The Arms Maker of Berlin

TWENTY-EIGHT

Basel, Switzerland—May 16, 1944

FIRST IT WAS THE PRICKLY SWISS BORDER OFFICIALS who harassed him, with their careful rules and smug neutrality. They kept him waiting in a locked room for five hours.
Now the besieged Kurt Bauer faced a new indignity: a wiseass American flyboy, barely older than he was. The man swaggered into the room and, without even stating his name, began asking questions. When Kurt resisted, the fellow grinned dismissively and offered cigarettes, as if a mere pack of Luckies could set everything right.
Not that Kurt was in a position to refuse. Alone and on the run, he needed allies. He accepted the proffered pack with a muttered “Danke” and began arguing his family’s case, just as he had done with the Swiss.
“My father must be allowed into the country. Can’t you make them see that? He has a factory here and possesses valuable information. Every second he is refused entry puts him in greater danger. For all I know he is already in the hands of the Gestapo. And didn’t the Swiss tell you? It’s not you I asked to see, it’s Dulles. Those were my father’s precise instructions. Only Dulles will do!”
Maddeningly, the flyboy smiled and shook his head.
“Go easy on that name. For one thing, it won’t get you very far with them.” He nodded through a glass partition toward a bored Swiss official, who stared dumbly at a mounting pile of paperwork. “It also won’t get you very far with Dulles. He doesn’t like having his name bandied about in public.”
“It’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?”
“Only because you lucked into the one guy here who knows what he’s doing, so he gave me a call. Besides, I wouldn’t call this progress. A customs inspection room in Basel isn’t exactly a luxury suite at the Bellevue.”
He was certainly right about that. The border post, drab and sterile in the best of times, had become a wartime way station for the lost and the stateless. It was a wretched scene—dim, overcrowded, and smelling of desperation; a wet-wool stench of herded people on the move, trapped in the chute between sanctuary and slaughter.
During his long wait, Kurt had watched a number of distressing episodes, overhearing every shouted exchange through the glass partition. An elegant woman in furs and jewelry disappeared through a door only to emerge an hour later sobbing and practically naked. But at least they waved her through. A shabby Frenchman was forced to open a steamer trunk containing a hoard of gold fixtures and knick-knacks, including several menorahs. Since he wasn’t a Jew, it marked him as a thief and scoundrel. The trunk got in. He was arrested. A ragged family of seven erupted in an indecipherable Slavic tongue after the mother and three daughters made it through and the father and two sons didn’t.
Officiating each transaction was a prim man in uniform who never stood and rarely looked up before he stamped the entry papers in either damning red or beneficent black.
Only moments ago, two American airmen had been escorted in. They were wet, bedraggled, and, just like the one visiting Kurt, dressed in leather flight jackets, identifying them as members of a bomber crew. For some reason unknown to Kurt they had been caught while actually trying to get out of Switzerland. The unsmiling deskman picked up his phone and arranged for transport to a Swiss detention camp.
Presumably all these airmen had crashed here after dropping their bombs on Germany, a realization that stirred a deep sense of loathing in Kurt. He was especially troubled by their shoulder patches. One depicted a laughing cartoon figure riding bareback on a bomb—as if their work was some sort of elaborate prank. These were the people who had killed Liesl, and they were cracking jokes and trying to escape from a country that millions of people dearly wanted to enter. Sure, Americans were dying, too, just like the soldiers of every other army in Europe. But they did so in foreign skies and on foreign fields, while their own loved ones slept peacefully, without fear of bombs or midnight arrests.
And how come this particular flyboy was allowed to run free? What made him qualified to speak on behalf of the lofty Dulles, who, to judge from Kurt’s father’s description, was a wealthy patrician god with mysterious powers of benediction. He was the man who could grant their every wish, if only Kurt could arrange an audience.
“Look, the Swiss have already let my mother and sister in,” he pleaded. “They came through a week ago, no problem. In fact, they are staying at the Bellevue.”
“Did you think I didn’t know that? But you’re still here, aren’t you? And from what I’ve heard, you won’t be joining them anytime soon. Unless you cooperate with me.”
“Cooperate how?”
“You could start by telling me in as much detail as possible how the hell you managed to get here.”
