Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

“I need to make contact with the local SD and then to travel to a place in Bosnia called Banja Luka,” I said. “I’m looking for this man.” I showed him a photograph of Father Ladislaus given to me by Dalia Dresner. “He was last heard of at the Petricevac Monastery of the Most Holy Trinity, which is run by the Franciscans. Dr. Goebbels wishes me to give an important message to him and, if he wishes it, to facilitate his coming to Berlin at some future stage. I’d appreciate any help or advice you can give me.”

“I’m not wholly familiar with that part of the country, and as a matter of fact this is my last week as army group liaison with the Italian Ninth Army here in Yugoslavia. After a bit of leave I’m off to Greece to take up a position with Army Group South as the liaison officer with the Italian Eleventh Army. But what I can tell you is that the roads between here and Sarajevo aren’t too bad, especially now, with the temperatures in the high twenties and thirties. Bombed about a bit, of course. In winter it’s a very different story. It’s almost two hundred kilometers down to Banja Luka. I should think you could make it there in a day. Most of the partisans are operating to the southeast of there, in the Zelengora Mountains. But they’re pretty tenacious and move around the country with frightening speed so it’s best to be on your guard at all times. At least it is in Bosnia. You’ll find the SD at Gestapo headquarters on King Peter Kresmira Street. They’ll probably be able to arrange some transport down south for you. Some sort of a car or field wagon, I expect. I could drive you over there myself, if you like. It’s a little far to walk there in this heat.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant, I’d appreciate that.”

Waldheim wasn’t a bad sort of fellow. He’d been in Yugoslavia since the previous summer, after being wounded on the Eastern Front and discharged from combat service; since then he’d seen service only as a liaison officer with the Italians because he spoke the language. But he held a dim view of the prospects for our main ally in the Axis.

“Anyone can see that now the Allies have invaded Sicily, the writing is on the wall for Mussolini. I’d be very surprised if he manages to cling onto power until the end of the month. Not without German help, anyway.”

“They’re sending you, aren’t they?” I said.

Waldheim grinned uncertainly as we drove past the new city mosque. With three tall minarets still under construction, it seemed an improbable building to find in one of the most Catholic countries in Europe. Waldheim explained that the mosque was due to open the following summer, always assuming that Ante Pavelic — the leader of the fascist Ustaše — lasted as long as that, since the mosque had been his own initiative.

“Tell me, Lieutenant Waldheim, is Italian the only language you speak or do you speak whatever it is they speak here? Croat, I suppose. Because when I get to Banja Luka I think I’m going to need a translator.”

“I speak Czech and a bit of Croat. But like I said, I’m off on leave quite soon. And then bound for Greece, I’m afraid.”

“And like you also said, it’s only a day’s drive down from Zagreb to Banja Luka. And a day’s drive back again. That’s plenty of time before you leave for Greece. Besides, unless I’m very much mistaken, the Italian Ninth Army no longer exists in this theater. On account of the fact that they’ve all gone back to defend their homeland against the Allies. Or more likely to surrender as quickly as possible. And who could blame them?”

Waldheim frowned. “It’s very flattering of you to ask, but my commanding officer, General Löhr, couldn’t possibly spare me right now.”

Waldheim pulled up in front of a huge modern building. The street, lined with maple trees that were shedding their bark, was closed to all traffic except those on Gestapo business. A rank of camouflaged German cars stood in front of the main entrance. Behind them was a quaint little park with a rose garden and the bronze statue of a naked dancing girl, which made a very pleasant change from the equestrian statues of forgotten Croat kings that seemed to be all over the city like so many giant dog turds.

“Here we are, sir. Gestapo headquarters.”

“I could ask him, if you like? General Löhr. I could ask him to let you come with me to Banja Luka. After all, this mission is a high priority for the Ministry of Truth and Propaganda. I’m sure your general would want to make sure that I have everything I need to make sure it’s a success. Dr. Goebbels is not a man who likes failure.”

Waldheim was looking very awkward and probably wishing he’d never set eyes on me.

“Look,” he said, “what if I was to find you someone else? Someone who speaks much better Croat than me?”

“Is that possible?”

“Oh yes. My Croat isn’t that good at all.” He saluted. “Leave it to me, sir. And I’ll see what I can do.”

I watched Lieutenant Waldheim drive quickly away with a smile on my face; there aren’t many jobs that come close to being God’s representative on earth, but arriving in a place like Zagreb with Joey’s letter in the pocket of my tunic was one of them. It read:

To Whom It May Concern: The bearer of this letter, Captain Bernhard Gunther, a Police commissar with the RSHA in Berlin, is to be extended every cooperation and courtesy. He is my personal envoy in Zagreb and should be always treated as if he were me and his mission is of the utmost importance to my ministry. Signed, Dr. Josef Goebbels, Reich Minister of Truth and Propaganda.

With a letter like that I was going to have some fun in Yugoslavia. Or so I thought.

Gestapo headquarters was mercifully cool after the searing heat of the street. The pictures of Hitler and Himmler and Ante Pavelic on the wall of the entrance hall were hardly a surprise, nor indeed was the giant map of Yugoslavia, but, in the circumstances, the portrait of Benito Mussolini — the one with him wearing a black helmet and looking more than a little like a circus daredevil about to be shot out of a cannon, which, perhaps, wasn’t so far away from the truth — already seemed out of place in that company.

And yet it was a picture that gave me hope — hope that one day soon people like young Lieutenant Kurt Waldheim would be predicting the imminent demise of Adolf Hitler.

The next morning, after a disturbed night due to the many trams that passed in an almost steady stream of light blue beneath the open window of my stiflingly hot second-floor room, I was up early and waiting outside the hotel, ready to leave Zagreb in the open-top Mercedes 190 that SD Sturmbannführer Emil Koob had lent to me with some alacrity after I gave him the parcel of money from Schellenberg. Waldheim was also there, to introduce me to the two SS officers who were recently returned from Germany and heading for Sarajevo and then Savnik, to rejoin their division. Banja Luka is almost halfway from Zagreb to Sarajevo and the two officers had been assured that there would be transport waiting for them at this ancient Bosnian city’s Ustaše headquarters. I could have wished for more congenial companions than the SS but Waldheim assured me that both men were ethnic volunteers — Croatian Germans who knew the country as well as the language. Besides, he added, there were rumors that the partisans had broken out of southeastern Bosnia and were headed toward the Dalmatian coast across the very region to which we were traveling. All of which meant that three armed men in a car were certainly better than just one.

Of the two officers, the sergeant was the first to arrive. He gave a casual sort of salute and said his name was Oehl. The left side of his face had been badly burned, which probably explained the Iron Cross 2nd Class he wore on his tunic and his taciturn manner; I’d have been a bit taciturn myself if half of my face looked like a plantation shutter. The hair on top of his head was short and gray and exactly matched the short gray hair on his enormous chin; his narrow blue eyes looked more like murder holes in the walls of an impregnable castle. Looking at him I felt as if I had just met a powerful gorilla while at the same time being in possession of the world’s last banana.