by Alex Gerlis
‘Good heavens no, sir – quite the contrary. I’m talking about patriots. If you care to come back this time the day after tomorrow, I’d be more than happy to explain further.’
Chapter 15
Germany, October 1945
They arrived at the Moser farm in the Rott Valley late at night, four days after escaping from Königstein.
Wolfgang Steiner was expecting them, though it had to be said with a feeling of dread: for a father-and-son reunion it was marked by a noticeable air of tension, one bordering on hostility. The first Wolfgang had heard about the events in Königstein had been a coded telephone call two days before from Nuremberg.
I have two bull calves for you. I need to deliver them as soon as possible.
His heart had sunk. He’d told Ulrich very clearly that he didn’t want him anywhere near the farm, and he especially didn’t want his son anywhere near it. He regretted having given Ulrich the address: he’d told him it was only to be used in extreme emergency: bull calves. He’d replied that he’d changed his mind and didn’t want the calves after all, thank you very much. He was sure there were other farms who’d happily take them.
I have to deliver them quickly – there is no other option.
‘Perhaps take them to Austria and then head south?’
Not possible, but don’t worry, they’ll be transported with great care.
He’d felt his chest tighten and Frau Moser had given him a quizzical look as she passed through the hall. ‘In that case, deliver them after dark.’ He’d paused, realising he needed to give more explicit instructions. He couldn’t afford to risk things going wrong. ‘There’s a small wood above the farm: wait there until nightfall. Only come down to the farm when you see a light go on in the upstairs room facing the wood.’
He’d explained to Frau Moser that two comrades of his were coming to visit and she wasn’t to worry, they’d only stay for a day or two and they’d remain in the cellar. He’d rather she didn’t get into conversation with them. They didn’t arrive that night, but the following night he’d only been waiting inside the open barn for a few minutes when two figures emerged from the pitch darkness and walked uncertainly into the farmyard. Wolfgang whistled for them to come over to the barn.
‘Are we staying in here? It’s fucking cold – I was hoping for somewhere warm, along with a bath and a decent meal.’
‘Is that the way you greet your father?’
Friedrich Steiner shrugged and mumbled some kind of apology, then asked for a cigarette.
‘I trust Frau Moser, but the less she knows the better, so we’ll talk out here. Tell me what happened.’
Friedrich began to speak, but Ulrich interrupted him.
‘The Englishman didn’t turn up at Elsa-Brändström-Platz on the Sunday and nor did he come to the fall-back point on Moselstrasse the next day. However…’ he paused to inhale deeply from the cigarette Wolfgang had given him, ‘I then heard he’d been arrested because of currency violations and was being held in the IG Farben building on Fürstenbergerstrasse. In addition, a pair of British officers – a man and a woman – had turned up there and were asking about der Fluchtweg Falke and about Friedrich.’
‘It’s not funny, Friedrich – why on earth are you smiling?’
‘I’m not saying it’s funny, Father, but it’s like I’m famous!’
‘You’ve not learnt your lesson, have you? Continue, Ulrich.’
‘To my surprise, a couple of days later the Englishman arrived at the potato stall on Moselstrasse with all the right codes, and so I went to see him: he still had all the money, so I took it and sent him on his way to Cologne.’
‘Really?’
‘Not quite. I couldn’t allow him to stay alive, not with him having met me and with all those questions… I had a man follow him and made sure he didn’t arrive in Cologne.’
‘Good. I presume it was made to look like a robbery.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Because the last thing we want to do is alienate our friends in England. They may stop being so generous.’
‘But I thought you said they need us as much as we need them?’
‘Well, let’s see. Tell me what happened after that.’
‘Your instructions were that once we had the money we must start out on our journey, so I called the comrade who was going to take us on the next stage. He was going to pick us up outside the house, but when we came out, there were Americans waiting for us: I fear they may have followed me to Königstein. Fortunately we had our revolvers drawn and we were smarter than them. Friedrich hit one of them, and we managed to get back into the house and from there through the cellars into another house. The comrade picked us up outside that one. I don’t suppose you have a drink?’
‘You’ll get one inside – I want to hear what happened first.’
‘The comrade was very good, Wolfgang: he’d picked us up in an American jeep, and after a few miles we pulled into a farm and he left the jeep there. We waited until dawn, when he drove us to Würzburg in another car. He then returned to the jeep and left it in Bad Kissingen to put them off our scent.’
‘Very thorough – as I would expect.’
‘We stayed in Würzburg with the widow of a comrade for a day and then took separate buses to Nuremberg.’
‘From where you called me.’
‘The priest who looked after us in Nuremberg – he kept asking for more money and I felt I had to give it to him. He seemed very nervous, and when I told him he was supposed to arrange our journey on to Salzburg, he said he didn’t realise that. I said of course you did and he asked for even more money, and that’s when I became very concerned: I wasn’t sure I trusted him and I thought the safest thing was to come here. The money’s all in that rucksack – apart from what I had to use.’
Wolfgang took them into the house, where they sat silently in the kitchen as Frau Moser served them a stew, eyeing them suspiciously as she fussed nervously around the table. Friedrich grumbled as they were shown into the cellar, but his father told him to shut up. He’d sort something out, he said, but it would take a few days. They were only to leave the cellar when told to do so.