How the hell, indeed. It had been more than eight months since the awful day when he found Liesl’s body in the rubble of Pl?tzensee. After Kurt returned home on his bicycle, his father decided then and there to do whatever it took to keep his son out of the army, deal or no deal. During the three-week grace period he called upon all his connections to wangle an additional three weeks, and three more after that. Finally, and only by enlisting the help of Speer himself, his father secured a delay of six months, until May 5, 1944, and in the process delivered what he believed to be the coup de grace, by engineering Martin G?llner’s transfer to a Gestapo backwater in Munich.
Meanwhile, conditions in Berlin grew worse. By midwinter the Bauer factories were so badly damaged by bombings that production was at a standstill. Trainloads of bedraggled Poles, Czechs, and Hungarians kept arriving to keep things running, but soon they were busier carting away bodies and rubble than running assembly lines. Reinhard Bauer began to fear that unless production resumed, the arrangements he had worked out on Kurt’s behalf might be voided.
The last straw came on November 18, the night of the heaviest air raid yet. Reinhard decided the next morning that the best strategy was to move his family to Switzerland, where he would set up a new base of corporate operations and resume his campaign to curry favor with the Americans. It took months to plan the move. First he had to sell it to Speer, by arguing he could still produce important matériel from across the border. Then he secured the necessary passes and transport.
Kurt, meanwhile, stayed mostly indoors, moping around the house in a funk of grief and guilt. Within days he learned that Liesl’s family had also been killed by a bomb blast, ironically within hours of her death. On some nights he didn’t even bother to go to the cellar during the air raids. Ignoring his mother’s pleas, he locked himself in his room and watched the fireworks outside his window, imagining he was back at Pl?tzensee.
In October there was news of more White Rose arrests in Munich and Hamburg, and in April there was a White Rose trial in Saarbrücken. With each such revelation he wondered how much of the responsibility lay with him. On one of his few trips out of the house he tried to visit Bonhoeffer at Tegel Prison, but was turned away at the gates. On the way back he thought he spotted Hannelore at a U-Bahn station, but she disappeared into a crowd. He wasn’t sure whether to feel heartened or terrified at the prospect that she was still prowling the city. Klara Waldhorst had been hanged nine days after his release, meaning Hannelore was the sole surviving member, and the only one who might know he was to blame. But she was also his only remaining link to Liesl. If there was one thing they could still agree on, surely it was their shared sense of loss.
On the first of May, with Kurt’s enlistment date approaching, his father packed up the family and commandeered a factory truck for their journey south. The going was chaotic, a maze of ruined cities, blocked highways, and impossible checkpoints. Halfway to Munich they abandoned the truck and sold most of their belongings, then set out on trains that often sat for hours at a time, exposed to attack. When they reached the frontier of occupied France, Reinhard bribed a pair of AWOL soldiers to escort Kurt’s mother and sister onward to the crossing at Basel. The women took most of the family’s money and remaining belongings, and a few days later relayed word that they had reached Bern and were resting comfortably in the city’s finest hotel.
Reinhard and Kurt spent the next five days dodging Wehrmacht patrols and document checks until they, too, reached the border post at Basel. The problem was that the Swiss had become increasingly finicky about letting German men into the country, even—or especially—when they were as well connected as Reinhard Bauer. So Reinhard was peremptorily turned away, and Kurt, who at least had the virtue of youth, was yanked aside for further questioning. And that was where things stood now.
The American flyboy still hadn’t offered a name, nor had he produced any credentials. But apparently he was going to decide if Kurt would get into the country.
Kurt had no way of knowing it, but at that particular moment the American legation, and the OSS in particular, was preoccupied with two subjects when it came to arriving Germans. One was the coming Allied invasion of France, due to take place in about three weeks. The other was the likelihood of an imminent attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler. Thus the only two types of Germans in great demand were those who knew about German troop movements along the French coast and those who had close connections to dissident officers in the Wehrmacht high command.
Nonetheless, the American flyboy sat attentively as Kurt related his recent adventures. He took a few notes, and even winced when Kurt mentioned that the Swiss had brushed aside his father’s promise to stop sending goods across the border into Germany.
“Well, you’re right about one thing,” the American said. “They should have let your father in. I’ll see what we can do, but I can’t promise anything. If word gets back to the Gestapo about what he said here, then I’m afraid he’s a goner.”
“How could they possibly find out?”
“How do you think? If one of those fellows out there saw fit to phone me, don’t you figure some of the others might have different friends?”
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘Oh.’ That’s the way things work in Switzerland.”
“So will they let me in?”
“If I ask nicely.” Kurt still didn’t like the fellow, but his German was impressive. Hardly any accent, and enough slang to impress even the most cynical Berliner.
