Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Berlin, December 1963.
John Fitzgerald Barker stood on KarlMarxallee in East Berlin. It was Friday, it was 6pm and the workers trod home to their symmetrical, modern apartments on this most splendid of avenues. This was his town, his stomping ground of old, but as his life had moved onto new pastures in London, he had the wisdom to see his city with a fresh perspective. East Berlin was changing. It was, frankly, all changing. The Wall had changed the fabric of the city – this new identity had placed the city on the map at the forefront of the Cold War. Churchill’s speech in Missouri had come to realisation. The ‘Iron Curtain’ that divided Europe had become a tangible curtain – ‘das mauer’. The continued resentment in Berlin was palpable. The ongoing question as to the whereabouts of the Marshall Plan had become old hat, as though the city would have to suffer longer than any other before its time would come. Barker wondered if the ghost of Bismarck were ever to peruse the great city. What would he think of Berlin now - what tirade of anguish would emerge from the translucent form of the Iron Duke? He wondered if Frederick the Great were to stand by his own statue on the Unter Den Linden and look at the shattered remains of the city. What other sons of Berlin would weep in their coffins? Likewise, what would future generations say about these times? Would the chapter be called ‘The Era of Transition’, or the ‘Beginning of the End’, or ‘The Birth of the New Europe’? This city would never be described as ‘grand’ or ‘majestic’ or ‘powerful’; the city would forever be labelled with terms such as ‘helpless’ and ‘decaying’ and ‘fractured’. That said, he stood on this bold avenue and saw the realisation of the Communist dream. This diversion was not in keeping with the original character and soul of Berlin. Was this was the future? Personally, he did not approve, but who the hell was he to have a say in the future of this city – he was no longer Baumrinde, the dishevelled runt of old; he was John Barker, security guard, hitman and proud Londoner. The murals that daubed the walls of the apartments were impressive in their bid to spoon feed the greatness of the workers and the wonders of the Communist dream, but the dour demeanour of the people told another story. Barker looked over the intersection of KarlMarxAllee and ProskaurStrasse and he saw a populous of grey faces; dour, empty and ghostlike. This wall had not just divided the city – it had divided families – brother and sister, parent and child, lovers, friends and colleagues. This was a grieving population. The bold, modern facade of Communist architecture could not hide the broken soul of this once great city, and this was etched on the face of every person on this intersection. It gave Barker resolve that his job was with just cause. If he was successful today, he could help to reset the balance and end this most horrid status quo. He was fully briefed, he knew his timings. His driver was ready to take him across Checkpoint Bravo to the British sector, MI6 were ready to receive the consignment. In addition to this, the phone call between Khrushchev and the late JFK had produced an impressive number of outcomes. One of these would never be officially declared by any state department for historical scrutiny in the future, and it was this – there were to be no obstructions by the STASI – Barker was to be given a free run to complete his work and get back to West Berlin. The order came from Moscow, so the STASI were to follow orders without hesitation. He noted a handful of suits looking at him from afar. A subdued nod was sufficient to register their mutual recognition. They were STASI and they were there to support him if need be. He held some lofty notion that this might just be the start of some East/West collaboration that could thaw this godforsaken folly. Yet, he was far too cynical – too much of a realist to realise that this thaw was a temporary pause in an ever frosty stand-off between superpower foes. Kennedy had the vision and the skills to build the bridges with Khrushchev, but the rhetoric from Washington and Moscow had changed since his death, and it seemed that the Hobbesian flaws in human nature were to prevail once more.
Barker was ready. He focussed, closed his eyes and re-opened a part of his brain that turned him from Barker to Baumrinde. He tapped into the raw survival instincts of old, the animalistic laws of survival – kill or be killed. There was a blade in his back pocket and a pistol in his jacket. He was ready. He was looking for a familiar foe – the man in possession of one of the valuable documents in the twentieth century. This document didn’t officially exist, but was perhaps the most divisive and explosive document of the century – it was Hitler’s diary, and his name was Walter Weiss and Barker had one very simple task to complete. Barker had been given Weiss’s address by the suits in West Berlin – all he had to do was wait for Weiss and follow him home.
