Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Despite the cloche hat obscuring much of her face, Ryan could see a narrow nose, pointed chin, and warm smile. She took Ryan’s other arm and escorted them past the two guards wielding wooden bats. Doro’s friend Jürgen waited inside at the door. He was heavy-set with watery eyes, either from the chill outside or from the pall of smoke in the warehouse hall they now entered. They appeared to be the last to arrive. Jürgen solemnly shook their hands and directed them to standing room at the back of the crowded hall.

  “Love your outfit,” Doro flashed Isabel a grin, “somehow it suits you.”

  “Enough solidarity with the working class?” Isabel asked, assuming a provocative pose. “I’m trying to win advocates to your cause.”

  Ryan and Isabel leaned against a wall plastered with safety placards and union notices, and she hung her veiled hat on a nail. Her two friends stood nearby, Jürgen with his arm around Doro’s waist as she leaned in close to him. He whispered something and she smiled. A man noisily shut the entrance doors and secured the latch, the guards remaining outside before the entry.

  The meeting hall was a sorting room for crates of industrial goods, but the containers appeared abandoned, and attendees were using them now for temporary seating. A man rose and approached the make-shift podium, a patch of dust obvious on the seat of his topcoat. The packed hall quieted as he stepped up on the platform to address the crowd, a lanky, bearded Abraham Lincoln in worker’s garb and a crumpled hat. The speaker welcomed all the “worker soldiers,” then urged the crowd to take up torches and placards to confront the enemy. He challenged the assemblage to fight the repressive tactics of the police and the growing anti-labor sentiment of the National Socialists. His fervor weakened as he droned on, a stark contrast to the Nazi rallies where Hitler worked a fevered crowd. The speaker tediously detailed repressive new government regulations, and then told the crowd to make its march loud and unforgettable, to turn on every light in the district as they passed through. There was a resounding shout of support and a salute of raised fists.

  As the speech neared its conclusion Ryan sensed a muffled thump, its volume increasing steadily like some huge industrial machine gearing up. Those nearest the rear of the hall turned their heads and exchanged whispered comments. The heavy tramping began to override the speaker’s voice, until all attention focused on the disturbance, and Ryan finally recognized the synchronized pounding of boots on cobbles.

  A crash of smashed wood and shattered glass shook the rear of the assembly. Loud shouts and angry voices rose outside, joining the cries of warning within the hall. The meeting collapsed in pandemonium at the breach of the entry, and Brownshirts and long-coated men flooded into the hall. Many carried wooden clubs, iron crowbars, or flaming torches, and they plowed into the crowd, swinging brutally in all directions. A free-for-all erupted. Communists without pocketed weapons tore boards from the packing crates, beating back the attackers with matching ferocity. Clubs battered flesh and bone; fists, blackjacks, and boots hit home. The attackers trampled the fallen and brutally kicked or struck. A pistol shot rang out, followed by another from the opposite end of the hall. Ryan saw a Storm Trooper swing a Stahlrute, the narrow, spring-loaded pipe releasing a spray of steel bearings into the crowd. A man fell, his palms covering his bloodied eyes.

  My God, thought Ryan, we’re going to die here!

  In the midst of the brawl he stumbled toward Isabel and grabbed her hand. They fought their way toward a side door, searching for a way out. Jürgen dropped with a bloody gash to his throat. Ryan reached out to drag him along, but the surging crowd pushed from every direction, and they were quickly separated from the downed man. Doro was nowhere to be seen.

  Someone now ignited the stack of torches set aside for the march, and the hall filled rapidly with acrid smoke and soot. Violent coughing overtook those aggressively fighting as well as others merely trying to find shelter from the violence.

  Ryan reached for a broken beer bottle at his feet just as a fist flew past his head. He came out of his crouch seething and swung the jagged weapon in an arc. The attacker dodged, blocked his arm and came up with a powerful upper cut to Ryan’s belly, leaving him gasping for air. The thug, a broken-toothed grin visible beneath the brim of his hat, came in for another blow when he was felled by someone wielding a makeshift wooden club, and the attacker fell unconscious at Ryan’s feet. Ryan, doubled over and fighting for breath, spotted the brass knuckles. No wonder it hurts like hell. Then he recognized the well-worn boxer’s beak, the same tough they had seen lighting up on the street less than an hour before.

