The Arms Maker of Berlin

TWENTY-TWO

Berlin—March 5, 1943

JUST BEFORE 10 A.M. on a blustery Friday in late winter, Kurt Bauer strolled nervously into the shadow of the city’s most dreaded building. The structure itself wasn’t imposing. Five stories of stone with a mansard roof, it had once been a hotel, then an art school. Its elegant rows of high windows suggested a place of light and enlightenment. Its current name suggested otherwise: the Reich Main Security Office, home to the Gestapo and the SS.

Kurt had already approached the entrance once, only to have his nerve fail him. On his second try he again veered away, heading north toward the Brandenburg Gate while taking deep breaths of the chill morning air. After fifteen days of thought and planning, he had finally settled on a risky course of action, and by day’s end he hoped to have secured a safe future for his family and, more important, for Liesl and him.

But first he had to go through with it.

He had set out from Charlottenburg at sunrise, hoping to steel his resolve by making the four-mile journey on foot. It was bitterly cold, and even with gloves on he kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sights along the way did little to put him in the right mood. Half the shops on the Ku-Damm were shuttered. Charlottenburger Chaussee, normally a grand, sun-washed promenade, was cast in eternal twilight by a canopy of camouflage netting, a ruse to hide the street grid from daylight bomber attacks. Even the Tiergarten was a mess. Its trees had been hacked away for firewood, and its expansive lawns were cross-stitched by trenches, dug as emergency shelter from bombs. Two soldiers stood begging on a street corner, their greatcoats still muddy from the eastern front. A third, missing a leg, slept on a park bench. Had the poor man even survived the night? Kurt didn’t have the heart to check.

The most depressing sight of all, at least to Kurt, was the brooding Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. Normally its high steeple and Romanesque towers evoked stateliness and strength, but this morning they only reminded him of the aborted rendezvous that should have occurred there a week earlier.

It was to have been a pivotal moment for the Berlin chapter of the White Rose. Hans Scholl, one of the White Rose founders in Munich, had been due to meet Falk Harnack, the young soldier who had been present for the Berlin chapter’s formative meeting. Harnack was then supposed to escort Scholl to Bonhoeffer’s house for a meeting that would connect the White Rose movement to the heart of the German resistance.

News of this scary but welcome development had made Kurt rethink his plan of action. Considering the predicament his family was in, he hadn’t felt like risking his life for mere pamphlets anymore. But if bolder action was in the offing, maybe he would hold off on his one-man operation. His father had even mentioned rumors of an assassination plot against Hitler, with help coming from high inside the German officer corps. With the war going so badly, it was the one act that might spare the country further destruction, and in turn spare his family.

But Scholl never showed up. Harnack nervously smoked a few cigarettes in the dark, passed word of the aborted rendezvous to Bonhoeffer and to the other White Rose members, and then returned empty-handed to his army unit in Chemnitz.

By the following afternoon the reason became painfully clear. News spread that the Scholls had been arrested a week earlier. They had been taken to Munich Gestapo headquarters for questioning, and four days later they were executed by guillotine.

Further details were sketchy, but apparently the roundup of White Rose members in Munich was continuing. Some of the arrested members had ties to Harnack, and to Helmut Hartert, who had organized the Berlin cell. If they talked, then every Berlin member would soon be at risk.

The cell met hastily to discuss what to do. One member, Renate Fensel, had already dropped out after their earlier near escape. That left eight of them, not counting Harnack, who was still serving in the army. Everyone agreed that it would be best to lay low for a while—everyone, that is, except Hannelore, who urged immediate action.

“They’ll have us all in the net soon anyway,” she said. “We might as well fight back.”

She proposed that they do something to grab the public’s attention. Throw a firebomb at Goebbels’s headquarters, or toss one at his Wannsee villa. The others looked at her like she was crazy, even Liesl, and every morning since then Kurt had opened the morning newspaper expecting to see Hannelore’s name splashed across the front. If they were lucky, maybe she would be shot in the act and never have a chance to reveal their names.

