Authors: John Anthony Miller
The terror continued just after midnight when Allied planes again bombed Berlin. They flew at high altitudes, hidden by clouds, the eerie whistle of descending bombs causing fear and panic in those running frantically towards bomb shelters. The few cars and buses and taxis on the road stopped where they were, doors ajar, as the seats emptied. Within minutes, not a soul was seen.
The heavens smiled on Charlottenburg, attacked so fiercely during the prior assault. Although bombs were still dropped on decimated neighborhoods, they were more the exception, and the attack was centered on northern and eastern sections of the city. For those in the bomb shelters, the ground still shook, explosions still caused dirt and dust to fall from the ceiling, and the inhabitants were still anxious and afraid. But they survived an uneasy night, the raid ending just before dawn.
Amanda arrived at York’s hotel room the following morning, her face a bit pallid, dark circles under her eyes. Few in Berlin had slept much during the past few days. It was more than the immediate danger that kept them awake. The future was too uncertain, minutes now precious, years almost unthinkable, too distant to consider.
She kissed him, wrapping her arms around him, clinging to him tightly but briefly. “I don’t think I can endure these air raids,” she said.
“Were you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine,” she said as she walked to the table and sat down. “But it’s so painful to watch such a beautiful city destroyed. I have friends and neighbors who are homeless. And others who are much worse.”
“At least we’re safe.”
“I know. I shouldn’t complain.”
She took a deep breath and looked out the window, observing a delivery truck negotiate the turn on to the Ku’damm, steering around the remains of an uprooted tree. York watched her, reading her thoughts. They had studied the same tree from their window from summer to winter. Now it was destroyed.
“Manfred hasn’t been home since the first bombing,” she said. “I don’t expect him until next week, just before we’re supposed to go to Berchtesgaden.”
York was relieved. He didn’t want Manfred near Amanda. There were obvious reasons why, given his feelings for her, but she also knew too much. He was sly and manipulative and could get information without her even realizing it.
“I do have some good news for you,” York said, offering hope where it was waning. “We’re leaving Tuesday morning at dawn.”
She was surprised. For a moment she could only cast him a stunned stare, not speaking. She blinked, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly, and then finally reacted. “What a relief that is. Five more days and I’m free of Manfred forever.” Her expression changed suddenly, sadness consuming it.
“What’s wrong?” York asked. “I thought you would be happy.”
“I am. But I’ll miss Kurt. I won’t even get to say goodbye.”
York shrugged. “You can always contact him after the war. It might be sooner than you think.”
She smiled. “That would be nice.”
“I do have some details to work out, one of which is petrol. Can you tell me how much you have and where it is?”
“Manfred has a boat that he keeps on Wannsee Lake. When we went to Goebbels’ party, he had our driver stop at the boathouse. I went in with him. While he was checking the boat, I noticed petrol stored against the wall.”
“How much was there?”
“Probably a dozen ten-liter cans.”
“We need seventy liters to get to Switzerland, assuming we have a full tank to start with. Are you sure they weren’t empty?”
“Manfred checked to make sure they were full. He has always kept fuel there. The last time we went out was in the spring. And he hasn’t used the boat since.” Then she paused, looking away for a moment. “At least not with me.”
York was satisfied with the petrol. He moved on to another topic. “I told you before that there are other people going with us. I can tell you about them, if you want me to. I can describe our escape plans, too. But knowing that information will be dangerous if anything happens and the authorities question you. I can wait until the day before we leave if you want.”
“No, tell me now,” she said with no hesitation.
He thought for a moment, summarizing the information. “We’ll escape in an ambulance labeled with warning signs that claim those inside have tuberculosis. That should keep everyone away.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m impressed. That’s very clever.”
“And now for the surprise,” he said. He told her the address they would depart from on Tuesday morning.
She was confused. “But that’s Erika’s address.”
“Yes, it is,” he said. “And there’s more. Erika is hiding seven mentally handicapped children in her apartment, with a young teenager who helps care for them. She’s been sheltering them for some time.”
