Authors: John Anthony Miller
The morning was overcast, chilled by an autumn breeze, a weak sun peeking through gray clouds to prove that summer was gone. Berlin bustled as always, buses, taxis, streetcars, and sedans moving down the boulevards, bicycles spinning beside them. Pedestrians walked to work and school, shopped or strolled, some intent on their destination, others in no hurry at all.
York was on his way to Max’s boarding house, leaning on his cane, studying each face he passed. He glanced behind him to ensure no one was following him, checked all directions, looked at passing bicycles and cars, and saw nothing suspicious.
He walked up the steps, carrying two cups of coffee and a bag of kreppels, when he noticed an old man sitting on the porch, reading a newspaper. The man glanced up, squinted at him over his half glasses, and put the paper in his lap. It seemed to be his business to know who came and went.
York tensed, immediately alert. The man had never been there before. Maybe he was a new guest. Or maybe he was there to see what visitors the guests had. As Max had told him before, you can just as easily be betrayed by a child as his grandmother. No one was above suspicion.
“Good morning,” York said, exaggerating his limp. “How are you today?”
“War wound?”
York nodded. “North Africa.”
“Shouldn’t you be doing something for the Fatherland?”
York glanced around, pretending to observe all directions before leaning over and whispering to the man. “I’ve been helping Military Intelligence,” he said, again looking for listeners. “I translate messages from English to German. We’re trying to catch British spies.”
The man’s eyes opened wide, the amazement showing on his face. “Do you need help?” he asked. “I wouldn’t mind lending a hand?”
Again York glanced around and, when satisfied no one was near, he whispered his reply. “I’ll tell my superiors. They’re always looking for good men.”
He left the man sitting on the porch, his face masked with surprise, and went to Max’s room. He knocked on the door four times, evenly spaced, a signal they had previously arranged, and a voice from within directed him to enter. As he walked in, he noticed the wallpaper peeling away from the white crown molding in the corner, and a pile of dirty clothes on the floor beneath it.
Max sat at the table, looking at a map with a magnifying glass. He nodded as York entered, his eyes looking huge through the glass. After a moment, he raised his head and motioned York to the chair beside him.
York glanced at the map and saw southern Germany and the Swiss border. He put down the coffee and kreppels, grabbed one of each and left the remainder for Max. He sipped the coffee, took a bite of his donut, and studied the map.
“What are you examining so intently?” he asked.
“One of my informants gave me information on the Nazi escape routes to South America, which confirmed what Amanda overheard at the party. He provided some detail, although sketchy in places. He only mentioned some roads and mountain passes. Nothing substantial. I’m trying to locate some of the landmarks.”
York watched him a moment and took another sip of coffee. “I think Richter is a major force in the Nazi party. He’s more than you and I can handle. British Intelligence should dedicate an agent just to him. And it may take more than one.”
Max frowned. “You’re right, of course. I presented that case to London. But even though I suggested that, they offered a far different approach.”
York’s interest was piqued. “What is that?”
“I’ve been assigned to Richter and his Fourth Reich initiative. London is particularly interested in the routes to South America. With the tide of battle turning in the Allies’ favor, no one wants influential Nazis escaping, especially to the Western Hemisphere. If they have an established network and plan to continue fighting, the global conflict would destroy another continent.”
“I can certainly understand the concern.”
“I can, too. I just didn’t expect to be the one dealing with it.”
“If you’re dedicated to Richter, who will I give my information to?” York asked. “I don’t have a transmitter or a way to get photos out of Germany.”
“I already thought about that,” Max said. “You’ll continue to work through me. But the rest of my network has been assigned to someone else, a man I’ve known for twenty-five years. I was just talking to him before I left for Switzerland.”
“At the café on Kantstrasse?” York asked. He then felt uncomfortable, as if he had been spying. “I’m sorry. I happened to walk by on my way to meet Amanda.”
“Yes, I saw you, strolling through the city, hobbling on your cane. Not very inconspicuous, but a good cover. But you’re right. He’s my replacement.”
“I pretended not to notice. I didn’t want to jeopardize anything.”
“Wise move. The less you know, the better. And the same for him. But the network will be in good hands. He’s very competent.”
Max bit into a kreppel, the map momentarily forgotten. He held up a finger as he chewed, holding a thought until he finished. “What’s going on with the quartet?”
York described Amanda seeing Richter and his mistress at the hotel, but he omitted the feelings they had for each other. It was something Max didn’t need to know. Relationships were one of his weaknesses. He had had many, all of which seemed to end in disaster. Maybe it was because he was never in the same place very long. Or maybe it wasn’t.
