She led him through the street, passed a restaurant where a sign in the window announced it was Eintopftag, One-dish Day, when it was required to serve only a tasteless stew. On the walk in front of the restaurant was a bundle of the
Volkischer Beobachter,
the party's official newspaper, now down to one-page editions, and largely ignored except to kindle fires
Another stray bomb had fallen that morning further down the block, felling two buildings, setting them on fire, and blowing much of their contents out onto the street. Katrin and the boy picked their way along, stepping around a blackened trumpet, half an accordion, dozens of loose ivory piano keys, and a French horn twisted even more than French horns are in their natural state. The bomb had hit a musical instrument shop. The boy paused to put several piano keys in his pocket. The fire had been extinguished, and a crew was rolling up hoses. The street was slick with water.
A TeNo squad worked hurriedly in the rubble. TeNo was short for
Technische
Nothüfe,
the Technical Emergency Corps, also called the Rescue Squad. Cable from an electric winch on a Phanomen truck's front bumper was pulling aside a beam. One rescuer moved his finger in a circle, and the winchman engaged the drum. The cable became taut, and the beam groaned as it was dragged from the ruin. A scream came from the rubble. The winchman threw the winch's clutch With pry bars and axes, the Rescue Squad dug into the timbers. Artur tugged Katrin's hand to slow her so he could watch. The squad yelled encouragement to the trapped individual below. Two workers heaved on a wrecking bar, and two more reached deep into the wreckage. After a moment they gently pulled out the victim, who smiled weakly despite the blood on a leg. A gray-haired man in a tie Perhaps from the music shop. A litter was passed into the rubble.
The boy said, "That's blood."
"Yes."
"I seen it before."
She pulled him along, around a piano leg, then over a saxophone that had been pressed as flat as a coin, the mother-of-pearl keys sprinkled about. Artur stopped for some of these, too.
Katrin again brought up her wristwatch. "No wonder you lost your mother, Artur. You stop to pick up everything."
A few moments later they were on the Kurfürstendamm near the blackened skeleton of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church. The zoo flak tower— the dark, indestructible obelisk that Allied fighters pockmarked daily— loomed just to the north. At this intersection were public notice boards, dozens of them, installed for government announcements — Jack Cray's face stared out from each panel — but lately plastered with private messages. A few boards displayed items for trade, but most were papered with layer upon layer of missing-person messages, hastily handwritten judging from the scrawls, often on crumpled scraps, most from refugees fleeing west, telling of a time and place to meet, hoping to hook up with the missing.
This was the place in Berlin where the lost might be found. A hundred and more people clutched their coats, went up onto their toes, and called out, hoping against hope that the war would for once relent and allow their loved ones to appear at this spot. Occasionally a crushing embrace was seen, but most often people drifted away, one after another, hoarse and heartbroken.
Even Berliners who had misplaced one another while shopping knew to meet at these notice boards. And Artur's mother had figured out that her son might end up here. She leaped from the crowd and grabbed her son, her face broadly creased by a smile. Artur whooped and clung to his mother's neck, the piano keys and saxophone buttons rattling in his pockets, his wood truck in one hand. She scolded him softy, but he laughed. Artur's two brothers—perhaps seven and nine years old— waited nearby. The woman was dressed in a filthy Wehrmacht coat that hung to her ankles. Her hair was matted, and a deep cut on her chin did not seem to be healing. But she hugged and hugged her boy. Katrin looked at her watch. She still had ten minutes.
Finally, Artur freed himself to point over his shoulder at Katrin. Artur's mother smiled tentatively. Artur wiggled out of her arms to join his brothers. His mother's mouth moved, trying to find the right words. Then she stepped to Katrin and gripped both of her hands in hers and whispered a thank you.
Katrin pulled two cheese rolls out of her pocket, and passed them to the woman, who may not have seen that much food in weeks. She grabbed them, then remembered to smile another thanks. Katrin dug further, and pulled out three Kaiser rolls. The woman also took these, and turned to join her sons. She herded them away. West, of course. An instant later they had disappeared in the crowd.
