In Satan's Shadow (6 page)
Authors: John Anthony Miller
Two days each week, York was assigned to a nondescript building three blocks from the Ku’damm, closer to the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church than his hotel. He wore his sergeant’s uniform on his initial visit, ensuring all the insignia were correct, and was greeted by a bored lieutenant who led him to a cramped room with four tables and chairs. Three other men, two in civilian clothes, the other in a Luftwaffe uniform, sat at the tables. There were newspapers in front of them. None appeared to be recovering from war wounds.
The officer led York to a seat by the window that faced an alley littered with rubbish cans. Two cats rummaged through them, looking for food. A housewife from a nearby apartment, wearing an apron stained with cooking ingredients, emptied some trash and the cats scampered away.
The Sunday edition of the
London
Times
was lying on the table. There was a headline about an RAF bombing in northern Germany. It made York wonder when they would start bombing Berlin. A blank tablet and a pen lay next to the paper.
“Read the personal ads,” the officer instructed. “On the pad, write the date and name of the paper, and translate any ads that seem suspicious.”
York looked at the newspaper. “This is last week’s edition, sir.”
The officer shrugged. “I do as I’m told. You should, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come at least two days a week.”
“Yes, sir. Will you be here?”
“Not likely.”
He turned and left, leaving York with the other men. He studied them briefly, and realized that each intended to mind their own business, perform their task, and leave as soon as possible. He squinted, trying to see the nationality of the newspapers they reviewed. One was French, another Russian, the third looked Italian, but he wasn’t sure.
York unfolded the paper and scanned the front page, hungry for news from the United Kingdom. A glance at his comrades showed they did the same. As they leafed through the pages, read some articles and ignored others, he followed their lead. After fifteen minutes of casual reading, he arrived at the personals.
There were more ads than he had expected. He considered his direction to document anything that looked suspicious. It was a vague order. He glanced at his comrades again. They documented nothing. They were reading the paper.
York suddenly felt uneasy. He scanned the room, looking for surveillance devices, but a casual glance showed none. But something was wrong. It didn’t make sense.
Why would he review a newspaper that was over a week old, searching for pertinent information? The Germans must have spies in London. Wouldn’t they be better equipped to do what he was doing? And didn’t the same situation apply to the others in the room? What was their real purpose?
Maybe the whole operation was staged, developed solely to protect Max’s network. Or maybe he was in danger, being watched, evaluated.
Max’s reach probably wasn’t as wide as he thought. The officer and the translators were playing roles assigned to them. York was being tested. If he failed, he was dead.
He had already shown one weakness. He had actually read the newspaper. Someone assigned to review the personal ads for coded messages would not be reading the news; they wouldn’t care. Maybe his comrades were baiting him, watching to see how interested he was in the articles. They knew he wasn’t following instructions. But they weren’t, either.
On the top line of the tablet he wrote his name and the date, followed by the order given, to review the
Sunday
London
Times
from one week earlier. Next, he listed the first task: read all news articles for potential hidden messages. He found none. He hoped that eliminated any suspicion.
He started reviewing the personals, and finally decided to translate several of them. He knew that even innocent ads like,
Charles
–
mother
misses
you
, could identify a missed drop, an interrupted meeting, or mean nothing at all. After each translation, he scribbled a potential meaning, relevant to the war effort but solely conjecture.
It took him two hours to get through the ads. During that time, none of his companions left the room, and their eyes never left their newspapers. But they didn’t pick up their pens, either, not even once.
They were there for one purpose. They were watching York.
Charlottenburg, which was formerly an independent city, sat on the western edge of Berlin. It was upscale, architecturally distinct, and contained an eclectic mix of theaters, cabarets, shops, restaurants, residential areas and businesses. York found it alive and exciting, inhabited by artists and intellectuals, entrepreneurs and party officials. It was also the neighborhood where three of the Berlin String Quartet resided, the exception being Albert Kaiser, who lived in Tiergarten.
York was disappointed that the drop at the cemetery had not been used since his arrival, which he attributed to the train accident and subsequent recovery of those involved. He contemplated his next move, wondering if he should cautiously approach each member, try to gain trust, and determine if any of them had information to offer. It seemed to be the only alternative. He had already decided to start with Amanda Hamilton. He didn’t know if she was Kent’s contact, but he did know she was vulnerable.
Her home was ten blocks from his hotel, on a street off the Ku’damm. It was a large nineteenth century building, the entrance elevated above the street, reached by winding stone steps with a small garden beside them. The decorative iron railing had a Nazi flag draped from the handrail, as did a window on the upper floor. The building was ornate, almost castle-like in construction, with cylindrical turrets jutting from each corner on the second floor and extending upwards the length of the four-story building. It was constructed of a reddish-brown stone, as were neighboring properties on the block.
York spent a few days watching the property as Amanda Hamilton came and went. She was close to the Ku’damm, and walked to the main boulevard almost daily. When he observed her stopping at a nearby café on two different occasions, he noted the time and decided that was his best opportunity.
