The Arms Maker Of Berlin Part 18

"Perfectly."

He then stormed upstairs to his books and phonograph records, and refused to accompany his father to a reception at the home of a Siemens executive.

As the months pa.s.sed, Kurt kept expecting the pain to fade. He had always recovered quickly from such things before. But he couldn't shake his deep sense of loss over Liesl. Nor did it help that he sometimes glimpsed her at the university. Once he called out her name, but she didn't even glance back. Now, with winter returning, the pain of estrangement was as fresh as ever.

Other aspects of his life, on the other hand, were only getting more complicated. His biggest worry was that he might soon be a soldier. He had just turned seventeen. As Erich's father had predicted, there was talk of lowering the age of conscription. With an entire army surrounded at Stalingrad, it seemed likely any day.

In addition, a pall of worry had fallen over the Bauer household. Manfred hadn't been heard from in weeks on the eastern front, and there was a new cloud over his sister Traudl's prospects for marriage. Two grim fellows from the SS Racial Office had visited ages ago to collect family genealogical information. They were supposed to have completed their background check in three months. But it had now been eleven months, and the case was still on hold due to unspecified complications. Reinhard refused to discuss it, and Kurt's mother grew deathly silent every time Traudl brought it up. The would-be bride, at least, was making the most of the delay, by h.o.a.rding enough fabric coupons for their seamstress to make the grandest possible dress. And she never had to fret about the safety of her prospective groom. Bruno Scharf had been posted to the coast of France, and his letters spoke glowingly of a farmhouse billet with fresh eggs and a cellar full of wine.

But the strangest and most troubling development had come to Kurt's attention that very morning, when his father had again taken him aside for a chat. Reinhard had returned the previous night from a visit to some of their suppliers in Switzerland, where the family had a factory near Bern.

Kurt shut the door behind him as his father instructed, figuring he was about to be subjected to a rehash of Reinhard's efforts to ensure speedier and more bountiful deliveries. It soon became clear that something more momentous was in the works. At first the elder Bauer did nothing but pace. When he finally came to rest in his desk chair, his face was ashen.

"Kurt, the things I am about to tell you must not pa.s.s beyond these walls. Not to anyone, under any circ.u.mstances. Not even your mother is to know. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"You must promise."

"I promise."

Reinhard took a deep breath and planted his hands on his knees.

"Do you remember a man I once brought to the house to introduce to your brother, an investment banker, Gero von Gaevernitz?"

"Vaguely. Wasn't his father some kind of professor?"

"Yes. Years earlier, but correct."

An indistinct image of a handsome-even dashing-fellow in a double-breasted suit with short, wavy hair came fleetingly to mind. His mother had been charmed by the man, but he remembered little else. In those carefree days Kurt hadn't been expected to pay attention to such callers, so he hadn't.

"Well, he's in Switzerland now, and I am afraid he is not a supporter of our current government. But he is nonetheless a useful man among the Germans there, and last night I met with him. Or, rather, I met with one of his representatives."

"He is in business there?"

"No. Well, yes. It's rather more complicated than that. I suppose the polite term for his new line of work would be that he is an information broker. He collects bits and pieces, makes introductions for his clients, that sort of thing."

"Who are his clients?"

Reinhard cleared his throat and smoothed a wrinkle on his trousers.

"The Americans, mostly. Or exclusively, perhaps."

Kurt was shocked.

"So he is in the intelligence business. A spy. And you met with him?"

"With his representative."

"Does that really make a difference?"

"No. Not if anyone here ever found out."

"Then why tell me?"

"Because I plan to see him again, next time I go back. This time it will be Gero himself. And at some point, if you're not sent off to war, I'm hoping that you may also have a chance to meet him. a.s.suming, of course, that I can arrange a travel pa.s.s, so that you can accompany me across the border."

For a man who had been so appalled by Liesl's mere words, this news was beyond astounding.

"Dad, what exactly are you saying?"

"That I have begun planning for our future. The family's. The company's. And, frankly, the Fatherland's. These people running our country now ..." He paused, fully aware that he had entered uncharted waters. "Well, I think we all know they're not going to survive much longer. When the war ends, they'll be gone. The Allies will insist. And when that happens, we're going to want-need-friends among the Allies. People we can talk to, and who might be willing to trust us. The Russians? Forget it, unless you're a Bolshevik. The Americans are our hope. Those men you met during the Olympic Games, people like them. And people like Gaevernitz, who, by the way, is a dual citizen. He's American, too."

