City of Shadows

by Ariana Franklin

  She smiled across the grave at Busse. “I do not die now if you shoot me. Always you try to kill me, always I do not die. I am the grand duchess Anastasia.”

  Busse was staring at her, mesmerized. “Yes,” he said. Then he said, “Yes, Your Imperial Highness.”

  Anna closed her eyes. “That is good,” she said, and fell against Schmidt. He held her up. Froth was coming out of her mouth.

  “What is it?” Busse demanded.

  “She’s fainted,” Schmidt said, trying to put his jacket around Anna’s shoulders as she flopped against him.

  “She is Anastasia,” Busse said in awe. “You heard her.”

  “Yes,” Schmidt said, He picked Anna up in his arms and edged Esther back so that he stood in front of her on the lip of the grave.

  Busse still pointed the gun at them, but he was flustered. He shifted his spectacles.

  In the pit the storm trooper stared across at Anna, bewildered, then back up at Busse. His young face was streaked with dirt across his cheek where he’d wiped off perspiration.

  Busse made up his mind. When the stormtrooper looked up again, he shot him through the forehead. The boy fell back against the side of the pit, eyes open, his head resting against Günsche’s dangling hand.

  Schmidt felt Esther flinch.

  “About the Anastasia file,” Schmidt said. His voice intruded on the air, breaking an echo left by the pistol fire.

  “Carry Her Highness to the car,” Busse said. “Carefully. Then come back. The Jewess stays where she is.”

  Schmidt shook his head, as much to clear it as anything. He’d underestimated Busse—or overestimated him, he didn’t know which. Even Busse, clinical, Nazi Busse, wasn’t proof against fairy tales. He’d made up his mind to be Anastasia’s knight, her savior. Anna, laid at Hitler’s feet. Here is the true, proven grand duchess, my Führer, rescued from death at the hands of one of Röhm’s killers.

  It would still work.

  “About the file . . .”

  “Quiet about the file,” Busse said. He gestured toward the car. He had Günsche’s gun in his hand—they were going to be shot with Gün-sche’s bullets. “I do not need it. It is irrelevant now. Inconvenient, perhaps, because of the baby, but we shall deny that. It was mere Communist propaganda to blacken her name.”

  He was thinking on his feet, Schmidt saw, planning. Nothing was going to mar the image of the unsullied Sleeping Beauty awakened by a Nazi kiss—certainly not the two witnesses, Schmidt and Esther, who could attest to the inconveniences the file contained. They would disappear.

  “She is the grand duchess without a doubt,” Busse said. “Only one person could know what she knew. We shall put her on the radio, and everyone will hear her. That was the truth we heard.”

  “Yes,” Schmidt said, “it was. But you should have read the file more closely.”

  “I’m taking her back to the Führer,” Busse said. “Get her into the car.”

  Schmidt hoisted Anna so that her head was against his shoulder; he was finding her heavy now, but Busse couldn’t shoot him without hitting his Anastasia, and both their bodies were protecting Esther behind him.

  “There’s a list in that file,” Schmidt said. “Men who were interviewed about Yusupov on the night of Natalya Tchichagova’s murder. You remember? In 1923? Prince Yusupov? Günsche put Yusupov’s name on the note that took Natalya to her death.”

  “What? What?” Busse was becoming angry. “Put Her Highness in the car. I order you.”

  “These men had been with Yusupov at a nightclub called the Pink Parasol. You wouldn’t know it—it’s a homosexual club.”

  Busse began to move, walking along the edge of the grave, coming around it to get behind Schmidt, to shoot Esther.

  “They were brought in for questioning, and they gave Yusupov an alibi,” Schmidt said, watching him. “One of them was called Braun. Common enough name. On the list, he’s down as Braun, E. Just the initial. But I interviewed him—he was still in his ball gown.”

  Busse stopped still.

  “And I remember his Christian name,” Schmidt said. “I have a memory for detail, and anyway it was unusual. It was Einwen. Einwen Braun, same name as the fellow Hitler has just promoted to some office or another.”

  He watched Busse’s Adam’s apple move in his throat.

