The Arms Maker of Berlin (21 page)

Was this, perhaps, a roster of members of the Berlin White Rose who had been arrested? If so, it was new ground indeed. No other historian had yet come up with this many names associated with the Berlin group.

The most interesting name was the first one: Kurt Bauer. Incarcerated March 20, 1943. Released September 3, 1943. Five and a half months in prison hardly seemed like evidence of betrayal, unless he had spilled his guts during interrogation. Even then, considering the Gestapo’s torture tactics, it certainly would have been forgivable for a teenage boy to break under pressure. More damning, perhaps, was that Bauer was the only one of the seven to be released.

The other six had also been incarcerated on March 20. Three of them—Dieter Bussler, Christoph Klemm, and Ulrich Lindner—were listed as “executed” on August 19, 1943. The fourth, Liesl Folkerts, was listed as “killed” on September 4, the day after Bauer’s release. The fifth, Hannelore Nierendorf, was listed as “escaped,” also on September 4. The sixth, Klara Waldhorst, was also executed, on September 12.

From his previous research, Nat knew of only three names besides Bauer’s that had been associated with the Berlin cell up to now—Helmut Hartert, Falk Harnack, and Jorg Strasser—and none of them was on this list.

Hartert was the only one of the three who was a Berliner. He had survived the war and, to Nat’s knowledge, had never been arrested. Harnack had communicated with the Berlin group as an emissary from the original Munich cell. He had apparently also visited Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the dissident cleric at the center of both of Nat’s books. Harnack had been arrested in a roundup of the Munich members, tried, and then released. Strasser, whose only apparent role was to transport a batch of White Rose leaflets to Berlin, had been questioned by the Munich Gestapo and released.

Nat supposed that any of those three might just as easily have betrayed the Berlin members as Bauer.

But when he reappraised this new information, Nat saw that the most intriguing name belonged to Hannelore Nierendorf, who had escaped. Might she still be alive? He aimed to find out. But he would have to do so without tipping off Berta, or else she would realize he had been rummaging through her papers. For all he knew, Berta had already interviewed the woman. He hurriedly copied the information onto the stationery.

There were no other documents in the folder, so he turned to the photos. The first, judging by the scenery, had been taken fairly recently. It was of an old man in a baggy dark overcoat clutching a small bouquet of flowers. His face seemed vaguely familiar, and he stood on a wide sidewalk before a high brick wall. There was some sort of historical marker in the background. Nat squinted to make out the lettering: “Gedenkstatte Plotzensee.”

Of course. The site of the infamous old prison was now a national memorial site. He then realized who the man was: Kurt Bauer. Nat had seen contemporary photos on the Internet.

Had Berta snapped it? If so, then she had probably followed him to the site, which struck Nat as a bit creepy. Maybe it happened the day she asked Bauer for an interview. But hadn’t Berta just told him that she had only tried contacting Bauer by mail? Nat turned over the photo. Berta had scribbled a date: “4 May 2007.” Less than a month ago.

The next photo was also of Bauer and was also taken at Plotzensee. Same overcoat, different lighting, different flowers and, on the back, a different date. “4 April 2007.”

There were three more shots of the elderly Bauer at Plotzensee. In two he glared at the camera as if he had recognized the person taking his picture. In each he held a bouquet. They had all been snapped on the fourth day of a different month the previous year.

Nat rechecked the roster of names. Every death except Liesl Folkerts’ had occurred on August 19 or September 12. Liesl died on September 4. Could she have been Bauer’s old flame? Judging from the flowers, Nat would bet on it. But why wasn’t she listed as “executed,” like all the others? The alignment of dates suggested she may have been shot while trying to escape with Hannelore Nierendorf. Perhaps Bauer had even been involved in the plot, since he had been released the day before and would have been in a position to help.

Interesting, all of it.

