Katja was about to respond when the door opened again. A man in his fifties, paunchy and balding, with watery blue eyes, entered and gave a casual salute. Katja glanced at Frederica, disappointed. Was this bland and colorless man the tower of strength they had both depended on?
Frederica didn’t wait for introductions and, with a timidity that seemed foreign to her nature, held out her hand to him. “You’re Handel?” she asked uncertainly.
“No, my dear. I’m Captain Atkins. That would be Squadron Officer Humboldt.” He pointed with his open hand toward the woman who stood just behind him, still framed in the doorway.
The other officer, dark-haired and trim in her WAAF uniform, stepped into the room, then stiffly offered her hand to Major Bernstein. Her mouth suggested an odd mix of sensuality and severity, but both were offset by large brown eyes that she lowered as she turned toward Frederica.
Katja was confused for a moment. Though the man had spoken English, she had definitely understood the names and the gesture. Then two facts struck her at once. The woman, not the man, was Handel, their constant protector in England, and her name was Humboldt. Just like Vera Humboldt. Could it be a coincidence? She glanced quickly at Frederica, whose expression of shock confirmed that it wasn’t.
Frederica stood speechless in the middle of a handshake. Then she seemed to force out the unfamiliar word, “Mother?”
“Yes, dear,” the squadron officer said, but made no move to embrace her.
“But how…why…” Frederica stammered.
“Of course you have a lot of questions. We can talk about all of that later.” Vera Humboldt turned to the major, whose puzzled frown showed that he, too, was trying to make sense of the little drama. Discretion apparently prevented his commenting.
Squadron Officer Humboldt did nothing to enlighten him, declaring merely, “Major Bernstein, I am happy to identify Frederica Brandt and Katja Sommer as having acted as agents for the SOE since 1939. I will have my office supply you with a written statement for your records. As soon as you release them from your custody, we will arrange for their transportation to London.”
Major Bernstein, too, was all business. “Thank you, Squadron Officer. I’ll see to that procedure immediately, so that you can leave without delay.” But he also seemed to grasp the delicacy of the situation for he added, “Perhaps Captain Atkins and I can settle the paperwork while you and your…uh…agents have lunch. I believe Miss Brandt and Miss Sommer know the way to the canteen.”
“Very kind of you, Major Bernstein,” Squadron Officer Humboldt said, offering her hand again.
A moment later, the three of them were outside, and it was all over. They stood in an awkward group, no one knowing quite how to begin a new conversation. Too many events had occurred that morning: Rudi’s arrest, Peter’s uncertain fate, their own release, the return of a prodigal mother. The air was warm, a slight breeze caused the American flag over the main barracks to flutter, and the three simply looked out silently onto the prison camp itself.
The prisoners stood under guard on the grassy areas between the barracks, and it was apparently the exercise hour. “Strange how different it looks now that we’re free,” Katja said finally, feeling a surge of pity for the countrymen she was leaving behind. She felt particular sympathy for the sweet-natured Traudl and for Leni Riefenstahl, who clutched at her artistic identity while surrounded by the ruins of the Reich she had glamorized.
Then, in the distance, she spotted Hermann Goering in conversation with one of the other party bosses, and her pity evaporated. The Luftwaffe head and field marshal, who had promised aid to Stalingrad troops but failed to deliver it, was still fat and still alive. And Dietrich was dead.
Vera Humboldt saw where she stared and remarked, “There you have it, Germany’s ‘blond beasts.’”
Frederica glanced at Vera from the side. “You’ve changed a lot. Once you were attracted to that kind of man. You left my father
for one.”
“For a Communist, not for a Fascist, but I know what you mean. That attraction to the ‘beast’ cost me my family, and I learned the lesson much too late. So did Germany.”
A few steps brought them to the canteen, where they filled their tin trays with scrambled eggs and bacon, which the Americans seemed to have in unlimited quantity. At the table, Vera sat across from them, studying them at discreet intervals.
Frederica chewed a small bite of food then laid down her fork. “Why did you involve me in this espionage in the first place?”
