lights, in the towns and villages around Celle. Their compatriots
were generally more than happy to give them up. The people who
really mattered had either already been detained or were long gone.
De- Nazification had become mere process, and a process in which
few believed. It was a means of returning to normal, whatever that
meant after these years. It amounted to something of a production
line: identify, locate, arrest, process, charge, prosecute, de- Nazify, jail or release.
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Occasionally they had to venture into the American or French
zones to undertake inquiries, but not beyond the dividing line of
the Harz Mountains to the Russian zone. Dealing with the Red
Army was simply too much trouble for the return. By design or
accident, they were shambolic and uncooperative.
Roy and Hans worked hard and played hard, immersing them-
selves at night in the hedonistic, morally questionable life of a city in chaos, escaping the sorrows and the grief. Not that there was
much of 1946 Hannover to paint red.
But Berlin. This was a first. Their search for Klaus Müller, a for-
mer administrator at Bergen- Belsen, had brought them here.
Müller, a Berliner, had moved to Celle when he married in ’37 and
now evidently thought his home city was a safer place to lie low.
Rather than passing the inquiry to the British authorities in Berlin, Roy had persuaded his bored boss to authorize him and Taub to
travel there. Roy hoped it might be a chance to find a route back to a function that he could plausibly describe to himself as important.
He was interested not in advancement, but in doing some measure
of good. Soon enough he would find himself back in Oxford, no
doubt to pick up his ecclesiastical studies again before taking a curacy in Dorset, close to the family home. Or would he? This war had
changed him, like so many millions of others.
He could not say it had brutalized him. His faith remained intact.
His instincts remained passive and pacifist, though he had been
required consistently to display the opposite behaviours. Moving
through Holland in 1944, he had led from the front, placing himself in the same danger as his men, and they had respected him for it. He had always insisted on compassion for the German soldiers they
winkled out in pockets of resistance from ruined buildings, even
when minutes earlier they had been killing and wounding his own
men. But what the war had taught him was the capacity for brutal
malice of one human being towards another, and this was some-
thing almost regardless of uniform, rank or social class.
He felt this when he typed his short poems, which with every
attempt took on a more worldly, cynical edge. His NCOs ribbed
him as he hammered at the keys at every lunch break. ‘ War and
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Peace,’ they joked. But he loved the little portable that he carried with him. It conferred an odd sense of security and certainty that
his spidery scrawl could not, even in the letters home that he could not bear to write by hand, something else that amused his staff
no end.
When he typed those regular- as- clockwork weekly letters he
found less and less to say. There was less and less of him to connect with them. He was not sure whether he could aspire to a life of
obscure rural service; or whether it could now match his visions.
2
The house they sought was in Marsiliusstrasse, near the Jannowitz-
brücke station and the River Spree. It lay just inside the Russian
sector. They had considered making a quick covert incursion to lift their man, but that would have meant also crossing the American
sector and the Americans had said they could not afford yet another rupture of already poor relations for such a small gain. They decided to chance their arm at the Allied Control Council in Schöneberg, in the south of the American sector, where the occupying forces
administered issues that crossed the physical boundaries between
them.
They had spent two days in the broad halls, powerless, smoking
and waiting while the bureaucrats discussed and mediated their
request. There was no solid precedent to fall back on: at first the Russians wanted Müller for themselves, then acknowledged that
since the crimes had all been committed in what was now the Brit-
ish zone and that the British held all the evidence, they might have to cede to them. The British, as politely as they could, indicated that they would not be prepared to serve up the results of their findings, or their witnesses, to a Russian judicial process. The Russians questioned whether a judicial process was strictly necessary. The British and the Americans reeled back theatrically. Then the Russians
decided after all that Herr Müller was small beer.
It had been that much simpler back in Vienna, though not
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without its arm- wrestles. At least if one was persistent enough there was the chance that reason might prevail in the end. And you could
tell the Soviets didn’t really have their hearts in it. But Berlin was important to them. While they might be prepared to let Vienna drift back to its complacent stolidity, the price, tacitly at least, was Berlin.
So every battle here was to the death, and rational thinking played little part.
Finally, a compromise was reached. The Russians would accede
to an arrest by the British but would not allow a British armed support team in their sector. Barnes, the major allotted to their case, had warned them of this likelihood and the associated dangers.
‘Language is the least of it. The Russkies’ll be sloppy. There’s no discipline in their ranks and they detest officers and foreigners. They won’t look after you or your interpreter.’