Amanda was stunned, quiet and pensive. It took a minute for her to accept what he said, but when she thought about the last few years, and the discussions she and Erica had shared, it became clearer.
“That’s why she needs money so badly,” she whispered. “So she can feed the children.”
“Yes, primarily,” he said. “But her mother is very ill, too.”
She wiped a tear from her eye. “What a fabulous person. But I can’t believe she bore that burden alone. I would have gladly helped her.”
“She didn’t want to take any chances. So she kept it a secret and just worked harder. She has many admirable qualities.”
“Being a good friend is one of them. Will she be coming, too?”
“No, she wants to stay in Berlin.”
Amanda shook her head, unable to understand. “I hope she’s not making a terrible mistake. Have you told her I’m going?”
“Not yet. But I will on Thursday.”
“We have to convince her to go. And her mother, too. There’s no future in Berlin.”
“I agree,” he said. “I talked to her a bit yesterday. She is reconsidering. I think it depends on her mother.”
York watched her closely. She seemed different, as if she had much more on her mind than the escape. Something wasn’t right. Her eyes were evading his; her breathing was a bit anxious. She looked ill, wearier than a few sleepless nights from air raids would cause. Even the hug she gave him was hesitant.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly. “It seems like something is bothering you.”
She took a deep breath, anxious. She started to speak, but paused, flustered.
He watched her, concerned. “Don’t be afraid. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Her eyes met his, a few moments passing before she spoke. “I’m afraid that I have a secret, too.”
He looked at her curiously. “Really? And what is that?”
She cast a weak smile, her eyes almost apologetic. “I’m pregnant.”
York walked to Olivaer Platz, leaning on his cane but making good progress. He was still coping with Amanda’s revelation, stunned and shocked. He was going to be a father, a distinction he didn’t think he would ever have again. Amanda, who had such a difficult time getting pregnant with Richter, would now be the mother of his child. It was something they both held supreme given their childhoods, he as an orphan, her as the single child of a wealthy couple that shuffled her between boarding schools. Nothing was more important, nothing more blissful, than family.
It was the timing that was wrong. Amanda was married to Richter. The world was mired in a horrendous war. They were in the capital city of the enemy. But in a week they could be in Switzerland. And when the time was right, they’d be back in London. Someday, maybe someday soon, the war would end.
He wondered how Elizabeth would react. She was about to have a younger sibling, a sister to spoil, or a brother to mentor. He fingered the photograph in his pocket. It would be so wonderful to have her back in his life. If he got to England, he could find her. He knew it.
York circled the hospital. It specialized in digestive and metabolic diseases, but given the world at war, many German soldiers with battlefield injuries were treated there, too. There was a small parking lot near a side entrance, dedicated to service vehicles that supported the facility. Two military ambulances sat in the lot, one a large paneled truck and the second smaller, with room for only one or two patients. They were flanked by two cars, probably used by hospital personnel.
The larger ambulance was just what York wanted. It was designed to hold eight patients, with two rows of upper and lower racks on each side. The rear was about five meters long and appeared closed to the cab, but as he strolled closer he could see a small opening, like a porthole, in the partition between the driver and the patients. The exterior was military gray, with white squares on the roof and side panels, the red cross symbol dominating the squares. The vehicle was perfect. Now he just had to steal it.
The parking area was not near the main entrance, but at a lower elevation reached by an inclined driveway. It was flanked by trees and shrubs, although most were bare now that winter approached. It was somewhat secluded, the eyes weren‘t drawn there when passing on the street, but it was still visible. It would work. He could steal the ambulance, maybe in the hours just before dawn.
Satisfied with his reconnaissance, York hailed a taxi and went to the cemetery, directing the driver to Trakehnerallee, not the main entrance. He asked him to wait and then exited, hobbling with his cane. He had to be careful. Faber had definitely been tortured, and he had probably revealed the drop location. Someone might be watching it, or the information had already been removed. But there was a chance, a small one, that the rocket drawings were still there.
