Authors: Alex Gerlis
The woman who Henry let into his room was wearing
the dark, formal uniform of the hotel staff. On her lapel was a badge:
Katharina
Hoch, Night Manager
. She closed the door carefully behind her then looked
him up and down, as if checking him out. ‘It is good news we found your case,
Herr Hesse.’ She was carrying a small, leather bag.
‘There’s been a mistake, I’m afraid. I have my case
here. I only brought the one with me.’
‘Are you enjoying your stay at the Hotel Victoria?’
‘I am, but…’
‘And in Stuttgart: you are enjoying Stuttgart? We
usually have some rain in Stuttgart at this time of year.’
Henry felt unsteady on his feet.
Milo?
‘I beg
your pardon?’
She repeated the phrase in a pleasant,
conversational manner.
‘We usually have some rain in Stuttgart at this time
of year.’
Henry sat down on the edge of the bed, aware he was
shaking violently. He took a moment or two to remember his correct response.
‘That must be the case all over Europe.’
Was it safe to have a conversation like this in a
hotel room?
‘Surely,’ she said, checking behind the curtains
then glimpsing into the bathroom, ‘surely there must be rain over the Alps?’
‘There is always rain around the Alps even in summer.’
‘How wonderful,’ she replied, as though she really
meant it.
There was a long silence. Another car door slammed
on Keplerstrasse; the sound of distant laughter. The woman smiled at him in
what in other circumstances he’d have taken to quite a seductive manner. Her
mouth was quite beautiful, without any trace of lipstick.
‘So you are Milo?’ He was speaking in barely more
than a whisper.
‘I am Milo, yes – don’t look so shocked. Look, I am
on duty, so I don’t have too long and we have much to talk about.’
‘Is it safe in here?’
‘Do you mean are we being listened to? You don’t
need to be concerned. We provide the Gestapo with a list of all new guests and
the ones they have some interest in we have to put in special rooms on the fifth
floor, so you don’t need to worry, not for now at least.’
She lifted the suitcase onto the bed and opened it. It
was full of men’s clothes, along with a hat and a pair of black shoes. ‘Have
you ever been to Essen, Herr Hesse?’
‘Where?’
‘Essen. In the Ruhr: north of Cologne.’
‘No, I can’t say I have.’
‘Tomorrow will be your first visit then.’
‘But… surely not. My visa doesn’t permit me to
travel outside of Stuttgart.’
‘That’s what all this is about.’ She pointed to the
suitcase on the bed. ‘Henri Hesse will not be travelling to Essen. You will
travel as Dieter Hoch.’ She had removed a wallet from the suitcase and emptied
its contents onto the bed.
‘Dieter Hoch is my brother. Dieter is four years
older than you but the photograph in his identity card here is not a good one
and so we’re confident your identity documents will pass a basic examination. It’ll
work as long as no-one has any reason to suspect you. You’ll only wear these
clothes here: they all belong to my brother. Everything you wear will be German-made.
There must be nothing on you that could identify you as being Swiss. You will
take this suitcase.’
‘And your brother is in on this?’
‘Of course: we both do what we can to help the
British. We aren’t Nazis, you may have gathered that. Dieter is a manager with
the railway here in Stuttgart, which
means he’s able to travel more
freely on trains. He’s worked for the past seven days and finished this
evening, so now he’s off work until Friday morning. He’ll remain at home until
then and won’t leave the house: he’ll tell my parents he is unwell. That gives
you two clear days to get to Essen, complete your mission and return here. We
want you back in Stuttgart before the curfew on Thursday night.’
‘But what about the hotel, won’t people spot I’m not
here?’
‘I am the duty manager for the next two nights. I’ll
ensure all the paperwork is in order. I’ll also come up during the night to
ensure the room looks as though someone’s slept in it. As I say, no-one
suspects you. The Gestapo is kept busy enough with people it does suspect.’
‘And what do I do in Essen?’
‘Do you know anything about Essen?’
Henry shrugged.
Not really.
‘Essen is a major producer of steel and coal. The
Krupps family own much of the industry in the town. The steel that’s produced
there is vital to the Nazi war effort. The British wish to destroy the
factories, but their intelligence is poor. Some of the locations the British
are aware of are no longer in use, others have been opened. They’re in the
process of compiling a much more accurate map of Essen. That’s your mission, to
assist in that.’