His first chance came three days later. He went to the café, six blocks from his hotel but in the midst of the many shops that lined the boulevard. It was a warm day near the end of May, and he sat at an outdoor table, enjoying a pint of beer after finishing his meal. He took the photograph from his pocket that he always carried with him and looked at it lovingly, his heart sinking with sadness. He smiled grimly, thinking of a time that no longer existed, and returned the photo to his pocket.
When a petite brunette wearing a plain green dress and carrying two shopping bags approached, he studied her closely. Her face was solemn, as if the weight of the world was carried on her shoulders. She sat at a table near the iron railing that defined the café’s perimeter, putting the bags on the cobblestone near her chair. York watched as she ordered her lunch and then sifted through her purchases while she waited for her meal. It was Amanda Hamilton.
She ate lightly, a salad and croissant, sipping some water. She scanned a folded newspaper, only the headline story attracting her attention. Once her plate was empty, she ordered a coffee, or the war-time substitute, and watched the passing pedestrians.
York picked up his mug of beer and walked across the café, sitting at an empty table beside her. “I enjoyed your performance the other night, Miss Hamilton,” he said with a slight nod of respect. “It was a moving Mozart rendition.”
She turned to face him, startled he recognized her, and he had such an appreciation of classical music. “Thank you, I’m glad you liked it.”
“Very much so,” he said. “I’m especially fond of the Haydn quartets, number nineteen in particular, and you played it superbly.”
Her face showed surprise. “I’m honored someone as knowledgeable as you enjoyed it so much, Mister…”
“Becker,” he said, using his alias.
“Are you a critic, Mr. Becker?”
He chuckled. “No, not a critic. Just an amateur who appreciates greatness.”
She looked at him with interest, and he could tell she was starting to enjoy the conversation. She probably had no one to discuss music with, other than those in the string quartet. He suspected her husband showed no interest at all. He probably looked at her absentmindedly, his eyes vacant, politely nodding his head and thinking of something else while she talked. And her stepson was at the age where nothing his parents did interested him very much. He was glad he had prepared, having spent hours studying string quartets.
“Do you play the violin, Mr. Becker?”
“Please, call me Michael,” he said. “No, not the violin. But I do play the piano. Strictly as an amateur. I can read music and make my fingers play the notes. In the end it sounds respectable. But there’s no emotion. Not like you. Your heart and soul take control, drenching each note in passion.” He smiled shyly. “I was moved to tears by your performance.”
She was flattered, just as he wanted her to be. “That is so kind. Thank you very much.” Then she smiled. “Are you telling the truth about your own abilities?”
York nodded. “Yes, I’m being quite honest. If you heard me play, you would certainly believe me.”
She laughed, and then eyed him curiously for a moment. “Have you seen many of my performances?”
“No, last night was the first,” he admitted. “I’ve just returned to Berlin.” He paused, reflective. “I’ve been convalescing from war wounds.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her face showing compassion. “I wish you a complete recovery.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind, although it’s not likely. But I am grateful to be alive.”
The sadness returned to her face, reflecting perhaps, on her own loss. She looked at her watch and managed a weak smile. “I suppose I should be going.”
“So soon? I was enjoying our chat. And there’s so much more to talk about.”
“Yes, it was nice. I enjoyed it, also.”
“Maybe we can continue another time.”
“Perhaps,” she said, just being polite. She rose from the table and got her bags. “It was nice to meet you.”
“It was nice to meet you, also. Hopefully our paths will cross again.”
She shrugged. “Anything’s possible.”
As she started to go, he rose from his table. “I think I’ll leave, too. Suddenly the café is not nearly as interesting as it was.”
She blushed and smiled uneasily. Then she saw his limp and the cane, and looked at his leg for a moment before her eyes returned to his face. “Take care,” she said, her voice sincere.
He watched her walk away, the next phase of his plan beginning to focus.
Amanda walked from the café, a shopping bag in each hand, thinking about Michael Becker. He was interesting to talk to, and his story seemed true. There didn’t appear to be any agenda. And there was the limp. She had sympathy for him. She could only imagine the horrors he faced. But then, she had faced horrors, too.
She had fully recovered from the train accident, at least physically. But the loss of the baby was more than she could bear, and she found herself suddenly crying when she least expected it, mired in depression for days at a time, unable to eat or sleep, pacing the floors at 3 a.m.
There was really no one she could talk to except Erika. But she wasn’t quite ready to do that, although she knew the time would come when she was. Manfred didn’t want to discuss it; he acted like it never happened. Maybe it was his way of dealing with it. Or maybe it was his way of avoiding any discussion that might lead to his former mistress. And she couldn’t talk to Kurt, regardless of how close they were. He was at that awkward age when it’s difficult to discuss emotions. He kept his hidden away because he thought that’s what men were supposed to do. So Amanda felt truly alone – a woman with no country, isolated in her own household.