"I didn't know that."

"He wasn't exactly advertising it back then. But it's why he fled the country, about a year ago."

"And he's spying now for the Americans?"

Kurt's father winced at the word, but he nodded.

"My long-term goal is to meet with Gero's boss, although some elaborate arrangements may be required. If I do, I will try to reach some sort of understanding. For later."

"What sort of elaborate arrangements?"

"Middlemen. Secure locations. Evidently these things are quite complex. They have to be, I suppose, because the Gestapo and the Abwehr have people all over Bern as well. You see them in rail stations, hotel lobbies. All types from all sides, right there together. It takes some getting used to, I must say. You can't just meet people out in the open."

"And when you have this meeting, what sort of things will you tell them that a spy would want to know?"

Another wince.

"I can a.s.sure you it would be nothing you would ever be ashamed of, or that would place anyone's life in danger. Just my impressions on how things are going here. Information on industrial production. What we have lots of, what we lack. Morale, the state of our workforce. Transportation issues."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"In case something happens to me. If I was unable to return across the border, or was detained, then you will know where you must try to go, and who you must contact."

"Gaevernitz?"

"Or his boss, in Bern. An American named Allen Dulles. He arrived only a month ago, but he is reputed to be the personal representative of President Roosevelt. He has taken up residence in the city center, at 23 Herrenga.s.se. I want you to remember that address. Can you?"

"23 Herrenga.s.se. Allen Dulles."

"Very good. But repeat it to no one. Not as long as you are on German soil, and certainly never to anyone in Berlin."

"Of course."

"And, Kurt?"

"Yes."

"You should also know that I have been contemplating this kind of action for quite a while. It is one reason I was so appalled last year when I heard about the remarks made by that Folkerts girl. Now that I have chosen this path, we must remain above suspicion in every possible way. So I certainly hope that you have had no further contact with her."

"No, sir," he said dolefully. "I have not seen her at all."

"And what about her circle of friends? I'm told the Gestapo has put a guard outside that fellow Bonhoeffer's house, so I doubt anyone in his right mind goes there anymore."

Kurt was aghast, but tried not to show it.

"No. She's the only reason I ever saw any of them."

"Good. Because this is not a game, Kurt, especially with the war going so badly. Many Germans will be trying to arrange the same sort of accommodations, and the authorities know it. Take great care in what you say and who you are seen with. Mere words are no longer worth taking a risk for. Mere words will not bring an end to our current disastrous situation. Actions, on the other hand, can make a difference, and may help build a better future. That is why I have made my choice. It is why you must be prepared to fill my shoes, if necessary. For the sake of our family."

"I understand."

"Very good. All right, then. You may go."

So where had he gone? Straight back to Liesl's. Exactly the place his father wanted him to avoid. And as Kurt stood on the Wannsee beach, gazing at the white villa across the water, he now realized why his father's chat had prompted him to come here. Defiant or not, it was a triumph of action over words. Because now he was certain that action, not talk, was the only possible means of winning Liesl back. He must do something bold, something to convince her that he was mature, and courageous. As he stared across the waves he decided on his approach. He would take the first risky step that weekend.

HIS FATHER WAS RIGHT. There was indeed a surveillance man hanging around outside Bonhoeffer's house when Kurt pedaled down the narrow lane that Sunday afternoon. The man was brazen, stationed beneath a telephone pole just across the street. His black trench coat and dark hat made it painfully obvious who he was working for. Perhaps that's the way the Gestapo wanted it, planting the fellow like a scarecrow to keep everyone away. There was indeed a surveillance man hanging around outside Bonhoeffer's house when Kurt pedaled down the narrow lane that Sunday afternoon. The man was brazen, stationed beneath a telephone pole just across the street. His black trench coat and dark hat made it painfully obvious who he was working for. Perhaps that's the way the Gestapo wanted it, planting the fellow like a scarecrow to keep everyone away.

Kurt pedaled past him until the pavement ended, then turned onto a dirt path that cut into the forest at the end of the street. Screened by the trees, he circled back to the right, behind the Bonhoeffer home. He leaned his bike against a tree and set off on foot, working his way toward the rear garden, where he ducked through a hedge and between bare rosebushes to the home's rear door. He knocked lightly.

