Authors: John Anthony Miller
In Satan's Shadow (14 page)
York looked at the church and thought of Max. He wondered if he received the newspaper message. Would he be at the church rendezvous? If not, would he be at their Friday meeting? Or was he already in the hands of the Gestapo?
“I also brought some photographs of the Brandenburg Gate, which is a Berlin icon. It’s neoclassical, composed of twelve Doric columns, and the sculpture on the top is called the Quadriga. It’s a chariot pulled by four horses driven by Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory.”
York studied the picture, intrigued by the image and the explanation. He imagined using it in one of his history classes. If he ever got back to London.
“And then I brought some pictures of bridges. They’re my favorite, especially arch bridges. So I have the Castle Bridge, Frederick’s Bridge, and the Kaiser Wilhelm Bridge, all beautiful, low profile arch bridges that rival those in Paris.”
York studied the structures, simple but elegant, functional but beautiful. He could look at her photographs forever. She truly was an artist, the birds almost posing, the light captured perfectly, the angle used for the buildings and bridges displaying their graceful design and elegant construction.
He looked at her, smiling. “I really enjoy your photographs. You’re gifted in many different ways.”
She was pleased. “You’re too kind. And very flattering. But now it’s your turn.”
“What do you mean?”
“The favor you need. Tell me about it.”
He hesitated, unable to scale the wall he’d built around his heart. He looked at his watch. “You had better not stay too long, at least not the first time you’re here.”
She studied him curiously. “A few more minutes won’t matter.”
He wasn’t ready to share something so personal. Even though he wanted to.
There was an awkward silence, and Amanda realized the favor was very painful, difficult for him to discuss. She waited a moment more and, when he still seemed reluctant, she smiled and rose from the chair.
“When you’re ready,” she said. “I will listen. And I will do everything I can to help you.”
He took a deep breath, not realizing how hard it would be. “Thank you,” he said. “It was more difficult than I thought.”
“No problem,” she said, gently touching his arm. “When do we meet again? I’ll bring more pictures.”
He considered a risk they shouldn’t take, a danger they should probably avoid. But somehow he felt it was worth it, a reward they richly deserved. “Let’s meet at a secluded restaurant for dinner.”
Gerhard Faber looked in the mirror and adjusted the patch over his left eye. He ran the comb through his hair for the third time, taming a rebellious strand that had strayed from the remainder and dangled over his forehead. Then he adjusted his necktie and left the bathroom, returning to his desk at the Ministry of Armaments, where row after row of drafting tables stood in a large, rambling hallway. Each was identical, elevated at a slight incline, with trays of rulers and squares. It was here that dozens of draftsmen turned engineers’ sketches into blueprints used to build weapons in factories.
He sat on his stool, sighed with boredom, and returned to work. Sometimes he got interesting designs to draw, cannons or submarines or tanks. But for the last four days he had nothing but bolts: long bolts, short bolts, thick bolts, cotter pins and nuts. It was hard to stay awake, it was so monotonous. But he knew it wouldn’t be long before something exciting crossed his desk, and that would make it all worthwhile.
Just before the end of his shift, with the blueprint of his last bolt completed, Faber’s supervisor approached, carrying a handful of papers.
“Start on these next,” he said. “It’s for an artillery shell that pierces tank armor. And when you’re done with that, we should have a new rocket design ready. It’s a revolutionary weapon that could change the course of the war.”
Faber leafed through eight sketches that made up the shell design. It wasn’t an innovative weapon, but it would make a difference, especially on the Eastern Front. He started drawing, meticulously producing the fine lines and labeled dimensions that would support production. An hour later his shift ended.
He left work and rushed home, greeting his wife and three small children in their modest townhouse in the western section of Charlottenburg. After spending a few minutes with his family, discussing what the children did during the day, he went to his study and removed his treasured viola from the case. He sat before the music stand, looked at the Haydn piece that sat on it, and started to practice. He needed to improve. His last performance wasn’t as crisp as it needed to be.