They weren’t allowed out until later the following afternoon, once the milk had been collected and the farm labourer had left. While Friedrich had a bath, Wolfgang took Ulrich into the cowshed.
‘You know that this was the last place on earth I wanted Friedrich to come, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir, you told me, but the priest worried me and I felt you’d be furious if anything happened to us, and to the money, of course, and—’
‘Very well. Just listen, Ulrich – listen carefully and calm down. I don’t want you to misunderstand me. I love Friedrich very much and I want to ensure that he’s safe, and that’s why he’s on the Kestrel Line and I’m doing what I can for him. But I also have to recognise that he’s prone to – how can I put it? – to irrational behaviour at times. He can be wayward and irresponsible. That’s why I didn’t want him here – I wanted him south of the Reich as soon as possible. And there’s a more important reason too.’ He paused and looked around him: they were alone in the cowshed, the cattle shuffling and snorting around them. ‘This farm… I have to ensure it is kept secure. You know who this place is for, Ulrich?’
Ulrich shook his head, and Wolfgang beckoned him closer. As they leaned on the rails, they were just inches from the head of a cow, which looked quizzically at them, surprised to have been allowed in on the secret.
‘The purpose of the Kestrel Line and this farm – and all the money – it’s for a special person. Helping you, Friedrich and the others, that’s a secondary part of it. Originally I found this place as a refuge for me, but it evolved: now the main aim is to help one man.’
‘Can I ask who it is?’
‘If you tell a soul, you’ll be killed. Friedrich in particular must never know. No one else must know. I’m telling you because I trust you and because you need to know why you have to move on f
rom here. Put that cigarette out, you shouldn’t smoke in here… It’s the Reichsleiter.’
Ulrich stepped back in shock and gripped the rail. The cow nuzzled his hand.
‘He’s alive?’
‘I’m not sure, Ulrich, I’m really not sure… I’ve not heard anything for months, but we do know he hasn’t been captured, and no one has announced that he’s dead, so that must give us hope. My guess is he’s still alive and hiding in or around Berlin. He may have found somewhere safe and doesn’t want to risk putting his head above the parapet: that’s what I’m hoping anyway. If we can get him out of Berlin and down here, and then move him along the Kestrel Line… You do understand the importance of this, don’t you, Ulrich? If we can rescue him and get him somewhere safe, then who knows what the future holds. People would take heart that he is alive, and he would become our new Führer!’
‘But how will you find out where he is?’
‘I’m going to have to go to Berlin, God help me.’
* * *
Wolfgang Steiner was taking a risk he wouldn’t have taken for anyone else, apart from Hitler himself.
The Reichsleiter had been his mentor, ensuring his successful career at the Parteikanzlei. But after that night back in March at the Bauhaus villa on the Kleiner Wannsee, he owed him an even bigger debt. It was then that Bormann had revealed he knew all about his plans to escape and hide in the Rott Valley, and the fact that he’d been photographing documents. At one stage Steiner was convinced the Reichsleiter was about to pronounce his death sentence; that at any moment the door would burst open and he’d be carted away to Prinz-Albrecht Strasse, or even shot there and then and dumped in the Wannsee. But instead, Bormann had been quite amenable, even friendly. He’d told him he wanted to be part of his arrangements; that he knew many people in Berlin were making arrangements to escape, but he trusted very few of them. ‘Apart from you, of course: I’m counting on you, Wolfgang,’ he’d said.
They’d spoken long into the night, about how Steiner should get out of Berlin as soon as possible and go to the farm to ensure it was secure and that no one knew about it. Bormann wanted him to set up his own escape route from there, one that would have nothing to do with the others being organised at the moment. This would be for the Reichsleiter’s exclusive use, its security not compromised by allowing others to use it.
‘You’re one of the few people I know and trust who has the skills and the attention to detail to set up something reliable. The only matter to be resolved is when I leave Berlin.’ He’d paused at that point, leaning back and shutting his eyes, wisps of cigar smoke rising above him. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts for a long while, and when he spoke again, it was in a quieter voice, the tone less upbeat. ‘When I was younger, I went hiking in the southern Alps, in the eastern Tyrol. Did you go hiking in the Alps, Steiner?’
‘No, I’m afraid not – my asthma, you know.’
‘Really? I thought all Austrians loved the Alps – this was a particular range called the Gailtal Alps. I was with my friend Klaus, but he twisted his ankle on the second or third day so I was on my own, but that was fine. One afternoon I was on a difficult climb and reached a point where I could rest, so I leaned against the rock face and had a drink. The air was so pure I felt it could nourish me, there was no wind, it wasn’t cold, the sun shone on me and there was utter silence. It was an almost perfect moment, but then I became uneasy. I was convinced I was being watched and I looked around but couldn’t see a thing. It was the strangest feeling. You know me well enough, Wolfgang, to appreciate that I’m a straightforward man: many people in our movement believe in darker forces, but I’ve never been one of them. Then I looked up and saw a kestrel hanging in the sky just a few feet above me, its beady eyes staring at me as if trying to work out if I could be prey.
