In Satan's Shadow (16 page)
Authors: John Anthony Miller
Amanda came to York’s hotel room around 1 p.m. She grinned as she strolled in, the sadness that had consumed her the last eight weeks slowly starting to dissipate. Her eyes were brighter, housing a glimmer that showed a love of life, and the corner of her lips had turned to form a permanent smile. A bounce showed in her walk, enthusiasm in her expression, and York was beginning to see the woman described in the information he received in Basel, just before the train accident.
“Hello,” she said as she walked to the table. “I brought two coffees and some more photographs.”
She was attractive on many different levels. Her characteristics were common: black hair, a bit wavy and not quite to the shoulder, dark eyes, a nose that made a slight upturn at the end, and a petite frame. Her cheekbones were high, her neck graceful, one ear just a tad higher than the other, just like her eyebrows; it was something no one would ever notice unless they studied her very closely, like York did. Although all very average, they somehow blended with her optimism and passion for life to make her incredibly attractive.
She brought pictures she had taken at the wedding of a Nazi official. Himmler was there, and Goebbels, but not Hitler. There was also a sprinkling of industry leaders, the heads of I.G. Farben and Friedrich Krupp AG, and a few other conglomerates. More interesting were the military leaders not normally in the public limelight, generals and field marshals.
“I showed your pictures to my contact,” York said. “He was impressed, and would like all the photographs you have. He’ll get them to Switzerland, and then to London, where they can be evaluated. He was especially interested in the information about the Jews.”
“Hopefully something can be done in time to help them,” she said, a helpless sorrow crossing her face.
“At least the world will know.”
“If they don’t already,” she said, wondering.
“Will you be able to give me all your photographs?”
She was hesitant and gave him a wary look. “I have thousands. Ten years’ worth. Are you sure you want them all?”
“Yes, but don’t take risks removing them from your house. Maybe whatever you can carry when you come to see me. Just like you have been doing.”
She studied his face, a hint of uncertainty clouding her eyes. “Most of my pictures are of birds, with others of buildings and bridges or trees or cats or dogs. The vast majority aren’t military or political. I don’t think anyone would be interested in them except me.” Then she smiled. “And maybe you.”
He hadn’t thought of that. She primarily took photos of nature. The Nazi elite were just mixed in. “Some of the bridges might be important, but not many of the buildings – other than government or military structures. And factories, like those you showed me last week, especially if you remember the locations. But not birds or trees or anything like that. Why don’t we start with the military pictures, like those you brought today?”
“All right, but only the photographs. No negatives.” She paused, her eyes trained on his, hoping he would understand. “I can’t part with them. They’re a part of me. Like the passion that goes into the violin.”
“Of course,” he said softly, feeling like he violated a trust. “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to suggest it. The photographs are enough.”
She leaned back in the chair and the smile faded from her face. He could see the load she carried, the stress she bore. She wasn’t accustomed to danger and deceit. And now she was mired in it.
“I can see where this ends,” she whispered.
“And where is that?”
She turned away, gazing out the window, studying a bird hiding in the leaves of a tree. “I will have to be smuggled out of Germany by you and your friends.”
“We don’t know that,” he said, although he certainly knew it was possible. “Our goal is to end the war, and we’re working towards that. It could happen soon, or come much later. We’ll do the best we can.”
She continued looking out the window, not facing him or making eye contact. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” she said. “If that’s what it came to.”
He suddenly realized how terribly lonely she was, trapped in a foreign country, married to a man who didn’t love her. He felt sorry for her, imagining the turmoil erupting inside her. Do you betray your husband because he was unfaithful? What allegiance do you have to your adopted country, home for ten years? What would the ultimate outcome be? Was it worth the risk? There must be a thousand questions racing through her mind. Probably foremost among them was what would happen if she got caught.
“Let’s talk about the party,” he said, changing the topic. “Do you like to go to them?”
“Yes, normally I do. There’s good food and entertainment. It’s always fun. But I’m a little apprehensive this time.”