An elderly woman in an ap.r.o.n, who must have been Bonhoeffer's mother, answered, not seeming at all surprised to receive a visitor at the back door. She invited him inside without asking his name, and then called upstairs to her son. The pastor appeared a few seconds later with a quizzical expression, but he immediately recognized Kurt.

"Come up to my study," he said.

The room was small and spartan. Bookshelves took up an entire wall, and there was a dark wooden desk in the corner. A stack of foolscap, a fountain pen, and an inkwell indicated that Kurt had interrupted the pastor's writing.

"Sorry to disturb you," he said.

"Quite all right. It gets a bit desolate here on Sunday afternoons anymore. The rest of my family often goes out walking, so I take advantage of the solitude. I take it you must have noticed my little friend out front?"

"Yes."

"Of course, you realize that if he saw you going around to the back, that will only make him more suspicious."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"Don't worry. He's usually pretty bored by this time of day. He doesn't even come every day anymore, although he is always here on Sundays. I suppose one of my neighbors must have gotten nervous about all the students who were coming here and mentioned it to the authorities."

"Do you really think that's what happened?" He didn't have the guts to tell Bonhoeffer about Stuckart.

"I only know for sure that one Sunday there he was, with a camera and a notebook. So, sadly, I felt I had no choice but to advise your friends to stop coming. But, of course, by then you had already stopped coming."

Kurt realized the timing made him look suspicious.

"I can a.s.sure you that I never-"

"It's quite all right. I never thought you did. I had already attributed your absence to girl trouble."

Kurt blushed.

"You're right," he said. "It was Liesl's decision."

"I gathered as much. Especially from the way she defended you to the others. Almost like she was feeling sorry for you."

"Defended me?"

"Some of them concluded from your absence that you were to blame for the man out front. But don't worry. She set them straight."

"It must be hard getting used to things like that." He nodded toward the front window.

"Oh, that's pretty mild, actually. Here, let me show you something."

Bonhoeffer reached up to a shelf and plucked a postcard from between two thick volumes. He handed it to Kurt.

"I came across it in a bookstall in 1936. The 'CC stands for the Confessing Church, of course. A reference to my seminary, the one the n.a.z.is shut down."

It was a short poem, quite nasty: After the end of the Olympiade We'll bash the CC to marmalade.

Then once we've chucked out the Jews, The CC we will terminate, too.

Suddenly there was a loud blast of static from below. Hitler's amplified voice shouted up the stairwell. More promises of death and d.a.m.nation for the enemy. A roaring crowd. It was only the radio, but Kurt felt wobbly all the same.

"Excuse me, will you?" Bonhoeffer said.

He disappeared for a moment. The volume of the broadcast dropped to a dull murmur just as he returned.

"My apologies. My mother likes to turn up his speeches."

"She does?"

"Only so the neighbors will know we're listening." He shrugged. "She thinks she is teaching a lesson to whoever informed on us. Or maybe she only wants my little shadow out there to write it down in his notebook."

"He looks like such a fool when he speaks," Kurt said, blushing immediately. He wasn't sure where the remark came from, and at some level he supposed he was only trying to ingratiate himself with this calm man who might be able to help him.

Bonhoeffer studied his face. Kurt hoped the pastor didn't think he had been trying to bait him into an inflammatory response.

"He does twitch and flail about," Bonhoeffer said. "But whatever you think of his words, or of the terrible things he does, when he is up there on that podium he speaks with a genuine pa.s.sion, and that is one reason he is able to connect with so many people. I am not saying I admire him, far from it. But we in the church would be more effective in spreading the word of G.o.d if we, too, exhibited some genuine pa.s.sion, instead of being so didactic and precise.

"When I spent a summer in New York, years ago, I often attended a Baptist church among the Negroes of Harlem. And I have to say, no one ever fell asleep in their pews. Maybe you would have made fun of all their shouting and carrying on, but to me it was quite rapturous. If we pastors had spoken straight from our hearts instead of from our minds, maybe we would have gotten through to more people before it was too late. Instead, we droned on like chemistry professors while that little man with the mustache played the pantomime fool and lured away most of our flock."

Kurt sensed the opening he had been seeking.

"But it seems too late to change that now. Haven't we pa.s.sed the moment when mere words are enough?"

Bonhoeffer gave him a long look before speaking again.