A poor weapon, his stark photographs that graced the grim pages of underground publications, and now Das Wort whenever he could smuggle them out. But he knew that his way of fighting back had kept his spirits up all these years.
He knew also that defiance came with an inevitable price tag. It was time to pay up.
But with dignity, Ernst, with dignity!
Why couldn’t he stop the palpitations? Why couldn’t he forget a certain month and a year—May, 1945—from his mind?
Foolish question. The answer sat on the other side of the limousine.
He forced himself to look at the shaved head. The flat Mongolian face. Slanted eyes that gleamed at the sight of helplessness, of fear.
Ernst Roeder’s mother had warned him well in advance, even though he was eighteen years old and knew the score. In May 1945, Russians and Mongolians were turned loose on Berlin—the last stronghold of the Third Reich. What they found were mostly old people, women, and children.
The first thing Ernst did after his mother disappeared was to blacken his sister’s face with coal dust. His mother had told him how all the women were doing it to make themselves ugly to the Soviet soldiers.
But his sister hated the coal dust. Complaining that it was itchy, she kept rubbing it off. So he made her wear a pair of his trousers—the baggiest he could find—and as a further precaution, he hid her long blonde hair under a cap.
But his sister was fourteen and her figure was becoming harder to disguise. So he kept her with him constantly while he foraged for food, afraid to let her out of his sight.
He had found a vacant cellar months ago and managed to rescue a dilapidated mattress from a garbage dump, scrubbing it clean with rags. His sister slept on the mattress. He slept nearby on hard cement.
He had trained himself to be a light sleeper—to bolt upright at the sound of a slight noise—and was proud of the fact that he awoke early each morning so the two of them could go on the hunt for food, water, clothing—anything that could help them survive.
But one night, weakened from lack of decent food the last few days, he overslept. He was sleeping soundly when he heard a string of Russian curses followed by boisterous laughter. As he bolted upright, he gagged on the overpowering smell of fish, sweat and leather in time to see his sister stir in her sleep, her cap loosening a long golden strand—
They went at her like a wolf pack, tearing at her clothes, smothering her screams with their laughter.
Roeder flung himself at these savages in soldiers’ uniforms, but he was knocked aside, his head smashing into concrete.
Dazed, sobbing, he kept calling his sister’s name.
He was still calling it after they left, but his sister wouldn’t answer.
He stayed by her side and would not let her out of his sight. Not for five days.
After that, he buried her in a corner of the cellar.
Ernst Roeder removed his glasses and wiped his forehead and upper lip with the back of his hand. “Please,” he said, “let me have one more pill.”
Rogov ignored him.
Twenty minutes later Roeder’s agitation subsided even without his medication. He had been driven to an unpretentious little house and taken up a flight of stairs and into a room that was half kitchen, half parlor. He was grateful for the overstuffed chair he’d been offered.
There was nothing threatening about Colonel Aleksei Andreyev, who sat opposite him—probably not a good sign. Andreyev’s reputation preceded him, Roeder having been in his presence more than once. Even so, he thought it polite of the colonel to speak to him in colloquial German.
“—so in order to save us both time which, for me at least, is essential,” the colonel was saying, “I will tell you what I already know, and you will then tell me what I do not know. I know that you are in the business of selling secrets to the West. I know that one of your partners-in-treason was Stepan Brodsky. I know that the two of you conspired to pass certain information to our enemies regarding the summit negotiations and that your partner was planning, for reasons not yet clear to me, to deliver what I have reason to believe was only a first installment.”
He held up Stepan Brodsky’s cigarette lighter.
“Through my efforts, Brodsky’s lighter has just been found.”
He paused.
“It has recently come to my attention, Herr Roeder, that you were about to finalize the sale—your backup copy of microfilm—with the help of an American courier. The lovely Adrienne Brenner.”
He paused. Leaned forward to scrutinize Roeder’s expression.
“The microfilm you concealed in the wooden toy you passed her is being developed as we speak,” he said.
Roeder looked at the man incredulously. He hadn’t the faintest idea what Andreyev was talking about. He reached into his pocket, his chest pain reminding him that he no longer had any nitroglycerine.
“Who else is involved in your little enterprise? Who are your contacts? I want the name of every person who has any knowledge of this affair.”
“You can trust me,” Aleksei said, sounding as gently forgiving as a father confessor. “I can help you. We can help one another.”
Roeder opened his mouth but no sound came out. A sudden fog had rolled into his brain and he lost his bearings in it…
Where to begin? How to explain that yes, he was involved, but not in the way Colonel Andreyev was suggesting. The microfilm in the wooden toy had nothing to do with espionage.
“You are wrong,” were the only words he was able to form out of the fog.
Aleksei took hold of Roeder’s arm and led him into the kitchen area, motioning for Luka to follow. He led Roeder to an open door.
“I wish I had time to play the usual cat-and-mouse games, Herr Roeder, but unfortunately you are not a man I can afford to detain too long. Not until I have something incriminating in hand. A confession would do nicely. For that I must rely on my associate, Luka Rogov.”
Luka Rogov advanced like a tank edging into battle.
“Luka does his best work in a cellar. Of course if you were to cooperate—”
A cellar.
Roeder screamed without sound. Gasped, choking, in a futile effort to blot out the laughter—the screams.
Sobbing, rocking in his arms, all bloody and broken, so lovely and golden, so still—
One oversized hand began to claw at his chest.
Chapter 37
Colonel Emil von Eyssen strode up to a parked car where his sergeant was waiting.
“Which house?” he rasped—and realized the man had noticed his agitation. “My poor brother-in-law has a history of heart disease—scarlet fever,” he explained. “You remember how it was in Berlin right after the war. Prolonged stress. Malnutrition. How long have they had him?”
“A quarter of an hour, not counting the time he was in the limousine. It’s that house over there,” his sergeant said, pointing.
“Wait here unless I call you,” von Eyssen said in a tone that substituted for clenched teeth.
He headed for the house in rapid strides. Took the steps two at a time. Kicked at the front door with his boot. They have had no time, he told himself. They cannot have a confession yet.
A scowling Luka Rogov opened the door.
Von Eyssen rushed in. Ernst was on the floor, Andreyev kneeling beside him, holding his brother-in-law’s wrist.
Taking his pulse?
Aleksei dropped Roeder’s wrist and stood up. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s been a regrettable accident. Your brother-in-law has had a fatal heart attack.”