He had heard about it. But he had not believed children were being conscripted until now.
Up on the highway there was no sign of traffic, although from here the fires in Berlin were distinct on the horizon. He even imagined that he could smell the smoke and the plaster dust.
He straightened up his uniform and started toward the west, his back straight, the heels of his boots digging into the asphalt, his stride long, purposeful.
The road curved gradually around the base of the hill, then dipped down on the other side, curving sharply out of sight to the north.
Nauen would be a mile farther beyond the curve, the twisted tree and the barn just at the curve if the maps he had studied were correct.
If he had felt exposed out on the field, he felt absolutely naked here. If a patrol came by, he decided, he would tell them that he had had an accident. He would use his letter to commandeer a vehicle, and from that point he’d have to play it by ear. Somehow he would make it into Berlin. Of course, without his contact his mission would have to be scrubbed. Charlottenburg was a large area. He’d never find Schey without help.
Within another few minutes Deland had made it around the curve, and about a hundred yards farther was the twisted tree, a narrow dirt track running down toward the base of a hill.
Deland hurried across the road and thetf down the path where he saw an old, dilapidated barn with a broken stone foundation and gaping holes in the roof.
He stopped twenty yards away, unsnapped the flap of his holster, and drew out the Luger. He levered a round into the chamber and then started forward again.
As he walked, he began to whistle the tune to “Little Brown Jug.” It was their recognition signal. The Resistance was there in the barn. He did not want to be shot as an SS colonel.
Ten feet from the barn someone stepped out of the shadows to the side.
Delan stopped, raising his Luger.
“I didn’t know it was going to be you,” Dannsiger said.
Deland stepped closer, and suddenly he realized who it was.
His hand shook as he lowered the Luger. “My God. I thought you were dead.”
There had been a current of excitement all during Saturday, and now today as well. Binder refused to be drawn out by Canaris, but Stawitzky had stopped by for a short chat about the old days in the Abwehr. Before 1939. He was almost friendly.
Canaris spotted Kriiger out in the corridor. He was grinning, his lips drawn back over his teeth like a rat’s.
Lunding had been silent for most of the day, although he had signaled that there seemed to be a great deal of activity in the camp the last time he had been allowed out.
At noon, Canaris had asked Binder if he would be allowed his exercise period, but the corporal just shook his head, left the tray of food, and got out.
The meals came three times a day, each full and well-balanced with either meat or chicken, plenty of vegetables, and always the heavy dark bread which reminded Canaris of Bavaria.
Mostly he had wine to drink with his meals, although for Saturday’s dinner he had been given two large steins of thick, rich beer, which he had thoroughly enjoyed.
Something was about to happen. There was no doubt in Canaris’ mind. But what?
For a time, gazing out his window that looked across the exercise yard and beyond the fences to the woods, he speculated that the Americans had finally advanced within striking distance and soon would be here. It would explain the activity, the fine rations, and the good treatment.
Yet, somehow, he knew that wasn’t the case, and when Binder brought his dinner tray shortly before six, the corporal seemed especially nervous and ill at ease.
“What is it, Corporal?” Canaris asked.
Binder went back out into the corridor without a word. Canaris thought he was leaving, but he came back a moment later with a clean, freshly pressed white shirt. He looked very guilty and just a little frightened.
“Why are you giving me this shirt now?” Canaris asked, rising. He was truly alarmed.
Binder said nothing. He just held the shirt out. Canaris took it.
“Can’t you speak to me? Can’t you tell me what is happening?”
Binder glanced over his shoulder. He was really frightened.
“You are to clean up after you eat your meal. Shave. Put on your clean shirt. And wear a tie.”
“What is it?”
“Colonel Oster is already in trial. He has confessed.”
It was as if a gigantic hand had clamped itself around his heart.
Canaris staggered, and sat heavily on his cot.
“Hans? The trial?”
“There are others, Herr Admiral. Other prisoners have been brought here. I don’t know who they are, but …”
Canaris looked up. “Do you know the name Meitner? Hans Meitner? He was the colonel who came to visit me.”
“No, sir. I do not know him,” Binder said. He stepped back as if to go. “Please, Herr Admiral, have your dinner and change your shirt. Your trial is … next.” He turned and left the cell.
Dinner was a small baked chicken with Spaezle and some raw cabbage soaked in vinegar. There were two steins of beer.
His trial! Meitner had evidently failed. There would be no defense counsel. The RSHA had finally gotten its way. They had his diaries. There was no hope!
He pushed his tray aside and got down on the floor at the foot of his cot. He tapped for Lunding, but there was no answer, and after five minutes he gave up. His friend was either out of his cell or asleep. He would try later.
He dragged himself back to his cot, picked at his food for a moment, but then began to eat in earnest. He had spent too many months half
