Authors: John Anthony Miller
York hurried from the café and took a taxi to the
Die
Welt
newspaper office, arriving just after two p.m. He wanted to warn Max with a personal ad, the emergency contact method they established in Switzerland. Although Max was now in Berlin, and the ad was intended as an interim measure until he got there, York didn’t know how else to communicate. It was a long shot, but he had to do something. He only hoped Max would see it.
He walked up to a window labeled
advertisements
, finding a bored clerk on the other side. The man was young, with the left side of his face horribly scarred, the eye missing and sewn shut, the cheek disfigured, skin pulled taut.
“Good afternoon,” York said politely, pretending not to notice the man’s mutilated face. “I want to place a personal advertisement in this evening’s edition.”
The clerk looked at a clock on the wall with his good eye. “You’re too late. It has to be in by two p.m.”
York was annoyed by his abruptness. “But the office is still open. And I’m only ten minutes late.”
He shrugged. “Sorry, it’s policy.”
“But it’s very important,” York said.
“Can’t be helped,” the clerk replied. As if to emphasize his apathy, he picked up a newspaper and scanned the front page.
York hid his frustration, knowing the battle was lost. “All right, fine. I need to place a personal advertisement for tomorrow’s edition.”
The man put down the paper and again eyed the clock. “I hope it makes it,” he said sarcastically. “I may have to push it through.”
“And why is that?” York asked tersely, wondering if he had to bribe the man. “What’s the problem?”
The clerk yawned. “No problem,” he said, tiring of the game. He pushed a slip across the counter. “Fill this out.”
York scribbled the message he and Max had agreed on in Switzerland:
Max
,
mother
is
looking
for
you
. He handed it to the clerk.
He read the note and stamped a date and time on the form.
“Are you sure that will be in tomorrow’s paper?”
“I said it would, didn’t I?” the clerk asked. He put the advertisement in a slot behind him, where several openings, all labeled, lined the wall. Then he sat down with his newspaper.
York remembered the agreement he and Max made in Switzerland. The ad would be in Tuesday’s edition, which meant York would meet him at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church on Wednesday at noon. That’s assuming Max saw it. If he didn’t, York couldn’t warn him until their scheduled meeting on Friday. And that might be too late.
York’s mind was racing as he left the
Die
Welt
office, still searching for answers. How was Max betrayed? He had just seen him on Friday. The Gestapo issued the wanted poster on Monday. Sometime over the weekend he had either been seen by someone who knew him, or betrayed by the quartet informant. And the only one he intended to observe, and possibly contact, was Albert Kaiser, the cello player.
York got another taxi and returned to his hotel. He was starting to feel caged and cornered. He mulled over what he knew, what he had determined was fact, trying to use logic to form conclusions.
Amanda Hamilton probably did not betray Kent or Max. If she did, York would already be in Gestapo custody, unless the Gestapo was watching him, trying to find Max. But he always ensured he wasn’t being followed, so that seemed like a remote possibility.
He was sure Amanda did not offer information to Kent. She had been too shocked when York approached her, and too naïve when they met at the café. But she had shown she could be useful. Her photographs proved that.
Even though Erika Jaeger was at the cemetery, she didn’t retrieve the note York left. Somebody else did. But she did have a secret; frequent food purchases on the black market and a constant need for money. As far as he knew, she had no contact with Max, at least not on Saturday because he watched her all day, but he didn’t know about Friday night or Sunday. So she could be the informant, selling information to the Gestapo. And she could have betrayed Max.
The last member of the quartet was Gerhard Faber, the one-eyed viola player. York had barely thought about him. He planned to follow him on Tuesday, even though he would be at the Ministry of Armaments, his primary source of income. But he could still learn something about him, especially when he left work. York didn’t know if he ever offered Kent information, could be the Gestapo informant, or if he knew who Max was. He remained a mystery, at least for the present.
And then there was one last possibility. Maybe Kent had betrayed Max before the Gestapo killed him. He could have been tortured, talked under duress, or tried to bargain for his own life. There was no way for York to know. But it was a plausible explanation.
He opened a bottle of whiskey and took a swig. He was confused and overwhelmed. There were too many possibilities, and too many people involved. He suddenly had tremendous respect for Kent, his predecessor. He had gotten farther than York did. At least he obtained information from one of the four.
He took another sip of whiskey. Nothing made sense. But he wasn’t sure why.
The man wore civilian clothes, but was young enough to serve in the military. He leaned against the brick wall of a tailor shop, smoking a cigarette. He might be waiting for clothes to be altered, or he may be waiting for a bus or a tram. Or he could be watching the alley that led to the tiny room where York and a few others translated documents for German Intelligence.
York entered the room, the décor unchanged: four tables with chairs, newspapers sitting on each. He sat in the same chair every time he went, as did the others. But this time when he entered the room, it was empty. For the first time since his arrival in Berlin, he sat in the room alone.
He pretended nothing was amiss, in case he was still being watched somehow. He got the notepad and pencil, and started to read the newspaper. It was the
London
Times
, just a few days old, and a bit thinner than normal.
