Agent in Berlin, page 17
He left the hotel and walked along Saarland Strasse until he found a telephone box. She sounded pleased to hear from him. ‘We could meet for lunch, Edward: do you know Wertheim’s?’
‘No, but I’m sure I could—’
‘It’s an enormous department store on Leipziger Platz. Use the entrance on Vossstrasse and go… may I ask, Edward, are you married?’
‘Well, yes, I—’
‘Good, then go to the perfume department on the fourth floor and buy something nice for your wife: make sure they gift wrap it. Then go up one floor where there’s a very busy restaurant, people tend to share tables there. I’ll be waiting for you.’
He returned to the Excelsior for breakfast and then went to his room to have a bath, which gave him time to think. He thought of Piers and his comparison of a network of spies to a pack of wolves.
‘When the time’s right, Barney, you’ll know when to pull them together – when to form the pack.’
He reckoned that time was fast approaching. He didn’t know how many more trips he’d be able to make to Berlin – the political situation was deteriorating so fast. Only a few weeks previously the prime minister had told Parliament that in the event of any action threatening Polish independence the British and French governments would lend Poland ‘all support in their power’. For Barney Allen that seemed to be charting a steady course towards war.
Jack Miller was returning to Berlin that night from Essen. They were due to meet the following day and Barney felt the time was right to tell him about Werner and Sophia. The pack of spies was forming and he allowed himself to feel excited.
He left the hotel early for his meeting with Sophia, stopping at a telephone box to call Werner, which was a necessarily drawn-out affair. He’d send the code and meet at today’s rendezvous point, three o’clock by a tabac on Behrenstrasse where hopefully he’d be able to tell Werner about Sophia and Jack too.
He allowed the phone to ring twice before replacing the receiver, waited thirty seconds and rang again: three more rings. Satisfied the message had got through he headed off for Vossstrasse.
* * *
Sophia von Naundorf was as Barney Allen remembered her though if anything the past three years had made her more beautiful. Her once pale skin now had a healthier pallor and her large dark eyes looked even more remarkable. She wore an elegant beret and her smart coat had a fur trim with a cameo brooch on the collar.
She moved a plate and glass to allow Barney to sit down, silently indicating the place was free. The restaurant was as busy as she’d described, so noisy it was unlikely anyone would overhear let alone notice them.
‘I’m sorry we’ve not been able to meet before but… circumstances, you understand. Life with Karl-Heinrich is very demanding. It was difficult when we met during the Olympics, but now…’ She toyed with her potato salad and shook her head.
‘Karl-Heinrich’s now a Standartenführer, which is what I think you’d call a colonel. He commands a Standarte of five hundred men based in Breslau near the Polish border, which means he only returns to Berlin for a long weekend once or twice a month: he left early this morning. All I hear when he’s back is how the Jews and the Bolsheviks run the world… and the banks… and how they want another war, which is ironic of course because he clearly wants another war, he says he can’t wait to start fighting. It’s as if there’s a competition in the SS to see which officer can be more Nazi than the other. Sometimes when he’s drunk too much he tells me more about what he’s up to in Breslau than I think he means to. Have you heard of the Selbstschutz, Edward?’
He shook his head and she pushed her plate to one side, some of her potato salad and cold meat remaining uneaten.
‘As far as I understand the Selbstschutz are militias of ethnic Germans in Poland. They’re Nazis and I think their role is to help the Reich’s plans for Poland. So, if we go to war with Poland and invade it the Selbstschutz will be there to help them.’
‘Like a third column?’
‘Exactly. From what Karl-Heinrich tells me his Standarte is responsible for the Selbstschutz in much of the western part of Poland. They give them military training and the Selbstschutz also have the task of providing intelligence, like local lists of Jews and socialists and trade unionists. He says that when – not if, but when – the Reich takes over Poland then I won’t believe what will happen to all these people, especially the Jews.
‘The Nazis use the word Untermenschen to describe what they see as inferior people, non-Aryans, especially Jews and Slavs. If you have the misfortune to read any of Hitler’s…’ She paused to lower her voice and Barney leaned forward. ‘Any of his nonsense, then you’ll see he’s obsessed with the idea of Untermenschen and what he’ll do to them.
‘One of Karl-Heinrich’s areas of responsibility is the Polish city of Łódź, he tells me he has a very large Selbstschutz unit there. This weekend he was going on and on about their plans for Łódź: they’re even planning to rename the city Litzmannstadt. Apparently, the city has a population of around seven hundred thousand and a third are Jews and he says they don’t know what to do with them. The city’s a major textile production centre and should they put them to work for the Reich or re-settle them or… I can’t stand it, Edward, and the worst part is that I have no one to speak to. We ought to order a coffee and cake otherwise it may look odd.’
They sipped their coffee in silence for a while.
