Vanished in Berlin: Kidnap suspense mystery set in 1930s Berlin (Berlin Tales Book 2)
Page 19
Could it be?
Then Arno noticed something else. Along with the painting, there was an envelope. He tentatively reached for it, trying his best to remain calm, to give the impression that all that lay before him was completely anticipated. Inside the envelope was a short letter written by Lassner himself and countersigned by no less than Hermann Göring. Arno scanned the letter quickly and then, deciding it was safe, read it out loud.
‘The artwork contained here within has been verified by the Mattias Lassner Gallery of Mulackstrasse, Berlin, as a genuine work by the eminent German painter Caspar David Friedrich. The work first belonged to Dr Otto Leopold Schudt from Dresden, acquired from the artist in the year 1822 in exchange for medical attention. Later passed onto his daughter, Theophila Schudt, and then by descent through the Schudt family. Later still to Hamburg and Berlin, it was acquired by the Goldstein family, where it has remained until the present day. A favourite painting of Mattias Lassner himself, along with the estimable Hermann Göring, its current market value is estimated to be between eighty and one-hundred-and-twenty thousand marks.’
Arno put down the letter and held up the painting. At first he turned it towards the room in order to show it off. Then he turned it back towards himself and pretended to examine it by holding it up to the light. Yet all his thoughts were focused on Lassner. Had he really done what Arno suspected? Had he sent a genuine work of art instead of the fake? Had he really given away his retirement fund in exchange for Monika’s safe return?
He laid the painting back down on the table. By now, Hessen had picked up the letter and was reading it eagerly. When he looked up, he placed his attention entirely on Arno.
‘Tell me. Your opinion? Is it good?’
‘It is very good, in my opinion. Without doubt. The provenance too is excellent.’
‘You really think so?’ There was a spark of excitement in Hessen’s voice. ‘One-hundred-and-twenty thousand marks. That’s what the letter says. Have you heard of this artist, this Casper David Friedrich? I’m not one for art history myself, but if Göring gives his assent…’
Arno knew it was time to reinforce the message. He somehow managed to draw from his memory Lassner’s very own words about the painting: ‘Friedrich is one of our very best artists. Melancholy, yes, but deeply spiritual. He was alive to God’s presence in every rock, tree and sunrise. I feel privileged to be in the company of such a painting.’
Hessen allowed himself the briefest of smiles. ‘You, girl,’ he said to Monika. ‘Come over here.’ He waved Monika towards him. She came forward and stepped into the harsh glare of the electric lamps.
‘This painting. Do you recognise it?’
Monika drew her shawl back a little. Arno saw her face in profile. His pulse quickened to see her put on the spot like this. Yet to his surprise, she answered Hessen’s question without hesitation. ‘Yes, I recognise it. It is the most valuable object that my family owns. It has hung in my father’s study for many years.’
Arno knew she was lying.
‘You do recognise it?’ Hessen asked.
‘Yes. Friedrich was born in Greifswald. I believe the painting depicts the waters of the Baltic sea near to where he lived.’
Arno glanced at Monika, amazed to hear her speak with such certainty. And then he remembered her love of art. She already knew the painting, not from her father’s study but from the memory banks of her education. How she knew to play along, he had no idea.
At this moment, the Brownshirt lurched back into the room from outside. ‘The car has turned around. It’s making its return approach.’
Erich now spoke up, turning to Hessen. ‘Moments like this should not be rushed. Are you content?’
‘I’m satisfied,’ Hessen said. ‘My clairvoyant told me I should expect a positive outcome tonight. With Göring’s backing, and Herr Lassner too, along with our resident art expert here, I’m satisfied. The girl can go.’
The Brownshirt took Monika by the arm and hauled her towards the door. Arno watched on, pained but fiercely relieved. The two of them left the room. At the same time, Hessen approached his painting and picked it up admiringly.
Arno took his chance to follow Monika. He dashed out into the street after her, just in time to see her climb into the rear of the car. He stood beside the Brownshirt and together they watched the taillights of the Goldstein car pull away and diminish into the distance.
36
Arno slept for the entire weekend that followed. When the warm rays of September sunlight seeped through his window and tickled the side of his face, he didn’t get up. He lay there for hours longer, too tired to move.
