Flight from Berlin (20 page)

‘Uh, Richard Denham? Is he here?’ she said, hoping to aid communication with smiles and hand gestures.

At the mention of Denham’s name, fear animated the old woman’s face. She shook her head, dissembling away in German to Eleanor’s bewilderment, and retreated quickly back to her apartment. Her door closed, but Eleanor sensed the rheumy blue eyes watching through the pattern in the frosted glass.

The name on the first-floor apartment was Reinacher, from whose door came the sound of a radio playing military band music; she continued to the second floor with a mounting sense that something was wrong. She found Denham’s door and knocked. It swung inwards with a quiet moan on its hinges.

The place had been worked over so thoroughly it looked like a grenade had exploded, and two cigarette butts had been stubbed into the rug, leaving burn marks. She tiptoed into the mess of smashed record discs, overturned drawers, and opened books. On the floor a yellow telegram slip caught her eye. So his son had not been found. What was going on? She stood still for a moment, mystified, and a flat voice startled her.

‘Kann ich Ihnen helfen?’

A tall, fat-headed man was standing in the doorway, holding a collection tin with a swastika on it.

He gestured to the mess in the room, speaking in a droning voice. Only the word
Gestapo
was clear to her among the alien words and made itself understood.

H
is rumbling stomach told him roughly what the hour was, but he knew he’d soon lose track of time. An electric light hummed behind a wire grill. He didn’t imagine they ever turned it off. In the next-door cell a man moaned.

Every thought that came to him swirled around and slipped away. The fears of never seeing Tom again mixed with his dread of what the SD had in store. He drew his feet up and buried his nose between his knees, struggling to imagine why he could possibly be here.

The espionage charge was a trumped-up ploy to stop the embassy from getting him released in a hurry. He was fairly sure of that. The other charges were trivial except for one—speaking to Hannah—which the inspector seemed to think was a Gestapo matter. But who knows what turf wars were fought in the dark labyrinths of the Nazi state. Maybe the matter was too serious for Haeckel.

But why had they been watching him before he’d even made contact with Hannah? They knew about his trip on the
Hindenburg
; they knew he was at the reception on the Pfaueninsel, and of his night at the Nollendorfplatz Theatre.

What did they want?

Hours passed, and he fell into a nervous stupor, too edgy to sleep, too drained to move. When footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, he jumped. An eye appeared in the peephole, a bolt was drawn back, and the door opened. A man in a dark suit stepped into the cell.

‘Herr Denham?’ he said with an interested smile. ‘I am Hauptsturmführer Udo Rausch. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

Chapter Nineteen

T
wo guards with the SD flash on their sleeves led Denham from the cell. The man in the suit, Hauptsturmführer Rausch, was perhaps a year or two younger than Denham, and looked as though he’d dined well somewhere. He greeted the sergeant and asked after his wife, joked with the orderlies smoking in the darkening courtyard, and walked with his hand on Denham’s shoulder, almost friendly, as though they were professors between lectures. A new BMW, its engine idling, was waiting. Before they got in, Rausch lit a Murad and offered one to Denham.

‘No, thanks. Turkish isn’t my brand.’

‘They’re not to everyone’s taste,’ he agreed. ‘I picked up the habit in Ankara. Served there with the German Foreign Ministry for two years.’

That solves one puzzle,
Denham thought. The hempy aroma filling the car was the same he’d smelt in his apartment.

A minute’s drive and the car turned into a garden courtyard off the Wilhelmstrasse, stopping outside the covered portico of an elegant classical building. Inside was a marble hallway of columns and red drapes. The uniformed woman on the front desk, blond hair plaited into pretzels, beamed at Rausch; young men in suits passed on their way out, bidding him a good evening. Denham followed him up a marble staircase overhung by an enormous chandelier, making slow progress without shoelaces. The guards were two steps behind.

‘This was a summer palace of the Hohenzollerns,’ Rausch said over his shoulder. ‘Designed by Schinkel. A refinement that’s rather lost on our Gestapo cousins.’

They passed down a long carpeted corridor, and climbed another flight to a narrow service corridor in what seemed like an old servants’ quarter. At the far end Denham was shown into a room with bright overhead lights and a small barred window, and was asked to sit on a chair in the centre of the room. The only other furnishings were a table with a telephone on it, a row of wooden chairs, and a portrait photograph of Reinhard Heydrich, head of the SD, peering from the wall.

