The Swiss Courier Page 4

  Joseph shook those stories from his head and turned his attention back to his professor.

  “This morning, we are continuing our experiment with atomic piles,” Heisenberg noted in a professorial voice. “This aluminum cylinder, which we are calling C-12, contains powdered uranium metal set in heavy water from Norway, which is acting as a moderator.”

  “The water appears to be quite hot,” a junior physicist piped up. Joseph couldn’t remember his colleague’s name, but he could see excitement in the man’s eyes. Joseph peered closer into the cylinder and discovered the man was right. Joseph’s heartbeat quickened at the thought that today could be the day his career had prepared him for.

  “Yes, the temperature has been rising steadily over the last twenty-four hours, which is why I’ve called everyone here.” Heisenberg’s voice rose with enthusiasm. “I’ve asked Doktor Schumann to look into it. This morning, he tested the escaping gas from the cylinder and found it to be hydrogen. We concluded water must have leaked inside.”

  “What do you propose to do?” another junior physicist inquired, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  Heisenberg’s lips curled with the slightest hint of a smile, and he ran a hand through his sandy hair. “What else can we do? We will remove the cover of the C-12 cylinder and inspect the uranium oxide. Perhaps there has been some type of spontaneous fission. Doktor Schumann?”

  Schumann put on heavy gloves, attached a chain-link pulley to the aluminum cylinder, and turned a crank. Centimeter by centimeter the cylinder rose. The room was silent. Every eye fixed. Every ear cocked. As Schumann swiveled the cylinder, a sudden hiss escaped.

  Next to Joseph, Heisenberg removed an unlit pipe from his mouth, jaw dropping.

  “Must be air rushing into a vacuum.” Gingerly, Schumann maneuvered the cylinder to the edge of the tank. Eager to see if their guess had been correct, he unscrewed the cylinder top. Licks of blue flame shot out, and gasps filled the room.

  Even bigger gasps erupted as the flames were followed by uranium particles spewing from the cylinder, landing on Schumann’s white lab coat.

  “Watch out!” someone called.

  With a gasp, Schumann looked down. “No!” Releasing the chain, his hands fumbled with the buttons on his coat.

  “Don’t let go!” Joseph reached for the chain, but it was too late. With a splash, the aluminum cylinder crashed into the tub of heavy water. Steam rose from the tank, and the water turned from clear to a yellowish hue. Joseph’s colleagues glanced at each other with wide-eyed looks of concern.

  “Oxygen must have seeped into the sphere before Schumann uncapped it.” Heisenberg stepped up to the tank and peered into the water. “And—” The hissing of steam rising and the quivering of the aluminum cylinder interrupted his words.

  Everything within Joseph told him to run, but his scientific curiosity got the better of him. For several moments, the gentle shaking persisted until it suddenly turned violent. The precious heavy water splashed over the edge and onto the floor as if an earthquake rumbled beneath the wooden tank.

  “Los jetzt!” Schumann shouted. Joseph didn’t have to be told twice. He sprinted for the heavy metal door separating the basement laboratory from the hallway and stairs. The others tailed him.

  Joseph yanked hard, pulling the door open, and waved the others past.

  Heisenberg looked more perturbed than worried. Still, Joseph noticed he didn’t mince steps. The professor and Schumann rushed out, and Joseph ducked through the door, shutting it hard. While the others sprinted up the stairwell, Schumann reached for a set of keys inside his lab coat.

  “You go ahead!” Schumann called in the mayhem, waving Joseph on.

  Joseph raced for the stairway, but just before he took the first step, he glanced back and noticed Schumann scrambling to find the right key for the lock.

  Joseph motioned to him. “Leave it. Leave it. We have to get out of here!”

  After several precious seconds, Schumann stuffed the keys into his pocket and sprinted toward Joseph.

  Schumann had nearly reached the stairs when a concussive blast flattened the metal door and knocked Joseph to his knees. Schumann sprawled to the floor. Noxious smoke filled the hallway. Joseph labored for air and rubbed his stinging eyes.