  “I remember the address, too,” he said. “It’s in the file. I’m surprised you didn’t notice it, but the list’s a long one, so perhaps you overlooked it. E. Braun lived in Mariendorf. Your brother-in-law ever live in Mariendorf, Busse?”

  There was silence.

  “Still does?” Schmidt asked gently. “Well, you know what these newspapermen are like; when they get the file—and they will—they might notice the name of an E. Braun living in Mariendorf and wonder if it’s got any connection with the Einwen Braun and look him up. He’s got a record, Busse. I remember that too. Just one offense—soliciting in a men’s lavatory.”

  He waited. Busse didn’t say anything.

  “The offer still holds,” Schmidt said. “You get the only remaining copy of the file. Fräulein Solomonova and I go free.”

  We’re going to stand here forever, he thought. We’re in some obscene enchantment.

  Busse lowered the Luger. He twitched his spectacles. “We’d better go,” he said. “Someone may have heard the shots.”

  And I will believe in You and all Your works forever.

  “After you,” Schmidt told him. Carrying Anna, he followed Busse and Esther to the Audi.

  As he passed the grave, he looked down to where Günsche lay, his hand hanging down against the head of the dead stormtrooper.

  Nazi justice. No trial for him, no public acknowledgment of the monster he’d been. Hannelore’s death, Natalya’s, all of his victims’—mere cases moldering in the unsolved section of the Records Department. Obliterating dirt would be shoveled on top of where he lay. Long live the law of the Luger.

  Busse had got himself in hand. “Put Her Highness in the back,” he said, opening the Audi’s rear door for them. “Carefully.”

  Schmidt lowered Anna onto the seat. Her eyes were closed, and she was moaning. He wiped her mouth gently with his shirtsleeve.

  “You.” Busse pointed the gun at Esther. “Reverse and go up the track. Turn right at the top. You”—this was to Schmidt—“in the front with her.” He got in beside Anna.

  They drove to where they’d left the Mercedes. “Same order as before,” Busse said. “The Jewess drives.”

  “Her name is Fräulein Solomonova,” Schmidt said. “Use it.”

  They changed cars, leaving Günsche’s Audi on the edge of the forest.

  Esther started the Mercedes, put it smoothly into gear, reversed, and they were on the road. Her hands were white on the wheel. Schmidt touched them. “All over now,” he lied.

  She nodded.

  “How is this to be worked?” Busse asked from the rear seat.

  “I’m thinking,” Schmidt told him.

  The Luger touched the back of his neck. “Think well.”

  “Bismarck Allee,” Schmidt told Esther.

  “The file’s not there,” Busse said.

  “Bismarck Allee,” Schmidt said again.

  After that nobody spoke. Esther drove well, going at a medium pace. Schmidt tried to get her to look at him, but she might have been a wooden statue with its eyes fixed on the road. They could hear Anna muttering in the back and Busse trying to comfort her.

  As soon as they were passing streetlights, Schmidt looked at his watch. It said eight-fifteen. “What’s the time?” he asked Busse. “My watch has stopped.”

  Busse pulled back the edge of his left-hand glove. “Twenty hours fifteen.”

  Just an hour and a half since he’d been in the Alex, burning files. Ninety minutes. It had felt like a lifetime. For two men back there, it had been.

  “Still got time to join the parade,” he said.

  Busse said nothing.

  The sky had cleared, a
nd a hard-edged moon showed busy streets on which the main trend seemed to be eastward, toward the West End.

  They pulled up in front of number 29. Schmidt and Busse supported Anna while Esther opened the door and helped her upstairs. She was beginning to come around. They steered her to the sofa, and she lay down, closing her eyes.

  The flat was warm and tidy, and Esther stood in the middle of it as if seeing it for the first time. The phone still dangled from its wire.

  Schmidt said, “Hot drinks all around, I think,” and moved to the kitchen.

  Busse stopped him. “Where is the file?”

  “With a friend, I told you.”

  Busse said, “Come here, Fräulein.” The gun pointed at Esther. He took her by the arm and walked her to the phone table and the hard-backed chair beside it. “Sit.” He picked up the receiver and held it out to Schmidt. “Tell your friend to bring it here.” The gun was against Es-ther’s cheek.

