The Eye of the Abyss

by Marshall Browne

  ‘Fräulein, could we meet this evening for a private talk?’

  She gave him a look. ‘Good Heavens, Herr Schmidt! You haven’t forgotten the bank’s concert’s tonight? The night of the year!’

  Schmidt was taken aback. Momentarily he had. ‘Of course. After that?’

  She was smiling broadly now. ‘It’ll be late – but, yes, if you wish.’

  He named a place, and felt the strangeness of doing this given his married state. He went out, wondering what Wagner would think of this. He’d not seen him for a week, but his friend wouldn’t miss the concert.

  He paced the corridors, locked in thought. ‘Doing the corridors’, Wertheim people called it.

  At 12.15, Herr Dietrich swept into Schmidt’s room, as though borne from Berlin by powerful winds. The visit had apparently given him a booster-injection of vitality, quite unneeded in Schmidt’s view. The Nazi had become a semi-permanent appendage to his desk: even when he wasn’t there Schmidt visualised him on its edge, leg swinging, hair gleaming, hard blue eyes probing, a cocktail of tobacco and face-scent in the air.

  ‘Well, Schmidt, there you are. The Party needed my services longer than anticipated. All in order here, I trust?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Director. This week’s report is on your desk.’

  ‘You can rely on me studying it. By the way, I presume our little arrangement’s in place?’

  ‘For the first of the month.’

  ‘Good. Including yourself?’

  ‘Herr Director, as I said …’

  ‘A pity. However, I’ll send you to Berlin soon, to talk to the Party’s finance people.You will enjoy that. It will widen your horizons. The energy the sense of purpose in Berlin, is boundless.You might bring some of it back here.’ He laughed softly.

  Schmidt nodded.

  ‘Your report on Fraulein Dressler?’

  The auditor blinked. No ‘By the way’ for this – just the question fired like a torpedo out of its tube. The Nazi’s eyes were drilling into him with a similar precision. He took a shallow breath. ‘I have to report there was no birth certificate on the fräulein’s file.’

  The Nazi’s leg ceased swinging. He held a cigarette in a hand which had frozen halfway to his lips. In an eye-blink, the big handsome face clouded with suspicion. He stared at the auditor, disbelievingly.

  Abruptly, the cigarette’s passage recommenced. ‘You see how it is, Schmidt? How cunning they are? What we’re up against even at this low level? Some enemy has stripped the file of the evidence. Never mind. I’ll obtain the certificate through a special channel. This virtually proves what I suspected.’

  Schmidt was silent. ‘Special channel’ – that phrase again. He, also, would have to rectify the deficiency. How much time did he have?

  ‘So, it’s all quiet my friend.When it’s like this I’m suspicious. The Party’s focused on the rebuilding of the Reich, the welfare of our legitimate people – on a wonderful future. It has little time to worry about its own interests. We have that heavy responsibility, you and I, Schmidt! Don’t relax your guard for a moment. Perhaps, even in Wertheim & Co, there’s a fifth column biding its time to strike a treacherous blow.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Don’t look surprised, Herr Auditor.’

  Schmidt was, genuinely.

  Grinning to himself, his manner suddenly a contradiction to the dire warning, Dietrich quit the desk with his usual athleticism. ‘Just remain vigilant!’

  Schmidt listened to the self-important footsteps depart. That slight unevenness of impact again. Did the man’s left hand know what the right was up to? Did he really believe the cant about the fifth column? Why was he allowing a trace of irony about Nazi dogma to show? Schmidt shook his head. He felt in need of a short recovery period.

  Dietrich’s absence and the missing birth certificate had bought a little time. Presumably, Herr Wertheim believed he could quarantine himself and his auditor from the repercussions that would follow her escape – if that was intended. He was ninety-nine per cent certain it was.Yet, if the G-D had misjudged the situation, the outcome for Franz Schmidt – and his family – could be disastrous. It chilled his heart. He opened the file which she’d handed him. Getting the scheme into play under the eyes of Dietrich was going to be not only challenging but dangerous. That was a one hundred per cent certainty.