Roy shrugged. ‘I appreciate your concern, sir, but it’s a routine
lift. We’ve done it dozens of times.’
Nor was he concerned that the Russians would not permit them
to wear uniform or to carry arms. ‘There’s no reason to believe
Müller will be armed and I want this as low- key as possible. We’ll snaffle him before he knows anything. I don’t want a squad of
troops bursting into the place.’
‘On your own head be it, then,’ said Barnes sniffily, before signing the necessary papers and washing his hands of the operation.
So here they were, sitting in the gloomy office just off Alexander-
platz, waiting for Karovsky, the irritable Red Army captain, to
authorize their plan. Karovsky smoked a foul- smelling Russian papi-rosi cigarette, having curtly refused Roy’s offer of American. He leaned back in his seat and again scanned the order from the Control Council, as though he thought its contents might change on a
third reading.
‘British Military Intelligence,’ he read in a cracked accent, and
laughed. He signalled to his interpreter, who shambled over from
his desk. Through him, he said, smiling, ‘I like you people. The
strangest people, but I like you. We are your enemies. You once had an empire. You like to pretend you’re still important. We liberated 152
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Berlin and now you wish to come on to my streets to undertake one
of your trivial arrests.’
‘Hard
ly trivial,’ said Roy equably. ‘The man we’re trying to arrest was an administrator at Bergen- Belsen.’
After the time lapse imposed by the translation, Karovsky waved
Roy’s statement away. ‘Germany’s full of war criminals, minor
and major. Perhaps all Germans who are in denial about their
nation’s crimes are criminals. I don’t know. Why should I choose to help you?’ He spread his hands wide in a gesture of ignorant
supplication.
‘Because you have in front of you a direct order from the Control
Council, perhaps?’
Karovsky grinned. ‘You’ve recently been in Vienna?’ He had
clearly done his homework, despite his apparent casualness. ‘Yes,
I’ve heard things are marvellous there. Order is being restored
quickly so that the Austrians can get back to their blissful ignorance, their waltzes and their Sachertorte. Relations between the Powers are marvellous.’ He laughed scornfully. ‘But Berlin is a different
place. Vienna, we don’t really care any more. But don’t imagine you have a free rein in Berlin. As to the Control Council, it comes out daily with its absurd demands and decrees. I ignore them as I see fit.
With the full support of my senior officers. So whether you may
conduct your petty operation is up to me. Not this piece of paper.’
He pushed the order across the desk, waited for the translation,
then grinned. Roy looked at Hans briefly.
‘Well, if that’s your final word . . .’
‘I didn’t say no. But if you do proceed it will be on my terms.
None of your British uniforms. And I will wish to interview the
prisoner myself. Just to double- check that you English aren’t trying to deceive us. Again.’
‘All right,’ said Roy. ‘As long as I’m present. Perhaps if you’ll allow us simply to do a recce of the address today, we can discuss the op tomorrow. We don’t need your help. We’ll just have a look at the
address from the outside.’
‘You think you don’t need our help. But I insist. You can take
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three men with you. They’ll keep out of sight. You’re not carrying
weapons, I take it?’
‘No. Would you care to search us?’ said Roy lightly in response to
the other’s sceptical look. A calculated risk: a body search of an English officer would cause a hullabaloo at the Control Council, and
both men knew it.
‘Thank you. No.’
3
They were grateful for the unseasonable cool, which provided the pretext for their greatcoats with their capacious pockets containing
contraband for smoothing the path and an illicit weapon in case things did not go to plan. Their suits were ridiculous. They had been provided by the Russians, looted no doubt from some low- end tailor’s shop. Courtnay and Taub had travelled from Hannover by train in uniform, carrying only their coats, wash kits and a change of underwear.
The suits were several sizes too small, forcing a rolling gait on them so tight were they around the thighs, and the jacket buttons strained to hold. They looked like clowns. Roy had the sense that this was an
indignity forced on them by Karovsky for his own amusement. He,
with the seniority of rank, had at least been able to bag the blue serge.
Hans’s grey chalk- stripe was a good four inches too short in the leg, showing his boots to bad effect. He looked simply absurd, though in this devastated city the comic was largely absent or unnoticed. They were at least grateful that they had been able to find hats that fitted more or less. And they could now pose as civilian police.
They stood by the cathedral, almost in ruins, its cupola a mere
skeleton, and looked over the Spree, in which debris floated and a
filthy grey scum scudded to the banks. They walked down Unter
den Linden, past mounds of rubble that were being diligently
cleared by German workers wearing close to rags. Russian troops
stood chatting and smoking. Huge hammer and sickle flags flew
triumphantly from the ruins of the imposing buildings that lined
the once great avenue. There was no sign of the linden trees.