He thought about fate and whether it really was an invented word. He thought about Trommler Gold cigarettes. He thought about African dancing girls at the Hopak Bar. He thought about overnight train journeys. He thought about Hannah Baumer. He thought about leaving Berlin for good. He thought about staying in Berlin forever. He thought about Mattias Lassner and all those works of art. Most of all, he thought about lying in a hotel room with Monika and listening to her breathe, how she slept with immense silence, as if her dreaming mind had completely taken leave of her body and had journeyed down to the centre of the earth.
The days that followed were empty and subdued like a slow winter’s day. A desire to contact Monika rose almost hourly, but he resisted. He knew that to leave her in peace, to not risk the complications of being seen, was the best course of action. For now at least.
On Sunday afternoon, he finally left his attic room and went by the Goldstein household. Not to the front door, but merely along the street. He felt content just to be nearby. He chatted with the shoe-shiner and looked into shop windows, always keeping his distance. He returned on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.
He saw Monika only once. She was walking with her parents. They were carrying suitcases, either going somewhere or returning, it wasn’t obvious which. He thought about calling out, but then he changed his mind. He lingered behind a tree and listened out for the sound of her voice. She sounded different when she spoke to her parents. He heard laugher, and then her father talking about taking a trip to the cinema. He heard Monika replying that she’d like that.
A week after Monika’s release, Arno received a cash payment from Mattias Lassner for his few hours work at the gallery, plus a small dividend from the painting he helped to sell. The money was much needed – it went on beer, food, new shoes and last month’s rent, strictly in that order.
Arno felt a deep urge to visit the gallery and thank Lassner in person for the painting he had given. To have donated such a precious item was perhaps the most generous thing Arno had ever known. But, as with Monika, his instincts told him to stay away.
Instead, he spent his time making a written account of all he knew about the Vendetta plot. He delivered it to the grey postbox as prescribed by the police agent. He chose to omit any mention of Erich, for he judged that Erich’s cover-story was too fragile to jeopardise. The choice, however, turned out to be inconsequential, the reasons for which he learned late one evening when the pug-faced police agent made an unexpected visit to his attic.
At first, Arno found him just as unpleasant to look at as before, still the same lumpy face and sunken eyes. Except, being out in the civilian world, away from his professional setting, he seemed leaner, healthier, a touch more at ease with himself. And he still had that perfect row of teeth. In a certain light, he was almost dignified. Arno had never known anyone so chameleon-like.
The two men went to a local bar, an underground wine cellar converted into a late-night drinking pit. Arno let the agent buy the drinks. They sat in a corner booth, more or less out of sight. The agent spoke first and to the point, his white teeth flashing like fish in a moonlit river.
‘I came to tell you that Erich Ostwald has become known to us as a field agent. He’s been working undercover for the military intelligence, the Abwehr. They aren’t meant to exist, of course, not since Versailles. Their oper
ation is small but active.’
Arno nodded along – none of this was a surprise, but what came next was.
‘His information on Hannah Baumer, along with his work on Vendetta, has put him in a very precarious position. As far as we can tell, Baumer discovered Erich’s real identity and informed her superiors in the party. Von Hessen certainly, those above him possibly too. Erich’s life is now in great danger.’
Arno was shocked, but he tried to remain nonchalant. ‘Why are you telling me?’
‘You’ve been discharged from your duties to us.’
‘I’ve discharged myself,’ Arno interrupted eagerly.
‘Either way, it’s possible that Erich Ostwald will make contact with you. He may be looking for backing from within the party, and you will be one of his better options. Otherwise, he may try to disappear. If he does, he might come to you to ease his departure.’
‘And what should I do if he tries to contact me?’ Arno took a sip of his drink. As he asked the question, all he really wanted to know was if the man sat opposite had ever been intimate with the beautiful Hannah Baumer. The question had never truly left him since the train journey.
‘If Ostwald comes to you,’ the agent went on, ‘simply tell him that you’ve left the party and that you’re not working for anyone anymore. You’ll be of no use to him then.’
‘And what about Monika Goldstein? If it wasn’t for your attempt to recruit me, she wouldn’t have suffered as she did. I can’t forgive you for that.’
‘The blame for Monika Goldstein’s fortunes must lie with Hannah Baumer. She betrayed Monika. She betrayed us all. I won’t forgive her for that.’ As he said this, a turn of genuine regret entered the agent’s voice. Perhaps there was an emotional wound there after all.