“Don’t do anything different. Act like you always do, socialize with who you normally would. Be attentive to what you overhear, and eavesdrop on conversations with military or political content. Anything that might be related to the war. But don’t take any chances.”
She nodded, her expression tentative. “That sounds easy enough. Although I told you, the important discussions are normally behind closed doors.”
He shrugged. “If you don’t hear anything valuable, it doesn’t matter. It’s just an opportunity. There will be others. Are you bringing your camera?”
“No, not this time. But I will have my violin. I’m performing. Just a few pieces. Maybe thirty minutes. There are other performers as well.”
He looked at her, so talented, so impressive. She was like a diamond with a dozen different facets, altered each time the light changed. If it were another time or another place he would see her with different eyes. But he couldn’t afford to do that now.
“I have something for you.”
“And what is that?”
She handed him the photograph. “I did the best I could with it.”
He looked at the image, his heart consumed with contrasting emotions, joy and sorrow. “Thank you. You did a fabulous job.” He smiled through the sadness in his eyes. “I just love her so much.”
Amanda hugged him. She held him tightly for a few minutes, longer than she probably should, and then released him slowly, almost as if she didn’t want to. “I’ll be back Monday afternoon. I want to hear all about Elizabeth.”
York had nothing to do on Saturday so he took the U-bahn to Potzdamer Platz, which was close to the apartment of Albert Kaiser. He got off the underground, climbed the steps to the surface, and found a circular intersection busy with streetcars, taxis, bicycles and pedestrians, all merging, avoiding traffic, and then going in different directions. The circle was surrounded by buildings five or six stories high, the architecture grand and ornate and built in the last century. The ground floors housed shops, restaurants, and outdoor cafes; apartments occupied the upper elevations. Clogged with pedestrians, some hurrying down the boulevard intent on their destination, others casually looking in store windows, Potzdamer Platz formed the intersection of the many neighborhoods that defined Berlin.
On the southwest corner stood a majestic building constructed of brownstone, six stories high with turrets at the corners and decorated with patterned fascia and cherub cornices. A restaurant, a book store, a butcher, and a dress shop occupied the first floor, apartments the remainder. A building of similar design but smaller in scale sat beside it, like a little brother, and it was there that Albert Kaiser lived.
Facing Potzdamer Platz from the northeast, directly across from the apartment buildings, was a small café tucked into an angled corner of a building. A dozen tables sat outside on the pavement, half-filled with patrons, eating and drinking and reading newspapers. York took a table against the café wall, ordered a coffee and kreppels, and watched Kaiser’s building entrance across the street, stealing glances at the pedestrians who passed: foreign factory workers, women with strollers, children, older couples, a few soldiers, and a policeman or two.
Forty minutes and two kreppels later, a man with a shock of white hair emerged from the building entrance, a leash in his hand, leading a black and gray dog, a small schnauzer. York exited the café, hurriedly crossed the street, and followed him.
The man walked down the street towards the Brandenburg Gate, leading the dog to a small park, the grassy area sprinkled with trees, shrubs, and benches. York hurried to catch him, walking past him hurriedly and then stopping abruptly, a feigned look of surprise on his face.
“Are you Albert Kaiser?” he asked, his face lit with admiration. “The cellist?”
Kaiser was surprised; he had few admirers. He smiled. “Yes, I am.”
“Mr. Kaiser, it is an honor to meet you, sir. I am Michael Becker, a man who can appreciate one of Europe’s greatest musicians.”
Kaiser was flattered. “Are you a critic, Mr. Becker?”
“No, not a critic. But I suppose you can say I’m an aficionado.”
“A fellow cellist?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” York said with a slight frown. “A pianist, actually. Although a rank amateur compared to you. But a lover of the classics, just the same.” He winced, grasping his thigh. “Could we sit down a moment?” he asked, pointing to his leg. “War wound. It can be quite painful at times.”
