Authors: Alex Gerlis
Gunter, Rosa and Franz had come up with countless
schemes to get the three of them out of the country, but all had too many risks
and too many flaws. Gunter usually visited after work on a Wednesday. That was
the day his wife took their children to their piano lessons in Reinickendorf
and afterwards they stopped for tea at a favourite cafe on Holtzdamm. They
rarely arrived home before 7.30, so Gunter found if he left work at five he
could go down to Dahlem, spend an hour and a half there and be home in plenty
of time.
He did his best to take some food and money with him,
and Franz’s wife Silke always tried to be there at the same time so she could
sit with Frau Hermann while Rosa went upstairs to be with Gunter and the
children. On the last Wednesday of January Gunter arrived at the house to find
Franz Hermann sitting in the room upstairs that Rosa used as a lounge. Rosa
followed him into the room.
‘Where are the children? Is Alfred alright?’ asked Gunter.
‘They’re fine. You’ll see Alfred in a minute. I need
to talk with you first.’ Hermann was leaning forward on the low sofa, opposite
Gunter and Rosa. His head was bowed low. As he talked, he continued to look
down at the patterned carpet.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news Rosa.’
There was an audible intake of breath from her and
she gripped Gunter’s knee.
‘Harald?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Rosa Stern lifted her head high and turned to the
window, her head resting for a while against the thick curtains. When she
turned round again her eyes had filled with tears. Gunter put his arm round her
and pulled her close. She let her head fall on his shoulder.
‘Tell me everything, Franz.’
‘I’ll tell you what I know, Rosa. As you’re aware,
we could hardly make a direct approach to Sachsenhausen: please can you tell us
how Harald Stern is getting on? I had begun to hear that when people died at
Sachsenhausen or any of the other camps they’ve taken Berliners to, the police
turn up at the home of the next of kin. They bring their ashes with them –
along with a bill for the cost of the urn.’
‘Do we really need all this detail Franz?’
‘No Gunter, don’t be concerned on my part. I need to
hear this.’
‘Of course, you are Harald’s next of kin, but
fortunately the authorities don’t know where you are. You remember a few months
ago I managed to track down an address for his elder brother, Paul – in
Spandau? I visited him and told him that, as far as I knew, you were in Paris. If
he’s questioned by the Gestapo, he can’t tell them what he doesn’t know. He’d
heard nothing from Harald either but he did say he’d contact me if he did. I didn’t
give him any of my details; again, it’s too risky. But I said I’d try and visit
him every few weeks and, if he had any news, he’d be able to give it to me then.
I visited him yesterday and he told me…’
Hermann paused to remove a handkerchief from his
pocket and he blew his nose noisily. His voice was trembling when he next
spoke. ‘They brought the urn round last week. They say he died of a heart
condition – natural causes. Apparently that’s what they say with everyone. I’m
so sorry Rosa.’
The ensuing silence lasted a lifetime and, as
happens in such circumstances, even the quietest, least obtrusive sound
reverberated around the room. Rosa cried solidly for the next ten minutes, then
she stood up and walked around the room, deep in thought. When she spoke, her
voice sounded resolute. ‘I’ve made a decision Gunter. Do what you can to get
Alfred out. It’ll be easier if it’s just him, no?’
Both men nodded: this is what they had been saying
for months.
‘We’re all doomed. Alfred will be the easiest to
smuggle out. Can you do it?’
Hermann nodded his head up and down and from side to
side, weighing up the possibilities of success.
Maybe; there’s a chance.
‘We can try Rosa, I promise you,’ said Gunter. ‘And
then we’ll get you and Sophia out too.’
It was seven o’clock before Gunter Reinhart left the
house on the corner of Kaiser Wilhelm Strasse and Arno-Holz Strasse. Hermann
said he would walk with him to the station while Silke looked after his mother,
allowing Rosa to stay with the distraught children.
They walked in silence until they were on
Königin-Luise-Strasse, each man wrapped in his own thoughts and overwhelmed by
the enormity of the situation closing in on them.
‘We must get Alfred out before it’s too late,’ said
Gunter. ‘But it’s going to be so difficult, Franz, so dangerous. The boy has no
papers. If there was any way I could get him to Switzerland then I’ve a good
friend in Zürich who would take care of him, but how can I get him there?’
Franz Hermann said nothing for a while, but Gunter
noticed he was shaking his head then nodding it, as if he was debating with
himself.
Pros and cons.
Podbielski Allee station was in view by the time
Hermann spoke, though only after he had carefully looked around to ensure
no-one was within earshot: that was how people spoke in Berlin these days. ‘This
is about your son’s life, Gunter, so I can absolutely trust you, yes?’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘Let me ask you a question first: how senior are you
at the Reichsbank?’
‘Senior enough: I run a department.’
‘And how close are you to Walther Funk?’
