Winter of the World (84 page)

Mother looked thoughtful. ‘I’d speak to Frieda.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Intuition.’

Carla recalled the moment at the bus stop, when she had wondered aloud who put up the anti-Nazi posters, and Frieda had gone quiet. Carla’s intuition agreed with her mother’s.

But that was not the only problem. ‘Even if we could, do we want to betray our country?’

Maud was emphatic. ‘We have to defeat the Nazis.’

‘I hate the Nazis more than anyone, but I’m still German.’

‘I know what you mean. I don’t like the idea of turning traitor, even though I was born English. But we aren’t going to get rid of the Nazis unless we lose the war.’

‘But suppose we could give the Russians information that would ensure we lost a battle. Erik might die in that battle! Your son – my brother! We might be the cause of his
death.’

Maud opened her mouth to answer, but found she could not speak. Instead, she began to cry. Carla stood up and put her arms around her.

After a minute, Maud whispered: ‘He might die anyway. He might die fighting for Nazism. Better he should be killed losing a battle than winning it.’

Carla was not sure about that.

She released her mother. ‘Anyway, I wish you’d warn me before bringing someone like that into the kitchen,’ she said. She picked up her basket from the floor. ‘It’s
a good thing Lieutenant Koch didn’t look any further into this.’

‘Why, what have you got in there?’

‘Medicines stolen from the hospital for Dr Rothmann.’

Maud smiled proudly through her tears. ‘That’s my girl.’

‘I nearly died when he picked up the basket.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You couldn’t know. But I’m going to get rid of the stuff right now.’

‘Good idea.’

Carla put her raincoat back on over her uniform and went out.

She walked quickly to the street where the Rothmanns lived. Their house was not as big as the von Ulrich place, but it was a well-proportioned town dwelling with pleasant rooms. However, the
windows were now boarded up and there was a crude sign on the front door that said: ‘Surgery closed’.

The Rothmanns had once been prosperous. Dr Rothmann had had a flourishing practice with many wealthy patients. He had also treated poor people at cheaper prices. Now only the poor were left.

Carla went around the back, as the patients did.

She knew immediately that something was wrong. The back door was open, and when she stepped into the kitchen she saw a guitar with a broken neck lying on the tiled floor. The room was empty, but
she could hear sounds from elsewhere in the house.

She crossed the kitchen and entered the hall. There were two main rooms on the ground floor. They had been the waiting room and the consulting room. Now the waiting room was disguised as a
family sitting room, and the surgery had become Rudi’s workshop, with a bench and woodworking tools, and usually half a dozen mandolins, violins and cellos in various states of repair. All
medical equipment was stashed out of sight in locked cupboards.

But not any more, she saw when she walked in.

The cupboards had been opened and their contents thrown out. The floor was littered with smashed glass and assorted pills, powders and liquids. In the debris Carla saw a stethoscope and a blood
pressure gauge. Parts of several instruments were strewn around, evidently having been thrown on the floor and stamped upon.

Carla was shocked and disgusted. All that waste!

Then she looked into the other room. Rudi Rothmann lay in a corner. He was twenty-two years old, a tall man with an athletic build. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning in agony.

His mother, Hannelore, knelt beside him. Once a handsome blonde, Hannelore was now grey and gaunt.

‘What happened?’ said Carla, fearing the answer.

‘The police,’ said Hannelore. ‘They accused my husband of treating Aryan patients. They have taken him away. Rudi tried to stop them smashing the place up. They have . .
.’ She choked up.

Carla put down her basket and knelt beside Hannelore. ‘What have they done?’

Hannelore recovered the power of speech. ‘They broke his hands,’ she whispered.

Carla saw it at once. Rudi’s hands were red and horribly twisted. The police seemed to have broken his fingers one by one. No wonder he was moaning. She was sickened. But she saw horror
every day, and she knew how to suppress her personal feelings and give practical help. ‘He needs morphine,’ she said.

Hannelore indicated the mess on the floor. ‘If we had any, it’s gone.’

Carla felt a spasm of pure rage. Even the hospitals were short of supplies – and yet the police had wasted precious drugs in an orgy of destruction. ‘I brought you morphine.’
She took from her basket a vial of clear fluid and the new syringe. Swiftly, she took the syringe from its box and charged it with the drug. Then she injected Rudi.