It was strange to hear an English mother and daughter speak to each other in German, and Katja knew it was on her behalf. It reminded her of the linguistic challenge that lay ahead of her.
“I didn’t,” Vera answered. “Not ‘in the first place.’ That was your Aunt Claire’s idea. When she informed me, I was aghast. I knew I’d thrown away the chance to be a real mother to you, and the thought of risking you that way seemed heartless. But Claire insisted you were simply working in the ministry in all innocence and it wasn’t dangerous, so I agreed. It seemed a way to keep an eye on you. But when the war started and you started smuggling out reports, I panicked.”
“Really? It’s hard to imagine you with that emotion.”
“Oh, but I did. I tried to get the prime minister to recall you and offer you the chance to come in, but you were just too valuable. The War Office was not willing to give you up. After we lost Denise and Violette and Cecily, I appealed to them again, but by then the invasion had started and no one had the resources to get our agents out of Berlin.”
Frederica had clearly not yet warmed to her mother. “Yes, and whose idea was it to name a female agent Caesar, anyhow? What was I supposed to conquer?”
Vera smiled for the first time. “Conquer? Oh, it had nothing to do with the emperor. I chose the name from Handel’s opera. Guilio Cesare. They had just performed it at Covent Garden. Caesar is sung by a woman.”
“Oh,” Frederica said, but would not be drawn away from her offensive. “Well, Britain got its money’s worth out of me. Did you know I was in the Führer bunker at the end? I watched Joseph and Magda Goebbels kill themselves and saw the charred remains of Hitler and his wife.”
Vera put down her coffee cup. “His wife? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I’ve got lots of other things to tell you too. But that’s all for later. Thanks for the slightly belated concern for my welfare, and for trying to get me back, but I doubt I would have wanted to come in anyhow. After Katja and I were together, I wouldn’t have left her.”
Vera studied Katja with obvious interest, though it was impossible to tell if she understood the implication of together. “Do you still have family in Germany?” she asked.
“No. My mother died of cancer a few years ago, and my husband fell at Stalingrad.”
“And your father?”
“He was killed during the bombing of Berlin.” Katja left unspoken that RAF bombs probably did the job.
“I see.” Reaching a dead end on that subject, Vera redirected her attention to Frederica.
“Well, you can tell all your stories during the debriefing in London. Everyone will be dying to hear them.”
“I’m sure they will,” Frederica said dryly.
Katja felt the tension in the air. Obviously mother and daughter had important things to say to each other, and whether it would be in rancor or reconciliation, she had no desire to be in the middle of it. “Will you excuse me? I’m going to the ladies’ room and then I’ll get a breath of fresh air. Be back in a short while.” Frederica nodded gratefully at her as she rose from her chair.
*
Frederica sat across from her mother in awkward silence. She stared at her empty cup, rolling the corner of her napkin and avoiding eye contact.
Vera, for her part, stared unashamedly. “How beautiful you’ve become. Much more than your old SOE identification suggested. A bit thin from deprivation, but we’ll make sure you get plenty of good food again.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” Frederica said quietly, then sensed how petulant the remark sounded. “I mean, of course we need for you to get us out of Germany, and we could do with some clean clothes. Both Katja and I are wearing sweaters from Magda Goebbels’ closet.”
“Magda Goebbels? However did you…? Well, I suppose that will be another of the stories you’ll tell later.”
Frederica nodded, unsure of whether Vera was being sarcastic. Obviously they were going to have to get to know each other all over again. Or maybe for the first time.
Vera’s voice softened. “Escaping this way, with someone else’s clothes on your back, must be difficult. But don’t worry. We’ll see to it that you get everything you need. Besides, you’ve earned the gratitude of the War Office, and you’ll receive a substantial pension. Of course, you won’t need Handel to look after you any longer, but I hope you’ll let me help you get started. There’ll be so many new things.”
Frederica gave an ambiguous shrug, but was silent.
