Authors: John Anthony Miller
York went to Olivaer Platz at 10 a.m. on Friday. A park intersected with cobblestone walkways, lined with trees, accented with flowers, and sprinkled with benches, it offered an oasis of serenity in a sea of streets and boulevards. He was meeting Max, six weeks after their initial contact in Basel, just as they had planned.
York had worked with him in France. He was brilliant, always one step ahead of everyone else, seemed to know what the enemy would do before they did it, and he had the uncanny ability to answer a question before it was asked. York respected him; he learned from him and he admired him.
But Max could also be demanding, expecting results when they might not be achievable. He probably assumed York had the riddle solved, and already knew which string quartet member was the Gestapo informant and which was willing to cooperate. But York knew nothing. He assumed Erica Jaeger was somehow involved, and he had a chance meeting with Amanda Hamilton that had yet to yield results. But he still hadn’t surveilled Gerhard Faber or Albert Kaiser.
He walked through the park, a cobblestone path winding around the trees. It was more crowded than he expected. He passed a woman with a baby stroller, an older man with a young boy who was probably his grandson, and a group of foreign workers walking briskly down the lane, either passing from one city block to another or enjoying a pleasant morning.
Max was waiting on a bench on the north side, tucked off the path and somewhat secluded. He wore very thick spectacles and held a cane, posing as someone visually impaired. It was a good disguise, explained why he wasn’t in uniform, and proved how cunning he could be.
York sat beside him, but on the opposite end. When satisfied no one watched them, they moved closer and began to talk, whispering in English. They switched to German when anyone came near, and talked louder, as if they had nothing to hide.
“How’s your cover?” Max asked.
“When I first reported, there were four men there,” York explained. “Now I go a few times a week and, even though one of those four is always there, they rarely speak. And they never engage in any causal conversations. I feel like they’re watching me.”
Max glanced at an older couple passing on a nearby walkway. “They are watching you. All of Berlin is watching you. You can’t trust anyone. A child can turn you in to the Gestapo as easily as a grandmother. The minute you forget that, you’re dead.”
York was pensive, re-evaluating the danger. “I suppose I should wear my uniform a bit more, especially when wandering around the city.”
“It reduces the risk,” Max said. “You’re in tremendous danger, don’t underestimate that. The minute you do, the second you start to feel comfortable, you’re done.”
“I’ll remember that,” York said softly. Max had a penchant for drama but, in this instance, he provided an accurate depiction of life in Berlin. York valued his advice. He always had. He just had to make sure he followed it.
“Tell me what’s happened since your arrival?”
York described the train crash, and the encounters with Hamilton and Jaeger. He also admitted that he hadn’t discovered much. He didn’t know who had offered information, why Kent had been betrayed, or who had betrayed him. He also mentioned that he had no interaction with Faber or Kaiser.
“You’ve made some progress with the women, but it isn’t enough,” Max said, disappointment evident in his voice. “We’re running out of time. We need access to whatever information Kent was offered, even if we risk our lives getting it. It could be critical, something that changes the outcome of the war.”
York was quiet, pensive. “I don’t know why the drop hasn’t been used,” he said. “Could Kent have had another communications method?”
Max shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose he could have. But I think he would have mentioned it if he did.” He paused and looked away for a minute, studying a policeman hurrying through the park. When he was no longer visible, his eyes returned to York. “Let’s try something different. We’ll change tactics.”
“And do what?”
“Leave a message at the drop. Keep it simple; just say you’re waiting for contact. Let Jaeger respond, assuming it is Jaeger.”
“Unless she’s the Gestapo informant,” York said. “She might be watching the drop, just like we are.”
“Perhaps,” Max said. “But either way, you’ll flush her out. And then we’ll see what she’s all about.”
“Should I avoid Hamilton to concentrate on Jaeger?”
“No, of course not. Increase contact with her; find out what she knows and what she’s willing to share. Even if she isn’t the one we’re after, you may be able to convince her to work with us. She is British. Just like you and me.”
“Being British isn’t enough,” York said. “If it was, she would have left Germany long ago. But I was watching her the other day, and she saw her husband with another woman.”
“Again?” Max asked, shocked.
York was surprised. He rarely discovered anything that Max didn’t already know. “Yes, a local bank manager. I don’t know if that’s the same woman she caught him with before. But that might persuade her to cooperate.”
“Or it might not,” Max said. “There’s no way to know for sure. It could even be a trap. Did she see you?”
York hadn’t thought of a trap. But it didn’t seem likely, especially given her reaction. “No, I don’t think so.”
Max was quiet for a moment, considering options. “I don’t know what she has access to, but she’s worth the effort. Her husband is highly placed, definitely in Hitler’s inner circle. He works in shadows; we don’t even know what he’s doing. But I guarantee it’s vital to their war effort, and worse than we can imagine.”