  He rose to catch sight of Isabel planting a fierce kick to the groin of a fallen Brownshirt. Ryan felt his own pain pale in comparison to that of the Nazi, but felt no pity. Two men were forcing open a side door nearby, so he reached again for Isabel’s hand. Still intent on her prey, she turned on Ryan in fury, ready to take him on, as well. “Come on,” he shouted, “Let’s get the hell out of here, now!” Her eyes cleared and she followed his lead.

  A small group forced its way through the door into a hallway, the corridor dimly lit by fixtures high in the exposed metal rafters. At the end they reached a courtyard congested with industrial parts and huge shipping crates. Shouts arose from the passage behind them, and Ryan spotted brown-shirted pursuers entering the opposite end of the passageway. He helped two other men move a heavy length of conveyor track to barricade the exit.

  A tall gate stood at the rear of the yard, its doors linked by an oversized chain with rusting padlock. The group shoved a massive empty crate alongside the gate, and a smaller container extended the height of the platform. Once up on the make-shift tower, Ryan and Isabel wrapped their topcoats around the barbed wire. Ryan sensed the ragged points pierce the material as he eased himself over and dropped. Isabel followed, her landing cushioned by his arms.

  One by one their group clambered over the heavy coats, only to hang briefly before dropping to the pavement below. The last man held his hands tightly clenched to his chest. The coats had finally shredded on the jagged wire, and beneath the dim street lamp Isabel opened the man’s fists to examine the bloody flesh. Ryan offered his handkerchief, ripping it in two, and Isabel placed a wadded section in each palm and closed the man’s hands tightly over the material. He thanked her before running up the side street.

  Their breath formed quick puffs in the chilly air. Flames from the burning factory reflected in the dirty windows of the warehouse across the alleyway as acrid smoke and a snow of falling ash blanketed the area.

  “You’ve real nursing talents,” Ryan said as he took her arm.

  “And you sure know how to land on your feet.”

  “Track and field in college. Next time, we try pole vaulting.”

  “Well, I’m up for the footrace part now,” she clapped her hands to his cheeks and kissed him. “Your sports events are ruining my white stockings.” Isabel laughed, exhilarated by the danger, then grabbed his hand and pulled him down the street.

  They ran down blind alleys and back up narrow passageways between brick warehouses, all the while seeking an exit from the labyrinth. Muffled shouts and clamor from an ongoing battle echoed from afar, and police and fire sirens wailed in the distance. Their companions left them along the way, choosing alternate routes to skirt the turmoil until Isabel and Ryan found themselves alone.

  A half-hour of relentless back-tracking finally led them to a taxi stand before a dimly-lit bar. A black Opel sat at the curb beneath a streetlamp, its driver slumped behind the wheel, his head resting against the window. Ryan rapped lightly on the glass. The drowsy cabbie looked skeptically at their filthy attire and left his window up. Warehouse worker and whore, no overcoats, faces smudged with dirt and soot. Ryan pulled out a banknote and held it to the glass, an advance look at the fare, and thus reassured, the driver unlocked the rear door. Relieved to be sitting at last, Ryan gave Isabel’s address. The driver clicked on the cabin light and consulted a well-worn city plan before starting the meter, and Ryan g
limpsed a small Nazi flag affixed to the dashboard. No wonder he’s cautious about fares around here.

  Isabel’s bathroom was common to all five tenants on the second floor of the Pension. Thankfully, the room was unoccupied at that late hour, and Ryan heated the boiler with coal from Isabel’s private reserve. The landlady only fired the heater for Saturday baths—first come, first served—so Isabel squirreled away lignite bricks filched from the weekends-only coal scuttle. They took their time, slowly washing smoke and grime from each other’s hair and body.

  Back in her room they made love, Isabel on top and taking the lead. The faint neon glow illuminated the bare walls of the room and rendered the marks on his belly a purplish blue. She gently traced the pattern left by the brass knuckles.