‘We aren’t friends as such, but I’m good at my job
and he relies on me for certain matters: I handle our transactions with the Swiss.
That’s very important to him.’
‘And the economies of countries we’ve occupied, do
you get involved in them?’
‘To an extent, certainly, if we need to move money
and gold from those countries to Switzerland. Why are you asking?’
‘I want to know how trusted you are at the
Reichsbank. After all, you were married to a Jew.’
‘That was many years ago, Franz. And, remember, I
divorced her. It’s no doubt on a file somewhere, but it’s not an issue. I even
made sure I joined the Nazi Party. In answer to your question, I’m trusted.’
‘I have some… contacts, Gunter: people who may be
able to help get Alfred out of Germany. But they’d want something in return,
something you may be able to get your hands on.’
The two men had now moved to the side of the
pavement, standing next to the railings and beneath a tree whose branches descended
to just above their heads. Hermann paused and took a deep breath, about to take
the plunge.
‘Go on Hermann, what is it?’
‘I’m going to ask you about something: if you’ve not
heard of it, please forget I ever asked the question. Do you understand?’
He nodded. The two men waited while an elderly
couple and their dog strolled past, nodding in reply to their greeting.
‘Have you ever come across a document called
Directive 21?’
Reinhart stared at Hermann long and hard, his eyes
terrified. He looked more shocked than when he had met the lawyer in the bar
and been told Rosa and the children were back in Berlin.
‘Are you being serious?’
‘Yes. Are you aware of it?’
‘I am. But how on earth have you heard about it?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Gunter, keep your voice down. You
don’t need to know that. Have you actually seen it?’
‘I have. Do you know how top-secret this is?’
‘Tell me how you’ve had access to it?’
‘There is one copy in the Reichsbank. It’s kept in a
safe in Funk’s office, but I’ve been able to see it because he’s concerned that
if this… hang on, Hermann: you tell me what this Directive is about – you tell
me that before I say anything else.’
‘It’s about plans to invade the Soviet Union.’
‘Very well then: Funk and no doubt many of the
others are nothing if not greedy. They’re concerned that if – when – this
invasion takes place we should have plans in place to get our hands on what
assets we can and get them into our Swiss bank accounts. That’s why I have
access.’
‘Presumably you can’t take it out of Funk’s office?’
‘Yes and no: if I need to see it, I have to put a
request in writing to his private secretary and if he approves it then I’m
allowed to see it in a secure room next to Funk’s office.’
‘Are you alone in that room?’
‘Funk’s private secretary is meant to stay with me,
but he’s an impatient sort: he’ll usually stay for five minutes and if it looks
as though I’m going to be any longer, he’ll go and sit at his desk, which is
just outside the door.’
Very slowly the two men walked towards Podbielski
Allee station, talking as they went. It was gone eight o’clock before Gunter
Reinhart returned to his house in Charlottenburg and the inevitable wrath of
his wife. He was, however, oblivious to it.
He had to make a plan.
***
On
a blustery Tuesday afternoon at the beginning of February, Captain Edgar was
summoned to Christopher Porter’s office on the top floor of a building best
described as functional. Edgar stood at the narrow window overlooking St James’
Square, his back turned to his superior who appeared to be even more ill at
ease in Edgar’s presence than normal.
‘I do wish you’d sit down Edgar.’
Edgar turned round, leaning against the window ledge.
‘You said this was urgent, sir.’ There was a pause
before the ‘sir’.
Porter cleared his throat and nervously straightened
the fountain-pen holder on his desk. ‘I have to tell you Edgar that I’m getting
all kinds of flak from Downing Street. It’s most trying.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that sir: is this in connection
with anything in particular?’
‘In connection with our intelligence that Germany
may be planning an invasion of the Soviet Union. You insisted on it being a
complete secret, but now Downing Street has caught wind of it and they’re not
happy, to say the very least. Their view – and I’m informed it’s very much the
view of the Prime Minister – is that we should have shared our intelligence
such plans existed more widely from the outset.’
‘But we’re not obliged to share every shred of
unconfirmed intelligence, surely?’
‘Indeed Edgar – but this is more than a “shred of
unconfirmed intelligence”, isn’t it? We knew about the meeting in Bad
Reichenhall last July and we know about this directive Hitler issued in
December, don’t we? The Prime Minister is of the view that this is the single
most important area of intelligence at the moment and we must do everything we
can to get our hands on it. It’s been made very clear to me that our failure to
share this intelligence is viewed most seriously: the one way in which we can
redeem ourselves is by getting our hands on this wretched document. If…’
‘… Get our hands on it! Are you joking? If that’s
seriously the view of Downing Street then one has to be most concerned at their
grasp on reality. We’ve been told there are no more than nine copies of this
Directive 21. The idea we can obtain one of them is ridiculous. How do your
chums in Downing Street propose we go about this?’