‘It’s like that in the bunker: beady eyes looking at you all the time. Everyone does it – I probably do it too. So I have to be careful, Wolfgang. I will have to leave the bunker at the last possible moment; to do so before that would be suicide. But if I know that you are making arrangements for me, that my fate is in your hands, I will feel more confident. That will help sustain me during the difficult times ahead.’
They’d discussed the route of the escape line and how Bormann would contact him. Steiner gave him the telephone number of the farm and they agreed a code – a message from Jens, a cousin in Essen.
‘Make a note of these contacts in Berlin, Wolfgang: it may be easier for us to make contact through one of them.’
Once Bormann was satisfied that Steiner had memorised the details, they agreed they needed a code name for his escape.
‘Kestrel would seem appropriate in more ways than one, Reichsleiter, what with your connection and the route.’
They agreed. It would be the Kestrel Line.
Der Fluchtweg Falke.
* * *
The night before he left for Berlin, Wolfgang Steiner took Ulrich and Friedrich into the barn. They sat facing each other on bales of hay, a bottle of schnapps on the floor between them. The light of the full moon flooded the barn in an ethereal blue light.
Wolfgang said they were to listen very carefully and not interrupt him – he looked pointedly at his son as he said this. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back, but it will be at least three days, probably longer. I want you to be gone long before I return. Do you understand that?’
They assured him they did.
‘Wait for twenty-four hours after I’ve left and then get on your way. The journey to the next point in the Kestrel Line will not be an easy one. You remember all the details about where you’re to go and how to get there?’
Once again they assured him they did, and he said they ought to; they’d been through it often enough.
He left early the next morning, embracing his son in the knowledge that he might never see him again. For a moment as he held him by the shoulders, he could see Friedrich’s mother’s profile and her deep blue eyes – even the shape of her ears – and this brief resurrection of his late wife took him aback. He pulled the boy towards him and held him tight as the tears welled in his eyes.
Back in February, he’d prepared an identity for just this eventuality. He knew he was taking an enormous risk, but he’d calculated that once the war was over, such an identity would carry a certain cachet to it, if that was the right word. He hoped it would afford him a degree of privilege, with people understandably unwilling to question him too closely.
Max Stein was a man similar in age to him from the Berlin district of Reinickendorf. Because of his situation, Stein wouldn’t be expected to have much in the way of paperwork, which was part of his appeal. There was a dog-eared identity card, though, stamped with a red ‘J’ to show he was Jewish.
Stein and his family had been among more than sixteen hundred fellow Jews on Majestic 33, the thirty-third transport from Berlin to the Auschwitz death camp. According to the records Steiner had found, the family had assembled at the old people’s home on Grosse Hamburger Strasse on 3 March 1943 before being taken to Putlitzstrasse station in the Moabit. They’d reached Auschwitz the following day, and all had perished within hours of their arrival.
Max Stein’s story would be that he alone of his family had in fact survived. After a series of death marches in late 1944, he’d ended up at Buchenwald and had been there when the camp was liberated. Steiner was counting on people feeling it was not right to question Stein too closely: the poor man had been through hell as it was.
He avoided shaving for a couple of days, and his shabby clothing was two sizes too large for him. He thought he looked credible to a degree, though he doubted the identity would hold up to concerted questioning.
He left the farm early on the Thursday morning. The man who collected the milk gave him a lift in his lorry and dropped him near a bus stop. Once he was sure no one was around, he went into a wood and changed into his Max Stein clothes, then caught a bus to Passau. He decided that his best bet was to take the most dir
ect route to Berlin, so he headed due north, entering the Soviet zone south-west of Chemnitz. The identity held good in Dresden; he’d planned on staying the night there, but so little of the city was left, he decided to move on. An obliging Red Army officer gave him a lift to Leipzig and told him how his own family had perished at one of the camps. He even arranged for him to stay in a school the Red Army had taken over, one of the few large buildings still standing in the city.
The next day, he took a bus to Berlin, but at a checkpoint on the edge of the city, an NKVD officer was a bit too diligent.
What was your address in Reinickendorf?
Give me the names of some neighbours.
Which synagogue did you attend?
Where did you work?
Explain your presence in the Soviet zone.
Steiner worried he’d been more hesitant with his answers than he ought to have been, and decided he had to take matters into his own hands.
‘How dare you question me like this – don’t you think I’ve been through enough? The Nazis murdered my family and now I’m returning home to try and see if there’s anyone I know who’s alive, and you behave like one of them!’
He’d raised his voice, and the officer appeared taken aback and apologised: he hadn’t meant to upset Herr Stein, but he hoped he understood…
Max Stein said he didn’t understand. He certainly didn’t understand why he was being treated like a bloody criminal, and he shouted so loudly that a senior officer came over and asked what on earth was going on. He was most apologetic once things were explained to him.
‘You say your home is in Reinickendorf – you realise that is in the French sector?’
Max Stein asked whether that mattered.
‘Is that where you want to go?’
‘I want to find some family – maybe my brother’s family, my wife’s sister may still be alive, cousins perhaps: I doubt it, but I need to know.’