“And will you? Ask nicely, I mean?”
“Only if you continue to make yourself available to us and, of course, to the Swiss authorities as well.”
“Of course. That has always been our intent. It is why my father insists on seeing—”
“Whoa. No more mentions of that name. Understood?”
“Then maybe you could at least tell me yours.”
“You won’t need it.”
“How am I supposed to get in touch?”
“I’ll handle that. I already know you’ll be at the Bellevue.”
“But if there is an emergency, or urgent news, how will I find you?”
The American hesitated, then scribbled something on a customs declaration form and shoved it across the table.
“Call this number. Ask for Icarus.”
“Icarus like the myth? What kind of name is that?”
“The kind you had better keep to yourself. So don’t expect me to write it down, and don’t repeat it. Just remember it, if you ever want me to take your call.”
“Icarus.”
“Don’t wear it out.”
Kurt felt scolded, then was angry for feeling that way. If only his father were here. Reinhard would know how to deal with this brand of insolence.
“In the meantime, stay out of trouble. Let your mother sign your tabs at the hotel and avoid the bar. Too many creeps.”
“Creeps?”
“You’ll see.”
AND HE DID. The very next evening, in fact, when he decided to have a drink. He had arrived the night before, shortly after midnight. He threw himself into bed without even bathing, then slept past noon. When he awakened he ate a huge room-service brunch and luxuriated in a tub of hot water while watching the sediment of his travels settle to the bottom. The American’s warnings made him wary of leaving the room, so for several hours he kept to the family’s suite. He shyly joined his mother and sister downstairs for an early dinner, averting his eyes whenever anyone else looked their way. Afterward he ordered a bottle of claret sent up to his room.
But halfway through his second glass he erupted in anger, cursing his timidity. If the stupid flyboy really wanted his cooperation, then the Americans needed to make sure his father got safely into the country. Until then, Kurt was going to play by his own rules. He stalked angrily from the room and shouted through his mother’s keyhole.
“I’m down going to the bar!”
At that hour, with plenty of light remaining in a fine spring day, the place was practically empty. But no sooner had he ordered a shot of schnapps than four men burst through the door with a loud exclamation in German. Two were dressed in the black uniform of the SS, meaning they were probably Gestapo. Kurt looked away but noticed them nudge each other after glancing in his direction. He swallowed his drink and felt a hand come to rest on his back.
“Herr Bauer?”
One of the Gestapo men had materialized at his side.
“Yes?”
“I am Gerhard Schlang, based at the legation. Welcome to Bern. We’d be honored if you joined our table for a round. With my compliments, of course.”
“Thank you, but I would prefer to remain alone for now.”
“Ah. Rough journey?”
“You could say that.”
“For your father as well?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“So he has arrived, then?”
Kurt said nothing.
“Well, please give him my regards.”
Did they not know his father had been turned away? In that case, maybe Reinhard hadn’t yet been picked up by the authorities.
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
Schlang then startled him by thrusting his face lower, right next to Kurt’s. Beer on his breath, and he lurched a bit. He and his friends must have gotten an early start, Kurt thought. All the more reason to give them a wide berth.
“You know,” Schlang whispered, “just because the war is lost doesn’t mean we can’t make things easier for you here. Or more difficult, if that is your choice.”
Kurt must have blanched, because Schlang smiled as if he had scored a point.
“Besides, some of us who have recently been in Berlin know all too well what your history is, even though your father was able to keep it out of the papers. How do you think that kind of news would play in the so-called New Germany that the Americans want to build? None of these trivial things need be repeated, of course, as long as you’re agreeable.”
“Perhaps we can meet later,” Kurt said weakly.
Schlang straightened. His face was flushed.
“Yes. That would be advantageous for both of us. Here is my card.”
He placed it on the table. Kurt didn’t pick it up.
“We keep very late hours, so call anytime. Or just drop by.”
Kurt finished his schnapps as Schlang rejoined his friends at a table in the back. He signed his mother’s room number to the bill and stood to leave. The others watched as he hesitated, then quickly reached down to pick up the card. Schlang nodded approvingly.
Kurt cursed himself all the way up the stairs, and by the time he reached his room he had decided to retaliate. He locked the door and picked up the phone.
“Operator? Please connect me to the following number.”
He rattled off the one the American had scribbled on the customs form. A woman answered on the first ring.
“Embassy of the United States.”
“I wish to speak with Icarus.” It made him feel like a fool, but the woman didn’t miss a beat.
“Just a moment, sir.”
