The comrades left team-by-team, quietly echoing their new slogan on the way out: “Für Kleinen Max!” One member of each team carried the rolls, the other a glue pot and long brush. One would slop adhesive on the surface of a wall or advertising pillar, the other slap up the poster and smooth out the wrinkles. Two specialized teams were charged with handcarts carrying additional supplies. They would lie low at pre-determined locations, allowing their comrades to restock without returning to the shop.
Isabel, Karl and Ludi locked up front and rear on their way out. The bells of the Frauenkirche struck one as they neared the Marienplatz. The heart of the old city appeared quiet, but a patrol could suddenly appear from any of numerous side streets. Brownshirts often left the beerhalls soused and itching for trouble. Their arrival was usually preceded by boisterous laughter or song, so the drunker the goons, the greater the chance of early warning and avoiding conflict. Police patrols were more treacherous, the cops moving stealthily in teams of two. The comrades knew to keep necessary conversation to a whisper.
Ludi stood lookout. A two-fingered whistle would signal “drop everything and run.” Isabel and Karl stepped back to admire their first completed job, a row of bold posters now running the length of a towering wall just north of the gothic city hall. That same stretch had been papered by the Nazi Party earlier in the week to promote the All-Fools-Day boycott of Jewish businesses set to begin at daybreak. Hitler had taken the chancellorship during the first month of the year and by February a suspicious fire had destroyed the Reichstag building in Berlin, giving the new chancellor “justification” for a widespread crackdown on Socialists, Communists and Jews. Some suspected the Nazis had committed arson to accomplish their political goals, and now, in the early hours of April, the government-sanctioned persecution of the German Jews would commence.
While her husband was the true artist, Isabel herself came up with the image for the biting posters now concealing the government-sanctioned placards. Like those postings, her version also displayed a prominent swastika, but from its center glared Hitler’s face twisted into a hateful grimace. Four bent appendages wearing Nazi armbands extended to form the hooks of the crooked cross, in each fist a threatening weapon: pistol, knife, fuse-lit bomb or poison bottle. In script below the striking image was the bold warning: “For now, the Jews. Are you next?” At first glance one might think Hitlerites themselves had crafted the image, but a closer look would reveal the imminent threat to German civility and humanity.
They moved on toward their next assigned target. As they passed the iron-gated entrance to the city hall, Ludi suddenly shouted: “Run! Run!” His cries rang out high-pitched and terrified as he ran full tilt across the square. There’d been no time to whistle a warning. Karl, glue brush still in hand, grabbed Isabel’s arm as she dropped the posters and they followed on his heels. A backward glance revealed Brownshirts raising the alarm, stumbling in their drunkenness but already catching up. The cobblestones made running difficult and her legs, exhausted from the long day on the trams, barely supported her. She managed to keep pace with Karl despite stabbing pains in her calves and feet.
Ludi had disappeared up a side alley. Hoping to divide the pursuers, the couple dodged to the right and passed several dark storefronts to enter the next open street. Isabel bent over, hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. Karl positioned himself at the mouth of the street to reconnoiter, twisting the handle free of the brush head to wield it like a club on the first pursuer to round the corner, but the thugs had chosen the easiest target, the kid. They heard muffled shouts in the distance.
Her voice was shaky, her breathing still labored. “What’ll we do? They’ll kill Ludi!”
“Let’s go!” He grabbed her arm. In the feeble light she saw the set of his jaw and knew they were heading for serious trouble but she pushed all fear aside.
They moved cautiously in case of a guard but the mouth of the alley was unattended. The thugs had cornered Ludi twenty meters down the passageway. He crouched in a doorway alcove, arms shielding his head, his cries muffled and pleading. The louts took turns pelting him with cobbles kicked loose from the neglected pavement. Mocking his suffering, the leader taunted with obscene promises of what lay ahead as their victim’s cries grew weaker with every projectile hitting home. Only drunkenness caused some to tumble uselessly to the ground or land with limited force.
