The Arms Maker Of Berlin Part 38

Another laugh, and then a judgmental sigh.

"A word of advice, young Bauer. Never, and I mean never, make a call from a hotel unless you're interested in a wider audience. You'd also better unplug the phone as soon as you hang up, unless you want the Swiss police to have a microphone straight into your room. Oh, and do me a favor. Don't call here again. From anywhere."

The American hung up.

Kurt's cheeks were warm with embarra.s.sment. For all he had endured during the previous years, he knew that in some ways he remained soft, callow, a naive pract.i.tioner in games like these. He felt uncertain about what to do next. Schlang had craftily invited him to call, but where would that lead? And what would be the consequences of ignoring Schlang? Icarus, on the other hand, had ordered him not not to call. Was there any way around that? to call. Was there any way around that?

He finally decided that the best answer was to simply be a boy again, if only for a few days. He would banish himself to the children's table, figuratively speaking, and not rejoin the adults until he'd had time to think things over. The decision immediately made him feel better. He lowered the shades and dressed for bed.

But nine days later his recess ended abruptly, when his father crossed safely into Switzerland. Reinhard's appearance was shocking. He had lost at least twenty pounds, and he took to bed with a fever. The doctor feared it might be typhus. For the moment, Kurt was the head of the family. It was time to get back into action.

Over the next several days he followed his father's whispered orders and visited commercial contacts and the family factory, traveling by rail. A company car met him at the rural station, and everyone was respectful as they showed him around and answered the questions his father had dictated from the sickbed. But he saw the strain in their faces, the worried look that asked if he was the only leaders.h.i.+p that remained.

Back at the hotel, Kurt fielded phone calls from suppliers and arranged payments for the bills. A pleading telegram from one of Speer's minions asked how long it would be before the Swiss released the next s.h.i.+pment for export. Kurt had no idea, but, figuring that every Allied intelligence agency would intercept his answer, he replied, "Never. Expect no further deliveries."

There. Let the Americans digest that. Maybe they would realize the Bauers were doing their part to end the war. But days pa.s.sed without any word from Icarus.

He stayed out of the hotel bar in hopes of avoiding Schlang. But central Bern was so compact that it was difficult to keep from crossing paths with almost anyone who really mattered. No wonder the spies loved it here. Kurt adapted by staying out of the cafes and restaurants on the most popular squares. When he needed fresh air he headed instead for the bridges spanning the Aare and wandered into the hills overlooking the city.

Ten days after his father's return, the radio announced the momentous news of the Allied invasion of Normandy. In spite of himself, Kurt was pridefully heartened by initial reports of stiff resistance. It was the boy in him, rooting for the home team, even though he knew it was in Germany's best interests for western defenses to collapse as quickly as possible to prevent the Red Army from overrunning the country from the east.

A month and a half later the news took its oddest turn yet. He was seated with his sister and mother in their anteroom early one evening when someone in the hall shouted that Hitler had been the target of an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, plotted by his own generals. They went downstairs to find a crowd gathered in the lobby, seeking details. It was true. A bomb had exploded at his headquarters on the eastern front. Then came the bad news. The Fuhrer had not only survived, he was expected to recover fully. A wave of ma.s.s arrests was under way.

Kurt swallowed hard. Every German in the room knew the import of the last remark. His mother and sister stared at him, and he couldn't bear it a moment longer. Throwing caution to the winds, he headed straight for the hotel bar. No Gestapo contingent this time. Doubtless they were all in a tizzy, trying to determine what to do next. It was comforting to think of them fearing for their lives and having their own loyalties questioned.

But most of his thoughts were of Liesl. This news would have thrilled her. It confirmed that the fever of resistance had spread to the very top of the German war machine. In a sense, the White Rose had accomplished its mission.

Kurt ordered a bottle of schnapps, signing for it as always with his mother's room number. He raised his gla.s.s in a lonely toast: "To Liesl." He thought, too, of Bonhoeffer, wondering if the poor man was still alive. Maybe the pastor had even been involved in the bomb plot, because surely it had taken months for the plan to come together. Kurt thought back to those first meetings at Bonhoeffer's house, and Liesl's ringing words, always spoken so boldly. Part of her attraction had always been the excitement at being part of something larger, something n.o.ble. Yet look at what had happened in the end. Liesl was dead, the Bauers were in exile, and Kurt's ideals had gone into hiding on this strange landscape of stealth. He swallowed a second shot of schnapps and asked the waiter to send the rest of the bottle to his room. Then he headed outdoors, pursued by his thoughts.

It was late July, but not very hot, and the last of the sunlight slanted on the pavement. It seemed as if half the town was out for a stroll or a drink in one of the open-air cafes. Beer gla.s.ses sparkled amber in the dusk, and conversation sounded lighthearted. You could tell everyone sensed that the war would soon end. And here, of course, there was no war at all, and no roundups or ma.s.s arrests.

