Vienna Prelude (20 page)

He had told Theo that even Austria must be only a temporary stopping place. Hitler had, of course, signed the pact with the Austrian Chancellor Schuschnigg that Germany would respect the right of the Austrians to choose their own destiny. Schuschnigg had the assurance that no move would be made by the Nazi Party to stir up trouble in Vienna if amnesty was offered to the Nazis imprisoned there. Schuschnigg had taken Hitler at this word, and thousands had been pardoned for their part in the rebellion of 1934 and the assassination of Dollfuss.

“Schuschnigg is a fool,” Thomas said aloud. He had seen the secret documents that had been sent to Vienna and the leaders of the Nazi Party there. They were to arrange an incident, something to cast blame on the Jews. Hitler, devious in his dealings, always created a reason to strike, even if there was none. Exactly what the incident would be, Thomas did not know. Members of the army looked on such political subterfuge with disapproval. Most of the old Weimar generals who remained in power talked fearfully about Hitler pushing the country toward war.

Thomas shook his head. He did not believe Hitler wanted war. He was certain that the generals did not. No, Hitler was motivated by a bottomless lust for power—just as Göring lusted after rare art and beautiful women, no matter whose they were. This pursuit of Theo was not borne out of hatred for him as a man or a Jew. All of that was just an excuse—an excuse for lawless men to take what belonged to others. It seemed strange that those who served the Hitlers and the Himmlers and the Görings believed the constant lie that
“
The Jew is our misfortune.”
It was those little men in the service of greed who were the most violent, the most dedicated to the brutality of the racial policies. They murdered and terrorized for one reason only: because they could. They were the law of lawlessness; the power of evil was their creed and their joy and their god!

With a shudder, Thomas stared at the men who stood waiting for Theo. Why did he not come out? If a ransom was required, he could pay it, and perhaps they would let him go. But even as the thought ran through his mind, Thomas dismissed it. Those shivering creatures waiting in the rain enjoyed their game. A cat with a full belly will not let a mouse go unharmed; they would not sell their right to intimidate Theo Lindheim. That was the way of Germany now, and Thomas was sent simply to witness the inevitable.

14

Decoy

The alterations shop of Lindheim’s Department Store was in more disarray than usual. The racks were crammed with suits and dresses and uniforms left for last-minute alterations. Grynspan the tailor and young Herschel worked feverishly on hems and buttons and sleeves. They stopped for a few minutes to wolf down their lunch, then returned to their tasks.

Old Grynspan hardly noticed the tall lean man in the dark overcoat who entered the room. Herschel looked up from a row of buttons and immediately froze with apprehension. The stranger’s face was in shadow, but he still wore his hat.
Gestapo!
Herschel’s heart raced, although he knew he had no reason to be afraid.

“Papa,” Herschel said quietly, and the urgency of his voice caused the old man to look up from his work to see the man near the doorway.

“Can I help you?” the old tailor asked almost absently.

“I have come to pick up a uniform, if you are Herr Grynspan.”

“I am Herr Grynspan, and if I have what you need—” He stood but did not move until the man stepped out into the light.

The stranger’s face was gaunt and worried. Herschel noticed that he spoke with a trace of British accent. “Good,” said the man. “It is a Luftwaffe uniform.”

“Belonging to?”

“A former officer of the Luftwaffe. Retired.”

“His name?”

The intruder continued. “You made the uniform three years ago. For a special event honoring the war dead.”

“Three years ago!” Herr Grynspan scoffed. “I have nothing of such . . . ” His voice faltered, and a flicker of suspicion crossed his face.

“Don’t give him anything, Papa,” Herschel whispered.

The man moved toward them. He seemed almost angry. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t know
you
.” Herr Grynspan shrugged and smiled in mock ignorance.

“It doesn’t matter who I am.”

“Indeed it does, in these precarious times. I cannot give away suits of clothing without some identification.”

“Then please accept this.” The man extended a crisp hundred-mark bill.

“I was paid already for the work in question.” Herr Grynspan did not look at the money. If this was indeed a Gestapo trap, he would not sell his life for a mere hundred-mark note.

“Yes, the officer told me you were paid even though the political events in Germany prevented him from ever wearing the uniform.” The man raised his eyes to the tall walnut cabinet in the back of the room. “It is in there, I believe.”

