Berlin Wolf

by Mark Florida-James

  * * *

  At Lotte’s apartment they discussed their plan once more and made their final preparations. They drank coffee until at exactly twenty minutes to five there was a knock at the door. Franz and the Professor hid in the master bedroom. Lotte opened the door, having first hidden the coffee cups.

  ‘Come in, come in Herr Klein.’ She beckoned him. He still wore the irritating and stupid grin. He had come prepared for an argument and was therefore surprised when Lotte seemed to greet him almost warmly.

  ‘Before we get down to business, would you like a cognac?’ she asked. The alcoholic Herr Klein struggled with Herr Klein the cold, calculating blackmailer. The alcoholic Klein won. Only one. He would keep his wits about him.

  ‘Sit down. Sit down,’ Lotte said, gesturing towards the smaller sofa.

  To his surprise she sat down beside him, uncomfortably close. She was in a tailor made, close fitting blue and cream dress with buttons up the front and as always looked very alluring.

  ‘Come Herr Klein, drink up. It’s good cognac’. She knocked back the contents of the glass. He eyed the glass suspiciously, until seeing her drink, he did likewise.

  ‘Now about the money,’ he began. He got no further as Lotte leaned forward and placed her index finger on his lip.

  ‘Shush,’ she said, ‘let’s not talk about money just yet. It’s so common.’

  Herr Klein was now even more suspicious. He was about to move away when she grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him closer to her face. It was so unexpected he ended up sprawled on top of her.

  ‘Click! Click!’ The noise of the shutter was accompanied only by the bright flash of the camera. The photographer had sneaked up behind and with Franz’s camera photographed the incriminating scene. Or at least that was the impression given by the flash.

  Hearing the camera click and seeing the light, Herr Klein sprang to his feet. As he did so there was a further flash and he turned just in time to see Lotte with her hair tousled and half the buttons of her dress torn off.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Herr Klein was shaken and angry.

  Lotte was by now quite composed. ‘It’s simple,’ she said. ‘My husband is due back in a few minutes. As you know he is a very powerful man and very jealous. Unless you drop this blackmail I will tell him that you attacked me and we have the photographs to prove it.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Herr Klein said, almost spitting out the words. ‘He will not believe that you happened to have a photographer standing by.’

  ‘Oh but he will, Herr Klein.’ She emphasised the ‘Klein’ and went on to say: ‘He was asked to be here at five precisely for a surprise. The surprise is that I have arranged a family photograph. My friend, the photographer, was in the bathroom when you arrived and you proceeded to assault me. He saw I was able to defend myself and so thought, quite properly, that first he should capture the evidence. It will certainly speed up the trial at the People’s Court. I hear Dr. Freisler has an eye for the ladies.’

  ‘He’ll never believe that,’ Herr Klein said with venom in his voice, seeing his great opportunity slipping away. He was unable to hide his terror at the mention of the dreaded People’s Court and its even more dreaded President, Dr. Freisler. Lotte could see her words were taking effect and so she continued.

  ‘My husband has already commented on the way you have been looking at me. He will not find it difficult to believe that you tricked your way in under some pretence and then assaulted me. As for my friend’s action in photographing the event, rather than trying to save me, he will applaud him for his common sense and cool thinking under pressure.’

  Herr Klein did not respond so she played her trump card. ‘Do you want to risk it? Take a look at that letter on the desk.’

  Herr Klein walked anxiously to the desk and picking up a piece of writing paper began to read.

  ‘In the Name of the German People, it is hereby ordered that the following are deemed enemies of the People and are to be transferred forthwith to the concentration camp Sachsenhausen without trial. They will remain in protective custody.’

  There followed a long list of names which appeared quite authentic. They were genuine victims of the regime known to the Professor. The typed name and signature at the bottom was that of Lotte’s husband. The letter heading was from the ‘Reichs Security Headquarters’. The signature was stamped with the eagle clutching the swastika. The same stamp Franz had used so often. This was a masterpiece of forgery and Lotte was convinced even Himmler himself would have accepted it as genuine.