Kurt crossed the cobbles of Kornhausplatz and made a beeline for the high slab of the Kornhaus Bridge. The view from there was something special. The city's skyline spread along the horizon like a medieval painting. On a clear day you could also see the snowy peaks of the Berner Oberland. But the greater attractions for Kurt were the sights along the riverbanks, down through the treetops that swayed in the evening breeze. Red roofs and open terraces. People relaxing over dinner or drinks.

He spotted a man reading his newspaper on a balcony. Next door, a woman reclined on a lounger, a portrait of leisure as she flipped through a magazine, oblivious to Kurt's longing stare. From this distance, she might even have been Liesl.

Feeling a sudden need for the company of others, he was on the verge of heading back to the square for a beer when a voice cried out in surprise.

"Kurt? Is it really you?"

He turned to see the long face of Erich Stuckart, breaking into a grin. And despite all that had happened, Kurt was thrilled to see him. A taste of simpler times, when there was nothing more important to worry about than your marks in school or how you were going to sneak your next cigarette.

"I don't believe it!" Kurt said. "Are you here with your family?"

"Just the women, except for me. We've only been here a week. My father, of course, is still in Berlin, running the ministry. Can't imagine what it must be like tonight, after what's happened. Did you hear the news?"

"Yes. Shocking."

"To say the least. Dad will be working overtime. And now he doesn't even have anywhere to unwind. Our villa was bombed, you know."

"No, I hadn't heard."

"One of those fluke shots, the pilots clearing their bays or something like that. It was the only house hit on the entire street. The rest of the bombs all fell into the Wannsee."

"I'm sorry."

"And your family? How is everyone?"

"All here. But my father is ill. He hasn't quit on Berlin, of course. But the situation was impossible, so we've decided to set up another base of operations. We're trying to contribute from here."

"Of course. I seem to have heard you ran into a bit of trouble. But fortunately that all worked out for the best, yes?"

Kurt wondered how much Erich knew.

"Yes. Except for Liesl."

"I heard. Shattering. She was so beautiful. It must be difficult for you, since, well-"

"Since what?" The words came out with more heat than he had intended.

"Well, because of all that went on."

Did Erich know more? Was he holding back simply to minimize Kurt's embarra.s.sment, or was he being vague out of ignorance? Kurt decided to steer the conversation elsewhere.

"Were you going into town?"

"Coming back, actually," Erich said. "I've had a few drinks in the square. Such a beautiful night. But everyone was far too cheerful about the bombing, so I was heading home. You should come with me. We've got a nice house, up in Altenberg. And we're fixed pretty well for drinks, if that's what you need. I know I could use another one."

Kurt shrugged. Why not? With any luck he might even learn something that Icarus would want to know.

"Sure."

"That's the spirit."

Night had fallen by the time they reached the house, a magnificent old timbered home near the top of the hill on Sonnenbergstra.s.se. Lamplight shone through an arched window, seeming to beckon them inside. Erich's mother was effusive in her welcome. Kurt had always found her a bit chilly, but she was warm and generous this evening. Perhaps she was homesick.

"It is so good to see someone from Berlin," she said. "Terrible to think about what they must be going through. Did Erich tell you about our villa?"

"Yes, Mother. All about it. I'm taking him to the parlor for a drink. So no interruptions, please."

"Whose place is this?" Kurt asked, once they were alone.

"Belongs to a friend of my uncle Max. Comfy, isn't it? And well stocked, as you can see. Would you like a gin? I'm trying to be ready for when the British take over."

Kurt laughed.

"Gin would be fine. You're supposed to have it with tonic, aren't you?"

"Yes, but we don't have any. How about straight up?"

"Sure. I've never tasted it."

It was strong and resinous, like biting into the tip of an evergreen, but not unpleasant.

"I'm glad I saw you," Kurt said, feeling his spirits lift. "We might have gone weeks without running into each other."

"Maybe. Although I'd already heard you were around."

"Oh, yes?"

"A certain Herr Schlang told me. Said he'd seen you over at the Bellevue."

"Oh. Him."

The room went quiet. Erich, smiling, seemed to be waiting for more of a reaction. Kurt, feeling put upon, set his drink down and stood to leave.

"Really, Kurt, it's all right." Erich slapped him on the back. "These are confusing times. You're not the only one wondering what to do next or where to turn."

"I wouldn't think you'd have much to worry about on that score."

"Oh, quite the opposite. My father could end up with a rope around his neck, especially if the Russians find him. Even our friend Schlang has his concerns. But he tells me your father seems to be on the right track."

"My father?"

"Schlang said he was seen here and there during previous visits to Bern. Apparently he was seeking an audience with, well, people who might soon be in a position of influence. I guess that's one way of putting it."

"I wouldn't know. You'll have to ask my father."

"Oh, c'mon, Kurt. Everyone knows how it's done here. I'm not expecting you to break a family confidence. Far from it. I just want you to know that, well, if there is anything you can do for my family along those same lines, not only would my father and I be most grateful, we would also be willing to help in any way we can in the meantime. And I'm sure that Herr Schlang feels the same. You see?"

