Authors: John Anthony Miller
Gerhard Faber went to the cemetery drop on Saturday afternoon. He was short of money and with no concert scheduled because of Goebbels’ party, he had no prospects for getting any until his next paycheck. He was anxious to see what the British spy had left in exchange for the artillery shell diagrams. Hopefully, it was a lot. He needed it to satisfy Astrid Braun’s expensive tastes.
He walked towards the tomb, anxiously looking behind him, studying the lane in front of him, and examining the trees and shrubs intermingled among the tombstones. When he reached the wrought iron fence he moved to the corner post and, after shielding it with his body, removed the finial. He found a roll of Reichsmarks and a note tied with a string. When he saw the thickness of the wad he got excited, expecting a large payout. But he was disappointed to find bills in small denominations, barely worth two weeks’ expenses given his current spending rate.
Faber put the money and note in his pocket and replaced the finial. He moved to a nearby bench and read the message, which instructed him to leave the plans in a new drop location behind the Berlin Theater.
He brooded for a moment. He felt like he was being used. And he wasn’t going to stand for it, especially given the risk he was taking. Now he had more information, something better. The new rocket design could change the war; the British would realize that. He decided to be firm, to tell him what he expected. And he would dictate the drop location, no one else. Then he was struck with a sudden realization and a broad grin crossed his face. He could also sell the same plans to the Russians.
He glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He barely had time to go to the new drop and make it to the Braun’s house on time. He returned to the tomb, folded the first four pages of drawings, and placed them in the finial. Then he hurried to the taxi waiting at the cemetery entrance.
“The Berlin Theater on Kantstrasse,” he said to the driver.
As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Faber withdrew a pen and piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled the coded note he would leave at the new drop location.
HALF OF DRAWINGS PROVIDED FOR PAYMENT RECEIVED. YOU NEED TO PAY MORE. ADVANCED ROCKET DESIGN NEXT, PRODUCTION STARTS SOON. LEAVE MONEY AT CEMETERY DROP, NOT AT THEATER. THAT’S WHERE THE PLANS ARE
.
Fifteen minutes later, the taxi came to a stop in front of the Berlin Theater. Faber told the driver to wait while he walked behind the building. A bakery sat beside the theater, and he could smell the bread being baked in their ovens. As he rounded the corner he saw the lot was almost empty; only five cars were parked there.
A large linden tree abutted a garden wall that defined the edge of the lot. It was about a meter high, made of stone, and probably predated the buildings around it. Faber strolled towards it, making sure all the vehicles were empty, and studied the windows of nearby buildings. He didn’t see anyone watching, not that he looked that carefully.
He glanced anxiously at the entrance and exit, and made his way to the wall behind the tree. He heard a door open, but ignored it. A woman was talking, but he couldn’t tell where she was. But it didn’t matter anyway. He was in a hurry; he had to get to Astrid’s house.
There was little room between the tree trunk and the wall, but Faber squeezed between them and found the capstone that was loose, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and lifted it. He put the note in the cavity, restored the cap, and walked briskly back to the taxi, quite satisfied. He would give the orders from now on, not take them.
*
Astrid Braun and her mother lived in a mid-nineteenth century mansion on Von-der-Heydt-Strasse, south of Tiergarten, on a broad avenue shaded by mature linden trees and accented with a rainbow of flowers. The properties were all distinctive: brick, granite, and sandstone with decorative cornices, balconies, sculptured gardens and wrought iron fences. Faber got out of the taxi and walked the last few blocks, past the Spanish embassy on Regenenstrasse and the embassy for Imperial China, both housed in residential mansions from a time now past.
As he approached the Braun three-story villa, he saw that the spacious gardens were a bit overgrown. The trees and shrubs had to be pruned, flower beds weeded, and walkways repaired. The paint on the shutters was chipped, a brick or two on the entrance steps was loose, the mortar crumbling, the ornate railing a bit rusted and wobbly. The property needed attention, unlike its neighbors.
Astrid’s father had died of cancer a few years before. Her two brothers were soldiers, stationed in Italy and Greece. Faber suspected the family fortune was long gone, and the pay earned by the family fell far short of what was needed to maintain the property. Astrid and her mother both held clerical positions, earning enough income to sustain them but not much more.
He rang the doorbell, but no one answered. After standing there a few minutes, he realized it wasn’t working. One more item for the list of needed repairs. He knocked on the door, admiring the carvings in the wooden panels as he waited.