‘I did have my friend Esther – did I ever mention the Goldmanns to you, Edward? They lived in an apartment below us, Dr Goldmann was a doctor at the Charité. The daughter, Esther, became my best friend and confidante. Karl-Heinrich made their lives a misery. He got the Gestapo to raid their apartment and helped ensure the father lost his job as soon as Jewish doctors were banned from working. I think Karl-Heinrich inadvertently did them a favour: he was so awful to them they left last year and as far as I know they’re now in Belgium. Had they waited until now… it’s very hard for Jews to get out. So that is my life, I’m married to a Nazi and have to go along with it though sometimes wonder if I really do have to, I…’
Her voice tailed off and she looked past Barney, her big black eyes now moist with sadness. She wondered whether to mention about helping Kurt to escape from Berlin but decided against it.
‘There may be a way you could help, Sophia.’
The eyes turned to him.
‘There are people I know… in London… people who would be grateful to receive whatever information you have about… military and political matters, about the kind of things you hear from your husband.’
She didn’t look shocked as he’d expected her to, if anything she now looked more relaxed as she cut her cake and ate some while managing to keep her dark red lipstick untouched.
‘I could find a way of ensuring there’s no danger to you, Sophia… there’d be someone I totally trust here in Berlin who’d—’
‘These people you talk about, Edward, the people you say would be grateful to receive the information… are you one of them?’
Barney shrugged.
‘I do hope so… though I’m not sure this is the right time, but there will be a time when I feel I have to help you.’
‘It may be, Sophia – if there’s war between our countries – then it will be too dangerous for me to contact you and vice versa. In a moment I’m going to pass a piece of paper to you: it’s an address in Interlaken in Switzerland of someone called Annemarie who you’re to pretend was a penfriend of yours many years ago. When you feel in a position to help us, write to her saying you’ve decided to get in touch after all these years because you were wondering how she is. Don’t say anything negative, obviously. In fact, go out of your way to say how wonderful Karl-Heinrich is and how much you approve of what is happening in Germany: assume your letter will be read. We’ll then know you want to help us and you’ll receive a reply from this Annemarie. Soon after you’ll be contacted by someone saying they’re Friedrich – a cousin of Annemarie. You’ll be able to absolutely trust them.’
* * *
Barney Allen left the restaurant first and walked through Wertheim’s with the intention of leaving through the main entrance on Leipziger Platz. The meeting with Sophia, he decided, had gone very well: far better than he’d hoped. She was, after all, an intelligent woman and he doubted she could have misunderstood his approach to her. It hadn’t exactly been an ambiguous one.
…people I know… in London… people who would be grateful to receive whatever information you have about… military and political matters, about the kind of things you hear from your husband…
And she’d clearly understood it, checking if he happened to be one of these people. But then he began to wonder whether it had gone too well.
He paused by a display of men’s wallets on the ground floor, allowing himself an opportunity to have a good look around him, to be as sure as he could that he wasn’t being followed while at the same time trying to decipher her reaction.
She appeared genuine enough and he had checked her out when they’d first met in 1936, when Noel Moore had ascertained her story about being friendly with her Jewish neighbour was true. And yet… and yet… his experience of her in 1936 was that she was somewhat timid, cowed by her husband – and still in her twenties. There was nothing about her to suggest she was eager to be a British agent but despite this she’d responded to his telephone call with quite a sophisticated plan for how they should meet up. Wertheim’s was a clever place to meet – and its cafeteria was ideal – busy, noisy, and their encounter looked like a spontaneous one, two strangers sharing a table. The idea about perfume for his wife – gift wrapped – was a neat touch, though he had no intention of giving it to his wife who thought he was in Scotland on business and who in any case would be suspicious as to why he’d bought her perfume.
He imagined Piers Devereux would tell him not to worry too much.
When recruiting agents we have to rely on our instincts far more than you’d imagine, Barney… there’s a limit as to how far one can check out a story… if someone isn’t genuine they may well have gone to extraordinary lengths to fool us. If someone tells you their mother’s maiden name is Wolstencraft and gives an address in Somerset and tells you who the neighbour was when they were a child… well, if that all checks out – and invariably it does – then it’s too easy for us to think therefore they’re fine and to be trusted.
An assistant asked Barney if he was interested in the wallet he was looking at and Barney was so absorbed in his thoughts he began to say ‘pardon’ in English before checking himself. He smiled and moved on until he found a bench behind the lifts and decided to wait there for a final check on whether he’d been followed.
He would rely on his instinct, which was to trust Sophia. She had all the makings of an excellent agent. Her readiness to betray her husband, her country, was, he decided, born out of a sense of injustice. Her cleverness at arranging their meeting – while surprising – should be seen as a good thing: she was a natural as a secret agent, someone who Piers would describe as ‘intuitive’, which he was forever saying was what he was looking for.
The information Sophia had given about her husband being based in Breslau and what they were up to with the German militia in Poland and the plans for Łódź… that alone was invaluable. He’d write up the report as soon as he returned to London and the MI6 and Foreign Office analysts would be able to verify it. If nothing else it was further evidence of Germany’s hostile intent towards Poland.