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Taub looked distraught. ‘This was my city,’ he said. ‘Look what
these people have done to it. You could stroll down this street before all this. Mind you, as long as I can remember it’s always been in
some kind of crisis. Socialists and fascists. Marches and speeches.
Street fights and sabotage. Prosperity and collapse. Poverty and
wealth. Always clashes. Perhaps it was just my family.’
‘Your father involved you in his politics?’
‘Not really. They were both politically engaged.’ The last word
was spoken with bitter emphasis. ‘But my father took me every-
where with him. Politics. This is what you get.’
‘Perhaps it’ll be a more peaceful place in the future.’
‘You don’t believe that. The Russians and your Western powers
will fight over this city and my country forever.’
Such vehemence was not the norm for Hans Taub.
‘We have a job to do,’ Roy reminded him.
‘Yes,’ said Taub, brightening, ‘and I’ve got plans for this evening.
We might go back to that club . . .’
It was all one could do in the circumstances. Block out the horror
with frantic enjoyment and little regard for the consequences.
They had almost reached the Brandenburg Gate, where a huge
portrait of Uncle Joe Stalin, covering most of the pillared structure, smiled down on them. They turned into Wilhelmstrasse and made
their way to Voss Strasse, just to look at the small conical tower and modest doorway that marked where the final days of that horror
had played out. It was here that the bodies, allegedly, had been
burned. The area was guarded by twitchy Russian soldiers, who
approached them brusquely and began shoving Hans. Roy quickly
produced papers from his pocket and the situation calmed some-
what. They walked quickly back to Alexanderplatz for their
rendezvous with their escort and discussed their tactics.
‘Unless we’re very lucky the troops they give us will be hopeless,’
said Roy. ‘More danger to us than help. We’ll try to ditch them as
soon as possible. Or at least get them into the background. Can you work on them?’
‘Assuming one of them speaks a bit of German or English,’ said
Hans.
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‘Good. Now we know that this Müller character is out during the
daytime.’
‘So his wife said. She receives letters from him each week and
that’s what he says. The Russians know nothing about him?’
‘The Russians have no record of him, or of his landlord. The Rus-
sians have no records at all. Or so they say. Let’s just scout round the property and take it from there.’
4
As Roy had predicted, the Russian soldiers allocated to them were
surly and taciturn. Hans managed, barely, to communicate with the
corporal and together the five men, a shambolic crew, trudged
towards the address.
Hans fished in his coat for cigarettes and gave the privates one
pack each and the corporal two, before leaving them at the corner
of Blumenstrasse to joke and curse the English.
The small apartment building looked no more shabby than the
others in the street. This was not saying very much.
Klaus Müller had prevailed on an old school friend, Franz König,
to lend him a room. König was a waiter and worked mainly during
the evenings. Müller had found a job under an assumed name at the
Buildings Department of the Russian authorities. They knew all
this from Müller’s wife, who had proved very cooperative when
faced with the prospect of being prosecuted for assisting the flight of a criminal.
They walked past the building, but this told them nothing. The
front door hung off its hinges and they decided to go inside. The
apartment they were looking for was on the first floor. There was a stench of rotting food, or worse, as they climbed the stairs. Before the war this might have been quite a grand address. The stairs were wide and ornately balustraded. Now, however, it was shabby and
showed the signs of looting when the Russians, less than a year
before, had swept through the area like a plague. Apartment doors
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were smashed in and unrepaired. Every step kicked up clouds of
dust.
Eventually they found a door with a piece of paper roughly
pinned to it. Scrawled capital letters declared curtly that this was the apartment of König.
Roy looked at Hans, who raised his eyebrows.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ whispered Roy.
They knew the drill. Initially Hans would do all the talking, to
convey the impression that they were the German police. This
would generally gain them access and put the subject at a kind of
ease. They had obtained Berlin police papers that would pass mus-
ter. Then at an appropriate point they would announce themselves
more fully.
At Roy’s nod, Hans knocked loudly. There was silence, then a
scrabbling inside. Shortly the head of a middle- aged man with a
receding hairline appeared around the door, edged open cautiously.
‘Herr König?’ asked Hans politely.
The man stared at him for a moment, wide- eyed. ‘Yes,’ he said
eventually, slowly, having picked the question over. ‘How may I
help?’
‘Simply a routine inquiry,’ said Hans with a smile, flashing his
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