Fatherland (28 page)

July 1942. On the Eastern Front, the Wehrmacht has launched Operation "Blue": the offensive that will eventually win Germany the war. America is taking a hammering from the Japanese. The British are bombing the Ruhr, fighting in North Africa. In Prague, Reinhard Heydrich is recovering from an assassination attempt.

So: good days for the Germans, especially those in the conquered territories. Elegant apartments, girlfriends, bribes—packing cases of plunder to send back home. Corruption from high to low; from corporal to Kommissar; from alcohol to altarpieces. Buhler, Stuckart and Luther have an especially good racket in play. Buhler requisitions art treasures in the General Government, sends them under cover to Stuckart at the Interior Ministry—quite safe, for who would dare tamper with the mail of such powerful servants of the Reich? Luther smuggles the objects abroad to sell—safe again, for who would dare order the head of the Foreign Ministry's German Division to open his bags? All three retire in the 1950s, rich and honored men.

And then, in 1964: catastrophe.

March shuffled his bits of paper, shuffled them again.

On Friday, April 11, the three conspirators gather at Buhler's villa: the first piece of evidence that suggests a panic. . .

No. That wasn't right. He leafed back through his notes to Charlie's account of her conversation with Stuckart. Of course.

On Thursday, April 10, the day before the meeting, Stuckart stands in Bülow-Strasse and notes the number of the telephone in the booth opposite Charlotte Maguire's apartment. Armed with that, he goes to Buhler's villa on Friday. Something so terrible threatens to overwhelm them that the three men contemplate the unthinkable: defection to the United States of America. Stuckart lays out the procedure. They cannot trust the embassy, because Kennedy has stuffed it with appeasers. They need a direct link with Washington. Stuckart has it: Michael Maguire's daughter. It is agreed. On Saturday, Stuckart telephones the girl to arrange a meeting. On Sunday, Luther flies to Switzerland: not to fetch pictures or money, which they have in abundance in Berlin, but to collect something put there in the course of three visits between the summer of 1942 and the spring of 1943.

But already it is too late. By the time Luther has made the withdrawal, sent the signal from Zürich and landed in Berlin, Buhler and Stuckart are dead. And so he decides to disappear, taking with him whatever he removed from the vault in Zürich.

March sat back and contemplated his half-finished puzzle. It was a version of events as valid as any other.

Charlie sighed and stirred in her sleep, twisted to rest her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair. Today was Friday. The
Führertag
was Monday. He had only the weekend left. "Oh, my dear Fräulein Maguire," he murmured. "I fear we've been looking in the wrong place."

"Ladies and gentlemen, we shall shortly be beginning our descent into Flughafen Hermann Göring. Please return your seats to the upright position and fold away the tables in front of you ..."

Carefully, so as not to wake her, March withdrew his shoulder from beneath Charlie's head, gathered up his pieces of paper and made his way, unsteadily, toward the back of the aircraft. A boy in the uniform of the Hitler Youth emerged from the lavatory and held the door open politely. March nodded, went inside and locked it behind him. A dim light flickered.

The tiny compartment stank of stale air, endlessly recycled; of cheap soap; of feces. He lifted the lid of the metal lavatory basin and dropped in the paper. The aircraft pitched and shook. A warning light pinged, ATTENTION! RETURN TO YOUR SEAT! The turbulence made his stomach lurch. Was this how Luther had felt as the aircraft dropped toward Berlin? The metal was clammy to the touch. He pulled a lever and the lavatory flushed, his notes sucked from sight in a whirlpool of blue water.

Lufthansa had stocked the toilet not with towels but with moist little paper handkerchiefs, impregnated with some sickly liquid. March wiped his face. He could feel the heat of his skin through the slippery fabric. Another vibration, like a U-boat being depth-charged. They were falling fast. He pressed his burning forehead to the cool mirror.
Dive, dive, dive. . .

She was awake, dragging a comb through her thick hair. "I was beginning to think you had jumped."

"It's true, the thought did enter my mind." He fastened his seat belt. "But you may be my salvation."

