Gerhard Rossbach, her deputy, said in his gruff voice, ‘I saw him yesterday in the corridor, a correct-looking little fellow. Not like Halse, is he?’ Rossbach meant he wasn’t the physical fitness crank and chest-out distance runner that Halse had been, prior to his fatal heart attack.
The manager gave her deputy a cool look. ‘He’s a Party member. Well-connected to a high-up.’ The president’s secretary had hinted at this. ‘So watch your step, Herr Rossbach.’
Rossbach was a drunkard but adept in concealing it. He also preyed on the younger women who inhabited the bank’s back rooms. He was considered a pompous fool by many colleagues, yet he possessed a natural cunning that often outranged the conservative intellects of his detractors.
He guessed, wrongly this time, that Fräulein Brandt had heard the last information from Herr Sack. He’d decided that Sack and she were lovers. In this he was correct. He’d sniggered over an image of the black-clad limping weed, who aped Goebbels, and the Amazon-like woman engaged in the sexual act. With that in mind he avoided her eyes, and did not see they’d clouded with a new thought.
She stood up, burst out: ‘Herr Fischer keeps too much in his head. More to the point, he’s not one of us.’ Fischer was a key subject of concern to them both. Her lips tightened into a stern line. For the past year she’d been manoeuvring to bring foreign bank relations under her control. Cautiously, in her most earnest manner, she’d said to the departing president, ‘Herr President, precious metals and foreign bank relations should be managed as one. To best coordinate the Reich’s interests and to avoid misunderstandings or mistakes. Especially with the Swiss.’
She’d been careful not to overtly criticise Fischer. President Schacht held Fischer in high regard. The obese, cigar-smoking Fischer had accompanied him to the BIS board meetings. But now Schacht, a legend in the Reich’s economy, was gone.
She studied Rossbach’s unattractive, expectant face. She could tell that her colleague was eager to learn what she proposed to do about Fischer. She said, ‘Come, we mustn’t keep the chief auditor waiting.’
Rossbach stood up. Her tone brought a smirk to his features. If Fischer could be got rid of, he understood the job would be his. Slyly, he took in the fräulein’s abundant bust. An image of the sallow-faced Sack sucking on those tits came to him but he managed to keep his face straight. He reached further into his pornographic mind: Biting into ‘em would be better. Maybe one day, if he played his cards right, he would.
~ * ~
Schmidt strode with Fräulein Brandt through bunker-like chambers as deathly cold as the ice-palace in one of his daughter’s favourite stories. Despite events, his family was never far from his mind.
He was setting the brisk pace, imposing his authority. It was one way to keep this woman at bay Gott and Rossbach were close behind. They all wore overcoats except for the beefy Rossbach, who he’d just been introduced to - the fellow from yesterday who’d stared lustfully after Fischer’s secretary. Up close, he had shifty blue eyes and a wet handshake.
They passed through three chambers and saw no gold bullion.
’Here we are, Herr Chief Auditor,’ she said.
A guard waited beside a steel grilled door. He saluted the bankers and swung it open.
Schmidt walked in and halted, appraising the stacked bars of bullion. It was a modest stack, bearing the seal of the Austrian National Bank. In an alcove, there was another stack of similar proportions. Schmidt turned and looked into the watchful eyes of the head of precious metals. ‘Is this all?’ From what he’d read in a report this morning, he knew that it was.
The fräulein’s lips pouted and her eyes flashed. In a proprietary gesture, she moved and placed her hand on the top bars of the Austrian pyramid. ‘For the moment.’
The Reich’s difficult gold and foreign currency situation was common knowledge, but a single chamber of the precious metal? Poverty in a crucial component of the financial foundation of the Fuehrer’s grandiose ambitions was not part of the plan. With a slight smile, he said, ‘Perhaps further transfusions will come?’
She stared at him with utter seriousness. ‘Yes. It’s the lifeblood the Reich requires.’
