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CHAPTER 1

43 Eaton Place, London – March 1943

THE ENVELOPE

A weathered woman sat in a quiet corner of the reading parlor of a well-appointed London house, encircling a steaming cup of tea with both hands as if to extract all of its available warmth. Harbingers of spring were everywhere outside the curtained window, but her coloring and demeanor remained those of deep winter. Her hands were steady and appeared unusually strong, especially for one in her late sixties, and her eyes were penetrating blue, suggesting intelligence and determination.

An overstuffed, sealed diplomatic envelope secured with a red ribbon lay unopened on the small table beside her chair. She had attempted to trace the path of the envelope and its contents by reading backward from the last name — hers — through those in three prior addressee blocks. A wide black grease pencil had been applied heavily to obscure each of those names, leaving only hers legible, but close examination had allowed her to trace the indentations of some of the blackened letters.

Immediately preceding her name was apparently that of Wladyslaw Raczkiewicz, Poland's president-in-exile, who normally resided at 43 Eaton Place. She had been called by his aide, who told her that a diplomatic packet was being held for her at the presidential residence, and who invited her to retrieve it at her earliest convenience. So, that step in the progression was really not unexpected.

For now, she was most curious about the first sender in the sequence. The earliest-entered name had not been printed with sufficient pressure to stand out easily, but, by holding the envelope at a precise angle to the light and studying it at length, she concluded that it read "Giznad Asle." That brought a faint smile to her lips. She did not try to decipher the intermediate smudged name; there would be time for that later.

She believed that the envelope should be opened immediately and its contents considered carefully. It had already been over a week since the call from a Prague hotel alerted her to its existence. There would be unexpected disclosures inside, and it probably contained answers to some of the obscured events of the last five years. "Giznad Asle" was not the name of a real person but was instead a clue to the originator of the enigmatic envelope. The name "Elsa Danzig" had been reversed intentionally to "Giznad Asle" when it was lightly printed on the origination line. That was a frequently employed attempt at gallows humor within Poland's intelligence organization — the Stuzba Wywiadu Wojskowego, or SWW. It was, in itself, a form of professional greeting to the old woman from a female compatriot somewhere near Prague.

"Ah, yes — my brilliant and courageous Elsa. You are back out there in harm's way, even though our army struck its colors within three weeks and our navy steamed immediately for the security of England. How painfully ironic." The blue eyes closed momentarily, and in her imagination she pictured a diminutive woman — now about age thirty-two — with a chameleon's ability to blend and disappear into insignificance. Elsa had begun the chain of helping hands that moved the bulging envelope from German-occupied Czechoslovakia to her side in wartime London.

So, the burden had now shifted squarely onto her, she mused. As much as she would prefer to involve herself exclusively in helping to plan the future of her occupied country, there were too many personal issues from the past that must be sorted out and passed along. This envelope might be the figurative Rosetta Stone for several people dear to her — it could even enrich her own remaining time, or at least satisfy her compulsion to fix and repair nearly everything requiring attention. And so, with an audible sigh, she set aside her teacup and untied the red ribbon, then sliced neatly through the envelope's seal, using a menacing blade which she had extracted silently from the handle of her worn handbag. With steel-rimmed reading glasses straddling the bridge of her broad nose, she readied herself to begin assessing the envelope's contents.

Carinhall, Near Berlin – March 1943

TWO TIRED WARRIORS

Carinhall was truly one of the most lavish homes anywhere in Europe, filled with famous paintings, priceless artifacts, and all of the trappings of the wealthiest man in the Third Reich. Never mind that the house and its contents were all stolen from victims of the Nazi regime; he was held in awe by most of his countrymen. His name was Hermann Göring, and he had been designated personally by Adolf Hitler as the second most powerful man in his government — the one named to succeed the führer, should he not be able to continue his command.

Through the first three years of the war that was irreversibly spreading across the Continent, Göring had seemed capable of achieving any objective assigned to him, but as 1943 ground along, there were cracks in the Master Plan for European conquest, and Göring had increasingly pulled back from personal direction of campaigns. He had known that the führer's attack upon the Soviet Union, to the east, was much riskier than the easy conquests of Poland, France, and the Low Countries had been. Logistical distances would be dramatically greater, and the cruel winter weather that had once defeated Napoleon might be equally daunting for the swift German armies and the Luftwaffe providing air cover above them. And finally, there were the fierce and fearless enemy troops of Russia — waves of men with nothing better to do than rush forward and die for their homeland. Göring knew that Germany's troops were tiring — even in victory — and he wished that he could persuade the führer to pause and consolidate.