"I suppose."

Maybe this explained why Schlang hadn't applied any further pressure on Kurt, and-so far, at least-had allowed his father to recuperate in relative peace. If Erich really wanted an introduction to the Americans, Kurt could try to arrange one. The Stuckart name certainly seemed likely to get the attention of Icarus.

Was it unseemly to think of using his friend this way? Yes, certainly, but wasn't Erich doing the same? He realized something else as well: Once you had dipped your toes into the cold water of betrayal and withstood the initial shock, it was much easier to contemplate a second plunge, as long as you could make it work to your advantage.

"I'll give it some thought," he said finally.

"I suppose that's all I can ask for. Truth be told, even my father put some feelers out in the same direction-toward this Dulles fellow everyone keeps mentioning. None of it went anywhere, I'm afraid. Apparently the Americans have put all of the Stuckarts on some list of 'black' Germans. But the Bauers, I'm told, have landed in the 'white' column. So anything that you might say on our behalf, well, you see what I'm getting at."

"Absolutely. How about another drink?"

"Capital!"

Kurt began to feel better about his family's prospects. Even with the dark memory of Liesl still clouding his judgment, he might yet work things to their advantage on other fronts. But his optimism was shortlived.

"You know," Erich said, while handing him a drink, "Schlang also mentioned someone else who is looking for help. Someone who is still in Germany, and I'm told you're familiar with him as well."

"Yes?"

"Martin Gollner."

He realized instantly that this must have been Erich's plan all along. Coax him to help out, then show him they had the means to ruin his standing with the Americans, in case he was reluctant. Hadn't Schlang already hinted as much? It was powerful leverage.

Yet for the moment it only made him more determined to pursue a course of action that would benefit his family alone, and to h.e.l.l with everyone else. Maybe that was always the nature of wartime once you moved beyond the front lines-every man for himself. He was certainly prepared to fight on those terms, but he knew he had better measure his words carefully with Erich.

"Yes," he said, "I know Gollner."

"Well, he has a few ideas on how to impress the Americans, and he seems to believe you're the one person who might be able to make them see things his way."

"Does he really?"

"Oh, yes. Would you like to hear them?"

"Even if I don't, something tells me that Herr Schlang will soon be asking more persuasively."

Erich laughed, then gave Kurt another companionable slap on the back. Anyone watching through the window would have thought they were the best of friends, laughing about old pranks.

"You know, Kurt, I always wondered how you got better marks than me in school. Now I'm beginning to see why."

Kurt smiled thinly, and Erich kept talking. He spent the next two hours laying out the details of Gollner's plan, and Kurt realized that his life was about to become a lot more complicated.

But he did more than just listen. He planned, too, plotting an alternate strategy, one better tailored to his own needs-not that he would ever share any of the details with Stuckart or Schlang. He could play at this game of unholy alliances as well as they could, and, in the process, not only win but also bring harm to those who had wronged him and his family.

Their meeting lasted until 2 a.m. By then, Kurt was already contemplating his next move. Best of all, he had stored up loads of information to pa.s.s along to the disagreeable American he knew only as Icarus.

TWENTY-NINE.

Bern, Switzerland-September 8, 1944 I CARUS STILL WOULD NOT RETURN CARUS STILL WOULD NOT RETURN Kurt's calls. Nor would anyone else from the American legation. Kurt's calls. Nor would anyone else from the American legation.

Day after day Kurt delivered the same disappointing news to Erich Stuckart: not yet, but soon. He could tell Stuckart was beginning to doubt him. If only his father were better. Reinhard would know how to arrange an audience with someone someone, if only for show. But he was still bedridden, withering away at the Bellevue on a diet of room-service meals that he barely touched. His marching orders to Kurt grew more incoherent by the day.

Kurt held Stuckart and Schlang at bay by telling them that the Americans were too preoccupied with events elsewhere. There may have been some truth to it. The Allied armies had come ash.o.r.e at Normandy and were smas.h.i.+ng their way across France. Paris was liberated, the Rhine was in sight, and the Swiss border to France was now open to all Allied traffic. In the east, the Soviets were pus.h.i.+ng the Germans across Poland and the Baltics. To the south, in Italy, Mussolini had been deposed and the Germans were in retreat. Soon the Fatherland would be squeezed in a vise, and, as with so many previous wars, there was already boastful talk of finis.h.i.+ng the job by Christmas. Maybe the Americans simply didn't have time for any expat Germans, whether "white" or "black," especially when, according to news reports, they were pursuing a policy of unconditional surrender.

But just as Kurt was about to lose hope, he returned to his room after a late lunch to find a handwritten message stuffed under the door: "The Munster. 15:00 hrs. Icarus."

Finally, this was it. A meeting at the cathedral, mere blocks away. Kurt checked his watch. Only fifteen minutes. A knock at the door made him jump.

"Yes?"

"It's Mother."

"I'm busy!"