The Arms Maker of Berlin (17 page)

FIFTEEN

Berlin—Tuesday, December 15, 1942

K
URT ARRIVED
at the church a half hour early. There was still enough light to show that every street corner was empty, which made him feel better. Nonetheless, he circled behind the building to approach the entrance through the cemetery, figuring it was the least likely path to be watched. The route took him by Niemoller’s house. Its gables and turrets loomed like a fortress.

The seven-hundred-year-old church was built of red brick, with a wooden belfry and steeple. He pulled back the heavy door and called out.

“Hello?”

No answer. He must be the first arrival.

Inside it was chilly and smelled of candle wax and musty hymnals. His footsteps echoed loudly, although the sanctuary was small and intimate. Medieval frescoes were faintly visible on plastered walls, but otherwise the place was unadorned. A placard up front explained that the altarpiece and other valuables had been moved to a safer location until the war was over. To protect them from what, Kurt wondered—Allied bombers or looting Nazis?

He checked every pew for anyone who might be hiding, then he sat, glancing at his watch every few minutes while he tried not to dwell on his father’s warning from months ago: “They line you up and shoot you, or drop you from a gallows. Or maybe they lop off your head.”

It was still only 3:40, so he decided to check out the organ loft. Someone might be hiding there, too, he supposed. What would he say if he came upon a Gestapo man? Or maybe the police were outside, after all, holding off until the entire group was assembled, waiting to arrest them all. And he, of course, would be remembered as the early bird, the most eager one in the bunch. What a catch, too. The son of a prominent industrialist. All of his father’s careful and dangerous work to prepare for their future would be down the drain, washed away by a foolish act of love.

Kurt fairly tiptoed up the creaking stairway to the narrow loft. He had decided on using Bonhoeffer’s cover story, if necessary: He was just looking around, soaking up the history. He knew nothing about any four o’clock meeting.

But the loft, too, was empty, and he took a seat on a choir pew. It was nice up there, more secure, a concealed position that gave him an upper hand. The feeling was reinforced the moment he heard the door opening downstairs. Two voices whispered in conversation, a man’s and a woman’s. Kurt leaned forward just enough to recognize two students from the regular gatherings at Bonhoeffer’s. Neither was Liesl. They didn’t see him, and he was fine with that.

A threesome of young men arrived next, closely followed by a young woman and two more males. Among them, he recognized the blustering Dieter Bussler and the likable Christoph Klemm. But still no Liesl.

Other than the creaking of the pews everyone was quiet, and they conversed in whispers. Such mice, these people. Where was all the boldness they had displayed so cavalierly at Bonhoeffer’s? Perhaps they were overwhelmed by the prospect of what they were about to do. And who was he to talk, up there in the loft, where he began to feel sheepish. It would be embarrassing to reveal himself now. He was on the verge of resolving to stay there for the duration when the door opened again and a new voice rose to his ears.

It was Liesl, speaking in a normal tone to a woman she had arrived with.

“What a nice turnout!” she said, as if they had gathered for tea and refreshment. “And I see that Helmut is here, so perhaps we should begin. It is only right that he do the honors, seeing as how he took the greatest risk by arranging this meeting.”

A pew creaked as she sat. Kurt stood as if hypnotized. He stepped gingerly toward the stairs and began descending as quietly as possible. Halfway down a step groaned, and there was startled movement in the pews below. But that was hardly a concern, because now he could see Liesl in profile through the slatted sides of the stairway. She was quiet, serene, not at all alarmed or turning toward him like the others.

“Hello?” a male voice inquired nervously. It was Dieter, whom Kurt had already pegged as the likeliest to betray them.

“It’s all right,” Kurt said, trying to keep his voice as strong and steady as Liesl’s. “I arrived early, so I waited in the loft. I wanted to make sure no one was up there to spy on us.”

“Good idea,” said the fellow Liesl had called Helmut. He now stood up front.

Kurt took a seat on the row behind Liesl, but not before she turned and offered an astonished grin, cheeks flushed. Already the risk was worthwhile. She reached back across the pew and squeezed his hand.

