want you to contact a man who used the alias 'Kohler,' an old comrade of yours, from the Black Front, now serving in a section of the
General Staff, and make the same offer to him that I've made to you."
Mercier had worked this sentence out and memorized it. The
question he didn't want to ask was: Do you know Kohler? Because a
simple "Who?" would have ended the operation.
"Hans Kohler," Halbach said, his voice touched with nostalgia.
After a moment, working it out, he said, "Of course. Now I see what
you're after."
Casually, Mercier said, "I expect he serves under his true name."
"Yes, Elter. Johannes Elter. He is a sergeant in the Wehrmacht.
Luckily for him, Strasser ordered that every man in the Front use a
nom de guerre."
Not so lucky. It had left Kohler vulnerable to just the sort of
approach that Halbach was going to make. But, Mercier thought,
there was plenty of time for that, now was not the moment.
"When will this meeting take place?" Halbach asked. He rebuckled the briefcase and placed it on the floor beside him.
"Soon. Political events are moving quickly; we don't want to get
caught up in them. We leave tomorrow."
"Tomorrow! My classes, at the school--"
"Class is canceled. The Herr Professor is indisposed."
"I have a friend in Tesin, Herr Lombard, a friend that's made a
great difference to me, the way I've had to live here. I would like to say
goodby."
Mercier's voice was as gentle as he could manage. "I am sorry,
Herr Halbach, but that won't be possible. If she's been a confidante,
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she'll understand, and a postal card from you, in Switzerland, will
let her know you've reached safety." He rose and offered his hand--
Halbach's palm was cold and damp. "Enough for tonight," Mercier
said. "We'll meet tomorrow, ten-fifteen at the railway station. Try to
get some rest, if you can, it will be a busy day."
"Tomorrow? We go into Germany?"
"Oh no, not at all. We go to Prague, then back east and into
Poland. An easy crossing."
21
April. Sturmbannfuhrer Voss's friend Willi--fake dueling scar
on his cheek, von now leading his surname--was well-liked at 103
Wilhelmstrasse, the SD's central office in Berlin. Properly submissive
to his superiors, genial to his underlings, quite a good fellow, and sure
to rise, when the time was right. And when would that be, exactly?
War would do it, but Hitler was such a little tease when it came to war,
showing his drawers one day, then giggling and running away the next.
Austria he had--the plebiscite on the Anschluss had been a stroke of
genius. Czechoslovakia he would have, though that would require
force of arms; the Czechs were a stubborn, stiff-necked crowd, blind
to their best interests, and they rather liked having their own nation.
And those arms were still in production; all across Germany, the factory lights burned until dawn. Would it be this year? Probably not,
maybe the following spring. More likely 1940. And some very sage
gentlemen were saying 1941.
But war was only one way, there had to be others. For instance,
a triumph. Some daring operation run against the French or the English. Willi, however, did not run operations, he worked in the SD
administration. Certainly important, if you knew how these things
worked, though not the sort of position that produced a stunning success. Still, there had to be some way, for a smart chap like Willi to find
a path to the top.
For example, a visit to the urinals in the bathroom on the third
floor. Obersturmbannfuhrer Gluck, August Voss's superior, the for-Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 240
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mer Berlin lawyer, regularly answered the call of nature around eleven
in the morning, so Willi had observed. And so, that morning, he too
heard the call. Gluck, when Willi arrived, was just buttoning his fly.
Willi said good morning and addressed the porcelain wall. Gluck
washed his hands, dried them, and began to comb his hair. When Willi
was done, he stood at the sink next to Gluck and said, "Fine speech,
the Fuhrer gave last night."
Gluck's nod was brusque. He set the comb carefully on his part,
then drew it across his head.
said.
"I am. What of it?"
"Oh, nothing. I was just wondering . . . if something's gone
wrong with him."
"What would be wrong?"
"I'm not sure. Do you have a moment, sometime, when we could
talk?"
"Now is a good time. Why not come along to my office?"
Gluck had a most pleasant office, quite large, with a view out over
the Wilhelmstrasse, the government neighborhood of the city. Down
below, Grosser Mercedes limousines with swastika flags above the
headlights, generals strolling with admirals, motorcycle couriers rushing off with crucial dossiers, a military beehive. Gluck sat formally at
his desk. He had, Willi could see by the photograph next to the telephone, a very attractive wife and two handsome sons, both in SS uniform. Gluck waited patiently, then said, "Something I should hear
about?"
"I believe you should." Willi was just a bit hesitant, not happy
about what needed to be said. "He's an old friend, Voss is, from the
early days of the party. And, I always thought, the best sort of officer.
