Red Orchestra (32 page)

Soviet intelligence was running into a snag of its own. Alexander Ko-rotkov's superiors in Moscow recognized the extraordinary nature of his reports, but they were disturbed by their provenance.

Korotkov was suggesting that the Soviets should base radical policy decisions on information from a shadowy economist with no party credentials, an “air force officer” he had never met, and their vast network of unknown “sources.” This would be uncomfortable under normal circumstances, but with Stalin in power, every step led to a different minefield. In Communist party terms, Korotkov's sources came out of nowhere. The Soviets wanted to check them out as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

On March 12, Soviet intelligence officials sent a letter to the executive committee of the Communist International. Their questions contained so many errors that they must have further perplexed the recipients. Who was “Johannes” Harnack? (There was no “Johannes;” they meant Arvid.) And what about this Harro Schulze-Boysen, who published the
Gegner
and was “imprisoned for two years”? (Harro was detained for days, not years.) The letter appended a list of Harnack's friends and relatives, speculating (often erroneously) which ones had belonged to the Communist Party before 1933.

German Communist official Walter Ulbricht tried to help, but he was clearly improvising. He soberly replied that “Johannes” Harnack was the secretary of a writers' organization, but it was “unknown whether he was a KPD member or just a sympathizer.” Harro's magazine
Gegner,
he added, represented the “Dadaist” movement, which would have come as a surprise to Harro.
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More queries went out to foreign Communist residents in Moscow. Georg Lukacs, a prominent Hungarian literary critic, did a little better. He could speak on behalf of Arvid Harnack, whom he had known from literary circles in Berlin before 1933. Lukas described “HARNACK (Arvid?)” as “(not openly) a member of the KPD, and still burdened by bourgeois beliefs, which he worked earnestly to overcome.”
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Korotkov was under pressure to clarify the sources of his reports. For months, Arvid Harnack had served as the go-between, but now Korotkov pushed for a face-to-face encounter with the young air force lieutenant. On March 27, 1941 (the same day Hitler decided to delay the
Soviet invasion), Schulze-Boysen arrived at Harnack's home to meet the Soviet.

Korotkov carefully noted his observations:

Now that Arvid had made the commitment to provide intelligence to the Soviets, he wanted to make sure it was put to good use. This meant that he had to define himself and Harro to Soviet intelligence in terms they could understand. The web of relationships became more complex. Korotkov struggled to describe Arvid in Marxist terms that his bosses would approve (even though they had already been warned of his “bourgeois tendencies”). Arvid, in turn, tried to explain Harro's colorful politics without damaging his credibility. He chose to compare his colleague to the “Decembrist” officers of czarist Russia, who revolted in the effort to establish a constitutional government. Kororotkov passed along the description to his baffled superiors in Moscow, adding his own psychological insight:

On April 2, Harro reported that the invasion plans were complete. Korotkov informed Moscow that the German air strikes would start with economic and military targets. He gave a list of the four rail lines and junctions that were going to be paralyzed in the first wave of attack: “The initial objectives of the attack will be industrial targets, especially in the Donetsk basin, and engine works, ball-bearing factories, and aircraft factories in Moscow.” He added that there were already German troop concentrations on the Romanian side of the Soviet border.

On April 6, Hitler made good on his threat to invade Yugoslavia and Greece. He decided that Greece was to be occupied and Yugoslavia was to be destroyed. In an operation with the code name “Punishment,” German bomber pilots carried out more than five hundred missions over Belgrade in three days, killing five thousand civilians.
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The Germans were still indecisive, Harro reported, and updated their shifting positions. On April 17, 1941, he stated that the German victories in North Africa led the German generals to hope that they could still triumph over Great Britain. Nonetheless, he cautioned, “The general staff is continuing its preparations against the USSR with its previous intensity, as can be seen in its detailed designation of bombing targets.”

Soviet intelligence now took measures to increase the flow of information from Berlin. In mid-April, Moscow ordered Korotkov to create an independent Berlin operation under the direction of Arvid Harnack, which would include direct radio contact. Arvid Harnack was asked to run the radio operation. He initially hesitated, then refused. The Soviets urged him to select his own radio operator, and suggested several candidates. Harro Schulze-Boysen nominated sculptor Kurt Schumacher.
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Arvid acquiesced, but he was keenly aware that the presence of a Soviet radio operator among his circle could compromise them all.

Arvid was also worried about Harro Schulze-Boysen, who spent much of the spring preoccupied with his personal life. In March his younger brother Hartmut was diagnosed with tuberculosis of the bone. That crisis had hardly abated when Harro threw himself into a new love affair. In the wake of his wife's affair with Günther Weisenborn, Harro found romance with Stella Mahlberg. A young actress with dark curls and a sulky pout, she was just starting to win small roles on the Berlin
stage. Harro nicknamed her “Fix,” and sent her a blizzard of fond and foolish letters.
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But Harro's other relationships caused greater concern. On April 18, Korotkov sent a panicked alert to Moscow:

The Soviets had instructed Korotkov to pressure Schulze-Boysen, Harnack, and Kuckhoff to break off all involvement with Communist Party affairs as well as any kind of political activity. Harro was the immediate concern, since his large circle now included a number of individuals with KPD ties, among them Walter Küchenmeister and Wilhelm Guddorf. Arvid Harnack and Adam Kuckhoff were also problematic, since they were still working closely with John Sieg and engaged in many kinds of political activities. The Berliners' answer to Korotkov is not recorded, but they clearly ignored his direction.
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As Harnack, Schulze-Boysen, and Kuckhoff increased their intelligence work, their wives were implicated as well. Korotkov told Moscow that Mildred Harnack was “fully informed about our contact,” and sometimes carried messages. The wives were enlisted to trail their husbands' meetings in parks or wooded areas, to make sure they weren't being followed.
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Arvid and Mildred Harnack continued to see Donald Heath at the U.S. embassy when they could, but he was not long for Berlin. On May 8, 1941, a State Department official inquired whether the Treasury Department “had any objection to Donald Heath being transferred from Berlin,” since his “services were required in a Latin American capital.” After all, the official noted, Heath “had been in Berlin for some time.”
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Neither the State Department nor Treasury raised any objection. This was a stunning decision on Washington's part.

