Before the Storm

by James D. Shipman

Genres: World War II; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Berlin, 1948: World War II may be over, but a new era of conflict has begun. The Russians have cut off all access to the western part of Berlin in an attempt to seize it from the Allies. The thirst for power, dominance, and revenge is as strong as ever, and anti-Semitism is still rampant. When a store in West Berlin is vandalized with Swastikas, Sara Sturm, a German woman working for the US Department of Public Affairs, is dispatched to investigate, and meets Max and Karl Portnoy, two Jewish survivors of the Holocaust. Sharing their stories of loss, Sara and Max form a bond. Max and his family were sent to a concentration camp during the war, where his parents and sister perished. The man who betrayed them, Nazi nuclear scientist Heinz Hoffman, is now a wanted criminal. Sara agrees to accompany them to Hoffman's last known whereabouts, hoping they will finally be able to bring him to justice. But tracking the elusive Hoffman is not just difficult, it's perilous. From the mountainous backroads of Bavaria to the Soviet border, Sara and Max race to evade assassins sent by the top-secret Odessa organization. And then there are other adversaries, hidden but no less lethal, determined to gain control of Hoffman and the knowledge he possesses—knowledge that may determine the course of countless wars to come.

Release date: February 21, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Swastikas and shattered china. Sara tiptoed through the wreckage of the antiques store. The space was not large, no more than five meters wide and ten deep. Broken porcelain covered the ground, some of it pulverized into dust. The walls were a jumble of smashed shelves. Crooked hooks and nails jutted out of fractured plaster. She glared at the angry red words painted on the windows: Juden raus! Jews out.

“You people let this happen,” said a voice from behind her.

Sara jolted, dropping her clipboard and pen. She turned to find a man glowering at her. He was in his late thirties, a sunken scarecrow of a man swimming in a brown sweater and worn cords. A wool cap sat at a jaunty angle on his head, tufts of salt-and-pepper hair poking out. He stared at the clipboard, his eyebrows furrowed. He took a half step as if he was going to retrieve them, but then he stopped. “You Americans let this happen,” he repeated. He was speaking English, but with a thick German accent.

“I’m one of you,” Sara responded in German. “And don’t blame the Americans. They are here to help.”

The man spat on the ground. “It’s the 1930s all over again. I thought the war was over—that the madness was finished. Now this.” He took another step toward her, raising his arm to point a finger. “You’re supposed to be protecting us.”

Sara was startled and a little afraid. She wasn’t supposed to be here alone. Where were Mr. Varberg and Jeffrey? A second figure appeared in the doorway, but it was not either of them.

“Now, now, enough of that, Karl. Can’t you see you’re scaring the poor girl?” The second man smiled at her. He looked a bit like the first, but younger and more attractive, as if God had taken a second stab at improving the original. He was better dressed, and he scratched a few days of beard with fingers attempting to cover a smile. “I have to apologize for my brother,” he said, moving into the store and gingerly stepping among the broken china. “He’s always been a little short on charm. I’m sorry if we’ve startled you.” He took another step into the store, moving slowly around Karl until both stood only a half meter away from her. He put his hands out. “Don’t worry, my dear, you have nothing to worry about from us.” He looked down. “May I pick this up?” He bent down and fetched the pen and clipboard. He held them out for her.

Sara stared at the two of them. She was all alone. It was daylight, but this part of Berlin was still rebuilding, and there were few people about. She could feel her heart fluttering like a startled sparrow. He still held her clipboard out for her. Taking a breath, she raised her hand and took the end of the board. The man whipped his other arm around toward her hand.

She gasped and jerked away, but he didn’t move toward her. He held up his fingers, twirling her pen. He laughed again.

“Have we frightened you?” he asked. “Well, that would be a first. A German afraid of a couple of Jews.” He reached his hand out. “I’m Max. And of course you’ve already met the charming Karl.”

She took his hand briefly, not looking into his eyes as she did so. “You didn’t scare me,” she said, not really telling the truth. “It’s just early, and I haven’t woken up yet.”

“Yes,” said Max, turning his head to look around. “Our friends, whoever they are, must work the night shift. Now we all have to get up plenty early to try to tidy up after them.”

“Is everything a joke to you?” said Karl, scowling even more.

“If I didn’t laugh, I’d only be able to cry,” said Max softly. Deep pain and sadness rippled across his features, but just for a moment. “Again, you’ll have to forgive my brother. He’s been through a lot, and we thought all of this unpleasantness was behind us.”

