The afternoon proved hectic as Ryan tied up loose ends around the central city. He hoped Erika could keep her nerves under control, for so much depended on what she accomplished that evening at home. From a public booth she was to phone her parents to confirm in coded terms an arrival time in Marburg for the following day but make no mention of his participation in the plan. The less said on any phone, the better.
Ryan’s first consideration was how much to tell Edward of this ominous turn of events. His itinerary had been carefully planned so his brother knew at any given time where Ryan was and whom he intended to contact. His assignment obviously did not provide for the rescue of a former girlfriend, now married to the Gestapo. In France Ryan had received a coded letter from Ed acknowledging his brother’s successes, and this afternoon Ryan planned to drop off at the consular office an encrypted update on the “Lone Ranger” network to accompany the next courier to Washington.
Ryan was very aware of the positive contribution his efforts were making toward Ed’s promotion within German Affairs. Grace’s father had worked his magic to bring his son-in-law into the Foreign Service under the aegis of The Group, and the senator was undoubtedly watching closely for Ed’s quick advancement. Ed knew of the close call that final night in Marburg and shared Ryan’s conviction that the pursuit was by the man Erika married. Now Ryan’s helping that same woman and her son escape from this powerful Nazi could undermine an assignment whose success depended on the most clandestine of covers. Ryan’s rocking that boat was not a risk Edward could condone.
His brother had always balked at Ryan’s finessing of the rules. In their youth, conflicts often arose whenever Ryan had chosen his own path rather than that proposed by his older brother. As adults, Edward still maintained that self-imposed responsibility to render sage advice. When Ryan announced leaving Wall Street to study finance in Berlin, his brother could not fathom interrupting a structured career path, and was upset when his recommendation to drop the plan went unheeded. A year later Ed had been disappointed to learn that Ryan was abandoning a career in finance for academe. Ed had emphasized the meager monetary rewards found in a teaching career—something he could not presume to understand—but Ryan suspected his brother secretly envied his willingness to be spontaneous, whether in a social setting or in business. Yet spontaneity was no trait for a future diplomat, where calm deliberation and plodding attention to protocol was the proven path to success.
Ryan decided to follow his gut. He would not mention the next day’s undertaking until it was a fait accompli. He would remove Erika and the child from danger before returning to Berlin and his assignment. Once his friends were safe with Marita in Paris, and proof of Hitler’s true criminal intent reached Washington, all the risks taken would prove a feather in Edward’s cap and full justification for Ryan’s bending of the rules. So he delivered the report into the hands of his contact at the consulate and sent a cryptic cable from the main post office telling his brother to await an important update within twenty-four hours. May as well give him something to look forward to.
Ryan visited two photo shops before finding what he needed at the Reuter Foto-Haus off the Linden. When he met them again in the back booth of a small café off the Ku-Damm he handed her a camera, a Minox sub-miniature as small as the palm of her hand. She was to photograph Horst’s damning protocol. His Virginia trainer had demonstrated the use of this new device, “the perfect tool for espionage,” he had called it. Now Ryan repeated the lesson with Erika, showing how the tiny camera opened telescopically to reveal lens and viewfinder, focused as closely as eight inches, and took fifty shots to a film cartridge. They discussed how best to light the subject and she practiced manipulating the controls before he loaded the miniscule cartridge. Ryan gave her an extra canister in case the document exceeded that length.
The French consulate had readily issued visas for her and the child’s entry into France. The notation of her husband’s SS rank and police position expedited the process, and she indicated a pleasure trip to visit friends in Paris. Erika had instructed her parents to take the hour-long trip to the French consulate in Frankfurt to get their visas. Ryan checked his own and found it recently expired, but decided to return alone later in the afternoon to renew it. They should not be seen together anywhere the Gestapo might later check and a clerk remember. They left the café and went their separate ways.