Nothing was more important to her than family. An only child, she was raised by parents who were too busy for her. Even though she lived in Edinburgh, her father spent most of his time in London, playing with the orchestra. She rarely saw him. Her mother was involved in a variety of volunteer and charity organizations, an admirable quality but one that left little time for her daughter. Amanda had grown up in a series of boarding schools, shuffled around the United Kingdom, classmates serving as the family she never really had.
She had wanted the baby so badly. It had taken ten years to get pregnant, and it seemed like a miracle when it finally happened. What better way for her and Manfred to strengthen their relationship after his affair. As soon as she thought about it, her stomach wrenched. She had caught him, but she had forgiven him, even though she would always wonder if there were others. What else could she have done? It wasn’t like she could go back to Scotland. But she still could have left him. And left Berlin. But she didn’t.
She wondered where he was after the train accident. It was three days before he arrived at the hospital, and it had taken two days for authorities to reach him. She had been worried the whole time if he was with another woman. Although she had promised him all was forgotten, she doubted she could ever trust him again.
That’s why the baby had been so important. It was a fresh start, a new beginning. Now she doubted she would ever get pregnant again. But if she did, she would give up everything: the violin, the crowds, the admirers, the lifestyle, she would even give up her camera, her most prized possession in the world. There was just one problem. She couldn’t bring herself to be intimate with Manfred. And she didn’t know why.
She walked into her apartment, setting her bags down by the door. She had purchased two dresses, a conservative charcoal one with white buttons, the other emerald green. White gloves, a smart gray hat accented by a lighter gray band, and a pair of black high heels completed her new ensemble. Clothing was becoming scarce with the war; she bought it as soon as she saw something she liked. Authorities did well supplying other basic necessities. Most foods were easily obtainable, although amounts were dictated by ration cards, but coffee was not. Anything was available via a thriving black market. And it was amazing how many people used it.
Kurt was in his bedroom when she walked past. He was bent over his desk, immersed in whatever lay before him, not even aware she was there.
Amada watched him, a smile curling her lips. She loved Kurt. She may not have her own children, but she was blessed to have him in her life. Six years old when she married Manfred, he had always been quiet and sensitive, somewhat of a loner, although he did have a few friends. He idolized his father, who was often too busy to spend time with him, and was often too critical when he did.
She knocked lightly on the door frame. “What has you so intensely occupied?”
Kurt turned and smiled. “I almost have it. Come see.”
Amanda walked into the room and looked over his shoulder. On top of the desk was a decorative bottle with the logo of an old pharmaceutical company. It was lying on its side, the interior filled with a miniature ship, a replica of a seventeenth century Spanish galleon. The sails had just been raised to a vertical position via a string held in Kurt’s hand.
“Kurt, that looks fantastic,” she said, surprised by the results. “I know how long you’ve been working on it. Congratulations. Now you’ve mastered it.”
“It did take a long time,” he said, beaming, pleased that she recognized how difficult it was. “But I think the next one will be much easier.”
She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and kissed the top of his head. “Good for you. I’m proud of you. You never gave up.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling. “I can’t wait to show father.”
*
Manfred Richter did not come home for dinner, his aide calling to say he had prior obligations. He was rarely home evenings; his Nazi party responsibilities demanded commitments beyond the normal work day: meetings, conferences, entertaining clients at theaters or cabarets. And Manfred Richter thrived in social environments.
They lived in a luxurious house with live-in domestic help, a young woman named Hannah. Olive-complexioned with black hair, she was married to a German soldier stationed in Norway.
As Hannah served dinner, Amanda asked Kurt about school, his friends, and lent a sympathetic ear to the trials he experienced as a teenager in Berlin. They were close. Amanda listened to what he had to say; she paid attention to him. He appreciated it.
After dinner he left to see his friends, as he normally did. They were all classmates, most of whom lived within a few blocks. Amanda liked them; they were polite and well-behaved.
Amanda had a last cup of coffee as Hannah cleaned up from dinner. She talked about her husband, the last letter she had gotten, the winter he endured in Norway, and how much she missed him. Amanda listened, but didn’t say much. She didn’t think she had to. Hannah just needed to talk, and Amanda understood that.
When Hannah retired to her room, Amanda was alone. She treasured these hours, which she spent not practicing the violin, but tucked away in a private study for her use only. The room housed her camera, a dark room to develop the film, large folios of photographs, from nature to architecture to pictures of the Nazi elite, including Hitler and Goebbels and Göring and Hess, all meticulously filed. The walls were crammed with framed examples of her work, her favorite a large picture of the Fuhrer that hung above the fireplace. Photography was Amanda’s true passion, the hobby she loved above all else, even playing the violin.
She removed some negatives from her camera, and went into the dark room to process them. She studied the photographs as the images developed, slowly coming into focus, vague and hazy at first, then becoming crisp and clear. There were three different rolls, all taken in the last few weeks. She sorted through them as she hung them to dry, pictures of birds on one side, buildings on another, people in the center.
Suddenly, with a start, she looked at one photo, shocked by what the camera had captured.