Katrin fairly ran past the ruined church toward Budapcster Strasse. She reined herself in. To run in Berlin was to invite being stopped by the Gestapo. Wilhelm Becker had told her weeks ago that he was punctual. That in an emergency she could always find him walking along the park side of Tiergartenstrasse at four in the afternoon. He had given her precise instructions how to meet him, but only in a dire predicament. She hurried along the Landwehr Canal, then crossed a bridge to approach army headquarters.
And it was here she spotted Colonel Becker, emerging from the OKW building's double doors. But instead of turning north toward the park, for the stroll he promised he took every afternoon at four, he turned south, toward her. The distance between them closed rapidly. Other army officers moved in and out of the building.
She was startled by Becker's appearance. His shoulders were hunched protectively. His eyes were shadowed and remote, and, it seemed to Katrin, fearful, darting left and right. She had met him at several army social gatherings before Adam had been arrested, and the colonel had been animated, with an inexhaustible supply of expressions and gestures. But now his face was clouded, and his mouth was pulled back anxiously. Becker had the look of one expecting a blow.
Katrin stepped up to him. "Colonel Becker?"
He started, his head snapping back. And he gasped, more a hiss, when he recognized her. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
He shook his head so violently he dislodged his peaked hat, and it rested on one ear. "That's impossible. You've .. . you've put me in grave danger approaching me. I can't possibly..."
She fiercely gripped his elbow and turned him around. "Walk with me to the park."
When he balked, she pulled him along like she had done with Artur. The colonel ducked his head to hide his face under the cap's brim.
She said, "You didn't respond to my message."
His arm trembled under the pressure of her hand. He seemed so afraid he could not control his legs, and she guided him north, toward the Tiergarten. Fear was making him breathe like a runner.
"What has happened to you?" she demanded.
Becker coughed weakly, an excuse to hide his face behind his hand as a group of Wehrmacht officers passed. Two Mercedes limousines were at the curb in front of the headquarters buildings, and Becker tilted his cap to further hide himself. When he walked by the headquarters' doors, he quickened his pace, suddenly pulling Katrin along. Strung from telephone poles, overhead camouflage netting threw Crosshatch patterns of shadows on the sidewalk.
He was silent, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. He licked his lips. Again he ducked his head as army officers passed. Katrin led him across Tiergartenstrasse and into the park. They walked toward the East- West Axis. The park resembled the dreadful, grainy newsreels she had seen of the Great War's trench lands; craters, uprooted trees, stones strewn about, lawns hidden under debris, nothing untouched by high explosives.
She conducted him toward a bench that had been blown backward. He stood mutely while she righted it, then swept dampness from the seat with her hand before sitting down. After a moment Becker joined her on the bench.
"You ignored the message I left in the milk box," she said. "You recruited me, and now you've cut me off?"
"You have no idea what has been happening." Becker refused to look at her, staring at a bank of lilac bushes. Like a tortoise, he kept his head tucked back in his collar. He nervously dabbed at nothing at the corner of his mouth. "My superior, General Etzdorf, has been arrested, and so have two others in my office. And many others in my branch. A purge. The general and I..."
"He is a member of your group?"
"There is no group," he snapped. "The general and I have . . . have worked together on certain matters. He was arrested, and he may soon implicate me. He is in a cell somewhere, and I know they'll come for me if he starts to talk, and ... "
Fear had loosened Becker's tongue. His words gushed forth like water from a broken pipe. Katrin sympathized with him. She knew fear. All Berliners did. She patted his arm, just as she'd patted Artur's.
The gesture stopped Becker mid-sentence. He inhaled hugely. He
turned on the bench and finally looked at her. "Why have you come to me?"
"I need your help."
He shook his head sorrowfully. "That is impossible, Mrs von Tornitz. I am no doubt under suspicion. Perhaps we are being watched right now, as we sit here."
They were partly hidden by azaleas and lilacs, and could see only glimpses of trucks passing on Tiergarten Street.