At the Dresdner Bank on the Ku-Damm Ryan withdrew funds sufficient to cover their expenses to the border, remembering Erika’s assurance that she would bring marks from home, as well. German currency had little value outside the Reich and could not be exported, but extra money might come in handy should they run into unexpected difficulties en route. He was required to register his presence in the city as a reporter within twenty-four hours of arrival, and the Gestapo agents at the railway station had undoubtedly added his name to their list. But now knowing that his departure was a matter of hours rather than days or weeks, he decided to forgo that requirement and hope for the best.
Later in the afternoon Erika put Leo in the care of the governess. The boy was exhausted by the strenuous day’s activities, but remained well-behaved, just quieter than usual. She knew Horst would learn soon enough that she had escaped Oskar’s oversight, but she decided worry had no point. She knew her husband was pre-occupied with finishing off his appalling report, so he might not even care. For a week he had spent every evening hour at his desk, poring over the black file, giving her the relief of not having to interact with him at all. She expected he would likewise disappear the moment he arrived home that night.
After an early dinner with Leo, she told Frieda to get the boy prepared for bed. While the nanny was occupied, Erika slipped into Horst’s study. The Minox was in her pocket, but the report was nowhere to be found at his desk. She realized he must have it with him in his briefcase, so she would have to wait until his return from Prinz Albrechtstrasse.
To pass the time, she locked her bedroom door and began packing. Traveling without luggage might draw attention. Since their visas indicated a vacation getaway, they had agreed to carry one small case apiece with hers to include the boy’s clothing. Only necessities; she would shop when they arrived in Paris. She passed the study and headed for the boy’s room. Leo was already fast asleep, and the nanny long gone to her upstairs quarters in the opposite wing. Erika gathered a few of his items before kissing the damp brow of her sleeping son. At the last moment she also grabbed Leo’s favorite toy, a small Steiff bear, a gift from his grandparents on his first birthday. Back in her room she made a quick survey of the suitcase, found it adequately packed for immediate needs, and slid it under her bed.
Erika remained there until Horst arrived home. The gravel beneath the car’s wheels warned of his approach, and she watched through the gap of the curtain as the sedan pulled under the covered portico. He stayed downstairs for what seemed an inordinate period of time, then finally climbed the staircase and entered his study. She expected him to deposit the briefcase there and return to work on the file once changed from his suit coat to the customary smoking jacket. A few moments later she heard him move down the hall to his own bedroom. The door closed quietly. Erika waited for what seemed forever, listening for him to re-emerge. Finally, hearing no sound on the landing, she stepped cautiously out into the hallway and moved along the corridor, noting a sliver of light beneath his door.
Horst grabbed her from behind and slammed her against the wall, the force knocking a painting to the carpet. He brutally wrenched her to him with an arm around the neck, then smothered her mouth with his other hand and dragged her into her bedroom and threw her on the bed. Erika tried to rise, to push him away, but he shoved her down again and straddled her. She could smell the alcohol. His face remained a stoic mask as she cried out and struggled to get away. He let her loose to slam a fist into her belly, and she curled up and fought for air, the pain shooting through her solar plexus. As she lay gasping, he rose and strode to the dresser and removed seve
ral silk stockings.
“What the hell are you doing?” The words came in short bursts from her bruised throat, her voice gravelly.
“Nothing you don’t deserve, my beloved little whore.” Only the hint of a smile creased his face.
“Get out of this room or I’ll scream, dammit!” A meaningless threat; there was no one who would help her now. Horst straddled her again, pinning her arms to the side, and forced a stocking into her mouth, binding it in place with another tied around her head, and stuffed the others into his pocket.
“That should shut you up for a while.” His voice was brittle. “Time to examine your transgressions, my dear wife. For now—I speak, you listen and learn.” Terror gripped her. She could hardly move, the pain in her belly nauseating. “Don’t worry; you’ll have plenty to say later.”
