The Berlin Spies

by Alex Gerlis

  Every two or three months, for more than thirty years, he had been through this routine. Each time he would open the box half expecting that what he was looking for in it would be missing. The box was full of inconsequential items: old cutlery, souvenirs from cheap holidays long forgotten, yellowing magazines, books now rendered unreadable by mildew. Their only purpose was to conceal a tightly-wrapped plastic package at the bottom. It was there. It always was.

  He hesitated, standing very still to catch any noise in the garden before unwrapping the package and placing its contents on the lid of the now-closed trunk. He held the barrel up to the light and checked the mechanism. He removed the bullets from their case and polished them, as he always did, inspecting them carefully for any sign of rust. He kept the pistol in good condition. There was nothing to suggest that it would not work, but he had no idea as to whether it would fire correctly or if anything had happened to the bullets.

  Twenty years ago, in a moment of madness, he’d fired the gun. His work had taken him to Cornwall and he’d decided to stop on Bodmin Moor where he reckoned it would be deserted enough to test the revolver. He’d parked on the side of a quiet road and then walked for an hour, during which time he saw not a soul. He found a small lake, sheltered by a ring of low hills, placed a can on a nearby rock and fired at it. The gun worked perfectly, but the echo of it firing and the clatter of the can reverberated for what felt like an eternity and as the noise began to fade away he was convinced he heard a dog barking. A dog comes with an owner and if the dog heard the gun then the owner would have done so too.

  He’d hurriedly put the gun away, retrieved the can and even managed to locate the casing from the bullet. Expecting the brows of the hills to fill with uniforms any minute, he hurried back to the car. He’d resolved never to test the gun again and never to remove it from the shed unless absolutely necessary.

  Now, he decided, it was absolutely necessary.

  ***

  That night, his daughter came to visit him.

  She had been an occasional visitor in the months after his wife had died. At first she came as often as twice a week, but in the past five years or so she’d visited no more than three or four times a year. Her visits initially provided a kind of brief comfort, but that was replaced by being uneasy and unsettled for days afterwards.

  This visit was as before: she stood in his bedroom doorway, backlit by the dim light that he always kept on at the top of the landing. He had no idea how long she had been standing there, her small hand clasping the doorknob, strands of her long fair hair caught by the light. She made no noise, of course, but he awoke as always with a start and propped himself up in the bed, waiting to see if she would come to him, which she never did. He would wait a while, and then start to speak. He hesitated because sometimes she would leave as soon as he began to speak. But at other times she remained, her small head moving very slowly as she allowed him to have his say.

  I’m so sorry … I had no idea. If I had realised I would have called the doctor … your mother pleaded with me to do that, but I just thought it was a high temperature and you’d be fine in the morning. I didn’t want to make a fuss. You know how I feel about people coming to the house …

  And if she still remained after that, which was rare, he would tell her how his wife – her mother – had never forgiven him, even though she hadn’t once uttered a word about it. And that his wife had died of a broken heart, just five years after her daughter.

  But it was me that was being punished, for everything I’ve done. It was so cruel, you were only seven!

  That night he’d hesitated for longer than usual before saying anything. He knew she wouldn’t leave until he said something or until it began to get light. She was capable of standing there for hours. He always had the same thought: maybe she’d forgive him and run to the bed and throw her arms around his shoulders as she used to, her warm cheek pressed tight against his, his ear damp as she whispered something into it. So that night he felt able to tell her.

  It seems they’ve found me, you know, after all these years. Does that help? Does it make you feel better?

  But it didn’t. She remained for another minute, her body swaying slightly. At one stage the light caught her eyes, but they didn’t seem to be looking at him. They looked so much darker than he remembered. And then she disappeared.

  He was unsettled when he got up the following morning. Not just from her visit, but also at the memory of the phone call. If they are going to call again, it will be at the same time, he had decided, with an uncertain logic. He smoked three cigarettes waiting for the call, but 07:14 came and went and there was no phone call. He was able to drink his tea and eat his breakfast and although all was still very far from well in his world, it was certainly better than the previous day.

  He was able to resume his routine. He visited the shops at his normal time, returning home at nine thirty as usual, double locking the front door and attaching the chain. He could now have his cup of coffee and read the Daily Mail and life would have returned to normal.

  The kettle was just beginning to whistle when the phone rang. He was inclined at first to ignore it, to let it ring. But then he realised it would be cathartic to receive a normal call, to talk to someone trying to sell him something, or one of the friends of his wife who called very occasionally out of a sense of duty to see how he was.

  ‘So, Mr Hartmann, did you enjoy your morning walk? The queue at the newsagent not too much of an inconvenience, I hope.’

  The same voice.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Evidently you didn’t manage to kill yourself yesterday, did you? Today would seem to be a good day for it, don’t you agree Mr Hartmann?’

  ‘Please tell me who you are. My name is not Hartmann.’ But he was quickly aware that he was now talking to a dialling tone.