The line clicked and wheezed. Seconds later the flyboy spoke. He sounded wary.
“Who is this?”
“Bauer. I have information for you. About the Gestapo.”
“Not now, please.”
“But it’s important. Where can we meet?”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Maybe a little.”
“You’ve been in the hotel bar, rubbing elbows with them.” He laughed. “It’s even worse than I expected. Christ, you’re like an unexploded bomb that needs to be disarmed, and I sure as hell don’t want to touch you. You’re not calling from your room at the Bellevue, are you?”
“Of course.”
Another laugh, and then a judgmental sigh.
“A word of advice, young Bauer. Never, and I mean never, make a call from a hotel unless you’re interested in a wider audience. You’d also better unplug the phone as soon as you hang up, unless you want the Swiss police to have a microphone straight into your room. Oh, and do me a favor. Don’t call here again. From anywhere.”
The American hung up.
Kurt’s cheeks were warm with embarrassment. For all he had endured during the previous years, he knew that in some ways he remained soft, callow, a naive practitioner in games like these. He felt uncertain about what to do next. Schlang had craftily invited him to call, but where would that lead? And what would be the consequences of ignoring Schlang? Icarus, on the other hand, had ordered him not to call. Was there any way around that?
He finally decided that the best answer was to simply be a boy again, if only for a few days. He would banish himself to the children’s table, figuratively speaking, and not rejoin the adults until he’d had time to think things over. The decision immediately made him feel better. He lowered the shades and dressed for bed.
But nine days later his recess ended abruptly, when his father crossed safely into Switzerland. Reinhard’s appearance was shocking. He had lost at least twenty pounds, and he took to bed with a fever. The doctor feared it might be typhus. For the moment, Kurt was the head of the family. It was time to get back into action.
Over the next several days he followed his father’s whispered orders and visited commercial contacts and the family factory, traveling by rail. A company car met him at the rural station, and everyone was respectful as they showed him around and answered the questions his father had dictated from the sickbed. But he saw the strain in their faces, the worried look that asked if he was the only leadership that remained.
Back at the hotel, Kurt fielded phone calls from suppliers and arranged payments for the bills. A pleading telegram from one of Speer’s minions asked how long it would be before the Swiss released the next shipment for export. Kurt had no idea, but, figuring that every Allied intelligence agency would intercept his answer, he replied, “Never. Expect no further deliveries.”
There. Let the Americans digest that. Maybe they would realize the Bauers were doing their part to end the war. But days passed without any word from Icarus.
He stayed out of the hotel bar in hopes of avoiding Schlang. But central Bern was so compact that it was difficult to keep from crossing paths with almost anyone who really mattered. No wonder the spies loved it here. Kurt adapted by staying out of the cafés and restaurants on the most popular squares. When he needed fresh air he headed instead for the bridges spanning the Aare and wandered into the hills overlooking the city.
Ten days after his father’s return, the radio announced the momentous news of the Allied invasion of Normandy. In spite of himself, Kurt was pridefully heartened by initial reports of stiff resistance. It was the boy in him, rooting for the home team, even though he knew it was in Germany’s best interests for western defenses to collapse as quickly as possible to prevent the Red Army from overrunning the country from the east.
A month and a half later the news took its oddest turn yet. He was seated with his sister and mother in their anteroom early one evening when someone in the hall shouted that Hitler had been the target of an assassination attempt, plotted by his own generals. They went downstairs to find a crowd gathered in the lobby, seeking details. It was true. A bomb had exploded at his headquarters on the eastern front. Then came the bad news. The Führer had not only survived, he was expected to recover fully. A wave of mass arrests was under way.
Kurt swallowed hard. Every German in the room knew the import of the last remark. His mother and sister stared at him, and he couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Throwing caution to the winds, he headed straight for the hotel bar. No Gestapo contingent this time. Doubtless they were all in a tizzy, trying to determine what to do next. It was comforting to think of them fearing for their lives and having their own loyalties questioned.
But most of his thoughts were of Liesl. This news would have thrilled her. It confirmed that the fever of resistance had spread to the very top of the German war machine. In a sense, the White Rose had accomplished its mission.
