took a seat. Not exactly optimum conditions for research, but it would do.
The tab on the folder said “Plotzensee,” which he knew was a prison in Berlin during the war. The Nazis had often used it for political prisoners.
Inside was a typewritten sheet of names atop a stack of eight-by-ten photos in black and white. There were seven names on the list, next to two columns of dates. The first column was headed “Date of Incarceration.” The second, “Final Disposition.”
Was this, perhaps, a roster of members of the Berlin White Rose who had been arrested? If so, it was new ground indeed. No other historian had yet come up with this many names associated with the Berlin group.
The most interesting name was the first one: Kurt Bauer. Incarcerated March 20, 1943. Released September 3, 1943. Five and a half months in prison hardly seemed like evidence of betrayal, unless he had spilled his guts during interrogation. Even then, considering the Gestapo’s torture tactics, it certainly would have been forgivable for a teenage boy to break under pressure. More damning, perhaps, was that Bauer was the only one of the seven to be released.
The other six had also been incarcerated on March 20. Three of them-Dieter Bussler, Christoph Klemm, and Ulrich Lindner-were listed as “executed” on August 19, 1943. The fourth, Liesl Folkerts, was listed as “killed” on September 4, the day after Bauer’s release. The fifth, Hannelore Nierendorf, was listed as “escaped,” also on September 4. The sixth, Klara Waldhorst, was also executed, on September 12.
From his previous research, Nat knew of only three names besides Bauer’s that had been associated with the Berlin cell up to now-Helmut Hartert, Falk Harnack, and Jorg Strasser-and none of them was on this list.
Hartert was the only one of the three who was a Berliner. He had survived the war and, to Nat’s knowledge, had never been arrested. Harnack had communicated with the Berlin group as an emissary from the original Munich cell. He had apparently also visited Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the dissident cleric at the center of both of Nat’s books. Harnack had been arrested in a roundup of the Munich members, tried, and then released. Strasser, whose only apparent role was to transport a batch of White Rose leaflets to Berlin, had been questioned by the Munich Gestapo and released.
Nat supposed that any of those three might just as easily have betrayed the Berlin members as Bauer.
But when he reappraised this new information, Nat saw that the most intriguing name belonged to Hannelore Nierendorf, who had escaped. Might she still be alive? He aimed to find out. But he would have to do so without tipping off Berta, or else she would realize he had been rummaging through her papers. For all he knew, Berta had already interviewed the woman. He hurriedly copied the information onto the stationery.
There were no other documents in the folder, so he turned to the photos. The first, judging by the scenery, had been taken fairly recently. It was of an old man in a baggy dark overcoat clutching a small bouquet of flowers. His face seemed vaguely familiar, and he stood on a wide sidewalk before a high brick wall. There was some sort of historical marker in the background. Nat squinted to make out the lettering: “Gedenkstatte Plotzensee.”
Of course. The site of the infamous old prison was now a national memorial site. He then realized who the man was: Kurt Bauer. Nat had seen contemporary photos on the Internet.
Had Berta snapped it? If so, then she had probably followed him to the site, which struck Nat as a bit creepy. Maybe it happened the day she asked Bauer for an interview. But hadn’t Berta just told him that she had only tried contacting Bauer by mail? Nat turned over the photo. Berta had scribbled a date: “4 May 2007.” Less than a month ago.
The next photo was also of Bauer and was also taken at Plotzensee. Same overcoat, different lighting, different flowers and, on the back, a different date. “4 April 2007.”
There were three more shots of the elderly Bauer at Plotzensee. In two he glared at the camera as if he had recognized the person taking his picture. In each he held a bouquet. They had all been snapped on the fourth day of a different month the previous year.
Nat rechecked the roster of names. Every death except Liesl Folkerts’ had occurred on August 19 or September 12. Liesl died on September 4. Could she have been Bauer’s old flame? Judging from the flowers, Nat would bet on it. But why wasn’t she listed as “executed,” like all the others? The alignment of dates suggested she may have been shot while trying to escape with Hannelore Nierendorf. Perhaps Bauer had even been involved in the plot, since he had been released the day before and would have been in a position to help.
Interesting, all of it.
Berta’s doggedness in snapping the intrusive photos, on the other hand, was troubling, even by Nat’s standards. And the Plotzensee shots were only part of the story. There were seven more glossies in the file, and six were of Bauer. None was dated, but each looked recent: Bauer climbing into a limo outside an upscale town house; Bauer delivering a speech to a roomful of suits; Bauer at a posh restaurant; Bauer on a park bench reading an edition
The seventh photo was also an eight-by-ten, but Nat didn’t recognize the subject. It was another old man, around Bauer’s age, holding a newspaper as he stood on a front porch in his bathrobe. Somewhere in Europe, probably Germany, judging by the style of door and windows. Wooded neighborhood. No date, and no writing on the back. Another member of the Bauer family, perhaps? Or maybe a White Rose survivor?
Nat took a deep breath and wondered what to do next. Then he nearly jumped out of his skin as Berta called out from the bed.
“Are you all right in there?”
“Yes,” he replied through the door. “The, uh, dinner was a little rich, I guess. Plus all the wine.”
“Not to mention the excitement afterward.”
He heard Berta climbing out of bed, so he stood, grabbed a towel, and draped it around the folder and the sheet of paper. He then ran the tap for a second and shut off the light. When he opened the door he was holding the papers beneath the towel while awkwardly pretending to dry his hands. Luckily, Berta wanted a glass of water, and she brushed past him to get to the sink. Once he heard the tap running, he stepped to the TV console and hurriedly slid the folder back into place. Then he tucked the sheet of stationery into his pants pocket, pulled off his trousers, and got back into bed.
“You drank a bourbon?” she called out.
Shit. He had left the mini-bottle on the floor, along with his empty glass.
“Hair of the dog. As a precaution.”
“Already? Too early. It will never work.”
She emerged shortly afterward, naked and sleek in the dimness. A half hour ago the sight would have been arousing. But not after what he had seen in the folder. He shut his eyes, feigning sleep. She slid in beside him and was soon breathing evenly, but Nat remained awake. He couldn’t shake the image of Berta stalking the old man, capturing him unawares from behind trees and hedges and from her car. If the man had refused her request for an interview, her behavior amounted to little more than harassment, not to mention a waste of time.
The power of love? This looked more like the power of obsession. Nat tried to sleep. The next thing he knew, he was awakening to full sunlight. The clock said it was nearly seven. He dressed quietly to keep from waking Berta and crept into the hall.
The door to his room was ajar, and a maid’s cart was parked outside. They certainly started early around here. He entered to find a man in a hotel jacket stooped at the end of the bed, fussily tucking in the linens. But Nat hadn’t slept here, so why did the bed need making?
The man straightened quickly and brushed past him toward the door, moving briskly, face averted.
“Just finishing, sir.” An accent, not local.
He looked around in a panic for his things. The box of Gordon’s keepsakes was still in his bag, thank goodness, tucked between a pair of shirts. His laptop was still here, too, but the screen was up and the drawer of the disk drive was open. The bastard had copied his files-all the electronic versions of his documents, his sources, notes from the Molden interview, and everything they had photographed yesterday at the Swiss Archives. Nat ran into the hallway, colliding sharply with the laundry cart, but the man was gone. He heard elevator doors opening around the corner at the far end of the hall, so he sprinted in that direction. Then there was a faint ping, like a bell in a boxing ring, and he heard the doors shutting. By the time he rounded the corner the row of display lights showed that the car was just reaching the lobby.
