Berlin Wolf

by Mark Florida-James

  ‘A peeping Tom, eh, Professor?’ Lotte teased. She had not been surprised to learn of Elise’s existence. She had long suspected as much.

  ‘At least we know where the paintings are kept and where we can sell them,’ she said, thinking out loud. ‘We must act quickly. Eric may only have sold the one painting as it was a clear link to him. Or he may have taken fright and decided to sell the lot, one or two at a time.’

  The Professor did not speak. He was still thinking about peeping Toms.

  ‘I wonder,’ Lotte said, and failed to finish her sentence. The Professor looked at her. He was intrigued. Another scheme was being hatched.

  Two days later Peter and Franz were back at Lotte’s apartment. Her husband had stayed for just one day and so, Lotte reasoned, he was not intending to sell any more paintings. She had not been idle since the discovery of Elise’s whereabouts. Pretending that her car had broken down, she had rung the doorbell to Elise’s apartment and asked whether she could use the telephone. It was no surprise to learn that her husband had not paid to have a phone installed at his mistress’s address. He no doubt begrudged paying the rent for her and was certainly not going to stretch to the cost of a phone, in spite of his enormous wealth. Anytime he wanted to see her he would simply turn up and expect her to be there.

  ‘Eric’s secretive late night phone call must have been to the antiques dealer,’ she reasoned.

  Furthermore, it was clear that Elise did not go out to work, something confirmed by the Professor, who kept watch outside the address.

  Lotte knew she was taking a chance by undertaking this excursion, but she had been keen to see her rival. It shocked her somewhat to discover that she was very similar to her in appearance, just a little younger. Her main purpose had been achieved. They now knew that Eric was unable to phone his mistress either at home or work.

  Upon returning home, Lotte sat down with Franz to draft a letter. The contents were brief, yet it took some time to write as Franz patiently copied samples of handwriting and practised the same signature, over and over.

  Finally, after hours of hard work the completed letter was sealed in an envelope and addressed to Elise Ritter, in Friedenau. Lotte took the letter to the post office herself and was pleased when the clerk confirmed it would be delivered the following day.

  Three days after the Professor had discovered Elise’s existence and the purchaser of the paintings, Herr Riesen was waiting outside the antiques shop in the Kurfürstendamm. He was uncomfortably attired. It was not the cut or the fit of his clothing that made him uncomfortable, it was what he was wearing. The Gestapo did not have an official uniform for its detectives, but they wore one nonetheless. It consisted of leather hat, boots and long leather coat, all black. Everyone knew the Gestapo when they saw them. He wondered at how his circumstances had changed, when just a few months ago he carefully avoided bumping into anyone wearing this garb, now here he was clad head to foot in black leather. He could feel people’s eyes hastily turning away from him, unable to hide their fear.

  Herr Riesen had been more than happy to help Lotte when she had requested his assistance. Now he wished he had been more circumspect. He owed his life to Lotte and her friends. He understood they needed funds to continue their activities, but could he really pass himself off as an inspector from the Gestapo? He could see that the Professor was too old to play the detective, and Franz and Peter too young. He had been the only possible choice. What worried him most was the knowledge that he was about to ‘arrest’ the mistress of the powerful man who had recommended him for his post as caretaker.

  As Herr Riesen debated the merits of the situation with himself, he heard the jingle of bells as the door to the antiques shop opened and the pretty young girl emerged. She had acted upon the letter written apparently by her lover and was in the process of selling more paintings. As per instructions she had not contacted him since receipt of the letter.

  Across the street, Peter nodded to him and some twenty or so metres from the shop, Herr Riesen approached the girl. Holding up his false identification card in its leather wallet, he spoke sternly saying: ‘Miss Elise Ritter? I am arresting you for handling stolen art treasures. Do you have anything to say?’

  Elise Ritter went pale and Herr Riesen feared she was about to faint. Thankfully in her shock it did not occur to her that the Gestapo always arrived in pairs and this man was alone. Nor did she notice that apart from flashing an identity card, he had not said his name.

