“I’ve heard that, Herr Generalfeldmarschall.”
“When you’re in Berlin, you might want to stop at the Hotel am Zoo.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Herr Generalfeldmarschall.”
“Just a suggestion, Karl. I thought that since you were on leave, perhaps you might want to spend a little time with your son. He’s staying at the am Zoo. Canaris just telephoned. Apparently, the admiral brought him back from Argentina for some sort of conference.”
“That was very kind of the Admiral,” von Wachtstein said. “And the leave is very kind of you, Sir.”
“You and Canaris are close friends, are you not?” Keitel asked.
“I cannot claim that privilege,” von Wachtstein said, “I have the privilege of the Admiral’s acquaintance, of course.”
“Odd. I somehow had the feeling you were close.”
“No, Sir.”
“I wouldn’t mention this at dinner, Karl,” Keitel said. “Just go out to the airfield in the morning and catch the Dornier courier. With a little bit of luck, perhaps no one will even notice you’re gone.”
“Jawohl, Herr Generalfeldmarschall.”
“Give my best regards to your son, Karl.”
“Thank you, Herr Generalfeldmarschall.”
[THREE]
The Hotel am Zoo
The Kurfürstendamm, Berlin
1720 10 May 1943
Boltitz walked across the narrow lane to the tree-lined island that separated the main traffic on the Kurfürstendamm from the rows of hotels, restaurants, and expensive shops.
“Where are we going?”
Boltitz pointed to the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church and started walking in that direction.
“You don’t think the SS has gotten around to putting microphones in there? Don’t be too sure,” Willi said.
“Watch your mouth, Herr Hauptmann,” Karl snapped.
“Yes, Sir, Herr Korvettenkapitän, Sir,” Willi said, and saluted Boltitz contemptuously.
“Willi!” Peter protested.
They entered the foyer of the church. There was no longer the sound of organ funeral music, but a dozen or more people—obviously mourners—filed past them.
Boltitz waited for the last of them to leave before speaking. “Hauptmann Grüner,” he began finally. “I’m afraid there’s very bad news.”
“About my father, obviously,” Willi replied. “What?”
“You should have been notified, Herr Hauptmann—” Karl said.
“Let’s have it, for God’s sake!” Willi interrupted.
“Von Wachtstein,” Boltitz said.
“Willi, your dad is dead,” Peter said. “I’m really sorry I had to be the one to tell you.”
Willi looked at Peter, then, after a moment, nodded and asked, his voice low but under control: “How did it happen?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the authority to provide details,” Boltitz said.
“Obviously, I’m an English spy, right?”
“For God’s sake, Karl!” Peter protested.
Boltitz met his eyes but said nothing.
“We were on an intelligence operation that went wrong,” Peter said.
“‘We were on’?” Willi asked. “You were there?”
Peter nodded. “I was there.”
“What happened?” Willi asked. “What kind of an intelligence operation?”
“That, I’m sorry to have to say, is a state secret,” Karl said.
“Fuck you and your state secrets, U-boat,” Willi said.
“We were trying to get the officers from the Graf Spee out of Argentina—” Peter said.
“That’s quite enough, Major von Wachtstein,” Boltitz snapped.
“—and when we landed, they were waiting for us,” Peter said. “Your father was shot. He died instantly, Willi.”
“And they missed you, right?”
Peter nodded.
“You always were a lucky bastard, Hansel,” Willi said.
He shrugged and then looked at Peter again. “Who is they, as in ‘they were waiting’ for you?”
“Maybe the Argentines, maybe the Americans,” Peter said. “I don’t really know.”
“I strongly advise you, Major von Wachtstein, to heed my order that you have already said more than you should have,” Boltitz said.
“Or you’ll turn me in, Herr Korvettenkapitän? Do what your duty requires you to do.”
“Don’t get your ass in a crack, Hansel,” Willi said, and turned to Boltitz. “One more question, Herr Korvettenkapitän. If it’s not another of your fucking state secrets, that is. Where is my father buried?”
“Goddamn it, Karl, he’s entitled to know that,” Peter said. “If you won’t tell him, I will.”
“The remains of your father, Herr Hauptmann,” Boltitz said, “are being returned to Germany for interment. With full military honors, of course.”
“When? Now? Or after the Gottverdamnte war?”
“They are en route to Germany now,” Boltitz said. “I’m sure you will be given further details when they are available.”
Willi considered that for a moment, then looked at Peter. “Stick around a minute, Hansel,” he said. “I won’t be long.”
Peter nodded.
Willi went into the nave of the church and walked up the aisle to the third row of chairs. He stopped there, with his hands behind his back, and looked toward the altar.
“You didn’t expect to see him, did you?” Boltitz asked.
Peter looked at him but didn’t answer.
Willi stood motionless for a full minute, then suddenly came to attention and saluted the cross crisply—a military, stiff-fingers-to-the-brim-of-his-uniform-cap salute, rather than the Nazi salute—then did a crisp about-face movement and walked back to Peter and Karl.