Three hours later he emerged, confident in his ability to play the piece to perfection. He had also mastered a Mozart work that challenged him, refining an annoying string of sixteenth notes that he had always found difficult.
He showered and dressed in a charcoal suit with matching tie, ensuring no wrinkles existed. Then he kissed his wife, promised not to be home too late, and hugged each child before hurrying out the door and down the steps.
He quickly traveled three blocks to the U-bahn, the underground transit, and took the train to the city center. He walked a few blocks, enjoying the July evening, and arrived at Hoffman’s Restaurant just prior to 8 p.m. It was one of the most exclusive eateries the city had to offer, and he saw several Party officials mingling around the bar as he entered. He gave some money to the head waiter and was given a secluded table, hidden by broad-leafed potted plants, beside a window that overlooked the River Spree.
Astrid Braun, a Berlin socialite, arrived ten minutes later. Tall and slender, her black hair was cut close to the scalp, a large curl hanging over tropical blue eyes that studied all with a hint of amusement. Her indigo evening gown clung tightly to her frame, accenting her cleavage with a low neckline.
The head waiter, a pompous man with plastered hair parted in the middle, led her to the table. Faber rose to seat her, and she kissed him lightly on the lips before she sat down.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “Have you been here long?”
“No, just a few minutes,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I ordered a bottle of wine. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh, Gerhard, you spoil me.”
The Brauns were an influential family prior to the turn of the century, but as the years passed their power had waned, as had their fortune, even though their name was still recognized by most. They lived in a large home, majestic in its day, but a little tired and in need of repair. Once home to servants as well as family, it was now inhabited only by Astrid and her mother.
Astrid’s mother urged her to find a wealthy man to wed, someone who could restore the family fortune. Gerhard Faber seemed like the perfect match. But Astrid and her mother didn’t know he was already married, or that he had three children. They didn’t know he toiled as a draftsman at the Ministry of Armaments; Faber had told them he was a war hero who lost his eye on the Eastern Front, and that he ran the family business, continuing where a long line of wealthy industrialists had left off. But they did know he played the viola for the Berlin String Quartet, a distinction earned after years of study and many hours of practice.
“How was your day today?” Astrid asked after the wine had arrived.
“Stressful, as always,” Faber said, eyeing the entrée prices on the menu.
“Oh, my poor darling,” she cooed. “What happened?”
Faber had a vivid imagination. It was one of his gifts. “The Fuhrer called me this morning about a new artillery shell. He wants it delivered to the Eastern Front for the summer offensive.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said, her eyes wide with fascination. “Daily calls from the Fuhrer, or from Göring or Dönitz. Isn’t there anyone else they can turn to?”
He sighed and shrugged. “I suppose not, at least not for a critical issue. But then, I have proven myself over and over again. And they know that.”
“But you work so hard,” she said. Her hand dropped to his thigh, lightly caressing him.
He looked at his watch, conscious of the promise he made to his wife. He didn’t want to get home too late.
“Is everything all right?” she asked. “That’s the second time you checked the time.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “But I have to go back to the office after we finish dinner. And I’ll probably work through the night. It’s exhausting. I’m never home anymore. I can’t be. But I have to support the war effort.”
“Gerhard,” Astrid pouted. “Mother was hoping you could come to the house after dinner. She wanted to ask you something about some renovations.”
“What renovations?” he asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He suspected the conversation would lead to money. And he didn’t have any money.
“I’m not sure,” she said, innocently batting her eyelashes. She leaned forward, her dress slipping away from her torso, letting his eyes drink the view. “It’s such a beautiful house. Of course, it does need some work, we both realize that.”
They each ordered fish, and another bottle of wine, and then coffee and Black Forest cake for dessert. Faber mentally added the bill as they were eating. It would take all the money he had, with little left over. But he had the rest of the week to get through. How could he ever afford to have Astrid Braun as a mistress?