Vera tapped her fingers nervously on the tabletop, then veered away from the personal back into business. “At this point, I suggest you think about what else you want to ask for from the prime minister. The euphoria is running high right now, but we won’t have his attention for long.”
Frederica replied without hesitation. “I want a passport for Katja. Immigration papers, special status, whatever it takes. She risked her life over and over, and it’s the least Britain can do for her.”
Vera’s fingers stopped drumming. “That should be possible.”
“And I want compensation for Peter Arnhelm. He assisted us on several occasions, and if we don’t help him, he could easily starve. He’s got nothing.”
Vera’s eyebrows went up. “That might be a little more difficult.”
“It can’t be too difficult. Everyone here is destitute. Any amount will help him. If necessary, you can take it out of the funds that accrued to me over the years.”
“I’m sure we can work that all out. Of course I’ll put your three friends in the report and apply for assistance for them.”
“They’re more than friends; they’re family.” She emphasized the word ‘family,’ as if it were a reproach. “Katja especially. We’ll live together, of course, wherever that might be.”
The announcement caused surprise to flicker for an instant over Vera’s face, then neutrality returned. “There’s a desperate shortage of housing in London, but Oxfordshire is untouched. Your aunt Claire has a garden cottage she’s offering you as long as you need it. She’s looking forward to having you around again.”
Frederica stared into space for a moment. “Garden cottage. Ah, yes, I remember. Wasn’t an old couple living there?”
“They died ages ago. Then the shire used the house for several years to keep children evacuated from London. In any case, it’s empty now and waiting for you.”
Frederica allowed herself a slight smile. “That’s good. Oxford-shire will be a nice place to introduce Katja into British life. She’ll like the university.”
“You care a lot about Katja,” Vera observed cautiously.
“I love her. You have to know that straightaway. She changed my life. I did my job for you there in Berlin, alone, but I was dead inside until Katja joined me. She stayed with me, while she lost everything herself—her family, her house, everything. She was even in a concentration camp. But for all that, she saved me and then led me out of Germany.” Frederica paused for breath, then added, “I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”
Vera’s eyes clouded momentarily, as if she peered at something mysterious, then she conceded. “It must be wonderful to be so sure of someone.”
“I am, Mother, and I want you to be sure of her too.”
“Thank you,” Vera said, almost under her breath.
“Thank you? For what?”
“For calling me ‘Mother’ and including me, however vaguely, in your future.”
“I didn’t mean—”
The redheaded MP appeared again suddenly at their table and saluted Vera. “Ma’am, Major Bernstein said everything is signed and sealed, and you can leave whenever you wish. Captain Atkins and the other young lady are waiting by your car.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Vera said, standing up. As they walked toward the door, Vera’s hand touched Frederica’s back with the faintest hint of maternal protection.
*
Katja studied the faces of the two women as they emerged from the barracks and approached the car. Though Frederica seemed slightly dazed, Vera Humboldt, at least, was smiling. A sign that they hadn’t quarreled. “Everything settled?” she asked Frederica.
“More or less. Are you ready to go?”
“No baggage to collect, only the clothes on our backs, so yes, I’m ready. I’ve been ready since 1943.”
“Me too,” Frederica said, and stepped into the backseat of the SOE car, drawing Katja in after her.
Vera took the wheel, and as soon as Atkins was seated on the passenger side, she started the motor.
Katja fell to brooding as the vehicle swung around past the entrance to the camp. It was full of war criminals, but Rudi was there too, and Leni Riefenstahl, and hundreds of others who hovered in the gray area between innocence and guilt.
Leaving Germany was hard, but the Germany she had believed in had left her long ago. Gone were the soldier heroes of her youth, and even the very idea of military heroism. Now she had to rethink everything—and she’d have to think it in a new language.
Katja peered over Vera’s shoulder through the front windshield. The American flag that flew over the barracks was visible just above the little British ensign that fluttered from the right fender of the car. She recalled the blood flag of the Nuremberg ceremony, of Riefenstahl’s light-filled Nazi flag held aloft by the Hitlerjugend, and then the brash Soviet flag that waved from the roof of the conquered Reichstag building.