Astrid answered a moment later wearing a stylish green dress, a pearl necklace, and a broad smile. “Gerhard, how nice to see you.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. “Please, come in.”
He handed her the bottle of wine he had brought, along with a bouquet of flowers. “For you,” he said, as he entered.
She smiled. “You’re too kind. Let me get these in some water. Come into the parlor.”
He walked in and sat on a Victorian couch, the upholstery a bit worn, and studied the room. The crown molding was as beautiful as the day it was installed, the wallpaper it defined starting to fade. The hardwood floors contained an intricate pattern of oak and mahogany that offered accents and contrasts, its original luster still present. But Faber saw that the drapes were a bit dated, and the Persian rug on the parlor floor was worn at the edges, exposing threads and the base mat.
Astrid returned a moment later with her mother.
He stood when the women entered the room. “Mrs. Braun,” Gerhard said with a slight bow. He retrieved a small box of chocolates from his pocket, handing them to her.
“Mr. Faber, you are too kind,” she said, beaming.
The mother was slender, like the daughter, still attractive, the wrinkles and graying hair offering an air of distinction and sophistication. Faber imagined that Astrid would look just like her in thirty years. It was not an unpleasing image.
They sat in the parlor, enjoying a glass of wine, while Astrid went back and forth to the kitchen, checking on dinner. Faber enjoyed the charade; the Brauns pretended to be wealthy and so did he. But neither was. He also pretended to be available. But he wasn’t.
Mrs. Braun had issued the invitation, arranging for her daughter to have dinner at their home. Even though the romance hadn’t progressed too far, she already suspected Faber may not be what he claimed. But it didn’t really matter. If Gerhard Faber wanted to pretend he was wealthy, she would give him the opportunity to prove it. She was a good judge of character, and she had contacts of her own. She would check on him. The family may have lost their wealth, but they hadn’t lost their influence.
“What intriguing project are you working on now, Mr. Faber?” Mrs. Braun asked.
“Mother, please,” Astrid urged. “I’m sure Gerhard doesn’t want to discuss business. He came here to relax and enjoy a nice dinner.”
“No, it’s fine,” Faber said. “I don’t mind at all.” He sighed, glanced around the room as if someone could be listening and, when convinced there was not, he continued. “I have just started manufacturing an advanced rocket. The Fuhrer thinks that once employed it will force Britain to surrender. Then the Reich can focus on the war in the East and crush the Russians.”
“That’s certainly an important assignment,” Astrid said, impressed.
“I should say so,” Mrs. Braun agreed. Then she decided to pry. “Is such an endeavor lucrative?”
“By all means,” he said. “Beyond your imagination.”
“I had better check on dinner, “Astrid said. She would leave the questions to her mother.
“I think it’s fascinating that you’re so successful,” Mrs. Braun said. Then she leaned forward, acting as if she didn’t want Astrid to hear. “There was a time when the Brauns were also. Astrid has no idea, but the family finances have taken a turn for the worst. Much was lost during the global Depression. Even the house needs attention: the rugs are worn, the paint peeling, the garden, once the most beautiful on the street, is nothing but overgrown weeds. If only I could find the money somehow.”
Faber could not resist the urge to impress. He had a fistful of money in his pocket and he would soon have more. He would sell the rest of the artillery shell plans and then the rocket design. Not only to the British, but probably to the Russians as well.
“Mrs. Braun,” he said. “I would be honored if you allowed me to take care of the gardens. Just as a token of our friendship and how kind you and your daughter have been to me. I can have workmen here in three or four days. And if you prefer, Astrid need never know.”
“Oh, Mr. Faber,” said Mrs. Braun, her hand over her heart, her face a look of surprise. “How kind of you. I would be so appreciative.”
When Astrid called them into dinner, Mrs. Braun could barely conceal her glee. Although she suspected he was a fake, she really didn’t care who Gerhard Faber was or where he got his money. She realized that as long as she kept her daughter almost obtainable, but not quite, she could control Faber just as she had been able to control other men throughout her life. She smiled. She had conned the con artist.