He needed money badly. There had to be a solution, a way to have both the worlds he wanted. His mind drifted to the new artillery shell.
York spent another morning translating personal ads, this time from the
Edinburgh
Sentinel
. The room was occupied; the man who interpreted French newspapers was there for a few minutes before he rose and left. And then, after a moment or two, the door opened and the Russian interpreter entered, yawning, carrying a cup of coffee.
York found it amusing. He knew he was being watched, either from those within or from someone outside, but he wasn’t sure why. There was no deviation to his office visits; he did nothing to arouse suspicion. He shrugged, reminded himself of Max’s warning that everyone watched him, from kindergartners to octogenarians, and behaved accordingly.
He left the office, had a cup of coffee and a kreppel at a café down the street, and arrived at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church fifteen minutes before noon, dressed in his German sergeant’s uniform, gazing at the Gothic spires that stretched so majestically to the clouds. He remembered the photographs Amanda had taken, and he could imagine her walking the grounds, trying to find the proper angle, staring through the lens until the light was just right so she could capture the perfect image.
He walked around the block three times but saw no one suspicious, no one lurking about waiting for him or Max. It was just a typical week day in Berlin. Women shopped at the grocer, older men and foreign workers went to factories or banks or shops, a few younger men in uniform enjoyed their leave. Policeman walked their beat and children played. An old man with spectacles sat on a bench and scanned a newspaper. And wives waited for husbands to return from the war.
York entered the church to find the interior awe-inspiring, portraying humility, serenity, and love for God. It was quiet, only a handful of people scattered among the pews, all praying silently, while a few wandered the corridors. He stood still for a moment, his head bowed, respectful, and said his own prayers, private and pensive.
None of the churchgoers noticed him, all immersed in worship. He looked at each in turn, ensuring Max was not among them, and that none were watching him. They offered an interesting cross-section of the city’s residents, skewed towards the elderly, seeing their second world war, hearts broken from having lost loved ones.
He watched them a few minutes more, the image captured for a future history class, assuming he was ever fortunate enough to teach again. He realized they probably prayed for sons or daughters or grandchildren, wishing for a world that had vanished, hoping desperately that it returned.
He stepped away quietly, walking through the church, watching the shadows and searching for faces that weren’t really there. After finding no trace of Max, he sat on a bench where he could see the entrances. He waited forty-five minutes, but no familiar faces appeared. He even went outside and circled the exterior, scanning the adjacent streets.
Max had not come.
*
The restaurant Amanda chose was on a side street shaded by linden trees, away from the main boulevards, tiny but private. Each table was sheltered and somehow secluded, offering the perfect private dining experience. It was owned and operated by the family that lived in the house attached to it, the food fresh and well-prepared, the ambiance serene. It was just the place for those who didn’t want to be seen, and was known for the owner’s discretion as well as the good cuisine.
Amanda arrived looking very different. She wore more cosmetics than normal, a hint of rouge, some eyeliner and lipstick. Her hair was pinned high on her head, exposing a graceful neck and pearl earrings, with a delicate necklace that matched. A close-fitting green dress, accented with white lace, showed off a figure she normally hid.
“You look stunning,” he said once they were seated.
She blushed. “I was trying to change my appearance so I wouldn’t be recognized.”
He could tell she appreciated the compliment. He wondered if she got any at home.
When the waiter arrived, he ordered wine and they scanned the menu, each choosing Sauerbraten. They chatted through dinner, discussing winter concerts planned in Vienna and Budapest, the spring concert in Amsterdam. They talked about Berlin, and compared it to London and Edinburgh. They chatted about music, focused on the masters: Beethoven and Bach, Mozart and Chopin. As dinner ended and Bundt cake arrived for dessert, they discussed their next meeting, selecting Friday afternoon at York’s hotel so Amanda could prepare for Goebbels’s party.
“I think now is a good time, don’t you?” Amanda asked.