  ‘Now Miss Ritter, I know you have a large amount of money on your person. Either you hand it over to me or I will have to remove it from you right here in the street.’ Herr Riesen prayed she would indeed hand over the money there and then.

  With little fuss, the young woman reached inside her coat and produced an envelope containing an enormous bundle of notes which she handed to him. He quickly secreted them inside his own leather overcoat. The fact that this Gestapo agent was holding an enormous sum of money did not register with any of the passers-by, so intent were they on avoiding his attention.

  ‘Good Miss Ritter, I am glad to see that you are cooperating. We of course know where you live. It will save time if you confirm that there are more paintings hidden there. And do not think you can protect your accomplice, we know who he is.’

  The unfortunate Miss Ritter could not hide her distress when her accomplice was mentioned. Her only response was to nod. The next part of the plan was potentially the trickiest. In most circumstances the unlucky victim of the Gestapo would have been transported to the ‘Alex’ or Albrechtstrasse in a staff car. It was often the last comfort they would experience. On this occasion Herr Riesen did not have a car to use and would have to rely on a taxi, if he could find one.

  The effect of the Gestapo outfit was such that the normally disinterested taxi driver could not ignore Herr Riesen as he hailed a cab. If Miss Ritter was surprised that there was no official transport, she did not show it.

  When the cab driver pulled alongside he was unhappy with his potential fare, but knew there was nothing he could do. The Gestapo hardly ever used his car and when they did they never tipped. Sometimes they wanted a free ride.

  ‘Friedenau! The young lady will direct you,’ Herr Riesen ordered.

  The taxi driver’s upset grew. The destination was not in the city centre. Miss Ritter was surprised that they did not go to the Gestapo headquarters first. She knew, like most Berliners, that they would normally search an address whilst the owner was in custody.

  Herr Riesen seeing her concern, reassured her: ‘We shall go to your apartment first and then let’s see where after that.’

  The cab driver was looking in the rear view mirror. It was not the first time he had seen this happen. ‘Poor girl,’ he thought, ‘she will probably wish she had been taken to Headquarters.’ Reluctantly he drove the detective and the frightened young lady to Friedenau.

  On arrival at the address, the driver was paid and dismissed. Whatever was going on he was not going to interfere.

  Elise Ritter was so nervous she could not insert her key in the door. Herr Riesen felt a pang of sympathy and regret. He took the key from her and having opened the door, stood back to let her enter.

  Once inside the apartment the girl went straight to an old settee upholstered in burgundy velvet. She began to tip the settee on its side when Herr Riesen rushed forward to assist. Once upended and the lining underneath removed, the settee gave up its bounty of three large and six smaller oil paintings. One of them Herr Riesen held up to the light.

  ‘Beautiful, very beautiful,’ he cooed, forgetting his alter ego. It was a painting he knew well and often admired.

  Miss Ritter sat down on an armchair and began to cry. Herr Riesen could see her suffer no longer.

  ‘Now Miss Ritter you have been very cooperative. We are not so interested in you. You are young. It is your partner we are concerned with. No doubt he pressurised you into doing this?’ he said.

  Sensing a glimmer of hope, Miss Ritter
stopped crying and said, ‘Yes. But not only to do this. We only got together because he threatened what he could do to me otherwise. I was a secretary in his office. I either did what he wanted or he would have me sent away.’ She sobbed even more. Herr Riesen’s sympathy was genuine. There were many victims in these terrible times.

  ‘Don’t cry my dear,’ he said tenderly. ‘Here is what we will do.’

  At this point he departed somewhat from the previously agreed script. Afterwards no-one held it against him. He made it clear to Miss Ritter that she must destroy any evidence of her involvement. She sat down and he dictated her last letter to Eric. She wrote that her flat had been raided by the Gestapo and turned upside down and that they were asking for his whereabouts. They had taken everything of value, and emphasised the ‘everything’. She was to be allowed her freedom as they were satisfied she had been used and that the real culprit would soon be caught. She could no longer stay at the flat and was to leave for the country.

  ‘That’s that, my dear. Now one last thing, have you relatives or friends you can go to? And have you any money?’