‘And what about Hessen? Won’t he face charges?’
‘The Prussian Police are doing all they can to monitor Von Hessen. But with the Abwehr involved now, we may have to wait. His time will come, be assured of that.’
Arno sat back in his seat. Part of him wanted to know more about the messy intricacies of police informants across Berlin. The other part wanted to stand up, walk away and never set eyes on this ugly dog again.
He had one last question, something that had been bothering him for all this time.
‘You and I, we first met on that train back to Berlin. The day before that, I lost all of my money. It vanished without a trace. Did you have something to do with that?’
‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you are talking about,’ the agent said, blinking a few times before taking a loud slurp of his drink. Arno knew he was lying through his perfect white teeth.
It was after midnight by the time he made his way back to his attic room. Somewhere in those few moments climbing the staircase, he recovered his peace of mind. The agent had disappeared into the city, not before sliding another packet of cash across the table, his way of buying Arno’s silence. Alone again, flush with money, he felt the chaos that had gripped his life for the past two weeks suddenly ease.
He thought of Herr Lassner again. When all this had died down he would go back to the gallery and thank him properly. Maybe he’d take a gift with him.
Most of all, as he took to his attic room bed, he thought of Monika. Tomorrow he would resume his vigil on her street, waiting and hoping to catch a glimpse of her. In a few weeks, or maybe a few months, he would take a chance and knock on the Goldstein door.
How long had she been away? The calendar said fifteen days, but to Monika it felt like a whole year had passed. The world seemed hardly changed. Perhaps the flowers on either side of the front door were bigger, but that was all. It was extraordinary and absurd that life around her could go on as normal while she felt so altered.
Her parents made a great performance over her being home. Food, a new gramophone record, long conversations about holidays the family would take during the year to follow. ‘The future will be better,’ her father said at least a dozen times.
As a gift, they left the city for a night and stayed in a guesthouse on the Wannsee lakes. As another gift, her parents bought her a new photo-camera, a Leica Luxur with three interchangeable lenses. She cherished the object, for it seemed to offer a peculiar brand of hope where nothing else could. The act of placing her eye to the viewfinder and seeing the world framed, crystalline and somehow distant, like the view through the wrong end of a telescope, made her feel reassured. And the wonderful thrill of actually pushing the button and capturing the image, this was a pleasure she didn’t think could ever diminish, even after she had taken a thousand photos.
The first day of Rosh Hashanah was approaching. The family would go down to the Fasanen Strasse Synagogue just off the Kurfürstendamm to celebrate. The synagogue always reminded her of a Roman temple with it’s rounded archways and big triangular pediments. That is, until they got inside and stood beneath the golden domes with their millions of mosaics. Then it was like being in a Byzantine basilica.
For now, she was happy to be inside the simple square of her bedroom, with its pale lilac walls and its view over the street. She was glad of this view, for she could see the tree-tops, the shop fronts and pedestrians, and far in the distance, the occasional flying machine twinkling in the sky, coming and going from the airport.
Alone in her room, she had a place where she could be constant, installed above the street like a hidden monument. She felt much stronger here, resolute as stone, an unwavering witness to her small quarter of the city. She stood before her window and let her thoughts entwine with the branches of the lime trees and the church spires poking holes in the shifting sky.
Then, for a moment, a flash of a memory came before her mind’s eye. It was the boy’s face she saw. Her dear Arno.
When was it? What was it? A strange anxiety rose and fell. And then she knew the real reason she waited by the window all day. One day, the boy would come.
FIND OUT MORE
Thank you so much for reading Monika and Arno’s story. I hope you enjoyed your time with them in Berlin in 1931. If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review on your chosen vendor.
Would you like to read more? I have an epilogue to Vanished in Berlin available for you to download.
Find out what happened next in Monika and Arno’s story:
Download the epilogue for free: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/3ltwc5481t
The first installment of the Berlin Tales, Vanished in Berlin, is available to read on the Kindle or in paperback:
https://books2read.com/u/3Jj2gB/
Thank you, and hope to see you again soon.
Christopher P Jones
More at www.chrisjoneswrites.co.uk
COMING SOON
Berlin Vengeance
The follow-up to Vanished in Berlin
Out in Spring 2021