76
Maximilian Haus
Georgenstra?e
Munich
THOMAS BAUER WAS LATE for the meeting with the Ten Patriots, now down to nine, after Fritz Gerlich was whisked away by the SA.
They were going to discuss options and ideas to think of any way imaginable to bring Fritz home.
They had a working sketch of the Dachau camp’s layout, the names of the guards who manned the gate, the timing of the delivery trucks’ arrivals and departures.
Bauer checked his pocket watch. It was half past eight in the evening, brisk and windy. He would hear it from the other members, who had come to expect Bauer’s tardiness. They would give him an earful, all right.
As he approached, a large truck, painted brown with a bright red swastika across the side, skidded to a halt in front of the Maximilian Haus, where they always met.
Oh, no.
A dozen armed SA troopers spilled out of the rear of the truck and entered the beer hall. Bauer was unarmed, no match for the four SA troopers who stayed outside, rifles in hand.
Bauer watched helplessly as five of his comrades were marched out of the beer hall with their hands behind their backs and shoved forward, some falling to the pavement. The shoemaker. The barber. The salesman. The shopkeeper. The musician. Each was forced into the rear cabin of the truck.
Bauer watched the truck speed away, surely whisking the group away into protective custody.
For a long time, Bauer did not move, too stunned and horrified to process his next move.
After a while, he walked into the tavern.
The door to the private room they used stood open, the room empty, the large table overturned.
He made eye contact with the bartender. Ernest, a bald war veteran with only three fingers on his right hand and half a right ear, courtesy of a British explosive device, gave Bauer a knowing nod.
Bauer approached the bar and ordered a stein of ale.
Ernest delivered a foamy mug. “Be glad you were late,” he said under his breath.
Bauer kept a poker face, nodding matter-of-factly and sipping his beer. “They got five. Where are the others?”
“The one who does spycraft, he didn’t show. The professors I assume were rounded up earlier with the academic purge.”
Bauer continued to nod, like he was just making conversation, though his heart dropped. “How did they know about us?”
“Don’t know,” said Ernest. “But they pay for information. They threaten for information. If you know something and don’t say, you’re just as guilty. They have people everywhere, listening, watching.”
Bauer looked around the crowded tavern at customers enjoying their beers, some laughing heartily. It could be any of them.
Bauer slid money across the bar for his beer. “Just one more question,” he said. “And I want you to look me in the eye.”
Ernest did not, in fact, look him in the eye. Instead, he focused on wiping the bar counter with a rag. “I had no choice,” he said. “They’d lock me up. They’d burn down my tavern.”
Bauer grabbed his arm. “Those were brothers-in-arms you betrayed. Veterans who fought for this country. And for what? So you’d betray them to the first fascist who comes along?” He swatted the beer, knocking the mug over, and left the tavern.
Outside, he looked both ways before proceeding, watching out for SA thugs. A man stepped out from the alley and walked under a streetlamp.
“Erich,” said Bauer.
“So we’re down to two patriots,” said von der Haas, looking every bit the spy with his diminutive frame, his mousy face, his wandering eyes. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”