  ‘I have friends in Austria. Eric knows nothing about them. I have a little money saved, enough for a train fare,’ she said.

  Herr Riesen reached into the envelope and pulled out almost a third of the notes.

  ‘Take this. Now pack your cases quickly, before my sergeant gets here. Do not ever communicate with either Eric or my office again. Understood?’

  A week later Lotte, Franz, Peter, Herr Riesen and the Professor were toasting success with real champagne. They had allowed themselves a treat as the whole venture had turned out much better than imagined. Upon receipt of the letter from Elise, Lotte’s husband had panicked. He was well-connected and very senior, yet even that would not save him from Göring’s wrath. Göring had been building an art collection for some years and one of the most prized items had been stolen by Lotte’s husband. Now that he believed the Gestapo were onto him he had no alternative. He had to flee. He had lost the paintings but had a considerable fortune that he had transferred abroad, in case the war went badly.

  He had communicated all of this by a brief call to Lotte: ‘I am going abroad. You will not see me again. You will get your divorce eventually.’

  With that he had hung up the receiver and indeed Lotte did not see him or hear from him again. After so many years she was free. She had the apartment to herself and no worries about her husband returning. His influence and contacts had been helpful at times, but on the whole, his departure meant greater freedom for all of them. They now had a collection of valuable artwork, enough money from the sale of the other paintings to fund their activities for another year and yet another source of income. Whilst her husband had been planning his escape Franz had forged a transfer of funds from his account to Lotte’s. She was an independent, wealthy woman once more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was the end of November 1943 when Lotte’s finances were restored to their original position. The money could not have arrived at a better moment. Winters were harsh at the best of times. With rationing of just about everything, including fuel, it was even harsher. Even those who could live legitimately in the open found it difficult to maintain a full and healthy diet. Ration cards did not guarantee supplies. Often shopkeepers would only sell to those they knew. A long wait in a queue often resulted in disappointment. There was nothing left to buy. For many the only means to supplement their meagre rations was through the black market. Not only was it dangerous, it was very costly. For those living underground it was almost impossible to survive without outside help. Fortunately, and to their great pleasure, Peter and his friends were able to do this many times over. By now their resistance group had helped almost twenty Jews to a new identity and a new chance of life. Through their distribution of food, clothing and ration cards they had aided many others. With the provision of shelter on their island, many more had found a temporary haven.

  Those they assisted shared many similar characteristics. By the time they had come to the attention of the group of friends, they were desperate and despairing. Some had been on the verge of taking matters into their own hands to bring an end to their suffering and that of their family.

  Peter and the others were careful to try and avoid preferring one desolate person over the other. However, it was only human nature that they should have their favourites, even if they were fastidious to avoid letting this show in the way they treated others. This rule that they normally adhered to steadfastly was broken only once.

  It was just over mid-way through December 1943, about a week before Christmas. Peter was waiting on the famous museum island, close to Berlin Cathedral, a remarkable and impressive piece of architecture. Wolfi lay at his feet. It was cold, but dry and he was growing impatient. That he was waiting to meet a ‘person in need’ was all he really knew. The time and place had been agreed through the Professor. Close by Franz acted as lookout.

  ‘No-one is coming,’ Peter muttered. Franz had come to Peter’s side. The meeting should have been half an hour earlier. Peter tried not to show any annoyance. It was often difficult to keep appointments. If the threat of the Nazis did not interfere, the reality of the Allied bombers might.

  ‘We’ll wait just ten minutes longer,’ Franz replied. It was close to seven and they were hungry and cold.

  At least this was one Christmas they would spend in comfort and warmth. Lotte had somehow managed to buy a rare traditional carp for Christmas Eve. There was even a splendid tree in her sitting room, decorated with ginger bread men and chocolate bells. The bells were substitute chocolate but the gingerbread was genuine. The ever resourceful Lotte had procured all the ingredients to make a festive mulled wine.

  Lotte’s final touch was to place presents under the tree for each of them. The boxes and packaging were impressive enough, irrespective of the contents. Of course Herr Riesen and his children had not been forgotten. Nor of course, had Wolfi.