He didn’t have to wait for long. Barker stood in the doorway of the Rathaus Lichtenberg as Walter Weiss walked through the crowds to his apartment on Mollendorffstrasse, overlooking Stadtpark. Barker had been told to expect him at 7pm. Weiss finished work at 5pm, but it gave Weiss the opportunity to meet friends after work for a beer or two and then to make his way home in readiness for his Friday night festivities. Smoking a cigarette, Weiss walked down the broad thoroughfare and he made his way to his apartment.
His apartment was minimalist, in line with Communist principles. He had what was needed for a single man – a small kitchen, a modest bedroom, a radio in the corner of the room, a sofa and a chair, a bicycle in the hallway and a good supply of cheap, locally produced vodka. Perhaps the finest attribute of the apartment was the view over Stadtpark, and in the distance, the mighty Fernsehturm – the TV tower standing majestically over the landscape – a stern message to the west of the grandeur of Communism and the plans for the eastern half of the city. He swigged vodka, smoked on a cigarette and looked out of his kitchen window.
“Nice view.” Whispered a soft voice from the shadows. It was Barker.
Weiss sucked on his cigarette and looked unnerved by the comment. “It certainly is.” He replied. Weiss recognised his voice. “That tower is the reason I fight for Communism. This view, this apartment, this life that I have created for myself is the reason why I wake up every morning. OK, so I’m corrupt. There are a number of us in the STASI that bend the rules to line our own pockets. Absolute power does indeed corrupt absolutely. I think there are nearly three hundred people in jails due to my own conniving. I worry that I can still sleep at night, but the ever increasing figures in my Geneva bank account allay any worries about my guilty conscience.” He sucked on his cigarette again. “The word on the street is that you’re living in London.”
“The word on the street is that you’ve acquired quite a reputation. ‘They’ say that you’ve built a business empire, anything from fake bank notes to rubber, from bullets to butter. You have a black-market running through the STASI office...”
“...and that I’ve got Rudolf Hess on my payroll. He is quite the master strategist.” He turned around and smiled at the silhouette of John Barker in the corner of his living room. “I’ve been able to make more money than I ever imagined because of the demented old coot. I don’t know how he does it. He has this network of old Nazis and deluded neo-Nazis, plus some quite damaged former soldiers and then there are some people who have aligned themselves to him and will, well, do exactly as he requests. They are literally at his beck and call. Me, I simply push the buttons, leave him to his demented plans and I pick up the pieces. It is the most demented perfection. Do you know, I asked for a black marketeer in Munich to be struck off. It was astonishing. Not only did Hess arrange for the murder of this man – he also got rid of his wife and kids, the butler, the cleaner and the personal trainer and, as a matter of courtesy, I gained a property in Monaco.” He sucked again on his cigarette. Weiss, with resolve that he was going to die over the next few minutes, spoke with honesty and calm. “Hess is mad, but you know that. We all know that. I’ve only met him once, but if I can gauge the nature of mankind, all I can tell you is that Hess is perhaps the most damaged and deluded man I have ever met. In my time as a STASI officer, I have seen people who have existed with madness, appeased despair, faced suicide and tolerated depression. Hess is unique. He is connected, he is powerful, he is deluded and he knows his life is worth absolutely nothing. He has the most banal and rank value system which is based on two principles – if he fails he will die in Spandau Prison as a very old man; if he succeeds he will see the mushroom cloud destroy this city, He has lived a delusional life of destruction - his life means nothing, his legacy is everything. All I have done is fed his ego and made a lot of money. God bless Communism, Baumrinde.”
A muffled thup permeated the moment, then another, like compressed air. Two bullets left Barker’s pistol and hit Weiss in the back. The silencer on the end of the pistol did it’s just with aplomb. Weiss held the window frame. He smoked his cigarette and swigged the final dregs from the glass. He felt life leave his body. He could taste blood and he could feel the flow of blood leave his veins. He winced in pain, but tried to remain dignified in his final moments. He had seen too many men flounder at this final moment – hard men who should have had the resolve to maintain credibility. Weiss knew the code. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled as he fell to the floor.