“Of course,” Kaiser said, moving to a bench. “I have a few minutes. No concert this evening. Our first violin had a party to go to.”
“I attended one of your performances last month and truly enjoyed it, “York said as he leaned over to pet the dog. “What’s the dog’s name? He’s a friendly fellow, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is,” Kaiser chuckled. “His name is Rudolph; he’s my constant companion.”
York fussed over the animal, who loved the attention. He rubbed his head and, when Rudolph rolled on to his back, he scratched his stomach.
“What did you like most about the concert?” Kaiser asked.
York leaned back on the bench, leaving Rudolph lying in the grass. “Probably the Beethoven piece in A minor. Number fifteen, I think. The start of the second movement is so powerful, when you play an octave below the others, but in unison.”
Kaiser was surprised. “Mr. Becker, you really do know your music, don’t you?”
“I think the entire quartet is fabulous,” York continued. “But you are the true virtuoso. How long have you played together?”
Kaiser sighed, running the calendar through his mind. “I have been with the quartet about fifteen years. Amanda Hamilton joined soon after she settled in Berlin. She is absolutely amazing. What talent. And so young.”
“I did find her solo exceptional.”
“It moves me every time I hear it. I just feel so sorry for her, given her recent loss.”
York appeared confused, but then showed recollection. “I do remember reading something in the newspaper. A train wreck, I think. She was badly injured.”
“She lost the baby she was carrying. After nine or ten years trying to conceive. She was devastated.” He slowly shook his head and sighed. “She’s like a daughter to me. I try to protect her. But I couldn’t shield her from that.”
“It’s amazing she still performs with such passion.”
“She enters another plane of existence when she picks up the violin. I love her dearly and want only the best for her.” He looked away, seeming a bit sad.
York realized that Kaiser liked to talk. He also realized he was a harmless old man. But he offered a fabulous opportunity. He had a wealth of information.
“I suppose it’s been hard for her,” York said. He then leaned closer, as if speaking confidentially. “I mean being Scottish. It must be hard to live in Berlin.”
“I’m sure it is,” Kaiser said. He glanced around and lowered his voice, now that they were being honest. “And her husband is no angel, I can tell you that. He wanders a bit, if you know what I mean. She caught him with another woman last winter. That was a nasty scene. She’s tougher than you think. But they’ve since reconciled. Do you know her husband?”
“No, I don’t. Isn’t he highly placed in the Party?”
“Yes,” Kaiser said. “Although no one knows quite what he does. I’m sure it’s no good.”
York was surprised Kaiser spoke so freely. He wasn’t sure why. He wondered if he spoke that casually, and unguarded, with everyone. “He certainly has a fascinating wife, regardless of what his role in the Party is.”
“Yes, he does.”
“How about the others? Are their lives as interesting?”
“No, not really,” Kaiser said, rubbing his chin, thoughtful for a moment. “Erika Jaeger works harder than anyone. She’s been with us about three years. A very nice lady. Somewhat shy. I don’t know much about her personal life. I know she has financial issues. She cares for an elderly mother. I assume that’s it.”
“How about the other gentleman, the viola player?”
“Gerhard Faber. He’s our newest member, been with us for a year or so. He’s also the weakest musician. He wouldn’t be with us if the war wasn’t going on, I’m sure of it. Erika might not be, either, given the many talented musicians who now serve our country. But Amanda helps her with technique and she seems to improves daily”
“Faber seems conscientious enough.”
“He is. He tries hard. I think he has three or four children. And rumor has it, a wealthy mistress. But I’ve met his wife and she’s an absolute sweetheart.”
“Who does Albert Kaiser, the great cellist, feel closest to?”
“Amanda, undoubtedly. And I’m also friends with our liaison, Captain Klein. He thinks he’s our manager but he’s more like a mother hen, very protective of his little chicks.” He looked at his watch and then tugged on the dog’s leash. “I had best be going. My wife will wonder what’s kept me. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Becker. I enjoyed our chat.”
