The Arms Maker of Berlin (25 page)

“I am Sturmbandfuhrer Martin Gollner. Before we begin, I have been instructed to ask for some identification. As I am sure you can understand, it isn’t every day that someone walks in claiming to be the son of Reinhard Bauer.”

Kurt obliged him, and watched the man read. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Kurt had a feeling this would take a while, and a knot that had already formed in his stomach did a slow tumble and turned into a cramp. He bent at the waist and emitted a sigh.

“Very well,” Gollner said, handing back his papers. “We may begin.”

Kurt had given a lot of thought to what to say first. His father’s recent lessons on how to do business had come to mind. He must take the initiative, set the tone. No matter how threatened he felt, he figured he could maintain some leverage as long as he didn’t give up his choicest information too easily. He also needed to make it seem that he had more backing and clout than he really did. So he started out boldly.

“I am here on behalf of my family. I wish to offer important information concerning state security and morale, but only in return for certain assurances that my family’s patriotic role in the war effort will be allowed to continue. I also want assurances that those closest to me will not be harmed, although I am quite willing to be punished for my own indiscretions.”

He hadn’t planned on adding the part about punishment, but somehow in his momentum the words spilled out. Perhaps he was already ashamed of what he was doing. If Gollner was impressed, he did a good job of hiding it. He merely glanced at the stenographer to make sure she was getting everything. Then he answered in a monotone.

“All of that is quite interesting, Mr. Bauer. What is it you wish to tell us?”

“First I must have your assurances.”

Gollner was clearly not pleased to be answered in this manner. He frowned and jotted something in a small notebook while the stenographer kept her pencil poised in the air.

“Very well. But tell me first, does your father know you have come here?”

“I am here with his blessing.”

“So he is aware at this very moment that you are here? Answer carefully.”

“No. He is not.”

Gollner again wrote in his notebook. A drop of sweat slid down Kurt’s back.

Kurt spent the next few minutes outlining his family’s current state of affairs. He mentioned his brother’s war service as well. He took special pains when describing the canceled marriage and the background check by the Racial Office.

“I wish to make it clear that, up to now, no one in my family ever knew that this particular ancestor had been a member of such an undesirable faith,” he said.

He noted a shift in Gollner’s expression, perhaps even a hint of relish, and he worried that he might have done something wrong. Had he been able to read the man’s mind, he would have realized that Martin Gollner was sighing inwardly in relief that this boy was seeking “assurances” on such a trivial matter. These SS ancestry checks were a huge pain in the ass, not to mention a colossal waste of manpower. Although marriages were sometimes halted as a result, nothing further ever came of them, especially not when the so-called taint had occurred so long ago. But it was just as well that Bauer didn’t know that. Once again, it was a case of the Gestapo’s reputation preceding it, its presumed thoroughness in enforcing every little matter. All this fretting by the Bauers was foolish, unless of course some ranking minister—Stuckart, for example—took a personal interest in seeing that the family was punished. But that, too, seemed unlikely when you considered that the Bauers were supplying every Panzer division.

Gollner let the boy prattle on. He could then act like he was doing the family a big favor. He wouldn’t even need clearance from a higher-up to offer a “deal.”

“There is also the matter of a certain young lady who must be protected in all these proceedings,” Kurt continued. “She is not a member of my family, although I like to believe there is a chance that she may be fairly soon. She has been the victim of overzealous friends, one in particular, and as a result she has been goaded into participating in reckless behavior. If you take steps to prevent this friend from further influencing her, then I am sure she will respond quite reasonably.”

“Look, Mr. Bauer. I can’t guarantee that she won’t be punished, not until I hear what it is she has done. But in any investigation there is always the possibility for leniency. So why don’t we proceed on that assumption, and also on the assumption that no harm will come to your family or its business interests. That way you have already accomplished half of what you came here for. But now you must begin offering me something in return, unless you would prefer this to become a very lengthy and awkward process, in which your father and no doubt many other persons above me would have to become closely involved. Understood?”

“Yes, understood.”

Kurt poured himself more water, swallowing twice to wet his lips.

“And, of course, you must also understand that whether or not I can live up to these terms depends greatly on what it is you give me. Its quality and quantity. Both matter. Details, meaning names first and foremost, are of vital importance. Certainly you must see that my generosity can extend only as far as yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, then. Begin.”

