Every Spy a Traitor, page 9
‘I’m British,’ replied Cooper, lowering his voice.
At that the other man leant forward and Cooper did likewise. Even in the dim light of the carriage he could see the man’s eyes were bloodshot. They darted around the compartment.
‘I am hoping to get to Britain.’
‘Have you been before?’
He shook his head. ‘I am afraid not, and my chances of getting there now are slim… I tried the British Passport Office in Berlin, but I had no chance. I’m not Jewish, and I have no contacts in Britain, which would have helped but… Are you here for work, may I ask?’
Cooper explained he was a traveller, someone who was interested in the world around him, and was visiting different places and possibly writing a book – a novel – based on what he saw.
‘You speak French?’
‘I do actually, yes.’
‘Are you familiar with the poet Baudelaire?’
Cooper nodded. Almost as difficult as Goethe.
‘He wrote of the flâneur – a gentleman who strolls the streets of a city, detached from the routine around him, but instead observing what is going on, not rushed or with an appointment to hurry to or a church or a museum to visit. The flâneur is the ideal person to makes sense of the world, to observe it from a casual yet objective point of view. I have always aspired to be a flâneur, but for now I cannot contemplate that luxury. But you, my friend, you’re a flâneur, you’re a very fortunate man.’
And then the young man leant even closer. He introduced himself as Manfred and Cooper shook his hand and Manfred grasped it eagerly, holding Cooper’s hand with both of his and not letting go. He explained his family were committed Nazis but he was a socialist and he’d fled the family home in Dresden and moved to Berlin, which was still a liberal city despite everything, and there he’d fallen in love with a Jewish girl and as a result had been thrown off his university course and from his lodgings and then there’d been a fight – no more than a scuffle, really – with a member of the SS when he’d tried to protect another man who was being beaten up and although he’d managed to get away they knew who he was and there was a warrant out for his arrest.
‘The papers I have’ – he patted his jacket pocket – ‘got me out of Berlin and I’m hoping they’ll get me to Hamburg. Do you know Hamburg? It’s essentially a socialist city, even now – though, don’t get me wrong, the Nazis control it. But if I can get to the docks, I have a chance of getting on a boat. Ideally, I’ll go to your country, but I’ll go anywhere – Denmark, maybe? I have to get out of this cursed place.’
‘I expect to be back in London in July. You should look me up.’
Manfred smiled for the first time, but when Cooper opened his notebook and began to write he reacted with alarm.
‘It is too dangerous to write anything down. Tell me your address.’
They talked quietly for the remainder of the journey, punctuated by periods of silence during which both men closed their eyes, but sleep was never a companion on that train and when Cooper took out a roll he’d bought at Essen station he shared it with Manfred, who confided he hadn’t eaten for more than a day. Cooper opened his wallet and handed Manfred a ten Reichsmark note.
‘I can’t, really. I have no chance of repaying it!’
‘When you meet me in London you can take me out for a drink. Knowing you made it out safely is repayment enough for me.’
* * *
In truth, Hamburg had never stood a chance. He was well-disposed towards it because of what Manfred had told him, but these feelings disappeared soon after they arrived.
Dawn had broken as the train pulled into the station and he and Manfred walked alongside each other as they approached the barrier.
‘Perhaps if you go immediately ahead of me, as you’re a foreigner, they will pay you more attention and maybe let me through more easily.’
But it was a disaster. Cooper was quickly waved through, but he heard raised voices and shouting behind him and carried on walking until he could resist the urge to turn round no longer.
He saw Manfred being marched away, a man on either side of him, Manfred staring ahead of him, most probably doing his best to avoid looking anywhere in Cooper’s direction.
And as he left the station and emerged onto Steintor Platz, he had the most dreadful thought: what if poor Manfred thought it was he who’d betrayed him?
* * *
Until Hamburg, Cooper had been a tourist. A reasonably well-informed and interested tourist certainly, a keen observer, a flâneur, as Manfred had put it, but a tourist nonetheless.
But now he was something different, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what that was. He was less wide-eyed and no longer so naïve about what he saw. It was as if he’d hardened up, mindful of a quote from the Old Testament he remembered from school about being a stranger in a strange land.
He wasn’t even sure whether he wanted to remain in this strange land for much longer. Summer was approaching and maybe he could head to Italy for as long as his budget allowed and forget about the book and politics.
He remained in Hamburg for a few days, but his heart wasn’t in it, despite the atmosphere being markedly less oppressive than elsewhere. He travelled from Hamburg to Hanover where Baedeker informed him ‘the purest German is supposed to be spoken’ and stayed there for a few days.
And then he went to Berlin.
Chapter 8
Berlin
May–June 1937
Charles Cooper left Hanover in the final hours of May. By the time his train pulled into Lehrte station in Berlin it was a bright Tuesday morning. The station was already busy, with clouds of steam drifting along the platforms and the concourse as Cooper made his way to the ticket barrier.