At his family’s home in Charlottenburg, meanwhile, things were even worse than before. His brother, Manfred, had been reported missing during the retreat from Stalingrad. His mother barely ate, and his sister wouldn’t leave the house. She moped around with a copy of Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther, the novel that had once inspired thousands of lovesick German boys to leap to their deaths.

The only bright spot was that his father had somehow wangled a travel permit for another trip to Switzerland. But even that turned out badly when he failed to secure a second meeting with Dulles. The Americans seemed to be losing interest.

So, on the day after the most recent White Rose meeting, Kurt decided to carry out his one-man plan after all. Now he just had to steel up the nerve to go through with it.

He circled the Brandenburg Gate and set course once again for the Reich Main Security Office. Glancing toward Pariser Platz, he spotted the hulking antiaircraft battery atop I. G Farben headquarters. It reminded him of his father, who had boasted just the other day of government plans to put a similar battery atop the Bauer offices in Spandau. Amazing that the old man could still play the role of proud patriot after everything that had happened. Perhaps that was all his father had left. Unless Kurt acted now.

Five blocks later he began his third approach, and this time he kept going. He pushed through the heavy doors past a pair of sentries into a bustling lobby. At the security station next to the stairway, flanked by two more sentries, he was greeted by an officious-looking fellow seated at a big desk.

“Yes, young man?”

Kurt spoke quickly. Pause now and he might never get the words out.

“I have important information to report.”

“As does everyone who comes through that door.” The man sounded bored. He looked down at his desk and began flipping through a magazine. “Your name?”

“Kurt Bauer.”

“Fill this out.”

Without looking up, the man shoved forward an official-looking form. Kurt stood straighter, cleared his throat, and spoke louder.

“I am the son of Reinhard Bauer, of the Bauer Armament Works.”

The fellow stopped turning pages and looked up for a reappraisal, no doubt taking note of Kurt’s fine wool overcoat, the dark kid gloves, and the white shirt with its starched collar. He shut his magazine.

“What is the nature of this report?”

“Firsthand information concerning the activities of a local resistance organization.”

The fellow cocked his head.

“Firsthand, you said?”

“I know who is distributing those pamphlets from the group known as the White Rose. All of that and more. But I am putting you on notice that in exchange for this information I expect to receive certain considerations. For myself and for my family.”

It was the last part of this sales pitch that had been hardest to plan. Informing on friends was terrible enough. Kurt had justified it to himself on the grounds that their names would soon be known anyway, due to the recent arrests. But to demand a favor from the Gestapo took more fortitude than anything he had yet attempted. For all he knew, they might laugh in his face, then take him out back to be shot.

Yet now that he was actually speaking, he heard in his voice the tone that his father usually reserved for balky clerks and secretaries, or shop foremen who weren’t pulling their weight. Maybe all that training to prepare him for the business world was finally paying off. Already he sensed that this clerk wasn’t accustomed to dealing with the likes of a Bauer, so Kurt pressed his advantage.

“I don’t wish to speak to just anyone. Nor will I tolerate a lengthy wait. Well? What do you plan to do about it?”

“I know just the person,” the man said, nodding briskly as he raised a finger. His manner was transformed. An observer might have figured him for a deskman in a posh hotel, attending to a valued guest. “Excuse me while I phone him for you.”

AT THAT MOMENT, Martin Göllner was in a staff room upstairs, hoping that no one smelled the coffee he was brewing. It was his first real coffee in months, and he didn’t wish to share. It had been delivered an hour earlier, a bribe from an old Jew who had been outed by a neighbor after the neighbor grew tired of the Jew’s barking dog. Not that the bribe did any good. The Jew was now locked in a cell downstairs, awaiting questioning. He would be pumped for any information on the whereabouts of friends and relatives, and by tomorrow afternoon he would be riding an eastbound train. But it was the nosy neighbor that Göllner wanted to throttle, because now there was a lot of extra paperwork to take care of, when what Göllner really wanted was a day off.

Such petty motives were typical for him lately. His caseload was drowning in trivia—shrewish wives denouncing unfaithful husbands, unfaithful husbands denouncing troublesome mistresses, troublesome mistresses denouncing shrewish wives. The circle never stopped. And don’t get him started on all the disputes between neighbors, or students and teachers, or employees and bosses. Most of it came from the nattering rabble of the Mittelstand, cooped up during the bombing raids in overcrowded basements where everything smelled of mud and rat dung. No wonder they were at one another’s throats.