“Wait here!” Karl abandoned caution and raced into the fray, the end of the broomstick clutched in his hands.
“No way in hell!” She picked up a stone at her feet and ran toward the assailants.
So involved in tormenting the youth, the Brownshirts ignored the assault from their rear until it was too late. Karl splintered his stick over the head of the first man, sending him to the ground with hands to his face and a ragged cry of pain. Isabel slammed her stone into the face of an inebriated thug distracted by his fallen colleague, but the element of surprise was lost and the other two turned the tables. The pack leader, a huge brute, was already atop Karl, pummeling with both fists. Karl tried to defend himself but the stump of the handle got him nowhere. Fists rained down relentlessly despite the attacker’s drunkenness.
Isabel, infuriated by the assault on her husband, hurled her stone at the man’s head but failed to protect herself from the remaining goon. He snagged her by the arm as she ran past and threw her into the brick wall. As she staggered back dazed, he buried a fist in her belly. She doubled over and dropped to the ground. The Nazi kicked her over and over with his heavy boot until she lay still, then joined his colleague to finish up with Karl.
She awoke on her back, shivering violently. A slash of gray announced the coming dawn. The alley remained dark. Intense cold permeated her body but she welcomed the growing numbness in her heart. Tears streamed down her cheeks but she made no effort to stop them, afraid to move in the knowledge that, with the first shift of her legs, with the first timid exploration of her hand, she would find what she feared most. With difficulty, she turned her head to the side and stared into the blackness. She was alone.
❖
Berlin, Germany
December 1941
“Horrifying. Absolutely horrifying.” Ryan shook his head, filled with compassion and mind-numbing disgust. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Isabel.”
Subdued by the memories, she finished the tale. “Our cell leader Mathias and some comrades went out searching before dawn after we failed to return. Mathias knew our route and targets, of course. They eventually found Ludi, who had managed to drag himself out to the square. Though barely coherent, he directed them to me, and they brought the two of us to a sympathetic doctor. He had us admitted to a hospital as victims of an agricultural accident.”
“What had become of Karl?”
“The bastards must have dragged him off after the fight. We’d injured two of them, so I suppose they weren’t able to handle more than Karl. Perhaps they planned to return for the two of us, but who really knows? I was battered and incoherent. I lost track of him for almost a week. They said I’d never have another child. Mathias visited my ward and showed me a photo from the paper showing a filthy man with a sign at his neck reading ‘traitor,’ and the Brownshirts had him seated backwards on an ox.” She shut her eyes. “They paraded him around town that way. It was obvious he’d been badly beaten, but the cauliflower ear told me immediately he was my Karl.”
Ryan couldn’t find words to encompass such cruelty and hate. He forced himself to sound calm. “And what happened next?”
“Hauled into court and sentenced to three years in prison for defacing public property and fomenting rebellion. As for Ludi, he was released from the hospital and disappeared after that. Our printer Hugo tried to track him down but Ludi’s family played dumb. Likely sent him off to relatives in the country.” She dried her eyes. “I wrote Karl for the first year and received only two short notes back. They were mostly blacked out by the censors, but he did acknowledge the loss of our baby.” She ble
w her nose. “If only I could have been with him to share our loss, our grief.”
Ryan realized his fingernails were buried in his palms and forced his hands to relax. “Despicable, heartbreaking.”
She turned to face him on the sofa and composed herself. “And then he disappeared. No further word. I contacted Brandt, who inquired within the prison system. Karl was supposed get out at the end of his sentence but instead they kept him in ‘protective custody’ in a concentration camp and he’s still a political prisoner of the Reich. The inspector was able to track Karl’s transfers from one camp to another, but had no direct knowledge of him or his condition until six months ago when they moved him to Sachsenhausen.”
“So why on earth are you working out there, and for SS bastards yet? Especially after all you’ve suffered at their hands, that baffles the hell out of me.”