With her heartfelt words in his ears, Schmidt excused himself and headed back to the lift through the freezing subterranean chambers, his deputy striding along behind, stifling his sneezes with a handkerchief.
~ * ~
Back in her office, Fräulein Brandt booked a trunkline call to Prague. It took twenty minutes to get through to the Reichsbank official in the National Bank for Bohemia and Moravia. She made her precise inquiry and listened carefully to the response. The line was bad but what she heard pleased her. She asked one more question, and held her breath. Her lips set into a thin smile when the answer came. It was the news she’d been hoping for.
At 2.00 pm she was ushered into President Funk’s inner sanctum by the harassed Frau Heyer.
Funk, better known for his sharp wit than for his good manners or social niceties, greeted her smoothly enough. He leaned forward in his chair and extended his narrow hand across the desk. This was the first time they’d met; he’d spent a few minutes prior to the meeting looking into her personnel file.
‘My congratulations on your work with the Czech project,’ he said.
The previous March the Fuehrer had demanded of the Czech government the handover to the Reichsbank of a substantial part of its gold reserves. Fräulein Brandt had discovered that the Czechs had sent a large consignment to the BIS, which had been transferred to the Bank of England for safekeeping. She had drawn up a contingency plan to pursue this gold through the BIS when the political situation permitted.
Standing before his desk, she bowed her acknowledgment. Even uglier than his photographs. Is that twisted mouth a genetic defect? Silently she drew in her breath. ‘Herr President, it’s precisely on that subject that I’ve sought this interview.’
He sat back, narrowing his eyes, tilting his head in a quizzical attitude. These strong-bodied, strong-willed women were far from being his cup of tea, yet they could be immensely useful in the Party’s work. He nodded to her to proceed.
‘I’ve found out there is additional gold to the London deposit. Another one ton of bullion at the Bern Trust and Privatbank, Zurich. It’s been deposited there since 1935 in a strategy to disperse the reserves. It’s come to light through my inquiries in Prague.’ She lifted her chin. ‘The Czechs have been devious.’ The presidents eyes gleamed beneath their heavy lids. He brought up his small hand and stroked his chin. The huge Bavarian case clock in a corner ticked on. Funk emitted an expressive grunt. ‘What else could be expected from a gang of impure Slavs.’
Fräulein Brandt nodded vigorous agreement. She appeared hardly able to contain her fervour. ‘Herr President, I seek your permission to begin negotiations to bring this bullion under our control.’
Funk stood up now, his small mouth in its twisted smile. ‘Granted, of course.’
She thought: By God, he’s a head shorter than me.
‘Keep me advised of progress.’ He peered up into her beautiful, severe face. ‘How did you find this out?’
The manager hesitated, looked around as if to reassure herself that Frau Heyer had actually left the room. ‘Herr Fischer, manager of foreign bank relations, is a frequent visitor to Switzerland. He has many contacts with the Swiss. I have, however, my own connections. My Zurich contact advises me that last December Herr Fischer visited this bank. I found this curious. It’s a small private bank that I don’t believe he’s called on before. Then I found out about the extra gold. That Herr Fischer knows of its existence.’ She paused, her breathing audible. ‘He has not reported it.’
Dr Funk sat down. His eyes had become slits again.
In a gust of breath she said, ‘He’s not a Party member. He is against the Party.’
‘Has he said this?’
‘No, Herr President. But his attitude says it. He will put a dead hand on the negotiations with the BIS about t
he London gold behind the scenes. I fully expect that. He’s a man of outmoded ethics. Not a man of the Third Reich.’ The last phrase came out as a passionate whisper.
Funk sat impassive.
‘Herr President, there are persons still at the Reichsbank who do not love the Fuehrer. Fischer is such a person. He should go. Precious metals and foreign bank relations should be under the control of one person.’
She stopped. Had she gone too far too soon? Her heart was pounding.
Funk released his malicious little smile. ‘Presumably yourself?’
She was silent, blushing now.
‘Fräulein, he was highly regarded by President Schacht.’