Porter was now busying himself moving a large
blotting pad around on his desk.
‘You’ll need to go out there, Edgar.’
‘To Germany?’
‘Not if we can avoid it. I was wondering about that
chap Hunter?’
‘Henry Hunter?’ Edgar began to pace the room,
turning once again to stare out of the window, deep in thought. ‘That’s not a
bad idea sir, I’ll grant you that. His trial run in Germany last year went
well. He’s still in Switzerland: he’s got perfect cover to go into Germany.’
‘The best bet would be for you to get to Switzerland
through Portugal and Spain: can’t see another way at the moment. Once you’re
safely there we can take a view.’
Edgar stared at Porter in disbelief as it dawned on
him he was being serious.
‘Any other country you’d like me to drop into while
I’m over there? Italy perhaps? Poland? And how do you propose I get out there?’
Porter smiled as he unlocked a drawer in his desk
and removed a small pile of envelopes.
‘That, Edgar, is where I think I can surprise even
you!’
‘You are being serious then?’
‘Indeed I am Edgar: not only serious but also
resourceful. You may or may not be aware there is a scheduled daily air service
from Bristol to Lisbon. You won’t know how hard this has been, but I’ve managed
to secure you a seat on the flight this Thursday.’
‘This Thursday?’ Edgar looked surprised. ‘And when I
get to Lisbon?’
‘Well, Lisbon station is very much Sandy Morgan’s
show. He’ll arrange for you to meet up with Telmo and the three of you can see
where we are with regards to our lady in Berlin. After that Morgan will get you
into Spain and over to Barcelona: there are scheduled Swissair flights from
there into Switzerland. From Barcelona you’re going to have to go into
Switzerland with your American cover: no alternative, I’m afraid: the Swiss are
terribly jumpy about us at the moment.’
***
Captain
Edgar was acutely aware he appeared to have been cast as a character from one
of those Agatha Christie crime novels of which his wife was so fond.
It was midday and he and the other characters were
assembled in a draughty room at Whitchurch Airport, just outside Bristol. There
were 15 passengers including a priest, two elderly women wrapped in furs, a
woman accompanied by a young boy and two men speaking Portuguese. Edgar was
half expecting to be joined by a Belgian detective with a waxed moustache.
It had been an hour since Edgar had checked in for
the flight. For the purposes of the trip, he was travelling under a British
diplomatic passport in the name of the Hon Anthony Davis. The ‘Hon’, Edgar
assumed, was an example of Porter’s public-school humour. The Hon Anthony Davis
had various letters with him to the effect he would be spending an unspecified
period of time at the British Embassy in Lisbon dealing with ‘consular
services’.
A few minutes after midday the passengers were led
out of the room and across the apron to the DC-3 that would be flying them to
Lisbon. Within minutes they were airborne, heading west along the Bristol
Channel and out towards sea. When the southern tip of Ireland peeked out of the
low cloud the plane changed course, at which point the captain spoke to the
passengers:
‘Welcome aboard this BOAC flight from Bristol to
Lisbon, where we expect to arrive just after four pm local time. Due to wartime
flying regulations we will be flying at a maximum altitude of three thousand
feet.’
Edgar closed his eyes and tried to rest as the
captain continued to speak. He recalled being told the pilots on these flights
were all Dutch: they had managed to fly most of the KLM fleet to Britain just
before the German invasion of the Netherlands, and they and their planes now
serviced the few remaining BOAC flights.
To his surprise, Edgar must have fallen asleep
straight away because he was woken by a stern-looking stewardess shaking him by
the elbow. They were beginning their descent into Portela Airport.
The plane was flying low, hugging the Portuguese
coast, the sky cloudless and the remains of the sun lighting up the land to
their left. Edgar glanced to his right: across the aisle the priest was
fervently praying, the rosary gripped tightly in his hands. The plane banked
sharply over the city, buildings rushing by underneath them. Within a minute,
Portela Airport appeared below them. The pilot made one pass of the airport,
turned 180 degrees then began the final approach.
***
At
the British Embassy just off the Rua de São Domingos, Sandy Morgan greeted Edgar
like the old friend that he was. He hurried out from behind his desk in a
crumpled white suit and after grasping him by the hand and warmly shaking it,
removed a large bottle of Bells from a cabinet by the window. Two glasses were
on his desk, one of which he pushed towards Edgar.
‘Now then old chap, bet you can do with one of
these?’
Edgar smiled.
‘Good flight, I hope? Beats me how we can get away
with it: can’t understand how they just don’t take a shot at our planes. Mind
you, I suppose we’d do the same to theirs, eh? Handy though, can’t tell you how
much useful stuff we pick up at the airport. We have people watching it the
whole time. Germans do as well, so I suppose we cancel each other out. Even
pick up their newspapers, which London is rather keen on. Anyway, cheers!’