The problem for Göllner was that once any complaint, no matter how small, became official, it had to be investigated. Because the only thing worse to his bosses than letting a political malcontent or an undiscovered Jew run free was letting uncleared casework pile up on their desks. The joke of it was that most of these busybody informants believed that his office was all-powerful. Everyone imagined a vast network of spies, all of them super-Nazis of SS rank. The reality was that the Gestapo relied heavily on the rabble for its tips. Berlin had become a city of tattletales, a gossip mill with eyes and ears in every building.

Göllner, like most of his coworkers, had been a cop before the war. He had walked a beat for a year and served a mere two months as a gumshoe before the new hierarchy took over. But he was bright, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut, so he was promoted quickly through the ranks. He now had an SD uniform to go with the imposing title of Sturmbandführer. Currently he straddled two desks in Berlin’s district operations, reporting to the head of Subsection A, which looked into matters of political opposition and sabotage, and also to the head of Subsection B, which kept a lookout for Jews and renegade clerics.

At the moment his only productive paid informant was a Catholic priest who was so desperate to hang on to his job that he sent Göllner weekly summaries of his parishioners’ confessions. Hilarious stuff, mostly. But worthy of an arrest or two when things got slow.

The coffee was finally brewed, and so far no one had noticed. Göllner picked up the pot just as his phone rang next door. His secretary shouted for him.

“Coming!” he answered. He carried the pot with him, supposing that now he would have to share it with her. By the time he picked up the receiver she was already pouring herself a cup, and her mug was bigger than Göllner’s.

“Yes?”

It was Brinkmann, the toad from the lobby. Yet another visitor was seeking an audience, although for a change Brinkmann was on his best behavior. When Göllner heard the visitor’s name, he understood why. His senses went on full alert.

“Send him up immediately,” he said. “In fact, you are to escort him personally. Have one of the sentries sit in for you. Take Mr. Bauer to interview room 7-A and lock the door. Tell no one else who he is.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’d better leave him with some water, a full pitcher with a glass. And ask first if he needs to use the toilet. We’ll go carefully with this one.”

He needed to speak with his boss. They weren’t accustomed to this type of visitor. The rich and the privileged almost never brought their complaints through the front door. They tended to either settle matters between themselves or go straight to the top. In fact, wasn’t Rein-hard Bauer supposedly a pal of Wilhelm Stuckart’s? Göllner had seen them in the papers, photographed together along with Speer. Then why was the man’s son here, strolling in off the street like some street cleaner from Moabit?

Göllner sighed. This would be interesting, but potentially tricky. He picked up the phone and dialed the number for his boss.

THE DOOR SHUT as the obsequious little clerk from downstairs departed. Kurt poured himself a glass of water and took stock. The windowless room was chilly, so he kept his coat on. Framed photos of Hitler and Kaltenbrunner, the new boss here, faced him from the opposite wall. He wondered how long they had waited before taking down Heydrich’s picture after the assassination in Prague the year before. He drummed a finger on the table, then stopped, thinking someone might be listening at the door. He didn’t want to let them know how nervous he was. Despite the chill he had begun to sweat, so he took off his coat and folded it across the back of another chair. At least they had let him take a pee.

After about fifteen minutes, the door opened. Kurt rose instinctively, just as he had been taught to do when one of his elders entered a room. The man was surprisingly young, and didn’t cut a particularly impressive figure. In fact, what he mostly looked like was a dull drone, a cop, someone to whom you might report a bike theft or a vandalized window. The man paused in the doorway, as if also taking stock. Then he entered, followed by a stenographer. The two of them sat down across the table, side by side.

“I am Sturmbandführer Martin Göllner. Before we begin, I have been instructed to ask for some identification. As I am sure you can understand, it isn’t every day that someone walks in claiming to be the son of Reinhard Bauer.”

Kurt obliged him, and watched the man read. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Kurt had a feeling this would take a while, and a knot that had already formed in his stomach did a slow tumble and turned into a cramp. He bent at the waist and emitted a sigh.