  Franz was looking forward to this Christmas in a way that had been unimaginable just a year ago. The only problem he faced was what to buy Lotte? Even if he had the money what would be available?

  As Franz recalled the many happy Christmasses he had spent with his parents, and looked forward to the next, he failed to notice Peter as he drifted away from the rendezvous point, followed by Wolfi. Peter was normally very disciplined, but on this occasion he looked like a boy hypnotised.

  In fact he was not hypnotised, he was simply enchanted. From the nearby cathedral the sound of angel’s voices floated through the air. The words of ‘Silent Night’ sung in beautiful harmony escaped the solid walls of the cathedral. Peter and his family, although Jewish, had always enjoyed the celebration of Christmas, particularly the hymns. Peter could not help himself as the music and the harmony of the perfectly united voices drew him closer and closer, until he entered the cathedral, telling Wolfi to wait inside the large front doors.

  Franz followed, both concerned and intrigued, and sat down beside him in a pew at the back. The gold candlesticks on the altar sparkled with the flickering lights of the candles, as wax dripped slowly down the stems. The choir boys in their pristine white vestments stood proudly at the front, conducted enthusiastically by the choir master. The whole scene reminded Peter of the last time he and his parents had worshipped at the synagogue in Oranienburger Strasse.

  ‘There really is so much in common with the faiths,’ he thought.

  They sat in silence for the next half an hour as more Christmas favourites were performed. The recital finished with another rendition of ‘Silent Night’, this time with the congregation joining in. Peter and Franz, two friends of different religions, united in adversity, sang as loudly as their lungs would allow.

  As the words echoed around and outside the cathedral, the inhabitants of Berlin gave thanks that for the moment, no bombs were being dropped and the heavens were clear. Peter gave thanks that he had survived another year since separating from his parents and
prayed that he would one day see them again. Franz, who did not believe in prayer, gave thanks for the day that he met Peter and Wolfi, and the day they had both met Lotte.

  The recital finished, they left through the main entrance, greeted enthusiastically by Wolfi. The rest of the congregation filed out hopefully behind.

  ‘Let’s just check the meeting point one last time,’ Peter suggested, cheered by the Christmas service. By now it was much later than the agreed rendezvous. They returned to the arch of the bridge where they had arranged to meet. There was no-one there.

  ‘No-one. Let’s go home, Peter.’ Franz was thinking of the warmth of the Luisenstrasse apartment. Peter turned to follow his friend, calling Wolfi to him. Wolfi did not move. The dog was sniffing at a gap in the parapet of the bridge. Then he began to paw at the brickwork. As he pawed more rapidly he began to whine.

  ‘What is it boy? What’s the matter?’ Peter said, walking back towards Wolfi. Suddenly he stopped. ‘What’s that?’ he whispered to Franz.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ Franz muttered, growing impatient.

  Peter held up his hand, telling him to be quiet. `Sit Wolfi!’ Wolfi sat obediently, remaining silent. ‘There it is again!’ Peter said, overcome with excitement.

  This time Franz could not fail to hear it. It was a gurgling noise, like a well-used cistern. They stood still momentarily and then both heard it again. It was coming from behind the parapet of the bridge where Wolfi had been pawing. Wolfi whined.

  ‘All right Wolfi! All right!’ Peter said and leaned over the wall.

  He could just see a figure scurrying away in the darkness beneath. As he stood upright, in the corner of his eye he spotted a small bundle of rags. It was wedged between two columns, precariously close to dropping into the river. He leaned over and pulled back a dark woollen blanket.

  ‘What on…?’ Peter exclaimed. ‘It’s a child!’

  He could scarcely believe his eyes for on closer examination he realised it was a young girl of no more than four or five years old. She was tiny. The gurgling noise was her laboured efforts to breathe in the cold air. She was virtually unconscious. Her cheeks chilled his hands as he felt for any signs of warmth. Wolfi was now by Peter’s side, sniffing the bundle and periodically licking the girl’s face.