Max shrugged. “It was only a matter of time before she realized he’d never change. What’s that, three times that she’s caught him? Three times that we know of, anyway. You and I know what he’s like. And so does everyone else. Amanda was the only one who didn’t. But she’ll accept it, and eventually she’ll get over it. Her husband is an important man. I’m sure many women are interested in him. She has to realize that.”
York didn’t say anything. Max wouldn’t understand anyway. He avoided being protective of Amanda. He wanted Max to help her, but without knowing he was doing it. That was the key to getting Max’s cooperation. Make him think that whatever you wanted was really his idea.
“How involved are you with Richter?”
“I’m consumed with the man,” he said. “On London’s orders. I even know what he has for breakfast every day.”
“Then you know where he is at all times?”
York cringed as soon as he asked the question. There was no reason why he needed the information. His motive was selfish. He didn’t want Richter near Amanda. Not that he ever was. Fortunately Max was too interested in his kreppel to notice.
“I know every detail of his schedule from a contact I have in his office. That’s the informant I was talking about. And I have others in my new network that I use to watch him. But the man works eighteen hours a day. He’s never home, eats in restaurants, and even sleeps in his office. When he doesn’t, he’s in a hotel room with one of his women.”
“Do you need me to do anything?” he asked, hoping to get involved in tracking Richter’s movements.
Max shook his head. “Just keep getting me information.”
York nodded, reflective. “Are you still wearing the police disguise?
“Now and then, just for credibility. But I haven’t seen any more posters. The Gestapo must have been satisfied with the man they arrested. Or maybe I only resembled the man they were looking for. Who knows? I’m sure someone paid the price. There was an extensive manhunt.
Even Hitler Youth units were involved.”
York wondered who it was, now sitting in a Gestapo jail. It was most likely an innocent man caught in the web woven by war, unable to extricate himself.
“What else are you working on?” Max asked.
York thought of Erika Jaeger, and the eight people she was hiding, friends, neighbors, Jews, he didn’t know for sure. He reminded Max again of their prior conversation and the promise he had made to Jaeger.
He listened, passing no judgment, asking no questions. “It will be difficult to get eight people out of Germany. We already discussed that. I told London, but they still haven’t given approval. You know how slow bureaucracy is.”
“When will you know for sure?” York asked. “I can’t keep dangling freedom in front of them. We’re starting to lose credibility.”
“Just keep getting information,” he said. “And promise whatever you have to.”
“Erika has risked her life for months,” York said tersely. “We owe her more than that.”
“We’ll have an answer from London in a few days,” Max said. “Then we should be able to help her. The problem is, I don’t know a good route.” He paused, and glanced at the map, his eyes wide, taken with a sudden revelation. “But I think I have a great idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Let me get one of the Nazis escape routes,” he said slyly, proud of himself. “We’ll use that. If it’s good enough for the Nazis, it should be good enough for us. Don’t you think so, old boy?”
Manfred Richter lay on the hotel bed and yawned. He stared at the picture hanging on the far wall, a photograph of Berlin around the turn of the century, horse-drawn carriages competing with streetcars for the boulevard, a throng of pedestrians mingled on the pavements, all wearing scarfs and heavy coats. There was snow on the ground. He decided it was Christmas.
“I was shocked my song was on the radio to begin with,” Anna Schneider was saying. She lay naked beside him, fully exposed, her right leg crossing his. “Now I hear it constantly. My family and friends can’t believe it, but I always told them I would be famous someday.”
Manfred looked out the window. There was a linden tree blocking part of the view, and for a moment he studied the leaves, perfectly shaped, turning colors with autumn, a few drifting to the ground. The building beyond, just across the street, had an interesting cornice, an ornate stone trim around the windows. He wondered how many hours it took a man to do such detailed workmanship.
“I’ve already made arrangements to make another recording,” Anna was saying. “I’ll use some of the money you gave me. The man at the studio is so excited, especially since I already have a record on the radio. He’s hoping he’ll get more customers because I make my records there.”
Manfred cringed, the sound of her voice annoying, the content even more so. He was beginning to regret making her song so popular. Maybe he would keep the next one from getting any air play, just so he wouldn’t have to hear about it.
His thoughts drifted to his biggest project, his greatest responsibility. If the war went badly, and the tide had already turned, most of the Party leadership would be tried as war criminals. He couldn’t let that happen. They wanted to change the world. And they still could. South America offered the greatest opportunity, an entire continent sympathetic, or at the least, apathetic, to the Nazi cause. And a continent could form the springboard for world domination. Their aims would still be achieved, only launched from a different direction.