Horst picked her up, crushing her body against his to make struggle impossible, and carried her down the hall into his own bedroom. His bed was already stripped down to a tautly-stretched sheet. He threw her belly-down and tied her wrists and ankles to the bedposts. Her body shook, her mind raced. He had taken her forcefully in the past, but that had been the limit of his physical abuse. At those times he had seemed uninvolved, more insensitive observer, not active aggressor. But this assault was wantonly malicious. She was terrified by the pure cruelty, the cold hatred new and unexpected, the gag and restraints brutally tight.
Having seen the protocol, she knew he was capable of anything, held no compassion or empathy, lived disconnected from the feelings of others. She sought some means to coax him back to rational behavior, but, without speech, she was helpless. She could only focus with dread on what was to come next. Erika twisted her head to the side to keep him in sight, her eyes tearing with fear, anger and frustration. There was no controlling the trembling. Her hands grew numb from the constriction of the bonds, and her belly was on fire. An awakening cramp in her calves promised still greater agony. The gag made swallowing difficult, and saliva gathered in back of her throat, threatening to choke her.
Horst returned from his closet with a black and silver object, and she recognized his ceremonial SS dagger. He freed the knife from its scabbard and slowly and methodically slit her dress from neckline to hem, the finely-honed blade slicing easily through the material. He cut away slip and bra and garter belt and tossed them aside. Finally he notched the tip of the blade into her silk panties and split them from thigh to waist. With a deft hand he tore away the tattered remnants of cloth, leaving her fully exposed to his abuse.
He remained outwardly calm, unaffected by the torture of his wife.
CHAPTER SIX
That Breitling bitch should have been his from the start. Klaus Pabst first saw her in the fall of 1933 as she left the women’s clinic in Marburg, and he had trailed her home. Here was the girl he desired but never had: tall, attractive, vivacious. He approached her days later in the student dining hall to suggest a movie or a beer, and she turned him down politely—too busy with studies and duties at the Frauenklinik—but he saw in her eyes that same pity reserved for a street beggar or an unqualified job applicant. A few weeks later she was dating Horst.
He guessed his friend had watched his degradation at the Mensa and made his own move shortly thereafter. Naturally she would favor Horst—tall, debonair, superior in all ways, Horst who took all the honors and prizes. Klaus imagined Horst between those long, slender legs of hers, imagined stepping in to take Horst’s place. But he never begrudged his mentor’s conquests. Horst’s success was always his success, and Klaus was, above all else, loyal.
Over the years he casually propositioned her in social settings, knowing well it would come to nothing, but finding pleasure in discomforting her. Although the SS prized honor, family-orientation, and fidelity in its leaders, Klaus knew that extra-marital affairs were commonplace among the officers and their wives. Sexual innuendo was a staple of social intercourse. He certainly would have liked bedding her, but he never would jeopardize his close friendship with Horst, even had she been interested. Her willingness alone would have given him the hook he needed to bring her down. And now that he knew she was racially impure, he was pleased to have never polluted himself by fucking her. At least that’s what he told himself.
The failed attack on the American back in ’34 had shown a surprising weakness in Horst. The three comrades lay in wait in the Altstadt ready to take down the bastard. Horst was seething, knowing his girl had just come from the American’s bed. Once they realized he had leapt from the bridge, they lowered themselves from a retaining wall to reach the river bank below and followed the fugitive until they lost him in the tunnel. Unprepared to explore a dark passageway with nothing but lighter and matches to light the way, they gave up the chase.
Horst had lashed out at his cohorts, blaming them for the American’s escape. Klaus expected Horst’s outburst to open his facial wound, but instead a convulsive spasm twisted his head to the side. He slumped onto the damp bank with a terrible wailing, a keening cry from deep in his throat, and suffered through the painful attack. It was the first and last time Klaus had seen his friend and leader lose self-control. They had retreated to the Zentral-Hotel tavern and Horst drank himself into silence. A second attempt for the following evening was aborted with news the American had left Marburg, and then Horst impregnated the bitch and made her his wife.