* * *
He left the store and headed to the rendezvous with Werner on Behrenstrasse. He was annoyed rather than worried when the German didn’t show up: Werner’s attitude on this visit certainly left much to be desired and while he was prepared to make allowances for the pressure the man was clearly under, he wondered whether he ought not give him a bit of a talking to when they met. Not quite reading the Riot Act but something pretty stern nonetheless.
The fall-back was to call between four thirty and five that afternoon. Barney made the call from a telephone box in Anhalter station. The protocol for an afternoon call was three rings, terminate the call and one minute later four rings. But on just the second ring someone answered the phone. ‘Hello… who’s that?’ It was a male voice, far deeper and rougher than Werner’s, and in the background, Barney could hear a noise like something heavy being moved.
It was one of those moments of profound shock when even in the noisiest of places – and Anhalter station certainly came into that category – a chilling silence seemed to fill the void. He felt a ringing in his ear and his throat tighten as he slowly replaced the receiver: Werner was clearly in trouble; he’d never answer a call so early in case it was a coded message and whoever answered the phone was not Werner – or a friend. Barney looked around and watched as two policemen walked past and he worried he’d made a mistake calling from the station: the background noise gave too much away.
He allowed himself a few precious seconds to remain in the call box and regain his composure and come up with some kind of plan. Werner was clearly in trouble and there was nothing Barney could do about it, other than ensure he left Berlin before the spotlight trained on him.
He hurried out of the station and back to the hotel via the tunnel under Askanischen Platz. In his room he wrote a letter to Jack, apparently from his plumber saying he regretted he was unable to visit tomorrow due to a family problem: Jack would know something was up and he was to lay low for a week.
He rang the hotel reception: he’d received some bad news, unfortunately, and had to leave Berlin. If they could prepare his bill, he’d be very grateful – and he understood there was a night train to Amsterdam, perhaps they could ask the concierge to book him onto that?
First class, please.
He collected the ticket at reception and asked what time he was due to arrive in Amsterdam, speaking loudly enough for the security officer on the next desk to hear.
He headed back into Anhalter station but once there – and certain he’d not been followed – left through another exit and crossed the city to Lehrter station, where he travelled second class to Hannover.
If anyone had picked up his trail in Berlin, he hoped they were following the wrong scent to Amsterdam.
Once in Hannover he realised he needed to keep moving. He caught the last train out of Hannover up to Hamburg, where he knew he’d be safe overnight.
The following morning, he caught the first train of the day to Lübeck. It was only when he was on the ferry to Copenhagen that he could relax, if that was the right word for it. As he watched the German coast fade from view he wondered about Werner: had he managed to escape, or was he in the hands of the Gestapo?
Either way, he wondered if he’d been too hasty leaving Berlin.
Poor Werner.
Chapter 17
Berlin
May 1939
Maureen Holland was even more bitter than usual. For as long as she could remember she’d been resentful of those around her – their looks, their wealth, their careers… friendships, health… their happiness.
She’d never forgotten when she was fifteen overhearing her father describe her as the runt of the litter, and on the rare occasions she dared complain to her mother about how life was treating her, she was told there was nothing she could do about being plain: she’d have to make do with the hand she’d been dealt.
Her twenties were spent in a series of tedious jobs. At twenty-eight she was engaged to a man fifteen years her senior who took advantage of her in a most distressing manner before breaking off the engagement.
When she was thirty, she treated herself to a coach holiday to Germany and was fascinated with the country. It was 1927 and the country was in a state of turmoil but she nonetheless fell in love with the place. She enjoyed the atmosphere, the sense of order, the culture and even the food: she felt she belonged there.
When she returned to England, she enrolled in German night classes and after a while reached a reasonable level of competence in the language, reinforced by annual visits to Germany when she could afford them.
She also became interested in politics. Her father had always told her politics should only be of concern to people who understood it, which certainly didn’t include her. But she admired the political direction in which Germany was moving and found herself wishing that were the case in England.
Around this time – it would have been 1932 – she developed a hatred of Jews, who she saw as responsible for so much ill fortune in the world (they’d started and financed the Great War after all). This hatred had a personal dimension too. She’d found a job as a clerk at an insurance firm in the City where some knowledge of German was a requirement. It was the best job she’d ever had – quite well paid, in a smart, modern office and with good prospects.
But then a new girl arrived, a German Jew with excellent English. One day Maureen’s boss took her aside and said because her German wasn’t as good as the new girl’s English they were letting her go and he was sure she’d understand and would find a new job soon enough and he’d happily give her a good reference.
The following year she joined the British Union of Fascists and returned to night school, improved her German and moved to Berlin in 1937. She found a job as a teaching assistant and for a while life was pleasant enough, even if she didn’t feel quite as fulfilled as she’d hoped. German men treated her no better than English men had done, if anything they were worse – physically very aggressive.
In early 1939 she found a job at German radio, which was setting up an English language service at its brand-new studios in Westend. She was disappointed when the job turned out to be more menial than she’d been led to believe and for a few weeks found herself working for a very smart woman producer – a native of Berlin but fluent in English and countless other languages. One day Maureen had been complaining about her workload and a headache and her lodgings and the woman took her aside.