He was waved through and couldn’t help noticing there were more men around in uniform than anywhere else he’d been in Germany, including Munich. For much of his journey through Germany he wondered about visiting Berlin at all. For one thing, he was running short of money, and Berlin had a reputation for being expensive.
But, more to the point, he was unsure he wanted to see the Maurers again. They’d been pleasant enough in their own way and even quite interesting but there was something odd about them, something he couldn’t put his finger on, and he was a bit ashamed to be feeling like that because it was quite possible that the problem was his English reserve, his reluctance to get too close to people. And the last few weeks travelling round Germany had certainly had an effect on him: he was now less inclined to assume the best in everyone and everything he encountered. He noticed how much more sceptical he’d become.
But he was sure the Maurers were just trying to be friendly and he really ought to learn to be less sceptical about people, he resolved. More trusting and open to other ideas and customs – that was part of the purpose of his trip round Europe, after all. And, in any case, needs must: it wasn’t as if he had much of a choice about taking up the Maurers’ offer of hospitality. He had precious little of the fifty pounds he’d budgeted for this trip remaining.
Staying with the Maurers would help enormously.
* * *
He worried that six o’clock may be too early to call them, so found a cafe in Invaliden Strasse in front of the station and made a large mug of weak coffee and a jam roll last an hour and at seven o’clock rang the number the Maurers had given him. Ida answered the phone and said, no, of course it wasn’t so early and he mustn’t keep apologising and of course he was more than welcome to come and stay with them. In fact, they’d been expecting him.
* * *
The Maurers lived in Prenzlauer Berg and it took him just over half an hour to walk there, allowing him an opportunity to get a feel for the city. It didn’t take him too long to be overwhelmed by Berlin. Munich, Frankfurt and Hamburg were large cities, but Berlin had a grandeur to it and an air of authority and confidence that came with being a capital city. London was like that, and he’d sensed it in Paris, too. But neither Paris nor London had streets teeming with armed men. Neither Paris nor London had their imposing buildings draped in enormous flags. Neither Paris nor London had a populace who moved around in such a subdued manner, glancing around nervously while avoiding eye contact with other passers-by.
Had Cooper put his mind to it he’d have guessed that the Maurers were solidly middle-class, perhaps professionals, so he was surprised when he arrived at their apartment block on Wörther Strasse. It was a few minutes’ walk north of Senefelder U-Bahn station, between Schönhauser Allee and Prenzlauer Allee and on the junction with Treskow Strasse, and while he wouldn’t have described it as a slum – and he’d be the first to admit he wasn’t familiar with how people lived in Berlin – it did all feel a bit rundown. The kind of area that had evidently enjoyed better times.
There were four apartments on each of the five floors, all reached off a central staircase, the air musty with a pervading smell of cooked cabbage. The Maurers were on the top floor. As he climbed past the fourth floor a dog barked loudly from behind a door, setting off a cacophony of noise from the block’s other canine residents.
The Maurers were both there to greet him, standing in the narrow hallway, quite formally dressed, and they shook his hand in a formal manner. The apartment was small and sparsely furnished and his first reaction was that this was a predominantly functional place, more a house than a home, which he thought was a good line for his novel.
The apartment comprised a lounge, a small kitchen, a bathroom and toilet and the Maurers’ bedroom. Next to it was a small room with a single bed in it and little else – there wasn’t the space.
He was shown into the lounge and sat in an upright chair opposite the Maurers who sat next to each other on a sofa. There was silence for a while as they observed him, Ida Maurer studying him intently and unnervingly, Ernst Maurer smiling and fidgeting, possibly uncomfortable. The curtains were only half drawn and with the heavy net curtain the room was cast in a dim light, such sunlight as managed to get through catching specks of dust as they drifted through the gloom.
‘It’s very decent of you to put me up: I’m terribly grateful. My travels in Germany proved to be quite a drain on my funds.’
‘But interesting, I hope?’
‘Oh yes, most interesting, Frau Maurer.’
‘You must call me Ida, please. And has your journey been worthwhile?’
‘Indeed, though I…’ He hesitated, unsure of straying into any area that could be regarded as political. He’d developed a sense of that on his travels: there were certain matters one did not discuss, at least not with people one didn’t really know and he realised how little he knew about the Maurers. They were clearly very good at playing their cards close to their chests. The characters in his novel based on them would be described as enigmatic.
But he decided to be as frank as he dared. As interesting – and worthwhile – as his trip round Germany had been, he said, he had to admit it had been… and he hesitated but caught Ernst’s friendly smile. ‘Unnerving, I think that’s the word.’
‘In what way?’
He talked about what he called the excessive militarism and general atmosphere of suspicion and of always feeling one had to be on one’s guard and he noticed both of the Maurers nodding so he talked about his visit to the British consulate in Munich and the Jews queuing there in the hope of getting a visa and the Braun Haus and how he was prepared to admit he’d been foolish going there, because he’d ended up being interrogated, and how the other places he stopped at weren’t quite as intense as Munich but were nonetheless places he couldn’t feel relaxed in.
‘If you wanted to be relaxed you should have remained in Switzerland.’
