Berlin: A Novel (34 page)

'I'm not a traitor, and I won't even pretend to be. Please don't count on me to do it.'

Her visitor stood up. 'Well, it's a pity if you won't help us, but I understand your motives. I will just ask for one thing - your silence.'

Detta retained her aristocratic Prussian poise. As I have said already, I am not a traitor. Goodbye, Herr Gleim.' The lieutenant-colonel left the room. When he had closed the door, she collapsed in sobs.

'I'm afraid Carlos isn't an invention after all,' she told David that evening.

'Nor is Conchita.'

'Goodbye, David.'

'This damned war will destroy us all,' he said in a flat voice, and left.

Detta suppressed all thoughts of David, immersing herself in work. She turned the entire filing system of her passport department upside down and set about reorganizing it, a job as unnecessary as it was boring. In her free time she tried her hand at a translation of Calderon's The Lady Phantom and went to Frau Kessler's bridge parties. Tom Glaser called regularly when he was in Barcelona, and they went out to eat together. She went to Madrid to visit Uncle Juan and the rest of the Alvarez de Toledo family, who wanted to marry her off to a Spanish grandee. The young man concerned told her tearfully about his love for the gardener at his palace. Lady Chatterley in reverse, thought Detta.

Miriam came on a flying visit from Lisbon. She had grown a little plumper, was married to an American banker and had two children. 'We're flying home next week. Do come to America with us. Bill can fix it for you. He has good connections with the State Department.'

'Not homesick for the Kurfiirstendamm any more?' Detta couldn't help asking.

'You must be joking,' said Miriam.

Detta spent her annual vacation at home as usual. So much had changed at Aichborn. All men 'able to bear arms' were fighting at the Fronts, which were falling back. Their wives did almost all the work at home. Townsfolk who had fled from the air raids populated the estate, and ladies in high heels made their way through the muck, laying themselves open to mockery and derision. Frau von Aichborn had difficulty keeping the peace. In addition, the foreign labourers had to be protected from Fanselow, the district farmers' leader, who particularly liked harassing the Poles when he was at Aichborn.

Today he had his sights set on the Polish groom. Jurek was just harnessing up 'Loschek', as he affectionately called the old horse that pulled the muck cart. 'Get a move on, you damn Polack.' Fanselow snatched the whip from its place on the cart.

Detta came between them, holding out the basket full of eggs she had just been collecting. 'Oh, please, Herr Fanselow, would you take these to my mother in the kitchen? Thanks, that's very kind of you.' Surprised, Fanselow put the whip down and took the basket. Jurek's brown eyes looked gratefully at Detta.

The Baron was sceptical and silent when he came home from his desk job at Army High Command one February day in 1943. The truth about what had been described as the heroism of the German Army in its defeat at Stalingrad had filtered through. 'No one's going to get us out of this mess now,' was one of his few observations, which were made grimmer by their scarcity.

Hans-Georg, on leave from Paris, was more talkative. 'There's no doubt of it, Hitler must go,' he told his sister as they rode in the snow-covered park together. 'Only a government formed from the best conservative forces in the country can bring us an honourable peace. The Allies have already agreed not to exploit any confrontation within Germany for their own military ends.'

'The man will never go voluntarily,' said Detta.

A bullet at close quarters will solve that problem,' said the newly appointed cavalry captain with conviction. 'Luckily, some comrades who have access to him are willing to risk all. Oh, Detta, I wish I was among those select few.'

She heard the enthusiasm and determination in his voice, and felt glad he was not. Thank goodness he's not in the firing line in Paris, she thought with relief, spurring her horse on.

Detta received the message in April 1945. Someone had pushed it under the door of her apartment by the harbour. Captain David Floyd-Orr, serving with his special unit, had fallen to his death on the steep coast of Normandy three years earlier. She did some arithmetic. He must have volunteered for this suicide mission just after they parted. She could hear him saying, 'I get vertigo even standing on a kitchen stool.'

You fool, she thought, you dear. dear fool. A wave of tenderness swept over her.

Her boss had work for her that morning, which took her mind off things. The consul-general pointed to an elegant crocodile case bearing the initials F.M. 'Sent to us by the Foreign Ministry. Its owner died a few days ago in an air raid on Berlin: Fernando Mendez, a Spanish diplomat. He and the case were dug out of the ruins of a house on the banks of the Lietzensee, where he'd been spending the night with his girlfriend. Among the few items retrieved was a letter from his parents in Barcelona. Hand it all over to Senor and Senora Mendez, and express condolences from the government of the German Reich,' Dr Kessler told his vice-consul.

So now the case stood open on Detta's desk, and she set about making a list of its contents; she would be asking for a receipt in line with regulations. Blue and white striped silk pyjamas, washing and shaving things, the dead man's diplomatic pass, a half full travel flask of cognac, his parents' letter, and a bar of Sarotti bitter chocolate which had been broken into. She discreetly disposed of a packet of condoms and picked up the phone to arrange her visit. The cleaning lady answered: Senor and Senora Mendez were at their daughter's house in the country.

Detta put the case away in the filing cabinet and turned to some papers. Shaking her head, she read an application from one Federico Vargas for a visa to Germany. This lively little man had already visited her office several times. He was keen to get to Cologne and make business contacts for the future. 'Eau-de-Cologne always sold well here before the war,' he had assured her.

'Rejected!' she wrote right across the application, adding, with more than a touch of sarcasm: 'We recommend the applicant to turn to the British Consulate, now responsible for Cologne and the surrounding area.' She couldn't help smiling. David would have liked that. Then grief got the upper hand again.