  ‘Well Herr Klein. Do you want to gamble with your life? Your name can easily be added to the list. In the meantime you can be questioned by the Gestapo for a number of days, maybe weeks.’ By now Lotte could see the ploy had worked. Herr Klein was for an alcoholic, unusually white. To clinch the deal she pointed to an envelope on the mantelpiece and told him to take it.

  ‘In that envelope is a considerable amount of money. It is less than a quarter of what you asked for. No doubt you planned to ask for more, again and again. It is still much more than you deserve. This is the deal. You leave Berlin and do not return. You can easily start a new life with that money. We will hold onto the photographs. If anything happens to me or any of my friends, or my husband hears of my little ‘indiscretions’ we will assume it was you and you will be arrested. Agreed?’

  Having outlined the terms of the offer, Lotte stood back and waited for a short time, finally saying, ‘Do we have a deal? My husband is due any minute. Do we have a deal?’

  Sheepishly Herr Klein mumbled ‘yes’. He had been outwitted.

  ‘Then get out! You have until tomorrow lunchtime to disappear for good. When you do you will leave a letter to your superiors, recommending this person to replace you, as suggested by my husband.’ She handed a piece of paper to the defeated caretaker and indicated with her eyes that he should go.

  Herr Klein did not wait any longer and virtually ran from the apartment. When he had disappeared out the door, the photographer ran to Lotte and hugged her.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo! Simply magnificent,’ he enthused and began to remove his disguise. Fortunately Herr Klein had not recognised the Professor.

  In days gone by she would have taken a bow and bathed in the limelight. Her husband’s arrival was imminent. It was essential that he arrive soon to confirm Lotte’s story. They needed to destroy the fake letter and any sign of Herr Klein’s presence. The Professor and Franz must get out as soon as possible. Lotte was exhausted. It was a trying role. She was grateful that it had not turned nasty and Franz’s assistance had not been required. They could never know if Herr Klein would stick to the deal. At least, for now, the problem had gone away.

  * * *

  The annoying difficulty of Herr Klein and his failed blackmail attempt turned out to be a blessing. Not only had their chosen solution rid them of the prying eyes of Herr Klein, Lotte’s ingenuity had permitted them to install the caretaker of their choice. Usually the appointment of a new caretaker and block warden would have followed official procedures. Herr Klein’s apartment was quite small, but desirable, being located in a magnificent block in a prime location in the city. As such there would have been many willing candidates for the post, and many eager to bribe the appropriate person. Accommodation throughout the city was very scarce.

  Lotte’s candidate was an excellent choice. A member of the Party, with two young children to support, he was skilled at domestic maintenance and had recently been bombed out of his home. The fact that he was a violinist and not a caretaker, and the fact that he was a Jew in hiding, she did not disclose.

  At first the violinist had been hesitant. Lotte’s apartment block was full of the very people who had often attended his concerts. If he had regular maintenance tasks to perform he would come into contact with them much too regularly, he had argued. The major flaw though was that he was neither a skilled plumber nor electrician.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Lotte reassured him, ‘Herr Klein
could do none of those things either. His main function was to spy on the residents.’ At the mention of spying the violinist had gone pale.

  ‘Oh don’t worry. If you have to report on someone I will give you the names of the ardent Nazis in the block. You can say they were listening to foreign radio. Most of them do. Or, better, you can report that the presence of my husband means no-one dare step out of line. Perhaps that would be safer.’ Lotte was teasing a little.

  When she had finished giving the new caretaker his disguise, he finally relented. ‘Where better to hide a prisoner, than in prison,’ he said.

  And so, days after the hated Herr Klein had departed so abruptly, the new caretaker, ‘Herr Riesen’ was installed. Naturally a few noses were out of joint that such a plumb job had been filled so quickly. When Lotte’s husband made the phone call at her request, the minor officials involved did not dare to protest. Lotte had stifled a giggle as her husband bellowed on the phone, ‘Of course he’s in the Party. He’s a good Nazi. I can personally vouch for him. There’s no need to check him out. I have interviewed him myself and examined his papers and he is definitely one of us. Now that is the end of the matter.’