The effect was almost instant. The moaning stopped. He opened his eyes and looked at Carla. ‘You angel,’ he said. Then he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.

‘We must try to set his fingers,’ Carla said. ‘So that the bones heal straight.’ She touched Rudi’s left hand. There was no reaction. She grasped the hand and
lifted it. Still he did not stir.

‘I’ve never set bones,’ said Hannelore. ‘Though I’ve seen it done often enough.’

‘Same here,’ said Carla. ‘But we’d better try. I’ll do his left hand, you do the right. We must finish before the drug wears off. God knows he’ll be in enough
pain.’

‘All right,’ said Hannelore.

Carla paused a moment longer. Her mother was right. They had to do anything they could to end this Nazi regime, even if it meant betraying their own country. She was no longer in any doubt.

‘Let’s get it done,’ Carla said.

Gently, carefully, the two women began to straighten Rudi’s broken hands.

(ii)

Thomas Macke went to the Tannenberg Bar every Friday afternoon.

It was not much of a place. On one wall was a framed photograph of the proprietor, Fritz, in a First World War uniform, twenty-five years younger and without a beer belly. He claimed to have
killed nine Russians at the Battle of Tannenberg. There were a few tables and chairs, but the regulars all sat at the bar. A menu in a leather cover was almost entirely fantasy: the only dishes
served were sausages with potatoes or sausages without potatoes.

But the place stood across the street from the Kreuzberg police station, so it was a cop bar. That meant it was free to break all the rules. Gambling was open, street girls gave blow jobs in the
toilet, and the food inspectors of the Berlin city government never entered the kitchen. It opened when Fritz got up and closed when the last drinker went home.

Macke had been a lowly police officer at the Kreuzberg station years ago, before the Nazis took over and men such as he were suddenly given a break. Some of his former colleagues still drank at
the Tannenberg, and he could be sure of seeing a familiar face or two. He still liked to talk to old friends, even though he had risen so far above them, becoming an inspector and a member of the
SS.

‘You’ve done well, Thomas, I’ll give you that,’ said Bernhardt Engel, who had been a sergeant over Macke in 1932 and was still a sergeant. ‘Good luck to you,
son.’ He raised to his lips the stein of beer that Macke had bought him.

‘I won’t argue with you,’ Macke replied. ‘Though I will say, Superintendent Kringelein is a lot worse to work for than you were.’

‘I was too soft on you boys,’ Bernhardt admitted.

Another old comrade, Franz Edel, laughed scornfully. ‘I wouldn’t say soft!’

Glancing out of the window, Macke saw a motorcycle pull up outside driven by a young man in the light-blue belted jacket of an air force officer. He looked familiar: Macke had seen him somewhere
before. He had over-long red-blond hair flopping on to a patrician forehead. He crossed the pavement and came into the Tannenberg.

Macke remembered the name. He was Werner Franck, spoiled son of the radio manufacturer Ludi Franck.

Werner came to the bar and asked for a pack of Kamel cigarettes. How predictable, Macke thought, that the playboy should smoke American-style cigarettes, even if they were a German
imitation.

Werner paid, opened the pack, took out a cigarette, and asked Fritz for a light. Turning to leave, cigarette in his mouth tilted at a rakish angle, he caught Macke’s eye and, after a
moment’s thought, said: ‘Inspector Macke.’

The men in the bar all stared at Macke to see what he would say.

He nodded casually. ‘How are you, young Werner?’

‘Very well, sir, thank you.’

Macke was pleased, but surprised, by the respectful tone. He recalled Werner as an arrogant whippersnapper with insufficient respect for authority.

‘I’m just back from a visit to the Eastern Front with General Dorn,’ Werner added.

Macke sensed the cops in the bar become alert to the conversation. A man who had been to the Eastern Front merited respect. Macke could not help feeling pleased that they were all impressed that
he moved in such elevated circles.

Werner offered Macke the cigarette pack, and Macke took one. ‘A beer,’ Werner said to Fritz. Turning back to Macke, he said: ‘May I buy you a drink, Inspector?’