“I’m going back to the am Zoo,” he announced. “If U-boat will let you come with me, Hansel, I’ll buy you a drink.” He turned to Karl. “Come with us or not, U-boat, I don’t really give a shit.”
“Karl’s all right, Willi,” Peter said. “He’s just doing his duty.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” Boltitz said.
Willi walked out of the church foyer.
“I have the feeling I should come with you, von Wachtstein,” Karl said. “To make sure you don’t run off at the mouth.”
“Do what you think you have to do,” Peter said, and walked quickly to catch up with Willi.
After a moment, Boltitz trotted after them.
The table where they had been sitting was, surprisingly, still available. As soon as they had taken seats, the waiter reappeared.
“A bottle of your finest schnapps, Herr Ober,” Willi ordered. “Actually, a bottle of your best cognac would be better.”
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann.”
“The old man hated schnapps,” Willi said. “But he did like his cognac.”
Peter and Karl didn’t reply.
“Did you know him, U-boat?” Willi asked.
“I did not have that privilege, Herr Hauptmann,” Karl said.
“I thought maybe you did,” Willi said. “Since you both work for Canaris. And if you’re going to keep calling me ‘Herr Hauptmann,’ take a walk.”
“Are you going to stop calling me ‘U-boat’?” Karl asked.
Willi considered the question for a moment. “Probably not,” he said with a smile. “I have a tendency to name people, don’t I, Hansel? And U-boat seems to fit you, U-boat.”
Willi reached in his trousers pocket and came out with a stuffed and well-worn wallet. He searched through it, came out with a photograph, and handed it to Boltitz.
“The late Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner,” Willi said.
Karl looked at it for a long moment, then handed it back.
“When did it happen?” Willi asked.
“Nineteen April,” Peter said, “about quarter to ten in the morning.”
He looked at Karl defiantly, but Karl said nothing.
The waiter delivered a bottle of Martel cognac and three brandy snifters, and began to pour as Willi returned his father’s photograph to his wallet.
“I’ll be damned,” Willi said. “Here’s another moment in time captured on film.”
He took another photograph from his wallet and laid it on the table.
It showed Leutnant Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein and Leutnant Wilhelm Johannes Grüner, both wearing black leather flight jackets, onto which were pinned second lieutenant’s insignia and Iron Crosses. They were standing under the engine nacelle of a Messerschmitt ME-109, holding between them the bull’s-eye fuselage insignia torn from a shot-down Spitfire.
“A momentous occasion, Hansel,” he said. “The day before we were enlisted swine, and here we are as commissioned officers.”
“I remember,” Peter said. “France. Calais, I think. Or maybe Cherbourg. Nineteen-forty.”
Did I shoot that Spit down? Peter wondered. Or did Willi? Or was that piece of fuselage fabric just one of the half dozen around the officers’ mess and we picked it up to have the photo taken?
“The Old Man was more pleased to see that goddamn officer’s pin on my epaulet than he was with the Iron Cross.”
“Mine, too,” Peter said. “It really bothered him when he had to say, ‘my son, the sergeant.’”
Willi chuckled. “You’re an academy man, right, U-boat?” Willi challenged. “You never served as an enlisted swine?”
“I was never an enlisted man,” Karl said, and picked up his glass. “Gentlemen, the late Oberst Grüner.”
Willi looked at him for a moment before touching his glass to his. “Papa,” he said.
“Oberst Grüner,” Peter said.
They drained their glasses. Willi immediately picked up the bottle and refilled them. “That was taken just before I was shot down,” he said. “During which process Hansel here saved my ass.”
“Excuse me?” Karl said.
“A Spitfire got me,” Willi said. “Sonofabitch came right out of the sun and did a real job on me. Took off the whole left stabilizer. And my engine, of course, was gloriously on fire. I didn’t think I was going to get out of the airplane.”
“And you said Peter—”
“Hansel got the Englishman, and then circled around me until he saw me safe on the ground.”
“I don’t understand,” Karl said.
Willi looked at him for a moment before speaking. “Some asshole who never flew anything but a desk got the idea that it would be a good idea—to keep parachuting Englanders from getting back into another airplane, you see—to make targets of them after they bailed out. And some of our guys were stupid enough to listen to him. The natural result of that—which apparently never occurred to our asshole—was that the English started shooting at us when we had to bail out.”
Karl looked as if he was about to say something but then changed his mind.
“You were a POW?”
“Oh, yeah. For four happy months.”
“You escaped?”
“The Old Man somehow arranged for me to be the escort officer when we exchanged seriously wounded,” Willi said.
“And what are you doing now?” Karl asked.
“I was hoping you’d ask, U-boat. Sorry, I can’t tell you. State secret.”
“You’re not flying anymore?”
“I didn’t say that,” Willi said, then turned to Peter.
“So tell me, Hansel, are you back for good, or are you going back to Argentina?”
“I’m going back to Argentina,” Peter said.
“And how is Argentina? And don’t tell me about the beef; the Old Man already did. You getting any?”
“Beef, you mean?”
Willi laughed. “You know what I mean, Hansel.”