“Fuck you, you corrupt, deluded upstart.” Barker stated with absolution. He stood over Weiss and shot him in his left knee. “That is for Otto.” Weiss winced in agony. “This is for Will Franklin.” Barker shot him in the right knee. “...and this is for Kennedy.” Barker shoved the pistol down Weiss’s throat. It protruded deep into his windpipe. He choked on the barrel of Barker’s gun. Weiss had strength to fight, only the consolation that his ‘hit’ was made by a most formidable assassin. He knew that Barker would not fire - it wasn’t his style. Weiss lay back and waited for his lungs to convulse in a final purge to find oxygen. His body made the final spasms and he lost consciousness. Barker pulled the pistol from his throat – the silencer was blooded and dripping in spittle. Barker wiped his pistol down with a tea towel and stood over the body. This was an easy assignment – Weiss had no opportunity to fight back.
“At least you didn’t scream.” He whispered to Weiss. He noted the smoke emanating from his knees and the blood pumping from his chest. The pool of blood was gradually growing around the body. Barker left him to find the diary. He knew where it was stored – he had been informed by a suit. ‘Main bedroom, under a floorboard by the window.’ He whispered to himself as he walked into the bedroom. He took a blade from his pocket and knelt down by a radiator under the window. The floorboard was raised suffice to tell Barker that this was the place. He placed the blade under a gap in the floorboard and popped the board from its position. The diary was protected by a calico sheet. Barker picked up the diary and unfolded the calico. All was in order. His eyes were drawn to the floorboards. There were other things hidden in the gap. Barker picked up several wads of money. One was in US Dollars, another was in Russian Rubles, and another was Deutschmarks, then Francs, Pounds Sterling and Italian Lira. Barker looked again at the gap in the floorboards and picked up an envelope. In biro, there was one word ‘Weiss’. Baker opened the envelope and took out a number of sheets. The first sheet was a photograph of Will Franklin – he was younger, he was in uniform. On the other side was a resumee of Will – his Date of birth, his army number, his rank and his army record. In red pen, underneath the information was a scrawl ‘Kill the bastard!!!’ Barker recognised the handwriting – it was Rudolf Hess. There was another sheet – it was a photograph of a young Hannah Gruber. Attached was a copy of their marriage certificate. ‘Shoot the bitch!!!’ read Hess’s brutal contribution. Barker turned the page to see a photograph of Sarah Franklin. This was not Sarah as a child, it was recent. She was about twenty one – just a little older than him. Barker looked at the photograph and smiled. He stroked the photograph with affection. ‘I won’t let them hurt you, Sarah.’ He whispered to her. Hess’s words stated, ‘Cut her and watch her bleed. Watch the Goebbels bitch die!!!’ On the back of the photograph was an additional note. It read, ‘She is pregnant. Kill her and her unborn child. It’ll break their hearts. End the Goebbels bloodline.’ Barker picked up all the papers and pushed them back in the envelope. He left the apartment with haste and rushed down the stairs and out of the building. He noted a suit standing on a crossroads. He approached the STASI agent and said, ‘Do me a favour. Don’t call HQ yet. There’s stashes of cash in the floorboards. Help yourself.’ He smiled and rushed off. Almost immediately, a Mercedes pulled up to take him back to the British sector. ‘Clockwork,’ he whispered to himself as he turned around and watched the suit sprint into the house. If he understood STASI protocol, HQ would only mobilise until they had received the call from the agent on the ground. At least Barker had tried to do one good deed for the day. If the suit could pocket some of the money before the bosses were called, it might just give him the financial security for his family. Despite loyalties to the STASI and the Communist ideology, the idea of a quick buck had a universal appeal. ‘Good luck to him.’ Barker whispered as he sat in the back of the Mercedes. Even at a moment of such violence, Barker sought to find goodness. As he drove through the streets of East Berlin, he pondered the implications of the recent events. The Diary was back where it belonged, and with that was the resolve that many of the secrets of the Second World War were in safe keeping. It would not fall to the Soviets and be used as a tool of their propaganda machine. Barker felt as though he had appeased his penance with Will Franklin in returning the diary back to Britain. In this time of Cold War, this very German diary belonged with its very British custodian. In time, there may be an opportunity to reconsider its place in the world, but at this most destructive chapter in the twentieth century, it was proper for it to be a silent witness to the ongoing folly of the Cold War. He was thankful to both Kennedy and Khrushchev for seeing sense in this matter. After the Cuban Missile Crisis, they had both worked tirelessly to ensure that Mutually Assured Destruction was a thing of the past – and that it could not happen again. The recent assassination of JFK had shocked the world. It was imperative that the language of co-operation and mutual understanding remained as the central tenets of the Cold War. Hitler’s diary was no longer a potential threat to upset the political applecart. He would make Will’s burden his own – he would be the custodian of the diary until such a time that its location and role in history were to be redressed. His mind wandered to Weiss. Barker did not have a particular vitriol for the man – he was a committed Communist who wanted the diary as a propaganda tool. His key flaw was that he had let his liaisons with Rudolf Hess get the better of him. He thought he was courting the Berlin underworld and that he possessed a reputation as an untouchable STASI officer with abundant connections. In reality, he was part of Hess’s oddball megalomania and had made a poor choice in allying himself with such a damaged man. He had fallen for the Hess myth, or rather, he had become obsessed with his charisma and promises of wealth and power. It was clear that Hess had lied to him about the plans for a united Communist Germany. Why would Weiss think that Hess wanted a Communist Germany? It simply reinforced the well understood premise that Hess was quite simply deluded and schizophrenic. What was clear was that two positive steps had been made that evening – the diary was in safe hands and Weiss was dead. Barker had made good on his side of the bargain. It was for other key players in the chess game of the Cold War to meet their own responsibilities and try to remain on a path of co-operation and unity.
The Mercedes past through Checkpoint Bravo with no concerns – the guards were briefed. The car drove to the Olympic Stadium and the British HQ. In the morning, Barker made his way to a prefabricated office block in the garrison and made his way to a grand hallway. He stopped at the desk of a smart and beautiful administrator.
“Colonel Weston, please.”
“Your name, please, Sir?” she asked.
“Barker, John Barker.”
“One moment, please.”
Barker held the envelope in one hand and the diary in the other. Barker held no affiliation to Weston other than he was the Commanding Officer of the garrison and he had been ordered to provide feedback from the events of the previous evening. Barker made his way to an unimpressive office.
“Barker, my name is Colonel Weston. We have not met before, but, rest assured, we have all heard of you. I can say on behalf of all of us here in this room that you command our respect. Weston was leading the meeting, but Barker noted a handful of suits, probably MI6 or the British embassy, and other commissioned officers – Barker noted the insignia of the Intelligence Corps and the SAS. Barker placed the diary on the table. It was wrapped in the calico cloth. Weston uncovered the cloth to reveal the book.
“So, this is it.” Weston stood back and glared at the diary. “This is the word of Hitler.” The other members of staff stood up and looked at the book. They fingered through the pages. A low hubbub of emanated from them and Barker found their conversation quite indistinguishable. After a minute or so, they looked at Barker with smiles on their faces.
“We didn’t know if this document really existed.” Weston guffawed, “If this is what it is, the British government has a most valuable commodity in its possession. What are the plans for the diary?”
“It is to be taken back to London and stored in a secret location. I will be part of the team who will oversee its safe keeping.”
“Forever. Do we intend to throw away the key?”
“No, Sir that is not the intention. When the time is proper, there will be a discussion as to where to place the diary. That discussion may happen next year, perhaps next week, perhaps at the end of the century. I am sure we all realise the sensitivity and gravitas of this document. I retrieved it last night so it will allay further tensions in this city.”
“The godforsaken wall has broken the heart of an already broken city. I do not know if this city will ever get back its former glory.”