Helmut spoke.

“Many thanks to everyone for having the courage to be here. I chose this location for a reason, and not because I wanted to put anyone in danger. In fact, the Nazis prefer that such places be used for secular purposes, so I suppose that in that sense we are simply being obedient citizens.”

There was some nervous laughter.

“You cannot enter this building without first seeing the house of Dr. Niemoller. And I wanted you to see that house as a reminder of the possible consequences for your actions here tonight. Those of you who choose to go forward with us must realize that there will be no turning back. The gate will lock behind us. So while I ask for your utmost secrecy no matter what you may decide, I also will understand completely if you cannot accompany us further, even if that means that you must leave now, before even revealing your name.”

He paused. No one stood, and no one said a word. Kurt watched the back of Liesl’s head. She was the only one who didn’t turn to look questioningly at everyone else.

“Very well, then. In that case I will begin by telling you my full name, because I know there has already been discussion among some of you over whether that is a wise idea. My opinion is that if we are taking such a big step, then we should commit ourselves fully from the beginning, so I will set the tone. I am Helmut Hartert. Like most of you here I am a student at the Berlin University. I agreed to call this meeting after conferring with some of our like-minded colleagues in Munich. Two of them are here with us tonight to help pass the torch—Falk Harnack, who is now posted to an army unit in Chemnitz, and Jorg Strasser, who made the dangerous journey by train with a boxful of the daring pamphlets that you have already heard so much about. Falk is here without the benefit of either a pass or travel papers, so special thanks to him. He’s demonstrating just the sort of commitment that we’ll be wanting from all of you in the months to come.

“I also want to thank Liesl Folkerts for making sure that Jorg had safe passage through the train station to his uncle’s house. Believe me, if you knew how many policemen were there that day, checking papers, you would realize this was no simple feat.”

Kurt swelled with pride for her, and was more convinced than ever that he had done the right thing by coming here.

“Now,” Hartert said, “shall we all introduce ourselves?”

There were nine others—four women and five men. Kurt stood first. He spoke his name loudly and clearly, wondering how many of them realized the significance—and the inherent risk—of the presence of a Bauer. Each of the others then stood in turn, announcing a name and then sitting back down. Except Dieter Bussler, of course, who felt compelled to give a short speech.

“We all know why we are here, and I hope that everyone noticed on the way in that to get to this church from Dr. Niemoller’s house, you have to pass among the tombstones of the dead.” That meant Dieter had also taken the coward’s path through the cemetery. Kurt suppressed a smile. “They are Germany’s fallen. Some from disease and from old age, some from the fields of Verdun, and some from the ruins of Stalingrad. We must show that we are worthy of their sacrifice as we prepare to walk our own valley of death in support of our beliefs.”

Perhaps Dieter expected applause, because he waited a moment too long before sitting. Instead, there was an awkward cough. No one seemed to know what to say next.

Then Liesl rose.

“Those are admirable sentiments, Dieter. Of course, we are also hoping most fondly that not a single one of us will lose his life in this venture.” Relieved laughter. “Nor should that be even a part of our intent. We do not seek martyrdom, because surely we do this for the living, and, for some of us, also for the glory of God. It is our enemies who celebrate death, not us. Why act for our future unless we can also hope to have a productive role in it?”

Dieter looked suitably chastened, so Liesl softened the blow.

“But we do thank you for the passion of your words and the nobility of your intent.”

She then smiled sympathetically at Dieter, warmly enough to almost make Kurt wish he had delivered the blowhard soliloquy.

With equilibrium restored, Falk Harnack announced to general approval that two of the original members of the White Rose in Munich had promised that they would soon travel to Berlin to offer support.

“Dr. Bonhoeffer has endorsed this idea as well,” he said, “although, as you know, it is best if he doesn’t appear at gatherings such as this, due to the ban on his teaching, and also because he is so often under surveillance.”

Other White Rose cells, he said, had sprung to life in Hamburg, Cologne, Stuttgart, Freiberg, and Saarbrucken. Batches of pamphlets had even crossed into Austria and been seen on the streets of Vienna. Then, to set the tone for the job ahead, he read aloud each of the four pamphlets that had been published to date.

