News From Berlin (6 page)

Smith leaned back expansively in his chair.

“There are more than one hundred and fifty divisions ready and waiting, as I gathered from the Italian military attaché. There is talk of three and a half million, an unimaginable world force. We have seen them leaving
en masse
from the train stations and pouring from the west through Berlin. I have never seen so many troops as in the past few months. And they weren’t heading for England, Kelly, they were going in the opposite direction. All this has nothing to do with manoeuvres in faraway places beyond the reach of the R.A.F., as suggested by Herr Goebbels at his latest press conference. The Nazis produce a permanent flow of disinformation, they’re very good at that. When a Nazi breathes he lies. And the
Russians pretend everything is fine, they just keep harping on about the strength of their pact with the German government. There have been hints about new negotiations. Nonsense. It will happen this month, you mark my words.”

Oscar listened with intent, painfully conscious of his own duplicity. He glanced around the table, saw how they were all ears for Smith. He became aware of the rumble of traffic on the Schifflaube, a comforting sound, which shifted his thoughts. Berne was the epitome of reassurance, a miracle of civilisation. On a previous occasion Smith had told him how the appalling dinginess of Berlin fell away from him the moment he set foot in Switzerland. The ordinariness of Berne was a marvel to anyone coming from Germany. The shops were well stocked, there were no queues, the cafés were full, there was dining and dancing – unthinkable just a few hundred kilometres away. A mere train journey between them and a dark, sinister, decaying city with sirens screaming at all hours.

Oscar had been living in Berne for two years, but had yet to adapt himself to that cool city. The kilometres-long arcades hosted a mercantile spirit that he did not share. At moments of disenchantment he remembered his boyhood history lessons, about the Swiss being soldiers for personal gain, best
known for fighting other people’s wars. Europe’s cash register. Not a charitable thought. He knew plenty of “good” Swiss. As odd as it seemed, though, he preferred Berlin. Not the Berlin of today, the Berlin of the days when Kate and he were living there. They had left just in time, of course, the terror was escalating by the day, but to him, at that time, there had been electricity in the air, nothing was lukewarm or grey. Kate and he lived their lives in balance, without many words. Emma had left home, and Kate was working in a hospital as a theatre assistant. They would arrange to meet at the bar of the Adlon after work, or at Horcher’s or at Hotel Kessel. Places favoured by journalists, artists and diplomats.

At the behest of his embassy, Oscar had set about establishing contact with people who were against the regime. They were easily found, for their number was directly linked to the takings of the Adlon bar. It was there that he was introduced to Adriaan Wapenaar, with whom he struck up a particular friendship, and who had reminded him quite recently that, should there be any trouble, Emma was to go to him for help. Wapenaar, a flamboyant Dutchman, had an extraordinary talent for eluding censure, even from the Gestapo. Since the outbreak of war he operated under the Swedish flag. His wife was German, and he provided assistance to the Dutch in
Berlin, of whom there were thousands. Although Emma was a German citizen by law, Oscar was relieved to know Wapenaar could be relied on in an emergency.

Shortly before their return to Holland, Oscar went in search of Wapenaar at the Adlon, where he more or less held court.

“How do you rate Carl Regendorf, Adriaan?”

“A hundred per cent reliable, a good German, the best of his year at the Foreign Office. Not a party member, and yet, miraculously, taken on. Why do you ask?”

“My daughter is in love with him, and he with her, and things are moving rapidly. Regendorf spends all his free time at Fasanenstrasse. Kate isn’t too sure about this. Having a German in the house these days is not exactly the most desirable of farewell gifts. I can see it all go wrong, I mean, I think Emma and he are going to get married.”

At that moment he realised that Wapenaar’s wife was German.

“O.K., Adriaan, I know what I must sound like, but your marriage predates 1933, so that doesn’t count.”

Wapenaar roared with laughter. People at nearby tables smiled: cheery Hollanders, infectious fun.

Then he became serious.

“You’re quite right, Oscar. It’s becoming insupportable here. You’re lucky, you can leave. I can’t, nor do I want to, really, because of Elka and her family. We must keep in touch, you and I. We don’t know when we might need each other. Where will your next posting be?”

“Nowhere for now. We’ll be spending a year or so in The Hague, drifting on the tides of bureaucracy.”