For years now Klaus watched them together, knowing she was unworthy of his friend, hoping to find some way to discredit her, to prevent her from impeding Horst’s rising star. And his own. A Gestapo truism stated that all men had something to hide, and he was determined to find the skeleton in the Erika Breitling von Kredow closet. He researched the family’s heritage and its political leanings, and initially found nothing out of place. They were anti-Bolshevik, so much that they had left East Prussia to get to the heart of the Reich. He could find nothing useful in her parents’ dossiers, except perhaps the curious fact that they had grown up in the same household, practically brother and sister. Was incest a possibility here? Stranger things had been found by diligent police work. Klaus ordered an examination of the grandparents’ family records in East Prussia, which—intriguingly—were kept in the church archives recorded by her very own grandfather as parish minister. Klaus’s intuitive sense tingled, and he ordered a trusted local agent to investigate the civil records, as well.
And there it was, his hook, his leverage to destroy her in Horst’s eyes: Erika was a Jewess. A second-degree Mischling, to be precise. For Horst the distinction would be meaningless. The blood pollution was there despite two generations of baptism and conversion. She had—perhaps knowingly—snared a high-ranking SS officer now tasked with helping solve the Jewish Question, and he knew Horst would be appalled with his personal Blutschande, his sexual relations with a Jew. His mentor would have no choice but to eliminate all trace of her. That was Horst’s way, and his “dagger” would see it happen at last.
It had been a full week since he had set things in motion at the SS gathering, and she had left immediately for Marburg to see her parents. By now she certainly knew what—for a few moments longer—only he knew. Klaus viewed this private knowledge as a beautifully-wrapped gift to himself, ready to open and savor at the right moment and in the right manner. He had hoped to hear her grovel upon her return to Berlin. Instead, only silence, which took guts. And he knew that in his world of constant surveillance, investigation and suspicion, someone else might step forward at any time to steal his thunder. But if he acted now, he alone could manipulate the destruction of the pompous Jew-bitch. Saving Horst from the public revelation and disgrace would be Klaus’s greatest gift to his friend.
Sitting alone at his desk, Klaus placed the phone directly before him and planned how best to word his call. He saw no gain in waiting.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Horst sat naked in the window nook of his bedroom, the leather portfolio open on the small table before him. Turning the pages, he considered a few final revisions. Such methodical e
diting was boring but necessary work. He considered using a stronger word, then let it be. He caught one misspelling. No longer was it a matter of content or sentence structure. To his aggravation, his fountain pen kept smearing. First thing in the morning he would have this final version retyped just before the presentation. On the Resolution of the Jewish Problem in Occupied Lands of the Greater Reich would have to be convincing, its recommendations flawless. Once accepted by Heydrich and passed along to Himmler, it would assure Horst’s ultimate rise in the SS firmament. He might well be handed the primary role in implementing this mammoth undertaking.
He had been drinking, for this evening was to have been a celebration of sorts. The report was nearly ready to present to his superiors, and the timing was perfect. On the drive home the radio had broadcast Dr. Goebbels’ latest raging harangue. Events in Paris had provided the emotional trigger so important to win hearts and minds, for a foolish Jew had assassinated a German diplomat. It was the great wake-up call to the German people. Suppression of the Jews in the Reich would no longer be a matter of a few laws. Hands-on action by the people would now to be the rule of the day.
He clumsily turned another page, focusing on the tables and graphs. The estimated numbers of Jews his Einsatzgruppen should handle on a daily basis was truly impressive. Many millions would have to be processed when the Waffen-SS and Wehrmacht rolled east. He promised remarkable results, especially if the SS followed these recommendations to the letter. Heydrich had stressed Himmler’s insistence on the accuracy of all numbers and projections.
But the evening had taken an unexpected turn. Horst’s excitement in the moment had wavered in the face of the newest revelations about his disloyal wife. Once again she had compromised his honor, and he was forced to take action. He took a long swallow of the Courvoisier, well beyond savoring the amber cognac, stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray, and glanced over at the bed.
Corridor of Darkness Page 19