‘So I just wander around Essen drawing maps?’
Katharina Hoch looked irritated. ‘I’ll give you the
details of how to make contact with someone in Essen. But this is going to be a
dangerous mission: you’ll be required to move around the town, memorise what
you see then compile a grid of locations which you will then bring back to
Stuttgart. Throughout Germany life is dangerous, but in Essen especially so.’
***
He
was woken at five in the morning by Katharina Hoch; a gentle rap on the door so
as not to disturb other guests. He washed and shaved then dressed in her
brother’s clothes and double-checked the minutiae of his new identity: address,
date of birth – the details that could trip him up.
He left the room as quietly as possible and
descended through the fire-exit stairs at the end of the corridor to the
basement level, where Katharina was waiting for him.
She looked him over, like a parent checking a child
was properly dressed for school. She asked him to empty his pockets to be sure
he was carrying nothing incriminating: everything was in order.
‘This is your ticket here for the rail journey: the
train leaves at six o’clock, in 25 minutes. It’s scheduled to arrive in
Frankfurt at ten o’clock: Dieter says this train tends to run on time as it’s
carrying troops, so is less likely to be subject to delays. At Frankfurt you
should purchase a ticket to Essen: there’s a direct service that departs at a
quarter to eleven and is due to arrive in Essen at a quarter past two or 14.15,
that’s how they like us to refer to it these days, presumably they think it
makes everything sound more efficient. Dieter says he knows less about that
part of the DR network, so you may encounter delays. Now you remember I told
you last night about the purpose of your visit to Essen, in case anyone asks
you?’
‘Visiting an aunt?’
‘Correct: Gertraud Traugott recently celebrated her 80th
birthday and as you haven’t seen her in a while this is a surprise visit. She
lives in an apartment in the west of Essen, in Altendorf. This is her address,
please copy it down now in your own handwriting and put the piece of paper in
your wallet.’
She waited while Henry patiently copied down the
address, folded the piece of paper and placed it in the wallet.
‘But you aren’t to go straight to that address. When
you arrive at Essen station, you’re to go to the lost-property office, which is
located behind the main ticket office. You’ll find it’s well signposted. In the
unlikely event that you arrive in Essen before two o’clock, don’t go there any
earlier. If you arrive after four o’clock, wait outside the office. You have a
contact in Essen who’s going to help you and he works in the lost-property
office. His codename is Lido. He’s always on his own there between two and
four. Go into the office and ask if anyone’s handed in a gentleman’s umbrella,
which you mislaid that morning. He’ll ask you to describe it and you’ll say it’s
black with a carved wooden handle engraved with the initials ‘DH’. He’ll then
ask you to come into the back of the office to inspect the umbrellas. Once
there and when it is safe, Lido will brief you on what’s to happen during your
stay in Essen.’
‘And what if he isn’t there?’
‘If he isn’t there or if something goes wrong, you
should try and get out of Essen as soon as possible and head back to Stuttgart.
Lido has very limited information about who you are or even where you’re coming
from, so your security shouldn’t be compromised if he’s arrested.’
Henry tried to take all this in: the detail was one
thing but the sense of fear quite another. He was beginning to shiver, despite
the warmth of the basement.
‘It’s nearly a quarter to six; you need to get a
move on. Wear your hat; it’ll help mask your identity. Carry the raincoat. The
next thing I have to say is very important: in the event of you being arrested,
your story will not stand a lot of scrutiny. It won’t take the Gestapo long to
find out you’re not Dieter Hoch or that Gertraud Traugott is not your aunt. Hopefully,
it won’t come to that, but if you do find yourself being interrogated by the
Gestapo you must do your best to hold out for 24 hours. That’ll give us enough
time to dismantle our cell here in Stuttgart and try to escape.’
Katharina put her arm around his shoulder and leaned
close to him. Her mouth looked even more astonishing close-up. Her eyes did not
blink as she stared straight into his.
‘Twenty four hours, that’s all that we ask. Tell
them you’re a Swiss citizen and your passport is here in the hotel to prove it.