He went on, "I have ceased all activity in this regard I no longer… no longer have the courage or strength to do those things." Katrin removed a handkerchief from a pocket and passed it under her nose. She had had a cold for months. "Colonel, I'm in over my head."
"Aren't we all?"
"I need your help."
"No longer," he said quietly, averting his eyes. "I can't… simply can't."
"You work in the office of army administration. You can easily get what I want."
He shook his head.
"I need the roster for the soldiers and SS troopers assigned to the Chancellery."
Judging from his reaction, she might as well have tried to set him on fire. Becker's eyes widened, his breath rattled in his throat, and he chopped the air with his hand, as if swatting away the absurd notion. Then he tried to rise, but she dug her fingernails into his arm and pulled him back down.
"You can get the Chancellery roster, can't you?" "Impossible. I'm already a suspect."
"You don't know that for sure."
"They will break General Etzdorf and then they'll come for me, and then…" His tone carried an undignified pleading, and he clamped shut his jaw.
Her voice was a study in reason. "Colonel Becker, you don't understand how important this is."
He rapidly shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I'm through with all that."
With histrionic embellishment, Katrin reached to scratch the top of her head. So apparent was this a signal that Becker leaped from the bench and started toward the street.
He made only three steps. As if by sleight of hand, Jack Cray appeared in front of Becker, perhaps from the lilacs, and gently pushed him back to the bench.
The colonel's face blanched. Cray was wearing a Wehrmacht captain's uniform taken from Katrin's closet. A bandage hid one of his cheeks. The cap's bill was almost on his nose, hiding his eyes. Under the bill was a row of butterfly bandages, covering the new gash on his forehead.
He sat on the other side of Becker. The colonel's gaze pivoted back and forth between Cray and Katrin.
She said, "Colonel, I don't have time to fool with you. You are going to obtain the Chancellery roster and bring it to me."
His breath was in his throat. He moved his head slightly, a negative.
"Take that bandage off," she ordered Cray.
The American pulled off the wrap, wincing as the adhesive tugged at his skin.
"Colonel, look at this man," she said.
Becker turned again to Cray.
She said, "This is the man on the posters all over the city. This is the Vassy Chateau killer."
Becker's face whitened even more. His mouth pulled back in a grimace of fear.
Katrin's voice was iron. "He is going to slit your throat right now, right on this bench, if you don't agree to bring me that roster."
Becker lost control of himself, leaning slightly toward Katrin.
Cray's face opened in astonishment. He blurted, "No, I'm not."
She persisted. "Colonel, this American is a ruthless killer. His knife is in his sleeve, the same one he used at the chateau. And he is going to do what he does best, on you, right now, unless you agree."
"No, I'm not." Cray held up his palms toward her. "I never said that."
Katrin ignored him. "Make your decision, Colonel."
Becker stared at Jack Cray, weighing the American's face, with its stony angles and pugilist's nose and draftee's haircut.
Cray tried a smile. "She's just teasing."
"Colonel, are you going to do what I say," she asked, "or are you living your last seconds?"
Becker closed his eyes in surrender. His voice could be heard just above the rush of the wind. "I might be able to get a copy of the roster."
Katrin stood. "Place it in the drop by tomorrow evening." She stared at him levelly. "If it is not there, I will anonymously telephone the Gestapo about your activities against the state. Then they will come for you, irrespective of what General Etzdorf tells them." She started back toward the street, making her way around mud-filled craters.
Cray shook his head and said to Becker, "She's been through a lot."
"You are planning to suborn someone on the Chancellery roster, hoping to get into the Führer's headquarters?"
Cray said nothing.
"You are too late," Becker said with some satisfaction. "The Führer is leaving Berlin tonight."
The American demanded, "How do you know that?"
"When the leader leaves the city, hundreds of orders are issued to accommodate the move. One of them is that the Chancellery guard is drastically reduced. It happens every time, a pattern. I know it because orders regarding the Chancellery contingent are distributed through my office."
"How will he leave Berlin?"
"Train or plane. Most rail bridges have been knocked out, so probably by plane."
"Tempelhof isn't operating, is it? The runways have been dug up by bombers."