Lotte was to accompany them to Switzerland where she would stay for a short holiday and then return to Berlin. She simply would not entertain the prospect of letting the others travel alone. She had used all her charm to persuade her husband that she needed both cars, especially after one had already been stolen. As always he gave in and agreed that for one week he would ‘make do’ with an official vehicle. Little did he know that one week would in fact be two or more. With her husband’s contacts, Lotte had been able to arrange accommodation along the way. It was basic, but clean and comfortable she was assured.
Peter’s identity card had proved a little more difficult. Selecting a badly bombed area of Berlin, in which both the police station and rationing office had been destroyed, Lotte had arrived at a temporary office in one of her limousines. Peter was at the wheel of the car in his newly-made chauffeur’s garb. She had entered the office in one of her most glamorous outfits accompanied by her young chauffeur. Ignoring the queue of patiently waiting bomb victims, she had marched up to the desk.
‘My driver needs new papers. His were destroyed by the bombing,’ she demanded.
‘Madam there is both a war on and a queue,’ the civil servant said, not looking up.
‘I cannot manage without my driver and I am not going to wait here all afternoon,’ Lotte said in outrage.
The civil servant’s attitude had changed as soon as he saw Lotte. As always Lotte had her own way and within a short time she and Peter were leaving the building with his new identity as ‘Peter Müller’. For the first time since he had gone into in hiding Peter also had his own ration cards which he used to supplement their supplies for the journey.
* * *
For the moment, the convoy had stopped unexpectedly. Franz excused himself, left Aunt Berta and Albert and went to consult with Lotte and Peter. After a few minutes he returned.
‘Everything’s all right. We were just checking this is the right way to the inn,’ Franz explained.
As each day went by, the party drew nearer and nearer to the Swiss border. For Aunt Berta and Franz the hardest thing was to remember to speak to Peter as a servant and not a dear friend. When in the inns, Lotte would clear her throat loudly if Berta seemed too close to Peter. Wolfi as always followed Peter everywhere. No-one paid any attention to this, assuming that as usual, the poor servants had to look after the spoilt pets.
The journey was thankfully largely uneventful. Peter’s driving skills had improved immensely and even he began to relax. At times they admired the rolling countryside and laughed at the curious looks of impressed villagers. At lunchtimes they would picnic in the open air, forgetting the purpose of their journey completely. Occasionally they would come across bomb damage that was so familiar in the city.
Once they held their breath as they passed a convoy of soldiers marching on the side of the road. With their ostentatious display of wealth and power, they were left to continue, unhindered. Lotte had not appeared in film for almost eight years, yet there were those who recognised her. Her celebrity eased their path as if she were Hitler himself.
Their greatest obstacle was obtaining precious supplies of fuel. They had brought as much as they could in petrol containers, strapped to the runner boards. This had enabled them to travel a substantial part of the overall distance, until eventually they had required other sources. Once more Lotte had astonished all of them when having ordered a detour from the route, she brought them to an army fuel depot. There she had bribed and flattered the commander until he had replenished the tanks.
‘Oh he was a fan from years back,’ was all Lotte said by way of explanation.
* * *
Thus it was that some five days after their departure from Berlin the group of friends stood beside the cars on the edge of the Bodensee, looking at the Swiss border in the distance. They had a last look around them and Aunt Berta and Albert got back into their car. Peter, Franz and Lotte stood next to each other with Wolfi lying in front of them.
‘Come on darlings. Time to leave,’ she urged them. Neither Peter nor Franz moved, not daring to look at dear Aunt Berta. ‘Come! We must go!’ she implored.
Still no-one moved. Worse still Peter and Franz continued to avoid Aunt Berta’s eye. Aunt Berta slid across the back seat and holding onto the door, pulled herself to her feet. As she looked at the faces of her closest friends the truth dawned.
‘You are not coming! You are leaving me!’ Swinging round on the spot, she yelled at Albert. ‘Did you know about this?’
