The Eye of the Abyss

by Marshall Browne

  ‘Mother, Fräulein Dressler, is a colleague at the bank. She’s leaving tomorrow, for … another city. She needs your hospitality for tonight.’ He went forward, leaned close. ‘I’m afraid the fräulein’s in some difficulty. She’s Herr Wertheim’s secretary. Her mother was Jewish, and the situation has changed at the bank.’Would this old patrician lady understand the implications, the danger? Frau Schmidt glanced at her son. A meagre smile played on her age-marked face. She spoke up, a nuance of triumph in her voice, as if gratified to confirm her opinion of what she had once called his ‘unstable teutonic romanticism’. ‘You are very welcome here, Fräulein.’ Her remark, ignoring Schmidt, was woman-to-woman.

  ‘I’m sorry to impose on you, but I seem to have no other choice,’ Fräulein Dressler said with a fleeting smile.

  What business had his daughter here? Number 178 Frederick-strasse. For Senior Detective Dressler, a single upward glance was enough to transmit the building’s history and status. He took it in automatically. Only three kilometres from the district of his patrol but a world away. Yet many decrees issuing from the ministries in Berlin were now falling on each with equal weight.

  His rubber soles squeaked on the marble stairs. His breath whined in his throat. Her brief phone call had been guarded, but he knew the blow had fallen. His huge gloved hand reached for the bell-push. Before he could touch it, the door opened. The detective regarded the small, soberly-suited man standing there. Blond hair, bright blue eyes; smooth, almost feminine skin. He didn’t recognise Schmidt – an unusual failure of his memory. But he did decide instantly that here was an individual who could blend into the background, like a person fitted for a life of crime.

  Schmidt did remember Herr Dressier – from the cafe a few weeks ago, and a Christmas party five years back; his size. He looked up at the huge, cautious face, and thought he saw a family resemblance. Another vague memory was hazy in his brain.

  He said, ‘I’m Herr Schmidt, a colleague of your daughter’s. Please come in.’

  The detective stepped lightly onto the highly-polished parquet floor, full of wonder and confusion. Schmidt closed the door, and led the way into a room on the right.

  Fräulein Dressler waited before the fireplace. The Dresslers stared at each other, then she moved to him and was enfolded in the overcoated arms. ‘O Papa!’ With a shock Schmidt saw that she was trembling. He left the room, closing the door. He settled down to wait in the hall. The room he’d left was his late father’s study; his father’s cannonade of a reply to his mother’s salon. She’d kept it so.

  He paced the hall. His mother had retired with a cryptic look, though still tinged with her triumph. He sighed. Frau Bertha, doubtless, was in her room smoking a clandestine cigarette, listening to her wireless, worrying about this singular and dangerous event.

  Still pacing, managing his own nerves, it occurred to him that he was face-to-face with his childhood. Here had been the beginning; the first visits to the study, the light turned on in his brain, precursor of his inner life. His father’s room was a museum of the Order of the Teutonic Knights. Its entanglements, chronicles – fables. A museum unknown to its mysterious headquarters in Vienna, which over the centuries had shrunk, he understood, to a church and archives.

  He’d never divulged his passion to school or university friends — not that he’d had many. In his younger days it’d seemed like a sacred secret. A wonderful one to be held close. And he’d been imitating his father’s reticence on the subject. In adulthood, the secrecy had been ingraind in him. He’d told no-one at the bank, not even Wagner. Of course, Helga knew.

  Abruptly Fräulein Dressler appeared. He saw that she’d regained her calm. He rejoined father and daughter. Senior Detective Dressler, still in his coat, the electric light gleaming on his massive head, leaned slightly forward, like an oak balanced against a high wind. It struck the auditor thus. He moved efficiently despite his size. Did his mind match his physical competence?

  The detective cleared his throat. ‘Herr Schmidt, I wish to thank you for the assistance you’ve rendered my daughter. For the risk you are taking.Your deed, your mother’s, allows one a little hope for the future.We’ve decided which of my sisters she will go to. I will return at 7.00 am with a motor car, and drive her out of town to join the train to her destination.’ Schmidt thought: They’ll avoid the barrier checkpoint.