“What about Kaiser and Faber?” York asked.
“I’ll try to check on Kaiser,” he said, referring to the elderly cello player. “Assuming I have time. But I do have other networks to run. I was actually counting on you to handle this.”
“If we’re fairly certain Jaeger is the one offering information,” York said. “We only have to rule Kaiser out as the informant.”
“That’s true. And I do doubt that it’s him. The informant is likely Hamilton, believe it or not. Not many people realize it, but the majority of informants are women. Usually because of the men in their life.”
York weighed the statistics against the woman he had met in the café. It was possible. It might even be probable. She was married to a German, even if the marriage was disintegrating.
“I’ll watch Faber,” York said, referring to the one-eyed viola player. “He lives in Charlottenburg, at the western end.”
Max looked at a couple holding hands, the man in a German officer’s uniform. They approached slowly and then turned towards the street. “Let’s meet a week from today, same time. But not here, there are too many people. There’s a café on Kantstrasse, near Savignyplatz. Sit outside. Be careful. I need you, old boy.”
He rose abruptly and walked away.
York waited ten minutes more, watching birds on the branches above, the people bustling by on the boulevard beyond. When satisfied no one had noticed them, he got up and walked in the opposite direction. He paused when he reached the main walkway and looked each way, ensuring he wasn’t followed. He then continued through the park.
He moved down the curved walkway, limping, leaning on his cane. He nodded to a mother with a small child as she passed, smiling politely. When he turned a corner, headed towards the street, he walked abruptly into Amanda Hamilton.
She was standing on the path, camera glued to her eye, taking photographs of a bird perched on a branch, primping and posing for the lens.
“Mr. Becker,” she said crossly, lowering the camera. She folded her arms across her chest, studying him with a stern look.
York stopped, surprised to see her, not knowing why she was so angry. He decided to charm her.
“Miss Hamilton,” he said, smiling. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Are you following me?”
He was stunned. “No, I’m not. I was just walking. I had no idea you were here, although I’m certainly glad to see you. Why would you think I’m following you?”
“First I see you at the café, and now the park.”
He tried logic. “We met at the café and had a very pleasant conversation. I had no way of knowing you would be here.”
“Is there something else you want to tell me?” she asked, glaring at him, her face taut.
York was guarded. She obviously knew something that he didn’t. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know how I offended you. I enjoyed your company the other day, and I would very much like to continue our friendship. I think we have a lot in common.”
She sighed, looking away. For a moment she studied the bird she had photographed, watching him as he watched her. Then she turned to York, a bit calmer.
“I like to take photographs,” she said, finally explaining herself. “Birds are one of my favorite subjects. A few days ago, I took a picture of a bird from the terrace of my home. I used a long-range lens, and accidentally captured a man in the photograph. He was walking a block away, but seemed to be looking at my house.”
She paused dramatically, her eyes trained on his. The silence was awkward, but she seemed to enjoy it. After a moment had passed, she continued. “He had a cane. The man was you, Mr. Becker. Would you like to explain yourself?”
York shrugged, trying to appear harmless, but annoyed he was careless. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I walk often; I need to exercise my leg if I ever hope to recover from my war wounds. And my hotel is nearby. This is nothing more than a simple coincidence.”
She shook her head slowly, her expression not changing. “Nice try. But you haven’t seen the photograph. Your head is turned; you’re focused on my residence, even at a distance. What did you hope to see?”
“Miss Hamilton, I already explained. If I somehow offended you, I apologize.”
“I want an explanation. And I want it now. If I don’t get it, I will report you to the authorities.”
York was getting worried. “There’s no need to be upset. I told you what happened.”
“And I told you I don’t believe you. Now, do I call a policeman or do you tell me the truth?”
“I did tell you the truth.”
She wasn’t budging, defiant and determined. “Why are you watching me?”
He could tell she suspected something, but she wasn’t sure what it was. He decided to gamble, expose who he was and what he was. She had just caught her husband being unfaithful for the second time in six months. Maybe she was vulnerable, desperate, trapped. Maybe she was anxious to escape.
“As I said…” he began, but then paused.
She waited, her arms still folded, anxious for an explanation.
He switched from German, and spoke English: “We have much in common.”
Erika Jaeger bicycled to her house two days each week with four satchels of food dangling from the handlebars, returning from where she met the man who sold goods on the black market. Her apartment occupied the upper two floors of a hundred-year-old building that sat three dwellings from the corner, the neighborhood pleasant, the people friendly, a good place to raise a family. Although some of the houses on the tree-lined street were a bit tired and in need of repair, renovations would have to wait with most of the men away at war.