  Herr Riesen had been interviewed by the great man, in person. It was a frightening ordeal, though helpfully the concert violinist was used to performing. He had not flinched as the newly acquired identity card and Party membership card were scrutinised. He had hidden his disgust as he was questioned as to the merits of the concentration camps. He had even impressed his interrogator with his obvious hatred of the Jew. It was a fine performance. The interview had ended quite abruptly with Lotte’s husband saying, ‘Good man. Make sure the boiler works. I hate a cold bath. I suppose my wife is safe from you?’

  Without waiting for a reply he left the room. Part of Lotte’s persuasion had been to contrast the lecherous, bachelor Herr Klein with the family man, Herr Riesen. It had done the trick.

  The group of friends were much more relaxed that evening as they sat with Wolfi in the Professor’s apartment. They had rescued a family of three and provided them with accommodation and an income. In the same move they had a friendly lookout, capable and willing to assist.

  Although relaxed, they still knew that caution was required. In each apartment block or house anyone might report suspicious goings on to the Gestapo, either for revenge or financial gain or even from jealousy. With their own resident spy their ability to come and go had been greatly eased. As a further precaution they agreed that Lotte would place a large white vase in the bay window, if the coast was not clear.

  Lotte’s husband was due to leave for the East in a few days and they would be able to congregate at the apartment again. Lotte had one more plan to simplify things before he left and they were to put it into action the following day.

  It was three o’clock on the next afternoon. Lotte was perched on the edge of the sofa, pouring coffee and handing out slices of cake. The cake was made with replacement flour and some of its contents were a little suspect, but it was edible in spite of it.

  Lotte had two young visitors, handsome in their naval uniforms. Both their faces were weather beaten and sun-tanned from their time at sea. One face was in fact genuinely brown and healthy from a spell in the outdoors, the other required a little rouge to achieve the desired effect. Next to the naturally sun-tanned sailor was a large black dog which lay attentively at his feet, hoping for a piece of cake. It had stitches in its hind quarters.

  The three friends chatted happily about old times and distant relatives. In the middle of memories of their own childhoods, the door of the apartment was flung open and the master of the house strode in. He did nothing in a calm or normal manner.

  ‘What’s this? Who are these people? What’s that mutt doing in my house?’ he fumed.

  Lotte was by now in front of him and kissing him on his cheek. Peter and Franz, as befitted naval ratings, were on their feet standing to attention.

  ‘Oh darling. Don’t be so rude. These are my cousins from the country. You remember? I have told you about them. Ah yes, of course, you never listen. Typical man! They are on leave. Then they are departing on active service. The dog is a war hero. Peter has adopted him. Look he was injured in the service of the Führer,’ she said, handing him a cup of coffee.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Of course. I forgot,’ he replied meekly.

  The accusation that he never listened had hit the mark. He had met few of Lotte’s relatives. They were strict Lutherans and had not approved of her choice of career. Nor had they approved of her marriage to such an older man. As an afterthought and by way of appeasement he said, ‘I’ll see the dog gets a medal.’

  Peter and Franz looked at each other a little concerned. They were uncertain whether he was serious. He might want to know the dog’s story of heroism.

  Lotte promptly saved them any concerns: ‘The dog does not need a medal. It needs a home while Peter is back at sea. It can’t go on ship with him. Why don’t I look after him? You are away so often and I get lonely. He’s well-trained and he can protect me,’ she pleaded.

  Without much more persuasion, the powerful man, who boasted he could smell a Jew, had agreed that they could stay for dinner and sleep in the apartment. Better than that, Wolfi could stay whilst Peter was at sea. He, however, would be out that evening at a business engagement. Lotte wondered what her name might be, the ‘business engagement’. She no longer cared. Her husband’s work and his attitude had sickened her for some time. She wanted to divorce him, but he was too important to their rescue attempts. Recent events proved this fact.

