She was immediately alert. A discontented officer was a potential source of information. She said lightly: "The newspapers say we're shortening the line on the eastern front."
He laughed scornfully. "That means we're retreating."
She continued to draw him out. "And Italy looks bad." The Italian dictator Benito Mussolini--Hitler's greatest ally--had fallen.
"Remember 1939, and 1940?" Beck said nostalgically. "One brilliant lightning victory after another. Those were the days."
Clearly he was not ideological, perhaps not even political. He was a normal patriotic soldier who had stopped kidding himself.
Carla led him on. "It can't be true that the army is short of everything from bullets to underpants." This kind of mildly risky talk was not unusual in Berlin nowadays.
"Of course we are." Beck was radically disinhibited but quite articulate. "Germany simply can't produce as many guns and tanks as the Soviet Union, Great Britain, and the United States combined--especially when we're being bombed constantly. And no matter how many Russians we kill, the Red Army seems to have an inexhaustible supply of new recruits."
"What do you think will happen?"
"The Nazis will never admit defeat, of course. So more people will die. Millions more, just because they're too proud to yield. Insanity. Insanity." He drifted off to sleep.
You had to be sick--or crazy--to voice such thoughts, but Carla believed that more and more people were thinking that way. Despite relentless government propaganda it was becoming clear that Hitler was losing the war.
There had been no police investigation of the death of Joachim Koch. It had been reported in the newspaper as a road accident. Carla had got over the initial shock, but every now and again the realization hit her that she had killed a man, and she would relive his death in her imagination. It made her shake and she had to sit down. This had happened only once when she was on duty, fortunately, and she had passed that off as a faint due to hunger--highly plausible in wartime Berlin. Her mother was worse. It was strange that Maud had loved Joachim, weak and foolish as he was, but there was no explaining love. Carla herself had completely misjudged Werner Franck, thinking he was strong and brave, only to learn that he was selfish and weak.
She talked to Beck a lot before he was discharged, probing to find out what kind of man he was. Once recovered, he never again spoke indiscreetly about the war. She learned that he was a career soldier, his wife was dead, and his married daughter lived in Buenos Aires. His father had been a Berlin city councilor; he did not say for which party, so clearly it was not the Nazis or any of their allies. He never said anything bad about Hitler, but he never said anything good either, nor did he speak disparagingly of Jews or Communists. These days that in itself was close to insubordination.
His lung would heal, but he would never again be strong enough for active service, and he told her he was being posted to the General Staff. He could become a diamond mine of vital secrets. She would be risking her life if she tried to recruit him--but she had to try.
She knew he would not remember their first conversation. "You were very candid," Carla told him in a low voice. There was no one nearby. "You said we were losing the war."
His eyes flashed fear. He was no longer a woozy patient in a hospital gown with stubble on his cheeks. He was washed and shaved, sitting upright in dark blue pajamas buttoned to the throat. "I suppose you're going to report me to the Gestapo," he said. "I don't think a man should be held to account for what he says when he's sick and raving."
"You weren't raving," she said. "You were very clear. But I'm not going to report you to anyone."
"No?"
"Because you are right."
He was surprised. "Now I should report you."
"If you do, I'll say that you insulted Hitler in your delirium, and when I threatened to report it you made up a story about me in self-defense."
"If I denounce you, you'll denounce me," he said. "Stalemate."
"But you're not going to denounce me," she said. "I know that, because I know you. I've nursed you. You're a good man. You joined the army for love of your country, but you hate the war and you hate the Nazis." She was 99 percent sure of this.
"It's very dangerous to talk like that."
"I know."
"So this isn't just a casual conversation."
"Correct. You said that millions of people are going to die just because the Nazis are too proud to surrender."
"Did I?"
"You can help save some of those millions."
"How?"
Carla paused. This was where she put her life on the line. "Any information you have, I can pass it to the appropriate quarters." She held her breath. If she was wrong about Beck, she was dead.
She read amazement in his look. He could hardly imagine that this briskly efficient young nurse was a spy. But he believed her, she could see that. He said: "I think I understand you."
She handed him a green hospital file folder, empty.
He took it. "What's this for?" he said.
"You're a soldier, you understand camouflage."
He nodded. "You're risking your life," he said, and she saw something like admiration in his eyes.
"So are you, now."
"Yes," said Colonel Beck. "But I'm used to it."
ii
Early in the morning, Thomas Macke took young Werner Franck to the Plotzensee Prison in the western suburb of Charlottenburg. "You should see this," he said. "Then you can tell General Dorn how effective we are."
He parked in the Konigsdamm and led Werner to the rear of the main prison. They entered a room twenty-five feet long and about half as wide. Waiting there was a man dressed in a tailcoat, a top hat, and white gloves. Werner frowned at the peculiar costume. "This is Herr Reichhart," said Macke. "The executioner."
Werner swallowed. "So we're going to witness an execution?"
"Yes."
With a casual air that might have been faked, Werner said: "Why the fancy dress outfit?"
Macke shrugged. "Tradition."
A black curtain divided the room in two. Macke drew it back to show eight hooks attached to an iron girder that ran across the ceiling.