The tailor hesitated. Herschel leaned closer and hissed in desperation, “He could be Gestapo! You can’t give away a Luftwaffe uniform.”

“If you refuse, I will simply take it,” the man warned.

Grynspan raised his eyebrows. “Then perhaps I will call the authorities.”

The man laughed at the threat. “You want to be a witness for the Gestapo, eh, Herr Grynspan?” He walked toward the cabinet. “It would be better for you if you continue to act ignorant about this, I think. The officer insisted that you not become involved any more than is necessary.” He opened the cabinet himself and stood looking blankly at the row of Luftwaffe uniforms. “I’m going to take one of these, old man. Your clients will not like it if I take the wrong one.”

Angrily the old tailor tore through the uniforms until he pulled a colonel’s Luftwaffe uniform from the back. “Here it is. But if anything happens—any investigation—I know nothing.”

“That’s fair.” The man placed the hundred-mark bill on the cutting table and, obviously pleased with himself, demanded a box for the uniform. “It is raining. And there are curious people on every corner who would wonder what I am doing with this.”

Herschel quickly wrapped it. Then, his heart still pounding with fear, he returned to work on the row of buttons, even though he could hardly hold the needle.

***

The cadre of Gestapo agents watching the Adlon Hotel had grown weary since Theo had entered the building three hours earlier. From his window, Murphy counted an even dozen dripping, miserable men out on Unter den Linden and Wilhelmstrasse. They were concerned, no doubt, by Theo’s disappearance inside the building, but as of that moment the order for a full-scale search had not been issued. After all, everyone in Berlin knew that the entire foreign press corps was staying at the Adlon, and the last thing the Nazi government wanted was a reported arrest of a Jewish war hero showing up in all the international newspapers.

The Gestapo agents had every exit of the large hotel covered. From the side entrance to the kitchen, Nazi police were watching for the distinctive limp of Herr Theo Lindheim. There was no way he could leave the Adlon without being seen, followed, and arrested for questioning. His extended time inside the hotel would undoubtedly arouse the wrath and suspicion of the Nazi Ministry of Justice. Even so, they would not arrest him until he was well clear of the meddling eyes of the foreign press. The Führer had given express orders that only positive impressions should be made on outsiders. The detention of Theo Lindheim would hardly be considered a good image of Nazi public relations.

Murphy had his story now but had not yet written the ending.

“How many of them?” asked Theo from across the room.

“Twelve. Probably more.”

“They will spot my limp.”

“That’s what we are counting on.” Murphy glanced at his watch. “A couple minutes more,” he said quietly. He looked up into the stormy sky. “Pray to God it keeps on raining, Herr Lindheim,” he muttered.

As if in answer to his words, a gust of rain blew against the windowpane with a fierce rattle. The Gestapo men ducked their heads and shoved their hands deeper into overcoat pockets. At that exact moment, protected by an umbrella, dark overcoat, and hat with the brim pulled low, a man limped from the Wilhelmstrasse exit of the hotel. His features were hidden, and he tucked his face under the collar of his coat as he scurried toward Unter den Linden and hailed a taxi.

Gestapo agents stiffened at the sight of him and immediately exchanged hasty words. Two men ran out onto the street and hailed another taxi to follow after the first. Murphy clapped his hands in delight at the sight. “Nice show, Johnson!” Then he turned to Theo. “They’re following Johnson.”

“How many?”

“Four. Four down. Eight to go.” He glanced at his watch again. “There goes Timmons.” His voice was excited as he related the exit of Timmons from the Linden Street door. “He’s got the limp! Perfect! Keep the umbrella low, Timmons, boy! You can’t see his face; he’s got that brim down low. Dressed all in dark clothes. They’re buzzing about him across the street. Yes! There go four more. Timmons is walking . . . limping. Hailing a taxi!”

At two-minute intervals, four more imitation Theo Lindheims recruited from the press corps exited the Adlon Hotel. Gestapo agents dispersed to follow their limping quarry as Murphy clutched Theo’s arm and led him down three flights of stairs to the main lobby of the hotel. Dressed in the striking uniform of a Luftwaffe officer, Theo simply blended in with a hundred other uniformed men who moved confidently across the marbled foyer. He too wore the bill of his cap pulled low on his forehead. A pale gray overcoat was slung over this arm and he and Murphy talked animatedly about the force of the French Air Corps and that of the Reich. They walked slowly toward the revolving door. Murphy’s hands were wet with perspiration. It was only a matter of minutes before the decoys would be stopped and released and the Gestapo agents would flock back to the Adlon.