  “Schumann, Engel, raus!” Professor Heisenberg called from the flight ahead.

  “Coming!” Joseph jumped to his feet. Schumann regained his footing. They scurried up the stairs two by two until they caught up with Heisenberg at the top of the landing.

  “What happened? What caused that, sir?” Joseph panted, hands on his knees. He glanced up at his professor.

  “The only thing I’m sure of is, we’re closer to smashing an atom!” Heisenberg’s voice rose with excitement. “Can you believe it? We’re closer than ever!”

  Joseph whistled through his teeth, stuffing his quivering hands into his pockets. Being the first to harness nuclear fission meant victory on the battlefield—and salvation from surrender.

  5

  Gestapo Regional Headquarters

  Heidelberg, Germany

  1:15 p.m.

  The phone call from the Recorder’s Office in Spandau came after lunch.

  “Excuse me for the delay, Major Kassler, but I found the adoption certificate for one Joseph Engel attached to the back of his birth certificate.” The clerk’s voice hesitated slightly.

  “And—” Kassler’s fingers tightened around the receiver.

  “The certificate notes that the boy was originally named Joseph Cohn—C-o-h-n.”

  A Yiddish surname. Kassler tapped his finger on the top of the file. “Can you tell me who the mother and father were?”

  “Abraham and Hena Cohn,” the clerk said.

  “If the boy was adopted, what happened to the parents?” The Gestapo major flipped through the file with his free hand.

  “I anticipated your question, Herr Major. I searched Vital Records and found death certificates for Abraham Cohn and Hena Cohn. They died within a week of each other in April 1918. Cause of death: Spanish flu.”

  Kassler was too young to personally recall the worldwide influenza pandemic of 1918–1919 that killed many more soldiers than the gruesome trench warfare of the Lost War, but he’d learned about the epidemic in primary school. Some of his classmates had even lost a parent to the deadly viral infection.

  “Fräulein Huber, I’m quite impressed with your efforts, and I will make note of that to your superiors. In the meantime, I need one more bit of information. Can you determine if the Cohn parents were members of a synagogue while they were still alive?”

  “I don’t think that should be a problem, Herr Major. I will need a little time, however.”

  “Very good. Please call when you have retrieved the information. And may I remind you that this request needs to stay confidential. It could be vital in the war effort.”

  Kassler gently returned the handset and allowed a satisfied smile to blossom. If his hunch was correct, this Engel character was as Jewish as the Twelve Apostles.

  University of Heidelberg

  Main Lecture Hall

  1:58 p.m.

  Joseph Engel found a seat in the second row of the cavernous lecture hall as others streamed in, scurrying to their places. The small “blast” generated in the basement that morning had been the raging topic at the canteen. The lecture hall buzzed with junior physicists debating how it happened and what it meant to the future of the atomic research program.

  Joseph glanced up as Professor Heisenberg strode to a desk situated in front of two blackboards—one of which contained equations from yesterday’s lecture. Wearing his customary beige tweed suit, white shirt, and thin blue tie, Heisenberg set his glasses on the table and ran his right hand through his sandy hair. He looked up from his notes; the cue to cease chatting produced an expectant hush.

  “Gentlemen, we move forward,” proclaimed Professor Heisenberg. “Our long-range efforts to separate plutonium from the parent ur
anium took a step backward today, but until we can build a suitable reactor, that will always be the case.”

  Heisenberg knitted his hands behind his back and strode across the room. “Nonetheless, our experiments in the last month have clearly established that a uranium machine is capable of multiplying neutrons, taking us closer to nuclear fission.”

  Joseph opened a notebook and glanced at several quantum equations the team had been working on.

  “This afternoon, I would like to discuss Energiegewinnung aus Uran, a report prepared by Herr Engel regarding the energy production of uranium and the details of plutonium production necessary to produce ten to one hundred kilograms of fissionable material.”

  Joseph glanced up, surprised to hear his name.