  ‘It will be a temporary arrangement. We hope to find a better solution.’ Herr Dressler’s heavy accents lingered in the wood-panelled room.

  Schmidt nodded. He’d nothing to offer these counsels.Yes, he was putting his mother’s household in hazard. The degree of it depended on the efficiency of the Reich security agencies. It was strange how sanguine he felt about it.

  ‘I am on duty,’ Herr Dressler said. He took his daughter’s hand, carried it to his lips, looked down into her fondly watchful eyes. Full of concern for him! He could hardly stand it. Abruptly, looking aside, he offered his other hand to Schmidt in an uncharacteristic, throwaway gesture.

  17

  OTTO WERTHEIM LOUNGED in a chair in Dietrich’s room smoking one of the Nazi’s cigarettes. They’d been having quite a session: the room was thick with bluish smoke, the odour of tobacco; a bottle of cognac which Otto had brought was nearly empty. The engines ofWertheims had quietened to a murmur; only a few lights remained on, in the foreign department.

  Otto was very satisfied with the atmosphere of this informal little celebration of his Party membership. Dietrich might not be of his class, but he was a superior example of his type, and on the way up in the Reich. One had to move with the times, adjust one’s social circle, manage it like a portfolio of investments. As his uncle had so astutely, albeit surprisingly, recognised: a fortune was there for the taking; thousands of businesses were gearing-up to a plethora of exciting opportunities, and Wertheims had entered the traffic!

  Enough of business, it’d still be there at 9.00 am tomorrow. Inevitably, a surfeit of brandy, the late hour, had turned his thoughts to women.

  Dietrich, equally as relaxed in his disciplined way, watched the young director with a tolerant but sardonic look. The majority of the things that the Nazi did in his life had a specific objective. Sitting here at this hour, drinking brandy, having the kind of conversation that Otto Wertheim was capable of, wasn’t a stimulating experience; but it was a correct investment of his time. The sum of Otto wasn’t much, but his privileged position in the bank’s condensed world counted. A rarefied world, which the Party had sent him into. And tonight he’d gleaned more information on that slippery old fox, Herr Wertheim.

  ‘How about coming on to a club,’ Otto said. His eyes shone like glass, his fleshy face, soft as wax, had fallen into lustful anticipation. ‘Girls who’re plump, juicy, and willing.’ He laughed. ‘And you don’t have to talk to ’em in the morning. Or, at any time.’

  He gulped more brandy; a trickle came from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Not tonight, my dear Otto,’ Dietrich said evenly. He’d narrowed his eyes, his handsome face had become brooding, even lustful in its own way. An interesting proposition had occurred to him — a realisation, really. It concerned Franz Schmidt. He sipped his brandy, equably regarded the other’s disappointment. He said, ‘Fräulein Dressler’s no longer with us. The Gestapo are picking her up tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Might already have done so, she could be under interrogation at this moment.’

  Otto sat up. Lights seemed to be spinning before his eyes. He said thickly, ‘Did I hear you right?’ Amazement was flaring in his brain, dissipating the mist of alcohol.

  ‘You did. Didn’t you know she had a Jewish mother?’

  Otto frowned heavily, trying to force his mind to take hold of this startling development. A red light was flashing in the mist. He’d known it, but had never thought it through to any kind of a conclusion. That racial stream in her, perhaps, had been the source of his sexual fantasies, of numerous sessions of masturbation. He fumbled for his glass, brooded on its emp
tiness, as though everything had turned inexplicable and threatening … the Gestapo!

  ‘Never mind,’ Dietrich said. ‘In concealing that fact, in working here, she’s been breaking the law for the last three years. She’ll certainly go to prison.’

  ‘Interrogation?’ Involuntarily, Otto mouthed the word caught by his groping mind. He’d found a track in the mist. ‘I’d like to be there for that. I’d like to get my hand up that superior Jewish bitch’s cunt, make her squeal and squirm. Hear her begging …’ His voice had risen, cracked, then become thick. Something else was on the rise; he felt it straining at his trouser flies.

