The Eye of the Abyss

by Marshall Browne

  He regarded her intensely, affectionately.

  She burst out, ‘All these years, I think you’ve been waiting for the Nazis!Your Fräulein Dressler!’ Her speech had become rapid, distracted, as she tried to enunciate her way through the nightmare, then concluded hopelessly. That final tiredness in her voice was another weight on his heart. There’d been no deliberating process in his involvement with Fräulein Dressler. His sense of justice, and ultimately his emotions, had been the conducting forces. The fantasy of his inner life had prepared the ground, begun the slow movement to where he now stood. And, the flowering of the long, latent attraction …

  A rare flash of anger came. The real catalyst was this evil era. He rose, and went to the window. Behind him she waited. The trunks and branches of the trees were visible, shining dully in the streetlamps; the fog at last had lifted. He said, ‘I will tell you, Helga …’

  As they lay in bed he went over what he’d told her. It was as though he’d revealed the intimate details of a love affair about which she’d only a sketchy idea. Still, even then he’d not gone down to the deepest roots of his motivations, of his obsession with the Order, of his feelings for the G-D’s secretary. Even to himself, he couldn’t fully articulate it.

  They made love with a passion which recalled their earliest married life. As though blotted out by some chemical release in his brain he did not, at that moment, recall the previous night. When he awoke in the darkness he was surprised to find her awake.

  ‘I’ll take Trudi back to Dresden,’ she said, ‘this afternoon, after the funeral. We may not return.’

  They lay awake together, holding hands as though sealing a bargain, watching for the dawn.

  In his overcoat and hat, his pistol still strapped to his shoulder, Dressler had sat all day in the vestibule of the Gestapo offices. Once he went out into the foggy streets to phone his station and buy coffee. He continued his relentless watch on the ebb and flow of grim and nervous citizens. He observed these visitors being given forms to fill out, apparently never the information they were seeking on loved ones. The smells of cabbage soup, and sausage, steamed up a stairway.

  At 10.30 pm his contact reappeared. He came to where Dressler sat. Watching him approach, rising to his feet, the detective’s nerves blazed to life in his stomach. Here, in the dregs of a dispiriting day for all in this city – a terrible one for him – he was to receive his news. Leuber, nearing the end of a 14-hour shift, appeared strained and irritable as he eyed the detective. Then Dressler was listening to the terse apology for the day-long delay, hearing the rest of it.

  He went out into the city, which was now clear, cold and livening up with the traffic going to and from dinner and entertainment. She was still there.

  Walking at a formidable speed he passed the two policemen stationed at the corner, omitting his customary companionable nod. His pace, and the night air, had set up his wheezing. At the close of his report, the Gestapo man had intimated something to him. It had sent him back to his starting point: back to Herr Rubinstein and his Nazi contacts who, for money, might provide a visa out of this hell. But could they do that now? Despairingly, he muttered, ‘She’s already in their clutches.’

  20

  TWO DAYS AFTER his mother’s death (murder, Wagner categorised it later), Schmidt returned to the bank. He’d heard nothing from the Gestapo. Uneasily, he wondered if they were waiting on his return to the office. Perhaps Dietrich had a hand in that – wanted to be in charge of events. Puffing hoarsely, Herr Berger crossed the ice-box of the foyer to gasp his condolences. Like a last breath, Schmidt thought. Will he survive the winter? Will I? He said, ‘Thank you. Is your heater working, Herr Berger?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Schmidt. It’s my internal heater that’s packing up.’

  Schmidt saw that he was regarded with a new respect. It was a similar look to the one he’d received when he’d returned from hospital after the eye. In his room he sat down at his desk, and began to sort the morning’s post: away two days, it felt like a month. Had anything run out of control? He’d been on duty in another world. What had been happening here?

  He looked at the phone, apprehending its ring, Dietrich’s voice booming down the line. That deadly Nazi. He found he’d turned over a page on Dietrich – to a new one, deep-edged in black. He considered this. That page now allocated the Nazi a specific place in Schmidt’s universe. ‘Public enemy number one’ — the Nazi’s own phrase.

