The Serpent's Egg (29 page)

“The theory was just so much horseshit. The shell landed squarely in your father’s foxhole. It could easily have landed in mine and killed me. It must have had his name on it, I suppose…”

Chapter 80

February 1940

The serving girl placed two beers on the table. The stranger thanked her. Max lifted his glass to cover his gloomy face. The man tapped him on the shoulder. “You knew he died in 1916. You didn’t really think he was still alive, did you?”

“Not really, but we never got to bury him, and when I saw your telephone number on my mother’s pad, I thought…”

“Ah, I see. I have been in touch with your mother. Your father and I had an agreement that if one of us survived he would keep an eye on the other’s family. I drew the short straw.” He laughed.

“When did you first start visiting my mother?”

“It was January two years ago. When I got back to Germany I had nothing. I set up a small business, made some money. Then the recession hit and I lost it all again. That was when I joined the police.”

“You’re a policeman?”

He opened his hand and flashed a Gestapo disk. Max’s heart did a triple somersault.

“Don’t look so worried. There are still some good apples left in Heydrich’s rotten RSHA barrel. Not many, but a few.”

“Why did you call me back?”

“The Kripo found your father’s cigarette lighter at the scene of a murder. They’ve been searching their fingerprint records for months.”

Shit! Fingerprints!

“How do you know it’s my father’s?”

“Your father gave it to me at the Somme in 1916, and I returned it to your mother. When I rang her to get your number, I asked if she’d passed the lighter on to you. She confirmed that she had.”

“There must be hundreds of lighters like that. How can you be sure it’s my father’s?”

“I can’t, but I thought I should warn you that the Gestapo is now searching its records. If the fingerprints on that lighter are yours, they will match them. It may take some time, but they will find a match. When they come calling they’ll ask you to show them your father’s lighter. If you have it at home you have nothing to worry about…”

They sipped their drinks in silence. Max could feel the bars of a trap closing around him. This man could easily have informed his superiors in the RSHA about the lighter. If he had, the Gestapo would have immediately checked Max’s fingerprints on his identity card and found a match. The whole process would have taken no more than an hour. Walter Lehmann was an ally, a good friend.

“I’m grateful to you, Herr Lehmann.”

“It was nothing. I owe your father a debt deeper than any man could ever repay. But tell me you didn’t murder anyone.”

“I murdered no one. I swear it.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear. My glass is empty.”

Max waved to the serving girl. She came over and he paid for two more beers.

The conversation turned to Max’s mother.

“How often do you visit my mother?”

“Not often. When I first visited her two years ago, she really didn’t want to talk to me. I nearly didn’t go back. But I tried again in the autumn. She let me in. We spoke for ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.”

“She seemed uncomfortable in my presence so I left. I managed to tell her who I was, though, and the next time I called she was more amenable.”

“More friendly, you mean?”

The serving girl arrived carrying a tray of full glasses. She put two down on the table and went on to deliver the others.

Lehmann took a mouthful of beer. “She’s never been friendly. Your mother is not the easiest person in the world to get on with. She tolerates my presence. I usually stay for about 20 minutes.”

“I’m not sure, but when I saw her in December she seemed unhappy. I thought she might be lonely.”

“That’s natural. She lost her husband over 20 years ago. Has she had anyone else since then?”

“Not that I know of, but she’s never shown signs of loneliness before. I think meeting a friend of my father’s could help her. Will you continue to visit her?”

“As long as I’m able.”

“Because you gave your word to my father?”

“Yes, but that’s not the only reason.”

Max thought it best not probe any further on that subject. He drained half his beer and ran his hand across his lips. “Was it you that persuaded her to get a telephone?”

“Yes, I thought it might be easier to talk to her on the telephone.”

“And is it?”

Lehmann laughed. “No. Your father warned me about her. I thought he was exaggerating, but he wasn’t, was he?”

“Did he ever speak about me?”

“All the time. You were the apple of his eye.”

“Have you ever done any work around the house for my mother?”

“A little. I fixed an annoying pipe that rattled in the kitchen and I sorted out a drainage problem in the garden.”

“Wearing my father’s boots?”

He grinned through the beer foam on his upper lip. “They were a snug fit.”

Chapter 81

February 1940

A high degree of expectation and tension pervaded the air on the third floor of the War Office in London. All six members of Joint Forces Contingency Committee were smoking as if their lives depended on it. The chairman, Air Commodore Frank Scott had his pipe in his hand. It was full but unlit. A buzz of conversation filled the room. A rear admiral and a major general of the army stood face to face in a corner of the room in a raging argument. The red-faced major general looked close to apoplexy.

The air commodore rapped the table with his pipe. “Please resume your seats, gentlemen. I’d like to get started.”

“If I may, Air Commodore…” The speaker was Group Captain Cameron Pinkley of the RAF.

The air commodore yielded the floor to Pinkley who opened his briefcase, took out six copies of a document and circulated it around the table. Each copy was numbered and carried the heading OPERATION PIKE – MOST SECRET in large letters.

“My team at Air Readiness has been working on this plan since the last meeting. The first page contains a summary. It goes without saying that His Majesty’s forces could not stand against the combined force of Nazi Germany and Stalin’s Soviets. As previously discussed, the oilfields and oil refineries of Caucasia have been identified, by our French allies, as the single most vulnerable strategic asset that the Soviets possess. Analysis by the War Office proves that a carefully coordinated action from our air bases in Turkey and Iran and the French bases in Syria could destroy a large part of these assets in a series of sustained air strikes over a 3-month period.”