Wapenaar nodded. He raised his glass.

The clink of glasses jogged Verschuur’s attention. He was prone to drifting into daydreams at the most poignant moments. Lifting his glass automatically, he tapped it to that of his neighbour.
Skål
, Björn. To your good health, David.
Zum Wohl
, Horst. The echo of sincere fellowship, the heartfelt cheers of like-minded friends. Smith, Henderson, Kelly and the others, united in their loathing of the forces bearing down on them: the Thousand-Year Reich.

Warn the Russians? Oscar repeated the question to himself. How trustworthy were they? Wouldn’t they make enquiries about him among their German embassy friends, and, while they were about it, mention that it was he who had tipped them off about a so-called invasion? Or they might take him for some Dutch boy-scout type. A man with an obscure doctorate in history, whose career was a virtual blank and
whose function and mission remained unclear. Get Smith to deliver a letter to Wapenaar, who could then leak the information via Sweden? No, that would mean shifting the onus to Smith while it was his to bear, and besides, Smith would be searched at the border. What about Björn Henderson, couldn’t he share Emma’s news with him? He hesitated. Much as he liked and trusted Henderson, the Swedes were cautious in the extreme. His information would doubtless be dismissed as unconfirmed rumour by the wary ambassador.

No, he would not burden Henderson.

Sending word to his ministry in London was a non-starter. It was the last thing he would do. London was synonymous with bungling, infighting, red tape. The Dutch government-in-exile, established there in 1940, was in his opinion singularly inept. Organising anything whatsoever via that channel was simply not on. The disheartening exchanges with them in the line of duty were bad enough. What he was doing in Switzerland was of his own devising and initiative: activities off the beaten track, operations that would have scandalised the pen-pushers at Stratton House or in Ascot or wherever their desks were nowadays. Had they known, they would have been running to their bosses, clamouring for him to be stopped.

Oscar Martinus Verschuur, Ph.D., having earned his doctorate with a thesis on a pack of Zulu warriors, was an important link in Switzerland for refugees trying to get into the country. Most of the people he helped were French or German, and now and again a few Dutch. And London was not involved in any of that. They had no idea. Wapenaar in Berlin knew, so did the Dutch consul in Lugano. And Kate. But of the hundred or so people of assorted nationalities whom he had managed to smuggle over the border, not a single one knew him, or at least not his name, nor those of his few contacts in Holland and Belgium. He had become the Dutch Foreign Ministry’s consummate cover-up agent. Which was why nobody ever made the connection between him and Morton. Morton was in the know, he was kept informed of developments by Oscar, who acted mainly on Morton’s instructions. Major Desmond Morton, intelligence adviser to Winston Churchill. “Mystery Morton”, as Smith referred to him, but to Oscar there was nothing mysterious about the man whose acquaintance he and Wapenaar had made in Berlin, early in ’38.

Morton had done his homework. He knew exactly who they were, their backgrounds, their reputation for hard-headedness. He mentioned the names of people both Oscar
and Wapenaar trusted. He wanted to know whether they would be willing to work with him in the future. Morton was deeply pessimistic as to what that future held. What they saw happening in Germany was the beginning of a catastrophe on a global scale – oh no, he was not exaggerating. That was why he was assembling a shadow-army all over Europe, men and women Britain could mobilise if the need arose. A mammoth game of chess. They had declared themselves willing. That they would both have risen so high in the ranks by the time the need arose was something Morton had not foreseen, but for the rest his forecasts had come true with chilling accuracy. He had presented them with the scenario as of a family feud, listing one by one the countries that would be occupied by Germany. Only in the case of Sweden, which Germany had left alone, had he got it wrong. Switzerland’s neutrality was just as he had predicted, and quite evident, given the close ties between the Nazis and Europe’s treasure chest. All the better. Both Verschuur and Wapenaar were able to provide him with valuable intelligence. For his sake they were prepared to risk offending their respective ministries. Morton, Churchill’s confidant, was at one with them. Blind faith was the watchword, untarnished until the present.

Morton was his best chance, the only person he could dare to discuss the impending operation with. He should have realised from the first, but now his mind was made up. He could trust the Englishman to ensure that the information would never be traced to him and his daughter. He felt a surge of relief: free at last to join in the conversation.