“A good time for what?” York wondered, puzzled.
“We’ve had a marvelous dinner, and we managed to discuss a variety of interesting topics, but we still haven’t gotten to the favor you need. Or the story behind it.”
York studied her face, sincere and compassionate, concerned and cooperative. She was more energetic and enthusiastic than when he first met her, less inclined to dwell in the past, more interested in the future. His as well as hers. And now she wanted to help him, even if it meant only listening.
He hesitated, not knowing how to share or what walls to tear down. “I don’t know where to start,” he said, fumbling for words.
She covered his hand with hers, lightly caressing. “The beginning is usually best.”
He was distracted by how soft she was, the delicate fingers gently stroking the back of his hand, barely touching. A friendly gesture meant to reassure him, it could easily be confused with affection. At least by him.
He decided to trust her, forcing the words. “I married young,” he said softly, collecting his thoughts. “We were childhood sweethearts, neighbors growing up. I think we knew each other from the time we were infants.” He smiled, reminiscing. “We probably shared the same baby stroller.”
Amanda laughed. She enjoyed the glimpse into his past. Her eyes encouraged him to continue.
“We were very happy in the beginning, enjoying our new life. I started teaching and she worked for the newspaper. We found a small flat in London, not far from Hyde Park. A little over a year later, we had a daughter. For me, it was a dream come true.”
He hesitated, looking pained, conscious of the baby Amanda had lost. “A family was very important to me,” he said softly. “I was an orphan, adopted while still a baby. I never knew my mother and father. But I am eternally grateful to the people that raised me, they truly are my parents. There’s just always a bit of emptiness, sort of an incomplete feeling, because I don’t know where I came from. So when my daughter was born, I wanted to make sure she never felt that void. I wanted her to be totally engulfed in her father’s love.”
Amanda listened closely, her gaze intense, her fingers still caressing his hand. Maybe she was reliving her own childhood, seeing similarities to his. Or maybe she remembered her elation when she learned she was expecting her own child, only to have that happiness snatched away.
She smiled, hiding her pain. “It sounds idyllic,” she said, urging him to continue.
“It was at first. But as so often happens with those that marry young, we grew apart as the years passed. It wasn’t long before we didn’t seem to fit as well as we once did.”
“Did you realize it was happening at the time?” she asked. “Was it something you could have corrected?”
“I’m sure I recognized it and knew it wasn’t right, but I didn’t want to believe it was really happening. And then the war started. I enlisted right after the invasion of France. Since I speak French and German fluently, I ended up in clandestine operations. I went to France in July of 1940, dropped via parachute, and remained until last autumn. That’s when I was wounded. I escaped to Switzerland, recovered from my injuries and was sent here.”
“So you haven’t seen your family in three years?”
“No, I haven’t,” he said sadly. He looked away, sighing. “But it’s worse than that.”
She cringed. “What happened?”
He paused, his eyes moist. “Shortly after I arrived in France I received a letter from my wife. It seems she no longer loved me. She hadn’t for some time. She had taken up with my best mate, a childhood friend, and they had run off to start their life together.”
She squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, silently expressing his thanks. “It was no surprise that I lost her. When I thought about it, it was a long time coming. But she never told me where they went, so I don’t know where my daughter is. I was able to track them at first, but since I no longer contact London directly, I haven’t been able to.”
A tear dripped from his eye, his hand hurriedly moving to hide it. “And now this is all I have of her.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a faded photograph, wrinkled, a bit damaged. He handed it to Amanda. “I was hoping you could touch it up a bit.”
She was moved by his story, her eyes moist, sharing his tears. “I’m sure I can fix it,” she said, fingering the paper, testing the quality. “It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be better.” She studied the photograph and smiled. “What a beautiful little girl. How old is she?”
“She’s twelve years old now.” Then he chuckled. “But she acts like she’s thirty.”
“What’s her name?”
“Elizabeth.”