Keen, you know. Quite the terrier."
"And?"
"A few weeks ago he invited me and another friend to go up to
Warsaw. A change of scene, see the night life, bother the girls. Just a
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holiday away from family life, a chance to be naughty. When you work
hard, it can be just the thing."
"I suppose it can." Though not for someone like me.
"So there we were, having a good time. But then he drags us off
to some factory district. Where we wait around, while I'm trying to
figure out what's going on. He'd been drinking, more than usual
I'd say, and you couldn't reason with him; better to just go along. Then
he sees some fellow in a French uniform come out of a factory--
apparently he was waiting for him, because he runs off and, and
attacks him. Pulls a riding crop from under his coat and beats him on
the face."
Gluck kept his composure. Pressed his lips together and seemed
thoughtful, but that was all. "He did mention something about this,
I don't recall when it was. He'd lost a suspect, which is surely regrettable, but not the end of the world. However, Voss took it badly, personally, saw it as--how to say--a vendetta."
"I couldn't believe my eyes, when it happened. Then, after we
returned home, I wondered if he didn't perhaps have some difficulty in
his private life, something that could be resolved, informally, with
your help."
"I know of no such problem. And it wouldn't matter if I did."
"No, of course not. I wasn't going to say anything but I did worry
about it, and
then, when I chanced to see you this morning, I thought
I'd better mention it. Before anything else happens."
"You were right to do so, Sturmbannfuhrer. Did he tell you what
he had in mind, before you went to Warsaw?"
"He didn't. We were just going to have a good time, as I said."
"And you were how many?"
"Three."
"You don't name your other friend, but I guess I can understand
that."
"I will if you order me to, sir."
"No, let it be."
"I don't like to be the bearer of bad news."
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"For the good of the service, you had to be. And much better that
I know about it, because, if he blows up again, and it becomes known,
I'm the one who will suffer."
"Will you confront him, sir?"
"I don't plan to, at the moment."
"Because, if you do, I would respectfully ask you not to say how
you came to learn what he did. We have friends throughout the service, and I don't trust Voss to keep silent."
"You needn't worry about that, and I would ask the same of you.
This is one of those incidents that is best managed quietly."
"You can depend on me, sir, to keep it that way."
Gluck slouched sideways in his chair, an official burdened with
one more problem on a day when there would be many more. He
met Willi's eyes and said, "I appreciate what you've done; I'm sure it
wasn't easy for you. And, if some day you need a friend, let me know.
I'm not an ungrateful man."
"Thank you, sir."
"Of course it is the end for your friend Voss, sad to say, at least in
this organization. He will be returned to duty in the SS; trust them to
find something more suited to his . . . his particular character."
"I am sorry to hear that, but perhaps it's for the best. This kind of
behavior can't be tolerated."
"Not by me, it can't."
A growing silence, end of conversation. Willi stood and considered a Heil Hitler, but sensed that Gluck was one of those officers
indifferent to such gestures, so squared his shoulders, came to attention, and saluted with his voice. "Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer."
"You are dismissed, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer," Gluck said. "I will
need to use the telephone."
21 April, 10:15 a.m. Tesin railway station. Halbach was prompt to the
moment, the remnants of his fugitive life in a cheap suitcase, briefcase
clamped beneath his arm. Then the two of them, the French aristocrat
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and the Nazi professor, boarded the 10:32 train to Prague. It would
not be a long trip, just over an hour, but time Mercier meant to use, if
he could find a vacant compartment. This was, with a tip to the conductor, available, and, as the train got under way, Halbach wondered
aloud why they were going to Prague.
"In Prague there is a certain photographic studio, run by a discreet
gentleman, who will take your passport picture. The service is expensive, but the photograph will be properly affixed to your new passport.
It is a service much in demand, lately."
"I've known such people," Halbach said.
"Also in Prague, a private bank--a very private bank--called
Rosenzweig, principally a Jewish bank. Does that offend you, Herr
Halbach?"
"Not at all, I don't care about the Jews. Hitler's a fanatic on the
subject, and, time was, we thought that might be the end of him, but
to date he has his way with them."
"The Rosenzweig Bank will accept your Swiss francs, no questions asked, and transmit them to a numbered account at a bank in
Zurich." Mercier reached into his pocket and withdrew a slip of paper
on which he'd copied, very carefully, the number sent to him by de
Beauvilliers. "You'll want to keep that safe, and I would memorize it
as well, because this is an anonymous account. Similar arrangements
have been made for your friend Elter."