  On his desk, a handwritten letter of condolence from Herr Wertheim. At the funeral, bitter cold had struck the mourners. Though they’d been rugged up, it’d shocked them into a deeper reflection and reticence than they might’ve anticipated. A pneumatic drill had been brought in to dig the grave: already the ground was rock-hard.

  Afterwards they’d collected Trudi, and taken a taxi to the station for another mournful ceremony, on a smaller scale. Waiting on the platform his socket had wept and he’d been forced to dab it with his handkerchief. But he’d been more conscious of the cold accumulating in his soul.

  He dabbed the eye now.

  Helga had been preoccupied throughout the day, doubtless dwelling on the events surrounding his mother’s death, and the previous night’s conversation. She’d not spelt out her intentions and he’d not wished to force the issue. On the platform, with a desperate but determined look, she’d said, ‘We must separate – physically. To protect Trudi.’ She’d stared into the future and seen the potential outcomes.

  In the here and now – thank God for it! – messengers came and went to distribute the post. He was marking time, waiting for Dietrich to make his move – to reveal the motive he’d had in signalling Lilli’s impending arrest. The Nazi had set him up. He’d known it as he’d hurried to her flat. When Dietrich appeared would he have the Gestapo in tow?

  Much is in hazard when a knight manoeuvres in the face of the opposing force … The precept rolled through his mind. He brooded on the papers before him. Resolutely, as though nothing of the past days had happened, he turned to take up the thread of an investigation into a deficiency in the head cashier’s department.

  The morning dragged on. The smell of coffee wafted in the corridor. Despite his absorption, he began to feel a new additive in the air. A morbid expectancy? He phoned a colleague. Wondering at the news, he replaced the receiver. Field-Marshal Goering was to arrive at noon! Apparently to entrust his personal banking to Wertheim & Co. No wonder Dietrich hadn’t appeared.

  Schmidt went for a walk through the building. Wertheim employees were steeped in conservatism, but clearly it wasn’t proof against the news whirling through the bank. Clerks and typists had congregated at front windows on each floor; they dropped their eyes as the Doomsayer passed by.

  He went to the first floor and entered the general-director’s anteroom. A tall, blonde, blazingly blue-eyed Amazon stood at attention beside Lilli’s desk. He stared at her. She returned his gaze, wide-eyed, plainly ignorant of his function – anxious about his intentions.

  The replacement! Hand-picked. The bluish, gold-ringed hands of Herr Wertheim were instantly in his mind. Her appearance was iconic, like the Nazi flag now permanently fluttering from the bank’s flagpole.

  ‘How do you do, fräulein?’ he said with a slight, formal bow. ‘I’m Herr Schmidt, the chief auditor.’ He handed her the folder he carried. ‘For Herr Wertheim.’ It contained his report to the board on last month’s audits.

  Her hands were shaking, he noticed. A tremulous smile fluttered on her red lips, and her face was coloured with a rosepink blush. He surveyed, politely, her huge-breasted, statuesque figure. Only twenty or less. A schoolgirl – for this position!

  ‘The Field-Marshal will be here in a minute,’ she said huskily.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Fräulein Blum, mein herr.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Munich.’

  He caught her quick puffs of breath. ‘Calm down, Fräulein Blum. Herr Wertheim will have everything under control. And he’s a consider
ate man.’ For someone like Fräulein Blum he was, most certainly. He smiled, underlining his authority on these matters. She slipped him a glance, and seemed to become calmer.

  The double doors to the G-D’s room stood open, and he glimpsed the directors standing about the room, like strangers at a wedding reception awaiting the bridal party. At that moment klaxons blared in the street.

  Two minutes later the Field-Marshal swept through the anteroom in a chorus of crisp, commanding voices. Herr Dietrich, his voice ringing out pleasantries, strode beside the corpulent powder-blue-and-white-uniformed personage, whose baton was waving in a clockwork-like motion. Dietrich’s face shone with confidence and respect. Aides spotted with silver insignia piled into the anteroom. Following the Field-Marshal and Dietrich in a gleaming phalanx, they moved with the clicks and clacks of colliding ball-bearings. Standing back, Schmidt had the impression he was at the opera.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ Another resounding chorus, arms flashing up like railway signals, as the famous Nazi and Dietrich entered Herr Wertheim’s inner sanctum. Definitely the opera. Emphatically, the doors were closed.