“Very well,” Göllner said, handing back his papers. “We may begin.”

Kurt had given a lot of thought to what to say first. His father’s recent lessons on how to do business had come to mind. He must take the initiative, set the tone. No matter how threatened he felt, he figured he could maintain some leverage as long as he didn’t give up his choicest information too easily. He also needed to make it seem that he had more backing and clout than he really did. So he started out boldly.

“I am here on behalf of my family. I wish to offer important information concerning state security and morale, but only in return for certain assurances that my family’s patriotic role in the war effort will be allowed to continue. I also want assurances that those closest to me will not be harmed, although I am quite willing to be punished for my own indiscretions.”

He hadn’t planned on adding the part about punishment, but somehow in his momentum the words spilled out. Perhaps he was already ashamed of what he was doing. If Göllner was impressed, he did a good job of hiding it. He merely glanced at the stenographer to make sure she was getting everything. Then he answered in a monotone.

“All of that is quite interesting, Mr. Bauer. What is it you wish to tell us?”

“First I must have your assurances.”

Göllner was clearly not pleased to be answered in this manner. He frowned and jotted something in a small notebook while the stenographer kept her pencil poised in the air.

“Very well. But tell me first, does your father know you have come here?”

“I am here with his blessing.”

“So he is aware at this very moment that you are here? Answer carefully.”

“No. He is not.”

Göllner again wrote in his notebook. A drop of sweat slid down Kurt’s back.

Kurt spent the next few minutes outlining his family’s current state of affairs. He mentioned his brother’s war service as well. He took special pains when describing the canceled marriage and the background check by the Racial Office.

“I wish to make it clear that, up to now, no one in my family ever knew that this particular ancestor had been a member of such an undesirable faith,” he said.

He noted a shift in Göllner’s expression, perhaps even a hint of relish, and he worried that he might have done something wrong. Had he been able to read the man’s mind, he would have realized that Martin Göllner was sighing inwardly in relief that this boy was seeking “assurances” on such a trivial matter. These SS ancestry checks were a huge pain in the ass, not to mention a colossal waste of manpower. Although marriages were sometimes halted as a result, nothing further ever came of them, especially not when the so-called taint had occurred so long ago. But it was just as well that Bauer didn’t know that. Once again, it was a case of the Gestapo’s reputation preceding it, its presumed thoroughness in enforcing every little matter. All this fretting by the Bauers was foolish, unless of course some ranking minister—Stuckart, for example—took a personal interest in seeing that the family was punished. But that, too, seemed unlikely when you considered that the Bauers were supplying every Panzer division.

Göllner let the boy prattle on. He could then act like he was doing the family a big favor. He wouldn’t even need clearance from a higher-up to offer a “deal.”

“There is also the matter of a certain young lady who must be protected in all these proceedings,” Kurt continued. “She is not a member of my family, although I like to believe there is a chance that she may be fairly soon. She has been the victim of overzealous friends, one in particular, and as a result she has been goaded into participating in reckless behavior. If you take steps to prevent this friend from further influencing her, then I am sure she will respond quite reasonably.”

“Look, Mr. Bauer. I can’t guarantee that she won’t be punished, not until I hear what it is she has done. But in any investigation there is always the possibility for leniency. So why don’t we proceed on that assumption, and also on the assumption that no harm will come to your family or its business interests. That way you have already accomplished half of what you came here for. But now you must begin offering me something in return, unless you would prefer this to become a very lengthy and awkward process, in which your father and no doubt many other persons above me would have to become closely involved. Understood?”

“Yes, understood.”

Kurt poured himself more water, swallowing twice to wet his lips.

“And, of course, you must also understand that whether or not I can live up to these terms depends greatly on what it is you give me. Its quality and quantity. Both matter. Details, meaning names first and foremost, are of vital importance. Certainly you must see that my generosity can extend only as far as yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, then. Begin.”

Göllner nodded to the stenographer, who flipped back a page of her notebook. Then he lit a cigarette, inhaled slowly, and sagged back comfortably in his chair.

Kurt began. And, as requested, he was very generous indeed.