The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  ‘Shall I come home with you, Freda?’

  ‘No, Julius, I’m too worried about the gold.’

  ‘Perhaps it would relieve the tension —’

  ‘No!’

  Sack shrugged his disappointment. ‘I’ll look into how we can slow up Fischer.’ He turned to put on his black crackling coat.

  A few minutes later he limped down the Reichsbank steps. His mind picked up his current projects; he’d a number in progress: in particular, a Jew, an ex-judge who’d been getting others out of the Reich with forged documents. They’d been after him for a while and this week he’d been briefly sighted in Berlin.

  And now this new, one could say personal, project. Rain slanted down in the streetlights onto his hunched, leather-clad shoulders as he headed back to his office. He grimaced with amusement. With Freda on his arse, this new auditor had better be fast on his feet.

  ~ * ~

  10

  A

  NNA STOOD UP, pulled the bell-cord, and held a leather strap for support as the tramcar slowed for her stop. Lightly she stepped down to the rain-slicked pavement. Her building loomed above her, a few lighted windows offering prospects of warmth. Over the street the blacked-out stone house seemed more abandoned to her at each homecoming.

  With nightfall a bitter east wind had arrived and the temperature had fallen below zero. Shivering, she took a parting glance at the street. The lines of trees, black-branched and pavement-trapped, reminded her of a queue of visa seekers she’d seen earlier outside the Swiss Embassy; yet another glimpsed cameo of despair in the city.

  Passing the female janitor’s lit room, she climbed the frigid staircase.

  The phone call Herr Fischer had taken several days ago from his friend at the Swiss bank in Zurich had left him pale and shaken; had propelled him into planning the trip to Zurich. Today he’d been worried and preoccupied. She wished there was a way she could help him. Since the tragic death of her parents, and his daughter, he’d taken a fatherly interest in her. She knew he was fond of her.

  Tomorrow morning, Elisabeth, her former teacher, was returning to Berlin. The tea party was set for 2.30 pm. Eugene’s warning, put to the back of her mind by her concern for Herr Fischer now came to the fore.

  Elisabeth was running an anti-Nazi salon. That was how the authorities would view it. Despite her cousin’s earlier warning, that specific focus for some reason hadn’t been clear to her. The group of friends discussed the ever-rising power of the Nazis; the plight of Jews, and opponents of the government. But it was only talk. As far as she knew. And that was the nub of it — there might be things she didn’t know; it seemed Elisabeth and the countess might be doing more than just talking.

  When she reached her landing, she didn’t go to her door but to Frau Singer’s. She undertook occasional commissions for the elderly Jewish woman. Anna knocked softly on the door. Almost as if she’d been waiting there, Frau Singer opened it and Fritz rushed around her legs to Anna.

  Anna smiled. ‘I’ve brought the lotion.’

  ‘I’m so relieved, Anna, and so grateful.’ The woman’s fine brown eyes lit up with affection.

  The young woman handed over the pharmacy parcel. It was for Frau Singer’s lifelong friend, Else, the younger by thirty minutes of the Dortmund twins, both of whom were in nursing homes. Else suffered from a debilitating rash that caused her to scratch until her skin bled. A special lotion gave her blessed relief. ‘I do hope it helps Fräulein Else.’

  ‘Oh, it will.’ Frau Singer offered a banknote.

  Anna rummaged in her purse for change. Frau Singer raised a hand. ‘Please don’t worry. I’m so glad to have it. I worry it will become unavailable.’ That was a real possibility. It was already rationed to single-bottle purchases. Anna passed over the change and bent to tug the dog’s ears.

  Someone was noisily climbing the stairs, the footfalls setting up a cacophony in the stairwell. ‘Thank you,’ Frau Singer whispered, and touched the younger woman’s hand.

  Anna crossed quickly to her own door and inserted her key.

  ‘Fräulein!’

  Startled, Anna twisted her head toward the stairs. A man stood there, blowing out air, clutching the brass landing rail. ‘Here you are!’