Berta’s doggedness in snapping the intrusive photos, on the other hand, was troubling, even by Nat’s standards. And the Plotzensee shots were only part of the story. There were seven more glossies in the file, and six were of Bauer. None was dated, but each looked recent: Bauer climbing into a limo outside an upscale town house; Bauer delivering a speech to a roomful of suits; Bauer at a posh restaurant; Bauer on a park bench reading an edition
of Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung;
Bauer again in a limo, this time while stopped at a traffic light; and finally, Bauer awaiting a flight at Tegel Airport in Berlin. Judging from the fuzzy images in the foreground, each photo had been shot through a long lens. The one at the airport had been snapped through a pane of glass. All of them had presumably been taken without his knowledge or consent.

The seventh photo was also an eight-by-ten, but Nat didn’t recognize the subject. It was another old man, around Bauer’s age, holding a newspaper as he stood on a front porch in his bathrobe. Somewhere in Europe, probably Germany, judging by the style of door and windows. Wooded neighborhood. No date, and no writing on the back. Another member of the Bauer family, perhaps? Or maybe a White Rose survivor?

Nat took a deep breath and wondered what to do next. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin as Berta called out from the bed.

“Are you all right in there?”

“Yes,” he replied through the door. “The, uh, dinner was a little rich, I guess. Plus all the wine.”

“Not to mention the excitement afterward.”

He heard Berta climbing out of bed, so he stood, grabbed a towel, and draped it around the folder and the sheet of paper. He then ran the tap for a second and shut off the light. When he opened the door he was holding the papers beneath the towel while awkwardly pretending to dry his hands. Luckily, Berta wanted a glass of water, and she brushed past him to get to the sink. Once he heard the tap running, he stepped to the TV console and hurriedly slid the folder back into place. Then he tucked the sheet of stationery into his pants pocket, pulled off his trousers, and got back into bed.

“You drank a bourbon?” she called out.

Shit. He had left the mini-bottle on the floor, along with his empty glass.

“Hair of the dog. As a precaution.”

“Already? Too early. It will never work.”

She emerged shortly afterward, naked and sleek in the dimness. A half hour ago the sight would have been arousing. But not after what he had seen in the folder. He shut his eyes, feigning sleep. She slid in beside him and was soon breathing evenly, but Nat remained awake. He couldn’t shake the image of Berta stalking the old man, capturing him unawares from behind trees and hedges and from her car. If the man had refused her request for an interview, her behavior amounted to little more than harassment, not to mention a waste of time.

The power of love? This looked more like the power of obsession. Nat tried to sleep. The next thing he knew, he was awakening to full sunlight. The clock said it was nearly seven. He dressed quietly to keep from waking Berta and crept into the hall.

The door to his room was ajar, and a maid’s cart was parked outside. They certainly started early around here. He entered to find a man in a hotel jacket stooped at the end of the bed, fussily tucking in the linens. But Nat hadn’t slept here, so why did the bed need making?

The man straightened quickly and brushed past him toward the door, moving briskly, face averted.

“Just finishing, sir.” An accent, not local.

He looked around in a panic for his things. The box of Gordon’s keepsakes was still in his bag, thank goodness, tucked between a pair of shirts. His laptop was still here, too, but the screen was up and the drawer of the disk drive was open. The bastard had copied his files—all the electronic versions of his documents, his sources, notes from the Molden interview, and everything they had photographed yesterday at the Swiss Archives. Nat ran into the hallway, colliding sharply with the laundry cart, but the man was gone. He heard elevator doors opening around the corner at the far end of the hall, so he sprinted in that direction. Then there was a faint ping, like a bell in a boxing ring, and he heard the doors shutting. By the time he rounded the corner the row of display lights showed that the car was just reaching the lobby.

Round one to the opposition, whoever he was. And last night’s bout, he now realized, had gone to Berta by technical knockout. She had maneuvered Nat into a corner of his desires and knocked him senseless. He had been stupid to drop his guard. For all he knew, she might even be working with the fellow who had just disappeared.

Even more worrisome, the next round would be staged in Berlin—Berta’s home, Bauer’s home, and, to Nat, a city of almost spectral power, haunted by millions.

He had better start being more careful, and soon.

NINETEEN

T
HE GOOD NEWS WAS
that Nat and Berta reached Berlin without further incident.