He walked through the entrance and continued straight ahead. The drop was three lanes away, to the right. He would approach from the far side, and then come back down. He looked at the visitors, an elderly couple, a woman with a small child, an older lady, and discounted them all as potential threats. He reached the third lane and walked down it.
As he approached the drop he saw a man on a nearby bench, leafing through a newspaper. He was older, past sixty, and might be waiting for someone. Or he could be an informant. He was close to the drop, and he could see the entire lane from his location.
York had taken precautions. He had long ago scribbled the name from a nearby tomb on a piece of paper. If ever questioned when approaching the drop, he would claim to be looking for his relative, pulling the paper with the name on it out of his pocket. He decided this was an opportune time to use it.
“Excuse me,” he said, approaching the man and holding the paper in his hand.
The man looked up from the newspaper, startled by the intrusion. He arched his eyebrows in a question, but did not reply.
“I’m looking for a relative’s tombstone,” he said, handing the man the note. “Have you noticed this name?”
The man didn’t even read it. “I haven’t looked at any graves. Only that one,” he said, nodding towards the drop. “I can’t help you.” He returned to his paper.
“It’s supposed to be in the third row,” York said, maintaining the charade.
“Then look for it,” the man said with a hint of irritation.
York nodded and continued on, pausing at each grave to read the name. His question was answered. The drop was being watched. Faber had told the Gestapo everything. One more reason to flee Berlin.
He hobbled down the lane, still studying each marker, finally finding the tomb that matched the name on the note in his hand. A quick glance showed the informant still there, but not reading the paper. He was watching.
York paused in front of the grave, made the sign of the cross, and pretended to say a brief prayer. He stayed a respectable amount of time, pasting a pained expression on his face, all for the benefit of his observer.
When he started to leave, he looked back at the informant. He was gone. The man probably didn’t believe his story and had gone to get help. York had to hurry.
He made his way back to the entrance and got in his taxi, warily looking for the informant. Just as the vehicle pulled away, a black Mercedes screeched to a halt in front of the entrance, occupying the space the taxi had vacated.
York ducked down in the seat, peering through the bottom of the window. Two men in black suits exited the sedan. One was tall and thin, the second short and stocky, with round spectacles. It was the Gestapo agent who had followed him near Max’s boarding house.
A few seconds later the informant came running towards them, leaving a nearby telephone booth. He yelled to the Gestapo, his motions excited and animated, and pointed at the taxi.
York urged the driver on while keeping a careful watch on the street behind them. As they started for Heerstrasse, the main boulevard, he saw the Mercedes racing towards them. Just as they turned and the Gestapo momentarily passed from view, York told the driver to quickly turn right, and then left, taking the road parallel to Heerstrasse.
They traveled two blocks more before York directed another quick right, followed by another left. He turned, looking behind them. There were several black sedans, mostly in the distance. He couldn’t tell if the Gestapo still followed or not.
The driver was getting suspicious. He eyed York in the rear view mirror, suspecting he was in some sort of trouble. He might not know the men in the Mercedes were Gestapo, but he did know that York was acting strangely.
York saw the driver watching, his face hard and chiseled, his eyes wary. He had to do something to erase the suspicion. If he didn’t, the taxi driver would summon the police.
He saw a cafe just ahead of them. He signaled the driver to stop, pretending the cafe was the reason for the diversion, and went inside. Several black sedans passed as York took his time, casually watching the traffic from the cafe window. When no vehicles stopped, he went to the counter and placed an order.
A moment later he returned to the taxi with two coffees and two kreppels. He handed one of each to the surprised driver, who expressed his thanks, no longer interested in his passenger’s strange behavior.
York asked him to return to the Heerstrasse, and then back to Olivaer Platz. He would walk back to the hotel from there, just in case he hadn’t satisfied the driver’s curiosity. The taxi returned to the main boulevard, moving eastward towards York’s hotel.
The Gestapo were gone.