Morgan downed his whisky, which had clearly not been
his first of the afternoon, in one go and quickly refilled his glass from a new
bottle he produced from behind his desk. Edgar held his hand over his glass and
shook his head.
‘Now then, quick run through the plan. Idea is you
stay at my place, which is in an annexe of the embassy, so no need for you to
be seen out and about. We’ll sort you accreditation with the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs tomorrow. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the story is you’re here to
check our consular system?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Funnily enough, they could do with sorting out but
I can’t imagine you’re interested in that. That gives you the cover you need:
the PVDE keep a careful eye on us, but it’s not too difficult to fool them. Idea
is that after a couple of days you’ll come down with something nasty which’ll
keep you in bed for a couple of weeks. The doctor we use is a rather helpful
chap; he’ll back up any story. That’ll give us enough time to get you to
Barcelona and Switzerland then back again, and home without the PVDE spotting
it. Sound reasonable?’
Edgar nodded, slightly unsure. Sandy Morgan, despite
his manner, was a good operator. He was one of the few station chiefs whom he
trusted.
‘We’ll meet with Telmo on either Saturday or Sunday:
it’s quieter then, easier all round. I’ll only know for sure late tomorrow. Assuming
that goes well, you’ll head off to Spain on Monday. Madrid station will look
after you and get you over to Barcelona and a flight from there to Switzerland.
You’ll be using an American cover, I understand?’
***
Sunday
was warm; it almost felt spring-like. Edgar and Morgan sat on the balcony of
Morgan’s small apartment in the Embassy annexe, sipping fresh coffee. Edgar had
been aware Morgan had left the apartment very early in the morning, before six
as far as he could tell.
‘I wouldn’t say that Telmo has got cold feet but
he’s nervous, Edgar. Things aren’t quite right in this city. Portugal is meant
to be our oldest ally, but Salazar trusts no-one: not us, not the Germans and
certainly not Spain. He seems to have got it into his mind that Spain has plans
to invade this place. Upshot is that everyone is very twitchy. The PVDE are
watching everyone and Telmo is worried they’re watching him. He tried to cry
off on Friday night and then again last night, which is why I had to sneak out
this morning. He’s agreed to meet you Edgar, but be gentle with him. He’s one
of us, after all.’
‘When and where?’
‘This afternoon: hope you like football.’
Morgan
and Edgar left the Embassy later that morning, half an hour apart, and met as
arranged at a bar on the Rossio an hour later. They then travelled by tram,
taxi, foot and tram again. By the time they had finished their second tram
journey they were part of a crowd heading in one direction. They were, Morgan
announced, in Lumiar.
‘We’re in the north of the city, not far from the airport.’
Twenty minutes later Edgar was inside a football
ground for the first time in his life.
‘Quick briefing Edgar: you’re now in the
Campo do
Lumiar which is the home of Sporting Clube de Portugal, who are always called
Sporting. They’re one of the top clubs in the country; some would say
the
top club, though I daresay Benfica and Porto might disagree. Their opponents
this afternoon are Barreirense, so it’s something of a local derby.’
They were walking down the stand now, Morgan looking
carefully along the rows.
‘Just so you don’t appear too ignorant, Sporting play
in green, Barreirense in red.’
‘And who do we want to win, Sandy?’
‘Doesn’t matter, does it? Personally I have a soft
spot for Benfica, so I don’t mind. Barreirense are quite a good side this year
so it could be a close game. Perhaps best if you don’t shout too much anyway. Clap
in the right places. Ah… good, there’s Telmo; so he turned up after all. Now
remember to be nice to him – make him feel wanted. We don’t want him turning
cold on us, do we?’
At the very end of a row
Telmo Rocha
Martins was standing up, waving casually at them.
Here I am.
He was
short – about five foot five, bald, with a neat moustache and round, black
glasses. A large crowd had already formed in the
Campo do Lumiar and Telmo,
wrapped in a large, slightly shabby jacket, was just one of them.
It was the first time Edgar had actually met Telmo
Rocha Martins, one of the most important British agents in Portugal. Telmo was
a middle-ranking civil servant in the Portuguese Ministry of Foreign Affairs –
not regarded highly enough nor ranked so senior as to be considered a diplomat,
but the kind of civil servant who ensures everything runs smoothly while other
people grab the glory. This had been a source of increasing resentment to
Telmo, one that had led him to approach the British when the war started with
an offer to pass on the kind of information for which money changed hands.
Now, his status and his low profile suited him
perfectly. No-one suspected this diminutive, bespectacled man for a moment. The
quality of intelligence he passed on to the British improved all the time. He
had been given a miniature camera and at first it was copies of Ministry
briefing papers and some telegrams from overseas embassies that were passed on.
Then, in early 1940, Telmo asked Morgan at one of their regular meetings
whether he would be interested, by any chance, in more material from Berlin?