Agent in the shadows, p.4
Agent in the Shadows, page 4
By now Anna Rousseau had closed the air vent and stepped down from the wooden box. Her mission was accomplished: she’d been there simply to confirm what Mars – her Resistance group – was expecting.
The man they were expecting had duly arrived, along with his brutal reputation. There’d been a debate within Mars as to whether there should be an attempt to assassinate the man before he arrived at his new posting, or indeed, upon his arrival.
The debate had been quite intense, even heated, which Anna suspected was in a large part due to the considerable tensions that came with the life of a resistant.
Should we stop him before he can do us any harm?
But he’ll be too well guarded – we’ll be exposed. Let’s wait until he’s arrived.
Anna Rousseau had an ability to remain inconspicuous. She looked barely in her twenties – certainly younger than her twenty-five years. She was not so beautiful as to attract the undue attention of the Germans, but still pretty enough. She’d been the one to suggest using the vent in the corridor above the café to confirm Barbie’s arrival. She’d also suggested that a good sniper with a good rifle may be able to get a clear shot and Marcel had even come to see the spot, but he said while it was a good idea – a commendable one, indeed – there was no chance of escape and there’d be too many travellers around who’d almost certainly be shot in reprisal.
* * *
Anna Rousseau left Perrache through the southern exit and headed down Cours Charlemagne. At the junction with Rue Ravat, she entered a boutique, though only after checking the deep blue scarf with a distinctive floral motif was on display in the window.
It was safe to enter.
It was the kind of shop she’d normally feel out of place in: expensive gloves and even more expensive silk scarves – all made in Lyon, of course. The shop was much favoured by German officers: according to the proprietor they tended to buy gloves for their wives and scarves for their mistresses.
The proprietor was Madame Madelaine, a tall, haughty woman who always had a disapproving look about her and gave the distinct impression that she too thought this was a shop Anna was out of place in. But Marcel assured Anna the shop was a perfect bureau de poste for Mars and Madame Madelaine kept detailed notes of the names of the German officers she served and – thanks to her fluent German and their tendency to confide in her – which units they served with.
‘Can I help you?’ Madame Madelaine barely looked up. She was pointedly using the formal vous. Anna should know her place.
‘I see you have a pair of dark brown leather gloves in your window, next to the pale green scarf. May I ask if you have them in a small size?’
‘I’m afraid not: we only have medium. I shall contact my supplier though. Good day.’
Madame Madelaine turned round as Anna left the shop. Even though no one else was there it was essential they both stuck to the agreed form of words. The proprietor would have understood that the enquiry about the brown gloves meant the man had arrived as expected at Perrache. Had she been asked about the black gloves with a fur trim that would have meant he hadn’t arrived. An enquiry about whether she stocked white lace gloves would indicate there was a problem and Marcel should be contacted immediately.
Anna left the shop and headed back to work. She did wonder what Marcel would do next. Although he was a calm and stoic person she felt he could be too cautious, at other times too ready to take a risk, almost rash.
In truth, she knew little about him.
He was an enigma.
As were they all.
* * *
As Anna left Perrache station through its southern exit, the man whose arrival minutes earlier had caused such a fuss was being escorted through the northern exit.
Minutes later he strode into Hôtel Terminus, on Cours de Verdun. He paused long enough in the ornate entrance to admire the magnificent Art Nouveau décor and then announced he needed to get to work: straightaway. A man considerably taller than him and a good ten years older said that, with great respect, sir, we have laid on a very special lunch for you and would you not wish to refresh yourself after such a long journey – sir?
The man stopped and turned slowly to face him, an incredulous look on his face. ‘After such a long journey? Where on earth do you think I’ve come from? I took the train from Paris. I travelled in comfort. It was hardly Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow!’
Everyone laughed nervously, including the man who had made what transpired to be such an outrageous suggestion.
‘And your name?’
‘Otto Winter, sir, I am your aide-de-camp.’
‘Are you indeed. You can have a cold lunch sent up to my office, Winter, if you’re so worried I may starve. What you all need to understand –’ he’d moved back to address the throng in the reception area, moving to the stairs so he appeared taller. ‘What you all need to understand is that I’m here to do a job: thanks to the incompetence that appears to have been tolerated’ – he spat that word out and looked around, as if searching for those responsible for this – ‘the Resistance in this city appears to have been allowed to run the place and the city’s full of Jews! Well let me tell you, that’s all going to change!’
* * *
Waiting in an office on the fifth floor a woman in her fifties was telling the other women in the room, all younger than her, to get back to work. She said she really wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about.
The younger secretaries did as she’d instructed: they knew better than to disobey her. Agnes Kléber had the title of office manager but she was more powerful than that. She was from Alsace, so technically French, but in practice more German than German. Her fluency in both languages and the fact there was little she didn’t know gave her enormous power in the building. Even senior officers deferred to her and sought her advice.
She’d been as interested as the others as minutes earlier they’d all gathered at the window overlooking Cours de Verdun, curious to see what their new boss looked like.
