Agent in Berlin, page 30
There was precious little time for him to study the documents but he was certainly able to pick up that the development of the Focke-Wulf 190 was going well. He read how the BMW 139 engine was replaced with the 801 and once the cockpit had been moved the fuselage became more robust and this was regarded as a significant improvement. There was a new cooling unit, which was also seen as a big success although the high temperatures generated by the radial engine were still seen as a problem that needed to be sorted.
Kurt Tank was very pleased with the new wing design – it was larger than the previous wing and did slow the 190 down by around six miles per hour but made the plane far more manoeuvrable and significantly increased its climb rate.
There were references to production, which caught his eye. The trials at the Luftwaffe’s Erprobungsstelle test facility in Rechlin were going well, so much so that the next stage of production was now underway. They expected the plane to fly in combat by the summer. The main production centre would be Focke-Wulf’s factory in Bremen, but there was concern about concentrating all their efforts on one location, especially one well within the reach of the RAF, so the AGO Flugzeugwerke factory in Oschersleben would also be used.
It came as little surprise to Jack Miller when messages from London became increasingly insistent.
We must have ground-level photography from Bremen and Oschersleben.
That is an absolute priority.
* * *
Two days after his meeting with Hans von Tschammer und Osten, Jack Miller received a travel permit allowing him to visit Bremen: attached to it was a letter from the Reichssportführer asking that every courtesy be afforded to Herr Jack Miller.
One week later he was in Bremen. He arrived the day before the game between Werder Bremen and Eintracht Braunschweig, allowing himself time to look around the city. It was a short walk from the main station across the Stadtgraben Lake into the Altstadt, the old town. His hotel was off Bredenstrasse, in what locals called Mittenmang, which meant being at the centre of everything.
And he certainly was at the centre of everything.
It was a pleasant walk heading east from the Altstadt along the north bank of the Weser River to the Weserstadion, the home of Werder Bremen. He collected his accreditation for the match and sought out one or two people to interview. There was a coach who was in a hurry but predicted a tight game and said they were taking nothing for granted – every coach he’d ever interviewed before a game said the same thing. An older official wanted to tell him the history of the club and helpfully showed him around.
Would you mind if I took some photographs of the ground?
Of course not!
May I take one with you pointing to the goal?
Of course not!
When he left the ground, he took a tram heading east, into Hastedt, the location of the Focke-Wulf factory. He’d hoped he wouldn’t miss it but it was so large it dominated area. The tram route ended close to the factory and Jack got off to catch a local bus. It was around three o’clock, a quiet time, and the bus – which as far as he could tell was on a circular route – was more or less empty. He found a seat at the back with no one near him and knew this was an opportunity he couldn’t miss.
He took out his Leica camera – the one he’d just used in the Weserstadion – and replaced the 35-millimetre film with a new one. He held the camera low against the window of the bus, taking a series of photos as they drove past the factory. It was only when he’d taking all thirty-six exposures that he realised he wasn’t alone. A large woman, perhaps in her forties, was sitting in the row in front of him on the other side of the aisle. He had no idea how long she’d been there but she seemed interested in him. If pushed he’d have said she was curious rather than suspicious, but he didn’t want to put it to the test.
‘Heil Hitler!’
The woman hesitated and then looked shocked at not replying immediately. She said sorry and ‘Heil Hitler’ and looked away.
A cold fear gripped him. He needed to remove the film he’d just used and replace it with the one from the football ground, but that needed to be done carefully. It would take a couple of minutes and was not an altogether silent procedure. By his reckoning they were two stops away from the tram stop. He decided not to risk changing the film then.
The same woman left the bus at the tram stop and was on the same tram as him as it heading back to the Altstadt. He got off the tram at the Weserstadion and walked back from there, stopping at a bar along the way for a cold beer.
He was still shaking when he arrived back at the hotel. This was all becoming too much. He felt as if he was riding his luck on every mission. He was also making mistakes – how could he not have spotted the woman on the bus? Could she now be telling someone about the strange man she saw on the bus? With a camera, I’m sure of it – yes, as we went past Focke-Wulf!
In the hotel room he looked in the mirror. He seemed to have aged by about ten years. There were lines around his eyes and the skin on his chin now sagged. His hair was beginning to thin and was greying at the temples. He was constantly anxious, drank too much, slept badly and the happy-go-lucky Jack Miller – the charmer from Philadelphia, the man with the smart sense of humour and an impressive success rate with beautiful women – that Jack Miller was a stranger, a shadow in the past.
His mind turned to his retirement plans: leaving Germany, returning to the States – the Lisbon route was the one he preferred – and only letting Barney know once he was back in Philadelphia and by the time he received the letter Jack would be visiting his brother at whichever port he’d ended up at. Just the thought of that calmed him down. He knew he didn’t have much longer in Berlin before he’d make a fatal error, a mortal misjudgement.
