The Arms Maker of Berlin (33 page)

“You know,” Schlang whispered, “just because the war is lost doesn’t mean we can’t make things easier for you here. Or more difficult, if that is your choice.”

Kurt must have blanched, because Schlang smiled as if he had scored a point.

“Besides, some of us who have recently been in Berlin know all too well what your history is, even though your father was able to keep it out of the papers. How do you think that kind of news would play in the so-called New Germany that the Americans want to build? None of these trivial things need be repeated, of course, as long as you’re agreeable.”

“Perhaps we can meet later,” Kurt said weakly.

Schlang straightened. His face was flushed.

“Yes. That would be advantageous for both of us. Here is my card.”

He placed it on the table. Kurt didn’t pick it up.

“We keep very late hours, so call anytime. Or just drop by.”

Kurt finished his schnapps as Schlang rejoined his friends at a table in the back. He signed his mother’s room number to the bill and stood to leave. The others watched as he hesitated, then quickly reached down to pick up the card. Schlang nodded approvingly.

Kurt cursed himself all the way up the stairs, and by the time he reached his room he had decided to retaliate. He locked the door and picked up the phone.

“Operator? Please connect me to the following number.”

He rattled off the one the American had scribbled on the customs form. A woman answered on the first ring.

“Embassy of the United States.”

“I wish to speak with Icarus.” It made him feel like a fool, but the woman didn’t miss a beat.

“Just a moment, sir.”

The line clicked and wheezed. Seconds later the flyboy spoke. He sounded wary.

“Who is this?”

“Bauer. I have information for you. About the Gestapo.”

“Not now, please.”

“But it’s important. Where can we meet?”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Maybe a little.”

“You’ve been in the hotel bar, rubbing elbows with them.” He laughed. “It’s even worse than I expected. Christ, you’re like an unexploded bomb that needs to be disarmed, and I sure as hell don’t want to touch you. You’re not calling from your room at the Bellevue, are you?”

“Of course.”

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 embarrassment. For all he had endured during the previous years, he knew that in some ways he remained soft, callow, a naive practitioner 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
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 leadership 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 shipment 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 passed 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 assassination 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 mass 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 glass 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 noble. 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 glasses 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 mass 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 embarrassment, 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 Sonnenbergstrasse. 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.