  9

  SENIOR DETECTIVE DRESSLER was out on a case – his own. With his rolling, nearly silent walk, he entered a maze of eighteenth-century streets in the city’s inner eastern district. Fifteen years he’d pounded this beat, patrolled it as a detective for the past ten. Efficiently he observed black beards, black clothing, intense confidential conversations, figures floating in the opaque afternoon. He smelled soup; absorbed the foreignness and watchfulness. Light cords were being pulled; the lights barely illuminated the brandy-coloured interiors.

  He was a human almanac on local petty crime: safebreakers, burglars, pickpockets. He knew the faces of many of the small-traders who watched his giant figure pass by, some of their names. They knew him, and every public official who went that way. Behind his back, their children imitated his walk. His wife’s people, working, and watching. For many years, he’d been a near insider; involved in family gatherings. In the early ’thirties, her family had left, scattering across Europe like chaff in a wind.

  He proceeded under an archway into a narrow defile, dank as a sewer. He couldn’t help wheezing. His damned damaged lungs. He wondered if the sunlight ever got down here even in summer. The more he thought about it the less confidence he had in Herr Wertheim. Now, at this late hour, he was consumed by the need to find an alternative plan. In the war he’d never panicked; he’d studied the terrain behind him as painstakingly as that in front, plotting a line of withdrawal. Several times it had saved him, and his men. He peered at the houses, looking for a number.

  They were waiting for him. He’d telephoned a man, and it’d been arranged. Perspiring, breathless in a phone booth, he’d had to bear down with all his desperation to overcome the man’s reluctance.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, as though she was by his side. He turned, scrutinised the street, and entered a building. He climbed a stone stairway to the third floor, his body brushing the walls.What a hole! The Propaganda Ministry was cunning, with its films of rats swarming in narrow spaces. The room smelt rotten with damp. The three men waiting for him had kept their overcoats and hats on. The smell of body odour was strong; their brows sparkled with beads of sweat.

  Dressler felt pity. He nodded and took the vacant chair facing them and said in his dolorous voice, ‘I’m sorry to bring you here. Thank you for agreeing to see me. I have a problem. I understand it has been explained.’

  Collectively, they studied this minor official of the Third Reich who’d stepped from one existence into another. They understood his deadly dilemma. He’d called in several favours to be here. They knew all of this. Their fear and uncertainty were palpable. It would be up to Rubinstein, the man in the centre, who stared at the detective, squinting – as though he was trying to see into his soul. Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles Rubinstein’s face was not always this serious; he was well known for his mordant wit. At that moment, in his own mind, he was playing the Devil’s Advocate. Or was it Russian roulette? He released one of his tight smiles. He’d been a judge until 1933.

  The policeman’s credentials were good. An honest, reasonable, humane man. Fifteen years – they’d no cause for complaint of him. However, was that record about to be debased? For example, had he done a deal with his masters to get his girl out? Was their network the quid pro quo?

  Rubinstein said, ‘What is it, specifically, that you wish from us?’

  Dressler blinked quickly at the end of the delicately balanced silence. ‘Mein Herr, my daughter has a plan to leave which, if it eventuates, should be safe. I fear it may not eventuate. If it does not, time will be a crucial factor. I wish to find another way. Some Jewish people are getting out.’ He meshed his giant fingers toge
ther. I request your assistance.’

  He took a deep breath, breathed in their fear, and let it go in a sigh. All he could do was be himself.Why should they help? The risks were too great.

  Rubinstein absorbed the man’s honesty, and pain, his constrained breathing. His own breathing seemed quick and refined in comparison. He said, ‘Thirty per cent of our people in this city have left Germany Most under conditions which were difficult, though far easier than today.’ He shrugged. ‘Last month, the Government demanded the surrender of all Jewish passports. Two ways exist, which might be acceptable to you in terms of the risk. We can forget the others. Firstly, certain Nazi officials are prepared to arrange exit papers for a price. A very high price.Very few can pay it.’ He looked at Dressler.

  ‘Secondly, false papers can be prepared – these are expensive – but the expense is more manageable. However, the danger is much greater. Day by day, the authorities become more vigilant. To be detected is … one chance in five.’

  The rickety chair had creaked under Dressler’s weight, though he had not moved his body.

