The Story of Henri Tod (23 page)

“There is more to tell, Henri. When you are ready.”

It was another minute or two, and again Blackford, having poured the tea and set a cup on the coffee table in front of Henri, was back looking at the book titles.

“Where is she?” He heard a voice as of a stranger.

“She has been at a camp, in Vorkuta.”

“Tell me.”

“It all happened two days after you were shot. With that photograph came this letter.” He turned, and handed it to Henri.

“Thank you, Blackford. You can sit down. I will be all right.”

Blackford asked, “There is no question in your mind about her identity?”

“It is she. Only she could have written that message. Besides, though she was fourteen when I saw her, the face is the same. She is so beautiful,” he added, as if speaking to himself.

“Yes.”

Henri read the letter signed “Frank.” “What then did you do?”

“I conferred with my principal, and we decided that in your absence—and at that point we had no way of knowing how long it would last—we had better proceed to pick up the trail.” Blackford described the initial meeting and the precautions that had been taken. He described the exchange in Vienna. “At that point I was prepared to proceed on the assumption, however unlikely, that our friend Frank, as we designate him, was an independent man of affairs, an operator who somehow managed to find me in West Berlin. We all know that sort of thing is possible.”

“And now?”

There was no way to prolong it, Henri might as well know now where the girl was. Blackford handed him that morning's communication. He read it.

“In Berlin! At Friedrichshain! It is the far end of Berlin, but not more than one half hour from the border, by the S-Bahn. I must go,” he stood.

So did Blackford. His voice was stern. “Now sit down, goddam it, Tod.
Sit down!”
Henri did so.

“I began to explain why I now incline to believe that Mr. Frank is an agent of the KGB. It is too neat. She will only leave for West Berlin if you lead her here. Ha. And what makes us so sure that once you are there,
you
will be permitted to leave? And are you ready to jeopardize needlessly the Bruderschaft and all who have sacrificed for it, depending on you? Another thing: How can we be sure that your sister was in fact brought from the camp? These are matters we simply have to explore. If your sister remains separated from you a few more days that is a small price to pay—”

“Small price?” Henri's eyes widened, and he clenched his teeth. “Small price? For Clementa to think I put anything on earth higher than ransoming her from the hell she has been living in since 1945?”

“Now listen, Henri. Your sister is apparently under a number of misapprehensions, just to begin with. The perspectives are wrong. But nothing would hurt your sister more than to find herself an instrument in your own undoing. Among other things, we need to shield her from that.”

At this moment, without knocking, Bruni came in. He turned to Henri, as if unaware of what had been happening, and said excitedly, “We have the first message from Wotan!” He handed Henri the unopened envelope. Henri sliced it open and read aloud:

“How are you, my friend? C. and I both miss you very much. Your bed is made up for whenever you want to come back. Big news. The boss returns late tonight. I will know soon after midnight what you wish to know. I'll try to get word to our niche early in the morning.—W.”

“And, Henri, it's going to take us more than twenty-four hours to get answers to the questions that need answering before you begin to consider traveling to East Berlin.”

Henri turned to Bruni. “Do you know about—”

Bruni interrupted him. “Yes. I am very happy for you, Henri.”

“All right.” Henri was addressing Blackford.

Blackford turned to Bruni. “Let's go across the way. We have things to check on, and there is room here for a division of labor.”

They went out. Before closing the door, Blackford looked over at Henri. He was seated, staring at the photograph.

27

Nothing was so secret as Walter Ulbricht when he was being secretive. Had it been feasible he'd have elected to schedule all meetings at midnight in pitch-dark, wearing blackface in a cellar. Accordingly, his airplane from Moscow, bearing him, his deputy premier, and two deputy advisers, put down at Schönefeld Airport at one in the morning. Although the chances that anyone would, at that hour, at that place, espy Walter Ulbricht descending from the plane were, to say the least, remote, Ulbricht descended the gangway wearing a mask, a balaclava and a Russian fur cap. Caspar, who was a member of the tiny delegation that met him, wondered whether, thus disguised, his uncle ran the risk of being shot as a bank robber, but followed the lead of his elders by keeping absolutely quiet. Without saying a word, Ulbricht made the rounds, shaking the proffered hands of the four people entrusted to meet him, and silently followed the Vopos, who had instructions to escort the masked gentleman to the offices of the Chairman.