  “After reading this remarkable report, I am convinced that we are within a year of producing a Wunderwaffe. If we can successfully separate isotopes of pure U-235, that is. Herr Engel, would you please come forward and share your remarkable revelations?”

  All eyes turned in his direction, and Joseph Engel rose, humbled by the recognition. As he walked to the front, his shoulders straightened as excitement surged through his limbs over the possibility that his mathematical work could bring the team closer to harnessing atomic energy.

  All eyes were on Joseph as he paused before the professor.

  “Herr Engel, your equations on the start of a chain reaction intrigued me. Would you care to discuss how you arrived at your revelations with the class?” Doktor Heisenberg held out a long piece of chalk and pointed the young physicist to the empty chalkboard.

  Joseph hesitated, but only for a moment. This was the first time he had been singled out, but he remembered what Professor Heisenberg had said to him the day before: Joseph’s string of theoretical equations—if borne out in the laboratory—could mean the start of a “chain reaction” leading to an energy release twenty million times stronger than a single stick of TNT. He still found the truth of that hard to believe.

  He accepted the white chalk from his mentor and cleared his throat before addressing his colleagues.

  “Thank you, Herr Doktor, for your gracious words as well as your confidence. Let’s start with the elementary theory that each fission of an isotope of uranium-235 will produce two secondary neutrons, leading to an enormous release of energy.”

  Joseph turned his back to the class and looked down at his notebook, although he needn’t have bothered. He had memorized the equation string, which he began writing in careful script on the blackboard. “You will notice that I’ve included the use of cadmium as an absorber of neutrons,” Joseph said as he continued the string of numerals and variables. “I’m confident this will commence a runaway chain reaction—”

  “You mean bomb,” interjected a colleague from the third row. Murmurs erupted around the room.

  Heisenberg stepped forward. “Herr Klein, need I remind you that our scientific research is much wider in scope than military purposes. The ability to harness the power of the atom has untold civilian applications. For example, Herr Engel has already shared with me his thoughts on the possibility of a reactor large enough to supply the power needs for a city like Berlin.”

  The room fell silent, and Joseph’s thoughts raced. While a fancy electricity-producing plant was certainly a feasible and worthwhile goal, everyone knew that the German High Command had given Professor Heisenberg a budget to develop what was known in Berlin as an “atomic bomb.” The Führer was said to be enthusiastic about a secret new explosive so powerful that it could throw a man off his horse at the distance of ten kilometers and would have such colossal force that all human life could be destroyed within a four-kilometer radius.

  The professor’s voice interrupted Joseph’s thoughts. “Please continue, Herr Engel. Would you care to show us how you arrived at this equation?”

  “Certainly, sir. Now, as I was saying . . .”

  Gestapo Regional Headquarters

  Heidelberg, Germany

  2:45 p.m.

  Kassler gazed out the narrow window of his office, watching the passing of automobiles, the movement of people, the gentlest swaying of the trees lining the boulevard. The summer sun slanted rays of light through the window, making a rectangular pattern on the floor.

  Yet even the dazzling summer afternoon couldn’t brighten his dark thoughts. Deep in his gut something told him that traitors threatened the reign of the thousand-year Reich. Traitors in his power to stop . . . if only he’d get the break he needed.

  He stood, paced to the window, and watched a beautiful example of an Aryan woman cross the street below. But even she did not hold his interest. He returned to his chair and flipped open the file he now knew by heart.

  There has to be more to this Engel guy . . .

  Though Kassler’s informants at the University of Heidelberg relayed snatches of information they’d tracked down about the work being done on the wonder weapon, it wasn’t much help. The rudimentary descriptions of their quantum equations dulled his brain. Still, Kassler wasn’t ready to give up.

  Kassler’s phone rang, and he answered, tapping his fingers on the file.

  Becker cleared his throat. “A young woman identifying herself as Fräulein Huber from the Recorder’s Office is on the line.”

  “Put her on.” He leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath.

  Following a click on the phone line, Kassler spoke with aloofness. “Ja, Fräulein Huber. Were you able to find more information?”

