The Swiss Spy (20 page)

Dona
Maria do Rosario hurried out of the Legation
at a quarter past five and arrived at St Hedwig’s Cathedral in time for the
early evening Mass. It was close to six o’clock when she finally entered the
Confession Box, a slight early evening chill now around in the cloisters,
causing her to pull her light jacket tight around her shoulders.

‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the
Holy Spirit. My last confession was one week ago.’

Father Josef looked at her, his face pressed tight
against the grille to check it really was her.

‘What are your sins?’

She gave the code: a sin of gluttony to indicate all
was well and a sin of speaking ill of someone behind their back to ensure she
had nothing to report. The priest spoke urgently.

‘Hugo’s been here: two days ago. He needs to see you
as soon as possible. I told him it would be tomorrow, the usual place and the
usual time. I hope you can make it?’

Dona
Maria assured the priest she could. How are
things, the priest asked her?

Very busy, she told him. ‘So much material comes
through the Colonel’s office that I work late most nights and I’m starting
earlier every morning just to find the most important papers. It’s getting more
and more risky though. I fear that sooner or later someone will suspect me.’

‘Maybe moderate your hours. The material you’re
sending back is so good, I’m told, that you should not risk too much. Don’t
forget, you need to meet Hugo tomorrow and report back on what he tells you.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you want to pray? Shall I grant you absolution?’

Dona
Maria do Rosario was already up and preparing
to leave the confession box.

‘No thank you Father.’

As she hurried out of the church she only just
remembered to cross herself and pause for a very brief prayer.

***

The
following day, the Friday, an unusual wind whipped around the centre of Berlin.
It appeared to linger about four feet off the ground, creating the strange
effect of leaves and small bits of litter fluttering around in mid-air. The
wind was still at play when Franz Hermann hurried out of his office at one
o’clock. He was going for a walk, he told his secretary, reassuring her he’d be
back in time for his two o’clock meeting.
He turned into Behrenstrasse then
left into Wilhemstrasse. In between Wilhemstrasse and Hermann Goring Strasse
was a small park, taking up no more than a block, where office workers and
civil servants – but not too many of them – liked to take their lunch.

He entered and walked towards the north-west corner
where a series of old benches surrounded an enormous tree. Perhaps because the
benches appeared so uncomfortable or the size of the tree ensured that the spot
was permanently in the shade, this area was deserted, apart from an
olive-skinned woman in her late thirties poised demurely on the edge of one of
the benches. Her jet-black hair was pulled back from a face that would have
been prettier, but for the absence of make-up and the presence of a slightly disapproving
look. She was eating an apple and an open book was resting on her lap. He sat
on the next bench and removed his jacket, taking out a packet of cigarettes
from the jacket as he did so. He offered one to the lady.

‘No thank you sir. I don’t smoke,’ she replied in a
foreign accent.

‘Very sensible: my wife doesn’t approve.’

‘I can offer you an apple in return.’

And so the exchange continued. In the unlikely event
of anyone overhearing the conversation it would have sounded like two strangers
passing the time of day. But soon they had established each other was safe;
they had not been followed and he had information to pass on.

Hermann shifted to the end of his park bench, so he
was nearer to the one Dona Maria do Rosario was sitting on. She had opened her
book and was giving the appearance of avidly reading from it. The lawyer was
bent forward, busy smoking, his elbows resting on his lap. He was facing the
ground, occasionally looking up to be sure no-one else was around. He spoke
very quietly, but at a volume that ensured Dona Maria could hear everything.

‘How quickly can you get a message to Lisbon?’

Without looking up from the book, she replied. ‘It
depends how long it is, but there’s a bag going this evening. If I can type it
up in time I could get it in.’

‘You’ll have to, it’s urgent. This is what you need
to tell them. Colonel General Jodl held a meeting at Bad Reichenhall on the 29
^th
of July. My informant, a senior officer in the OKH, was present. I’m not giving
his name, not at the moment. Apparently they’re now entertaining the
possibility that Britain may not capitulate after all and Hitler wants to have
alternative plans in place. The purpose of Jodl’s meeting was to get senior
officers to start thinking about plans for the invasion of the Soviet Union.’