‘He’s not even thirty, you know?’ The others had heard that but nodded appreciatively at Fraulein Kléber, grateful she was taking them into her confidence.
‘And he has quite the reputation, you know? He sorted out the Jews in Amsterdam and was then sent to Dijon.’ All eyes were upon her and she seemed pleased to have such an attentive audience. ‘And he so impressed Standartenführer Knochen in Paris that he himself arranged for him to be sent here. I understand –’ she looked round, checking no one who shouldn’t be was listening in ‘– that he will answer personally to Standartenführer Knochen!’
They were all suitably impressed.
Agnes Kléber was working out when would be the best time to introduce herself to Herr Barbie: she had every intention of making herself invaluable to the new head of the Lyon Gestapo.
* * *
The Mars Network met later that evening in the basement of a café on Rue des Capucins on the Croix-Rousse, the large hill at the north end of the Presqu’île peninsula.
The Croix-Rousse was the traditional heart of Lyon’s silk-weaving industry: the area had expanded following Joseph Jacquard’s invention of the silk loom. By the middle of the nineteenth century some thirty thousand canuts – the silk weavers – lived and worked in its cramped warren of streets and passageways. Buildings sprung up everywhere, their ceilings high to accommodate Jacquard’s looms. The Croix-Rousse was steep and the area difficult to get around: the streets narrow and poorly lit, the buildings dark and the area frequently shrouded in fog. And although being the centre of the silk industry suggested glamour or even prestige, in fact the Croix-Rousse was anything but: the streets and alleys between the buildings were filthy, much of it was like a slum.
For these reasons, and the fact that it was built on a steep hill, it was a difficult area to get around. But over hundreds of years the silk workers had developed an intricate network of passageways and short-cuts, doors opening directly from the street into a corridor running between buildings, down steps into an alley, across a street into another doorway, and so on. They were called the traboules, a labyrinth known only to locals, traditionally a convenient way for the silk workers to move around the area and down to the rivers – and now offering perfect cover for the Resistance.
Anna Rousseau thought about this as she slipped into the traboule on Passage Thiaffait. Marcel himself had mentioned it to her one day. The Croix-Rousse was an area she was unfamiliar with, she told him, when he gave her instructions to take a package there. He explained how the traboules could have been designed and built by the Resistance.
‘It offers us protection; it means we can move around the area unseen.’
‘But what about the police – and the Germans?’
‘They don’t understand the traboules: only locals do. Most of the police are from outside Lyon, they have no knowledge of how the different traboules connect with each other. When you enter a traboule it’s often unclear as to which way to go: the passageway could lead to a small courtyard and there may be four or five turnings from it. You need to know the area to know which one to take, and so on.’
He’d arranged for a retired canut called Luc to be her guide and soon she became familiar with the traboules.
‘One thing you must realise,’ Luc told her as they climbed a set of stairs leading into a cobbled alley, ‘in the Croix-Rousse there are no concierges as in Paris. Here people rely on themselves: we don’t need busy-bodies watching us.’
Once inside the traboule on Passage Thiaffait Anna paused. She was as certain as she could be that no one had followed her as she’d slipped in through the street door, but now she needed to be sure she was still alone. Attached to the wall just inside the entrance were some thirty letter boxes and there were a similar number on the wall opposite. The boxes were identical: made from dark, varnished wood, with a small door and lock on the front and a slot at the top for envelopes. The boxes were for the apartments and workshops throughout this complex of buildings: some had a name or an apartment number on them, others were blank. One or two had a first name chalked on the front and on one was the word ‘chien’ and a drawing of a dog next to it.
Anna went to a box in the middle row, on the end furthest from the door. It had the name ‘Blanc’ on the front. She slipped her hand into the slot at the top and pulled out a sheet of paper. To all intents and purposes, it looked like a shopping list, but in the bottom right-hand corner was the letters ‘RdC’. At the top of the sheet were a dozen tiny tears on the paper. She added one more and replaced the sheet in the letter box.
It was one of the dozens of ghost letter boxes in the traboules the Resistance used as a method of communication. She now knew she needed to go to the café on Rue des Capucins and she knew from the little rips on the sheet that a dozen others at least would be there.
* * *
They sat in a circle, fifteen of them, ensuring an oppressive atmosphere in the low-ceilinged basement. It was the first time Anna Rousseau had been to such an important meeting of the circuit: usually she just attended meetings with no more than two others present. She was in the outer circle of the room, her back against the rough, damp wall. Marcel was in the centre, of course, but to her surprise, so was Madame Madelaine: rather than being someone who passed on messages she appeared to be far more important.
Maurice was also in the centre circle, with Michel next to him. But what was interesting was how the three leaders deferred to Madame Madelaine. As the meeting went on, Anna realised that the stern woman who ran the glove and scarf boutique and who barely glanced at her was actually the leader of the Mars Network.
‘There is no question that we are now faced with a most serious problem.’ Her tone was less formal than when she spoke in her shop. Her voice was quiet and the people in the outer circle leaned forward to catch what she was saying.