The bad news was that Erich Stuckart was dead, according to the microfilmed obituary that Nat had just rolled onto the screen: killed at age twenty-eight in an auto accident in March 1954, only four months after the same fate befell his father. If you believed the conspiracy theories that said the elder Stuckart had been assassinated by vengeful Jews, then maybe Erich had been rubbed out as well.

“Too bad,” Nat said. “He’d have been perfect.”

Berta didn’t seem particularly disappointed, which made Nat suspect she had already been down this trail. He wondered if she had ever searched for the whereabouts of Hannelore Nierendorf, too, and he was tempted to ask. But then he would have had to explain how he’d discovered the name, and that would have ended their partnership. He had already checked the Berlin phone book and found no such listing, although she could have married or moved elsewhere. It irked him that Berta probably knew for sure.

She sat to his left. They had been in the Bundesarchiv for three hours after arriving at Tegel on a morning flight, and neither had yet been willing to let the other out of sight. Nat figured his own wariness was justified, but what was bugging her?

The new dynamic had been evident since breakfast, when they discussed their lodging arrangements for Berlin. Nat had assumed she would suggest they stay at her apartment. Instead, she insisted on a hotel.

“My place is way up in Prenzlauer Berg. We’d spend half our time getting to and from the archives.”

“I just figured you’d want to get back home. Open the mail. Spread out a little.”

“It will be better this way. More efficient.”

They wound up at a small hotel just off the Ku-Damm, a location only marginally more convenient than Prenzlauer Berg.

“One room or two?” the clerk asked.

Nat looked at Berta, then back at the clerk.

“Two.”

Neither said a word as they rode the elevator. The silence continued through most of their U-Bahn trip to Krumme Lanke, the nearest stop to the Bundesarchiv. The ride put Nat in a contemplative mood, and he shared his thoughts as they approached their stop.

“This used to be the stop for the Berlin Document Center, back when the Americans ran it. Remember that old dump?”

“Yes. SS files and Nazi Party records. I guess they’ve all been moved.”

“Just as well. That building gave me the creeps. Like a big bunker in the woods. I felt like I was stirring up evil spirits every time I walked in. They’ve turned it into condos, you know. Amazing anyone could actually live there.”

“Why? It’s a nice location. Right by the Grunewald and near all the lakes.”

“Nice? One of the old air shafts is by a playground now. You can jump off the swing set and look down to the place where they probably sorted Heydrich’s mail.”

“They’ve turned that part into an underground parking garage.”

“I know. The tenants use it, with their baby seats and their BMWs.”

“So?”

“Well, wouldn’t you feel a little haunted, waking up there every morning?”

“I wouldn’t be German if I wasn’t haunted. But all the ghosts are up here.” She tapped her head. “Like a microchip implanted at birth.”

“Not for me,” he said. “In Berlin they’re everywhere, especially when I’m really wrapped up in my work. I know it’s not rational.”

“Well,
that
part I can understand, at least.”

She smiled, and he returned it. Finally, some warmth.

The train doors opened and they climbed the stairs, emerging into sunlight.

Then along came the moment that, for Nat, changed the complexion of the day. Perhaps it was prompted by the conversation they had just had, or because his mind seemed to be racing in a million directions at once, trying to arrange all that he’d learned into some semblance of order. But for whatever reason he sensed an unsettling presence, a sudden shadow across his thoughts. Except this time the feeling was almost benevolent, as if someone were wishing him well. And he wasn’t in a gloomy archive or at the site of some atrocity. He was simply standing at the entrance to the Krumme Lanke U-Bahn station, awash in sunshine.

“What is it?” Berta asked. “Are you all right?”

He blinked as if emerging from a dream.

“You just had one of them, didn’t you? One of your little hauntings?”

He shrugged. She smiled.

“These spirits, do they ever tell you things?”

“No. And they’re not spirits. I don’t believe in ghosts. But they do seem to arrive with some sort of intent. To help or to hinder.”

“And this one?”

He faced away from her so she wouldn’t see him blush.