He looked up at Dona Maria. Her eyebrows had risen
very slightly and momentarily, as though she’d read something interesting in
her book. She took a dainty bite from her apple.

‘My informant says a lot of the professional army
officers are against the idea of invasion as they think it’ll end in failure. The
thinking is that any invasion will have to start by the middle of May because it’d
need to be over by the onset of winter. Have you got all that?’

Dona Maria said she had. Hermann noticed her face had
relaxed now and she had even allowed herself a slight smile as she briefly
turned towards him. He asked her to repeat what he had told her. Her repetition
was impressively word-perfect. She would, she said, return now to the Legation
and type it up in code in time for that evening’s Diplomatic Bag. Was there
anything else?

‘I think that’s enough!’

***

‘Oh,
just one other matter, Herr Hermann.’

These days, Franz Hermann’s secretary always seemed
to have ‘one other matter’ that needed to be dealt with. Before the war, there
had been enough work for the nine senior lawyers in the firm at 181
Friedrichstrasse to be kept busy and well-paid, but not so much that they were
overstretched. That had all changed now: one of the senior lawyers had retired
and not been replaced and two others had joined the armed forces, along with
half of the junior lawyers. As if that was not bad enough, Alois
Jäger now
seemed to spend more than half of the time he was meant to be at work on Nazi
Party business, which meant the remaining five seniors had to pick up more and
more of Jäger’s work. It was not as if they could complain; they just had to go
along with it. As far as
Hermann was concerned, as distasteful as it felt, at
least it afforded the firm a degree of political protection.

‘Do you remember
Generalmajor Werner Ernst, Herr
Hermann?’

He had heard nothing from the General since their
meeting in August. He had hoped never to hear from him again. He did his best
to look as if he was having a lot of trouble remembering who the General was.

‘You’ll have to remind me, Ilse. Was it something to
do with a dispute with his bank?’

‘No sir. That was another army officer. You were
sorting out the affairs of Generalmajor Ernst’s late mother. It was all tied up
in August.’

‘Yes, of course. I remember now. Doesn’t he live
near the Kleiner Tiergarten?’

‘That’s correct sir. He rang today while you were in
a meeting. He says one or two issues have arisen regarding his mother’s estate
that he’d like to see you about. ‘

‘You have my diary Ilse, please arrange the meeting.’

‘He said it was urgent Herr Hermann.’

He knew Ilse would expect him to protest: matters
arising from the estate of the General’s mother all these months on could
hardly be construed as urgent. But he also knew that if the General said he
needed to see him urgently then it was urgent. He could feel himself getting
hot again and became aware he was drumming his fingers loudly on the desk.

‘Very well then Ilse. He can either come in here
during the day tomorrow or I can go to his apartment after work.’

‘He said you’re to go to his apartment tonight sir.’

***

Franz
Hermann waited impatiently for Ilse to leave work, spending the half hour
before she did so optimistically trying to think of a possible genuine problem
with the Generalmajor’s mother’s estate, which he knew was highly unlikely. Had
there really been a problem it would have emerged some time ago. He feared that
the Generalmajor was about to entrust him with another secret.

He allowed five minutes to pass after Ilse’s
departure then left, managing to find a rare taxi on the Unter den Linden to
take him as far as Storm Strasse, from where he walked the short distance to
Generalmajor Ernst’s apartment block. The same teenage maid let him into the
apartment, which was now in a state of chaos.

There were packing cases piled up in the hall,
suitcases assembled by the door and furniture and paintings covered in
dustsheets. A large lady who he took to be Frau Ernst briefly came out to check
who the visitor was but went straight back into the kitchen, where Hermann
could see at least one other maid busy scrubbing the sides. Generalmajor Werner
Ernst came to meet him in the hall.

‘Hermann: thank you for coming so soon. I have to go
away very soon and need to sort out some annoying paperwork before doing so. Anke,
please ensure we’re not disturbed. Follow me Hermann.’