The apartments were accessed via a common vestibule, a grand staircase to the right, the first floor apartment accessed from the left. The area above the vestibule was open for four stories, the stairs winding around it, stretching all the way to a plaster ceiling sculpted with floral designs. Erika lived in the fourth floor apartment with her mother Millie.
Internal to her apartment was a smaller staircase that led to an abbreviated fifth floor. On the fourth: kitchen, parlor, bath and Millie’s bedroom, which was just off the living room. On the fifth, two rooms: Erika’s bedroom and her music room. She spent most of her time on the fifth floor, practicing at least three hours each day and more on weekends, even while working at the War Ministry and any other odd jobs she could find to earn money. She always needed money.
She used her bicycle often; it was the most economical way to travel in a large metropolis like Berlin. When not in use, she chained and locked it to the iron fence that defined the courtyard at the rear of the property. Other residents did the same. The courtyard was secluded, backing onto an alley, and hidden by a neighbor’s carriage house that stood beside it. Their bicycles were safe there. Not that anyone in Charlottenburg would take them, anyway.
Erika arrived home on Monday, carrying four satchels of groceries up four flights of stairs. Her mother was in the parlor, listening to a radio program while scanning the front page of the newspaper. Not yet sixty, Millie was sickly, thin and frail. She tired easily and had dark circles around her eyes. And she seemed to get a little weaker with each day that passed.
Erika greeted her with a hug. “How was your day?”
Millie smiled. “It was no different than yesterday, and tomorrow will be no different than today. But any day is nice, especially in summer.”
“Did you take all your medicine?”
Millie rolled her eyes. “Yes, I took all my medicine,” she droned.
“Good,” Erika said, the child playing parent. “What do you want for dinner?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Whatever is easiest for you.”
“How about bratwurst and kartoffelsalat? I have some beer and bread.”
Erika grabbed the bags of groceries and took them in the kitchen, putting them away in the cabinets and small refrigerator. She put some beer and chopped onions in a pan on the stove, heated the mixture, then added the bratwurst, far more than she and her mother could ever eat. She took a large container out of the cabinet and started to make the kartoffelsalat, peeling potatoes, adding a bit of bacon and salt and vinegar, making enough to fill the bowl.
Millie set the table while the bratwurst cooked, and Erika got some sheet music from the parlor, a work by Haydn, and studied the part for the second violin, imagining her fingers dancing along the neck.
She continued her mental exercise, practicing the piece two times, musical movements intertwined with frying bratwurst. When she was finished preparing the food, she sat at the kitchen table with Millie and they began to enjoy their meal.
“What was on the radio?” Erika asked.
“Mostly news about the war,” she said. “The Fuhrer announced a summer offensive on the Eastern Front. He said Russia will be defeated by the end of the year.”
Erika knew better from the information she had access to at the War Ministry. Not only were the Russians also preparing an offensive, but they were slowly pushing the Germans westward across a broad front. But the average citizen didn’t know that. And the government didn’t want them to.
“Why did they say the war in Russia would end?” Erika asked, curious. She was always interested in the difference between public announcements and what she knew as fact.
Millie shrugged. “I wasn’t really listening. I’m tired of war.”
Since losing the Battle of Stalingrad in February, there had been few Nazi successes on the Eastern Front. Erika hoped the summer offensive, centered near the city of Kursk, did bring the war to an end, but she tended to doubt it, even though she was busy providing the logistics needed for its success: supplies, routes, spare parts, ammunition.
“Anything else of interest?” Erika asked.
Millie thought for a moment, sipping a glass of water. “There’s going to be a parade on Saturday. It’s for some regiments from France. They are moving eastward for the Russian offensive. They’re marching right down Ku’damm.”
Erika knew exactly which regiments they were. She had arranged their transport by train from Paris to Berlin, and then to a rail station near Kursk. But she didn’t know about the parade.
“That might be nice to watch,” she said. “Although I should really practice for the concert Saturday night. We’re doing a new piece by Haydn.”
“I’m sure you’ll play superbly, whether you practice or not. You always do. Watch the parade. You deserve some fun.”
Erika smiled. Her mother had been her greatest inspiration. A classical music lover and amateur violinist, she had taught Erika how to play. She never tired of telling Erika how proud she was of her accomplishments. It meant a lot. Erika was fortunate to have family so supportive. She only wished her father was still alive to see her success.
They finished their meal and cleaned up, still chatting about the parade and gossiping about the neighbors. Millie then returned to the parlor with her newspaper, while Erika went to the fifth floor, carrying the Haydn music.
She also carried several pots and containers. They were filled with bratwurst, rolls, and kartoffelsalat.