He carefully placed the film in its hiding place in his shaving kit and decided that as far as Bremen was concerned, that was it. If they weren’t satisfied with the film, hard luck. He’d cover the match the next day and then head straight back to Berlin and once there he’d check out the best way to get to Lisbon. Someone mentioned something about being able to fly there via Zurich and Barcelona. There’d certainly be an article or two in that.
As he lay awake in bed that night, he reflected how ironic it was that Berlin felt safe compared to the trips outside it.
* * *
Sophia had told Karl-Heinrich as little as possible about the children’s home where she was going to volunteer. In truth, he wasn’t terribly interested. He’d come back to Berlin the weekend before her trip there and he was in as bad a state as she’d ever seen him.
In the early hours of the Saturday morning, she’d woken to find his side of the bed empty. She found him in his study staring at the wall. He had a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other. When he turned round his eyes were red and his skin grey.
Thank God you have no idea what it is like, Sophia. We are doing our duty and it has to be done, but… at what price.
She’d asked him what he meant and he said he just wanted to forget.
Before he left on the Monday morning, she reminded him she was going to the orphanage on Tuesday.
‘I’ll be back Wednesday.’
‘Where is it again?’
‘Near Magdeburg.’
‘In the city?’
‘Nearby, a town called Wanzleben.’
He nodded and then told her it may be a month before he returned, perhaps longer. He said he worried she must be at a loose end while he was away and she said he mustn’t worry about that, she managed to keep herself busy.
She left Berlin on the Tuesday morning, driving west through Potsdam, Magdeburg and Wanzleben. The orphanage was actually further west, just outside the smaller town of Klein Wanzleben. But she carried on, straight past the entrance to the orphanage – which was set back from the road in an old country house – and continued to drive south-west. Eight miles later she came to her destination: the outskirts of Oschersleben and the looming mass of the enormous AGO Flugzeugwerke factory.
She found an elevated area by the road in the shade of trees that offered good views of the factory. Cranes dotted the skyline: it was clear sections of the complex were still under construction.
She checked she wasn’t being observed and removed her camera from the glovebox and took a dozen photographs before driving on. She repeated the exercise twice more and was on the final exposure of the film, debating whether to push her luck and load another film, when the decision was made for her. In her rear-view mirror she watched as a police car pulled up. She had just enough time to slip the camera under the car seat.
Thank God you’ve turned up, officer! I am looking for the orphanage in Klein Wanzleben and I know it’s on this road but I can’t seem to find it – I keep stopping every time I see what looks like a turning!
She adjusted the red beret which matched her lipstick and smiled sweetly as she handed the officer a sheaf of papers: a letter from the orphanage, her own identity card, the car documents and a card identifying her as the wife of SS Brigadeführer Karl-Heinrich von Naundorf. When he saw the last one the officer clicked his heel and gave a small bow.
No problem Fraulein, no problem at all… you’ve driven past the orphanage… it’s easy to miss… this is a town called Oschersleben… please don’t worry, I’ll escort you back there myself.
Chapter 32
Berlin and Bern
April 1941
This time it wasn’t a thin strip of cardboard behind the cistern at Günter’s on Hohenzollerndamm but rather an envelope containing a note with a single line of type.
I must see you urgently! I will come tomorrow!
As a journalist Jack Miller had an aversion to exclamation marks. He’d been taught they should only be used in the most extenuating of circumstances. He hoped that their use in Japanese signified less urgency.
Tadashi Kimura arrived at his apartment on Sächsische Strasse the following afternoon clutching a bag from the stationery shop he’d just visited. Jack noticed he was wearing a large pair of dark glasses, which made his features less obvious.
What was obvious though was the diplomat’s agitation. Jack had always found him unflappable.
‘Is something the matter?’
‘May I sit down, Jack?’
‘Please do, you don’t need to ask. Just put those books on the floor. Don’t you want to take your coat off?’
‘I can’t be long Jack. I am very worried.’
‘About what?’
‘About the fact that based on my assessment of the political and military situation nothing seems to be happening in response to the intelligence I’m passing on to you. Remember, I’m based in Ambassador Ōshima’s office. I see almost everything. My real worry is that I pass on all this vital intelligence to you and I assume it is shared with the United States and yet… it appears it is being ignored. Japan is showing hostile intentions to the United States, the Japanese Imperial Navy is making plans to attack the United States Navy but I see no evidence the Americans or the British are reacting to my intelligence. I’m risking my life every day, Jack, and yet it seems no one is interested.’
‘I’m here in Berlin, Tadashi, so I don’t know all the ins and outs but my feeling would be just because you don’t see in your reports how the British and Americans are reacting to the intelligence doesn’t mean they aren’t. We just have to assume they are, but being very careful.’