  Dietrich’s wolfish teeth showed. ‘My dear Otto! Those are hardly correct sentiments? Strictly criminal sentiments … never mind.’

  The phone on his desk jangled. He casually reached for the receiver, his sardonic look continued to hold the flushed, confused director. He listened for a few moments, not surprised by what he heard. Cunning bitch. ‘One minute,’ he said, and took a small notebook from his pocket, flicked it open. ‘Here are two addresses.’ He read them off. ‘Heil Hitler,’ he responded laconically and put down the phone.

  Aha! Probably not her cunning. Someone had warned her: was it complicated, stone-walling Auditor Schmidt who’d fallen into his trap? Or the fertile Herr Wertheim? Fascinating! He was going to enjoy finding out which. Perhaps it’d been both!

  He smiled patronisingly at Otto, but the young director, his hands hanging over his knees, was gazing at the carpet with his bloodshot, hangdog eyes.

  When they entered the corridor Dietrich didn’t attempt to support Otto, but, amused by the spectacle, allowed him to weave towards the lift. One by one, the lights behind the pebbled glass doors of the foreign department went out.

  Wagner appeared. He watched the two directors approach as he put on his overcoat, interested in their contrasting conditions. Attempting to pass the deputy foreign manager, Otto’s shoulder struck the wall. He cannoned off it towards Wagner who adroitly stepped aside.

  Otto came to rest against the wall. He lifted his head, and roughly focused on Wagner’s face. Through some chink, the deputy foreign manager’s contemptuous scrutiny penetrated Otto’s brain. He squinted, trying to bring the face into better focus. The corridor reeked of brandy.

  ‘I know you, Wagner,’ he said thickly. ‘I can read your damned thoughts. I see you looking at this badge.’ He fumbled for the badge on his lapel, but his nerveless fingers couldn’t find it. ‘You’d better remember … we’re all in the same ship. If you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘A ship of fools?’ the deputy manager inquired with a succinct oflhandedness.

  He turned, and walked away along the corridor. Otto peered at the departing figure, as if trying to nail it immobile against the wall with his unreliable eyes. He didn’t understand what had been said. A single idea was in his brain. ‘No-one here … turns his back … while a Wertheim director is talking to them,’ he shouted, seemingly chanting with difficulty from a book of etiquette. ‘D’you think … your father can save you? Dead man, save you?’

  Wagner had gone. Otto’s voice trailed away. He was left with the empty Wertheim corridor, the usually solid but now apparently movable Wertheim wall, against which he’d lustfully pinned the aloof, fragrant Fräulein Dressler, now also departed.

  Dietrich, standing back, watched this interlude with increasing delight; it might’ve been a show put on for his entertainment and instruction.

  He stepped forward and began to steer the semi-conscious director towards his room, and its leather couch. ‘Come on you dull-witted, foolish fellow. The Bavarian maidens will be safe tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, Frederick,’ Otto mumbled, ‘very good of you … where are we off to my dear Dietrich?’

  Schmidt knocked softly on Fräulein Dressler’s door, listened, heard the soft ‘Come in’.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, fully clothed. At first he thought she was looking at the curtain-covered window. Then he realised she was contemplating the future. Like a nervous girl waiting to go to her first dance. The last image was incongruous, but in his mother’s apartment she struck him as being stripped of her character, taken out of her life. For him, more regret.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Do you need coffee, a drink, something to eat?’

  She’d turned to him, and the contour of her chin seemed to imply trust. ‘Nothing, thank you, Herr Schmidt.’

  ‘Will you sleep?’

  She glanced at him as though it hadn’t occurred to her. Her suitcases were unopened. ‘Herr Schmidt?’

  He stood in the room, the light glinting on his spectacles. The weight of matters unknown, unexplored, between them seemed to pulse in the air. Though how could she be thinking of anything but this desperate trouble?

  But he underrated her. Fräulein Dressler’s brown eyes and organised mind were considering him in a new light. Here in this stranger’s room stood a man of action. Amazingly, a different man.Yet there’d been the incident of the eye. It had been a mistake to see that as an aberration in his character. They should have known. She looked down at her hands locked in her lap.