He had just received disquieting news that again demonstrated the immoral ferocity of this enemy. German forces in Poland's Katyn Forest had reportedly found the bodies of thousands of Polish military officers, all thrown ingloriously into shallow trenches after being murdered. Those first secret accounts seemed to suggest that the entire officer cadre of Poland had been wiped out in one treacherous move. The Western Allies, led by Britain and the United States, would reflexively ascribe the evil deed to occupying German forces. They would be entirely unwilling to consider that it might have been an execution ordered by Soviet leadership in the Kremlin, for fear of offending their Eastern ally. But of course those Western Allies would know, as Göring did already, that Joseph Stalin had ordered the massacre.

Göring had reached out swiftly to exiled President Wladyslaw Raczliewicz in London through a neutral intermediary, because he wished to assure the Polish president that, even though Germany occupied large portions of his homeland, such a slaughter would be unthinkable to Germany's professional Wehrmacht officers. He had presented persuasive evidence identifying the true culprit, and somewhat to his surprise he had received an immediate acknowledgment from President Raczliewicz that Polish loyalists on the scene confirmed the authorship of the mass murder. Göring was pleased by this acknowledgment; he felt that it would make daily life much less dangerous for occupying German personnel. They would not be shot or firebombed from the shadows by outraged friends and relatives of the murdered Polish officers, because those people knew well that being occupied by Germany was considerably less onerous than being occupied by savage Russians.

Wehrmacht General Otto von Seigler was to be the dinner guest of Emmy and Hermann Göring that evening. It was a long-standing friendship that had survived serious political strains. Hermann had protected his friend, and Emmy had spread her maternal cloak over von Seigler's talented daughter, both of whom had come under Gestapo suspicion after an unsuccessful attempt upon the führer's life in 1938. Otto von Seigler had validated Hermann's judgment many times over by providing brilliant planning for Germany's swift and relatively bloodless conquest of Poland in September 1939. Both men were now veterans of two wars, and they shared a weariness that could be articulated only to the closest and most trustworthy friends.

A telephone from the main entrance to Carinhall — nearly a mile from the great house — informed Göring that General von Seigler's car had just passed the control point. Hermann stoked the logs in the massive hearth to coax more warmth into the cool March evening, and Emmy rang for their servers to bring the libations and hors d'oeuvres that the oversized reichsmarschall loved to savor during informal conversations. Minutes later, the two military professionals met with a backslapping embrace, totally ignoring the requisite greeting of "Heil Hitler." Then Otto kissed Emmy on both cheeks and asked if he would be seeing their five-year-old daughter, Edda, that evening.

"If you want to, then surely you shall see her!" the pleased mother replied, and she motioned to the server, who turned quickly to fetch the youngster from some hidden corner of the great house. The three old friends stood silently for just a moment — a silence which conveyed all of the pressures and uncertainties of wartime leaders — and then, as if on cue, they burst into laughter over nothing except their happiness when anticipating an evening of civility and trust.

* * *

At the end of a long and excellent dinner, featuring game birds which the reichsmarschall had personally bagged on his estate, Emmy bade them both gute Nacht, planted a warm kiss on her husband's broad forehead, and summoned a server to bring a bottle of fifty-year-old brandy to a small table nestled between two fashionably worn leather chairs near the banked fire. It was her invitation for the two old warriors to enjoy a private conversation and treat with issues not vented in public. Emmy had developed a delicate feel for the nuances of wartime politics, which served her famous husband well, even as his value to the führer commenced to fade.

General von Seigler began. "Hermann, once again I need a favor from you — one which must go no further than the two of us. Well, the three of us, because Emmy should know as well. May I speak freely?" "I believe you already have," was the good-humored reply. Then the larger man leaned forward and, with a much more serious face, inquired, "What do you need, Otto? It is far too late in the game for me to be coy about such things."

"I have heard that you and President Raczkiewicz have opened a behind-the-scenes channel in the aftermath of that reported massacre of Polish officers in Katyn Woods, and that he understands the Soviets committed the murders with no knowledge of our people. No — don't comment — just hear me out. I have that knowledge on good authority and approve of what you did, wholeheartedly. It could save the lives and limbs of many young Germans within Poland and may someday serve as the basis for greater rapport between the German and Polish peoples.

"My request is to use your informal communications channel to transmit some written materials to a female member of Raczkiewicz's Polish government-in-exile in London. She is a veteran SWW person, but what I am sending has no espionage importance — it is of a personal nature. You see, Hermann — that woman in London is Lilka Rudovska, the mother of my daughter, Sofie, whom you and Emmy know. The materials are a memoir composed at Theresienstadt by my daughter's musician gentleman friend, who by now is probably dead. He recently got the memoir into the hands of Czech Gypsies and a young Polish woman named Elsa, who believed that I could use my offices to deliver them intact to my daughter. I know it is complex, but ..."

