Since the early 1930s, Fritz had been almost as vehemently opposed to the Communists as to the Nazis. To be sure, he had for a time been attracted by the revolutionary language that cut through the perpetual compromises of the Social Democrats. After October 1917, he had not been impervious to the “great light in the East.” He had a few happy memories from that period of his life. For example, he still liked to sing, when he was in good company, songs of the radical left, full of mockery for the Social Democratic moderates: the “Revoluzzer” by Erich Mühsam was one of his favorite songs. But the dictatorial practices of the KPD had quickly snuffed any temptations in that direction. The possibility of the USSR invading Germany depressed him almost as much as that of Hitler attaining victory.
Even though Schreiber had advised him against engaging in dangerous activities, Fritz continued to write anti-Nazi leaflets throughout 1942. He left letters with “defeatist” content, supposedly written by a “soldier back from the Russian front”—a role with unassailable credibility in Germany at the time—in telephone booths. Fritz contemplated taking even bolder steps. He and two of his friends came up with the idea of blowing up a railroad bridge at Werder am Havel, a small town about thirty kilometers southwest of Berlin. But the plan, for unknown reasons, was never carried out.
This excited state, although dangerous, was pathetic and a little naïve. With the position he occupied and the information at his disposal, Fritz had long known that he could do much better: provide information to the enemies of his country. From his time as a Wandervogel, he knew that espionage was very much an act of war, and that he would “have to be very clever at passing news secretly from one place to another,” as Baden-Powell put it. He had been one of the boldest speaking out against the Nazis among the chatterers at the Café Kottler, and he had never lacked courage in writing anonymous propaganda against the regime, but this was something entirely different. Sharing intelligence with the enemy: these terrifying words frequently echoed in his mind, although he was unable to tell whether it was simple common sense or lunatic recklessness that had put such ideas into his head.
For some time Fritz had already been acting on the edge of “high treason” (Hochverrat), by counterfeiting passports in South Africa and by distributing anonymous messages. These were very great risks. But in the event he were to provide information of a strategic nature to the Allies, he would be guilty of genuine “treason to his country” (Landesverrat), which meant not only a death sentence but also dishonor in the eyes of generations to come.
On every occasion, it was the words of the prelate Schreiber that enabled him to orient his compass: “Do not leave Germany! Fight against the Nazis with the resources that you have.” On one occasion, he attempted to establish contact with an American diplomat posted in Berlin whose name had been given to him by a friend. But with the American entry into the war in December 1941, the United States embassy closed its doors and the American diplomatic corps left the capital of the Reich. On two or three occasions in 1941 and 1942, Fritz tried to secure a mission as diplomatic courier in order to go to Switzerland. He explained first that he wanted to take a well-deserved leave, then he claimed that he had to go to Switzerland to settle the formalities of his divorce, since his second wife—who had remained in Africa and from whom he was de facto separated—was from Zurich. This was only a pretext: Once in Bern, he would have tried to speak to his old friend Ernst Kocherthaler, who knew many people and who would no doubt have been able to help him contact the Allies. It was a wasted effort: every time, the request was refused without explanation, and in fact, Fritz learned that his refusal to join the party was the real reason for the rejection. He did not insist, for fear of awakening suspicion, but, weary of the battle, he was once again tempted to flee the country. Fritz was torn between his desire for exile, his will to resist, and his new passion for Maria.
What he did not know was that at the same time some Nazi leaders themselves were discreetly beginning to doubt Germany’s victory. Of course, German offensives on the Russian front continued to be victorious. The Wehrmacht had reached the Volga, in the heart of the Caucasus, and was approaching the oil wells of Baku. In North Africa, Rommel’s troops marched into Egypt and were preparing to advance toward the Suez Canal. In the Atlantic, Allied convoys were suffering heavy losses because of German submarines. But the most perceptive minds did not allow themselves to be blinded by these events and made longer-term calculations. Well-informed Germans (of whom Karl Ritter was one) knew that the economic and military potential of the United States was at least comparable to that of the Axis powers. They knew that there was a tendency to overestimate the power of Japan and to underestimate American power. The proliferation of fronts was making a German victory increasingly problematic. And since Hitler had had to give up his plan of taking Moscow before the winter of 1941–42, it was clear that Russia would not fall “like a house of cards.” The likelihood of a long war was now in everyone’s mind. The theater of operations was beginning to shift dangerously toward Germany itself, with the increase of bombing by the Royal Air Force of major German cities (Cologne had been very severely damaged in May 1942). Paradoxically, lucidity was greatest in Heinrich Himmler’s circle. The regime’s principal killers were the first to sense the wind shifting, toward the middle of 1942.
Unlike the SS leaders, Kolbe wanted to see the Nazi regime disappear and not merely limit the damage of a foreseeable defeat. Kolbe wished for the total defeat of his own country. Once this had been accomplished, it would be possible to sweep away the past and contribute to the birth of a new, more just, and more democratic Germany. As for the means of getting there, he merely dreamed of them. He had contacts with none of the small German opposition groups. He had not yet heard of Goerdeler or of the Kreisau Circle. He had no concrete plan. In the spring of 1942, he wanted to leave Karl Ritter’s staff and find a post abroad, but he was made to understand that there was no point in trying.
He continued to perform his duties conscientiously. After his first visit to the führer’s headquarters in East Prussia, Fritz returned there several times in the course of 1942. The mission became routine: He had to transmit to Karl Ritter the documents that Ritter did not want to entrust to the official mail services. Fritz went to the “wolf’s lair” between late January and early February, in early April, and shortly before Christmas.
Every time, Fritz took the train at the Grunewald station. One day in the spring of 1942, looking out the window of his special compartment, he saw a train into which the police were forcing dozens of Jewish families (recognizable from their yellow stars). In October 1941, the government began deporting the Jews of Berlin to the East. At the time, the Reichsbahn was not yet using freight cars for deportations; this was a perfectly ordinary passenger train. No one knew where exactly they were going—nor did Fritz Kolbe, but he knew that the passengers in that train would not be coming back to Germany.