She was grateful when Tom Glaser invited her out to dinner that evening. The flight captain was in Barcelona for two days. He was waiting for a spare part for the plane to come from Madrid. 'Is it bad?' he asked with sympathy. She was silently weeping, and he didn't try to comfort her. He had something even worse to tell her. 'Do I get a coffee?' he asked at her front door.

Another time, Tom. I'm very tired.'

'I have news of Hans-Georg,' he said quietly.

Detta was electrified. She let Tom in. It was months since she had heard anything about her brother. After the failed assassination attempt on Hitler, he had disappeared without trace. A secret special mission to the Eastern Front,' was the story spread by the family, although they knew better.

'He joined the Wehrmacht's successful putsch against the SS in Paris, and after that operation was abandoned he went underground at first, with the help of the French Resistance,' Glaser told her. 'I know that from an Air France colleague who's in the Resistance too. But he soon looked like being discovered, and he reached Germany with a transport of wounded men. Somehow or other he made his way home. Even the Gestapo didn't think he'd be crazy enough to hide at Aichborn. That's been his good luck so far. But they've been there twice already looking for him. Detta, it's no use pretending, he's in a hopeless situation. It's only a question of time before they capture him and kill him.'

'Can you get a message to him?'

'I can phone your parents from Berlin. They'll understand me, even if the message is coded. What shall I say?'

'Tell them I'll get Hans-Georg out.'

'You're crazy,' exclaimed the flight captain.

Detta's mouth was set in determination. 'Very likely.'

Dr Kessler had never addressed her by her first name before, nor had he ever spoken to her so frankly. 'Henriette, you can't leave. Germany is in rubble and ashes. The end is just a question of weeks now. Friends in the government have promised that even after we've lost our consular privileges we won't be expelled. It's simple for you. Your family in Madrid is very influential, they'll protect you. You are young, you have plenty of time ahead of you. Everything will get back to normal at home some time.'

'I'm still applying for short-term leave, Consul-General.' said Detta firmly. 'I have to go to Berlin. I'll be back in a few days' time,' she added optimistically.

The Mercedes with the pennant of the German Reich and the CC plate of the Corps Consulaire took Vice-Consul Henriette von Aichborn to Prat de Llobregat airport on the outskirts of Barcelona. The driver carried her bag to Departures. 'You'll be back, won't you, Dona Henrietta?'

'Yes, of course, Pedro. This is just a little business trip.' She took her bag from him and showed her diplomatic pass at check-in. The official gallantly opened the barrier for her.

The four-engined Junkers 290, numbered D-AITR, was waiting on the runway. Detta looked up at the cockpit. Tom Glaser was busy making preparations for take-off. Things had changed since her last flight. No one had cleaned the cabin. The seats were sagging and their covers worn. Instead of a steward, a man with a stubbly haircut and ill-tempered expression received them on board, introduced himself as Flight Engineer Bichler and handed out parachutes. 'Instructions for use are on your seats. Enjoy your flight.' It sounded derisive.

Detta sat by the front left-hand window. Tom had told her you felt turbulence least there. Slowly the engines roared into life. The heavy commercial plane rolled slowly forward and swayed into position for take-off, quivering with the force of a thousand horsepower. The four large three-winged propellers cut through the air and hauled the giant plane forward. At rapidly increasing speed it shot down the runway, pressing the passengers back in their seats. The airfield sank away below them. DLH-Flight K22 was on course for Berlin.

A year ago the plane had been well staffed, and champagne had been handed round. Now there was no on-board service: you got a sip of water at the most. She counted six passengers. They were a Swedish couple going on to Stockholm from Berlin, a Siemens representative flying home, a major in the Spanish 'Blue Division' who wanted to go to the Front, and an elderly German husband and wife from Valencia whose daughter was expecting her first baby in Frankfurt an der Oder. 'Going to Frankfurt an der Oder? You think you'll make it before the Russians get there?' scoffed the Siemens rep, launching into a lengthy assessment of the situation which interested no one.

Detta closed her eyes, because the talkative Siemens rep looked as if he intended to sit down beside her. She had to think, she had to go over her plan, checking for weak spots. Her brother's life and hers depended on it. Of course the plan was total madness, yet at the same time, it seemed to be wildly simple. So simple that nothing could go wrong.

She would take a train from Berlin to Aichborn. She would wrap HansGeorg's head in bandages and take him back to Barcelona by Lufthansa, disguised as Fernando Mendez, the Spanish embassy secretary who had been injured in an air raid. She had made out an official order for her mission on the consulate's letterhead and with the consulate's official seal. She had the dead Mendez's diplomatic pass with her. It would stand up to any amount of checking. His injury would make it impossible for the supposed embassy secretary to speak, so her brother's German accent couldn't give him away to Spanish passengers on the flight. No, nothing could go wrong if they both kept calm. Oh God, don't let them find him before I can get him out, she prayed silently. For that was the one real danger: that the Gestapo would turn Aichborn upside down, or someone would denounce Hans-Georg.

'Chocolate?' Tom Glaser brought her out of her thoughts. As always, he was wearing immaculate Lufthansa uniform.

'Oh, hello, Tom. Yes please. I'll take it with me as iron rations. How do things look?'

He had been in Berlin yesterday. 'Bleak. The city is at its last gasp. Everything's bombed or burnt out. No one knows exactly how far off the Russians are. Some people hope the Americans will arrive first.' He lowered his voice. 'I could phone. But I do suggest you hurry.'