  ‘Would you arrange an introduction? For the real papers.’

  Rubinstein nodded slowly. ‘Nothing is safe or sure in these dealings. I would recommend them only as a last resort.’

  Back outside, Herr Dressler surveyed the gloom. The slit-like street had two low-powered lights at either end; between was a black gulch. Fortunately, the Gestapo were short-handed in this city. He knew their exact number. Informers were the worry.

  He began to retrace his steps, hands plunged into his pockets. Tears were in his eyes, he realised. He felt gratitude towards these men, admiration. They were traders used to sizing up persons, taking risks; nonetheless, this was a deadly game. Today, whom could anyone trust? He couldn’t trust his colleagues, they observed each other with embarrassment. The orders coming down from Himmler’s office were accepted with feigned indifference.

  He recalled an incident. Two years ago after a Party rally, SA thugs had suddenly identified a dark man, chased and cornered him; kicked him to a bloody pulp. A citizen had remonstrated. Amazed at this temerity, the Nazis had turned on him, one had speared him in the face with the eagle-head of his flagstaff. The man had staggered back, his eye hanging on his cheekbone. Like a flock of pigeons taking off, the crowd had scattered. Standing with uniformed colleagues, Dressler had witnessed it. Almost in a drill movement, they’d looked away. He’d felt sick to his stomach, dishonoured, and had stepped forward to summon medical assistance. The dark man was gurgling in his death throes. The other had gone off to hospital following his futile act belonging to another age, or the Great War. Dressler had understood that kind of heroic, reflex act; that it owed little to logic, or the way the world was. It was just the way certain men were. Like these he’d just met.

  He let it go, and padded on through the darkness. Shadowy human forms slipped past him in the murk. Optical illusions? His brain couldn’t always quite cope. A tiny splinter of steel was still lodged there. Blinding headaches came frequently, the triggers of his war memories.

  ‘God help us,’ he whispered. He turned a corner and was gazing at the city centre’s electric lights.

  Three pm: coming into Dresden. Juddering over junctions of points, each increasingly complex, Helga watched the familiar suburbanscape rolling out through the window: the minutiae of domestic and commercial life, unaffected by the structures of the Third Reich. Trudi, absorbed in endless plaiting of her doll’s blonde locks, kept her tiny face as serious as her father’s so often was.

  Helga had been going over and over the same questions. The Order was at the heart of his ‘other world’. Throughout their marriage it had aroused in her various emotions: curiosity, exasperation … She’d resented the interminable hours of research at the Municipal Library special reading room. Following in his father’s footsteps. And, his unwillingness to discuss it. As far as she knew he hadn’t discussed it with a single soul; he even kept himself anonymous from its mysterious headquarters in Vienna. She couldn’t understand these things.

  In the early days, half teasingly, she’d asked him what part of the cosmos he went away to. Clandestinely, she’d dipped into certain books, searching for a point of entry. She’d entered a labyrinth. She’d roamed blindly, knowing he was mining at much deeper levels.

  She’d chided him: ‘What does it say about our marriage, your love for our child?’ He’d come from these bouts of study in a daze. ‘Returning from the cosmos?’ she’d ask.

  She’d been putting behind her the eye. He’d seemed quiescent. But that had changed in the past month; she could sense it.Was it conscious or unconscious? Would his thraldom to the Order’s fantastic ideals, archaic lore, bring them all into deadly danger?

  God! What was he doing, what was he considering at this moment? The concert was tonight. Her lips tightened, making her pretty face severe. ‘Forget the Nazis, Franz,’ she whispered. ‘Let them do what they must.’

  She must quieten down. Be her usual pragmatic self. She took deep, steady breaths.

  Trudi stood at the window, the doll clasped to her heart, watching Dresden’s platform drift by, looking for her grandmother, her aunt. There they were!

  A few years ago Helga’s mother’s friends had still called the mother and her daughters the three sisters. Now she took in at first glance the new frailty in the woman who stood arm-in-arm with her elder sister, and thought: No longer. Everything’s changing.

