Authors: Alex Gerlis
‘So you visited Stuttgart four times a year.’
‘Yes.’
‘For how many years?’
‘Seven or eight, possibly more.’
‘Mathematics was never my strongest subject, Hunter,
but I make that somewhere in the region of 30 visits to Stuttgart.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. So you’re very familiar with the city?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Speak the local dialect?’
‘No, though I do understand it.’
‘And where did you stay?’
‘Usually at Hotel Marquardt in Schlossplatz.’
‘That is certainly quite an omission, Hunter. Don’t
worry too much; I’m sure you’re about to more than make up for it.’
***
Henry
Hunter could never quite see the point of Bern. It was a pretty enough place,
with an undoubted medieval charm and the River Aare leant a certain picturesque
drama to the city as it twisted through the centre. But in a typically Swiss
way it was rather too aware of its virtues; a little bit too smug. For the past
90 years or so the city had been the capital of Switzerland and now all roads
led to it and, in the case of Henry’s journey there on a windy Wednesday
morning, so did the trains.
At the end of their briefing the previous day, the
Hon Basil Remington-Barber had told him to get a move on. Henry had rather
imagined this meant by the end of the month, possibly within a fortnight.
‘A fortnight? You must be joking Hunter. No, this
week. Get up to Bern tomorrow, sort out your visa then I’ll give you your
precise instructions.’
He explained to his mother he was visiting friends
in Basle for a few days and took an early morning train to Bern, arriving at
the station in Bahnhofplatz just in time for lunch. Henry had been pleasantly
surprised when Remington-Barber suggested he book into the
Schweizerhof,
the best hotel in the city and no more than a short stroll from the station.
‘Rather goes against the grain Hunter and certainly
pushes the expenses, but the point is you have to stick to your role: as far as
the Germans are concerned, you’re an affluent Swiss gentleman who wishes to
travel to Stuttgart on business. Such people stay at the Schweizerhof, I’m
afraid. Make sure you’re seen out and about in the hotel.
There are
something like 115,000 people in this city and I think if you took the spies
away, it’d be less than 100,000. Most of the spies hang around the
Schweizerhof,
so it’s good to be seen, just being yourself. Book yourself in for two nights. I
just hope London buy it.’
Make sure you’re seen out and about in the hotel
. Once he
had checked in and changed he went down to the restaurant. The restaurant
manager asked him to wait at the bar, where he found himself alongside
two very
formally dressed, middle-aged men speaking in German. The two Germans greeted
him correctly, almost standing to attention as they did so.
‘What brings you to Bern?’ they asked. Henry explained
he was from Geneva but was here in Bern to arrange a visa: he was hoping visit
Germany soon on business.
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Stuttgart.’
‘Very good. Is Herr Hesse likely to be in Berlin at
any time in the future?’
‘Maybe. You never know!’
‘You must look me up if you do,’ said one of the
men. ‘There are so many misunderstandings about Germany these days. I’m sure you’re
not one of those people who thinks nothing but bad of Germany; we are, after
all, of the same race, yes?’
Henry nodded enthusiastically.
Indeed.
‘But if you’re ever in Berlin, I could introduce you
to people. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. I’d be happy to be of service.’
With that he presented Henry with a card, bowed
slightly then left. Henry looked at it:
Alois Jäger
Rechtsanwalt
181 Friedrichstraße
Berlin
A Berlin lawyer; you never know.
***
The
next morning, he visited the German Embassy on
Willadingweg. As he planned
his journey there he remembered
Remington-Barber’s instructions.
‘Whatever you do, Hunter, keep well away from where
we are in Thunstrasse. There’s a good chance you may be seen, the Germans
pretty much keep a permanent watch outside our place. You know how you are to
get hold of me.’
He breakfasted at the hotel, returned to his room
briefly then strolled casually through the Old City, past the
Münster
– the
enormous Gothic cathedral, over whose main entrance the sculpted participants
in the Last Judgement gazed down at him, trying to decide whether he was wicked
or virtuous.
He crossed the river on Kirchenfeldbr
ü
cke and soon
found a taxi which took him to the German Embassy, located in a residential
street in the east of the city. A large swastika hung limply over the entrance,
which was guarded by half a dozen armed German soldiers. In the street outside
were two Swiss policemen.
He had expected a short delay, but not the queue that
greeted him. The visa office, the man in front of him explained, did not open
until 11. It would close for lunch at one, re-open again at three and then
close at five. The man looked up and down the queue. They do not hurry, he told
Henry, but with some luck you may be seen sometime around four. Then you will
have to return tomorrow to collect the visa.
He had been standing in the queue for an hour and a
half when he heard a familiar voice behind him;
Jäger, the Berlin lawyer.
‘My dear Hesse, what are you doing in the queue? Come
with me.’
To the obvious annoyance of the people in front of
him, Henry was removed from the queue and escorted straight into the Embassy.
Wait here.
It was 1.15 now and the visa office had closed for
lunch. Ten minutes later and Jäger emerged from it with a clearly reluctant man
in tow.
‘Hesse: Herr Soldner himself will look after you. You
could not be in better hands. He has volunteered to curtail his lunch break in
order to deal with your visa.’
It
was evident that Herr Soldner was no mere clerk, as much as he looked like one.