“I told you they’d never leave us alone. That these Americans wouldn’t be able to protect us.”

“She’s a German,” said Max. “So settle down. Although I assume that our guest works for the Americans, and that they’ll be along any moment.” He turned to Sara. “Am I correct in this assumption?”

“Yes,” she said. “I work for the Office of Public Affairs. I’m the secretary for the head of the department, Mr. Varberg. We received a call from the German police this morning and came down right away. He and Mr. Scott, his assistant, just stepped out a few minutes ago to check on the rest of the neighborhood. I was expecting them back by now.”

“For what purpose?” said Karl. “To gloat about the end of our store, our livelihood?” He turned to his brother. “We don’t need their help. We can take care of ourselves.”

“You’ll have to forgive my brother,” said Max. He hesitated. “We’ve had rather bad luck with government officials in the past.”

Sara blushed. “I . . . I know you have. I’m sorry about all of that. We are all sorry. All of us Germans.”

“Not all of you,” said Karl, spitting again into the powdery mess. “Not by a long measure.”

“We suffered too,” she said, showing a hint of anger. The Jews always assumed they were the only victims of the war.

Karl’s face mottled with red. “Tough war for you then? Did you have to cut your calories back? Was your house bombed out by the Americans because of the war you started? Are you sad because you didn’t win after you set the world on fire? Didn’t have enough time to kill every last one of my people?”

“I didn’t . . . we didn’t—” she stuttered.

“I’m sorry, Max,” said Karl, turning away from her. “But I’d rather listen to American excuses than German ones. I’ll be in our flat. Come get me when our saviors arrive.” He stalked out of the store without another glance at Sara.

Max turned to her again. “Truly, I do apologize.” He put his hands up again, as if to quiet the broken space. “We had a difficult war. I’m sure you did as well.”

She nodded, still stunned by Karl’s anger. The two brothers were so different. Still, perhaps Karl’s fury was more just, after what the Germans had done to them. “I am truly sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“Don’t consider it another moment,” said Max. “I’d love to hear more about your own experiences in the war.” He glanced at his watch. “I wonder if—”

“Ah, Miss Sturm,” said a new voice in English, the tone lilting and nearly joyful. “Have you collected one of the owners for us then?”

Sara turned to the door to face her boss’s number two, Jeffrey Scott. She blushed again. “Yes, sir.”

Jeffrey leaned against the frame, his head scraping the top of the jamb. He scrutinized the two of them, a tight grin on thin lips. “Whatever do we have here?” he asked. “Have you begun the interview already, Miss Sturm?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure Mr. Varberg would approve. You were to watch the shop while we looked for other vandalism; we didn’t ask you to run the investigation.”

“Miss Sturm was the perfect host,” said Max, his English excellent. “She informed us immediately that you and Mr. Varberg were on the way.”

“Us?” asked Jeffrey, stepping forward and extending a hand.

Max took the offered grip and it seemed to Sara the two men were sizing each other up. “Yes, us. My brother Karl was here for a few minutes, but he excused himself to go back to our flat until you and Mr. Varberg arrived.”

Jeffrey glanced at Sara. “Interesting.” He reached into the inside of his overcoat, retrieving a pen and a leather-encased notebook. “You are the victim of vandalism here, correct?”

“I would say it is a bit more than mere vandalism,” said Max. “But yes.”

“Why the swastikas?” asked Jeffrey.

Max looked to Sara for a moment as if he was confused.

“Mr. Scott is still brushing up on his German and his Germany history,” she explained.

“Ah, I see. Well, my brother and I are the owners. We are Jews. The words painted out there,” Max said, pointing toward the windows. “That says Jews out.”

“I know what it says,” said Jeffrey, his tone a trifle irritated. His expression didn’t change except to show a hint of concentration as his fingers scribbled away furiously. “And how long have you operated this shop?”

Max cocked his head. “Let me see. We came to Berlin in . . . May of 1947. I guess we started up our store in about October.”

“And you sold dishes?”

“Yes, but not ordinary ones. Porcelain, china, antiques.”

Jeffrey scanned the destruction, whistling. “Well then, this must have represented quite an investment.”

“Everything we had, and everything we could borrow.”

“Do you have insurance?” asked Sara, smiling at Max.

He nodded. “Some. But payment will be slow, and we won’t have any revenue coming in until we can replace our inventory. This may be the end of our hopes and dreams.”

“Maybe you made a mistake,” said Jeffrey.

“Pardon me?”