‘I often ask myself if it’s worth me carrying on? After all, I promised to supply intelligence if the British helped Arno and that happened, we both kept to our sides of the bargain. But now…’
‘You said you want to join Arno in England and—’
‘Do you think that will ever happen, Jack? I’ve been in Berlin for three years now. If it wasn’t for Ambassador Ōshima I’d have been posted elsewhere. I worry I’ll be recalled to Tokyo or sent to another part of the world and I’ll never see Arno again. This war could last forever and—’
‘I’m sure you’ll get to see Arno again and I—’
‘You probably think it’s wrong, don’t you, Jack – my feelings for Arno and his feelings for me. I would imagine you think it is a perversion and—’
‘Tadashi, it’s none of my business and all I—’
‘I don’t expect people to understand. There is a long tradition of male relationships like ours in Japan: it is called nanshoku. It is only since the turn of this century that it’s become less tolerated. I would find it hard to explain my feelings to people and in any case, in my position it is impossible to do so. Part of Japanese tradition is to avoid drawing attention to oneself. But for me the idea that I won’t spend the rest of my life with Arno, that maybe I’ll never even see him again… that is an intolerable thought. It is the reason why I take these risks. And then to feel like no one is listening to what I say… There’s an ancient saying that is very difficult to translate but roughly it means shouting at empty ears. This is what it feels like to me.’
Jack had half a bottle of whisky left and poured a generous measure for his guest. Tadashi glanced at his watch before drinking it in one go and holding the glass out for a refill. Jack said he quite understood how his good friend – because that was how he regarded Tadashi – felt. He himself often felt like that. It was, he said, in the nature of what they did, which was lonely and dangerous and being so… isolated inevitably gave rise to these feelings of… doubt and uncertainty. It was easy to feel ignored but he really mustn’t feel like that: the information he was providing was of such high quality that he had no doubt it was being acted upon.
‘I’m going to Switzerland later this week and will be able to tell the British about your concerns – and I can also see what we can do about getting you out of here. Leave it to me.’
‘How come you’re going to Switzerland?’
‘It’s a long story.’
* * *
Jack Miller rarely visited the United States embassy on the corner of Pariser Platz and Hermann-Göring Strasse. He found them to be offhand and officious and had the impression they preferred to deal with American correspondents they knew well and trusted. Jack Miller had kept a distance from them and they clearly didn’t like it.
At the beginning of April, a message had come through from London: they wanted to debrief Jack in person. Could he make it Switzerland by any chance? As it happened, Jack had spotted a perfect opportunity to go to Switzerland, but he needed the advice of the embassy. The press attaché was an asthmatic young Bostonian who dressed formally and acted like a member of the British aristocracy. He and Miller held each other in mutual disregard.
No, he replied. I can’t help. I’m not a travel agent. Go and see Lowe in Consular.
It was the first time Jack Miller had met Frank Lowe, who turned out to be a most pleasant if rather put-upon Californian.
‘You realise the problem, don’t you, Jack – I can call you Jack?’
Jack said he wasn’t sure which problem he meant, he had so many of them. And sure, call me Jack, Frank.
‘You’re an American citizen. You can leave the Reich easily enough, assuming all the paperwork is in order and you don’t owe anyone any money and aren’t wanted by the Gestapo. But the problem will be getting back into Germany. I assume you’ll be wanting to return here?’
Jack said of course.
‘Don’t blame you. I know this place is hell on earth but we’re at the centre of it… every day feels like we’re witnesses to history. I’m keeping a detailed diary, you know. I don’t know if you know any publishers in the States? Look, there’s no guarantee you’ll get back in. My advice would be to find someone high up to endorse you. That should help.’
* * *
He took Frank Lowe’s advice and that afternoon made a telephone call, the result of which was a journey the next morning to the Reich Sports Office on Westend Allee and a meeting with Hans von Tschammer und Osten himself.
The Reichssportführer listened to him carefully, if slightly bemused, and when Jack had finished, picked up his phone and asked his secretary to bring coffee and then leaned back in his expansive leather chair and lit a cigar, puffing on it a few times before replying to the American.
‘What makes you think people in the United States will be interested in me?’
‘Because through your efforts, Reichssportführer, you have ensured sport and physical activity is at the forefront of national life. I cannot think of another country where that is the case. A profile of the man who is behind this will be unquestionably of interest to Americans.’
‘I think you’re trying to flatter me, Herr Miller.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because I imagine as usual you want a favour.’
Jack Miller shrugged as if nothing could be further from his thoughts. He said he quite understood if the Reichssportführer would rather not be interviewed and—
‘I didn’t say that, Herr Miller. I would be delighted to be interviewed. The only thing I would ask… indeed, insist upon is that you use my official photograph to accompany any article. Now, tell me what is the favour you require?’
‘Germany are due to play Switzerland at soccer – football – in Bern on the twentieth of April, I believe?’
‘That is correct. Our victory will be a fine gift for the Führer on his birthday.’
‘I would be most grateful if I could receive official accreditation for the match and a letter from you endorsing my travel permit, Reichssportführer.’
The German looked at him for a moment or two behind the curling brown smoke of his cigar. Then his face broke into a broad grin.
‘Of course, Herr Miller. I admire the way you operate. But the profile of me… if it isn’t flattering then I will withdraw the accreditation!’