Even in his buoyant mood, Kurt went a little weak in the knees as he listened to the damning words. He found himself wondering anew if he had searched thoroughly enough for intruders in the loft.

Helmut Hartert stood again.

“There are some here who wish to distribute these pamphlets that Jorg has brought from Munich, and that is fine. But I also believe strongly that we should write our own. One concern that I have expressed to Jorg and Falk is that the anti-military tone will not go over so well in a city where you see a wounded veteran or a war widow almost every time you board the S-Bahn. We must strike the proper tone for our own city, with help and contributions from all of you, of course.

“In the meantime, I have secured a small printing press. All that remains now, besides the writing, is the procurement of supplies. Ink and writing paper are our greatest needs, and we urgently need volunteers to provide them. The most difficult of these tasks will be the acquisition of paper. Not only due to rationing but because the authorities have become very suspicious of anyone seeking large amounts of paper who isn’t associated with an officially sanctioned publishing concern. So, then, any takers?”

Liesl glanced back at him, and Kurt knew exactly what she was thinking. While they had been seeing each other the previous year, he had acquired paper for her by stealing it from a secretary’s desk at his father’s office. He had boasted at the time that there was plenty more where that came from, and now she was counting on him to rise to the occasion.

“I can do it,” he blurted. “I can get the paper.”

The others looked at him in surprise. He felt burdened almost the second the words left his mouth, but there was no taking them back.

The meeting ended not long afterward. He experienced a brief feeling of panic as the door opened, half expecting a blast of bright lights and a loud voice hailing them over a megaphone, announcing that they were all under arrest.

Instead, night had fallen. All was quiet. No one lurked on the corners, in the churchyard, or even among the tombstones.

Liesl took his hand before he had a chance to speak, and they strolled off toward the entrance to the Dahlem-Dorf U-Bahn station.

“Would you like to come over to my house, to have dinner with my parents and me?”

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

He would have to come up with a cover story for his parents, of course, but he supposed that was going to be a fact of life from here on out. His father must never know.

“Welcome to your new life as an adult,” she said. “I am so glad to see you have grown into it. And as happy as I am for our organization, I am even happier for myself. I’ve missed you.”

It was about then that Kurt noticed the stout young woman walking just behind them. Up to now she hadn’t made a sound. Kurt had already forgotten her name. Liesl turned and introduced her.

“Kurt, this is Hannelore Nierendorf. Hannelore, please meet Kurt Bauer.”

She reminded him of someone, but he didn’t realize who until he noticed the sign for the U-Bahn looming just ahead. The thought of the subway tunnel jogged his memory. Hannelore was a dead ringer for “Frau Knoterich,” the cartoon image of a plump, gossipy chatterbox that had begun appearing on subway propaganda posters, which inveighed against rumormongering. Her costar was the skinny “Herr Bramsig,” a doom-and-gloom pessimist.

Hannelore offered a muted “Guten Abend” and a cold stare. Either she wasn’t pleased to meet him or this was the expression she showed everyone, but Liesl seemed oblivious to either possibility.

“She will also be joining us for dinner, but of course we will not be able to discuss this evening’s matters around my parents.”

Well, that was too bad. He had hoped to have Liesl all to himself once the meal was over. But there would be plenty of time for that in the days to come, and with that thought he felt restored, renewed. Life, for all its new risks, again seemed full of possibility. Or it did until Hannelore brought him back to earth with a gruff question.

“Where do you think you will find paper? It won’t be easy, you know. You can’t just go out and buy it, even if you have enough coupons.”

“My father’s offices. That’s where I’ll start.”

“Remember, he’s a Bauer,” Liesl offered. “The armaments family.”

“Ah, then no wonder you have joined us, with so much to atone for.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Liesl said. “It’s his father’s business, not Kurt’s.”

The admonishment temporarily silenced Frau Knoterich. Kurt decided he could handle Hannelore’s presence just fine as long as Liesl was around.