They probably won’t kill you – the Germans can’t afford to upset the Swiss. But
if you keep your wits about you hopefully you won’t arouse suspicion. You must
leave now.’
‘There is one final thing you should know,’ she
said. ‘There’s a pencil case in the suitcase, in a zipped compartment in the
lid. Under no circumstances should you take it out of the case or open it.
You’re to give it Lido. That’s very important. Do you understand?’
He nodded that he understood. Katharina led him up a
steep flight of concrete steps to a door that led directly onto Keplerstrasse. She
motioned for him to wait while she looked up and down the street, then waved
him to come up. She pushed him along with a whispered ‘Good luck’.
It was a quick five minutes’ walk down
Friedrichstrasse to the main station, which was reassuringly busy. Henry had
just enough time to stop at a kiosk and buy a bread roll with a cold sausage
and a copy of that morning’s
Vőlkischer Beobachter
.
He
spotted the Frankfurt train on platform six,
with black-clad troops forming in lines to board it. Clouds of steam floated
across the station, and the smell of engine oil and the sounds of metal and
whistles and people calling out all felt oddly reassuring. He showed his ticket
to the man at the barrier then a policeman asked to check his papers, but was
quick to wave him through. Just as he was about to board the train, he felt a
hand on his shoulder and when he turned round it was an officer in black
uniform. He noticed the distinctive Death Head symbol: SS. He felt like
laughing. He had not even managed to board the train to Frankfurt. It had all
been a trap.
***
‘Do
you have a light?’ The officer was holding an unlit cigarette and smiling. ‘I
seem to have found myself with a unit where no-one smokes. Imagine that!’
Henry apologised profusely. ‘I don’t smoke either
.
’
Perhaps I ought to take it up
, he thought as he climbed into his carriage.
***
He
was both surprised and relieved when the train from Frankfurt pulled into Essen
Main at 20 minutes past two that Wednesday afternoon. The journey could not
have gone more smoothly; the Stuttgart train had arrived in Frankfurt at ten,
allowing him ample time to buy his ticket for Essen and still be able to sit in
a small café on one of the platforms, where he sipped a cup of bitter ersatz
coffee and glanced at the
Vőlkischer Beobachter
. He was
able to board the Essen train at 10.30 when the barrier opened, with the
policeman on duty giving his identity card no more than a cursory look.
The train was packed all the way to Cologne, so he
closed his eyes to avoid being drawn into conversation during the journey up
the Ruhr. Inevitably, as he began to doze, Roza appeared before him: gentle at
first, as always. Her fingers lightly touching his wrist and a shy smile as she
tossed her hair back from her face. Then the fingers grasped his wrist so
tightly he could feel the pain, and that was followed by her looking at him
with more hate than he could imagine:
‘You know what will happen to us
now, don’t you?’
He was about to explain when she began to fade away,
asking one further question as she did so: ‘
Where are you going?’ He sat up
with a start, concerned he may have said something, but no-one in the carriage
so much as looked at him.
Where am I going? Where indeed?
As the train reached Essen, enormous factories
loomed on either side of the track, with thick plumes of filthy smoke reaching
far into the grey sky. The station was not nearly as large as the ones in
Stuttgart or Frankfurt, and there seemed to be less security. There was a
noticeable smell of coal and industrial fumes, and the large swastika flags
draped above the platform were streaked with grime. He decided not to go to the
lost-property office straight away; he needed to get a sense of his
surroundings. He studied the timetable on the side of the ticket office. If he
needed to leave Essen quickly there was a train to Dortmund in ten minutes and
one to Cologne in 20. There was a café on the platform, but he felt too sick
with nerves to even enter it.
He waited until 2.30 then entered the lost-property
office. A man in DR uniform was behind a long, low counter, attending to an
elderly lady.
‘I can assure you I’ve looked very carefully and
more than once, as you ask. There’s no sign of your gloves. They may still be
elsewhere in the station: I suggest you try again tomorrow. I’ll keep a special
eye out for them.’
Henry waited until she had left. The man behind the
counter looked to be in his late fifties at least, his hair a steely white, and
he moved in a slow and quite deliberate manner. He looked tired. His most
noticeable feature was an impressive pair of eyebrows that seemed to join up
above his nose and curve up at either end, lending him an owl-like air.