"When will I have the passport?"
Mercier handed it over. "A new life," he said.
"As Herr Braun, I see."
"A common name."
"My fifth or sixth. It will serve."
"Do you have a family, Herr Halbach?"
"I did. A wife and child."
"They can travel with you, on this passport."
"No, that's finished, that part of my life. After the murders of
'thirty-four I had to go underground, so I sent them away. For safety's
sake I no longer know where they are, nor do they know where I am.
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Whatever might happen to me, I could not bear the idea that they
would share my fate."
"And Sergeant Elter?"
"He does have a family: a wife, three children."
"You knew him well?"
"Well enough. When you work secretly, there is endless time to
kill, waiting for this, waiting for that, so people talk. He's a common
enough fellow, Pomeranian by birth, a steady family man. Perhaps his
single distinction is a commitment to politics--he loved the party, it
was a second home to him. It meant, to Elter, the raising up of a
defeated nation, the return of pride, the end of poverty. Poverty is a
dreadful business, Herr Lombard, a bitter thing, and particularly hard
on those who've known better times. Every day, a small humiliation. It
is, to the French, la misere, the misery, and that's the proper word.
Elter was an idealist, as was I, but it did not destroy him. He escaped,
because he never held a high position in the Front. And he was never
betrayed."
"Still, he could be, no?"
"I suppose it's possible. Under interrogation a fellow member
might say his true name, but there are not many left who know it, I'm
one of the last."
"You may have to remind him of that, Herr Halbach."
Perhaps Halbach believed he would be asking a favor of his former comrade, but now the price of Swiss francs had been quoted.
"Tell me about him," Mercier said.
"In his forties, precise, finicky. Bald, with a monk's fringe, eyeglasses, not at all remarkable, the office clerk. Much absorbed in hobbies, as I recall, stamp and coin collections, model trains, that sort of
thing."
"Perhaps a dog? He walks at night?"
"He had a bird. A little green thing--he would whistle to make it
sing."
"You last saw him when?"
"A year ago, he came to Czechoslovakia to report to Otto--they'd
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discovered a spy in the organization. Two of our people almost arrested by the Gestapo. They shot through the door, the Gestapo shot
back, and taunted them as they died."
"How did he know that?"
"A neighbor."
"Was Elter in the war?"
"Not in combat. He was a supply clerk, in the rear echelon. And
a clerk he remains at the General Staff office, in charge of buying
paper and pencils, typewriter ribbons, paper clips, and what have you,
and keeping track of it all. They may be Germany's great warriors,
on the Bendlerstrasse, but, if they want a pencil, they must ask little
Elter."
"Does he gamble, perhaps? Visit prostitutes?"
"Gamble? Never, he pinches every pfennig. As for prostitutes,
maybe now and then, when things are difficult at home."
"Herr Halbach, here is an important question: do you believe he
will cooperate with you, as an old friend, seeking his help?"
Halbach took his time, finally saying, "There must be a better reason, I fear."
"Then we will provide one," Mercier said.
The photography studio was in a quiet residential district, a small
shop, dark inside, with a little bell that jingled merrily when the door
was opened. Inside, painted canvas flats with a hole for the jocular
customer's head, allowing him to be photographed as a golfer, a
clown, or a racing car driver. Halbach's photo was added to the passport in an office at the back of the shop, where a radio at low volume
played a Mozart symphony. It was a well-used passport, with several
entry and exit stamps, that gave the bearer's profession as "sales representative" and so completed Halbach's cover identity. Mercier was
relieved to see that the photographer worked with infinite care, consulting a notebook that specified the proper form for every sort of
document used by the the nations of the continent. When the job was
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done, the man addressed Halbach as Herr Braun and wished him
good luck.
Next, a men's clothing store where Halbach was outfitted, the sort
of suit, hat, and raincoat appropriate for a representative of the fine
old Solvex-Duroche company. He now looked prosperous, but he was
still Julius Halbach, not only homely but distinctive. Mercier fretted
over this but could do nothing. False beard? Wig? Tinted spectacles?
No, theatrical disguises would make Halbach look like a spy, surely
the last thing Mercier wanted.
The people at the bank, a large room on the fourth floor of a commercial building, were genteel and all business--this was simply the
transmission of currency, and Mercier suspected it went on all day
long. They did not ask to see a passport, simply wrote out a receipt,
having deducted their commission from the amount to be wired. As
Mercier and Halbach descended in the elevator, Mercier handed over
a hundred reichsmark, to use as pocket money, and told Halbach to