Immediately thereafter, Hansen began negotiations with the British for the purpose of making the American and British zones a single economic and political unit. This forced the Soviet Union to step up their own timetable, for they knew that the French would have to follow suit. The unity of the Western Zones could build up a powerful German threat and end their own plans of domination.
All four powers jockeyed for position for a Conference of Foreign Ministers. In preparation, Hansen flew to Washington to brief the American delegation. His opening remark threw off the last pretenses:
“Gentlemen, the Soviet Union will cooperate with the West only as long as they receive reparations from our zones. The instant this stops they will proceed with plans to stop unification of the Western Zones. They will endeavor to remove us first from Berlin, then from Germany, then from Europe.”
Chapter Twenty-six
THE TRAGIC STRAINS FROM Beethoven’s “Pathétique Sonata” reached Sean’s ears as he approached the door to Ulrich Falkenstein’s flat in Kreuzberg. He stopped for a moment, listened, then rang the bell. The music inside stopped.
“Lieutenant Colonel O’Sullivan?” Ernestine asked
“Yes.”
“Please come in. I am Ernestine, Herr Falkenstein’s niece. My uncle telephoned to say he would be a few minutes late, that he was distressed by the delay and hoped you would not mind.”
“Certainly not”
She led him into the only patched-up room that had been made cozy, which served as both living room and his study.
“Could I prepare you some tea?”
“No thank you.”
The bookshelves sagged under hundreds of volumes. Sean walked along and browsed at the titles in German, French, English, consisting of both profound comments and the popular fiction of the mid-thirties. He found himself at a row containing Jefferson, Paine, and Thoreau. “Quite an assortment.”
“He reads incessantly and usually far into the night. He is trying to make up for those years he lost in Schwabenwald.”
Her words struck Sean as rather strange. He thought about it for a moment, and then discovered that in all the time he had been in Germany he had never heard a German before mention the name of a concentration camp in casual conversation.
He stopped at the piano. There was a photograph of Ulrich’s brother Wolfgang, who had been hanged by Hitler. And another photograph, perhaps Falkenstein’s wife, whom he never mentioned, but likewise never forgot. Sean hit a few notes in a vain effort to read the music.
“You must play very well,” he said.
“Gallant but not true, Colonel. I play poorly. Nonetheless it is the first time in years I have had either an opportunity or the atmosphere. As you see, the rooms are not damaged and it is quite peaceful. One of the first things lost in the bombing was my piano. My sister joked that the American flyers must have heard me and aimed at our house.”
Sean turned to look at her. He had noticed her graceful movement from the moment she answered the door. The fingers that played the piano were long and artful, but had also known hard work. Her face was particularly elegant, with flawless skin set off by deep, sorrowful, expressive eyes.
Her hair, immaculately groomed and businesslike, was however, entirely feminine. Her voice was unusually soft and without Germanic abruptness. Ernestine began to fidget.
Sean ended the tour.
“Are you sure?” she asked, pointing to an array of richly colored liqueurs in cut-crystal bottles on the coffee table. He sat on the opposite end of the couch and said she could buy him an apricot brandy.
Ernestine opened a tin. “This is Leubeck flat cake. The wife of an old comrade of my uncle sends us one each month. You will find it quite different.”
He took a bite and agreed.
Ernestine looked at him from the corners of her eyes, and was unable to constrain a small giggle. “So you are Major ... I’m sorry, Colonel O’Sullivan.”
“That’s me.”
“Of course, my uncle Ulrich has spoken of you innumerable times. I was expecting someone quite different.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I saw you as much older ... and ...”
“And?”
“You won’t be offended?”
“Promise.”
“Rather stern ... you know, like a Prussian.”
She did not know what compelled her to be so familiar except that Uncle Ulrich’s description drew a picture of a man of iron discipline and surly nature. He seemed terribly young to have been governor of Rombaden.
“I’m glad you don’t find me ... like a Prussian.”
Ernestine jumped to her feet at the sound of the door opening. Ulrich Falkenstein puffed into the room with apologies. She took his coat, wiped the perspiration from his brow, chastised him for walking so hard, and inquired if he had taken his pills. He had forgotten, as usual. She settled him into a chair, and when certain he was comfortable and calm, she took her leave.
Sean watched all this with curiosity, wondering if she was pampering him because of the comforts he could offer or if their relationship was true.
Ulrich sipped his tea. “She babies me, that girl. It is such a comfort having her. Congratulations on your promotion.”
“Thank you.”
“What extraordinary calamity brings you into a German home?”
Sean smiled. Falkenstein was the one German whose needle did not annoy him.
“Right to the point?”
“I never expect less of you.”
“All right,” Sean said. “It’s not pleasant news. We have conclusive evidence that your distinguished Oberburgermeister, Berthold Hollweg, is in complete collaboration with the Russians.”
Falkenstein set his tea down, digested Sean’s words. “All of us in the Democratic Party know he is not the same man he once was. We also know of the pressure he has been under. Hollweg has been my comrade for decades, since we were boys. Weak, yes. Movable, yes. But collaboration ... never ... never ...”
“It’s in his own handwriting, Herr Falkenstein.”
Falkenstein’s faced showed astonishment. He did not believe it.
“Not only does he obey Rudi Wöhlman’s orders,” Sean continued, “but there are also some interesting numbered bank accounts in Switzerland.”
“No!”
“I’m sorry, sir. It is absolutely conclusive.”
Falkenstein shook his head, pulled himself out of the deep chair, paced disquietly before the books. “What do you want of me?”
“When the exact moment is ripe, your own people have got to confront him with the charges.”
“You do it! You do it in the Kommandatura.”
“No. You have to do it as an internal affair.”
“And while you Americans keep your sanctimonious, official, and holier-than-thou status, duly elected members of the Berlin Assembly and duly selected officials of the Magistrat have been kept out of their offices by so-called investigations of the Russians. The Soviet Union doesn’t know we won a free election, but they do know the Americans will continue to sit on their hands. God knows what Hollweg has undergone. Members of my party are harassed day and night ...”
“Herr Falkenstein ... I came out of personal respect for you,” Sean interrupted. “Permanent reforms can come only from the will of the German people ... if they desire it. You know damned well that you and not I must read Hollweg out of the party.”
“You lost your calling, Colonel. You should have been a minister. How convenient for you to continue to say you do not trust Germans. Well, sir, we do not trust Americans. Of course, we are beholden for the fact that you have not mutilated or starved a defeated enemy. But here in Berlin, where there is someone to test your iron, all you do is hurl phrases at us. Ask my niece what goes on in the judicial system. The presiding judge is straight from Moscow and hasn’t enough legal background to be a blacksmith. Four judges were kidnaped last month because they made decisions on behalf of the West. Believe me, the Russians take care of their people.”