"You say the nicest things."

"I said 'may be.' " He took her hand. "Listen. Are you sure Stuckart told you he came on
Thursday
to check out that telephone opposite your apartment?"

She thought about it for a moment. "Yes, I'm sure. I remember it made me realize: this man is serious, he's done his homework."

"That's what I think. The question is, was Stuckart acting on his own—trying to set up his own private escape route—or was calling you a course of action he had discussed with the others?"

"Does it matter?"

"Very much. Think about it. If he agreed on it with the others on Friday, it means Luther may know who you are and know the procedure for contacting you."

She pulled her hand back in surprise. "But that's crazy. He'd never trust me."

"You're right. It's crazy." They had dropped through one layer of cloud; beneath them was another. March could see the tip of the Great Hall poking through it like the top of a helmet. "But suppose Luther is still alive down there. What are his options? The airport is being watched. So are the docks, the railway stations, the border. He can't risk going directly to the American Embassy, not after what's happened about Kennedy's visit. He can't go home. What can he do?"

"I don't believe it. He could have called me Tuesday or Wednesday. Or Thursday morning. Why would he wait?"

But he could hear the doubt in her voice. He thought: you don't
want
to believe it. You thought you were clever, looking for your story in Zürich, but all the time your story might actually have been looking for you—in Berlin.

She had turned away from him to stare through the window.

March suddenly felt deflated. He hardly knew her, despite everything. He said, "The reason he would have waited is to try to find something better to do, something safer. Who knows? Maybe he's found it."

She did not answer.

They landed in Berlin in a thin drizzle, just before two o'clock. At the end of the runway, as the Junkers turned, moisture scudded across the window, leaving threads of droplets. The swastika above the terminal building hung limp in the wet.

There were two lines at passport control: one for German and European Community nationals, one for the rest of the world.

"This is where we part," said March. He had persuaded her, with some difficulty, to let him carry her case. Now he handed it back. "What are you going to do?"

"Go back to my apartment, I guess, and wait for the telephone to ring. What about you?"

"I thought I'd arrange myself a history lesson." She looked at him, uncomprehending. He said, "I'll call you later."

"Be sure you do."

A vestige of the old mistrust had returned. He could see it in her eyes, felt her searching it out in his. He wanted to say something to reassure her. "Don't worry. A deal is a deal."

She nodded. There was an awkward silence. Then abruptly she stood on tiptoe and brushed her cheek against his. She was gone before he could think of a response.

* * * *

The line of returning Germans shuffled one at a time, in silence, into the Reich. March waited patiently with his hands clasped behind his back while his passport was scrutinized. In these last few days before the Führer's birthday, the border checks were always more stringent, the guards more jittery.

The eyes of the Zollgrenzschutz officer were hidden in the shade of his visor. "The Herr Sturmbannführer is back with three hours to spare." He drew a thick black line through the visa, scrawled "VOID" across it and handed the passport back. "Welcome home."

In the crowded customs hall March kept a look out for Charlie but could not see her. Perhaps they had refused to let her back into the country. He almost hoped they had: it would be safer for her.

The Zollgrenzschutz was opening every bag. Never had he seen such security. It was chaos. The passengers milling and arguing around the mounds of clothes made the hall look like an Indian bazaar. He waited his turn.

It was after three by the time March reached the left-luggage area and retrieved his case. In the toilet he changed back into his uniform, folded his civilian clothes and packed them away. He checked his Luger and slipped it into his holster. As he left, he glanced at himself in the mirror. A familiar black figure.

Welcome home.

When the sun shone the Party called it "Führer weather." The Party had no name for rain.

Nevertheless, it had been decreed, drizzle or not, that this afternoon was to be the start of the three-day holiday. And so, with National Socialist determination, the people set about their celebrations.