  Later they lay side-by-side, her head resting in the crook of his arm, exhilarated and exhausted by the long evening. “I do thrive on danger,” she said. She teasingly bit his nipple, then kissed the bruised muscles and moved down. “Could it be an aphrodisiac?” she whispered.

  They tested that theory again, very slowly, very carefully.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Isabel had disappeared. Ryan phoned the day after their close call in Wedding and set a rendezvous for the following weekend. But during the week she called to say a great new “adventure” was on for that very evening, a gathering of the same Nazi unit responsible for the mayhem at the warehouse.

  “You have to come,” she said. “It’ll be a real kick!”

  “You’re out of your mind, Isabel. Those thugs won’t care much for surprise guests, and I sure didn’t see any women in their gang.”

  “Just one more good reason we have to go, Ryan. They need a woman’s calming influence to keep them sane.”

  “Calming? You didn’t exactly pull your punches the other night. I suspect at least one Brownshirt still can’t pull on his trousers, thanks to you. Face it, Isabel—they’ll spot you for sure.”

  “Nonsense, all they saw was a ‘working girl.’ Even you won’t recognize me tonight; I’ll go drab with no oomph. And you could easily pass for one of those better-groomed Nazi-types. I might even scare up a Storm Trooper uniform for you.”

  “You’ve got more balls than I do, Izz.”

  “Come on, Ryan, don’t go spineless on me. It’ll be perfect. First we reported the Marxist viewpoint, now we give our readers the Nazi perspective. My editor will simply die when he hears what I’ve done.”

  “Sorry, but I’m obviously more thinker than fighter.” He ran his hand over the still-tender muscles of his belly. “One close call a month is enough for me. Please reconsider.”

  “Okay, if that’s the way you want it,” she said, “I’ll go it alone.”

  “But wait, Isabel—” The line was dead. She was pissed.

  The following Saturday she failed to show for their scheduled date, and phone messages left at her rooming house went unanswered. Sunday afternoon came with no word, so he dropped by her rooming house. The landlady, a starchy widow whose husband had fallen in the trenches, responded with cold reserve to each of Ryan’s questions. She said Isabel had not been home for days.

  “Have you tried her room?” He offered a smile he didn’t feel.

  “I’m well aware you have,” she said, “on several occasions.” His smile hadn’t worked its magic.

  “Does she normally go away without informing you?”

  “That’s certainly none of my business,” the tone indicating everything was her business. “As long as I see monthly rent, the room’s hers to use as she pleases.”

  “But perhaps—” Ryan continued undeterred.

  “Fräulein Starr will be back soon, I’m sure.” The door closed in his face.

  Ryan stopped by the Chicago Daily News office at the Kranzlerecke. No idea, but do let us know when you hear from her; her father’s concerned. He visited their usual haunts. Bartenders, artist friends, waiters in restaurants, the corner newsstand vendor, and no one knew her whereabouts. Even a cautious daylight excursion into Wedding to seek out the Communist storefront in Joachimstrasse proved fruitless.

  No one recalled her, nor pretty Doro, nor teary-eyed Jürgen. Isabel had simply failed to return. The police were of no help, but he left his address should something come up, and for weeks he watched the papers—a woman’s body found in a squatters’ tenement, a wife strangled by her unemployed husband in a drunken rage, the occasional unidentified victim of a robbery or rape, a streetwalker’s body found in an alley. Isabel rarely left his mind.

  Over a month passed before the butler told Ryan, just back from the city, that a police inspector was waiting in the von Haldheim salon. The man sat drumming his fingers on one thigh, an empty tea cup perched on the other. He looked around somewhat uncomfortably, trying to decide where best to place the empty cup and saucer as he rose from his chair. For want of a better choice, the detective used a folded newspaper as a coaster and set the cup on a side table. He fished a slim leather case from his coat pocket and flashed his police identity card. Ryan glimpsed the man’s name, a photo, an official seal stamped across one corner: Police Inspector Brandt.

  “I’m here in the matter of Fräulein Isabel Starr.” Polite, not overly cordial. “A friend, I believe?”

  “Yes, a close friend—you’ve found her? What have you learned?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. Shall we sit?” He motioned Ryan to the opposite armchair. “You’ve been looking for her, as have we. Perhaps you can help with details of your last time together?” His eyes held Ryan’s.