Gollner nodded to the stenographer, who flipped back a page of her notebook. Then he lit a cigarette, inhaled slowly, and sagged back comfortably in his chair.

Kurt began. And, as requested, he was very generous indeed.

TWENTY-THREE

Berlin—March 20, 1943

T
HE GESTAPO OFFICERS ANNOUNCED
their arrival at the birthday party of Dieter Bussler with a prim knock at the door, as if already apologizing for bringing arrest warrants instead of gifts.

Their decorum was oddly appropriate, because in a sense they
were
invited guests. Kurt Bauer had tipped them off to the party’s details. No need to smash windows or batter down a door when you could catch the entire membership of the local White Rose gathered at a punch bowl.

Kurt had worked out the logistics for the raid with Martin Gollner during a four-hour conversation, a chat that proceeded more like contract negotiations between rival lawyers than an interrogation. At the time Kurt had been relieved by the air of civility. Later he wondered if it hadn’t placed him at even more of a disadvantage, because in the end he was no match for Gollner in the subtle art of give-and-take.

Gollner emerged from the confrontation with the names, roles, and contact information of every local member of the White Rose. Kurt came away with a few lukewarm assurances that had strings attached. The biggest of those—a promise to let his family hold on to its business empire—had never been in doubt to begin with, as Gollner well knew.

Would the Gestapo have discovered the White Rose names anyway, through interrogations elsewhere? Gollner implied as much to Kurt, but later told his superiors that he doubted it. The Munich interrogations of Falk Harnack and Jorg Strasser hadn’t yielded a word about White Rose activity in Berlin, although the two men would certainly be asked about it now, if only to double-check Kurt’s offerings.

For Gollner the most sensitive issue was Kurt’s insistence on serving a prison sentence along with his friends. No doubt the boy wanted to convince the others that he hadn’t been the rat aboard their sinking ship. He also wanted to assuage his guilt and impress his girlfriend. But incarcerating any Bauer would be a hard sell with Gollner’s superiors. He got them to go along only after convincing them that he could leverage the results of the family’s racial background check against Kurt’s father, Reinhard.

On the Saturday morning before the fateful birthday party, Gollner worked out the final details with Reinhard himself, face-to-face. Before telephoning to arrange the meeting, Gollner allowed Kurt to warn his father in advance. That meant he had to tell his father about everything, which turned out to be harder than telling Gollner. Reinhard was furious about his son’s foolish White Rose activities, not to mention the boy’s defiance in continuing to see Liesl against his wishes. But once he got over his anger he earnestly got down to the business of trying to work out the best possible deal for Kurt and the family.

The meeting was at the office of Gollner’s supervisor, on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. Gollner relinquished the last of his precious coffee in order to display the proper hospitality. He assured the industrialist that for the good of the family—indeed, for the good of the country—his son Kurt would have to spend several months in Plotzensee Prison. Reinhard grimly assented.

The only other sticking point was the matter of Kurt’s girlfriend, Liesl Folkerts. Reinhard had no interest at all in protecting her, but Kurt wanted her freedom ensured. The complication was that she had already come to the Gestapo’s attention, from a nosy old charwoman who overheard Liesl telling a crude joke about Hitler at a charity sale of used clothing. As if that weren’t enough, a second woman had then witnessed her pressing a wool scarf on an elderly shopper while saying, “Please, take it. It’s not as if the government is going to help you.”

One of Gollner’s colleagues had begun building a dossier on the girl, a body of evidence that now had to be set aside in favor of the arrangement worked out with the younger Bauer. In exchange for this accommodation, Kurt agreed to enter the army three weeks after his release. The gesture was largely symbolic, as he would have been due to report on his eighteenth birthday anyway. Still, families as prominent as the Bauers had been finding ever more creative ways to keep their sons out of the military.

For Gollner, then, the hard part was done. The dirty work would be left to the four officers who carried out the raid. He would then help interrogate the suspects, although he figured they would have little to offer beyond what Kurt had already told them.