  Schmidt found himself mute. His mother’s apartment was as silent; nothing penetrated these walls. The city had lain down and died. Four hundred thousand people dead to the world. His brain did get some relief in thinking like this. How to communicate? What to communicate?

  Suddenly the memory of them embracing in her hall came. He was aware of that scent of flowers, the smell of musk from a body which had been in haste. In the heated room, it had coalesced into a humid sensuality. Everything which he’d observed Fräulein Dressler to be: proud and dismissive, humorous and ironic, mysterious and alluring, pragmatic and sensuous, rose up in a towering wave in his head. His testicles were aching.

  This was absolute madness. And wrong! His mind reeled, yet held him on an unswerving course, and left those thoughts behind in a flash. His eye was locked with hers. Those glints of gold. The realisation transmitting between them.

  He turned and in three paces was at the door, had closed it, turned the key. Somehow their hands were together, fingers interlaced, she’d fallen back on the bed, he standing at its edge, leaning over, pinning her down. Their lips met violently teeth jarring, the unbelievable intimacy of lips and tongue and moisture, and that habitual hint of scepticism melting away. Their mouths broke apart and he was kissing her cheeks, her eyes, her hair. The room seemed resonant with their breathing. Unbelievable pressure! He stood up, frantically threw off his coat, his braces, let his trousers fall to his ankles. Her hips were on the edge of the bed. She’d drawn up her legs, was removing underwear. He threw back her skirt, had a vision of thick white thighs above her stockings, of the darkness between, tucked up his shirt till his penis was free, fell forward on her, their hands interlacing again, felt her hips spread and give under him, the uplift and warmth of her stomach, found the spot, thrust once, was partially in, twice, glided in to his full extent, was rocking on her pelvis, the room filled with lubricous sounds.

  Wagner said he’d been here; Otto perhaps had been; by rumour, Herr Wertheim had – didn’t matter. One of her legs had encircled his, he was about to ejaculate – did with a spurting force which made him cry out – just as her body, her pelvis, arched up to grip him.

  He lay on her as they seemed to subside into the feather bed. Thirty seconds had passed since that first thrust. His still-hard penis was locked in her. The sensation of release spread though his body and mind. Their lips were pressed together again. Had he heard or imagined that long languorous: ‘Oh Franz!’?

  He walked home through deserted streets in a daze – not noticing that fog was accumulating, blurring the streetlamps. He couldn’t believe what had happened.Yet again! Couldn’t believe, that he’d done what he’d done. However, step by step his mind was clearing.

  Overwhelmingly came a stark horror which pulled him up: that he’d borne down on a defenceless woman at her most vulnerable. The next se
cond, he saw this wasn’t precisely the case. She was stronger than he! What had occurred, had happened because she wished it, had been in control. Briefly in that post-orgasmic state of possession he’d thought she’d laid her character, her mystery, open to him. He saw now that she hadn’t: the enigma remained.

  He stared at the night, at the future. Images came twisting to the surface: her face, shadowed in the room at the moment of departure, a mixture of affection, something else. The ghostly faces of his family. He began to walk again.

  He’d stood in the room, somehow dressed.

  She’d said, ‘You must go.’

  ‘How can I leave you like this?’

  ‘You must. There’s no other way.’

  He’d let himself out of her room, out of his mother’s front door, half-understanding the well of her strength. Feeling empowered himself, coming out of his dream now, he went along the dark street looking towards the morning and steeling himself for the coming hard realities.

  18

  THE SMALL BLACK car crawled with a clattering, misfiring motor along Frederickstrasse’s kerb, a beetle that had lost is bearings. Six thirty am. A yellowish fog blanketed the city, choking the avenues and narrower streets with swirling clouds of water vapour. The driver gazed at this murky world. His eyes were bloodshot.

  His colleague was walking the pavement, searching for number 178; each agent was invisible to the other. They kept in contact by a succession of piercing whistles. With sour, end-of-shift weariness, the driver thought if they’d been Red Indians on the hunting trail it might’ve been birdcalls. A thumping on the side panel; he braked, and peered at the blurred figure suddenly at his window.