Lucas Delattre - A Spy at the Heart of the Third Reich

At the same time Fritz knew that it was always possible to “do a little something” in silence and anonymity, as other Germans were doing here and there, each one according to his means. All things considered, it was perhaps better to stay in Berlin and have a foot inside the system rather than choose exile and observe events from the outside. He had spent a little time with German émigré circles in South Africa and had soon wearied of their interminable discussions and their contagious bitterness. But up to what point could he fulfill his obligations as a government official without selling his soul?

To give himself courage, Fritz recalled an expression that he had heard somewhere, although he could not remember exactly where: “Life is not like the game of chess. There are not only black and white pieces. There are gray figures, solitary knights, and equivocal characters who never get caught.”

Berlin, November 1939

At seven-thirty in the morning, on November 9, 1939, Fritz Kolbe took up his duties at the ministry. He walked shivering through the capital, a harsh winter looming, and was surprised to observe that life seemed to be going on more or less normally, though the silence on the streets of Berlin was eerie. Shortages, particularly of coal, were beginning to make themselves felt, but there was plenty of bread and potatoes, and people were dressed normally. The Nazi leaders seemed to have prepared well for their war. Submarines were engaged in a violent but distant Kriegsspiel along the British coasts and in the North Atlantic, but Berlin felt rather far from events.

What had changed in Berlin was the color of the city. Apartments and offices were perpetually plunged in darkness. It was now mandatory to cover windows with dark paper in case of enemy bombardment, even if English planes were not flying over the capital and were merely dropping leaflets over the Ruhr. Even by day, windows remained covered. Headlights of buses and automobiles were darkened with black paint except for a one-by-five-centimeter slit. “Darkening” was the key directive in wartime. Posters stuck up everywhere indicated that whoever did not obey the orders to “darken” was subject to severe penalties. Because of the literal darkness, household injuries were on the rise (objects dropped on feet, heads banging against doorways, and so on). The present and the future were also shrouded in absolute obscurity. Everything was done to prevent information from circulating. No one had the right to listen to foreign radio stations (in this case too, offenders were subject to long prison terms). The war could not be seen, but could be listened to in secret. People strained their ears to catch scraps of the BBC’s German language broadcasts.

There was no way to escape from the ubiquitous propaganda. The walls were covered with pro-war slogans. “The day when proud Albion collapses will be a day of joy for us,” were the first German words to greet Fritz Kolbe at the border, on the train trip from Antwerp to Berlin. New expressions had appeared in everyday speech: Fritz quickly learned that the male population was divided into those with a “u. k. post” (unavailable to the army) and those who were considered “k. v.” (available). He hoped with all his heart that he would be considered “u. k.”: these two letters were for him the initials of happiness.

Going to the office, Fritz did not yet know what his new assignment would be. He was a little apprehensive about the meeting that soon awaited him with the head of personnel of the Foreign Ministry. Going through Pariser Platz, across from the American embassy, he looked up at the roof of the Adlon Hotel, where an antiaircraft battery had been set up. With his head in the air, he almost collided with a group of passersby having an animated discussion. He caught a few scraps of the conversation: “attempt against the führer,” “Munich,” “hall.” He knew nothing more when he went in at Wilhelmstrasse 76, one of the three entrances to the Foreign Ministry.

One of Fritz’s colleagues, encountered by chance in a corridor, quickly brought him up to date. The night before in Munich, a bomb had exploded in the beer hall where the führer had given a speech every year to commemorate the failed putsch of 1923. Seven were dead and sixty wounded. But, contrary to his usual pattern, Hitler had left the room a little earlier than planned. The bomb had exploded at 9:20, only thirteen minutes after he had left.

At the ministry, as everywhere else, the attack was all that was talked about. The flags were at half-staff. There was word of a march in Munich in honor of the seven people killed in the attack. Radio programs were frequently interrupted by special bulletins. The nasal voice of Goebbels commented on the event on the spot and presented the official version of the facts: “Unquestionably, this ignoble act, probably committed by German traitors, bears the signature of the British secret services.”

Lost in thought, Fritz wandered through the corridors of the ministry. His eyes went wide when he saw at a distance a junior minister in a dark blue uniform covered with stripes and gold buttons, and wearing a ceremonial dagger on his belt. Aside from that odd surprise (“you’d think we were in an operetta,” Fritz said to himself), nothing had changed since 1937. He glanced into the dreary offices of the Foreign Ministry, and found them as dilapidated and underequipped as when he left—still the same brass lamps with green shades, old oil lamps remodeled into electric ones; the same worn carpets on the floor; the same musty odor of old documents—and yet something had changed, an apparently very minor detail: the typewriters had been replaced. They now had a new key so you could type “SS” in Gothic script.

Fritz crossed paths with several old acquaintances, who whispered a word or two about the life of the foreign ministry at war. He learned that Ribbentrop had been consumed by remorse since, contrary to what the minister had anticipated (and loudly proclaimed), England had declared war on Germany. He was told that a legation adviser, Eduard Brücklmeier, had been briefly arrested by the Gestapo for “defeatism,” before finally being released. A colleague complained about the fact that foreign diplomats had deserted the ministry. “We only see a few representatives of friendly or neutral countries,” he said. “We spend our time trying to understand what is expected of us,” added another. “Jurisdictional disputes with other ministries take up all our energy.”

After walking down long corridors, Fritz Kolbe finally arrived at the office of the head of personnel, Hermann Kriebel. In the waiting room, he came across one of his old acquaintances, Hans Schroeder, Kriebel’s assistant. Schroeder had joined the Foreign Ministry when Fritz had, in 1925. The two men were about the same age and had had their first diplomatic training together. But since then, Schroeder’s career—he was wearing the party insignia on his lapel—had been much more dazzling than Fritz’s. “Kolbe! How have you been all this time?” cried Schroeder in a sonorous voice, warmly shaking his hand. Fritz was not taken in by the familiarity. He thought he could catch a slight glimmer of satisfied contempt in the eyes of his interlocutor. Briefly, he reported on his eleven years in Spain, his two years in South Africa, and his forced return following the outbreak of the war. “Good, very good,” said Schroeder, smiling broadly. “It so happens that I’ve heard that they’ve saved a magnificent post for you: consul at Stavanger in Norway. A quiet country! No rationing, a normal life, an interesting post! What do you think?” Fritz was surprised. He had not been expecting such an attractive offer. Rudolf Leitner must have intervened in his favor, or else such a promotion would not have been offered to him. “But you see,” Schroeder continued, “there’s a small problem: You’re not a party member. A few years ago, we could have turned a blind eye to that, but now it’s no longer possible. Frankly, don’t be an idiot! All you have to do is get your card, and then make a little courtesy visit to certain people who would like to know you better. In short, it’s not very complicated: the matter is entirely in your hands, my friend!”