oh stop.” The woman pointed to a black-and-white framed portrait of President Roosevelt. “Just what would the man think of your behaving like this?”
“You young people today,” Mr. D said. He placed a hand on Mr. P’s shoulder and smiled at the woman. “I don’t wish to be impolite, Herr Kolbe, but Mr. P and I would like to have a look at this alone a moment. Do have a seat with our Ms. S in the outer office. Surely there’s still coffee, Ms. S?”
“I’d like to get my eyes on those myself at some point, sir. Herr Kolbe, can you come in here? I’m guessing our coffee is better than what you get in Germany these days.”
Mr. P shut the door behind them. Fritz sat at the desk across from Ms. S and thanked her for the cup of coffee.
“Coffee’s always good,” Ms. S said. “Perks you up, keeps you alert. I need it for the work—which I do love, by the way. I’d love to be back in the States, holding down some nice job. You ever been before? Washington or New York maybe? Maybe you know what I’m talking about: the sun shining on the Empire State Building, or Times Square on New Year’s Eve.”
“Unfortunately not,” Fritz said. “I’ve gotten around a bit, but had to pass on America.”
“You don’t get the sort of things there that you get in Europe—your old fortresses, knightly castles, and medieval towns. I find that all quite adorable, but I grew up in America. Sure is funny how strongly a person can feel about their own country.”
“That’s probably true.” Fritz took a sip of coffee. His hand was shaking. He knew that Ms. S was questioning him. Charmingly, courteously, but she was indeed questioning him. Mr. D had likely sent him to her for exactly that purpose. She was sitting remarkably upright, her shoulders pulled back severely. Ms. S was slim but Fritz could see she was in good shape, her body tight as a bow.
“Berlin must have been lovely before the war,” she said.
“Used to be, before the Nazis. We had such great theater, cabarets, dance halls. The streets were filled with people.”
“The Nazis didn’t just show up all on their own, Herr Kolbe.”
“They won’t be going away all on their own either, miss.”
“All right, you can stop with the miss now. It’s okay that I tell you: my name is Stone, Greta Stone. Those boys in there are Allen Dulles and William Priest.”
She’s throwing me a bone, he thought.
“Are you an adventurer, Herr Kolbe?”
“Hardly.”
“The ancient Romans said everyone loves treason but no one the traitor. Belie
ve me, Herr Kolbe, these are very different times. I’m going to bet that you have at least some idea where you are. Do you know what our business is? It’s betrayal.” Greta opened her hands up wide, as if holding a globe. “That’s our profession. If one does it well, one achieves a great deal. It’s a fine profession, provided a person is on the right side. Maybe that’s the nature of these times—right and wrong, good and evil. We, the Americans, are always the good guys.”
“Good and evil is how you see it?”
Greta slid a cigarette between her lips and clicked on her lighter. The flame lit up her face.
“You speak English remarkably well, Herr Kolbe. Do you like the German language? It’s tough to learn.”
“In German you can express yourself with both precision and remarkable poetry. A wonderful language. That’s all getting raped by the Nazis as well.”
“Fritz Kolbe, employed by von Ribbentrop, loves the German language. You’re working for Uncle Adolf.”
“I’m employed as a civil servant.”
“For Adolf Hitler.”
“I’m not even a member of the Nazi Party.”
“Well, I’m not so sure I believe that.”
“I give you my word of honor.”
“Word of honor? Around here? Oh please.” She smiled. Her face retained a strange clarity no matter what expression she used. “You’re not in the Nazi Party, and yet you have the job you do?”
Fritz placed his passport on the desk. “Try finding a Party-member number, Ms. Stone.”
She picked it up and waved it in the air. “We have people who can make me IDs like this in an hour.”
The door opened and Dulles and Priest approached the table. Dulles laid the documents before Greta and set his pipe on the ashtray. The man radiated authority. In the face of his calm assurance, Fritz didn’t know how he was supposed to act. He felt nervous and worked up, and could not keep his eyes still. He looked at the ashtray, the typewriter, the flowers, Greta’s long fingers, Dulles’s elegant suit, a map of Europe. It was all unsettling.
“According to your papers you only have two more days here in Bern, Herr Kolbe. Therefore, I suggest we meet again tomorrow, perhaps earlier. Say, nine p.m. Will that work for you?”
The Honest Spy Page 11