‘When he was in Amsterdam, Barbie had a reputation for brutal efficiency. When he was in Dijon… well, we know what he was like there. The man is brutal and very, very clever: the word one most commonly hears used to describe him is determined. And remember how young he is. He’s been sent here to track down the Jews and break the Resistance. We are more fortunate in that we have a much lower profile and by and large we operate independently, but we must not become complacent. From now on, we simply cannot allow one single mistake.’
Chapter 5
Brandenburg, Germany
December 1942
The air raids in Hanover were to blame.
His predicament – and there was no getting away from the fact that Heinz-Wilhelm Schütze was in a serious predicament – was the fault of the British. He’d told this to the men in the long white coats who came in three times a day to give him food and medicines. He hoped that if he blamed the British then they’d realise he was on the right side, but they didn’t seem interested. A tablet in the morning and one at lunchtime and they’d stand over him watching him swallow it and then in the evening his injection – take down your trousers, face down on the bed – and the next thing he’d know it was morning.
The first air raid which was to blame was in June 1941, not long after he’d completed all the new identities and he was beginning to feel less anxious, so much so that Dr Köhler noticed this on one of his regular check-ups and said if this improvement continued then he’d be able to reduce the medication to just one tablet every three days.
Dr Köhler wrote to Klara in Berlin as he did every month and said her brother was making excellent progress and gave no cause for concern.
A week later there was an air raid in the middle of the night and the following afternoon he was at the café on Baring Strasse when he overheard someone say that Artillerie Strasse had been badly hit. After his lunch he strolled over to Artillerie Strasse and was shocked to see that the block where Dr Köhler’s surgery was had been levelled to the ground. He knew that Dr Köhler lived in an apartment above the surgery.
He hung around the area for a while, helping to move rubble, which was something expected of passers-by and it dawned on him that for the first time since he was eight or nine, he no longer had a doctor. He was no longer subject to their prying and restrictions. Even though Dr Sperling had been kind and Dr Köhler pleasant enough, they still required him to take medication, which in his opinion was quite unnecessary.
He had, over time, removed a number of sheets of headed notepaper from the surgery on Artillerie Strasse and forging the doctor’s signature and official stamp was no problem at all for someone who’d become so skilled at forging far more complicated documents.
He rarely saw his sister Klara these days, maybe once every two or three months. But she seemed pleased that according to Dr Köhler he was doing well and was still taking his medication and as a result his allowance continued.
He had to say, not taking the medication appeared to have no detrimental effect, which rather reinforced his point that he’d never needed it in the first place. He felt more clear-headed, though he didn’t sleep as well and stopping the medication appeared to coincide with the reappearance of some of the men who first began to watch him in Berlin. He even noticed people following him in the street, though he was always able to lose them.
Once a week he’d visit one of the four cities he’d chosen for his new personas and use the day to test the identity and add to it, queuing for ration cards, learning more about the places he was meant to be from.
He spent the Christmas of 1941 in Berlin with his sister and brother-in-law. His nephew – who just a few years before he’d flown kites with in the Tiergarten – had joined the SS and spent the two days he was at home shouting about Jews. His brother-in-law Günther talked about being sent to the front line and his sister spent most of the festive season crying.
Heinz-Wilhelm of course, being no fool – on the contrary, actually – knew that recently he’d become somewhat excitable so a week before Christmas he resumed the tablets he had left from Dr Köhler. This meant that by the time he arrived in Berlin and for the duration of the stay he was perhaps the calmest person in that tense household in Charlottenburg.
But soon after he returned to Hanover matters began to deteriorate.
The British bombing of the city was nowhere near as bad as it was in Berlin, Hamburg or the big industrial centres in the Ruhr, but it was still disconcerting and as the woman who ran the café on Baring Strasse said, it wasn’t so much the bombing that shredded her nerves, it was the anticipation of it.
He agreed with that. He never went down to air-raid shelters because that was his idea of an utter nightmare, being cooped up with all those strange people. During a raid he hid under his bed, a pillow over his head as he hummed any tune he could think of.
But matters got worse. He was banned from swimming in the Masch Park because apparently he was frightening people by swimming underneath them and holding onto their feet, even though he’d done that as a child at the stadtbad on Krumme Strasse in Berlin.
Then the woman who ran the café on Baring Strasse asked him to stop coming because he was upsetting the other customers and when he asked her what she meant she said that sitting at the table and weeping so loudly and not eating his meal was well… not pleasant. Heinz-Wilhelm told the woman she had no idea what it was like when nearly everyone in the city was against you and the next thing he knew she’d called the police and he was taken to the police station on Am Waterloo Platz.
They were fine there, actually. He’d calmed down and taken one of Dr Köhler’s tablets and he explained how the bombing had got the better of his nerves and the policeman – another one who looked like he’d been brought out of retirement – said he knew the feeling, but this wasn’t to happen again, and Heinz-Wilhelm said of course not.