He scanned the paper, pausing to read some of the articles, most of which focused on the war. But as he read advertisements displaying clothes and food, upcoming sales at Harrods and Marks and Spencer, he was suddenly homesick, feeling very much alone. He put the paper down and rubbed his eyes, realizing how weary he was, sick of war, tired of pretending to be something he wasn’t, and he only wished he could stand before his history class and tell heroic tales of the British Empire in days gone by.
After a few minutes of reminiscing, and daring to dream, he returned to the newspaper. The sooner he translated the personal ads, the sooner he could leave. There weren’t many, and it took less than an hour. When he left the office and walked down the alley back to the Ku’damm, he saw the same man in civilian clothes, still leaning on the brick wall of the tailor’s shop, smoking another cigarette, still watching the alley. It was only then that York realized that he was being watched. Only this time, it was from outside the room rather than from within. He caught the tram, and headed down the Ku’damm towards his hotel.
He met Amanda at Olivaer Platz at 10 a.m. She had her camera in hand as she anxiously led him to a bench tucked behind some shrubs at the far end of a walkway. Once they sat down, and ensured no one was nearby, she told him about Richter and the poster, sparing no details, recalling the conversation verbatim.
He was thoughtful for a moment, lines of worry creasing his forehead. “He used the word informant?”
She looked around nervously, recalling the conversation. She wanted to be certain. “Yes, he did.”
“He didn’t use a person’s name?”
“No,” she said. “I’m positive.”
“If the informant was someone you knew, would he tell you?”
“Yes,” she said, with no hesitation. “Especially with Kurt listening. He would use the informant as an example of what good Germans do.”
“Did he say anything about me, or did he just say there was more than one?”
She shifted on the bench. “He said, we think there’s more than one.”
York watched her for a moment. She was uncomfortable, afraid, probably questioning her decision to get involved. “Are you all right?”
She shrugged, an apologetic look on her face. “I don’t know. I’m risking everything. Even sitting here is dangerous. What if someone I know sees us?”
He knew she was right. She was a famous violinist. And her husband was well known, highly placed in the Nazi party. They couldn’t keep meeting in public places. Maybe once or twice, but it was too risky to do it continually. It was only a matter of time before they were discovered.
“My hotel isn’t far,” he said. “There’s a back entrance, from the alley. You can enter and leave without being seen. We would be safe there.”
She eyed him cautiously, wondering if he had an ulterior motive. “Not very proper. Especially for a married woman.”
He rolled his eyes. “Amanda, you have to trust me.”
She was quiet for a moment, contemplating the risks. “I do have some very important photographs to show you. And I even brought some of buildings and birds.”
“I’m going to the hotel. Just follow me.”
He didn’t give her a chance to respond. He rose quickly and started walking, leaning on his cane. As he moved down the Ku’damm, he stopped to look in shop windows or nod to passing pedestrians, ensuring they weren’t being followed. He turned occasionally, keeping a wary eye on Amanda.
She followed twenty meters behind him, varying the distance. She paused at each block, taking photographs of birds, a large Nazi flag that the breeze blew over the face of a von Hindenburg statue, and a horse-drawn wagon loaded with produce, frozen in time, like it belonged to a different century.
York left the Ku’damm and used the street adjacent to the hotel, which was less traveled, and stood at the alley entrance until Amanda rounded the corner. He went down the lane to the rear of the hotel and waited for her, looking at the adjacent buildings to make sure no one was watching.
They walked up the rear stairs to the third floor. York’s room overlooked the side street, not as exposed to the noise from the Ku’damm. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door, guiding her in.
The bed was on one side of the room, underneath a framed picture of the River Spree. It was mussed, partially made, making it obvious he wasn’t expecting visitors. It lent credibility to his claim there was no agenda. Across the room was a window, faded burgundy drapes on either side. It was cracked open and the sounds of Berlin could be heard: delivery trucks, pedestrians, taxis, an occasional horn. An oval table with two chairs sat under it.
“This is nice,” she said, although she really didn’t mean it. She stood against the wall, her arms folded across her chest. Her face was stern, her body rigid.
York went to the table and pulled the chair away for her to sit down. “I want you to be comfortable.”
She hesitated. “I’ve never been in a strange man’s hotel room before.”
He laughed. “I’m not a strange man. We’re countrymen, remember? Come sit down and show me your pictures.”
She smiled, seemed to relax a little, and sat in the chair he offered. Then, as she removed a package from her satchel, a serious look draped her face. “These photos are very important. I only have a limited number. I was prevented from taking more.”
York’s eyebrows arched as she laid the packet on the table. He looked at her.
She was upset, pale. “I don’t think people realize what horrible things have been happening in Germany. For years.”
He opened the packet. There were about fifty photographs. The first dozen showed Jewish shops, clearly marked, vandalized, their owners being shoved through the streets.
He looked up. “How old are these?”
“It started soon after Manfred and I were married, but treatment of the Jews got progressively worse. It became extremely harsh six or seven years ago. Then in 1938, it got violent.”
“The Allied nations know,” York said. “Which doesn’t make it right, but many Jews immigrated to other nations.”
“And where are those that remained?”