  “I want your word that when you’ve got it, she and I can go free,” Schmidt said. “There’s a flight from Tempelhof we need to catch.”

  “Of course.”

  God, how that man did need that file. It would be in flames seconds after he got it. Whether he’d known about his brother-in-law or hadn’t, it really wasn’t information he wanted to reach Hitler’s ears.

  It would be handy to have it suppressed in any case. Hitler could have his pristine grand duchess. Busse, her rescuer, could have his reward. Nobody need know anything else, and the dance could go on.

  Schmidt said, “You won’t mind if I make sure of that.” He went to the other side of the table and turned the phone around so that its dial was out of Busse’s view. He dialed. Let him be in, God. Don’t let him be out.

  Joe Wolff’s voice, which always reminded him of richly squashing fruit, said, “Hello?”

  “It’s Siegfried.”

  “Siegfried, my son. How are you? You only just caught me. I was thinking I’d go watch the parade.”

  “You can. But I’m in trouble, and I need a favor.”

  “Trouble?” A thousand years of anxiety came over the line.

  “That folder I gave you. Have you still got it?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s on top of Minna’s wardrobe. Still wrapped up. You want I should get it?”

  “Yes. I need you to take it to the West End—hold on a minute.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked toward Busse. “Pick a hotel, any hotel.”

  “Tell him to bring it here,” Busse said. He had hold of Esther’s hair, pulling her head back so that her throat was exposed to the gun barrel.

  “It’s packed up and addressed to my favorite newspaper. You want me to tell him to mail it? Pick a bloody hotel.”

  “The Kaiserhof.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure my friend’s going to walk into a nest of Nazis. Pick another one.”

  “The Esplanade.”

  Nice and central. He said, “Take the folder to the Esplanade. You know it?”

  “Of course I know. Bit pricey, but Minna and I brought Ikey to tea there in the palm court on his twelfth birthday. He was very taken by the éclairs, I remember.”

  Schmidt was wrenched by a vision of the little suburban family that spent its annual holiday in a bed-and-breakfast at Baden-Baden staring around them at the plush and chandeliers.

  “Quick as you can, then,” he said. “When you get there, phone me at this number.” He gave Esther’s number. “If I don’t answer or you see anybody who looks as if they’re searching for you, put the folder in the mailbox. Can you do that?”

  “Sure, I can do it. But is it bad, Siegfried? Can I help?”

  “You are helping.” He put down the phone.

  Busse said, not unadmiringly, “You have been thinking, Inspector.”

  “It’s what I’m good at. You all right, Mrs. Noah?”

  Esther nodded. She pushed the gun away from her neck and got up. Busse let her. “Coffee, everyone?” she asked.

  God, he was proud of her. He leaned over the table and put his hand to her cheek. “That’s my girl.”

  He looked at his watch. For Joe, the journey by S-bahn would take less than ten minutes, give him time to get the folder and his coat, walk to the station, walk to the Esplanade at the other end. “Half an hour,” he said. “And I’ll get the coffee. Esther, you pack us a suitcase—noth-ing heavy. If they can squeeze us onto the night plane, they won’t let us take a lot of weight. Just the essentials. Passports. Oh, and a thick scarf; it’s going to be cold. Put in an extra coat.”

  He went into the kitchen, Busse with him, following his every move with the gun.

  Good, very good. So far.

  “As a matter of interest,” he said, “what explanation will you give Hitler as to why Günsche wanted to kill Anna Anderson in the first place?” If Busse was cutting the connection between Anna and Bagna Duze, Günsche’s action would seem not only arbitrary but reasonless, even to Adolf.

  “It is obvious,” Busse said. “Major Günsche was secretly a Communist assassin. The Bolsheviks infiltrated him into Röhm’s organization years ago, under cover, to eliminate White Russians.”

  God Almighty. It was beautiful. A Red ogre to be added to the fairy tale for Hitler’s delight and the disparagement of Röhm, who had nurtured it. Olga, Natalya, Potrovskov had all been White Russians. The murders of Hannelore and Marlene, if they came up at all, would be explained away as extraneous—attempts by a Bolshevik assassin to cover his tracks.