The black Mercedes drove slowly down the street before stopping in front of the Richter townhouse, Nazi flags perched on its bumpers waving gently in the breeze. Manfred and Amanda left their residence a moment later, her violin case held protectively under her arm, sheltered from the evils of the world. Neighbors and passersby watched as he led her down the steps, his arm wrapped around her, looking immaculate in a dark suit and tie, a fedora covering his black hair. Amanda wore a lavender evening gown, her hair bobbed and close to her head, mimicking one of the latest styles. Everyone knew they were celebrities, the highly-placed Party official and the famous violinist, and they watched in awe as the driver held the door for them.`
Goebbels’s mansion was eight kilometers to the southwest, on Schwanenwerder Island, in Berlin’s most exclusive area. The property had a hundred meters of frontage on Wannsee Lake and was beautifully landscaped, dotted with tall oaks and pines mingled with shrubs and beds of flowers. Amanda thought it was one of the most peaceful places she had ever seen, and had once tried to convince Manfred to move there. Many Nazi elite lived in the area, some of the properties confiscated from Jewish owners. Hitler's architect, Albert Speer, and his personal doctor, Theodor Morell, had residences near the Goebbels, and the Fuhrer was supposedly considering moving there as well.
They drove through the city, Amanda not saying a word to Manfred, reaching the stone walls that defined the Goebbels’ estate about twenty minutes later. An iron gate marked the entrance, the metal twisted into a floral pattern matching the flowers that grew beside it. It was opened by two soldiers, both fully armed, who checked their credentials before nodding them onward. The mansion appeared, sitting on the edge of the lake, as they traveled down a winding lane. A rambling three-story building hinting of both Greco-Roman and Aryan design, it was square, with diagonal window grills that lent a Bavarian influence, while columns and statues decorating the lawn and gardens seemed more Mediterranean.
A soldier opened the door, an older man, ramrod straight. He led them to a banquet hall, rectangular in shape, gilded wallpaper accented by white chair railing. Large windows overlooked the lake; paintings by the Impressionists dressed the walls. Bronze busts of Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, and Brahms sat on marble pedestals in each corner, and a signed portrait of Hitler dominated the far wall. Long narrow tables circled the room, draped in red cloth adorned with the Swastika, and covered with appetizers, entrees, pastries, and salads. Several rooms branched from the main, one of which opened to a small stage with a dance floor before it. A piano was perched in the center, where a man in a white suit jacket played softly, his fingers roaming the ivory to create soothing melodies.
Amanda put her violin case behind the stage and then studied the room. She knew most of the attendees, having seen them through the years at prior events. The Fuhrer stood at the far end flanked by Martin Bormann and Joseph Goebbels, the hulking frame of Hermann Göring in front of them. Göring’s second wife Emmy stood beside him, while Gerda Bormann and Magda Goebbels stood to one side, talking to the architect Albert Speer. Several generals were grouped in one corner, Jodl and Keitel, as well as a few that Amanda recognized but whose names she couldn’t remember. The remaining guests were party officials and leaders of industry, the men that kept the appetite of the massive war machine sated.
“Mingle, darling,” Manfred said after their wine glasses had been filled. “I have business to conduct.”
She cast him an annoyed look, somehow finding she could hate him more as each day passed, and walked away. She felt uncomfortable, glancing around the room for a conversation to join, conscious of the commitment she had made to obtain information. Hitler and the group surrounding him had retired to a study off the dining hall, and she could see them through the glass doors, sitting on plush leather sofas engaged in an animated discussion.
She moved towards the generals, pretending to be interested in a nearby tray of apple sausage appetizers. As she grabbed a plate and utensils, she strained her ears, trying to capture tidbits of information, wondering if anything being said could be useful to the Allies.
“I was as surprised as you,” said General Wilhelm Keitel, Hitler’s War Minister. “Why would the Fuhrer halt the offensive at Kursk to redeploy troops to Italy? We could have sent reinforcements from the Balkans.”
“He thinks the Allied landings in Italy are a diversion. And that the real offensive will be in the Balkans. There are …”
She walked away, her heart racing, knowing she had heard something important, but not wanting to get caught eavesdropping. It was an arena in which she had never performed, and she could feel her breath, short and shallow. Her wine glass rattled in one hand, the plate with two sausages shook in the other. She took a deep breath and sipped more wine, gathering her courage, and went to the stage where she pretended to listen to the piano player.
He was very good, and she gradually relaxed as she watched his hands glide across the keys. Listening to the music made her think of Michael, and she wondered how well he played. She knew he liked classical music, but wondered what else. Had he studied music, or was he self-taught? Did he play daily when in London, or just occasionally? All were questions she wanted to ask, among others, but there had really been little time to learn about each other. Not that they should, given their current roles.