  ***

  Near Magdeburg, Germany

  September 1944

  The small rip in the blackout blind was just wide enough to allow a narrow beam of moonlight into the room. Konrad Hartmann been staring at the ceiling for hours, and couldn’t decide whether the shape the moonlight projected onto it looked more like France or Poland. Or at least, what was left of them.

  As far as he could tell, the other two boys in the room had fallen asleep. Despite his exhaustion, he was quite unable to do the same. Every time he closed his eyes images of his family came to him, and they only faded if he opened his eyes again.

  And when he did open his eyes, it was no better. He couldn’t stop thinking about the night before. He had never experienced anything like it. What was it that teacher in his school was supposed to have said just after the war started?

  Animals. The Nazis behave like animals.

  He hadn’t heard the teacher say it, of course, and none of his friends had either, but everyone swore they knew someone who had heard it, apparently muttered in a corridor to another teacher.

  Animals.

  How could he say that, or even think it? Konrad had been outraged, and was pleased that justice was served when the teacher was dragged away by the Gestapo, never to be seen or heard of again.

  Animals. That word had stayed with him since then. So much good was being done in this country, indeed across the whole world. How could they be compared to animals? It was so unfair!

  But still, the one thought to come into his head last night and remain there was what the teacher was supposed to have said. The Nazis behave like animals.

  He tried again to sleep, gently shutting his eyes and turning onto his side. Now he could clearly see his father walking up the small path to their front door, with both dogs leaping around him. He paused at the entrance, turned round and self-consciously waved at him. Then his mother opened the door, a beaming smile on her face and there, behind her, were his two younger brothers, scrapping with each other as usual. They all gathered in the doorway: his parents, his brothers and the dogs. Behind the house he could see the Thüringian forest rising, a perfect shad
e of dark green brilliantly picked out against a deep blue sky. Far in the distance, the first hint of the white-capped mountains.

  Outside the room he could hear occasional heavy footsteps, walking slowly, pausing outside the door and waiting there for a minute or two before moving on.

  He opened his eyes again and turned onto his back, propping his lumpy pillow up against the iron bedstead. The boy in the next bed was awake now, staring silently at him. They looked awkwardly at each other for a moment before the other boy turned his head away. Konrad must have slept for a while because when he woke up the moonlight had been replaced by a bright shaft of early morning sun.

  He closed his eyes tightly, but the images of his family were no longer there. He turned onto his front and buried his head in the pillow, willing the images to return, but he struggled even to remember what they looked like.

  Act as if you’ve died and been re-born. It’s the only way you’ll cope.

  That is what he had told himself as he lay in bed. The only way to survive what was coming was to accept that your previous life was over. Like being killed and then coming back to life.

  Forget the past.

  But the past, it seemed, was forgetting him.

  And what was it the officers had said to them just before they were dismissed a few hours ago? ‘Remember, boys. You are soldiers, being told to do what soldiers do. You are being sent into battle.’

  Since he was eleven or twelve he had assumed he’d become a soldier, and as soon as he had joined the Hitler Youth four years ago he’d realised that he may be killed once he was sent to fight.

  He understood that. He understood that a soldier goes into battle, fights with the enemy and runs the risk of being injured or killed or being taken prisoner. But what they had talked about the evening before was no ordinary battle. The battles he understood lasted hours, or days, maybe weeks or even months, like Stalingrad.

  But this battle wasn’t going to be like that.

  This battle was going to last the rest of his life.

  ***

  ‘Cigarette?’

  It didn’t sound like a generous offer, more like one made out of a grudging sense of obligation.

  They’d left the camp outside Stettin in the early hours of the morning, when it was still dark. It was dark now, but the darkness of the other end of a long day. This was only the second or third time the SS officer sat alongside him had bothered to address him directly. Until then, his utterances had either been to the driver or to the world in general, usually gazing out of the window as he spoke. To the driver, he had barked out instructions: you need to go faster. You need to slow down. Is this the best route? Make sure we get through the next roadblock faster. This car is nothing compared to the Daimler.

  The world in general did not get off so lightly. I don’t trust any woman, certainly not my wife – not even my favourite mistress. Never trust a woman who says she loves you. The Wehrmacht are so disloyal... traitors. The Führer can only trust the SS. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are secret Jews high up in the Wehrmacht. That would explain Stalingrad. And the food shortages: have you noticed the food shortages?

  He was convinced it was a trick to catch him out. Food shortages were not an advised topic of conversation with anyone, let alone an SS officer.

  ‘No, sir. At the camp they feed us very adequately. I have not seen any problems in the towns either, sir.’

  Oh haven’t you? Very good. Very obedient. You’ll make a good member of the SS.

  His voice was a mixture of sarcasm and boredom.

  And so it had continued. The British deserve everything they’re going to get. The Russians are not human, none of that lot are. A year from now, there’ll be no Jews left in Europe – can you imagine that? The Italians are a complete joke. As for the Luftwaffe … well, they may as well have women flying the planes. And please, don’t even mention the Navy. You can excuse the French because of their women – and their wine. And their incompetence.