Werner said: "For hanging?"
Macke nodded.
There was also a wooden table with straps for holding someone down. At one end of the table was a high device of distinctive shape. On the floor was a heavy basket.
The young lieutenant was pale. "A guillotine," he said.
"Exactly," said Macke. He looked at his watch. "We shan't be kept waiting long."
More men filed into the room. Several nodded in a familiar way to Macke. Speaking quietly into Werner's ear, Macke said: "Regulations demand that the judges, the court officers, the prison governor, and the chaplain all attend."
Werner swallowed. He was not liking this, Macke could see.
He was not meant to. Macke's motive in bringing him here had nothing to do with impressing General Dorn. Macke was worried about Werner. There was something about him that did not ring true.
Werner worked for Dorn; that was not in question. He had accompanied Dorn on a visit to Gestapo headquarters, and subsequently Dorn had written a note saying that the Berlin counterespionage effort was most impressive, and mentioning Macke by name. For weeks afterward Macke had walked around in a miasma of warm pride.
But Macke could not forget Werner's behavior on that evening, nearly a year ago now, when they had almost caught a spy in a disused fur coat factory near the East Station. Werner had panicked--or had he? Accidentally or otherwise, he had given the pianist enough warning to get away. Macke could not shake the suspicion that the panic had been an act, and Werner had in fact been coolly and deliberately sounding the alarm.
Macke did not quite have the nerve to arrest and torture Werner. It could be done, of course, but Dorn might well kick up a fuss, and then Macke would be questioned. His boss, Superintendent Kringelein, who did not much like him, would ask what hard evidence
he had against Werner--and he had none.
But this ought to reveal the truth.
The door opened again, and two prison guards entered either side of a young woman called Lili Markgraf.
He heard Werner gasp. "What's the matter?" Macke said.
Werner said: "You didn't tell me it was going to be a girl."
"Do you know her?"
"No."
Lili was twenty-two, Macke knew, though she looked younger. Her fair hair had been cut this morning, and it was now as short as a man's. She was limping, and walked bent over as if she had an abdominal injury. She wore a plain blue dress of heavy cotton with no collar, just a round neckline. Her eyes were red with crying. The guards held her arms firmly, not taking any chances.
"This woman was denounced by a relative who found a codebook hidden in her room," Macke said. "The five-digit Russian code."
"Why is she walking like that?"
"The effects of interrogation. But we didn't get anything from her."
Werner's face was impassive. "What a shame," he said. "She might have led us to other spies."
Macke saw no sign that he was faking. "She knew her associate only as Heinrich--no last name--and he may have used a pseudonym anyway. I find we rarely profit by arresting women--they don't know enough."
"But at least you have her codebook."
"For what it's worth. They change the key word regularly, so we still face a challenge in decrypting their signals."
"Pity."
One of the men cleared his throat and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. He said he was the president of the court, then read out the death sentence.
The guards walked Lili to the wooden table. They gave her the chance of lying on it voluntarily, but she took a step backward, so they picked her up forcibly. She did not struggle. They laid her facedown and strapped her in.
The chaplain began a prayer.
Lili began to plead. "No, no," she said, without raising her voice. "No, please, let me go. Let me go." She spoke coherently, as if she were merely asking someone for a favor.
The man in the top hat looked at the president, who shook his head and said: "Not yet. The prayer must be finished."
Lili's voice rose in pitch and urgency. "I don't want to die! I'm afraid to die! Don't do this to me, please!"
The executioner looked again at the court president. This time the president just ignored him.
Macke studied Werner. He looked sick, but so did everybody else in the room. As a test, this was not really working. Werner's reaction showed that he was sensitive, not that he was a traitor. Macke might have to think of something else.
Lili began to scream.
Even Macke felt impatient.
The pastor hurried through the rest of the prayer.
When he said "Amen" she stopped screaming, as if she knew it was all over.
The president gave the nod.
The executioner moved a lever, and the weighted blade fell.
It made a whispering sound as it sliced through Lili's pale neck. Her short-cropped head fell forward and there was a gush of blood. The head hit the basket with a loud thump that seemed to resound in the room.
Absurdly, Macke wondered if the head felt any pain.
iii
Carla bumped into Colonel Beck in the hospital corridor. He was in uniform. She looked at him in sudden fear. Ever since he was discharged, she had lived every day in fear that he had betrayed her, and the Gestapo were on their way.
But he smiled and said: "I came back for a checkup with Dr. Ernst."
Was that all? Had he forgotten their conversation? Was he pretending to have forgotten it? Was there a black Gestapo Mercedes waiting outside?
Beck was carrying a green hospital file folder.
A cancer specialist in a white coat approached. As he went by, Carla said brightly to Beck: "How are things?"
"I'm as fit as I'm ever going to be. I'll never lead a battalion into battle again, but aside from athletics I can lead a normal life."
"I'm glad to hear that."
People kept walking by. Carla feared Beck would never get the chance to say anything to her privately.
But he remained unruffled. "I'd just like to thank you for your kindness and professionalism."
"You're welcome."
"Good-bye, Sister."
