Authors: John Anthony Miller
The Gestapo officer walked through the decorative iron railing that wrapped the outdoor tables, while the two soldiers stood and flanked the entrance. York watched warily as he came towards them and paused for a moment, as if considering a nearby table. York put down the photographs, relieved he wasn’t there for them. Even the Gestapo ate lunch.
“Stay calm and change the subject to music,” he whispered. He looked at the sedans parked behind him and across the street. He didn’t see any occupants. They must be harmless. But he was annoyed that he hadn’t noticed them before.
Amanda thought his behavior odd, but she still complied. She was used to seeing German officers; she didn’t recognize the threat. But she did sense danger.
“The concert was sold out,” she said as the officer approached. “That’s one thing about Berliners. The world can be at war but they love concerts, the theater, cabarets. They want to be entertained.”
The officer, a captain, stopped in front of their table, nodding politely, an interested expression on his face. “Photographs?” he asked, extending a hand.
York’s heart began to race. He didn’t want the Gestapo looking at the pictures. They didn’t need the attention.
Amanda intervened. “Would you like to see them?” she asked, snatching them from York. “I’m an amateur photographer. I took them of the Fuhrer.”
The captain took the pictures and started to leaf through them, shock registering on his face. He got to the fourth photograph and his eyes narrowed, his suspicion showing.
“You took these photographs?” he asked.
“Yes,” Amanda replied. “At the Fuhrer’s birthday party last year.”
“Really?” the officer asked, not believing her, an amused smile erasing the skepticism. “And what were you doing at the Fuhrer’s birthday party?”
“Performing,” she said. “I’m a violinist. Amanda Richter.”
The officer’s eyes widened, his mouth opened. Once he recognized the name, his behavior changed quickly. He bowed, snapping the heels of his boots together. “Mrs. Richter, I’m honored. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
She smiled. “I like not being recognized,” she said, waving away his apology. “Look at the rest of the photographs. The party was fabulous.”
“I’m sure your husband is very proud,” he said. He returned the pictures to the table, embarrassed to look, not wanting to offend Manfred Richter’s wife.
He turned to York, looking at him curiously, an arrogant sneer returning to his face. “I’m sorry, sir. And you are?”
“Michael Becker,” Amanda said, answering for him. “A music critic.”
“Sergeant Michael Becker, sir,” York said, saluting. “I’m on convalescent leave from wounds in North Africa.” He motioned to the cane.
“Are you anxious to get back to the front, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. He managed a weak smile. “I’m tiring of my staff position. It’s not quite the same. If it weren’t for my appreciation of classical music, and the ability to attend concerts and critique the performances, I’m afraid Berlin wouldn’t suit me.”
“Yes, sometimes I feel the same,” the officer said, his eyes trained on York, still wondering what he was doing with Amanda.
“I’m hoping the Berlin doctors clear me for duty soon.”
“As what?” the captain asked.
York shrugged. “As an ambulance driver, if nothing else. At least I could serve the Fatherland.”
“Sergeant,” the officer nodded. “Enjoy your lunch.” He smiled at Amanda. “It was a pleasure, Mrs. Richter.”
The captain walked to the café door, his guards remaining on the pavement. He went inside, grabbed a newspaper, and sat at a table near the window. When a waiter approached, he ordered lunch, paying no more attention to them.
“Amanda, you were marvelous,” York said softly, expressing his admiration. “That could have been a nasty situation.”
She grinned. “I told no lies.”
“The music critic was a stretch.”
“Not really,” she said innocently. “Anyone can be a critic. He assumed you were a professional. But I never said you were.”
While keeping a wary eye on the Gestapo, York glanced through the photographs again. There were about thirty in total. After a quick survey, he put them in his pocket.
“What do you have on your calendar for the next few weeks?” he asked, returning to their original topic.
She thought for a moment. “I think there’s a party at the Goebbels. I’m not sure exactly when. I don’t know if the Fuhrer will be there, but other leaders will.”
“I’ll coach you on what to listen for,” he said. “It’s primarily anything related to the military: weapons, troop movements, strategies. Anything.”
“I’m not sure how effective I’ll be,” she said. “I’m much better with photographs.”
He looked at the soldiers, standing guard. They were watching pedestrians, not interested in the patrons. Then he glanced in the café. The Gestapo officer was reading his newspaper, sipping a cup of coffee. A half-eaten piece of schnitzel and some noodles remained on his plate. With his eyes on the paper, he moved his fork into the noodles and took a mouthful.