Albert shook his head, dumbfounded. For the first time Aunt Berta had lost her composure.
Lotte was the first to step forward and speak: ‘Please don’t blame Albert. He didn’t know. The boys have made their decision. They must follow their conscience. They have done this because they love you and knew you would not leave them behind. This was the only way to save you and Albert. Please Berta, don’t make this any harder.’
‘I didn’t need saving,’ Aunt Berta retorted angrily. ‘I was safe in Berlin.’
Lotte hesitated. ‘I’m so sorry, dear Berta, I am afraid you did need saving. Kurt has some sort of evidence against you which he says he will hand over to the Gestapo.’
Berta’s face fell, confirming that there must indeed be some sort of incriminating evidence.
‘When we took food to Kurt in the cellar he boasted that ‘soon he would dance on your grave’. He simply does not believe that he is a Jew and he is even more determined to prove his worth as a true Aryan, even if it means betraying his own family.’ Lotte waited for Berta’s reaction.
Berta was silent. She knew what the evidence must be. It was a collection of letters she had received and foolishly kept. Each was from abroad, hand delivered by her husband. In them she was thanked by the various ‘enemies of the state’ for her help in smuggling them out of the hands of tyranny. The news that Kurt intended to hand these over to the authorities distressed her. He must not have been able to find them when he had tried to have her arrested. Clearly they had since been found.
‘Come Aunt Berta. Please go with Albert. Please!’ Peter had stepped forward and was holding her hand. He knew how she loved to be called ‘Aunt’ by him.
Franz joined them and added, ‘Please Aunt Berta. Peter and I have lost our parents. We do not even know if they are alive. You may be the only family we have left. Help us to fight on by staying safe.You can tell the world what is really happening in Germany.’
His earnest words recalled thoughts that all of them preferred to avoid, particularly Peter.
‘I would hope that by now I am one of the family too,’ Lotte joked, ‘but call me cousin Lotte. I’m too young to be an aunt.’ As so often, Lotte’s constant good humour broke the gloom that had descended.
‘Don’t worry I’ll look after your boys for you. I promise,’ Lotte said, serious once more.
Peter and Franz shook Albert’s hand and wished him luck. Aunt Berta threw her arms around Lotte’s neck and kissed her over and over saying, ‘Be careful darling. Please be careful.’
She released Lotte from her grip and then, taking a hand each from Franz and Peter, she looked at them, struggling to speak.
‘With young men like you…’ Her voice tailed off.
All the things she wanted to say remained unspoken. How proud she was, how she would see them again soon. Instead, she reached into her purse and gave each of them a wad of notes. They knew by now that they could not refuse. She embraced them both tightly to her, and gazed at each in turn, one last time.
Finally, she leaned over, kissed Wolfi on the head and stepped into the car. Without looking back, she and Albert drove to the border crossing.
‘Right Franz. Back to the forests of Berlin,’ Peter ordered, holding open the rear doors of the limousine. Lotte, Franz and Wolfi dutifully clambered onto the back seat and all three, expertly chauffeured by Peter, began the long trip home. It was the 1st of March 1943.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Peter looked nervou
sly around him.
‘Where is he? He’s late,’ he muttered under his breath.
He was waiting for his contact to arrive. A contact that had been arranged by a friend of a friend of Lotte and whose trustworthiness was uncertain and untested. With so many unknown links in the chain they were taking an enormous gamble. The Gestapo had informers everywhere in their employ. Even for those opposed to the Nazis there were many temptations to denounce others, not least to save one’s own life.
In spite of his impatience, the Berliners passing by did not give Peter a second glance. The heavy and sustained bombing over several days at the beginning of March 1943 had taken its toll. Their thoughts were on important matters such as where their next meal was coming from. Unknown to everyone except the individual in question, one man was simply walking. Hoping against hope that no-one would ask for his papers. He was a ‘u-boat’. One of the many Jews who had gone underground to avoid detection.