  “You’ve been doing some thinking yourself,” Schmidt said.

  In the living room, he held the cup out to Anna. Her blue eyes stared at him. “I do not die,” she said.

  “Immortal, Your Imperial Highness.”

  From the darkroom doorway, Esther said, “She’ll need someone to look after her when we go.”

  “We are in charge of Her Imperial Highness now,” Busse said. “I shall phone and order my people to come and look after her.”

  “No,” Schmidt said. “On our way out, we’ll ask Frau Schinkel to see to her.” He looked at his watch. Ten minutes gone.

  “At least let me ring my wife,” Busse said, moving to the phone.

  “No.”

  “She is expecting me. She will be worried that I am late.”

  Schmidt said, “Touch that phone and I won’t answer it when my friend calls.” Whoever Busse called, it wouldn’t be an anxious wife. Frau Busse wasn’t waiting up for a husband she knew to be taking part in the victory parade.

  “This is foolishness,” Busse said, but he sat down.

  “You can listen to the wireless, if you’d like,” Schmidt said kindly. “Hear what you’re missing.” He got up and turned on Esther’s radio set.

  “Magical splendor.” Off the scale with excitement, a commentator’s voice shrilled into the living room. “Exhilarating. A million torches are issuing in a new dawn.” Behind it came the noise of bands and cheers and marching boots.

  Not a commentary, Schmidt thought, it’s propaganda—a word picture of a hundred thousand marching Nazis was being transmitted into millions of German homes.

  “In the torchlight the banners flame with color as they pass us.”

  And most of Berlin’s police lining the route letting them do it.

  Esther came out of the bedroom carrying a suitcase. She’d put on a light suede coat, and a smart cloche hat was pulled down over her hair to shade her cheek. A scarf was tucked inside the fox collar. Good girl.

  “Now I pass the microphone to the Prussian minister of the interior,” screamed the commentator. “A new dawn, Herr Göring.”

  Göring, sonorous: “We bring national rebirth to the Fatherland. This is the Day of Awakening.”

  The phone rang. Schmidt got up. The Luger, which had been wavering in march time, pointed immediately at Esther.

  “Yes?”

  “Is that you, Siegfried? Such a time I have had. The crowds.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the reception desk. Sw
eating like a pig, but here. The place has got bigger, Siegfried, and so modern. All these rich young people, where do they come from?”

  Schmidt thought of Joe in his off-the-peg suit among Berlin’s smart set. Oh, Christ, I’ve made him noticeable.

  “Good man. Unwrap the parcel, just enough to show the receptionist the folder inside, and then put him on the phone.”

  He passed the receiver to Busse. “Check it,” he said.

  Busse took over the phone. “This is Major Busse of the Schutzstaffel. Are you the receptionist at the Esplanade? I shall make sure. Give me the number. I will ring you back.”

  Doesn’t trust me any more than I trust him, thought Schmidt. “I’ll dial the number, thank you,” he said. Busse gave him the number; he dialed and passed the receiver over.

  Busse spoke to the receptionist: “You have a folder? What does it say on its first page?”

  He listened, nodded, and handed the phone back to Schmidt.

  “Put me back to the gentleman with the parcel, will you? Is that you, my friend? I want you to wrap it up again. Then go and get yourself a drink. Take it and the parcel to a window looking out onto Bellevuestrasse. In a little while, a car’s going to drive up and park on the other side of the street. There’ll be three people in it: me, a lady, and an SS officer. If the officer gets out on his own, finish your drink, leave the parcel on the table, and go. But if it looks like one or both of us is being forced to come in with him, I want you to pick the parcel up very quickly, get out by a side entrance, and shove it in the nearest mailbox. In the name of God, don’t let the Nazi see you. Got that?”

  “What is it, Siegfried? What is this trouble?”

  “A misunderstanding, that’s all. We’re clearing it up. Have you got that?”

  He was aware of sounding abrupt. He wanted to call Joe by his first name, say good-bye, thank him for past kindnesses, mention Ikey, but he didn’t dare. Busse was listening to every word, and there must not be the slightest trace that would lead the bastard to that good old man.