“She seemed to think we were doing fine.”

“She?”

“You asked. That’s how it felt.”

But hours later, as they sat in the Bundesarchiv, Nat questioned the accuracy of his reaction, because they were getting nowhere. The Erich Stuckart lead had literally reached a dead end, and the files on Erich’s father, Wilhelm, had offered nothing useful.

“I guess our next stop is Martin Gollner,” he said. “Your Gestapo man.”

“He lives under a different name now. Hans Mannheim. His apartment is in Moabit.”

“You’re certain that he once interrogated Bauer?”

“In late ‘43, just as the White Rose was collapsing all over the country.”

“And you know this how?”

“A Gestapo rota sheet that I came across a few months ago. But there was no transcript of the interrogation. It was either destroyed by bombing or looted by the Russians.”

“Or stolen.” By someone like you, he thought but didn’t say. “This Gollner. Or Mannheim, I guess I should say. Hasn’t he already blown you off once?”

“Last month. I was a little aggressive.”

“Imagine that.”

“At least I’m not the one seeing ghosts.”

“They’re not
ghosts
. It’s a gut feeling.” He wished he’d never told her. “And right now my gut feeling is that it’s 2 p.m. and I’m starved. Let’s try the cafe across the street.”

“Sure. Maybe your spirit will pick up the tab.”

T
HE
C
AFe
Z
EN WAS A
G
REEK PLACE
in the German style, meaning the dishes were bland, and most of them tasted the same. Nat ordered a gyro, and had eaten about half and spilled about a quarter when his cell rang. He answered guiltily, figuring it was Holland, whom he still owed a call from the day before.

“Dr. Turnbull?”

“Speaking.”

“Willis Turner, in Blue Kettle Lake. What’s your ten-twenty?”

“Berlin.”

“Wow. Good signal.”

“Aren’t you up kind of early?”

“It’s eight thirty, and I had an important question. That German gal you were working with, any idea how to get ahold of her?”

“Maybe. Why?” He gave her a glance and took another messy bite of gyro.

“I’m beginning to think Gordon Wolfe really was murdered, and as of now she’s my only suspect.”

The meat caught in his throat. He looked away from Berta and swallowed hard, while trying to maintain a normal tone of voice.

“How could that be possible?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. It might be nothing. But there are some things that don’t add up, so how ‘bout letting me know if you happen to run into her?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, and you had asked about that anonymous tip, the one on the boxes?”

“Yes?”

“The call came from a little B&B just up the highway. Their only guest that night was a Christa Larkin of New Jersey. Ring any bells?”

“Sounds familiar, but—”

He stopped, remembering now. It was Berta’s alias, the one on her fake ID at the National Archives.

“You still there?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Drawing a blank. Sorry.”

“Well, let me know if it comes to you later. And Dr. Turnbull?”

“Yes?”

“If you do happen to see Berta Heinkel, keep your distance. I’m guessing she’s more dangerous than she looks.”

“Good advice.”

They hung up.

“Who was it?”

“University business. Excuse me a second. Need to use the men’s room.”

He crossed the floor and shoved open the door. He splashed his face and toweled off while he stared at the fool in the mirror. Don’t panic, he told himself, and don’t jump to conclusions. For one thing, how could Berta have gotten into the jail, much less found a way to induce a heart attack? Both possibilities seemed so unlikely that he began to calm down. And it wasn’t as if Turner was the world’s smartest lawman.

But the call reinforced something that had already been preying on his mind: Before he took another single step alongside Berta Heinkel, he had better check further into her background. He had felt that way to some degree ever since finding such scant evidence online. Now those feelings had real urgency. Fortunately, he was in exactly the right place to follow up. But first he would have to act as if nothing had happened, which wouldn’t be easy. When he went back to the table he stared at his plate, tongue-tied, and when Berta touched his arm he flinched.

“Easy. It’s me, not a ghost. We’d better get going. Gollner’s not getting any younger, and enough people have died on us already.”

“Funny how that keeps happening.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked her in the eye, wondering if she was actually capable of such a thing.