  Their power abruptly switched off, the aides came to rest. They turned aside to the leather chairs like normal men, casting glances at the ranks of papers, eyeing Fräulein Blum. Thoughtfully Schmidt returned to his room.

  Dressler phoned after lunch. Schmidt felt his chest tighten as the detective identified himself.

  ‘I have news, could we talk this evening?’

  They agreed to meet in the central platz at 6.30 pm. For the next few hours, Schmidt waited for Dietrich. But the Nazi was still attending the Field-Marshal, or tied up in the aftermath of his visit. At last darkness enfolded the city. In contrast, the Wertheim building was ablaze with electric light, though quietening down as clerical activity was suspended.

  Unmistakable footsteps sounded in the corridor. Dietrich entered, his yellow teeth instantly bared in a grin, and stood, hands on hips, staring at the auditor. His brain instantly hyper-active, Schmidt thought the Nazi looked like a hunter inspecting something in his trap. But he didn’t flinch.

  Dietrich closed his lips over his wolfish grin. ‘My condolences on your bereavement.’

  Schmidt nodded, bowed slightly in his chair. The Nazi’s demeanour exhibited full knowledge of that event. The auditor was reminded of the earnest communication he’d had from the SA following the incident of his eye: not a nuance of hypocrisy detectable. Yet, Dietrich did seem to be measuring him in a sympathetic way. ‘Never mind,’ the Nazi said. ‘These hard facts of life are beyond our control.’ He advanced to the desk, casually hefted himself to his usual position. ‘Another big day for the bank, Herr Auditor! The Field-Marshal’s bestowed a great honour on us. We’ll enjoy additional prestige.’

  Schmidt absorbed the ‘we’ and the ‘us’. Apparently, the Nazi had decided to split his allegiances between the Party and the bank – nominally, at least. Or did the phrasing bespeak a new familiarity in their personal relations? More interesting still, had he picked up the faintest trace of irony?

  ‘My dear Schmidt, I saw you, observing from the sidelines. Right in character!’ He lit two cigarettes. He smiled, lifted his blond head, the shimmering hair looking more metallic than ever, exhaled fragrant smoke at the ceiling. The auditor watched it rise as seriously as if it were a new type of transaction passing through the system. ‘Right in character. I read you like a book, my friend. Now! I set my little trap and you walk straight into it.’ Schmidt kept his eye on the Nazi’s face. Dietrich shook his head. ‘But I do understand. Your sympathy and your loyalty directed you. Admirable qualities. You’ll be gratified to know you share them with the General-Director. Why did I make this small test? Because, my dear Franz, you had to be brought to your senses. With the great challenges before us, we can’t afford to let private emotions sway us from the greater duty. You’re a bright man, Schmidt. After what’s happened I’m sure you see what a mistake you’ve made! I’m an emotional man myself. I prize loyalty. But intellect must strictly set the priorities. When you’ve had my training, they become very clear.’

  Schmidt listened to this diatribe, smoked the cigarette, kept a respectful demeanour. Though he could hardly credit his ears. It was amazing. Was the man serious? Dietrich, a student of his character! And that mentor-like cadence! Could it be the preparation for another trap? The Gestapo weren’t going to be as forgiving as this.

  ‘Being the person you are, you’ve considered your position, learned a lesson. I trust that you have. We’ve seen the cost. My Gestapo colleagues are the rigid type. Necessary people, good at their work. Or, should we say, getting better at it. Even with my influence I’ve had a job to persuade them to overlook your crime. Yes, crime. But in its way, understandable.’

  Schmidt studied his desktop.

  Warningly the Nazi shook his head, hardened his eyes. ‘One mistake only, my friend. I’ve had to work very, very hard to get you clear of this.’