"Where is your daughter, Otto? At one time her whereabouts baffled our friend Herr Himmler, who thought that she and a Jewish companion might tie you to the Oster thing. They gave the slip to some experienced people."

"Hermann, it is that same fellow! He has written to her — from Theresienstadt — you know. I'm not sure where she is, but I believe that her mother does know. If I can get the packet to London, I will have done my best to carry out his last wishes — and perhaps to give closure to my daughter."

"Theresienstadt, you say. Do you know that it has been dubbed 'The Village That Hitler Gave to The Jews'? It is a fascinating story, Otto. Do you know much about Theresienstadt? How can I be sure that I am not transmitting a lot of anti-Nazi propaganda to someone in London who will use it to paint us as cruel oppressors? If I agree to help you — and I'm not saying I will — it can only be with the assurance that whatever the fellow has written doesn't embarrass us. Are you certain of that, Otto?"

"Perhaps. I don't know much about Theresienstadt — what is its significance? I thought it was just a processing area for Czechs being detained. Is there something more?"

"Theresienstadt is used to show the world that we are doing our best to give a full range of artistic opportunity to those who are temporarily removed from the streets. It is home to many fine musicians, members of classical orchestras, choirs, even contemporary 'jazz' players. That stuff can't even be performed in our own taverns any more, but at Theresienstadt there is a full program of 'hot' music — like in Paris, Otto! Like in Paris!! And there are poets and writers there, too. The only difference is that the residents are all Jews and Gypsies and homosexuals, whom the Reich has temporarily removed from our occupied cities until sound government and vibrant commerce can be established firmly. You said your daughter's friend is a musician, no? And a Jew, too. If he was in Czechoslovakia, I am not surprised that he is in Theresienstadt. So, what is the problem, Otto?"

"The problem is that they were in love. And the problem is exacerbated because people die in Theresienstadt with great regularity, despite its fabricated reputation for artistic brilliance. And the problem is that the young man had been in Theresienstadt for over three years and wished to send a sort of 'last testament' to his lover before he became one of those attrition statistics we lock into our Gestapo safes. That is the problem, Hermann. I will understand fully if you decide that it is too risky a favor to implement, but I give you my word that this is not some nefarious plan to disclose anti-Nazi materials to the world. My daughter is, above all — über alles — a proud daughter of Germany."

"Have you brought the packet with you this evening?"

"I have."

"Then please leave it with me."

Salbris, Département Loir-et-Cher, Occupied France March 1943

A LETTER FROM THE HEART

A snifter of cognac was perched on the edge of a small writing desk, which was illuminated by bright sunlight streaming in from the walled garden on the south exposure of the small stucco residence. In earlier years, it could have been a poster intended to lure tourists away from the major cities and into the friendlier countryside of central France. Even during wartime in German-occupied France, Salbris was very little changed, except for a contingent of German military housed in L'Hotel de Valaudran, which was their departmental headquarters.

Outside the window, a young woman sat on the garden bench reading what appeared to be a letter. Letters were rare in Salbris in the spring of 1943, because the French postal system had crumbled much as the national army had done. She finished reading and held the sheets of paper quietly in her lap, then, after a few minutes, she unfolded the pages and reread them. There were tears brimming from the corners of her large eyes, yet she made no move to dry them as they trickled down the sides of her comely face. Clearly, the letter had evoked memories of places and faces taken from her during the four years of European fighting. Finally, she dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her white apron and stuffed the folded letter inside her waistband. When she stood, her head was held high and she walked purposefully into the house and to the waiting cognac glass. After it had been emptied, refilled, and emptied a second time, the young woman spread a sheet of writing vellum atop her desk and began — slowly — to write.

Salbris, France, March '43 My dearest Stéphane,

Your welcome letter was delivered to me today. What a pleasant surprise! I had been told that Portuguese fishermen organized a cross-Channel mail carriage between England and France but was not aware how efficient it has become. Now I have decided to send this reply through the same conduit. The French international mails are very unreliable and local service only a bit better.

Your decision to remain in England after war broke out certainly did make sense to me, Stéphane. I understand that you worried that you might be impressed into Mussolini's army if you went back to occupied territory, because your father served there and that would obligate you, too. Reinhardt was not as comfortable as I was with your decision. He wanted to be in Paris again, and he is arrogant enough to believe that the war affects only others.

At first I thought he was being totally insane — especially because he is Romani and his people are vilified by Goebbels and the other Nazis who want to obliterate them. But his notoriety and popularity have attracted a "protector," and thus far his life has been unaffected and his work remains lucrative. The new group he has assembled — in your absence — is not so creative, and, because I was your protégé, my participation has been reduced to a few scraps of work.

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Excerpted from "Über Alles"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Robert Arthur Neff.
Excerpted by permission of J. H. Clark & Associates, Inc..
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