The hubbub rose again. The air commodore raised a hand for silence and the group captain continued, “As I’ve said, between the RAF and the French Air Force, we have the capacity to wipe out maybe as much as 75% of this strategic resource. The analysts have calculated that such a strike would neutralize the combined Soviet military forces for an extended period. In addition, it could reduce the Soviets’ production of electricity, closing down large portions of their heavy industry.”

Another outburst greeted these statements. Someone laughed and shouted above the racket, “I suppose they won’t be able to produce food, either.”

“That is correct,” said the group captain. “Our analysts have calculated a reduction of 50% in their agriculture output. In fact, the air strike could well cause widespread famine and a complete collapse in the Soviet economy. Also, as the German Wehrmacht relies on these oilfields for much of their fuel, a strike there will kill two birds with one stone.”

The red-faced major general said, “It seems rather elaborate to me, and I still question the advisability of awakening the sleeping giant.”

The air commodore peered into the bowl of his pipe. “What was it the bard said about killing the serpent in the egg?”

“Julius Caesar: Act 2, scene 1,” said B-S, the Assistant Director of Military Intelligence. “
And therefore we should liken him to a serpent’s egg. Once it’s hatched it becomes dangerous. Thus we must kill him while he is still in the egg.
”

The major general snorted. “Whatever happened to ‘let sleeping dogs lie’? How can we be sure this one short air campaign will be enough to kill off the Soviet threat?”

Air Commodore Scott raised an eyebrow. “You doubt the analysis, General?”

“No, I’m sure the analysts have done a fine job. All I’m saying is we will need to be absolutely certain before we act. If the air raids miss their target or the Soviets’ air defenses are more robust than we think, or the Soviets have other untapped sources of oil that we don’t know about. I can think of a hundred things that might go wrong.”

“Quite right, General, and that’s exactly why we are warming the seats of our pants in this room. Now I suggest we start by making a list of all the contingencies we can think of, no matter how improbable, and we can proceed from there.”

Chapter 82

March 1940

Max awoke with a throbbing pain in his mouth. The cyanide capsule was now a constant irritation. After a few moments of internal debate, he concluded that he was unlikely to be captured by the Gestapo, and if he was, the fact that it was the Gestapo that had inveigled him into joining the Red Orchestra in the first place should save him. He decided to get rid of it. He leapt from the bed and into the bathroom and turned the key in the bathroom door. Using his tongue, he worked the cyanide capsule loose and spat it into the toilet.

#

In Storkowerstrasss police station, Kommissar Neumann was snowed under with work. In an attempt to win over the hearts of the population, the Nazi government had initiated a new policy of prosecuting Brownshirts for their most serious crimes. To make matters worse, the Kommissar had run out of Russian cigarettes. Only the black market had them now, and no member of the Kripo could be seen buying from that source. To get over his craving, Neumann bit the inside of his cheek and threw himself into his work.

“Any word from the Gestapo on the Pastor Vigo affair, Fischer? Surely they’ve found those fingerprints on their records by now?”

“I’ve heard nothing from them, Boss. I assume they’re still looking.”

Neumann picked up the telephone. “Get me SS-Sturmführer Traut in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse.”

Traut picked up the telephone on the third ring and grunted his name.

“Jürgen, it’s Erhart Neumann here. Have you found a fingerprint match for us yet?”

“No. The fingerprints are not Framzl’s. We’re still looking. I told you I’d ring if we found anything. You need to be patient Kommissar. Have you any idea how many records we have here?”

“40 million?”

“Nearly 50 million adult records. How many do you think we can check in a day?”

“A thousand?”

“With maximum manpower, we can check 2,000 a day. That’s if I put every man on it. But we have other things to do. We’re checking about 250 per day. How long do you think it’s going to take us to work through 50 million records?”

Neumann did some quick mental arithmetic. “A couple of years?”

“550 years! That’s well past the halfway mark of the thousand year Reich.”

“I thought you were going to start with the subversives and Communists.”

“We have. And how many of those do you think we have?”

Neumann had no idea. He said nothing.

“Well over 200,000. That’s two and a half years searching. If you have any suggestions to help to narrow the search, I’d be happy to hear them. Otherwise, get out of my ear and let me get back to work.”

Chapter 83

March 1940

All through the months between December and March, Greta continued to visit Sophie at the mansion. Sophie missed her parents deeply, but she grew to love her aunt Pauletta, and she delighted in spending time with Ule. Asleep or awake, Sophie’s doll was her constant companion.

While Anna kept up a steady flow of children’s books to Greta’s apartment, Greta spent as much time as she could with Sophie, helping Pauletta to build on the education that her sister, Matilde Rosen, had given her daughter. Greta was deeply affected by these visits. Sophie seemed to have put the tragedy of losing her parents behind her, but Greta only had to look at the sorrow etched into child’s eyes to be reminded what had happened. Not that she had any details about where Sophie’s parents had been taken or what had happened to them, but her imagination fed on every hint picked up from the newspaper and the radio, and ran wild.

#

Arvid and Mildred Harnack lived in constant fear of discovery. They never held meetings in their apartment or visited any of their contacts in their homes. They had no telephone for fear of Gestapo telephone tapping. All contact with other members of the network was arranged on neutral ground or by verbal messages delivered by go-betweens.