‘Herr President, with great respect, Herr Schacht is no longer here. And he may have been deceived.’
She was perspiring in private places.
‘No longer here, fräulein, but very much in the background. You shouldn’t forget what great service he’s given to the Fuehrer and the Reich.’
She lowered her head and gazed at the thick Turkey carpet. This man was playing with her, slipping a knife into her ribs and enjoying twisting it; would enjoy doing it to any woman.
Funk turned aside to reach for a notebook. ‘However, I’ll consider what you’ve said. If you obtain hard evidence that Fischer is sabotaging our objectives, present it to me. You can go.’
Outside the president’s anteroom, Fräulein Brandt stood stock-still, gazing down the empty corridor, her face rigid with furious frustration - and fear. My God! How could she get forward? His sexuality was obvious to her now. How could a person of her sex deal with a pervert’s mind?
~ * ~
President Funk dropped the woman’s file into his out-tray. An ambitious bitch but one who has her uses. And who will be used. She reeked of her animal-like sex. A nauseous wave came over him. Of course she knew. He read it in her eyes. He’d be careful with all his moves in these early days. It had been whispered to him that Goebbels had submitted a critical report to the Fuehrer concerning his private life. The fornicating, crippled little bastard!
A special phone on his desk rang. He took the receiver off the hook and stiffened in his chair.
He sprang up, one hand braced on the desk. ‘Heil Hitler!’ Rigid, he listened. ‘At once, Herr Field-Marshal!’
But Goering had hung up. The lavishly uniformed Nazi chief had expected no other answer.
A special project! Funk fumbled the receiver back onto the hook and plunged a finger onto the buzzer which called Frau Heyer. When she stood in the door, he snapped, ‘Order my car. Without delay! I’m summoned to see Field-Marshal Goering. Hurry!’
His secretary was already halfway back to her desk, her heart in her mouth. It was only a short walk to the Air Ministry but she already knew that this little man walked nowhere.
~ * ~
5
S
LEET NEEDLED into Herr Fischer’s and Schmidt’s lowered faces as they stepped down from a tramcar. The conductor called, ‘Good night, Herr Fischer.’ Fischer waved a hand. Breathing hard, he opened his umbrella with a whoosh and thrust it out, attempting to shield them both. ‘Not far to go, Herr Schmidt,’ he gasped.
The tramcar rattled away into the mystery of the ill-lit suburb; another unknown Berlin enclave to Schmidt. Tall, shadowy houses slouched in gardens thick with sopping undergrowth, dense with big trees; fugitive electric light glazed the ink-black tree trunks; neat piles of soggy leaves dotted the pavements. This was Lichtenberg.
To Schmidt, a rainy nightfall in old suburbs seemed the dead end of dreariness; the drip-drip-drip sounds from buildings and vegetation was like the remainder of your life being measured out.
Fischer had entered his office forty-five minutes ago, a bottle wrapped in pink paper under his arm, and invited him home to dinner. Schmidt had been surprised. Then hesitant. Did he wish to dine with this man two evenings in succession? Was it wise to do so? Eyes in the bank would be watching the new auditor’s first moves; especially Fräulein Brandt’s.
‘It’s my sixtieth birthday,’ the banker said, his watery eyes studying the auditor. ‘Tonight I can offer you hospitality.’
Schmidt accepted and stood up. He was in the business of accumulating insider information, and von Streck had pointedly mentioned this man’s name.
They arrived at Fischer’s house, bumping each other under the umbrella, walked up a brick path and into a portico illuminated by a single electric bulb.
Schmidt wiped moisture from his face with a handkerchief. The oak door sprang open and a wiry, white-haired woman, hands joined on her apron, stood there beaming at the Prussian. She stood aside as they stepped in.
‘Frau Seibert, allow me to present my colleague, Herr Schmidt.’
She bobbed her head and they stripped off their outdoor clothing. The housekeeper bustled around the big man. Schmidt was glad to put his wet overcoat into her hands. ‘I’ll dry it in the kitchen, mein herr,’ she said in a soft voice.