The study was in a similar state of upheaval to the
rest of the apartment, but there were two uncovered armchairs towards the window,
which Ernst led his lawyer over to.

‘I’m sorry to hear there are problems with the
estate sir. I’d assumed everything was concluded in a satisfactory manner back
in August.’

The
Generalmajor had been rooting around in a
nearby packing case, from which he produced a bottle of Armagnac and two
glasses. He poured a large measure for Hermann and a considerably larger one
for himself. As he sat down, he shifted his heavy armchair close to Hermann’s,
so the two armrests were touching. When he spoke, it was in a quiet voice.

‘Of course everything was satisfactory Hermann. You
did an excellent job. However, I’m afraid for the sake of appearance, I’ve had
to make a bit of a fuss: I told Frau Ernst you’ve been less than efficient and
I wrote as much in a letter to my son. He has now been transferred to Norway
and I assume the censors will be reading his post.’

The
Generalmajor stood up and stretched himself
then walked over to the curtains, pulling them together. Hermann noticed the
Generalmajor looked more drawn than before, his tiny eyes slightly bloodshot. He
appeared to have lost some weight and his face was more lined. He twisted a
half-finished cigarette into an ashtray and took a cigar from a box on top of a
packing case; he didn’t bother to offer one to the lawyer.

‘Things aren’t good Hermann. The atmosphere in the
Bendlerblock is terrible. The atmosphere in the whole of Berlin is terrible. Everyone
suspects everyone else of conspiring against them: it’s hard to know who to
trust. The professional soldiers in the High Command and the leadership of the
Abwehr are the most distrusted, I fear. Even if you join the Nazi Party it doesn’t
seem to make any difference these days. I felt obliged to join in November but
I still think people are suspicious of me. The reason for all this upheaval in
the apartment is that I’m being transferred to Warsaw. In my view, it’s quite
unnecessary; I can do my job just as well, if not better, from Berlin. But I
think Hitler, Himmler and the rest of them want to dilute any possible sources
of opposition to them. Maybe opposition is too strong a word; perhaps what I
mean is disagreement.’

‘Do you think they suspect you of having passed on
information?’

The Generalmajor shook his head slowly, at the same
time as lighting his cigar. He paused a while as he inhaled deeply.

‘No, no, no! Look Hermann, if they did, I wouldn’t
be here – and nor, I suspect, would you. I was very careful and I assume you
have been too. The thing is, ever since the meeting at Bad Reichenhall at the
end of July, a number of the senior officers like myself who were asked to think
about the possibility of invasion have been advising caution. Not everyone, by
any means. Too many people feel they have to say what the Fuhrer wants to hear,
so they enthusiastically go along with it. A number of others, it should be
said, actually agree with invading the Soviet Union. But for people like
myself, well we’ve done nothing that could be construed as treason. In my case,
I’ve been able to produce detailed papers about the difficulties in keeping our
forces properly supplied. Tell me Hermann: do you know how far it is from our
border in Poland to Moscow?’

The lawyer shook his head.
No idea.

‘Over 1,000 kilometres. To put that in perspective,
from our western border, say near Saarbrücken, to Paris is around 340
kilometres: so an invasion of the Soviet Union would be three times that
distance. And, let me tell you, the roads in France are considerably better. As
well as the terrain, you also have to take into account other factors like the
weather and you can see how risky an invasion becomes. That’s what I’ve been
saying in my reports: I am very careful to stick to the facts. But it’s not
done me any favours. They are keeping an eye on people like me. They don’t
completely trust me, hence my move to Warsaw.’

‘So why are you packing up the apartment?’

‘My wife doesn’t want to remain here on her own. She
and her sister in Potsdam are talking about moving to their family’s old
hunting lodge near Magdeburg. She says she’ll feel safer there. Look, Hermann,
there’s something else I need to tell you, one other piece of information for
you to pass on through your contacts. This’ll have to be the last information I
give. It’s too dangerous for us to meet again and, in any case, in a few days I’ll
be in Warsaw.’

The lawyer nodded and leaned closer towards Ernst.