  In the space of a few days this significant cog in the Nazi war machine had unwittingly safeguarded the fate of three Jews and not only accommodated another, wined and dined him to boot.

  As Peter and Franz, honoured guests now, ate and drank the especially fine meal, Peter thanked his good fortune. Wolfi was recovering quickly and he was now officially resident at Lotte’s apartment. If the dog was pleased he gave no sign as he dozed noisily under the table, after a large dinner of lamb bone and gravy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘There’s something we need to discuss.’ Lotte’s tone was unusually pessimistic and immediately caught the attention of her companions. Wolfi sidled over to her and lay at her feet.

  It was a warm afternoon in July. The close knit group was in the woods, gathering berries and enjoying the sunshine. Unusually Lotte had joined them. She appeared embarrassed as she spoke.

  ‘We are broke.’

  They were shocked. Lotte had always seemed to have an unlimited supply of money.

  ‘My husband is extremely wealthy, but he looks after his money very carefully. Everything I buy for the house is from an allowance. Everything I own is actually his, even the jewellery.’

  ‘What about all the petrol to travel to Switzerland with Berta? The money for the stolen identity cards? Peter’s chauffeur outfit? All the other things you have paid for? How did you mange that?’ Franz asked.

  ‘Oh that was my savings from my time in the movies. I had hoped to use them one day to leave Eric.’

  Peter stood up and walked over to Lotte. He took her hand in his and said, ‘Thank you. Thank you Lotte.’ He already knew that she had paid for the blood transfusion. Only now did he know it was her own money she had used to save Wolfi. The bribe to Herr Klein had wiped out most of the little money she had left.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have been trying to hide it from you. I hoped something would turn up.’

  ‘Nonsense my girl. It’s our fault for never asking.’ The Professor’s words were echoed by Peter and Franz.

  They set to thinking of ways to raise funds. Without money they would be severely limited in the number of people they could help.

  Peter spoke first. ‘I still have my mother’s jewels. They are worth quite a lot, I should think.’

  ‘No Peter,’ Lotte replied, ‘you will need them for after the war. Besides I am sure that the Professor will confirm that there i
s so much jewellery, especially gold in the market, that the prices are not very high.’ She winked at the Professor, determined that Peter would keep the one thing that he still had of his parents.

  The Professor confirmed what she said. It was not in fact a lie. So much property had been ‘confiscated’ from the millions of Jews transported and stolen by soldiers, officials and employees of the Reich, the market was indeed flooded with gold, silver, diamonds and other precious stones.

  ‘Whatever money it raises, it could be enough to save another life.’ Peter was determined that it was his turn to make the sacrifice. The end of the war could still be a long way off and he knew that his parents would approve of the intended use of Mama’s jewels.

  ‘That may not be necessary,’ the Professor interjected. He was pacing up and down playing with the ends of his moustache. His audience was intrigued as he warmed to his theme.

  ‘One of my contacts was telling me just recently that there is still a thriving market in rare stamps. Collectors apparently are so obsessed that they will pay top prices. Especially abroad. Now I know we may not have any rare stamps, but I imagine the same applies to works of art, such as old masters. Most people are worried what will happen to our currency if we lose the war and so anyone with money prefers to invest it elsewhere. In your dining room Lotte I noticed an oil painting. It is the one of the hunting scene. I examined it recently and if it is genuine it could be worth a lot of money.’

  Lotte’s face brightened. ‘Oh it’s genuine. No doubt of that.’

  She knew the one he meant. She had no interest in art whatsoever, although she could recall the day her husband returned with the painting, wrapped in paper. It was about a year before the war after the annexation of Czechoslovakia. He had been very pleased with himself. When she had expressed her dislike of the painting, he had simply agreed. It was hideous to him too. No matter, it was their financial future in the event of war. And it was not the only picture he had plundered from the occupied territories. He had tried to keep it from her, no doubt as he suspected she intended to leave him. She knew he had more pictures stashed away somewhere. She just did not know where.