About fifty metres away Franz kept lookout with Wolfi sitting patiently and obediently at his side. He was anxious too, though luckily managed to control his unease so much better than Peter.
‘I should have met him,’ Franz said quietly to Wolfi. He was worried that his friend’s nerves would betray him as he was shaking so badly.
Peter’s nerves were understandable. They were on the steps leading to Anhalter Bahnhof, the station where Peter had been shut in a cattle wagon waiting to be deported. The station where he had determined that he would no longer simply survive. He was going to save others.
‘Perhaps this is a trap,’ he said to himself, and felt the large brown envelope tucked under his arm. It was stuffed with cash for these days everything had its price, even amongst the resistance. He wished he could have used Mama’s jewels. They had remained hidden in Wolfi’s coat. Franz and Lotte had firmly refused. Neither said it, but both feared this could be all that remained of Peter’s family history. Lotte had once more funded the purchase. She seemed determined to bankrupt her husband before the war was over. ‘Never mind Peter,’ Lotte had joked, ‘when he divorces me I can always marry you.’
Peter had blushed deeply. Even now this wonderful woman was unaware of the depth of Peter and Franz’s devotion.
As these thoughts passed in and out of Peter’s head he failed to notice the gentleman walking purposefully towards him. When he finally spotted him, his instinct was to turn and hurry away. It was already too late. The man was almost upon him. He was about forty years old with a sun-tanned face and healthy appearance, dressed in the field-grey uniform of a lieutenant in the Wehrmacht. Peter shot a glance towards Franz and Wolfi.
‘Get out of here Franz!’ Peter muttered under his breath.
To his consternation Franz stayed put. Franz was in a dilemma. Any movement might be understood by Wolfi as an indication to go to Peter. He regretted their decision to bring Wolfi along. Once again Peter had been adamant.
‘Wolfi can spot danger better than any of us,’ he had argued.
‘Ah my dear nephew. Here is the birthday present for my sister, Clara,’ the officer said, much too loudly and melodramatically for Peter’s liking. On saying this he handed over a manila brown package about the size of an attaché case.
‘Do you have Grandpa’s present for me?’ the officer queried.
Still in a state of shock Peter removed the envelope from under his arm and gave it to the officer.
‘What the hell?’ To Peter’s surprise and concern the officer opened the envelope in full view and looked inside for longer than was advisable.
The officer closed up the envelope and said, again much too loudly, ‘Thank you. I hope that my sister enjoys her birthday. I am sure that Grandpa will have an excellent time.’ With that the officer clicked his heels together and gave a half-hearted Nazi salute.
Composing himself, Peter walked off towards Franz and Wolfi. As arranged they made their way separately for the few kilometres towards their meeting point. At least they were separate for the first half a kilometre of their journey. Wolfi was constantly turning towards Peter.
‘It’s no use Peter,‘ Franz said exasperated. ‘It’s obvious that he is your dog. Let’s just walk together. It will be less suspicious.’
After a journey of about half an hour during which neither spoke, they arrived at the steps to a large apartment block in the Luisenstrasse. At the large front door, Peter selected the lowest brass button of a long vertical line. He pushed it twice quickly in succession, then again for a longer period, followed once more by two short blasts.
The door buzzed and a click sounded as it unlocked. The three companions made their way across the lobby and through the now opened door of a large ground floor apartment.
Inside the apartment was typical of those inhabited by the upper middle classes of the city. The sitting room was large and spacious with huge bay windows framed by velvet curtains that rose from the wooden floor all the way to the white-plastered ceiling. There were two long leather sofas with accompanying winged, high backed, leather chairs. Behind one of the sofas was an oak desk inlaid with a green leather insert and a gold writing set on top. To one side of the desk there was the unusual sight of a black Bakelite telephone. On the floor lay an enormous Persian carpet several centimetres deep. One wall was dominated by a white marble fireplace with a mantelpiece above and covered with silver picture frames containing smiling faces, mainly of Lotte.