Kurt ordered a bottle of schnapps, signing for it as always with his mother’s room number. He raised his glass in a lonely toast: “To Liesl.” He thought, too, of Bonhoeffer, wondering if the poor man was still alive. Maybe the pastor had even been involved in the bomb plot, because surely it had taken months for the plan to come together. Kurt thought back to those first meetings at Bonhoeffer’s house, and Liesl’s ringing words, always spoken so boldly. Part of her attraction had always been the excitement at being part of something larger, something noble. Yet look at what had happened in the end. Liesl was dead, the Bauers were in exile, and Kurt’s ideals had gone into hiding on this strange landscape of stealth. He swallowed a second shot of schnapps and asked the waiter to send the rest of the bottle to his room. Then he headed outdoors, pursued by his thoughts.
It was late July, but not very hot, and the last of the sunlight slanted on the pavement. It seemed as if half the town was out for a stroll or a drink in one of the open-air cafés. Beer glasses sparkled amber in the dusk, and conversation sounded lighthearted. You could tell everyone sensed that the war would soon end. And here, of course, there was no war at all, and no roundups or mass arrests.
Kurt crossed the cobbles of Kornhausplatz and made a beeline for the high slab of the Kornhaus Bridge. The view from there was something special. The city’s skyline spread along the horizon like a medieval painting. On a clear day you could also see the snowy peaks of the Berner Oberland. But the greater attractions for Kurt were the sights along the riverbanks, down through the treetops that swayed in the evening breeze. Red roofs and open terraces. People relaxing over dinner or drinks.
He spotted a man reading his newspaper on a balcony. Next door, a woman reclined on a lounger, a portrait of leisure as she flipped through a magazine, oblivious to Kurt’s longing stare. From this distance, she might even have been Liesl.
Feeling a sudden need for the company of others, he was on the verge of heading back to the square for a beer when a voice cried out in surprise.
“Kurt? Is it really you?”
He turned to see the long face of Erich Stuckart, breaking into a grin. And despite all that had happened, Kurt was thrilled to see him. A taste of simpler times, when there was nothing more important to worry about than your marks in school or how you were going to sneak your next cigarette.
“I don’t believe it!” Kurt said. “Are you here with your family?”
“Just the women, except for me. We’ve only been here a week. My father, of course, is still in Berlin, running the ministry. Can’t imagine what it must be like tonight, after what’s happened. Did you hear the news?”
“Yes. Shocking.”
“To say the least. Dad will be working overtime. And now he doesn’t even have anywhere to unwind. Our villa was bombed, you know.”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
“One of those fluke shots, the pilots clearing their bays or something like that. It was the only house hit on the entire street. The rest of the bombs all fell into the Wannsee.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And your family? How is everyone?”
“All here. But my father is ill. He hasn’t quit on Berlin, of course. But the situation was impossible, so we’ve decided to set up another base of operations. We’re trying to contribute from here.”
“Of course. I seem to have heard you ran into a bit of trouble. But fortunately that all worked out for the best, yes?”
Kurt wondered how much Erich knew.
“Yes. Except for Liesl.”
“I heard. Shattering. She was so beautiful. It must be difficult for you, since, well—”
“Since what?” The words came out with more heat than he had intended.
“Well, because of all that went on.”
Did Erich know more? Was he holding back simply to minimize Kurt’s embarrassment, or was he being vague out of ignorance? Kurt decided to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“Were you going into town?”
“Coming back, actually,” Erich said. “I’ve had a few drinks in the square. Such a beautiful night. But everyone was far too cheerful about the bombing, so I was heading home. You should come with me. We’ve got a nice house, up in Altenberg. And we’re fixed pretty well for drinks, if that’s what you need. I know I could use another one.”
Kurt shrugged. Why not? With any luck he might even learn something that Icarus would want to know.
“Sure.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Night had fallen by the time they reached the house, a magnificent old timbered home near the top of the hill on Sonnenbergstrasse. Lamplight shone through an arched window, seeming to beckon them inside. Erich’s mother was effusive in her welcome. Kurt had always found her a bit chilly, but she was warm and generous this evening. Perhaps she was homesick.
“It is so good to see someone from Berlin,” she said. “Terrible to think about what they must be going through. Did Erich tell you about our villa?”
“Yes, Mother. All about it. I’m taking him to the parlor for a drink. So no interruptions, please.”
“Whose place is this?” Kurt asked, once they were alone.
“Belongs to a friend of my uncle Max. Comfy, isn’t it? And well stocked, as you can see. Would you like a gin? I’m trying to be ready for when the British take over.”
Kurt laughed.
“Gin would be fine. You’re supposed to have it with tonic, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but we don’t have any. How about straight up?”
“Sure. I’ve never tasted it.”
It was strong and resinous, like biting into the tip of an evergreen, but not unpleasant.