‘I happen to know that a week before Christmas
Hitler issued a detailed directive about the invasion of the Soviet Union. The
Fuhrer is very sparing in the number of directives he issues, no more than one
or two a month. And this one is so secret that I was only able to glance at it
in the presence of others, certainly not allowed to take a copy away – which is
perhaps another reason why I know I’m no longer trusted. I’m only vaguely aware
of what’s in this directive, though I do know it talks about the invasion
taking place in the middle of May. You must pass this on: will you do that?’

‘Yes, but they’ll want to know more detail, surely?’

‘I’m sure they will, they may even want to see a copy
of the directive no doubt, but it is very, very restricted. From what I gather,
there were only nine copies. If you only get across that the invasion is still
on and scheduled for the middle of May, that’s important. You’d better leave
now, Hermann. I’m glad we’ve finally been able to sort out my mother’s estate!’

As they left the study he placed his hand on the
lawyer’s shoulder.

‘I doubt we’ll meet again, Hermann. Maybe one day,
if circumstances are very different. But who knows, eh? Good luck.’

As Franz Hermann headed home that evening he could
not recall ever having felt more miserable, or so afraid.

***

‘And
that’s the message? No more?’

Dona
Maria do Rosario and Franz Hermann were
walking around the enormous tree in the park between Wilhemstrasse and Hermann
Goring Strasse, aware this was more exposed than sitting on the benches around
the tree, but it had been raining and the benches were sodden: sitting on them
would have looked suspicious.

 ‘I know it’s not long but it is very important. Remember,
Hitler issued the directive a week before Christmas: they’re still planning to
invade the Soviet Union and they’re talking about the middle of May. That’s
four months away.’

‘Yes, I’d
have hoped even the British would
be able to work that one out, thank you.’

***

Franz
Hermann had met Dona Maria do Rosario on Friday 17th of January. The following
Tuesday, Ilse came into his office just before lunch. There had been a phone
call.

‘The man said he understood you specialised in
sorting out estates, especially complicated ones. His uncle recently died in
Bremen and he wanted to know if we had an office there. I said “no”, and he
said not to worry and that maybe he’d call back.’

‘Bremen you say?’

‘Yes Herr Hermann. I’m not sure why he’d think we
had an office in Bremen, but there you are. Now, these letters…’

This was only the second time that Father Josef had
called him like this. Telephoning him at the office meant something was up. The
Bremen reference meant it was extremely urgent. He was to attend confession
that night.

***

‘In
the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. My last
confession was one week ago.’

Father Josef pressed his face against the grille
separating the two men. ‘We need to be quick. I have a message from her: she passed
on your message and has been contacted urgently. Apparently you talked about a
document. Don’t tell me anything about it, but they’re saying they need to see
it. That’s the message. Do you understand?’

‘I understand Father, but I haven’t got it. I’ll see
what I can do, but they need to understand my source has left Berlin. This is
going to be very difficult.’

‘I’m only passing on the message. She said you
needed to know before you could meet at the usual rendezvous, in case you can
get hold of it. Do your best, my son: I’m sure God will guide you. Do you want
to take confession?’

Hermann shook his head.

‘No thank you Father: I wouldn’t know where to
begin.’

***

In
the 12 months since he had been reunited with his first wife and son, Gunter
Reinhart had done his best to visit them at least once a week at the house in
Dahlem. In one respect the arrangement had held up very well. Franz Hermann’s
mother could not have been better looked after and the talk of her having to
move into a nursing home or even a hospital was long forgotten. Frau Hermann
had no idea her excellent nurse was actually a doctor and certainly had no idea
she was Jewish and had two children with her. Her hearing was so poor she never
heard the footsteps on the floor above her or the subdued sound of the
children’s voices.

But in every other respect, their predicament was an
increasingly hopeless one. The situation for Jews in Berlin worsened by the
day: although it was still possible for some to emigrate, that was for those who
had all the right paperwork and could afford the punitive taxes being charged. Even
then, they needed to find somewhere that would take them. Most of Europe was
occupied. There were rumours about Sweden, even Spain. The place most people
aspired to go to was Switzerland, but those borders were sealed tight, on both
sides.