As they marched through the ground floor of the embassy to his office on the
third floor, colleagues greeted him with a ‘Sieg Heil’, which he returned
enthusiastically. His office was well appointed, overlooking the gardens at the
rear. There was a portrait of Hitler on the wall and a large photograph on the
desk of Herr Soldner shaking hands with some officers in black uniforms. Next
to that was a smaller photograph of Herr Soldner with what he assumed was Frau
Soldner and their children. On his lapel was a swastika badge. He gestured for
Henry to sit down, removed his spectacles then read through Henry’s form,
nodding at times, making notes in the margin in places.
‘Please explain the purpose of your visit to
Stuttgart, Herr Hesse.’
Henry spoke in standard German, repeating the story
he and
Remington-Barber
had agreed.
‘My step-father had some business interests in
Stuttgart, property mostly. Unfortunately, he died two years ago and I want to
ensure there are no outstanding liabilities. Tying up loose ends, if you like.’
‘Do you have any bank accounts in Germany, Herr
Hesse?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have friends in Stuttgart?’
‘More like acquaintances – business contacts.’
‘Their names please.’
Henry gave the names of the two lawyers they dealt
with, along with the three agents who handled the various properties.
Herr Soldner wrote each name down. He then laid down
his pen and put on his spectacles.
‘The last name you gave me, Herr Hesse – one of the
agents.’
‘Bermann?’
‘Yes: first name please.’
‘Heinz: Heinz Bermann.’
‘A friend of yours?’
‘As I say, more of an acquaintance, a business
associate.’
‘When did you last see Bermann?’
‘Last time I was in Stuttgart, some three years ago.’
‘And were you planning to see him this time?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Do you realise that if you did so, Herr Hesse, that
would be in breach of the conditions of your visa?’
‘Really… Why’s that?’
‘The very strong likelihood is that Bermann is a
Jew, an enemy of the state.’
With only the briefest hesitation, Henry slapped his
thigh in annoyance.
‘You don’t say! Well that would explain a lot Herr
Soldner. I didn’t want to say too much before I went there but we never totally
trusted this Bermann. We always suspected he was being less than honest with
us. That was one of the reasons for my visit, to find out whether he owed us
money. Typical.’
‘If he’s still in Stuttgart, Herr Hesse, he will no
longer have any assets in his own name.’
He wrote on a plain sheet of paper and attached it
to the visa application, placing the complete document in a tray.
‘Your passport please Herr Hesse.’
He handed his Swiss passport over to the German.
‘Please wait in the reception on the ground floor. I
will call you when I’m ready. You’ll understand I need to make some enquiries.’
***
‘The
one thing we could get unstuck on is if they delve too far back,’
Remington-Barber had told him. ‘The only problem would be if they found out
either you or your mother also has British nationality.’
‘That’d be most unlikely. My mother hated being
Maureen Hunter, she thought it sounded common. She’s always regarded becoming
Marlene Hesse and taking on Swiss nationality as the height of sophistication,
and I’m certain she hasn’t used her English name or British identity in 17
years. Also, remember we moved from Zürich to Geneva after she married. I
became a Swiss national in 1927 and, as far as the Swiss authorities are
concerned, I’m Henri Hesse.’
‘Well, the Germans would have to dig very deep
indeed to find all this out and they’re only going to do that if they suspect
anything. Obviously, we hope they don’t.’
Obviously
.
***
An
hour later Adolf Hitler was once more staring at Henry Hunter, who was
attempting to remain as calm as possible after being summoned back to Herr
Soldner’s office.
‘Your visa is valid for 30 days from next Monday,
which is the 1
st
of July. It expires on the 30
th
July. You’ll
be in breach of your visa if you are in Germany after that date: do you understand?’
Henry nodded. He was hoping to be back in
Switzerland long before then.
‘You’re only permitted to stay in Stuttgart. While
in Germany you must not take part in any political activities; you are
prohibited from meeting or consorting with Jews, criminals or other enemies of
the state; you will register at a hotel within two hours of your arrival and
are not permitted to stay anywhere else during your stay; you are not allowed
to approach any military establishments or observe any movements of the armed
forces; you are not permitted to take photographs. The only currency that you
are allowed to use in Germany is Reichsmarks: upon your arrival you’re to go to
a bank and exchange your Swiss Francs for Reichsmarks. I should warn you that
using the black market is regarded as a serious criminal activity. It should
not be necessary for me to warn you that should anyone approach you and ask for
your help, particularly in regard to bringing information or messages back to
Switzerland, that is also regarded as a very serious criminal activity. You
should immediately report any such approach to the authorities. Do you
understand?’
Henry did.
‘Good. I do hope you enjoy your visit to Germany,
Herr Hesse.’
***
An
hour later Henry Hunter entered a cobblers
on an arcade on Kramgasse and
explained to the bearded man just visible behind a mound of shoes on the
counter he had caught the heel of one of his shoes in the tramline by the
station. The cobbler nodded
and lifted the counter top, beckoning for Henry
to come through.
‘Go up the stairs to the very top. He is waiting for
you.’
The Hon Basil Remington-Barber greeted Henry warmly.
‘Beauty of this place is I can get into it through
the back of a café about five doors along. Now, tell me how you got on.’
Remington-Barber checked the passport and the visa.
All
in order: good.
He was, he said, as certain as he could be the Germans
suspected nothing. For the next hour he gave Henry a detailed briefing on the
Stuttgart mission.