Heydrich, the Blond Beast. The man’s Nordic nose was so long it almost put the rest of his face out of focus, but the tiny, deep-set eyes were as bright as pins. Heydrich the Pitiless. Heydrich the Hangman. Thirty-two years old and one of the most powerful men in Europe.

Denham’s suspicion that his captor’s genial manner was part of some technique was borne out immediately.

‘I’ve always felt that interrogation is more art than science where an intelligent detainee is concerned,’ Rausch began, taking a seat. ‘Especially one who’s a war veteran. In such cases incentive can be fruitful where intimidation is not. Perhaps not something a brute like Haeckel would understand, although I daresay he gets to the bottom of everything in his inimitable way. Chips fly when you have to chop wood.’ The German gave a small, satisfied laugh.

He had a groomed, cultured appearance, tailored clothes, and a sombre tie. The German upper class, relaxed with rank. Brown hair combed back from his forehead, high cheekbones, full lips that suggested a taste for the finer things, features that might be found pleasing but for the eyes, which had an unnerving directness. Denham felt sure, too, that he hadn’t risen to the rank of Hauptsturmführer in the SS on the back of good table manners and a white smile.

‘Your arrest caught us on the back foot. When the Gestapo went to collect you, they forced our hand. We’ve been letting you run around on a loose lead, Herr Denham, waiting to see where you’ll take us. But we’d have come for you shortly anyway. Your landlady reported the latest telegram from your ex-wife, and we wouldn’t want you leaving the country, especially not now, would we?’

Poor Frau Stumpf. How the old bird must have lost it when the men in leather turned up.

‘Please let’s understand each other right away, Herr Denham, there’s an espionage charge against you . . .’

‘Which you know is false.’

He shrugged. ‘Be that as it may
.
It’s a serious charge. At the very least it means prison; at worst, a stretch in a KZ, a concentration camp. If you come out alive your health will be ruined and you won’t work again. Do I need to elaborate?’

Denham looked at him sullenly, sensing a deal on offer.

‘However,’ Rausch went on, spreading his hands over the table, ‘I’m certain we can spare you that in return for your cooperation with the main matter. What do you say?’

Denham sighed. ‘Does she upset you so much? I won’t be the last reporter who tries interviewing Hannah Liebermann.’

‘Hannah Liebermann?’ Rausch seemed amused. ‘No fooling please, Herr Denham. Do you think we’re interested in some Jew girl telling tales?’

‘You tell me.’

‘We’re interested in
you
. Because you’re going to tell us where it is.’

‘Where what is?’

Rausch stared at him, waiting, the smile on his lips cooling.

‘You’ll have to help me here,’ Denham said. ‘Where what is?’ Fatigue, hunger, and hours of incarceration were beginning to take their effect.

The interrogator sat back in his chair with the look of a schoolmaster given a dim answer by his best pupil. ‘You know precisely what.’

‘I assure you I don’t—’

‘Herr Denham. I will not play games. I am speaking of the dossier.’

‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ Denham said, but before the words were out he’d remembered. What that man Evans had mentioned in the back of the Humber.

A dossier which we believed had been lost or destroyed . . .

He chose his next words with care. ‘There’s been a rumour going round that a foreign correspondent will be handed a secret dossier of some sort. We’ve all heard it. So what. It wasn’t me.’

‘But it
was
you, of course. It was always going to be you—the reporter they would contact.’

‘Now there’s a
they
. Who are
they
?’

Rausch leaned towards him. ‘I have a reputation for stamina, Herr Denham. I can go through the night without a break.’ The man made an
up to you
gesture with his hands. ‘They offered you the dossier. Irresistible to a reporter, I’m sure. But you’ve heard what’s in store if you don’t cooperate.’

‘You’re not listening. I don’t know—’

‘I’ll offer you this chance once only. Tell me where it is and you walk free the moment we have it.’

‘My freedom it is, then.’

‘Where’s the dossier?’

‘I have no idea.’