  Herr Rossbach! Anna, lips parted, stared at the deputy manager of the precious metals department. What on earth was he doing here? He was hatless, and the round flaccid face peering at her in the gloom of the landing looked confused. She realised he was drunk. ‘Herr Rossbach. How can I help you?’ Her voice was quiet and precise.

  He grinned, said thickly, ‘I’ve come to visit a lady.’

  Anna turned and pushed open her door. With a sinking heart, she knew what he meant. She should’ve walked through and closed it, but even an independent spirit like hers was conditioned by the hierarchical nature of the bank.

  Unsteadily Rossbach moved onto the landing and stood swaying and peering at her. ‘I’ve come to visit you!’

  Anna remained frozen. Twelve months of his leering glances were flashing through her mind. In his old-fashioned way, Herr Fischer had implied that she should never be alone with this man.

  ‘Mein herr, I’m afraid that’s impossible.’

  He moved to within a few paces, leaned forward and brought her pale fine-featured face into focus. His breathing took on an ominous note. ‘Nothing’s impossible, fräulein, in this wonderful new world created by the Party. I will come in for a short time. I wish to tell you about myself. You’ll see what type of man I am.’

  ‘Please go home.’

  He lurched toward her and grabbed her coat sleeve with his chubby fingers.

  ‘Mein herr! Leave the building!’

  Frau Singer stood in her open door. ‘Sir, don’t you understand? The fräulein cannot see you here at this hour.’

  Rossbach released the sleeve and turned to face this startling phenomenon. Fritz, yapping, came onto the landing.

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘What!’ He moved a few paces toward her. ‘Who’re you? What business have you to talk to me like that?’ He staggered towards her, kicked at the dog, and nearly lost his footing.

  Behind him, Anna cried, ’You must go!’

  Clumsily he turned again to face her. ‘Fräulein!’ he spat out. Behind him Frau Singer’s door closed with a bang. His head jerked around to stare in that direction. Anna’s door shut a moment later with a decided click. Audibly, a chain rattled into place.

  Wide-eyed, his head swivelling on his thick neck, Rossbach peered at first one door then the other. To his addled brain, the figures standing before each a few seconds ago might have been optical illusions. He stood there, swaying, the moles vivid on his white face. The confusion in his mind was coalescing into a seething anger. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, and reeled back to the stairs.

  In the street outside the apartment block, he leaned against a tree and, fumbling open his flies, urinated in the gutter, wetting his shoes. As the rain began again to fall on his bare head, on the semi-rigid dick in his hand, he grated with heartfelt venom, ‘Fuck those bitches.’

  ~ * ~

  11

  I

  T WAS NEARLY 8.00 am, daylight still absent, as Schmidt peered out at Savigny Platz from his bedroom window. A leaden wall of fog confronted him; there were no sounds of tramcars or motor vehicles; a frozen world in which nothing could move. He’d washed, shaved and had a light breakfast. Now, coffee cup in hand, he brooded on the bleak scene. The Reichsbank’s staff worked on Saturday mornings, but it wasn’t possible to go into the bank yet.

  A dark grey morning with dark grey thoughts: Herr Fischer, and his hastily arranged trip to Zurich, was on his mind; something special was in the wind - for the Reichsbank - or, for Fischer himself. The Prussian was anti-Nazi, more by innuendo than anything he’d said; by the look in his eye when he spoke. When he spoke to me, Schmidt corrected.

  Von Streck had thrown less light on the old banker than he’d expected; an ex-member of the outlawed Social Democratic Pa
rty. Nothing more. However, Schmidt was sure that Fischer had suspicions about Wagner’s death. According to the falsified record, Wertheim’s deputy foreign manager had died of a stroke. Wagner had been a sarcastic critic of the Fuehrer and the Nazis. In some context he must have mentioned Schmidt’s name to Fischer.

  Grimly, the auditor hoped that the business against the Nazis at Bankhaus Wertheim hadn’t been even hinted at by Wagner. He turned from the window and decisively put the cup down. He’d forcefully impose his Party membership on the bearlike Prussian; destroy whatever preconceived idea Fischer had of him. Then he’d keep away from him as much as possible.