“No wonder. I’m baffled by it all, as well. When I lost track of my husband—for that’s what he was despite no license or ceremony—I was at wit’s end. I had the little bit my dad was willing to send and no way to make a living in Munich, so at Brandt’s suggestion I returned to Chicago. He promised to keep track of Karl and let me know when he was freed. So I returned home on my old passport and began working again at the News. If you’d known I was still alive and had been in the States you might have spotted a few by-lines, mostly society pieces, of course. My dad still didn’t buy into a woman’s covering actual news, despite all I’d accomplished in Berlin. That is, accomplished before everything went to hell. In any case, I struggled along for years knowing that I’d completely fouled up my life and lost everyone I’d ever really cared about.”
“So how’d you get back here?” He sensed her mood lighten as she moved beyond the Munich disaster.
“Last spring a letter reached me from Brandt. He gave a phone number and said he had important information. I rang him up, and he asked me to call back in an hour on a different line. That’s when I learned what was happening here. A secret SS operation needed expert forgers and had sent word to Kripo headquarters. Brandt had suggested they run down Karl in their camp system and transfer him to Sachsenhausen. Once the move was made, our friend the inspector encouraged me to return to Berlin. I still had my old ‘Isabel Friedrich’ papers, and using those he set me up in the camp admin office, typing and scheduling and that sort of thing. It’s been challenging living under fake cover for months, but it has allowed me to keep tabs on Karl, at least on paper. I’m never allowed into the prison compound itself, so haven’t even caught a glimpse of him. Frustrating as hell, having him so close yet untouchable.”
“And you wanted me to see your being buddy-buddy with those SS officers at the camp bus, right? You wanted me to question your motives.”
“Had you turned tail and run, I would have understood and, quite frankly, admired your good sense despite my disappointment. Instead you’re sitting here now, and that’s what we hoped for. You showed guts, curiosity and compassion, and Brandt assures me you were quick on your feet in response to his ‘arrest and interrogation’ test. He wanted to see for himself just how well you masquerade under tense conditions.” She smiled a little at last. “So that’s all I can tell you till we sit down with him.”
“That means I passed the tests?”
“With flying colors, but once you hear the rest you still may run for the hills. God knows, I wouldn’t blame you one bit, given the way I treated you.”
“What you put me through is nothing compared to the cards life’s dealt you, Izz. If there’s a way I can get back at that filth for what you and have Karl suffered, well, that fits right in with my personal goal. So let’s get this thing underway. When do I see my old buddy Brandt?”
“First things first, Ryan.” She glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s well past curfew, and you can’t spend the night without alerting either the concierge or my neighbors. So empty your glass, grab your coat and hat, and give me a hug for old time’s sake. Then get the hell out of here as quietly as you came. Brandt will be in touch tomorrow, okay?”
He did. Tomorrow would surely be an interesting day.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Berlin, Germany
December 1941
They met the next evening at Isabel’s flat. One of Kessler’s men had dropped by the apartment house earlier that afternoon for a word with the concierge. Reichmarks changed hands and a bit of persuasion assured that any gathering upstairs would remain a secret. Ryan arrived at a quarter to eight. Isabel buzzed him up and offered a hug and Cointreau. He accepted the embrace but declined the drink. He wanted his wits about him. Isabel appeared nervous and declined any further discussion until the group had gathered.
At five to eight a sedan pulled to the curb and discharged two men in heavy overcoats and fedoras. Ryan watched through a gap in the blackout drapes as they made their way up the stoop. Isabel pressed the button to unlock the front door and moments later welcomed the new arrivals to her living room. She took coats and hats and suggested they make themselves at home.
Brandt greeted Ryan like a long-time acquaintance. Barely a week had passed since the interrogation in the detective’s office where the reception had been far less convivial. Ryan wasn’t sure how he felt about the nattily-dressed gangster credited with Isabel’s escape years before. Anton Kessler was clearly to play some key role in the project up for Ryan’s consideration, yet the man seemed aloof, as if the meeting were taking place under his patronage but with no need for his personal input. Brandt asked permission to smoke his pipe and Isabel encouraged Ryan to follow suit. Kessler snipped the tip from a massive cigar and set it aflame. She brought out glasses of amber liqueur and the two new-comers accepted gracefully. Ryan once again declined.