Heath's position as “monetary attaché” had been improvised as a response
to the U.S. vacuum in intelligence, and he had become one of few American officials with extensive contacts within the German resistance. After three years in Berlin he knew the situation and the personalities well, and had won the trust of a broad range of figures in influential business and government positions. Washington's queries had reflected far more interest in the Nazis' currency policy than in their human rights violations or plans of armed conquest. Now, in May 1941, as Western Europe groaned under occupation and Britain braced itself for an invasion, the State Department prepared to transfer its most informed analyst of the German opposition—to Santiago, Chile.

Greta Kuckhoff was aware that the stakes were rising, but she was not happy with her role. Her husband, with one breath, withheld operational details to “protect her,” only to ask her to take public risks without letting her know the substance of the event. She knew that the Soviet invasion was rapidly approaching, yet neither the Soviets nor the German public seemed to take it seriously. The Nazi newspapers were filled with daily threats against the British. Germans were aware that there was a buildup of tanks and troops on the eastern front, but they shrugged it off as a response to the Polish resistance. Or maybe, rumor had it, Hitler planned to take a southern route through the Soviet Union, to strike the British in India.
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“A lot of people find it easier to look Death in the eye than the Truth,” Greta observed. Greta privately questioned whether the Soviets appreciated the value of elite assets such as Schulze-Boysen and Har-nack. Was it possible that Moscow was writing off their reports as the mere “daydreams of self-important busybodies”?
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The Soviets certainly gave no signs of preparing for war. On the contrary, Stalin continued to fulfill every commitment to build up the German arsenal. In April the Soviets assigned additional trains to deliver two thousand extra tons of rubber to Germany.
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Greta complained about feeling sidelined, but when she was finally given an opportunity to act, she balked. One day in May, Adam told her that Korotkov had asked for her to meet him at the Thielplatz subway station, where he was going to hand her “a small suitcase.” Moscow had sent two transmitters by diplomatic pouch, he said, and now it was necessary to deliver them. Greta knew that the risk was tremendous. As her
husband told her of the request, she observed that she had never seen his face “so full of sorrow.”

But Greta resisted the assignment. She was far from convinced that radio communications were either workable or worth the risk.

“Let's stop playing cat-and-mouse,” she demanded. “When I fetch this ‘little suitcase'—is that what you're calling it?—I'm just sticking my head into the noose. It's not safe. You know that as well as I do. You need to guarantee me that it makes sense. So first: are there enough sources of information? Second, can the transmissions take place safely? Those are two simple questions, and I want simple answers.”

Adam responded brusquely. First, he said, there were plenty of intelligence sources, and every detail was important. Second, every minute she spent arguing over the means of transmission meant less time for technical training and practice to make it work.
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Greta had to acquiesce, and began to prepare for her mission. She was anything but a natural. Her first step was to buy herself a bright yellow rain cape, the latest fashion. Her reasoning was that everyone thought of the underground people as gray and dowdy, so she would look less suspicious if she was stylishly dressed. Once she received the suitcase, she was supposed to transfer it to some friends who would hide it in a shed in their yard.

When Greta met Korotkov at the station, she was glad to see him looking cheerful and relaxed. They shared some casual conversation, then took a stroll to admire some new architecture nearby. Greta was still nervous. The street was full of SS men.

And then, along the way, Korotkov dropped the suitcase.
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Greta had barely recovered from this mishap when Korotov startled her with new instructions. “Take it home and put it inside your air-raid suitcase,” he told her. “That way you can grab it if there's an alarm. I'll come pick it up in a day or two.”

This was not part of the agreement, and Korotkov noticed her discomfort. She was to hold the suitcase because he needed additional time to convince his comrades of the validity of the Berlin reports. “You have to understand, we only go by proven facts. We bear a great responsibility,” he added with a measure of self-importance.

Greta tried not to panic on her way home. Adam and little Ule were
out when she got there. She stashed the suitcase in her closet, then went for a ride on the bus, “mumbling some foolish womanly nonsense: ‘This is all unnecessary.' ”

Once she got home again her nerves completely gave way, and she started to cry. Then she placed the case, unopened, inside her air-raid suitcase—stocked with the required water, matches, and zwieback crackers—beside the bed.

Adam examined the radio when he got home. After Korotkov's clumsy accident, it didn't work. Back it went to Korotkov for repair. Then it was delivered to a young member of the group named Hans Coppi in another subway handoff.

The radio was a portable transmitter-receiver. The battery-powered device was mounted into an ordinary-looking suitcase, equipped with a diagram and instructions. It operated at a range of up to six hundred miles, and its battery power lasted up to two hours.
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Korotkov's second radio was taken to the apartment of sculptor Kurt Schumacher and his wife, Elisabeth, where it was also collected by Hans Coppi.