Inside the Chancellery, Ulbricht took off his face mask and stuffed it into his pocket. Come, he waved to his companions. In his office he rang to the sleepy attendant. “Bring two bottles of champagne.” He went to the chair at the head of the table, gestured to their places his chief of staff, his chief of intelligence, his chief of police, Professor Hans Wittvogel and his nephew, in his accustomed spot against the wall, with his notebook.

“Gentlemen,” he said grandly, “this is a historic occasion. I announce the liberation of Berlin!”

At exactly that moment a sleepy older man scuffled into the room with a tray bearing champagne and glasses. Ulbricht stopped talking, and no one else spoke while the butler wrestled with first one, then the second champagne bottle. The cork from the second flew out at great speed and collided with the chandelier in the ceiling, causing a glass sprinkle over the table. The butler looked dumbly at the debris, the champagne bottle still in his hand. He mumbled that he would go fetch a towel. “You clumsy idiot!” Ulbricht exclaimed. “Get out of here! I will call you if I need you. Caspar. Get paper from the bathroom, wet it, and wipe away the glass.” Caspar got up and was back presently with the paper. The four men were sitting silent, waiting for the table to be cleared so that they might safely get to their glasses, which the Chairman had filled. Caspar wiped the pieces into a wastebasket under the table.

“Gentlemen,” Ulbricht said grandly, “this is a historic occasion. I announce the liberation of Berlin!” He raised his glass, and the others followed suit.

“Oh my but it was gratifying,” he said, his thin lips glistening as he savored his triumph. “And how they changed their tune when Chairman Khrushchev made his speech! It was grand to hear Zhivkov pronounce that, in retrospect, events in Germany seemed to augur a renewal of a fascist offensive, and that under the circumstances it was wrong for the Warsaw powers to tolerate the refugee flow. And,” Ulbricht laughed, if that was the word to describe the sound, “old Gomulka, announcing that in his judgment it was the responsibility of the Warsaw powers to protect misguided citizens from taking steps which they were bound to repent. And so it went. One after another! The same people who in March voted against us!”

“What did Chairman Khrushchev say in his speech?” the professor asked.

“He said that, in his judgment, it was the responsibility of the Soviet Union, in concert with those members of the Warsaw alliance who agreed to do so, to provide moral backing for a solution to the Berlin problem. That it would need to be East Germans who effected my plan, but that he favored joint approval of our plan—up to a point.”

“Up to what point?” Colonel Hassel looked up.

Ulbricht put down his glass. “The Chairman explained that it would not be wise to proceed with my plan if the Allies reacted with … force.”

“What kind of force?” Colonel Hassel pressed.

“The Chairman was not talking about a United States military policeman with barbed wire cutters or a fire hose, or that kind of thing. That kind of thing we must expect.”

“Well what kind of thing
was
he talking about?” Colonel Hassel pressed.

“Tanks.” Ulbricht's voice was now much quieter.

“How many tanks?” Colonel Hassel persisted.

Ulbricht put down his glass. “If any tank runs over our barricade, we are instructed … counseled … to retreat.” Ulbricht's voice began to trail. “Chairman Khrushchev said the Soviet Union would need to proceed with reference to the comprehensive responsibilities of the Soviet Union to the Warsaw powers.”

“You mean to say”—Hassel was not going to let it go—“that if an American tank runs over our barricade, Khrushchev will not come to our aid?”

“That is what I mean to say,” Ulbricht said acidly.
“However,”
he brought buoyancy back into his voice, “the Chairman says we are not to concern ourselves, that he has weighed the character of the President at Vienna, and studied carefully his television speech of last week, and has got reports from agents in the field. He is convinced that if we make no move against West Berlin, and none against the convoys that provision West Berlin, the President will turn his back on East Berlin.”

Colonel Hassel shrugged his shoulders. “Yesterday Willy Brandt gave a speech. He said we would not dare partition Berlin because Berlin was an ‘indispensable safety valve' and we would not risk the popular explosion that might ensue—”

“I'm good at handling popular explosions,” Ulbricht snapped. “It's the tanks I don't want.”