Rausch watched him for several seconds, then got up from the far side of the table, carrying his chair. There was an air of finality to the way he placed it in front of Denham and sat down, as if a line had been crossed. In Denham’s frayed mind, the temperature of the room seemed to drop.

‘Let’s start at the beginning.’ His face had acquired a cold fervour. ‘When did the group make contact with you?’

‘Group . . . ? What—’

The slap was so hard and so fast that Denham felt the hot shame of being hit like a child. He touched his lip with his tongue, split by the SS signet ring on Rausch’s right hand. Cold sweat broke out under his shirt.

‘No one contacted me.’

‘No one.’

‘N—’

Another hard slap.

‘Come on,’ Rausch said, almost in a whisper. ‘“Didn’t we meet at a poetry reading in Mainz last year?” ’

Denham’s mouth opened dumbly, and he was slapped again. He put up his hands to shield his face, but Rausch knocked them aside and slapped him once more, with much more force.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Denham shouted.

‘I’m sorry. Let’s make you feel more secure.’ He lifted a pair of handcuffs from his side pocket, walked behind Denham’s chair, and pulled his hands back, locking them tightly behind him. When he resumed his seat he pulled it closer. He searched Denham’s face, his eyes an aphotic blue, a lake in winter. ‘They gave you a double password to identify yourself. We found out, Denham. We know. “Didn’t we meet at a poetry reading in Mainz last year?” Your response was “We did. The poems were by Stefan George.” Then they gave you the dossier.’

Denham had the sensation of being trapped in an artifice that was fast assembling itself out of fragments of reality. A muscle began to spasm just below his eye. He had to grimace to make it stop.

Rausch nodded. ‘Are we getting somewhere now?’

He remembered Friedl asking the question. Odd because it was in German, when they’d been speaking English, and because of the intense look that had been in his eyes when he asked it. Denham’s brain was jangled. His single, urgent thought was to keep Friedl’s name out of this.

‘I’ve never heard it.’

Rausch slapped him with the full strength of his arm.

‘It’s the truth,’ Denham said through clenched teeth.

‘The truth?’ Rausch wagged his finger at this interesting point. ‘What is the truth . . . ?’ He stood up to remove his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair, revealing a brutally fit figure. ‘The Nollendorfplatz Theatre, Denham. That’s where you gave yourself away.’ He began rolling up his shirtsleeves. ‘We’d been keeping an eye on you since you got back to Berlin, but when you walked into that dance hall yesterday—then we knew you were the one. Because among those swing-dancing nigger-lovers was a member of the group—also under surveillance by us. You spoke to him at the bar. Or are you denying that, too? So then we do a little digging around to see where you’ve been the last few weeks, and what do you know? Our suspect, Friedl Christian, was reported seen in your company on board the
Hindenburg
last Saturday. Bumping into him again was a bit more than a coincidence, wouldn’t you agree?’ He sat back down, his knees almost touching Denham’s.

‘No coincidence,’ Denham said, his spirits sinking. ‘We got talking about swing. He invited me to the Nollendorfplatz. I went along. That’s it.’

Slap.

‘Did you know that Friedl Christian is a warm boy registered with the police?’

‘His personal life is his own affair. We did not discuss it.’

Slap.
‘You discussed something.’

‘Music.’

Slap.
‘He was the contact the group told you to expect, was he not? You identified yourselves to each other with the password and he gave you the dossier, or he told you where to find it.’

‘He didn’t give me any—’

Slap.
‘Did he give it to you?’

‘No—’

‘Did he give you a location where you’d find it?’

‘No, I don’t know—’

Slap.
‘A name, a contact?’

‘He didn’t mention anyone. He didn’t mention any dossier—’

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Denham’s face was stinging red and raw; his lip and nose streaming blood. ‘Stop this, man,’ he shouted. ‘Isn’t it obvious it’s getting you nowhere?’

Rausch did not stop, and sweat began to soak through his shirt in wide rings.

‘This morning you visited Hannah Liebermann’s home in the Grunewald. Why?’

Denham’s head slumped onto his chest. ‘I wanted an interview. And that’s the truth.’

Rausch lifted Denham’s chin and slapped him so hard that he almost slid off the chair. ‘Those Jews will be in a KZ within one hour of the Games’ closing ceremony. If it’s there, d’you think we won’t find it?’