For Kurt Bauer, on the other hand, the worst was yet to come. He prepared for the birthday party as if for a funeral, keeping mostly to his room and moping the way his sister had after her broken engagement. He exited the house only once in the preceding days, to shop for a birthday present for Dieter. He found himself putting a lot of thought into it and wound up using nearly all of the family’s monthly clothing coupons to purchase a fine woolen scarf. Maybe it would keep Dieter warm in prison, he thought, little knowing the boy’s neck would need far more protection than a strip of cashmere.

Gollner had assured him the raid would be carried out with as little fuss as possible, but Kurt wasn’t convinced. When the evening arrived, he rode his bicycle to Liesl’s house to escort her there. He pinged the bell in hopes that he wouldn’t have to face her parents, but her father came to the door and beckoned him inside. Everyone was all smiles. By now Liesl’s parents thought of him as a polite and humble gentleman. He smiled thinly and said little. At least they wouldn’t have to witness the awful moment of their daughter’s arrest.

As they mounted their bikes, it occurred to him that the Gestapo might already have them under surveillance. He imagined officers hiding in the trees, watching with binoculars.

“Kurt, what’s wrong?” Liesl asked. “You’re so quiet. Has something happened?”

He blinked in confusion, wondering what to say.

“It’s my sister, Traudl,” he stammered. “She’s still so upset.”

Liesl laid a hand across his.

“I really do think your family is going to be okay. Cheer up. Tomorrow is the first day of spring. I even saw a crocus yesterday. Even the war can’t stop them.”

She squeezed his hand. He nodded grimly, and for a fleeting moment he considered telling her everything. They could escape through the forest, pedal to a train station to flee south toward Switzerland, crossing the Alps to safety. Just Liesl and him, enduring like the crocuses. But he knew she would never come, not if he told her. She would be furious, lost forever. Worse, she would try to warn everyone, and the evening would turn dangerous, even deadly. Pursuit and gunshots, shrill whistles and snarling dogs. They pedaled away in silence. By the time they reached Dieter’s house his mouth was so dry that he could barely swallow.

It was the first time he had met Dieter’s parents. Mrs. Bussler was like her son, showy and boastful in speech, reserved and cautious in manner, as if harboring a deep insecurity. Mr. Bussler was a quiet man with a pipe who seemed resigned to a secondary role in the household. As soon as the guests arrived he retreated to a back room with his newspaper.

Nearly everyone was there—seven of them in all, just as Kurt had promised Gollner. Helmut Hartert had recently been called into military service, and presumably would be dealt with elsewhere. Harnack was still with his army unit in Chemnitz. The idea that everything might go off without a hitch was both exciting and horrifying. In the ensuing small talk Kurt hardly knew what he was saying, and every few minutes he checked his watch, not knowing when and how the Gestapo would announce its presence.

After an hour, Dieter’s mother brought out a rather sad-looking ham that they must have been saving for a special occasion, plus bowls of potatoes and creamed spinach. She poured a jug of homemade wine into the punch. Kurt drank freely of it, and by the end of his third glass everyone began to seem cheerful and relaxed, so much so that he allowed himself to fancy that maybe Gollner had gotten the date wrong, or fouled up the address. Better still, maybe his father had somehow engineered a last-minute reprieve, using his connections to put a stop to this nonsense. They were only students, after all. Surely a man of such value to the war effort had enough clout to prevent the arrests of a handful of upper-class children? What were a few pamphlets when stacked against the might of the Bauer war machine? Kurt took his empty glass for another refill, his cheeks flushed with false hope. He even managed a smile for Hannelore when he noticed her watching him.

Then came the first knock. It sounded normal, even gentle, and at first only Kurt heard it. Perhaps it was a neighbor, or a family friend bearing gifts.

The second knock was firmer, but still not what you would call insistent. But when Dieter’s mother threw open the door, four men in black SS uniforms entered, three with guns drawn. The first one carried some sort of official-looking paper, and he spoke sternly as everyone else went silent. Liesl eased to Kurt’s side and took his hand.

“Frau Bussler, I am here to inform you that all of these young people are under arrest for crimes against the state.”

Someone dropped a glass.

“No!” Liesl cried.

“Stay calm,” Kurt whispered, finally able to muster some bravery now that he knew roughly what was coming next.