Lotte was standing by the fireplace as the two boys entered. She was chewing on the end of a cigarette holder. She put the cigarette holder down in an ashtray and rushed towards her friends. ‘At last you’re back. I was so worried.’
For possibly the first time in her life Lotte had been truly anxious. Since their parting with Berta at the Swiss border, she had promised herself that nothing would happen to Peter and Franz. Unknown to Lotte, Peter and Franz had made the exact same promise. Nothing would happen to Lotte.
‘That was close. I would never have expected a soldier to be the contact. Or maybe he was not a soldier, just using the uniform as a disguise, exactly like us,’ Franz blurted out.
‘No he was definitely a soldier,’ Peter replied and signalled with his hand for Franz to keep his voice down.
Peter’s caution was necessary as even an apartment block such as this had its own ‘Blockwart’ or warden, the eyes and ears of the Nazis. These were minor Party members whose job it was to spy on their fellow residents and inform the authorities. Their other duties included lecturing the residents on blacking out properly and threatening punishments for infringements of other regulations.
In this magnificent building the warden was the not so magnificent caretaker, Herr Klein. A cabinet maker whose business had gone bust long before the war, not because of his uncontrolled drinking and reckless spending, no, it was all the fault of the Jews! The beloved Führer recognised the role of the Jews and that was why he, Herr Klein was now in such a trusted position. Lotte loathed him. Fortunately she knew exactly how to exploit his roving eye and thirst for schnaps.
‘What soldier? No-one mentioned any soldier to me. I knew that I should have gone.’ Lotte’s consternation was obvious in her voice. The scenario of a soldier and his sweetheart saying goodbye was one which played out every day at Berlin’s railway stations. It was a role she as a talented actress could easily have fulfilled.
As Wolfi lay peacefully on the rug, the three conspirators gathered around the coffee table in front of the largest sofa. ‘Let’s see what we have got,’ Peter whispered and tipped the contents onto the table.
There was a pile of official papers which when examined disclosed four identity cards, four ration cards and four Party membership cards. The membership cards were very valuable as Party membership was essential in almost all aspects of life in wartime Berlin, even deciding who was allocated accommodation.
‘Not a lot for such a large amount of money,’ Lotte said aloud and then immediately reproached herself. Each document she realised might represent another life save
d.
As they scrutinised each item carefully they stared at the black and white faces that stared back. There were several women. The majority were male. Thankfully the names were typically Christian German. That should make them easier to alter. They could not help but wonder what had happened to the unfortunate owners of these passes. Most likely dead, they surmised.
As Peter laid the last of the identity papers on the coffee table, he shook his head and said disconsolately, ‘Look at the official stamp. How on earth are we going to replicate that? Without it the papers are useless.’ As he said this he slumped onto the sofa and for the first time in many weeks Lotte and Franz sensed his disillusionment.
Franz made no reply. He left the room and moments later returned with a large cardboard box and placed it on the floor. As if in a conjuring trick, he thrust his hand inside and skilfully removed a wooden object, about the size of a corkscrew. It was not a corkscrew however. From close up his audience could see that it was a stamp with the swastika and eagle carved on the end. It was home-made, yet expertly executed.
Before anyone could comment, Franz reached into the box again and produced an ink pad in its metal case.
‘Where… on earth?’ Peter stammered.
Like an expert magician controlling the audience, Franz reached for a third time into the box. To everyone’s great astonishment he pulled out a Leica camera and leather case.
‘All very well,’ Peter teased, ‘but we can’t exactly take photographs along to be developed.’
For his grand finale Franz placed his hand into the box for the last time and produced a number of glass bottles with brightly coloured liquids inside.
‘We can develop them at home!’ Franz said, grinning from ear to ear. Lotte and Peter sat dumbfounded by their friend’s resourcefulness. He really was amazing. Their resistance had begun. It was a small start, but a welcome start nonetheless.
Berlin Wolf Page 15