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

G
oLLNER’S
, or rather Mannheim’s, neighborhood in Moabit had seen better days. His building, just across the street from a small, scruffy park, looked like a place where the tenants were barely hanging on. Peeling paint. Smudged windows. Pigeons on the eaves and windowsills. You had to be buzzed in for entry, so they waited until an old Turkish man in a skullcap came out the door, and they slipped inside. The nameplates on the dented mailbox told them Mannheim was on the fifth floor. The stairwell smelled of disinfectant and rot. The walls were sprayed with graffiti.

Nat knocked at Mannheim’s door. Berta waited on the landing of the floor below, explaining that she hadn’t gotten such a great reception on her previous visit. The brassy commotion of a Bavarian oompah band—music you rarely heard in Berlin—emanated from a stereo system across the hall. It sounded like Oktoberfest in full swing.

“Who is it?” A man’s voice, scratchy but strong. Nat addressed him in German.

“My name is Professor Doctor Nathaniel Turnbull. I am here to see Hans Mannheim.”

An eye appeared at the peephole. A lock slid back, and the door opened to the limit of a security chain. A stooped old fellow with pale blue eyes silently assessed Nat. He wore a black wool overcoat and thick house slippers, and even with the stoop he was well over six feet. The steamy smell of boiled sausage and potatoes emerged through the crack.

“Your credentials, please.”

“Chairman of the Department of History,” Nat said, handing over his passport and campus ID. A lie, but he knew from experience that big titles often carried weight with ex-Nazis.

Mannheim-Gollner handed everything back.

“My apologies, Professor Doctor, but I don’t wish to address matters of the past.”

“Perfectly understandable, considering what you must have lived through in 1945 and beyond. But it’s not your past, per se, that interests me. Not even as it relates to an old friend of yours, Martin Gollner.”

Mannheim flinched, but didn’t shut the door. If anything he seemed more interested.

“I’m not familiar with this Gollner fellow you speak of.”

“That’s fine, because I’m seeking information on others. People who have not yet been held accountable to the degree that Mr. Gollner has.”

“All the same. How did you learn of his name?”

“Research. But no one else seems to know, and I don’t intend on telling anyone.”

Mannheim squinted at him for several more seconds. Then he shut the door, slipped off the chain, and opened the door wide.

“You have three minutes to make your case.”

And Nat was betting the old Prussian wouldn’t need a watch to keep track. The fellow ushered him in. Nat glanced around at a small kitchen and the remains of a late lunch. The living room window was propped open to let in the raw air. His host took a seat on the couch and gestured toward a straight-backed wooden chair directly opposite. It was small and wobbly, very uncomfortable, which of course put Nat at a disadvantage. Just like old times on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, he thought.

“My apologies if I interrupted your mealtime.”

“State your business. You now have two minutes, twenty seconds.”

“Kurt Bauer, the industrialist. You interviewed him once, when he was young.”

“Seventeen. And, yes, it was an interview, just as you say. Not an interrogation. He came to us voluntarily. I tell you that for free, only because it should be established before we proceed any further.”

“Absolutely.”

“However, at the present time I don’t have the proper materials at my disposal for discussing the matter fully.”

“Proper materials?”

“The interview transcript.”

“It was my understanding the transcript no longer exists.”

“Correct. The original and all official copies were destroyed in early ‘45. You have only your air force to blame.”

“In that case, I’m willing to settle for your best recollection.”

“Then your work habits must be very sloppy. Perhaps I shouldn’t speak with you.”

“But under the circumstances …”

“Wouldn’t you
prefer
a transcript?”

“Of course, but you said—”

“What I
said
was that the original and all official copies were destroyed. But in those days careful employees kept unofficial copies anytime a case was politically sensitive.”

“Such as a case involving the son of a prominent arms merchant, for example.”

“Exactly.”

“Wise of you.” Not to mention potentially helpful for Gollner after the war, especially if he ever wanted to ask a favor from some prominent German who might have left behind a dirty little secret. “I’ll be glad to wait while you retrieve it.”