“There are some very good-looking women in Argentina,” Peter said.
“The question was ‘Are you getting any?’”
“A gentleman never discusses his sex life,” Peter said.
“You’re not a gentleman, you’re a fighter pilot,” Willi said. “Or were.” He turned to Karl. “You ever been to Argentina, U-boat?”
“I’m going to Argentina very soon,” Karl said.
“To do what?”
“Where I will fly him around in my Feiseler Storch,” Peter said.
“Is that what they have you doing, flying a Storch?”
Peter nodded.
“And you can look yourself in the mirror in the morning?”
“Absolutely,” Peter said.
Willi shook his head.
“Speaking of sex,” he said.
“Who was speaking of sex?” Peter asked.
“I’m going to have to get a room, since I think I am going to be too shitfaced to take one of the girls home.” He inclined his head toward the bar, where half a dozen young women were sipping cocktails and looking their way.
“I’ve got a room here,” Peter said.
“My apartment isn’t far,” Karl said. “You’re welcome to stay with me.”
“U-boat, don’t tell me you’re a faggot,” Willi said.
Boltitz’s face whitened. “You have a dangerous mouth, Grüner,” he said.
“Jesus Christ, Willi!” Peter protested.
Boltitz stood up.
“Oh, for God’s sake, U-boat! Can’t you take a joke?”
“I’m going to the pisser,” Boltitz said. He walked toward the men’s room in the lobby.
“So what’s with you and U-boat, Hansel?” Willi asked.
“He’s investigating…what happened in Argentina.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“Somebody had to tell the Americans, or the Argentines, that we were coming.”
“And you’re one of the suspects?” Willi asked incredulously.
“They brought three of us back to make reports,” Peter said.
“Four eight six six one,” the man who answered the telephone said.
“Korvettenkapitän Boltitz for Fregattenkapitän von und zu Waching.”
“What’s up, Boltitz?” Von und zu Waching asked.
“Sorry, Sir, I didn’t recognize your voice.”
Von und zu Waching said nothing, and it took Karl a moment to recall Canaris’s habit—now obviously adopted by von und zu Waching—not to waste time with unnecessary words, such as accepting an apology.
“Oberst Grüner’s son—he’s a Luftwaffe Hauptmann—was in the bar when you and the Admiral were here. He’s now with von Wachtstein.”
There was another long silence.
“It was necessary to tell him that Oberst Grüner is dead.”
“And in what detail?”
“Von Wachtstein told him that it was in connection with the Graf Spee officers.”
“Hold on,” von und zu Waching said.
A long moment later, Admiral Canaris’s voice came over the telephone: “Before I see you tomorrow,” he began without any introduction, “I want you to think about von Wachtstein’s reaction to Grüner.”
“Jawohl, Herr Admiral.”
“What are they doing now?”
“Drinking. They’re old friends. Von Wachtstein saved Grüner’s life—”
“Stay with them,” Canaris interrupted. “In vino veritas.”
“Jawohl, Herr—”
“I have just been informed von Wachtstein’s father will be on the first flight tomorrow,” Canaris interrupte
d again. “Von und zu Waching will telephone von Wachtstein there in a few minutes to tell him.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The telephone went dead.
“I will require two rooms,” Karl said to the desk clerk.
“I’m very, very sorry, Herr Korvettenkapitän, but there are simply no rooms.”
Karl took his credentials from his coat and showed them to the clerk.
“This is official Abwehr business,” he said. “If you can’t provide the rooms, get the manager.”
The desk clerk turned from Karl and made some sort of signal with his hand, which confused Karl until a man in his middle thirties, wearing a well-cut suit, got out of an armchair and walked to the reception desk.
“Papers, please,” he said to Karl.
“Who are you?”
The man said nothing, but produced a Gestapo identity disk. This was a serially numbered, elliptical piece of cast aluminum embossed with the Seal of State. It gave the bearer immunity from arrest, authority to arrest anyone without specifying the charge, and superior police powers over all other law-enforcement agencies. Illegal possession of a Gestapo identity disk was punishable by death, and loss of his disk by a member of the Gestapo was punishable by immediate dismissal.
Karl showed him his Abwehr credentials.
“The gentleman,” the desk clerk said helpfully, “has requested two rooms for official business.”
“It had better be official business,” the Gestapo agent said.
“I beg your pardon?” Karl said.
“I saw you with those two Luftwaffe officers in the bar. This is official business?”
“As I understand the arrangement, Abwehr officers don’t question the Gestapo, and the Gestapo doesn’t question us,” Karl said coldly. “I presume the rooms are equipped for surveillance?”
“Of course,” the Gestapo agent said.
“Good,” Karl said. “Please have the still photography film processed immediately, two copies. One should be sent to Obersturmbannführer Karl Cranz—”
“Obersturmbannführer Cranz? I don’t seem to know the name.”
“That’s surprising,” Karl said. “He’s on the personal staff of the Reichsprotektor.”
The Gestapo agent stared intently into Boltitz’s eyes for a moment, then took out his notebook. “That’s C-R-A—”
Secret Honor Page 41