“I don’t know,” York said. “I know in France they were collected and sent east. Is there a settlement somewhere? Maybe in Poland?”
“Look at the rest of the photographs,” she said. “They show the Jews being put in rail cars, crammed in like cattle, for an unknown destination. They were told they were being resettled.”
“How do we know they weren’t?”
“Look at the last fifteen or twenty photographs. They are camps where the Jews are kept. I saw them while returning from concerts. Most of the pictures I took were confiscated. These are all I have.”
York was sickened by the photographs. They depicted emaciated people with vacant, hollow eyes, imprisoned behind barbed wire. “Do the German people know about this?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Everyone knows there are labor camps. But the rest isn’t common knowledge.”
York squinted, studying the photos more closely. “These people are being worked to death. Or worse, if that’s possible. How can they not know?”
Amanda shrugged. “Maybe they don’t want to know. I haven’t been able to live with myself since I saw this.”
York put the photographs back in the packet, nauseated. The world knew how horribly the Jews had been treated since Hitler came to power. But they didn’t know everything. He had to do something.
He got up and walked to a small stove with a single burner that was between a bureau and the bathroom door and made some coffee. “I’ll get these photographs to London,” he said. “The world has to know what’s happening.”
Amanda looked out the window, studying the people passing, looking relieved. It was as if the photographs were poison, and the sooner she handed them off, the easier it was to clear her conscience, the easier it was to accept that she had done her best, even if it wasn’t enough.
York sat back down and gave her a cup of coffee. “Let’s look at the rest of the photographs.”
Amanda took the remaining packets from her purse. “I separated them. This stack is what you’re looking for. And these are birds and buildings that I thought you might like to see.”
York watched her. With the information about the Jews provided, she now seemed excited to share something she was proud of, something private and personal. He suspected no one took the time to look at her photographs, at least not as closely as he did.
“Let’s look at these first,” he said, grabbing the military photos. “Then we can have some fun.”
He started going through the pictures. She had meticulously written the dates and any known information on the backs, just as she had for the previous ones. He was impressed. She had taken her role seriously and put a lot of effort into it.
“Are they worthwhile?” she asked as he examined them.
He was shocked by the information offered. The photographs identified Nazi officials and their roles, leading military personnel and their assignments, troop locations and movements, and factories, including their purpose and address.
“They’re fabulous,” he said, mesmerized by the details. “Do you have more?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I have boxes. But it takes time to identify everyone and record the information.”
“They’re very valuable.” He was looking at the photographs of factories. They were in Berlin, with enough detail provided to target an air strike.
“I’ll bring more next time,” she said. “And the Goebbels party is next weekend. So I will listen closely and try to overhear something.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “Actually, the Allies can’t thank you enough.” His face hardened. “Especially for the information about the Jews.”
She looked away, not feeling very proud. “I’m doing this to help end the war before more horrible things happen to good people. And to prevent my stepson from being part of it. I couldn’t bear to lose him. He’s a child, quickly losing his innocence.”
He was moved that she risked her life to save his. And he noted that she never mentioned her husband. “That’s an admirable motive,” he said quietly.
She wanted the topic changed and grabbed the other photographs. “Let’s look at these. I can’t wait to show you.”
He was amused by her childish enthusiasm. She was excited, and couldn’t wait to show him, anxious to share things she normally enjoyed alone.
“We’ll look at the birds first,” she said. “I’ve brought some of my favorites. The first is a Girlitz, with beautiful yellow feathers and black and white highlights. I like this one because he’s a bit pudgy and looks so serious. It’s almost like he knows I’m taking his picture and wants to show how important he is.”
York laughed, finding her narrative amusing. He didn’t know much about birds. But he suddenly wanted to learn.
“This one is a Neuntöter, white with brown wings. Look at the black around his eyes. It looks like a mask. He reminds me of a raccoon.”
As York studied the photographs, he realized how much they meant to her, maybe more than music or the violin. And definitely more than her husband.
“Two more,” she said. “This is a Gartenrotschwanz, with orange feathers and a black face. He looks angry when his picture is taken. And this is a Grünfink, which has a beautiful lime green coat.”
She was finished, looking at him with apprehension, as if seeking approval.
“They’re fabulous,” he said, sincerely meaning it. “I’m interested in seeing more. You’re extremely talented.”
She blushed and turned away, but not before revealing a smile. “I wasn’t sure if you would like the birds.”
“I did,” he said. “I meant it when I said I want to learn more about them.”
“I can teach you,” she said eagerly. “I love birds. Sometimes I watch them for hours.”
“I would enjoy that,” he said, noticing how her hair fell over her forehead.
“These are architectural,” she said, displaying more photos. “You like buildings, don’t you?”
“I do,” he said. “I like to draw them.”
She was surprised. “Really? I would like to see that sometime.”
“I’m sure someday you will,” he said, flirting, but not sure why.
She smiled subtly and thumbed through the photographs. “I brought a selection. The University of Berlin, with its ornate window trim and Corinthian columns, the Pergamon Museum, which is very Greco-Roman, and the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, just at the end of the Ku’damm, with its signature steeple that stretches all the way to heaven.”