“I’m glad I saw you,” Kurt said, feeling his spirits lift. “We might have gone weeks without running into each other.”
“Maybe. Although I’d already heard you were around.”
“Oh, yes?”
“A certain Herr Schlang told me. Said he’d seen you over at the Bellevue.”
“Oh. Him.”
The room went quiet. Erich, smiling, seemed to be waiting for more of a reaction. Kurt, feeling put upon, set his drink down and stood to leave.
“Really, Kurt, it’s all right.” Erich slapped him on the back. “These are confusing times. You’re not the only one wondering what to do next or where to turn.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d have much to worry about on that score.”
“Oh, quite the opposite. My father could end up with a rope around his neck, especially if the Russians find him. Even our friend Schlang has his concerns. But he tells me your father seems to be on the right track.”
“My father?”
“Schlang said he was seen here and there during previous visits to Bern. Apparently he was seeking an audience with, well, people who might soon be in a position of influence. I guess that’s one way of putting it.”
“I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask my father.”
“Oh, c’mon, Kurt. Everyone knows how it’s done here. I’m not expecting you to break a family confidence. Far from it. I just want you to know that, well, if there is anything you can do for my family along those same lines, not only would my father and I be most grateful, we would also be willing to help in any way we can in the meantime. And I’m sure that Herr Schlang feels the same. You see?”
“I suppose.”
Maybe this explained why Schlang hadn’t applied any further pressure on Kurt, and—so far, at least—had allowed his father to recuperate in relative peace. If Erich really wanted an introduction to the Americans, Kurt could try to arrange one. The Stuckart name certainly seemed likely to get the attention of Icarus.
Was it unseemly to think of using his friend this way? Yes, certainly, but wasn’t Erich doing the same? He realized something else as well: Once you had dipped your toes into the cold water of betrayal and withstood the initial shock, it was much easier to contemplate a second plunge, as long as you could make it work to your advantage.
“I’ll give it some thought,” he said finally.
“I suppose that’s all I can ask for. Truth be told, even my father put some feelers out in the same direction—toward this Dulles fellow everyone keeps mentioning. None of it went anywhere, I’m afraid. Apparently the Americans have put all of the Stuckarts on some list of ‘black’ Germans. But the Bauers, I’m told, have landed in the ‘white’ column. So anything that you might say on our behalf, well, you see what I’m getting at.”
“Absolutely. How about another drink?”
“Capital!”
Kurt began to feel better about his family’s prospects. Even with the dark memory of Liesl still clouding his judgment, he might yet work things to their advantage on other fronts. But his optimism was shortlived.
“You know,” Erich said, while handing him a drink, “Schlang also mentioned someone else who is looking for help. Someone who is still in Germany, and I’m told you’re familiar with him as well.”
“Yes?”
“Martin G?llner.”
He realized instantly that this must have been Erich’s plan all along. Coax him to help out, then show him they had the means to ruin his standing with the Americans, in case he was reluctant. Hadn’t Schlang already hinted as much? It was powerful leverage.
Yet for the moment it only made him more determined to pursue a course of action that would benefit his family alone, and to hell with everyone else. Maybe that was always the nature of wartime once you moved beyond the front lines—every man for himself. He was certainly prepared to fight on those terms, but he knew he had better measure his words carefully with Erich.
“Yes,” he said, “I know G?llner.”
“Well, he has a few ideas on how to impress the Americans, and he seems to believe you’re the one person who might be able to make them see things his way.”
“Does he really?”
“Oh, yes. Would you like to hear them?”
“Even if I don’t, something tells me that Herr Schlang will soon be asking more persuasively.”
Erich laughed, then gave Kurt another companionable slap on the back. Anyone watching through the window would have thought they were the best of friends, laughing about old pranks.
“You know, Kurt, I always wondered how you got better marks than me in school. Now I’m beginning to see why.”
Kurt smiled thinly, and Erich kept talking. He spent the next two hours laying out the details of G?llner’s plan, and Kurt realized that his life was about to become a lot more complicated.
But he did more than just listen. He planned, too, plotting an alternate strategy, one better tailored to his own needs—not that he would ever share any of the details with Stuckart or Schlang. He could play at this game of unholy alliances as well as they could, and, in the process, not only win but also bring harm to those who had wronged him and his family.
Their meeting lasted until 2 a.m. By then, Kurt was already contemplating his next move. Best of all, he had stored up loads of information to pass along to the disagreeable American he knew only as Icarus.