“Have you heard the news about Bishop von Galen?” Smith said. Oscar had seen the name in the papers.
Die Nation
had recently devoted a long article to the remarkable churchman, who had shown the temerity to voice his protest in public. Protest, a word the Germans couldn’t even spell anymore.

“All the crucifixes had to be removed from Bavarian classrooms. Orders of one Doctor Meyer, some local bigwig in lederhosen, I presume. Mind you, that von Galen protested to Hitler! Never happened before, someone complaining to Wotan in person. And that was not all, there were people demonstrating in the street, and rumour has it that Hitler was jeered at in Bavaria, although that is something I find hard to believe.”

Henderson broke in: “We heard that story too. But they can carry on hanging crucifixes in the schools, because the order was rescinded. It was a mistake, Goebbels said. Not a
good moment to rile the Catholics, probably. So long as they can carry on hanging Jews – now there’s something they should be protesting against, instead of making a fuss about wooden crosses in the classroom!”

Henderson was not Roman Catholic, presumably. Jewish perhaps? Indignant in any case. His anger and sarcasm struck a chord with Oscar, recalling the rage that possessed himself at times, the powerlessness, the anguish over Emma in Berlin. This amicable gathering of diplomats was merely a brief interlude of distraction.

They plied Smith with questions, whose replies were duly commented upon and expanded. He was a messenger from the Underworld, on short leave, witness to events which were taking place just outside the others’ ken and yet almost close enough to touch. An exasperating state of affairs to the diplomatic frame of mind, although they abided by Goethe’s rule: judge by what you see, and respect the unseen. Goethe, the giant whose lifework lay unread, the intellectual locomotive of the old Germany with all those quarrelsome kings and counts and dukes and generals and bishops. That it should come to this, in the land of Goethe … a refrain of lament over the land that once brought forth heroes of such greatness, not that anybody knew what that greatness stood for. People simply
parroted one another, perpetuating the myths. The land of Goethe, what of it? The land of Alfred Rosenberg and Goering more like, the land of stupidity and death. A play in three acts: the rise, the flowering, and the downfall of the Idiot.

Oscar respected the unseen, certainly. It was his lifeblood. But not now.

It was well past midnight by the time he trudged up the Schifflaube on his way home.

Kate woke up early, as usual: a habit left over from when Emma was a toddler. She had lost the ability to sleep late. London was hushed and still, the light of morning barely perceptible. Wednesday, June 4: Emma’s birthday. The first quarter-hour of the day, when she surfaced from dreams that more often than not were disturbing. She was a dreamer, making up at night for what she missed during the day. Passion and common sense were opposite sides of the same coin in her case, some would say. She herself did not go in for such introspection. Fifteen minutes to recover from sleep, her arms and legs feeling heavy, her musings and sentiments as light as air. Emma, Carl, Oscar. Matteous. The silkiness of the name as pronounced by him, the African tone and lilt of it, were impossible to emulate, but the echo of it rang in her ears. She had left him behind in his lodgings the day before, restraining herself from taking him home with her. The rain pelting down on Earls Court Road had not made for a cheerful scene. The way each of them had kept silent in that small room overlooking the busy street said enough: what am I doing
here, is this where you want me to be, I can’t stay forever, nobody knows me, I no longer exist.

Thinking back, Kate recalled Matteous’s ice-cold hands, and his disconsolate look when she broke the silence at last with some favourable comment on his room.

Fifteen minutes in bed in the quiet of earliest morning, a delicate mechanism affording her a leisurely adjustment to the passing of time. One hand on her stomach, the other under her head: an attitude of surrender to an unknown love, of a lover at a loss. She had no commitments, nothing more to prove, it all lay behind her, youth, marriage, motherhood. All there was now was the war, and a black boy who had unaccountably come into her life. Should she go and see him later on, or should she leave him alone? Matteous was no longer a child, and she not his mother, though it seemed a lot like it at times. Emma had grown up so fast that Kate had hardly had a chance to be a mother. Now, at fifty-four, she wondered what on earth she had spent all that time doing. For some reason everything had seemed to happen at high speed. Like watching the water drain out of a basin when you pulled the plug. The little whirlpool at the plughole, that was where she was now.