She had to admit that he was an interesting man. Logical but creative, and sensitive yet strong, he was a former teacher who loved architecture and music and many of the things that she did. It was a unique combination. Her heart had broken when he told her about his wife leaving with his daughter, Elizabeth.
Sorrow gradually consumed her as she relived their conversation. He had chosen the same name she had for her child, although not the Anglo spelling. Elisabeth was the German version. And she loved the name. It sounded like a song, rolling off the lips and tongue, the letters linked, syllables complimenting each other.
“Are you enjoying the party?”
Amanda was startled, lost in her own world. She turned to find Col. Klemp, a short, chubby man with round spectacles and a balding head. She didn’t know him that well, only that he was the dean of a military school.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “It’s very nice.”
“Will you be playing for us this evening?”
She nodded and glanced at her watch. “In a few minutes, actually. I’m waiting for the piano player to finish.”
“I’m sure your performance will be exceptional, as always.”
She smiled. “Thank you. You’re too kind.”
“You must be so proud of Kurt,” he continued.
She was confused. “Of course, I am. He’s a wonderful child.”
“Child?” Beck asked jokingly.
She laughed. “Yes, but I suppose he’ll soon be a man.”
“He’ll do well at the academy,” Beck continued. “Manfred insisted that he start officer training as soon as possible. Then he’ll advance quickly when he joins the military.”
Amanda felt her heart sink as a wave of nausea consumed her. Manfred was sending Kurt away and he hadn’t even told her. She tried to maintain her composure. She didn’t want Klemp to know how upset she was.
“Where exactly is the school located?” she asked, feigning forgetfulness. “I know Manfred told me. But I just can’t remember.”
“In Saxony-Anhalt. About 180 kilometers southwest of Berlin. The official name is the National Political Institutes of Education. We are thrilled to have Manfred’s son attending.”
“And we are excited to have Kurt trained by some of the brightest minds in Germany.” She cast a smile she didn’t feel. “If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I have to get ready to perform.”
It was difficult to practice; she had trouble concentrating. She was close to Kurt and she couldn’t bear to lose him, even though she knew she already had. His father and the Nazi Party were destroying him. Day by day he was changing, polluted by the Hitler Youth. Now he would become a trained killer.
And then she was on stage. Her mind entered a different world once her fingers traveled the violin’s neck. Her melodies were so moving, so dynamic, that those attending the party stopped their mindless chatter and, within minutes, they all gathered to listen. The doors opened to the side office and Hitler emerged, moving to the stage. His eyes, alive with passion and evil and insanity, watched her intently, awestruck at the talent, overwhelmed by the emotion. When she completed her first selection, he immediately started clapping, and the rest followed, mimicking their master.
She played for forty minutes. Few in the audience took their eyes from her. Hitler stood, arms folded across his chest, totally mesmerized. When she finished her final piece and bowed, the room was consumed with applause, emphatically led by the Fuhrer. As she stepped from the stage he approached, acknowledging her with a nod of his head and an outstretched hand.
“True talent, Mrs. Richter,” Hitler said loudly, nudging Bormann who stood beside him. “A magnificent performance. I have never been so moved.”
She smiled and bowed gracefully, knowing all eyes were upon her. “I’m honored, mein Fuhrer.”
The clapping gradually subsided and the audience broke into groups, sampling the wine and food and talking among themselves. The pianist returned to the stage, playing a tender melody that brought a few couples to the dance floor.
Amanda put her violin in the case. She was exhausted, as she was at the end of every concert. She used every ounce of strength, with each cell of her body contributing, to create the passion and muster the emotion that defined her performances. She sat on a chair behind the stage, recovering.
Ten minutes later she re-joined the party, accepting a glass of wine from the waiter. Still upset about Kurt, she decided to confront Manfred. She found him with a group of business leaders. As she approached, his back to her, she heard an intense discussion.
“With a separate route to each destination,” he was saying. “We need banking and an industrial presence in each location. South America will be the primary focus, with Buenos Aires as the hub. And then the Middle East, mainly Syria and Egypt, the operation run from Cairo. Spain will be the European center. All have governments sympathetic to our cause, and people who believe in us.” He then paused dramatically, eyeing each man in turn, all of whom listened intently. “These locations will launch the Fourth Reich, should the situation demand it.” He paused again, and then spoke quietly. “In the event the Third Reich does not survive.”
Amanda slowly moved away, unnoticed. She had no idea what Manfred was talking about. And she doubted that Adolph Hitler did either.