York turned to Amanda. “There are about thirty pictures here. Do you have more?”
She smiled, her eyes lighting with laughter. “My hobby is photography. Do you think I have more than thirty pictures? I have thirty boxes.”
“More like these?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Mostly birds, but I know you’re not interested in them. And buildings, especially those that are architecturally significant. Some history and natural landscapes. I tried to document the ten years I’ve been here.” She paused and her face hardened. “I have one box that is very important. I must get it to you as soon as possible, and you must send it to London.”
“What’s in it?”
“I’ll bring the photos the next time we meet,” she said evasively. “Only that box is unique. The rest are buildings and birds, and Berlin during the last ten years.”
He was intrigued. “I want to know what’s in that box.”
“You will,” she said, shifting uncomfortably.
He watched her a moment and decided not to press the issue. “Actually, I would love to see them all. But not for what you think. When the world isn’t at war, I’m a history teacher. History and languages, German and French.”
“Really?” she asked, surprised. “I never would have guessed.”
He shrugged. “My livelihood, I suppose.”
“I would love to show you more, if you think you’re interested.”
He looked at her, the smile brightening her face, her dark eyes twinkling. She was enjoying this. He suspected no one ever showed any interest in her, not even her husband.
“I would like to see the buildings, too. I love architecture. I guess you could say it’s my hobby. But you’ll have to teach me about the birds.”
“We’ll have to take a walk some time,” she said. “There are many beautiful buildings right in this area.”
The Gestapo officer rose, preparing to leave, reminding York of the potential danger.
“Do you have more pictures like those that you gave me?”
“Yes, probably a few boxes.”
“Can we meet tomorrow? You can bring the photos from the box you told me about, and we can look at some more like these.”
“I suppose,” she said, a flicker of anxiety crossing her face. She looked up and down the street. “But this is not a good place. I know too many people in this area. I don’t want to be seen with you repeatedly. It looks suspicious.” She added softly: “Like we are lovers.”
Their eyes met and for a brief instant he wondered if they had found something more than an interest in ending the war. Their gaze was interrupted by the Gestapo officer opening the door.
He paused at their table, bowed courteously and then motioned to the soldiers. They walked to a streetlamp on the edge of the pavement and taped a small poster on it so that anyone passing would see it. When satisfied it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze, a soldier opened the rear door and the officer climbed in. The soldiers got in the front, the engine started and the car pulled away from the curb.
York excused himself and went to the streetlamp to look at the placard, shocked at what he saw. He could see a face on it, and the warning:
Wanted
by
the
Gestapo
.
He glanced at the other patrons, and then the passersby. No one had been watching the officer; they didn’t see what he had posted. After making sure he wasn’t being observed, he took the notice down and returned to the table.
“What’s the matter?” Amanda asked, sensing something was wrong.
He showed her the poster. “I know this man. Have you ever seen him?”
She looked at it and shrugged. “No, not that I remember.”
“We had better go,” he said, glancing around. “I’ll meet you tomorrow at nine a.m.”
She rose from the table, reluctantly. “Can we make it ten? I have to practice.”
“Ten a.m. How about at Olivaer Platz, where we met Friday?”
“Yes, that’s fine. But wait, don’t go yet.”
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“You said you have a favor to ask me?”
He had forgotten. But he didn’t have time. Not now. He had to go. “I do. And it’s very important to me. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”
“I suppose.”
“The park is more isolated. We can spend more time together there.”
“Until tomorrow,” she said, smiling.
He paused. There was something he wanted to say, even though he knew he shouldn’t. But he said it anyway.
“You’re a very special person.”
He turned and walked away, his limp noticeable, a look of surprise draped across her face. He wanted to stay, but couldn’t. It was too dangerous. He had to contact the man whose face was on the wanted poster.
It was Max.
Amanda left the café and walked back to her house, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She kept thinking about Michael, evaluating the risk but unable to see the reward. Maybe she could help shorten the war, a major contribution to mankind, but she didn’t understand how some old photographs would do that.
Right or wrong, it took courage and soul-searching to do what she was doing. But she knew she couldn’t turn back, even if she did change her mind. It had already gone too far. She was guilty in the eyes of the Gestapo and, if apprehended, it would cost her life. So whatever danger Michael confronted, she faced, also.
She knew the Gestapo poster was an unexpected danger, but she wasn’t sure why. Her impression of Michael was that he was careful, methodical, with a calmness that came with being prepared. He wasn’t prepared for the poster.