He was working on several escape routes, through Austria and into Italy, leaving from Genoa or another Italian port. Or they could go to northern Germany and across the Baltic Sea into Sweden, or into France and then to Spain. Or they could always use select border crossings into Switzerland, and then smuggle personnel to different destinations.
Along each route he was establishing safe houses, places where those fleeing could get assistance. Some were men of similar beliefs, some were monasteries sympathetic to the cause, and others would be manned by former Nazis. At each step along the way, sufficient funds would be staged, available to assist the escapees. It was a tremendous effort. But he was almost ready. He only needed six more months.
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Anna poked him in the ribs.
“Darling, tell me,” she was saying. “Which one of my songs should I record? I can do an upbeat number, like
One
More
Dance
, or a sensual love song like
Every
Hour
in
Your
Arms
. I wrote both of them in the same weekend. Isn’t that amazing? Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by creative streaks, and I can’t think of anything else until I have every note written down.”
Richter wasn’t listening, and he really didn’t care. He was thinking of Buenos Aires. The Argentinian city would be the focus of the fleeing Nazis, maybe the capital of the Fourth Reich. The Middle East faction would be centered in Cairo, a satellite capital. And for those wanting to disappear and leave their past behind, Canada and the United States offered fabulous opportunities. He had to arrange every detail, plan for every contingency.
“Manfred, which do you think?”
He hid a frown. “Why not do both of them?”
She was pensive for a moment. “I hadn’t thought of that. I wonder how much more it would cost. What if I had three songs on the radio at the same time? Wouldn’t that be fantastic?”
Richter was honored that the Fuhrer and Bormann, and leaders in the party elite, had placed such confidence in him. He knew others were involved, but development of the escape route rested with him. It was a monumental task.
He had never been to Cairo. He had never been to South America. It was hard for him to imagine leaving Germany, or the Nazi regime collapsing. But he had to be prepared. He briefly thought about Amanda and wondered if he should take her with him. He knew she wouldn’t want to go. But it didn’t matter what she wanted. It never had. All that mattered was what he wanted. And some prestige came with having a famous violinist as a wife.
He had barely seen her in the last few months. But even if intentional, it wasn’t his fault. She hadn’t been the same since she lost the baby. And then she found him with Greta Baumgartner. She couldn’t get past either, couldn’t move forward. Anything physical was repulsive to her. When she did consent, he got no enjoyment from it. Not unless he forced her, but he found that exciting.
He had no intention of taking Anna, or Greta, or Hannah with him. They were diversions, nothing more. And they would never be anything more. He knew there would always be women to satisfy him, regardless of where he fled. Women were attracted to power. And he was a powerful man. He thought for a moment about how exotic women of different cultures could be. He would enjoy that.
Maybe he would let Kurt choose their final destination. He was looking forward to starting a new life, enjoying his son as he entered manhood. How exciting it would be to create the splendor and glory of the Third Reich on another continent, involved from conception, avoiding the mistakes that had been made in Europe.
Anna was still talking continually. “I probably couldn’t,” she was saying. “It takes a lot of time to record one song let alone two. I should choose one, maybe the love song. People always like love songs.”
Richter was bored with Anna Schneider. He had been for the past few weeks. He still had Hannah, his housekeeper, and Greta Baumgartner, the bank manager. And the woman who owned the café near his office had suddenly become very interesting. She seemed open to his advances. He decided to approach her. His chances were good. If he was wrong, she would just avoid him, although he could persuade her to cooperate if he really wanted to. He had so many tools at his disposal.
Anna Schneider was still talking when he rose from bed and started to get dressed. “Manfred, darling,” she said with surprise. “You’re not leaving already, are you? We just got here.”
“I know,” he shrugged. “I’m as disappointed as you. But the Fuhrer relies on me. He continues to assign me more responsibilities, and now I’m working on a special project at his direction. He demands results, with frequent updates. I have so much to do that I can’t find time to finish it all. I really should go.”
“We can’t waste an opportunity to be together,” she whined. “It’s so hard to find the time. Every hour we have is so precious.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said, faking a frown. “But duty calls.”
She sighed, and then pouted. “I suppose you can make it up to me.” Her face lit up. “Maybe another necklace?”
“We’ll see,” he said, smiling. “But I will make it up to you. I always do.”
He finished dressing and leaned over, kissing her on the forehead. Then he left the room, leaving Anna Schneider lying naked in the bed.