Theo inhaled deeply and continued to talk as Murphy flagged a taxi. Neither of them looked up to see if the watchers were still on the street corner. Theo strode forward, aware of the fact that his uneven gait must be obvious. Rain hammered down on his cap as Murphy nudged him into the cab, then slipped in behind him and slammed the door. Only then did they dare look out onto the street. One lone, unhappy officer stood beside a streetlamp, his bleary eyes fixed on the revolving door and anyone who dared come out. At that moment Timmons exited a taxi at the Linden entrance and limped hurriedly back into the Adlon. A car full of Gestapo men pulled up behind him, and the four occupants leaped out. One ran into the hotel while the others resumed their positions.

It was all Murphy could do to keep from laughing out loud.

As the taxi pulled out into the flooded street, Theo reached into the pocket of the gray overcoat and pulled out the rumpled telegram. He had hope; he could read it now. He skimmed the words on the thin paper, folded it, and pushed it back into his pocket.

Murphy caught Theo’s glance and raised an eyebrow. Theo nodded silently and turned toward the front seat as the cabbie spoke.

“Where to?” he asked impatiently.

“Tempelhof.” Theo’s voice bore the confidence of command.

“
Bitte,
Colonel.” The driver smiled. “Yes. Tempelhof Airfield. I should have known. I recognize the uniform of a Luftwaffe officer. I gave Herr Göring a ride when his car broke down. I told him and I will tell you, it is my dream to be a Luftwaffe pilot.” Young eyes glinted with admiration as he looked at Theo in the rearview mirror.

“And what is your name,
bitte
?” Theo played the role to the hilt.

“Johann Schmidt,” said the driver.

“Germany will need good pilots, Johann. Let us see how well you navigate through a rainstorm, eh?”

***

Men had been scurrying out into the rain from the Adlon all afternoon. Now, as the clouds above Berlin grew even blacker, suddenly every man who emerged from the towering building had a limp.

Thomas von Kleistmann laughed in spite of the seriousness of his assignment as he watched Gestapo agents gesturing to one another in confusion. “There he is! Limping, you see! There is Theo Lindheim. No, there!”

Even Thomas had been uncertain of the six men in their trench coats, their faces concealed beneath hats and umbrellas. Any one of them could have been Theo. In fact, Thomas knew they had to be foreign newsmen. No doubt their newspapers would hear of their involvement in this deception. Probably nothing much would happen. Nothing could be proved, after all. One of them would say he was limping because he had a pebble in his shoe, while another claimed that he always limped when the weather was damp.

Thomas found himself inwardly cheering as the last limping impostor came out of the Adlon to get into a taxi. And then Thomas suddenly went cold inside. At the instant one taxi returned, he saw the unmistakable form of Theo Lindheim dressed in the uniform of a Luftwaffe officer. Thomas swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from the familiar figure. How many times had he seen Theo dressed in his uniform as they traveled to the cemetery together to pay respects to Wilhelm von Kleistmann. Theo had even named his oldest son after Thomas’s father, and had often said to young Wilhelm,
“
You are named for a great man. A true patriot of the Fatherland, and more than that, my truest friend. Hold your head high, young Wilhelm. Yes. You are named for greatness.
”

No one else was watching the uniformed officer and his companion as they stepped into the blue cab. Only Thomas recognized the man who had been his only link with his own father.
“
Wilhelm would have been proud of you, Thomas. Sometimes I feel him looking down on us and smiling, you know? I can think of nothing greater than the house of Lindheim and the house of von Kleistmann joined.
”

Theo’s cab pulled slowly from the curb as six Gestapo agents swarmed around an indignant young man who pointed to his shoe and proclaimed that he had nothing to do with any plots. Thomas looked at the angry agents and considered what it would mean if the Abwehr were to stop Theo from escaping. Himmler would certainly find less favor in the eyes of Hitler. Thomas von Kleistmann would be the hero of the department.