At that moment, Katja hated flags. Each one stood for a nation that had committed atrocities, genocides, rape, and the slaughter of innocents. Katja would never again feel patriotism, for no nation was the repository of virtue and courage. Only individuals were. And those were few.
She grasped Frederica’s hand. This is where her sole loyalty lay—not with an idea, but with a stateless woman who had shown courage, heroic persistence, and tenderness.
“I love you,” she whispered into Frederica’s ear. It was the first sentence in English she had ever uttered.
End
Postscript
No one who has heard about Leni Riefenstahl is indifferent to her. People condemn her as a Nazi—in spirit, if not in name (she never joined the party)—or they acclaim her as a cinematic genius. To some extent, both attributions are true. Her friendship with Adolf Hitler, which caused her to weep openly when he died, and her indifference to his devastation of Europe condemn her unequivocally as morally blind. But her masterpieces, Triumph des Willens/Triumph of the Will and Olympiade/Olympia, are visible evidence of cinematographic innovation and brilliance. One has to separate the two and to pass two judgments. The novel, which uses large sections from her biography, also tries to do both, that is, to expose her and admire her.
The opening scene of the novel, one of the panoramas of Triumph des Willens, typifies the effects she favored: stunning, heroic, and aesthetically satisfying. But she wanted them to be without political consequence, a position that her own behavior belied. Five years later, her witnessing of German soldiers slaughtering Polish civilians did nothing to dampen her enthusiasm for Hitler.
Adolf Hitler needs no explaining, or he needs volumes of explaining, but we learn nothing from history if we see him merely as demonic. His motives were complicated, as were the motives of all the actors in the Nazi madness: the perpetrators, the victims, and the many who were both.
To win most of Germany to his side, he used the familiar theme of heroic victimization, of the pure and good-hearted German Volk beset by Jewish-Bolshevism.
The conjoining of Communism and Judaism in the German mind was one of Goebbels’ great achievements, though the enemy he propagandized about was, curiously, both primitive and “over-intellectualized” (his own term). It was patriotism raised to the level of religion.
The role of Joseph Goebbels, propaganda minister, cannot be overestimated, for between Hitler’s public appearances, Goebbels fanned the ideological flames through regular delivery of his own addresses and articles. He was fixated—even more than Hitler—on what he saw as “judified” culture, i.e., anything modern, abstract, or threatening to the robust simplicity of the German. His diaries, kept obsessively throughout his adult life, were invaluable in shedding light on the inner workings of the Third Reich. He was physically a revolting little man, but after he came to power, he had great success with women. All speeches in the novel attributed to him are authentic, though shortened and, of course, translated.
Nazi genocide of Jews, Communists, Poles, and Gypsies is widely acknowledged and functions occasionally as a shorthand interpretation of Nazism in general. But in a war that cost between sixty and eighty million lives, there were many other victims with stories to tell, so I have focused on homosexuals and the moral deterioration of the “good German.”
The Special Operations Executive (SOE) was formed by Winston Churchill in 1940 to aid resistance and conduct guerilla warfare against Germany through espionage, sabotage, and reconnaissance. It employed some 13,000 people, about 3,200 of whom were women. Nearly a dozen of those women died in German concentration camps, some horribly, and three of these are commemorated in this story with their real names. Their fates are poignantly told in Sara Helm’s book, A Life in Secrets. However, no known agents infiltrated the machinery of the Nazi government, most certainly not the Ministry of Propaganda. Frederica Brandt is a pure fantasy, and her espionage is of a sort that could only be fictional.
A few readers will likely raise an eyebrow at my use of a Last Supper to introduce the main players in the tragedy. I did not attempt to sanctify them, but merely to lay them out visually, as a dramatis personae. In moral character, they run the gamut from the vicious Prietschke to the heroic Frederica, though all are tainted by virtue of their participation in the documentary. And in the troubling gray areas of war, even the “lamb” who is martyred becomes a murderer.
Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright Page 30