March was in a taxi heading south through Wedding. This was workers' Berlin, a Communist stronghold of the 1920s. In a festive gesture, the factory whistles had sounded an hour earlier than usual. Now the streets were dense with damp revelers. The
Blockwarte
had been active. From every second or third building a banner hung—mostly swastikas, but also the occasional slogan— between the iron balconies of the fortress-tenements. WORKERS OF BERLIN SALUTE THE FÜHRER ON HIS 75TH BIRTHDAY! LONG LIVE THE GLORIOUS NATIONAL SOCIALIST REVOLUTION! LONG LIVE OUR GUIDE AND FIRST COMRADE ADOLF HITLER! The back streets were a delirium of color, throbbing to the
oom-pah!
of the local SA bands. And this was only Friday. March wondered what the Wedding authorities had planned for the day itself.

During the night, on the corner of Wolff-Strasse, some rebellious spirit had added a piece of graffiti in white paint: ANYONE FOUND NOT ENJOYING THEMSELVES WILL BE SHOT. A couple of anxious-looking brownshirts were trying to clean it off.

March took the taxi as far as Fritz-Todt-Platz. His Volkswagen was still outside Stuckart's apartment, where he had parked it the night before last. He looked up at the fourth floor. Someone had drawn all the curtains.

At Werderscher-Markt, he stowed his suitcase in his office and rang the duty officer. Martin Luther had not been located.

Krause said, "Between you and me, March, Globus is driving us all fucking mad. In here every half hour, ranting and raving that someone will go to a KZ unless he gets results."

"The Herr Obergruppenführer is a very dedicated officer."

"Oh, he is, he is." Krause's voice was suddenly panicky. "I didn't mean to suggest—"

March hung up. That would give whoever was listening to his calls something to think about.

He lugged the typewriter across to his desk and inserted a single sheet of paper. He lit a cigarette.

TO: Artur Nebe, SS-Oberstgruppenführer, Reich Kriminalpolizei

FROM: X. March, SS-Sturmbannführer
           
4 17 64

1. I have the honor to inform you that at 10:00 this morning I attended the premises of Zaugg & Cie., Bankiers, Bahnhof-Strasse, Zürich.
   
2. The numbered account, whose existence we discussed yesterday, was opened by Foreign Ministry Under State Secretary Martin Luther on 7 8 42. Four keys were issued.
   
3. The box was subsequently opened on three occasions: 12 17 42, 8 9 43, 4 13 64.
   
4. On inspection by myself, the box was found to contain
   

March leaned back in his seat and blew a pair of neat smoke rings toward the ceiling. The thought of that painting in the hands of Nebe—dumped into his collection of bombastic, syrupy Schmutzlers and Kirchners—was repugnant, even sacrilegious. Better to leave her at peace in the darkness. He let his fingers rest on the typewriter keys for a moment, then typed:

nothing.

He wound the paper out of the typewriter, signed it and sealed it in an envelope. He called Nebe's office and was ordered to bring it up at once, personally. He hung up and stared out the window at the brickwork view.

Why not?

He stood and checked along the bookshelves until he found the Berlin area telephone directory. He took it down and looked up a number, which he dialed from the office next door so as not to be overheard.

A man's voice answered, "Reichsarchiv."

Ten minutes later his boots were sinking into the soft mire of Artur Nebe's office carpet.

"Do you believe in coincidences, March?"

"No, sir."

"No," said Nebe. "Good. Neither do I." He put down his magnifying glass and pushed away March's report. "I don't believe two retired public servants of the same age and rank
just happen
to choose to commit suicide rather than be exposed as corrupt. My God"—he gave a harsh little laugh—"if every government official in Berlin took that approach, the streets would be piled high with the dead. Nor do they
just happen
to be murdered in the week an American president announces he will grace us with a visit."

He pushed back his chair and hobbled across to a small bookcase lined with the sacred texts of National Socialism:
Mein Kampf
, Rosenberg's
Der Mythus des XX. Jahr-hunderts
, Goebbels'
Tagebücher
... He pressed a switch and the front of the bookcase swung open to reveal a cocktail cabinet. The tomes, March saw now, were merely the spines of books, pasted onto the wood.