‘Can I help you sir?’
Henry glanced around to ensure they were on their
own.
‘I appear to have lost my umbrella.’
No pause, no flicker of understanding, no sign of
anticipation from the man behind the counter.
‘And when did you lose it sir?’
‘This morning. It’s black with a carved wooden
handle. My initials are engraved on the handle: “DH”.’
The man behind the counter shook his head.
‘I can’t recall it, but perhaps you’d like to come
behind the counter and have a look? We’ve quite a collection of umbrellas here,
sir: I could open a shop!’
The man lifted up a section of the counter and
slowly led Henry to a room at the back of the office. He closed the door and
removed his cap, turning to face Henry.
‘I’m Lido, by the way.’
‘I gathered that: Dieter.’
Lido grasped Henry’s hand and shook it warmly.
‘There are some umbrellas over there, pretend to be
looking through them. I’ll look out the window in case anyone comes in, but it’s
very quiet at this time of the afternoon. It’s quiet most of the time now. People
don’t seem to lose things in the war, apart from their lives.’
Lido spoke quickly and quietly, looking out of the
little office window towards the counter as he did so.
‘
Just wait a moment.’
A woman with two young children had come in and Lido
went over to the counter and after a very quick conversation she left. He came
back to Henry.
‘Every other person who comes in here thinks we are
the left-luggage department. It says very clearly that we’re lost property.
Stuttgart
explained that your cover for visiting Essen is to visit your aunt,
yes? Let me
tell you then that Gertraud Traugott is an elderly neighbour of mine. I live in
an apartment block in Altendorf; her apartment is two doors down from me. However,
Gertraud Traugott has not been in her apartment for three or four months now. She
started to lose her mind a year ago, though she seemed capable enough of
looking after herself. In November they took her into a sanatorium near
Oberhausen. I went to visit her last month: she tells everyone there she is
engaged to the Kaiser and she is waiting for him to come and take her away. I’m
not sure how long she’ll be there – one hears terrible rumours these days about
what they are doing to people like her, but that is another story. Now, you
need to listen very carefully and I’ll tell you what you need to do.’
***
At
ten to three Henry left the station by the north exit and headed into the
centre of Essen.
I finish work at four,
Lido had said.
Wait for me by
the Hindenburg Strasse exit: I will come out just after five past four. Follow
me all the way to Altendorf – I’ll make sure I take a route that takes you past
as many factories as possible. Make sure you memorise everything. And don’t
forget to follow me at a safe distance, not too close, not too far. Can you
remember all that?
He could. He also remembered his training and the
need to avoid wandering around a place without any apparent purpose. He decided
to use the hour and a bit he was going to spend in the centre of Essen to
purchase a gift for his aunt: he was there to celebrate her 80th birthday after
all.
Lido had agreed that this was a good idea.
Go past
the Handelshof Hotel and the Opera House and you’ll reach Adolf Hitler Platz
.
The best places to go shopping are to the north and the west of that –
around Verein Strasse and Logen Strasse. Any idea of what kind of gift you’re
going to buy?
Perfume, they had agreed.
Any woman appreciates
perfume; no-one is going to think that’s an odd gift.
He followed Lido’s instructions: he had plenty of
time, so he made sure he did not rush. Lido had said he thought there may be a
perfume shop somewhere past Logen Strasse. It wasn’t something he ever had
occasion to shop for these days, he’d said. In an arcade off Limbecker Strasse
he found exactly what he was looking for, a quaint
Parfümerie
: all wooden beams and leaded windows, reached by climbing down
a couple of worn steps. There was a sign on the door to ring the bell and when
he did so it was a minute or two before the elderly owner shuffled along to
unlock the store.
‘My apologies: when I’m preparing perfumes at the
back I lock the door, I’ve had people stealing bottles in the past. Perhaps I
should be more trusting these days. After all, it’s not as if Jews come into
the shop any more’. Henry noticed he was wearing the distinctive round Nazi
Party membership badge on his lapel, a black swastika stark on a white background.
The shop was tiny, with all the walls and counters covered in bottles of
perfume in every imaginable size and colour. The smell was close to
overpowering.
‘Now, how can I help you?’