  The drink had done much of the talking. The officer’s hip-flask had appeared soon after they’d left the camp and he had refilled it from a bottle in his knapsack at least twice. But he had sobered up at the first signs of dusk and with them the inevitability of Allied air raids. They would need to be well clear of Berlin. The RAF had a habit, the officer assured the driver, of dropping their bombs early and in consequence the suburbs and smalls towns around the city took many hits.

  They were past Potsdam and somewhere to the south of Brandenburg. It was hard to tell their precise location in the near dark and with the absence of road signs, but the driver had a map open on the empty seat next to him and had been updating the officer. Wave after wave of Lancaster bombers, with their distinctive tail planes, were passing overhead. The driver had pulled off the autobahn and joined a main road, but the officer was not happy.

  ‘We’re still too exposed,’ he insisted. His voice had a nervous edge to it now. So they had dropped to a smaller road, not much more than single track. The driver killed the headlights and their speed, but the officer was still not happy.

  Pull in here.

  So now they were parked under a canopy of trees, the car banked at a steep angle on the verge and darkness and silence around them, apart from the distant crumple of bombs falling, anti-aircraft fire to the east, and the constant drone of planes above. There was a smell of freshly ploughed fields, and a silent breeze caused the hedgerow around them to sway.

  ‘Cigarette?’

  He wasn’t sure what the right answer was. ‘Yes’ could seem too familiar. ‘No’ could appear rude. He held up his hand as if to say ‘no thanks,’ but the officer persisted. He pulled a cigarette out of a metal case and handed it to him and followed it up with a lighter with a large flame that illuminated the interior of the car. A heavy sweat on the officer’s brow glistened in the flicker of the flame.

  The cigarette tasted good, much better quality tobacco than he was used to. He inhaled slowly, allowing the smoke to float around his mouth first so that he could taste it properly. It was so strong that he soon began to feel light-headed, and his throat tightened.

  The officer unwound the window, staring up at another black wave of Lancasters, muttering something under his breath. He began to talk quickly and seemed now a bit more relaxed towards Konrad, even slightly friendly. Perhaps he was nervous. Some people behaved like that when they were nervous, he’d noticed: excessively friendly.

  ‘Have you been in an air raid?’

  ‘No sir. I have been near one, but not actually in one.’

  ‘Huh! Everyone in Germany’s been near an air raid.’

  He looked at the officer; unsure as to whether this hint of indiscretion was all part of whatever it was that was going on. He had no idea where he was being taken, or why. He didn’t reckon he was in trouble, he would have been treated differently if he was, but for a junior recruit to the SS to have a car and a driver and an officer to escort him, something had to be up. He noticed that the officer’s hand was trembling as he held his cigarette out of the window, flicking off the ash.

  ‘How old are you boy?’

  ‘I am seventeen, sir. Eighteen in three months.’

  The officer nodded slowly, as if he had guessed as much. So young.

  ‘And tell me boy, have you ever had a woman?’

  How was he meant to reply?

  ‘Of course, sir!’ As soon as he said it he realised his answer had been too quick to sound convincing.

  ‘Best lay I ever had was in Magdeburg, not far from here I suppose. She was seventeen – five times in one night: wonderful. Maybe she’s still there. Perhaps I ought to look her up. She’s probably only able to manage four times a night now!’

  The officer laughed heartily at his joke and Konrad joined in, grateful for the opportunity to relieve the tension. He was concerned that the officer might quiz him about his own experiences. He would have to make something up. And he was intrigued: five times in one night. Was that really
possible? Surely, once a night would be enough, maybe twice – but five times… but would an SS officer lie?

  As he shifted again in his seat he caught the driver’s eye in the rear-view mirror, not a sign of life in them, but looking directly at him without appearing to blink. And then, the tiniest nod, as if to warn him.

  Be careful.

  It was so quiet now that he could hear the officer inhaling his cigarette. It had been a good ten minutes since the last plane had flown overhead, so the officer felt able to leave the car. He walked into the middle of the road, gazing up into the night sky, studying it for a few minutes. He walked to the side of the road, relieved himself against one of the wheels and climbed back into the car.

  ‘It’s safe now,’ he said to the driver. ‘How long do you reckon?’

  ‘An hour, if we’re lucky sir.’

  The officer repeated the driver’s words, mimicking his rough Berlin accent, speaking softly but loud enough for them all to hear, even as the engine of the Mercedes coughed into life.

  ‘Lucky? Haven’t you heard luck’s also rationed now?’

  Chapter 1

  Moscow

  1949

  As the lift took him to one of the upper floors in the headquarters of the Ministry of Internal Affairs in Moscow, Viktor Leonidovich Krasotkin was worried. Not as worried as he’d have been had they descended to one of the notorious basements beneath Zhitnaya Street, but worried nonetheless. From the lift his escort led him down a well-lit corridor with paintings of heroic workers on the walls, and numbered brass plates on the doors. The escort knocked on one of the doors and opened it without waiting for a response.