  Schmidt gave it a look: a nondescript building wedged between two small streets looking like a mean slice of cake. He had left work early due to the pain in his mouth. He went up the narrow stairs to the first floor, aware of why the dentist had been reluctant to accept the appointment. But his jaw had settled into a throbbing ache, and he’d been Dr Bernstein’s patient for many years.

  The waiting room was empty and the door to the surgery open, and the auditor heard the clatter of instruments on marble. ‘Come in, Herr Schmidt,’ the doctor called.

  Schmidt removed his hat and coat and went into the surgery. The nurse was absent. ‘Good evening, Herr Doctor. Herr Wagner sends his regards.’

  The Jew smiled slightly. ‘I’m glad to have them.’ He gestured at the chair. In a moment, he was gazing into the auditor’s mouth. He probed the tooth, causing Schmidt to flinch. ‘Aha,’ he sighed. ‘A wisdom tooth. Decay. It should come out.’

  ‘Do it,’ Schmidt mumbled. In turn, he was gazing up into Dr Bernstein’s pebble-thick glasses, his puffy white face, black slicked-down hair. Wagner had once said the doctor was also a skilled financier; Schmidt didn’t know what that meant.

  With sure movements the doctor made an injection. ‘We’ll wait a few moments,’ he said. ‘I’m to cease practice.’ Standing back, he shrugged.

  The odour of corruption filled the air as the tooth came out. Then Schmidt was rinsing and spitting, and a small dressing was inserted. ‘Bite on it for half an hour. The bleeding will stop by then. Rinse well with salt and water tonight.’

  Just like the eye, Schmidt thought, putting on his coat and hat. Dr Bernstein waited at the door, a card in hand. ‘Here is the name of a good dentist – for the future.’ He smiled thinly, and gave an expressive shrug.

  They shook hands with mutual regret, and Schmidt went down the stairs to the street. He stood on the pavement in the dusk: More, and more, change … a man wrapped in a greatcoat walked away into the black mystery of a dilapidated alley. His attention caught for a moment, the auditor wondered why anyone would be going that way. He stared after the figure. Momentarily, he’d felt a cold breeze on his face. The breath of danger? He turned to hasten from the locality.

  10

  AT HIS NEXT destination, Schmidt looked up from his reading. Had the person sitting across the table spoken to him? Apparently not. The man’s face was lowered to his book. Schmidt noticed a prominent mole on his right cheek.

  The auditor lifted his head more, scanned further: shaded reading lamps daubed the special reading r
oom of the Municipal Library with green light. He glanced at the man again: an unearthly pallor. Like himself, no doubt. A homburg rested on the table near his elbow. He wore black leather gloves. Curious … Schmidt was sure he hadn’t been sitting there when he’d come in.

  He returned to Felix de Sales’ Annales de l’order teutonique. He was rereading the Order’s conquest of Prussia in 1233. It’d been a highwater mark for the knights. After that, slowly but intractably, their power and wealth had declined. They’d begun the descent to oblivion. He gazed at the page without seeing it. Thoughts of the end had taken him back to the beginning; the twelfth century in Palestine during the Third Crusade. In 1188, with crusading forces besieging Acre, some German merchants from Bremen and Lubeck had formed a fraternity to nurse the sick. They’d become known as the House of the Hospitalers of Saint Mary of the Teutons in Jerusalem. As a boy he’d thought the long name had a marvellous sound to it. He smiled at the memory of his enthusiasm.

  ‘Herr Schmidt!’

  He had been right. He stared across the table in expectation, and the man slowly raised his eyes. A slight smile played on his lips.Warily, Schmidt studied him. A mass of tiny black curls flowed back from a large domed forehead. The dark eyes appraising him were sardonic. What was going on here? Why hadn’t the man spoken when he’d looked up the first time?

  ‘I beg your pardon, mein herr. Did you speak?’ Talk was forbidden, but they were the only people in the room.

  The man nodded. ‘Yes, I spoke your name.’

  ‘I’m sorry, have we met?’ Was he an acquaintance he’d forgotten? Schmidt felt disorientated. When he did his research he entered this other world unreservedly, and came out in a daze. He wasn’t yet back on terra firma.

  ‘I’ve not had that pleasure. This will serve to introduce me.’