“You know. Staying in Germany,” said Jeffrey. He snorted. “I mean, not to be rude, but they made it relatively clear during the war that your kind are not welcome here. Wasn’t this to be expected?”

“Jeffrey, stop it,” said Sara.

His face twisted into a scowl and he turned on her. “I almost forgot you were here, Miss Sturm. Mr. Portnoy and I have delicate things to discuss.”

“But sir—”

“And you just heard him. I doubt he wants a German around right now.”

“Not at all,” said Max. “Miss Sturm has been nothing but polite this morning.”

Jeffrey dismissed the words with a shrug. “In any event she’s not needed.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few Deutschmarks. “Here, Miss Sturm. After our earlier visit to the store, Mr. Varberg was called back to the office to meet some guests. Grab a cab and get back there. He may have dictation for you.”

Sara’s blood burned at this dismissal, but there was nothing she could do. She turned to Max. “It was a pleasure to meet you today,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss. For everything you’ve been through.”

He smiled at her. His eyes were a stunning blue. “I appreciate your thoughts, Miss Sturm.”

She turned to leave.

“Oh, and Sara,” said Jeffrey.

“Yes, sir?”

“Be a good girl and fetch my cleaning on the way back to the office, will you?”

Sara dashed out of the store, fighting back tears. Reaching the sidewalk, she observed Karl returning to the store. He marched right past her as if she didn’t exist. She tried to wave at him but he pointedly ignored her. She knew she was blocks away from a main thoroughfare, the only place at this time of the day she had any hope of hailing a cab. She cursed Jeffrey under her breath, and for good measure, Karl. Finding a taxi a few minutes later, she directed the driver back to her office. She headed directly there. Jeffrey could pick up his own damned clothes.

Sara arrived back at her workplace a half hour later. The building was situated on Peter-Strasser-Weg, not far from Templehof Airport. The structure was four stories and had been rebuilt after the war from the nearby rubble. The Americans and British had bombed this part of Berlin down to the stones, and there were still colossal mounds of brick dotting the landscape in every direction, serving to remind everyone that a terrible conflict waged here just three short years before.

Sara thought about the war as she exited the cab, what the people of Berlin had endured. She was proud of her people, what they had survived, how they were rebuilding their lives, even as their nation was divided into four parts, controlled by the Soviets, English, Americans, and even the French.

A rumbling in the sky drew her attention. A flight of C-47s were angling in for a landing, bringing in supplies and food for the city. The alliance between the Soviets and the United States hadn’t lasted long, she thought. And now, the war clouds were massing again. East against west as it always was. But this time there was no German army, no Wehrmacht to save the West from the Soviets. She shook her head. That was her boss’s problem, and part of why this vandalism of a Jewish business meant so much this morning . . .

She hurried into the building and up three flights of stairs to their office—a tight, no-frills space facing the alley on the top floor. There was a foyer where Sara’s desk guarded the inner sanctum. Jeffrey had an office directly behind her and Mr. Varberg the corner office to her left. There was a small kitchen/office supply space to her right, with a door at the opposite end that led to the largest space: the records room. All the furniture was US government issue, meaning steel desks, uncomfortable chairs, and stark décor. A portrait of Harry S. Truman loomed over Sara, keeping a close eye on her work.

She could hear voices in Mr. Varberg’s office. That was odd; he didn’t have any appointments on his schedule today. She settled into her morning routine, brewing some coffee in the break room and then sorting through the messages from yesterday to prioritize them for her boss. She was halfway through the pile when the door opened behind her.

“Ah, Sara, you’re back,” said Mr. Varberg. “Have you had a chance to make some coffee yet?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She glanced back at him. He was tall, taller even than Jeffrey. He wore a blue suit with white shirt and a red tie. A walking US flag, she thought. His hair was close cropped and the face beneath was chiseled. He was forty, and had arrived in Berlin only a few months before, with orders to start a new agency office here for purposes of keeping up US public relations during the blockade. She remembered their interview—an opportunity for a job she wanted, in competition with so many others—how thrilled she had been when she was offered the position.

“Sara, just checking in, you going to get us some coffee?” Mr. Varberg asked. His eyes sparkled and danced. She had been daydreaming and her face flushed.

“Sorry, sir. Right away I will.” She hurried from her desk and dug through the cupboards, looking for a tray and a carafe for the coffee. She finally found what she was looking for and prepared the service, carefully walking to Mr. Varberg’s office. She knocked and entered.