Kessler immediately claimed the larger armchair while Brandt took a seat on the sofa across from Ryan. Isabel chose to remain standing behind the couch at Brandt’s back. The inspector wasted no time getting down to business: “Frau Friedrich tells me you now appreciate all she has endured over the past decade. It falls to me to present a plan to help make her whole again while simultaneously doing something valuable to others. While I’m sure you’re most curious by now, what we discuss tonight never leaves this room. Agreed?”
“Agreed. And I am, as you say, most curious.”
“Let me confirm up front that you show a natural talent for passing yourself off as German. Your accent is flawless and you’ve mastered our demeanor. And Frau Friedrich tells me you proved your worth in that regard back in your days together.”
“So that’s why I’m here?”
“You appear an ideal candidate,” Brandt pulled from his coat pocket the Gestapo sketch, “if this flyer speaks the truth.” Boldfaced print above his image read Sought under Suspicion of Bank Robbery. “A decent-enough likeness. I recognized you the moment it hit my desk.”
Ryan glanced up at Isabel and smiled, hoping to draw her out of her mood. “Do you think it truly captures my nose?” She offered a fleeting grin and Brandt chuckled. The attempt at humor got no reaction from stoic Kessler so Ryan moved on. “Let’s get down to brass tacks—what exactly are you asking of me?”
Brandt caught Kessler’s eye. “Very well, it’s all quite simple, really. We want you to pinch millions of pounds sterling.”
Ryan shook his head in disbelief. “Surely you can’t mean robbing the Bank of England?”
“Well, technically, Reichsführer-SS Himmler is already masterminding the robbery, and right here in a nice neighborhood of Berlin. We’ve simply come up with a better use for the loot.”
Ryan looked to Isabel. “What should I make of this nonsense?”
She gave him an encouraging smile. “You’ll understand soon enough. Just hear him out.”
Brandt smoothed his mustache with two fingers and began: “Himmler has a major counterfeiting operation underway. He intends to blanket the world with fake British notes—a grandiose plan to weaken our enemy.” The inspector leaned back, puffing to keep his pipe alight a
s he spoke. “After all, if word gets out the pound sterling can’t be trusted, who will subsidize the Allied war effort? Even you Americans will think twice before chipping in, I believe.” He cleared his throat. “So we suggest you help us close down this operation.”
“Why me? And why would you of all people want to help England?”
“On that first count, you come along at a fortunate moment and with valuable attributes. As we discussed, you’re clearly excellent at impersonating a German, a role central to our plan. Rumor has it you were in and out of the Reichsbank without anyone’s being the wiser. And secondly—even more helpful—you’re already a criminal suspect in the breach of a major Reich depository. If our plan were to go sideways, you—or more precisely your persona—would be the primary target of the secret police. That takes the heat off the rest of us, right?” He couldn’t restrain a broad smile. “Finally, I might add that your obvious connections with, shall we say, operations outside the Reich put you in an excellent place to get away with the caper.”
Ryan still couldn’t believe what he was hearing and offered a wry smile. “I thank you for this great honor.”
Brandt gave his pipe a sour look and scraped the plug of unburnt tobacco into the ashtray. He worked a pipe cleaner through the stem as he spoke. “As for our providing aid and succor to an enemy of the Reich, I might instead make the case that we are protecting our great country and our beloved Führer.” His sarcasm was obvious. “Should fake banknotes threaten the British economy on any massive scale, you can bet the Allied bombers will paper our skies with equally fake Reichsmarks. Our citizens will put such unexpected bounty to good use and no one comes out a winner. Throwing a large monkey wrench into the world economy is a serious risk to all the powers that be. The world has already lived through one massive inflationary economy, and no one wants another, you’ll surely understand.”
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