  “I’m afraid our office doesn’t hold the Juden files, Major Kassler. Locally, that comes under the Schutzstaffel. I made a call, but they wouldn’t release the information.” She let out a sigh. “I’m sorry I could not be of more help. Would you like the phone number?”

  “Of course.” Kassler reached for a pencil.

  Within minutes, Kassler had the Spandau SS office on the line.

  “I was expecting your call,” a corporal said. “We have our procedures that we must follow before giving out this level of information—”

  “Understood.” Kassler leaned forward in his chair. He could tell from the level of formality in the corporal’s voice that he’d indeed found something of interest.

  “Very good. Abraham and Hena Cohn were married May 18, 1917, at the Temple Rykerstrasse in Spandau.”

  “Did they have any children?”

  “Only one. A son Joseph was circumcised on his eighth day by a mohel named Rabbi Horowitz.”

  So Joseph Engel was a vermin after all.

  Kassler willed himself to remain calm. “Very good. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “No, sir. I could investigate the disposition of this Cohn clan. If they were shipped to the camps, we would have a record.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Corporal. I know their whereabouts, thank you.”

  Two dead, one lives . . . but not for long. Not for long.

  Kassler hung up the phone and leaned back in his desk chair, looking first at the portrait of the Führer and then the Reichsführer. As much as his enthusiasm propelled him to call for a crack SS unit and truck, he hesitated. Joseph Engel had no suspicion his ruse was up.

  Time was on Kassler’s side.

  6

  OSS Branch Office

  Basel, Switzerland

  Monday, July 31, 1944

  9:45 a.m.

  Gabi refused to rub the lump on the back of her head despite the low-level throbbing. Refused to roll up the white sleeves of her blouse in spite of the sun’s rays falling on her shoulders, lest the curious gazes of her co-workers look too closely. The woman who’d dared to break into a safe, to put up a fight against a man twice her size, seemed like someone in a dream. Were it not for the bruised evidence from the man’s hands, Gabi would think the spy in the night was someone other than herself. Instead, she continued with the job she was hired to do, working with the intensity of one whose employers required nothing more than her daytime hours.

  With ramrod posture, Gabi consul
ted her dog-eared copy of Langenscheidt’s German-English dictionary and thumbed through the alphabet. Ninety percent of the time, translating the intercepts was fairly mundane and predictable: battalion strength, petrol supplies, troop movements, and battlefield reports. But this communiqué from an informant in Heidelberg contained a German word that she wasn’t familiar with— Strahlung.

  It took her ten seconds to locate the noun in her Wörterbuch. The definition read: Strahlung: n. 1. radiation. 2. rays.

  “Radiation” was a word she wasn’t familiar with. “Rays,” of course, were what the sun emitted. She wasn’t quite sure which word usage was correct. It would help if she could read the entire message to gain context. But on this occasion, the message was judged too sensitive to put in the hands of just one translator, and Gabi had been given random paragraphs. She looked around the room, wondering who else was working on the Heidelberg communiqué.

  Gabi returned to her notepad and fiddled with the syntax of a long phrase preceding Strahlung. She hesitated typing the words, knowing how much could be riding on her translation of this sentence.

  She remained lost in thought when her supervisor, Frau Schaffner, dropped by her desk. Since intrusions were rare in her section, several typists in the room stopped clacking their keys as they glanced her way.

  “Herr Baumann asked if he could see you for a moment,” Frau Schaffner whispered. “And don’t forget to lock up your work.”

  “Of course, Frau Schaffner. I’ll be right there.”

  Gabi pulled out the center desk tray and inserted the teletype message into the drawer, then locked it. She reached into her purse for her rosewood hairbrush, then quickly stroked it through her blonde hair before striding down the hall to Dieter Baumann’s corner office. Through the plate glass window separating Dieter’s office and the typing pool, she could see him working behind his desk. She even caught a glimpse of the Rhine River beyond Dieter’s hunched shoulders.