  Schmidt’s mind was racing: Why are you taking this trouble ? That’s the nub of it. He was staring at that black-bordered page in his mind, carefully suppressing the loathing.

  Dietrich, suddenly businesslike, glanced at his watch. ‘All right – the Field-Marshal’s account will also come under your special supervision. An interesting assignment, isn’t it?’ Schmidt acknowledged that it was. ‘Now. About joining the Party. Have you discussed this with your wife? No? And she’s returned quite suddenly to Dresden.’ He smiled. ‘Never mind, we’ll have to let things cool down. Probably for quite a while. By the way, many thanks for introducing your dentist. Very satisfactory. You’ve interesting contacts, Schmidt.’ He grinned.

  Schmidt nodded slightly. Whatever service Dr Bernstein had rendered, it hadn’t been a clean and polish. But his pulse had quickened again: he was thinking now about the Nazi’s knowledge of his family’s movements.

  Dietrich leaned forward to stub out his cigarette, and Schmidt guessed that his restless brain was on the move again. ‘In fact, my dear Schmidt, the more I look into you, the more interesting things I turn up. I find you’re a scholar. Medieval history! A long-term devotee of the Municipal Library. Well, well. I’m a scholarly person myself. Obviously we’ve much in common. I look forward to discussing this with you – but not tonight.’

  Schmidt’s eye was locked to the Nazi’s. He’d frozen, the cigarette still burning in his angers. Who had he heard it from? Had this Nazi any more surprising stabs of information?

  Dietrich lifted himself off the desk and went to the door. Schmidt knew that in the doorway he’d turn and one of those torpedoes would come. The Nazi grinned as though he perceived he’d been found out.

  ‘One more thing. I strongly advise you to reconsider your relation with Deputy Foreign Manager Wagner. As I said — you can’t afford another episode of contamination.’

  He left.

  The cigarette had burnt to a column of ash in Schmidt’s fingers. He stared at the wall. He felt he was barely breathing. The ash dropped to the desk.

  21

  ANOTHER NIGHT TO MAKE cold bones. Precisely at 6.30 pm Schmidt arrived at the nominated corner. Senior Detective Dressler wasn’t there, nor did a quick scan of the platz immediately discover him.

  ‘Herr Schmidt!’

  Turning quickly, the auditor saw the huge figure standing in a dark embrasure of the cathedral. He crossed the pavement, and joined the detective in his shadowy hide. They shook hands.

  ‘Unwise to go to a café,’ the policeman said. He coughed and struggled for breath. ‘Lilli … was tried at a closed court yesterday, found guilty under the Nuremberg Laws, and committed to Ravensbruck concentration camp for two years. She has been taken there already.’ The heavy voice trembled in the dark. Instantly Schmidt felt a fresh heart-sickness. Two years! He stared across the platz to a string of brilliantly lit cafés. He’d nothing to offer but sympathetic silence. ‘My Gestapo contact says she will probably be assigned to secretarial work … I have my doubts about that,
and, about the duration of the sentence … Our justice system is now corrupted.’ His strained breathing punctuated the gaps in his speech.

  The auditor felt the cold rising up his legs, and the suppressed power of the father’s feelings. He said, ‘Can an appeal be made? A fine negotiated?’

  ‘No.’

  A tramcar crossed the platz, scattering blue sparks as its wheels clashed through points. Schmidt visualised the Field-Marshal’s aides, their comparable clatter. It was bound for his own suburb. Better for him if he were on it?

  ‘What do you propose to do, Herr Dressler?’

  The policeman stared implacably across the stone-cobbled void at the cafés as though getting their range. ‘I’m in contact with a Jew. An activist who’s put in place arrangements … With influential Nazis. God knows how! For substantial sums some Jews are released and given passports. It might be done for Lilli. The problem is the price. Two hundred thousand.’

  Schmidt was amazed at the amount. He stared at Dressler’s massive profile.

  The detective said, ‘I can’t get that kind of money.’

  Schmidt considered the facts. Hands deep in their overcoat pockets, they were both stamping their feet, almost in slow motion. The giant detective towered over him. Schmidt thought: What an odd pair we must look. He trusted no-one was looking.