  A memo had arrived on his desk yesterday. The Ministry for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda invited Party members to undertake a day-long course for Nazi propagandists. He’d take the course to thicken his camouflage.

  The doorbell pierced the flat’s frigid silence. Schmidt whirled at the sound. Already his nerves were wire-tight. A moment later, the door cautiously open, he gazed in astonishment at the man on his landing. He’d never expected to see him again: his ex-mother-in-law’s neighbour, looking exactly the same as when he’d stood on Schmidt’s doorstep last November in the southern city.

  The man’s popping blue eyes stared back at the auditor. His several chins were still atremble from the climb up the stairs and the plump, ringed fingers of his left hand were fastened on his hat’s brim. A strong smell of cigars came from the provincial-looking overcoat.

  God! What was this about — Helga, Trudi? Schmidt gasped, ‘Herr Fischer! How good to see you. Please come in.’

  Fischer gave a formal bow. ‘Thank you, mein herr, but I can’t stay. Your mother-in-law sends her greetings and I’ve brought this . . .’ He fished in a breast pocket for an envelope and thrust it into Schmidt’s hand. Could he be a relative of the Reichsbank manager? No, he thought, the name was common. He looked at the envelope in his hand and his heart turned over: Helga’s handwriting.

  ‘Please, stay for a cup of coffee?’ Schmidt said. He realised his hand holding the envelope was trembling.

  ‘I’m afraid I have an appointment.’ The Dresden man’s breath smelled of peppermint. His reluctance to be on Schmidt’s doorstep was as manifest as it had been last November. Schmidt was absorbing that. The reluctant courier knew that a letter that couldn’t be trusted to the post might be deadly dangerous. Neighbourly duty done, his eyes slipped toward the stairs. ‘Well, I must be on my way.’

  ‘Many thanks, mein herr.’ Schmidt spoke with deep sincerity.

  Then the Dresden Herr Fischer was gone, his footsteps thudding below on the stairs. A man of appointments, or of excuses, certainly, of strong cigars like the Berlin Fischer.

  Motionless in the doorway, Schmidt thought: Thank God he’s a travelling man. With the controls, it wasn’t easy to travel long distance in the Third Reich. He shut the door and hastily opened the envelope. He and his ex-wife had agreed: no telephone calls, no letters through the post - a complete severance. But now he had this. Four precious pages.

  He stood in the study, his eyes racing over Helga’s sentences. Dazed, but taking in all the family news he’d hungered for. Then he sat down, forced himself to read slowly: information on Trudi’s schooling, on what they’d been doing these past months. It flowed across the pages in Helga’s clear hand, straight into his famished mind.

  He finished, dropping the pages into his lap. He’d been barely breathing and was aware of the tears on his cheek. He looked up as if someone had tapped him on the shoulder. On the wall, Dürer’s knight was sallying forth in the company of strangers, yet alone; his perpetual mission. Finally, was that to be the fate of Franz Schmidt?

  ~ * ~

  Half an hour later, Schmidt followed the Dresden traveller down the stairs. He felt exhilarated. More affected than if he’d drunk several glasses of schnapps, which he’d done only a few times in his life. He would keep the letter today, re-read it later. Then he’d burn it.

  He turned to the window. The fog was dissipating and motor traffic was in evidence. Tramcar bells were clanging, their wheels shrieking against the rails in Savigny Platz.

  He took a tramcar into Mitte. Buildings now were visible along the streets in solid blocks, black and grey To Schmidt, Berlin appeared dressed for a funeral more and more each day.

  It was after one-thirty when he returned home from an uneventful mornings work. He had heard Fräulein Brandt’s strident voice in the corridor but hadn’t sighted her.