‘The same, thank you.’

Fritz filled two steins. Werner raised his glass to Macke and said: ‘I want to thank you.’

That was another surprise. ‘For what?’ said Macke.

His friends were all listening intently.

Werner said: ‘A year ago you gave me a good telling-off.’

‘You didn’t seem grateful at the time.’

‘And for that I apologize. But I thought very hard about what you said to me, and eventually I realized you were right. I had allowed personal emotion to cloud my judgement. You set me
straight. I’ll never forget that.’

Macke was touched. He had disliked Werner, and had spoken harshly to him; but the young man had taken his words to heart, and changed his ways. It gave Macke a warm glow to feel that he had made
such a difference in a young man’s life.

Werner went on: ‘In fact, I thought of you the other day. General Dorn was talking about catching spies, and asking if we could track them down by their radio signals. I’m afraid I
couldn’t tell him much.’

‘You should have asked me,’ said Macke. ‘It’s my specialty.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Come and sit down.’

They carried their drinks to a grubby table.

‘These men are all police officers,’ Macke said. ‘But still, one should not talk publicly about such matters.’

‘Of course.’ Werner lowered his voice. ‘But I know I may confide in you. You see, some of the battlefield commanders told Dorn they believe the enemy often knows our intentions
in advance.’

‘Ah!’ said Macke. ‘I feared as much.’

‘What can I tell Dorn about radio signal detection?’

‘The correct term is goniometry.’ Macke collected his thoughts. This was an opportunity to impress an influential general, albeit indirectly. He needed to be clear, and emphasize the
importance of what he was doing without exaggerating its success. He imagined General Dorn saying casually to the Führer: ‘There’s a very good man in the Gestapo – name of
Macke – only an inspector, at the moment, but most impressive . . .’

‘We have an instrument that tells us the direction from which the signal is coming,’ he began. ‘If we take three readings from widely separated locations, we can draw three
lines on the map. Where they intersect is the address of the transmitter.’

‘That’s fantastic!’

Macke raised a cautionary hand. ‘In theory,’ he said. ‘In practice, it’s more difficult. The pianist – that’s what we call the radio operator – does not
usually stay in the location long enough for us to find him. A careful pianist never broadcasts from the same place twice. And our instrument is housed in a van with a conspicuous aerial on its
roof, so they can see us coming.’

‘But you have had some success.’

‘Oh, yes. But perhaps you should come out in the van with us one evening. Then you could see the whole process for yourself – and make a first-hand report to General Dorn.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Werner.

(iii)

Moscow in June was sunny and warm. At lunchtime Volodya waited for Zoya at a fountain in the Alexander Gardens behind the Kremlin. Hundreds of people strolled by, many in
pairs, enjoying the weather. Life was hard, and the water in the fountain had been turned off to save power, but the sky was blue, the trees were in leaf and the German army was a hundred miles
away.

Volodya was full of pride every time he thought back to the Battle of Moscow. The dreaded German army, master of blitzkrieg attack, had been at the gates of the city – and had been thrown
back. Russian soldiers had fought like lions to save their capital.

Unfortunately the Russian counter-attack had petered out in March. It had won back much territory, and made Muscovites feel safer; but the Germans had licked their wounds and were now preparing
to try again.

And Stalin was still in charge.

Volodya spotted Zoya walking through the crowd towards him. She was wearing a red-and-white check dress. There was a spring in her step, and her pale-blonde hair seemed to bounce with her
stride. Every man stared at her.

Volodya had dated some beautiful women, but he was surprised to find himself courting Zoya. For years she had treated him with cool indifference, and talked to him about nothing but nuclear
physics. Then one day, to his astonishment, she had asked him to go to a movie.

It was shortly after the riot in which General Bobrov had been killed. Her attitude to him had changed that day; he was not sure he understood why; somehow the shared experience had created an
intimacy. Anyway, they had gone to see
George’s Dinky Jazz Band
, a knockabout comedy starring an English banjolele player called George Formby. It was a popular movie, and had been
running for months in Moscow. The plot was about as unrealistic as could be: unknown to George, his instrument was sending messages to German U-boats. It was so silly that they had both laughed
their socks off.