There were two men at Mr. Varberg’s desk. They both had brown hair, looked to be in their early thirties, and wore identical blue suits. What was it with Americans and blue suits? Had they not heard of brown or gray? She brought the coffee in and looked around for someplace to put it. Her boss’s desk was covered in papers.

“Ah, let me help you with that, Sara.” He rose and moved a jumble of documents out of the way, clearing a space on the desk. “This is Mr. Phillips and Mr. Clark. They are visiting businessmen from the United States. They are thinking of opening a business in Berlin. I had them convinced to do so, before they caught wind of this bit of unpleasantness this morning.”

“Yes, it was awful,” said Sara, setting the tray down.

One of the men, the taller one, leaned forward. “Good morning, Miss . . .”

“Sturm,” she said.

“Good morning, Miss Sturm. You are a German woman, living in Berlin, I take it?”

She nodded.

“What do you make of this Nazi propaganda?”

“The war is over,” she said. “I don’t know who did this, but it was an aberration. My people don’t feel this way anymore. Perhaps . . . perhaps it was even just some kids.”

Mr. Varberg slapped the desk. “That’s exactly what I said.” Sara glanced at him and he gave her a wink.

Sara thought it might be more serious than that, but their job was to promote American interests in Germany, and uncovering a lurking Nazi movement in their midst could hardly do that. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” she said, smiling at the two men.

“Thank you, Miss Sturm.”

She nodded again and left, closing the door behind her. The men stayed for another hour and then departed. As soon as they were gone, Mr. Varberg invited her into his office. She started to clear away the cups but he motioned her to sit down.

“Is Jeffrey back yet?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

Mr. Varberg leaned forward. “What did you think of the Portnoy brothers?” he asked.

“The men from the store?” she asked. “I feel very sorry for them.”

“I do too, Sara, but I’m not sure all Germans feel the same way. I don’t understand this ongoing hatred. The Soviets have the city surrounded. They are literally trying to starve West Berlin into submission. Why bother with the Jews?”

“Some things die hard,” Sara said. “There is still a lot of bitterness out there about the war. Plenty of people want to move on, but not everybody.”

“Do you think we should help them?” he asked.

“Help who?”

“The Portnoy brothers, of course.”

“How would we do that?”

“I have a budget. When I talked to them this morning, before you arrived, they said they didn’t have enough insurance money to bring the store fully back. But I could assist them.”

Sara thought of Max, his determined face, his humor in the face of tragedy. “That would be kind of you, sir,” she said.

“No, that would be a colossal mistake.” Jeffrey’s voice chimed in from behind her. “We need them to fail—and fail now.”

Sara turned her head. Jeffrey was looking at her, wearing the arrogant mask paraded through the day. “How can you say that?” she asked.

“We are in charge of public affairs. Of the public opinion of how the Germans in our part of Berlin view the job we’re doing.”

“And we just let a blatant act of anti-Semitism happen right under our noses,” said Sara.

Jeffrey turned to Mr. Varberg. “Why am I even having this conversation with a secretary?” he asked. “Miss Sturm, would you excuse us?”

“Not just yet,” said Mr. Varberg, leaning forward. “I’d like to hear her opinion.”

“Most of the people here won’t approve of what just happened,” she said. “If you help rebuild their store, you will be showing the population that you will not tolerate the old ways—but that you’re here for the people—all the people. In this difficult time, with the blockade and everything, I think that will be a source of comfort for them.”

“I couldn’t disagree more,” said Jeffrey.

“Why is that?” asked Mr. Varberg.

“Because it will happen again. Perhaps Sara might be right, that helping rebuild would also help general morale. But what about when the store is attacked a second time? And again after that? That will force our hand. We will have to assist them each time. We don’t have the money for that. We might have to get the army involved, to guard the store day and night. When we do that, we put a spotlight on Nazism at the moment we can least afford it. And, worse yet, we show ourselves to be incapable of protecting the people—when it is critical that they have the utmost faith that we can do just that.”

“You’re speculating all of that will come to pass,” said Sara.

“It will happen,” said Jeffrey. “And truly, if I wanted the opinion of a woman, I would write to my mother. She has at least a scrap of brains.”

“I’ve more brains than you!” Sara shot back. “You’ll reward the Nazis for this bullying! Right here in the American zone!”

“Enough!” shouted Mr. Varberg. His eyes were fire but his face as calm and cold as granite. “Thank you, Sara. I value your input. If you could clear away the tray here. I need to talk to Mr. Scott for a bit, in private.”