Henry explained he was looking for a perfume for his
aunt, for her 80th birthday. The owner perused the shelves: ‘Maybe something
with lavender in it, which is always popular with older ladies – or perhaps
bergamot? What kind of a lady is she?’
Henry explained he had not seen her in a while, this
was a surprise visit.
‘You don’t sound as if you’re from this area?’
‘No, I’m from… the south.’
‘I see: whereabouts in the south?’
‘Stuttgart,’ said Henry, regretting his answer
straight away.
‘You don’t have that dreadful Swabian accent, thank
God! You’ve travelled a long way to see your aunt. Where does she live in
Essen?’
‘Altendorf.’
‘Altendorf? I know it well. I lived there myself for
many years, before my wife died and my children left Essen. What’s your aunt’s
name?’
Henry hesitated. There was something about the owner
he found unsettling. It was not the Nazi Party badge, half the population of
Germany seemed to wear one of those these days as far as he could tell and it
was probably good for business. No, the questions seemed to be pointed and
persistent rather than friendly. It was as if he distrusted Henry.
‘Maybe I’ll come back later. I need to do some more
shopping.’
‘Your aunt’s name, you were going to tell me her
name?’
‘Gertraud. Gertraud Traugott.’
‘Gertraud? But I know Gertraud, I know her very
well! Tell me, how are you related to her?’
Henry momentarily considered leaving the shop, but
had already revealed too much; Gertraud Traugott’s name and Stuttgart.
Trapped.
‘I told you, she’s my aunt.’
‘But on which side?’
‘My mother was her sister.’
The old man nodded as if he was satisfied with the
answer. Henry felt a sense of relief. He had over-reacted.
‘Ah, so you’re Hannelore’s son?’
‘That’s right, yes.’ He managed a weak smile and
felt faintly relieved. The old man leant against the counter, so close that
Henry could smell the garlic on his breath.
‘Gertraud has no sister. She had a brother but he
was killed in the Great War and had no children. And she’s not lived in
Altendorf for months. You can’t be her nephew. Who the hell are you?’
The old man’s hand moved along the counter towards
the telephone. Henry reacted quickly. He reached over the counter and pushed
the man as hard as he could against the shelves behind him. His head struck one
of the large glass bottles and he slumped to the floor. A few of the bottles
fell on top of him, the glass shattering and the perfume spilling over the man,
who was now groaning. Henry darted over to the door and locked it, turning the
sign round so that it would show that the shop was closed.
Geschlossen.
He climbed over the counter and
dragged the limp body into the small preparation room at the back of the shop
and closed the door. The old man was bleeding from the head and soaked in
perfume. Henry
could hear someone trying to open the door, the
handle turning against the lock and then a knock. The shopkeeper stirred, as if
trying to call out. Henry held one hand firmly against his mouth then gripped
his head with the other. He struggled, so Henry knelt on top of him, one knee
pressed hard into his chest, until his eyes bulged and his face turned bright-red.
The knocking stopped and it was quiet outside, but Henry continued to hold the
man down. The struggle lasted for what seemed like an age. He could feel
something hot and wet against his hand. Blood was trickling out of the man’s nose.
Then it stopped. The body suddenly slumped, all
resistance had flooded out of it and Henry knew he was dead. For a few minutes
he sat on the floor, catching his breath and gathering his thoughts, watching
the old man for any sign of life. The smells of citron, sandalwood and rose
filled the room. He went back into the shop and drew the blinds on the door and
windows. From the till, he removed all the notes and left it open. He turned
off the shop lights and went back into the room, taking care to shut the
internal door and lock it. He had already noticed there was another door from
the room which he assumed would lead outside. He undid the bolts and carefully
opened it just a few inches. Outside was a narrow, enclosed alleyway, the
buildings opposite almost within touching distance. He went back inside the
shop and removed the old man’s wristwatch: this needed to look like a robbery. He
was about to leave when he had another thought. From the old man’s lapel, he
removed the Nazi Party membership badge, checked that nothing was engraved on
the back then put it on his own jacket. As he did, he noticed his raincoat,
which had been on the floor alongside the man, had some bloodstains on the
sleeve and reeked of perfume. He bundled it up, hoping to find somewhere nearby
to dispose of it.