“That wasn't my point, Mr. Chairman. My point was that I can't see how Brandt, who is after all running for political office in one month, would say something like that unless he knew that the Allies were planning to resist.”

Ulbricht waved his arm and very nearly shouted. “I don't care what Willy Brandt says. I don't care what Konrad Adenauer says. I care only if American tanks come on the scene, and I am convinced that Chairman Khrushchev is correct, that they will not do so. Now I say by God let's toast to the liberation of Berlin, so let's by God do what I say, all right, Hassel?”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman.”

“Now, we have been stocking material, as you know, since March. The plans for Operation Chinese Wall are in your hands, General. We have the barbed wire, many thanks to the British who manufactured it. We will travel from sawhorse traffic interrupters to concertinas of barbed wire to concrete stanchions. And beginning on the third day, if our work has not been definitively interrupted—and believe me, gentlemen, it will not be—we will begin constructing a 45-kilometer wall which will be impassable.”

“Have you decided,” the professor spoke up, “when D-Day is?”

“I have. I deem it imprudent to reveal the day. You will have forty-eight hours' notice. You must go to work as if D-Day were the day after tomorrow. We shall begin by stopping the subways and the trains at 0100 on D-Day. Troops will be brought in to help the Vopos with the barbed wire. Beginning at daylight, the acetylene torches will begin drilling the holes.” Ulbricht, a teetotaler, reached for the champagne bottle. “I am going to drink to D-Day, and a Berlin made safe from the traitors who wish to flee it.”

The Chairman rose. “Gentlemen, good night. We shall meet every morning, beginning on Tuesday, at eight, when I expect reports of the progress of the various bureaus.”

They said good night. Professor Wittvogel caught the eye of Ulbricht, and lingered. “Walter,” he said, sitting in the armchair next to the doorway as Ulbricht, yawning, sat opposite him, “did Khrushchev tell you in front of the other leaders that he defined a single tank as a ‘force' that would cause him to counsel withdrawal?”

“No. That was in a private conversation after the meeting had been disbanded. Why do you ask?”

“Chairman Khrushchev does not enjoy backing down. It is hard to understand how it is that he let our Warsaw partners go out with the impression that he would back us up unless the Americans moved in overwhelmingly, while indicating to you that one or two tanks and the operation was off.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But Chairman Khrushchev clearly believes that the presence of a single American tank is an indication that the entire force of NATO, and ultimately the strategic weapons of the United States, will support the resistance to our wall. He does not expect this to happen and neither do I.”

“And neither do I, Walter. But just on a hunch, if the American tanks do show up a week from Sunday—look after your personal safety.”

“You are saying, Hans?”

“I am saying Khrushchev will be looking for a scapegoat.”

“Why me? The Warsaw partners endorsed my proposal, unlike last March.”

“Your thoughts, Walter, as I warned you as a student in the university, are sometimes hampered by a bourgeois affinity for reason. If the operation fails, there will be the need for a scapegoat. Chairman Khrushchev will take care to exclude himself. You will recall that he contrived to cause you to petition for the Moscow meeting. Enough said?”

Ulbricht got up. “I appreciate your personal loyalty, Hans. Don't worry.”

28

It was a very late night for Caspar. Ulbricht had instructed him to prepare the minutes of the meeting in Ulbricht's secretary's office, rather than use the pool typewriter he shared with three other aides. “This time, make no copies. Just put the original in a sealed envelope and leave it right on my desk.”

Caspar sensed that this was the moment to take liberties. Instead of supplying Henri with a paraphrase of the minutes, he resolved to give him a carbon copy. He emerged at 4
A.M
. with four sheets of paper in his pocket, in an envelope on which was imprinted “Office of the Chairman, Democratic Republic of Germany.” In his left pocket he carried an unmarked, unsealed envelope. If by any remote chance he was stopped and searched, he would identify himself and advise that the document he was carrying was a confidential document of his uncle's that he had been up late working on. When he reached the lockers, he would take the document from the official envelope and insert it in the unmarked envelope in his pocket, destroying the official envelope.