Dan Fesperman - The Arms Maker of Berlin

He decided that the safest bet was to play along, so he replied, “With regret and no small measure of shame, I must reveal that my father has expended all of his possible influence, and I can assure you that even that did not come without many sacrifices, in light of what the government now knows about my family.”

Executions at Plötzensee always began at 7 p.m. On the day that Christoph, Ulrich, and Dieter were to be killed, Kurt lay on his bed waiting in dread for the groan of the downstairs door and the tramp of feet toward the death chamber. They were right on schedule. He couldn’t bear to watch, and when he heard Christoph’s voice, wavering yet loud, yell, “Our memory will outlive our killers!” he shut his eyes tightly and sobbed in shame. Then he clamped his thin pillow around his ears, pressing hard and humming like a boy afraid of thunder, so that he wouldn’t hear the shouted orders, the muffled cries, or the hammering of the coffin lids.

His humming wasn’t loud enough, so he began singing like a madman-old tunes from kindergarten, Christmas carols, whatever came to mind. And when he opened his eyes much later and dropped the pillow, which was soaked in tears and sweat, he saw that it had grown dark outside. His untouched dinner sat cold on a tray the guards had brought. The only sound was the twitter of a nightingale, tuning up for the evening. A half hour later an air raid siren wailed into action, and he listened for the distant drone of approaching bombers. On came the flak guns and the bomb bursts, and for a change he welcomed them. The searchlights seemed to sweep the sky clear of all the ill spirits that had been set loose from the death chamber.

For the next several days he ignored contact with everyone, even Liesl. At noon on September 3 he finally wrote her. He had just penned the salutation when there was a knock at the door. Guards never knocked, so he wondered who it could be.

“It’s Göllner. Your time is up.”

For a harrowing moment Kurt was convinced that their deal was off and that he was about to be led downstairs to the death chamber, where he would find Liesl already hanging by a hook. Instead, Göllner entered with a sheaf of documents.

“These are your release papers. Come downstairs. All you have to do is sign.”

He sagged in relief, not least because it meant he would not have to endure the executions of Klara and Hannelore. In his mounting guilt he had even begun to admire Hannelore’s reckless defiance.

“And Liesl?” he asked. “She is being released, too?”

“There has been a slight delay where she is concerned. Nothing to worry about.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s why they sent me. To explain, so there will be no fuss. She will be coming out later, perhaps at midnight. Some sort of glitch with the paperwork. But, as I said, not to worry. You will have three weeks to spend with your lady love before going off to the army. Maybe she will volunteer for the nursing corps and you will see her at the front.”

Kurt wanted to punch him, but knew better.

“Come on. Your father is waiting.”

He stepped out the door of his cell with a feeling of immense relief. Then he saw a face watching from a small window in the opposite door. What if the neighboring prisoners had overheard Göllner? If Hannelore found out, she might still poison the well for him. He kept his head down and his eyes to the floor. Now that he was on the verge of freedom, he found himself reverting to old resentments.

Kurt’s father greeted him with a huge hug. It was the first time he had ever seen tears in the man’s eyes, and it moved him deeply. But he reverted to his skittishness as they crossed the prison yard toward the front gate. He could feel the eyes of the other prisoners on his back. Fortunately, no one called out his name. He hoped that Hannelore, Klara, and Liesl had cells facing in another direction, because surely they would misunderstand. Or, worse, they would understand all too clearly.

But he cheered himself with the reminder that by tomorrow at this time Liesl also would be free. She would have no choice but to write it off as some strange act of mercy or political influence. Hannelore might argue otherwise, but she would soon be dead. Not the best of circumstances for beginning the rest of their lives, but certainly preferable to the ghastly alternative.

The thought made him glance over his shoulder as he approached the gate. His last sight inside the prison was of the low brick chamber of death, with its guillotine and its hangman’s hooks. He shivered, and then stepped into freedom. Tomorrow he would begin putting all of this behind him.

Instead, of course, the bombers came once again that very night, and by morning Kurt was back on the scene, kneeling in the rubble, clawing at the smoldering bricks until he found her legs, and then her hand, still curled around the document that was supposed to have set her free.

They shoved Nat through a door and onto an elevator. He was still hooded, but each extra second without a gunshot or a blow to the head made him dare to hope that something other than the worst lay ahead. Why go to the trouble to take him into this building unless something besides an execution awaited?

They stepped off the elevator into a hallway with lights so bright they even penetrated the gloom of the hood. His escorts maintained their silence. He wasn’t sure how many were still with him, other than the ones at either side, gripping his forearms.

“Just ahead?” one muttered.

“Yes. It’s supposed to be unlocked.”

They stopped. A doorknob clicked. They led him inside, then a hand loosened the drawstring. The hood tickled past his nose and came free. Nat took a fresh breath of cool air and blinked into the brightness. As his eyes adjusted to the light he saw he was in an office, standing at a desk. Seated behind the desk was Clark Holland.

Nat exhaled loudly, almost laughing in relief. He had never been this happy to see anyone, although it was clear from Holland’s face that the feeling wasn’t mutual.

The escorts quickly disappeared, shutting the door behind them. Holland didn’t even bother to say thanks.

“Maybe now I can finally get an update,” Holland said. “What happened to your arm?”

Nat began to shiver. The sweat on his back felt like melted snow, and his legs were limp. He looked down at his arm and saw that the bleeding had stopped.

“There was a knife. What the hell just happened? Who were those guys?”

“BfV, most likely. German domestic intelligence. But when I ask for help from the Germans I’m not exactly picky, so who knows for sure? Could even be contract employees. Effective, though, judging from the results.”

“They hooded me.”

“I noticed.”

“They scared the hell out of me, if you really want to know.”

“They have their own way of doing things. I don’t question their tactics as long as they produce the desired results. In exchange they sometimes offer the same courtesy to me, especially when I’m operating on their turf. You look like you could use a drink. I’m afraid all we have is water.” He shouted toward an open door to an adjoining room. “Neil? Come take care of our visitor, please.”

Neil Ford, the young agent who had tracked him down in the university library, came bounding around the corner with a first aid kit, a schoolboy grin, and an open bottle of Volvic mineral water.

“Hi, Dr. Turnbull.” Like they’d just run into each other at the mall.

“Just super to see you, Neil.”

“Same here!”

“I think Dr. Turnbull’s being sarcastic, Neil.”

“Oh.”

“Glad I’m not the only one who hasn’t lost his sense of irony,” Nat said. He was still pleasantly amazed to be in one piece, but his relief was giving way to anger.