Sara caught the look of triumph on Jeffrey’s face as she rose. She turned away and fumbled with the cups, her eyes filling with tears. Without another look at either of the men, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Dropping the tray into the sink, she violently scrubbed the cups, the tears flowing now. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply. She had to keep her composure. Now was not the time. She had fought too hard for this position. Counting to ten, she felt a little calmer. She finished up the dishes and returned to her desk. Continuing to take deep breaths, she inserted a sheet of paper into her typewriter and worked on a letter Mr. Varberg had dictated to her before the close of work the evening before.

She was halfway through when the door opened. She glanced up. Jeffrey was staring at her again, a smirk on his face. “Where’s my laundry?” he asked.

“I didn’t have time to pick it up,” she said.

“No matter, you can fetch it during your lunch hour.”

“Miss Sturm,” Mr. Varberg called from his office. “Could you come in for a moment?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. She already knew what the news was. Jeffrey had won him over. There would be no relief for the Portnoy brothers. Their store would close, and a little part of Berlin’s uncertain future would die with it.

Nicholas Varberg sat for long moments before he spoke. He tapped absentmindedly on the top of his pipe, turning it over to fill it with tobacco again. He lit the top, drawing in a few quick breaths until the end burned brightly and a rich, fragrant smoke filled the air between them.

“I imagine you’ve already figured out what I’m about to say to you.”

“You’re not going to fund the store,” she answered.

His eyes glinted. “Always the quick one, aren’t you, Sara?”

“That’s why you hired me, isn’t it, sir? If there isn’t anything else, I’ve that letter to attend to.” She started to rise.

“Sit back down,” he said gently, waving his hand downward as if willing her to remain. “You’re angry, I take it?”

“I think we should help them.”

“I know you do, Sara, but we have to consider all of the issues.”

“You have to consider the issue of helping Jews being persecuted? In Berlin?”

He took another puff of his pipe. “It’s not as simple as all that.”

“I think it’s exactly that simple,” she said.

“Nothing is ever that easy. That’s your next lesson.” He leaned forward. “Look, if we were only addressing this problem, of course it would be the right thing to help them, but we aren’t. We are facing a fight for our survival with the Russians. We’re surrounded, Sara. You don’t see the reports, but I’ll tell you a secret. We are barely holding on. We can’t supply this city forever with airplanes alone. If the Soviets keep this up, we’ll have to pull out, and then where will any of these people be? Right now, we need the support of the German population. We need them to hang on, to believe in us. Rubbing their noses in the past isn’t going to help that.”

“Broken glass? Nazi symbols and hate-filled words? Whose nose was rubbed in what?” asked Sara.

“You’re right. Of course you’re right. But this is two people we are talking about. And we aren’t going to stop them from having a future. If they can rebuild, then so be it. But we can’t provide the resources for them—at least at the level that they want us to. The issue is simply too sensitive.”

“Says Jeffrey.”

“I agree.”

“You agree because Jeffrey convinced you.”

Mr. Varberg’s eyes flared. “I think we’re done here.” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out an envelope. “I’ll give this to you before you leave today.”

“What’s this?”

“I told you I couldn’t fund them at the level they might want, but I can give them a little bit. This is some money to get them started. It’s not much, but it should give them some breathing room. I thought you might take it to them.”

“Thank you,” she said. He wouldn’t look at her. She had never seen him angry. He’d always treated her with respect. She felt like she’d crossed a line with him. “I do appreciate what you’re trying to do here,” she said.

He looked up. “Thank you, Sara. I wish we could do more on this case, but we need less attention on this, not more.”

“I don’t agree, but I understand.”

“Will you take it now?”

“After work, I think.”

“Well, leave a little early then. We can’t have you working for free, can we?” He was joking now. She’d stayed after work many times without receiving additional pay.

Sara worked the rest of the day, typing up letters and catching up on her filing. She liked to have all her work done each day before she left. She smiled to herself, wondering why. She rarely did anything in the evenings and the work could usually wait until the next day. Still, she liked to feel she had finished everything and could relax for the night and enjoy her apartment. Her dreary flat was drafty and small but it was all hers—a veritable luxury in these times. Thanks to this job, she could afford enough coal to keep herself warm, and she could keep herself fed. Not very many Berliners could say the same.

A half hour before the end of the day, she could hear Mr. Varberg rustling around in his office, and a few minutes later he emerged, briefcase and umbrella in hand, his overcoat slung over his left forearm. “Well, Miss Sturm. . .