"Good-bye, Colonel."
When Beck left, Carla was holding the file folder.
She walked briskly to the nurses' cloakroom. It was empty. She stood with her heel firmly wedged against the door so no one could come in.
Inside the folder was a large envelope made of the cheap buff-colored paper used in offices everywhere. Carla opened the envelope. It contained several typewritten sheets. She looked at the first without removing it from the envelope. It was headed:
Operational Order No. 6
Code Zitadelle
It was the battle plan for the summer offensive on the eastern front. Her heart raced. This was gold dust.
She had to pass the envelope to Frieda. Unfortunately Frieda was not working at the hospital today: it was her day off. Carla considered leaving the hospital right away, in the middle of her shift, and going to Frieda's house, but she swiftly rejected that idea. Better to behave normally, not to attract attention.
She slipped the envelope into the shoulder bag hanging on her coat hook. She covered it with the blue-and-gold silk scarf that she always carried for hiding things. She stood still for a few moments, letting her breathing return to normal. Then she went back to the ward.
She worked the rest of her shift as best she could, then she put on her coat, left the hospital, and walked to the station. Passing a bomb site, she saw graffiti on the remains of the building. A defiant patriot had written: "Our walls might break, but not our hearts." But someone else had ironically quoted Hitler's 1933 election slogan: "Give me four years, and you will not recognize Germany."
She bought a ticket to the Zoo.
On the train she felt like an alien. All the other passengers were loyal Germans, and she was the one with secrets in her bag to betray to Moscow. She did not like the feeling. No one looked at her, but that only made her think they were all deliberately avoiding her eye. She could hardly wait to hand over the envelope to Frieda.
The Zoo Station was on the edge of the Tiergarten. The trees were dwarfed, now, by a huge flak tower. One of three in Berlin, this square concrete block was more than a hundred feet high. At the corners of the roof were four giant 128 mm antiaircraft guns weighing twenty-five tons each. The raw concrete was painted green in a hopelessly optimistic attempt to make the monstrosity less of an eyesore in the park.
Ugly though it was, Berliners loved it. When the bombs were falling, its thunder reassured them that someone was shooting back.
Still in a state of high tension, Carla walked from the station to Frieda's house. It was midafternoon, so the Franck parents would probably be out, Ludi at his factory and Monika seeing a friend, possibly Carla's mother. Werner's motorcycle was parked on the drive.
The manservant opened the door. "Miss Frieda is out, but she won't be long," he said. "She went to KaDeWe to buy gloves. Mr. Werner is in bed with a heavy cold."
"I'll wait for Frieda in her room, as usual."
Carla took off her coat and went upstairs, still carrying her bag. In Frieda's room she kicked off her shoes and lay on the bed to read the battle plan for Operation Zitadelle. She was as stressed as an overwound clock, but she would feel better when she had given the purloined document to someone else.
From the next room she heard the sound of sobbing.
She was surprised. That was Werner's room. Carla found it hard to imagine the suave playboy in tears.
But the sound definitely came from a man, and he seemed to be trying and failing to suppress his grief.
Against her will, Carla felt pity. She told herself that some feisty woman had thrown Werner over, probably for very good reasons. But she could not help respondin
g to the real distress she was hearing.
She got off the bed, put the battle plan back in her bag, and stepped outside.
She listened at Werner's door. She could hear it even more clearly. She was too softhearted to ignore it. She opened the door and went in.
Werner was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in hands. When he heard the door he looked up, startled. His face was red with emotion and wet with tears. His tie was pulled down and his collar undone. He looked at Carla with misery in his eyes. He was bowled over, devastated, and too wretched to care who knew it.
Carla could not pretend to be heartless. "What is it?" she said.
"I can't do this anymore," he said.
She closed the door behind her. "What happened?"
"They cut off Lili Markgraf's head--and I had to watch."
Carla stared openmouthed. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"She was twenty-two." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. "You're already in danger, but if I tell you this it will be a lot worse."
Her mind was full of amazing surmises. "I think I can guess, but tell me," she said.
He nodded. "You'll figure it out soon, anyway. Lili helped Heinrich broadcast to Moscow. It's much quicker if someone reads you the code groups. And the faster you go, the less likely you are to be caught. But Lili's cousin stayed at the apartment for a few days and found her codebooks. Nazi bitch."
His words confirmed her astonishing suspicions. "You know about the spying?"
He looked at her with an ironic smile. "I'm in charge of it."
"Good God!"
"That's why I had to drop the whole business of the murdered children. Moscow ordered me to. And they were right. If I'd lost my job at the Air Ministry I would have had no access to secret papers, nor to other people who could bring me secrets."
She needed to sit down. She perched on the edge of the bed beside him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"We work on the assumption that everyone talks under torture. Knowing nothing, you can't betray others. Poor Lili was tortured, but she only knew Volodya, who's back in Moscow now, and Heinrich, and she never knew Heinrich's second name or anything else about him."
Carla was chilled to the bone. Everyone talks under torture.
Werner finished: "I'm sorry I've told you, but after seeing me like this you were on the point of guessing it all anyway."