“Of course it will, Sir. It is simply a matter of time.” He smiled with assurance in his voice. “The night is always the blackest before sunrise. If history has taught us anything, it is that the downtrodden find humility and strength regardless of the odds stacked against them. If one tries to repress religion, it will prosper underground and become far more powerful. To enforce is deny the human being of the human spirit. Berlin will have its day. Not like Hitler’s vision, but Berlin as an influential city in the middle of this continent, working together with its neighbours. This European Economic Community is the path to a peaceful union.”
“Blessed are the meek for they will inherit the earth.” Weston looked at Barker with respect.
“But, Sir, may I draw your attention to the information in this envelope.” Barker pointed to the envelope on the desk. “This is information from Rudolf Hess.”
“Hess, that mad old coot? What is he up to now?” Weston looked at the photographs of the Franklin family. “What do we have here?”
“Sir,” Barker stated, “this information came from Spandau Prison. Hess is asking his contacts to assassinate those whom he feels are a threat to his interests.”
“Can you remind me of the identity of these people?”
“Sir, Hannah Franklin is the woman who wrote this diary when imprisoned in Berlin in 1945, Will Franklin is the man who saved her and went on to marry her after the war. Franklin also worked at Spandau in the first months of Hess’s imprisonment. The younger woman, Sarah is their daughter.”
“...and why would he have a problem with this young woman?”
“She is the daughter of Josef and Magda Goebbels.”
Weston paused and looked at the photographs with renewed scrutiny. He processed the implications of Barker’s information. A suit from the entourage whispered to Weston, ’Sir, this is a Top Secret matter. Barker is one of only a handful of people who know of this matter.” Weston processed the information.
“Colonel Weston,” Barker stated with clarity, “Rudolf Hess remains the most damaging and divisive factor in this city. He has contacts throughout this city be them STASI, American or even British soldiers. He has his own agenda based on his notoriety and schizophrenia and he will not stop until there are two outcomes – one of them is the destruction of this city, the other is his own demise. Colonel Weston, I cannot state clearly enough just how dangerous this man is to this city...”
“...and the Cold War.”
“Yes. Please, sir, I do not wish to overstep my remit, but it is my opinion that Rudolf Hess is one of the most divisive and destructive individuals in this Cold War.”
“This man is in Spandau Prison, how, Mr Barker, can he possibly be a threat?”
Barker laughed. “Hess is one of the most connected men in this city. He has staff on his payroll, plus an entourage of people all over the country. It is my opinion that Hess is singlehandedly managing the destiny of this city. He wants this city to burn.”
“Well, I think we may have to rectify that!”
“How?” Barker asked with a frank tone.
Weston paused and shook his head. “If we shake the foundations of this fragile city, we could be responsible for the outbreak of civil unrest. One trigger could lead to another Checkpoint Charlie or even a Berlin Missile Crisis. We have made every effort to build bridges since Cuba and now Kennedy is gone, every single diplomat and politician is working to get the dust to settle. Compounded with this most unwelcome wall in Berlin, we’re looking to steady the boat, not rock it.”
“I can do it, Sir.” Barker stated with a cold voice.
“I know you could.” Weston replied. The Colonel looked to his team and noted the collective disapproval from suits and uniforms alike. “I think, gentlemen, our job is to keep him quiet from within those walls. I will inform all connected with Spandau that Hess needs to be silenced. Mr Barker, may I ask you to leave this matter alone. Let us to manage this concern using our own people and our own strategies?”
Barker felt frustration. He breathed deeply and with a calm voice, he stated, “Yes, Sir.” He walked over to the desk and covered up the diary with the calico sheet and he collected the photographs and placed them back in the envelope. “Colonel Weston, I will protect this diary and this family for the rest of my life. May I ask that all the four powers – The United States, Great Britain, France and the Soviet Union, ensure that the ongoing threat of Hess is cancelled. He has the capacity and the will to create World War Three through deceit and lies. He will not stop.
“Your comments have been noted, Mr Barker. Go back to London. Thank you for your efforts.”