  Apart from his transits to and fro, he’d had no time to familiarise himself with his locality. Leaving the tramcar, he bought the Frankfurter Zeitung at a kiosk and entered a café. A poster on its wall showed a large wireless with a family group clustered around it and the slogan, ‘All Germany Listens to the Fuehrer.’ He found a table amid the noisy Saturday throng, sat down and ordered a beer from a perspiring waiter. The windows facing the platz were steamy. People passing outside were blurred shapes. He glanced at the headlines: Barcelona Falls to General Franco. That was clear enough.

  He sipped the beer. His fingers checked the letter in his breast pocket. His euphoria was fading, leaving him with his future. One phrase was prominent in his mind: Trudi is to sing in the children’s choir at the cathedral on Sunday week. She is so excited she can’t stop talking about it. And one more: Dearest Franz, we send our love, and our prayers.

  Schmidt ate a light meal and left the café at two. A clockmaker’s shop was next door and the two o’clock chimes came bursting forth. He peered inside at a multitude of clocks. The proprietor sitting at a counter at the back, seeing Schmidt’s interest, made a brief show of conducting the discordant chimes.

  Nearby, a man in the uniform of the tramways was also enjoying the show. It was the conductor who knew Herr Fischer; the man with the bright red birthmark. Schmidt nodded at him. The man bowed his head and smiled in mutual recognition. ‘Good afternoon, mein herr. Isn’t it wonderful? Every Saturday before I begin duty, I listen to this little concert.’ He jerked his thumb at the proprietor, who had gone back to polishing a wooden clock-case. ‘I don’t think he could fit in another clock.’

  ‘I’m sure he couldn’t,’ Schmidt said with a smile, as he moved off.

  What should he do for the rest of the day? What was President Funk up to? Attending a Party function or at work on his blueprint? The economic plan for war, as von Streck had said. Despite the holiday conviviality, that was the incipient worry lurking in these Berliners. A fragment of sunshine bathed the auditor. Cautiously, Schmidt regarded the improving afternoon, as if it were as bogus as anything else in his life. Hands deep in his pockets, he walked out into the platz.

  The mission. He must be super alert for openings and opportunities; and then, he must think deeply and efficiently about how best to exploit them. This was all that his life must be concerned with now.

  ~ * ~

  Anna von Schnelling was going by tramcar to her friend’s house in the inner suburb of Wilmersdorf. She wore a thick woollen overcoat but today had on a hat with bright red feathers. It was a deliberate challenge to the depths-of-winter day; to her anxiety.

  Last night’s squalid scene on the landing was dismissed from her mind. Pale, serious, she watched the streets go by They resembled the old sepia-toned photographs in her family albums; the sentimental record of her comfortable past life. A lost family life, with she and Eugene the only survivors.

  Even twelve months ago, she’d come to the bank each morning with a pleasant sense of anticipation. Now she dreaded the moment when she entered the foyer and passed the officious Herr Wolff. Her mouth pinched tight. Nothing was going to improve, things would only get worse. Should she resign? Despite her efficiency and ten-year service, as a non-Party member, she knew it would be accepted. What then? And how could she leave Herr Fischer? It would be another blow to him. She sat back, trying to relax. She would talk to him about it.

  However, last night’s nightmare wasn’t to be denied. Drunken Herr Rossbach staggering on
her landing, his thick lips mouthing words, flicking out saliva. Anna shuddered. So much of life these days included awful interludes. But the main factor: had he been too drunk to take in the Jewishness of Frau Singer? She prayed that was so. Otherwise? ‘Don’t think about otherwise, Anna,’ she murmured.

  She alighted from the tram in a genteel street of 1890 houses, all with dazzling white-lace-curtained windows, that seemed to dance along the street in a frothy wave. It had turned into one of those rare, pleasant winter days, but Anna barely noticed.

  Here. Number seventy-eight. Nearly 2.10 pm, later than she’d intended. The young Reichsbank woman ran up the steps and rang the doorbell. She turned to inspect the street: women and children were walking, nursemaids pushing perambulators, Saturday afternoon idlers. She waited. Elisabeth would answer herself. The maid was given the day off when these parties were held. A weak precaution, Anna now felt.