Dieter’s mother clapped a hand to her mouth. His father had appeared in the hallway, pipe in hand, too stunned to speak.

Christoph Klemm, always the boldest in the bunch, charged toward a window. One of the officers struck him on the head with a sidearm. There was a sickening crack, and Christoph slumped to the floor.

The group’s commander looked too thin for his uniform. It was baggy at the shoulders and the waist, and his belt had been tightened a few extra notches to hold up his bunched trousers. Maybe he, too, wasn’t getting enough to eat, or perhaps the fittest members of his unit had been sent to the front. Kurt felt oddly offended that they were being arrested by such a second-rate bunch. Or maybe he already knew he would vividly remember every detail of this moment—the shocked faces and deathly silence, the way that the shred of ham he had eaten seemed to be twisting in his stomach like a parasite.

“This needn’t be difficult,” the officer said. “All of you place your hands on your head and line up against the opposite wall.”

“Are you going to shoot us?” Dieter asked, almost in a shriek.

“Shut up, Dieter.” It was Christoph, rising unsteadily. His lower lip was bleeding, and a lump was visible below his right ear. He swayed a bit, still woozy.

Everyone moved toward the wall, Kurt following numbly as they crowded together, elbows bumping like antlers above their heads, a meek herd. Thinking about this moment in the abstract had been bad enough. Now, with the menacing black uniforms and Dieter’s mother sobbing uncontrollably, it was worse than he had imagined. Nor did it help that he suddenly found himself wondering whether his family could have toughed it out, even if he had taken no action. He was angry at himself. The heat boiled up in his cheeks, and he clenched his fists. Liesl noticed and whispered in alarm.

“Don’t try anything, Kurt. It’s not worth it. Maybe it will be nothing.”

“Quiet!” the commander shouted.

Kurt stared back at her, mute with rage and self-loathing. A hand shoved him roughly, and he fought down an impulse to strike back. It wasn’t that he feared retaliation. His real worry was that if he resisted, the commander would single him out, here and now, and reveal his duplicity to all. Then his efforts really would have gone for nothing.

There was a sudden sound of a body collapsing to the floor. Kurt glanced over his shoulder to see Christoph in a heap.

“Stay away from him,” the commander said mildly to Dieter’s mother, who had stepped forward in concern. Then, to his men: “Take him out to the truck.”

Hannelore turned abruptly and spat at one of the soldiers, who shoved her hard against the wall. She cried out in pain and anger. Kurt caught her eye, and for a second he was certain she could read his every thought, so he blushed and looked away.

An officer emerged from the hallway, shouldering roughly past Dieter’s father and holding aloft a small stack of White Rose pamphlets.

“These were beneath the boy’s mattress.”

Had Dieter really been so stupid? Hannelore shook her head and cursed under her breath. Shortly afterward the officers led them outside, where a military truck had pulled to the curb with its tailgate down and its canvas flaps open in the back.

“Climb aboard, one at a time,” the commander said. “Slowly and orderly, while keeping your hands above your head.”

Neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk. There was concern in their faces, but also shame. Guilt by proximity. You could almost sense them calculating what this might mean for their own prospects in the future.

Two soldiers with rifles climbed into the truck and closed the tailgate and the canvas flaps, plunging everyone into darkness. The truck pulled away. Kurt peered through the slit between the flaps and saw a passing tram. The only light visible was from the blue sparks in the overhead wires.

They were seated three to a side in the bed of the truck, with Christoph curled in the middle like a sack of flour.

“Where are we going?” someone asked.

No one answered.

The ride continued for twenty minutes. When they finally stopped, bright lights were switched on and someone shouted an order. It sounded as if a gate was being opened. The truck bumped forward. Kurt saw a brick wall topped by barbed wire.

“I know where we are,” Hannelore whispered. “Plotzensee Prison.”

Kurt had known this was their destination, but somehow it didn’t make the arrival any easier to bear. Liesl took his hand in the dark, and for the first time in days he was able to muster some courage. He even allowed himself to begin thinking about their future. Maybe this would be the low point, he told himself. In four months, perhaps five, the worst would be over. Make it through this ordeal and he would still have Liesl, trusting him, touching him. And surely they would still be together years later as well. If so, then it would all be worth it.