  “We were at a political gathering in Wedding, about six weeks ago now. There was a fight, a fire, but she was fine when I left her rooming house later. She had plans the following Wednesday to sneak into a Nazi meeting, across the Spree again. She asked me to go. I said no.” The investigator nodded but said nothing, so Ryan continued: “I’ve heard nothing from her since.”

  Brandt put on glasses and withdrew a notepad from his jacket pocket. Ryan caught a glimpse of a tight, cramped script. “We’re familiar with the Wedding incident. A number of casualties, and one fatality, as well. Not to mention the loss of a warehouse or two. It seems a dangerous business, this foreign correspondent work, don’t you think?”

  “It can be,” said Ryan.

  “To the best of your knowledge, is the Jewess involved in anything other than newspaper work?”

  “Jewess?”

  “Starr, Stern. They often change their names as they move about.”

  “What’s that to do with her disappearance?” Ryan was surprised by the reference.

  “One never knows these days, right?” The inspector glanced again at his notes. “As for you, your registration with the city indicates university enrollment and a Marburg student’s residency. I see no mention of a journalist’s permit.”

  “I freelance for the Kansas City Times, an American newspaper.”

  “Sorry, never heard of it. However I am very familiar with the Chicago Daily News, the reason for my visit. Our young Fräulein Starr works for the News, and her father’s demanding an investigation. He’s well-connected with my chief, so there you have it.” He removed the reading glasses. “She was alone when you last saw her, when you left her apartment house?”

  “Yes, it was late, she was alone.”

  “Perhaps she entertained another guest? After you left?”

  “No.” Ryan felt hollow. “Not possible.”

  “You have other names, friends, acquaintances to direct us to, people outside her newspaper sphere?”

  “No, no specifics. I’m sorry.”

  “Then that’s all there is to it, is it not?” The inspector rose from his chair.

  “What can I do to help, anything at all?”

  Brandt shook his head once again. “We get cases like this all the time. Your friend obviously has no problem getting about on her own.” Ryan registered the implicit perhaps she doesn’t wish to be found. The detective used a thumbnail to smooth down an imperfection on the leather cove
r of his notebook. “My guess? She’s off on a story.” He returned the notebook to his pocket. “So many causes these days, don’t you agree?” He handed Lemmon his card. “When you hear from her, let us know immediately and we’ll put her father’s mind to rest.”

  Ryan followed the detective out into the foyer where Erich waited. “Do stay in touch,” he said. The butler helped him into his overcoat and he was out the door.

  Ryan could sense Brandt had done his duty by rote, expecting no insights, anxious to be on his way. He could still hear the undertone. Sometimes such disappearances are better left unexplored.

  Weeks passed without further word. He attended a few university seminars, wrote an occasional letter home. He had no desire to return to Marburg. Mostly he visited familiar streets and haunts, remembering her insight and wit, her laughter, her passion. He missed her.

  Then one morning a single letter sat on the credenza in the foyer. He rarely received anything other than air mail flimsies from America and the occasional note from his dancer in Paris. The envelope was postmarked Berlin, with no return address. He slit open the cheap cover with his penknife. It held no note, only a carefully-clipped rectangle of newsprint, the previous day’s date jotted in a tight, cramped script in the upper corner, a bureaucratic hand at work.

  The decapitated body of an unclothed woman approximately 30 years of age was found overnight in the Spree. Further investigation is pending, awaiting clues to the identity of the deceased. Anyone with information is asked to contact the Berlin Police Department.

  In the silence of the foyer, lost in anger and self-blame, Ryan slumped against the wall.

  He stopped checking the papers. He preferred uncertainty.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  René Gesslinger’s mother Jeanne, born in Alsace but thoroughly French, lost her heart to a German, the strapping, entrepreneurial boatman Heinrich Gesslinger from across the Rhine in Kehl. The pair met at a wine fair in Strasbourg, where each year her parents marketed the wares of their small winery south of Colmar. Jeanne was seventeen, young, pretty, a country girl to whom Strasbourg was a metropolis and the center of the universe.