‘I do realise that, Ernst, and I keep reminding myself that I am after all gathering material for a book and I’ve certainly got plenty of that.’
And then he told them about his encounter with poor Manfred on the train to Hamburg, except that he decided to be cautious so said the young man’s name was Paul, but soon realised his caution was pointless because if the Maurers were on the side of the authorities then he could soon enough be linked with the man arrested at Hamburg station.
He paused, thinking about Manfred and wondering what had become of him. He couldn’t imagine it being anything other than something dreadful. He should have intervened at the time.
‘What do you make of everything you saw; of the atmosphere you so neatly describe? Does it appal you or does part of you approve of it? After all, many people around Europe – not just in this country – approve of the order Hitler has brought to Germany and the way he is doing something about the economic and social chaos. They may not approve of all of his methods, but there is a sense that it is all worth it. And as for the Jews, well, many people feel that it is not a bad thing that they’re being put in their place, likewise the communists and the socialists.’
‘When I arrived in Germany, I imagined myself as an observer, a traveller who was able to view matters objectively and dispassionately. I’m told there’s a French word – the flâneur – someone who wanders around apparently aimlessly, yet not without purpose, if that doesn’t sound somewhat complicated. But while on the one hand I like to think of myself as a flâneur I’ve also come to realise that with the situation here in Germany, one cannot sit on the fence.’
He stopped and coughed and looked at the Maurers hoping they may give him some encouragement or at least a reaction, but they sat impassively, and the most he got was a brief nod from Ida Maurer to indicate he should carry on.
‘I strongly disapprove of what the Nazis are up to. When my guide book speaks of “fruitless Parliamentarianism” and “the reawakening of race-consciousness”, well… it offends my sense of fair play.’
He’d been staring at the threadbare carpet as he spoke, unsure of how they’d react and when he looked up, they gave the impression that he was to continue.
‘So, there we are… I’m sorry if I’ve spoken out of turn, but then you did ask me what I thought. I do tend to ramble, though – eh?’
He’d surprised himself at how outspoken he’d been. He was normally so much more equivocal. He glanced up and smiled and to his intense relief so did the Maurers and Ida Maurer said she could quite see his point and it was interesting to hear an outsider’s perspective and he was very welcome to stay with them to the end of June, if he wished.
‘But a warning though, Herr Cooper: it is one thing expressing your personal opinions to us, but do not repeat them to anyone else you meet. Berlin is a very dangerous place in that respect.’
* * *
And so it was for the following week. It had been made clear he was expected to leave the apartment at a quarter to eight in the morning, at the same time as the Maurers. He was never sure what they did or where they went and he thought better than to ask because to do so would have felt intrusive. He’d plan his itinerary for the day the previous evening and would either walk to his first destination or go to one of the U-Bahn stations on Schönhauser Allee.
He’d aim to return to the apartment around a quarter past six in good time for dinner at six thirty and they’d always be there, Ernst invariably opening the door as he approached it, as if they’d been watching his arrival from their window.
The Maurers were pleasant enough hosts, but supper was usually eaten in silence. The meals tended to be frugal, plenty of potatoes, little in the way of vegetables and small portions of meat, always overcooked. There’d be a plate of black rye bread and sometimes a cake and while he didn’t go hungry, Cooper always made the most of the food stalls around Mitte where he could feast on sausages and rolls.
The longer he stayed with them, the more intrigued he was at quite who they were. By now, his ear was finely tuned to hearing German and there was something odd about the way they spoke: it was as if they were rehearsed, a bit too practised.
One evening he returned far earlier than usual, closer to six o’clock. There’d been a storm over Berlin and he was drenched and was sure they’d understand his early arrival.
When he approached the front door of their apartment, he noticed it was ajar and when he pushed it open, he could hear them talking in the kitchen, at the end of the hall.
He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they were certainly not speaking German. He couldn’t make out what language it was other than it wasn’t English or French either. The conversation had an urgency to it, as if they were arguing. When he called out ‘hello’ they stopped abruptly, and Ernst looked flustered. Ida ushered him into the lounge and said he was to remove his wet shoes and jacket and she’d bring him a lemon tea.
After he’d been with them for a week, he was woken early one morning by the ringing of a telephone. He looked at his watch and saw it was six thirty. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but by seven o’clock Ida had left the house. Ernst explained she’d been called to visit a sick relative. She’d be back soon.
It was three days before she returned and during that period her husband was clearly on edge, sitting close to the telephone or waiting by the front window, anxiously watching the road through the blinds.
And the final mystery was the one which gave Cooper most pause for thought. Returning to the apartment, he was walking up Schönhauser Allee when he spotted the unmistakable figure of Ernst ahead of him.
But there was something different about Ernst: he walked differently – more cautiously, as if he had a bad back – and kept stopping to glance around. Cooper dropped back and watched as Ernst removed his hat and put it and his raincoat in a canvas bag he was carrying and then turned suddenly into a side street and as he did so quickened his pace, as if hurrying for a tram.