A cat came forward and curled itself around Fischer’s legs. His breath whistling out, the bulky man bent to fondle it.
Later, over dinner, Fischer said, ‘You visited the bullion vaults today.’ They were drinking the bottle of champagne the Reichsbank manager had brought home: vintage 1920. Frau Seibert had folded up the delicate pink tissue paper. ‘A gift,’ he’d said. ‘Can you taste the sunshine and the freedom of France?’ Schmidt had attempted to. He’d never travelled beyond the borders of the Reich. He’d raised his glass in a toast to his host’s birthday. Fischer had proposed another: ‘To my dear assistant. Her generosity. And her loyalty.’ Schmidt understood where the champagne had come from; her pale face, the all-seeing eyes, were instantly in his head.
The manager’s eyes had filled with tears. Fischer had dispersed cigar smoke with furious waves of his free hand to disguise his emotion. With a big ’harrumph’, he’d cleared his throat.
‘Not much to see, is there? The cupboard’s almost bare.’
They were back to gold. He shot the auditor an acute glance. Schmidt said nothing. Fischer grinned.
Schmidt took a cautious sip of the wine. Behind his bland expression, he thought: What does this man know about me? Is he one of von Streck’s? Otherwise, how could he risk talking to a Nazi Party member like this? Traitorous talk that could get him a one-way ticket straight to Sachsenhausen.
The auditor lowered his eyes .Von Streck hadn’t been explicit about the big manager. Why not?
Fischer said, ’Of course, our Fräulein Brandt’s avid for gold. She’s a woman with a heart of steel, the swastika’s engraved on it. Unlike many of ’em, she’s competent at her work.’
‘She appears so,’ Schmidt agreed.
Fischer laid his cigar into an ashtray and flicked his thick fingers over his stomach, dislodging crumbs. ‘She wants my job for her deputy, Rossbach. Has that reached your ears yet?’
Schmidt blinked. He shook his bead. Another cross-current in the Reichsbank world.
‘Have you met the fellow?’ Schmidt nodded. The banker darted a look at the auditor under his heavy brows. ’Perhaps I’m talking too much, Herr Chief Auditor. But you’re such a good listener.’
‘A trait of my profession,’ Schmidt said.
Frau Seibert came in shaking her head in exasperation. ‘Mein herr?’
Fischer stood up. ‘Excuse me.’
The woman lingered, gazing at Schmidt. ‘It’s the cat, sir. She won’t eat her dinner unless he goes and stands beside the bowl.’ She hesitated. ‘When he was in hospital last year she sat in the hall day after day. Footsteps outside, and she’d start up then sink down again when it wasn’t him. Became just skin and bones.’
Schmidt nodded gravely.
Fischer returned and Frau Seibert left. ‘The cat is old like its master ... I’ve heard about your eye. I hope it doesn’t give you too much trouble.’ This time the banker gave him a sympathetic look.
‘I’m accustomed to it.’ Schmidt glanced at him. Had Fischer had the story fr
om Wagner?
Fischer said, ‘Let us go to more comfortable chairs. Bring your glass.’
But Schmidt left his glass. Fischer shrugged and led the way into the adjoining living room, a salon of Biedermeier furniture.
Fischer brought out a bottle of schnapps and two glasses, and filled each. Schmidt wondered if his abstemious nature, he’d drunk only two glasses of champagne, was annoying the manager. This bon vivant who travelled beyond the Reich’s frontiers, tasting the good life . . . He wasn’t going to escape the schnapps.
‘I worry for the fräulein,’ Fischer said. ‘If I’m removed. Rossbach has his eye on her, and he’s an animal.’
Animal. More surprise for Schmidt at this word — and the plain-speaking. Schmidt felt uneasy but his face remained expressionless. Clearly, the man who was sixty today saw himself as the blonde woman’s protector.
The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02] Page 4