She had to make sure she never did anything to hurt him, even if protecting herself. That might mean only a few more meetings, just a handful of photographs, or revealing a dozen whispered words she might overhear. Maybe it meant a few more days, or weeks, but not more. But somehow she didn’t think so.
When she looked at him she saw honesty and sincerity, compassion and commitment. He was handsome, with piercing brown eyes muted by an inner sadness just like hers, a vulnerability that was hidden and sheltered, with a mental wall built around his heart for protection. She knew he was much more than a British agent; he was a teacher, historian, musician, and someone with interests similar to hers.
He seemed to genuinely care about who she was and what she did. And she couldn’t remember anyone else in her life that ever did. Not her mother or father. Not Manfred or Kurt. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she knew her life was about to change dramatically. But she didn’t know if it would be good or bad, happy or sad. She only knew it was because of him. And that she couldn’t control it.
Neither Kurt nor Manfred were home when she got there. Not that Manfred would be. And not that she cared. She went to her photography studio and started going through files, choosing snapshots she thought Michael could use. She was sensitive to military information: generals, troops with insignia visible, locations, major contributors to strategy, and she weighted the selections to the more recent, using a scattered few to offer a timeline of Berlin. When she finished, she had chosen about forty photos to represent her collection, knowing she had many more if needed. She put them with the special box of photographs she had told Michael about, a box she always kept hidden.
She was about to put everything away when she remembered their conversation. He was interested in architecture, and even asked about birds. She went through her files again and picked a handful of Berlin buildings: the University of Berlin, the Pergamon Museum, the Brandenburg Gate, the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, and three bridges, the Castle Bridge, Frederick’s Bridge, and the Kaiser Wilhelm Bridge. Then she scanned her collection of bird photographs, selecting six more.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon with her violin, drifting into the mystical world where music always took her. Her eyes closed as her fingers caressed the neck, the bow moving gracefully across the strings. She was always amazed at how much time passed while she played, immersed in a trance-like cocoon.
When she left the music room and went downstairs, she was surprised to see Manfred and Kurt in the parlor, immersed in discussion, a fatherly dissertation on the world and those who lived within it. Manfred frequently lectured Kurt, usually correcting some trivial shortcoming that was barely worth mentioning. He was extremely critical, which he had learned from his Prussian father, who probably treated him the same way. He had a drink in his hand, as he usually did before dinner, and already seemed a bit drunk.
“Manfred, I’m surprised to see you,” she said sternly, the memory of their last encounter not a pleasant one. She found the mere sight of him revolting. “Are you having dinner with us?”
He knew she was uncomfortable, and he seemed to enjoy it. “Yes, I am,” he said. “I can’t resist Hannah’s home-cooked meals.”
Amanda sensed something wrong. Manfred was never home during the week. She searched his face for a reason, something that may have made him suspicious, but she found nothing. Did he know about her meeting with Michael? What made today different?
“I was just showing Kurt this poster,” he said, dropping it on the table.
Amanda looked at it, struggling to hide her emotions, fighting to control herself. It was the same picture the Gestapo posted at the café; it was the man that Michael knew.
“Can you imagine that?” Manfred was saying to Kurt. “A British spy foolish enough to come to Berlin? Did he think no one would notice?” He started laughing, as if the enemy were all idiots, and sipped his drink.
Amanda felt beads of perspiration dotting her forehead. She sat down on the chair next to the sofa, and pretended to be interested. This was one of the opportunities that Michael had described. Listen, try to ask harmless questions, and remember all that was said.
“The Hitler Youth can find him,” Manfred said, his words slurring just a bit. “Why waste the Gestapo’s time? You’ll enjoy it, Kurt. It’s more fun than marching and map reading.”
“How can you tell he’s a British spy?” Amanda asked. “He looks innocent enough. He can easily pass for German.”
“An informant told us,” Manfred said. “He’ll get caught, though. I give him two or three days at most.”
Amanda looked at her stepson, memorizing the picture.
“Isn’t this too dangerous for Kurt?” she asked, looking to her husband with concern.
“Of course not,” Manfred scoffed. “If he sees the man, he tells the authorities. There’s no danger in that.”
“And I want to do it,” Kurt told her. “It’s like being a soldier.”
“But this man is the enemy,” Amanda said. “You need to be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Kurt ignored her and turned to Manfred. “What happens after he’s caught? Does he go to prison?”
“Only if he’s lucky,” Manfred chuckled. “And smart enough to betray his friends. That’s the problem; we think there’s more than one.”