Sack’s eyes blinked rapidly. This was interesting. He knew of the countess. Her husband was a diplomat and they’d had several foreign postings at Reich embassies; they were on a watch-list. Reports had come in that they were opponents, but no proof had been unearthed. He frowned. Did the woman think her husband’s position or her title gave her immunity? ‘Have you the names of the others?’
All the women had been introduced to the doctor. He spoke names as Sack jotted down notes on a large yellow pad. ’Did you say von Schnelling?’
The doctor nodded. ‘A blonde, slight woman in her thirties.’
A few minutes later the doctor departed. He went on duty at his hospital at 6.00 pm.
Sack locked the yellow pad in his desk drawer. Reich Minister Himmler took a personal interest in cases like this. Going on past experience, he’d want the group watched over a period to see if others could be drawn into the net.
Now Sack would go home. However, for a few more moments he sat quiet in the silent room. What kind of mental processes brought a Swiss medico into their fold? Sack had met several Swiss who were the Fuehrer’s ardent admirers — could even quote passages from his book. Sack hadn’t read it himself.
He shook his head. The types he had to deal with! - his sadistic colleagues, this Swiss bastard. What would the fellow’s mother think of her son’s betrayal of her friend? Not that the sturmbannfuehrer was clean-handed himself. Throughout his former career in the Prussian political police, he’d astutely collected secret and incriminating information, which he’d had no compunction in using in dire ways.
He rose and went to the coat-rack. Easing himself into his overcoat, he thought: Quite possibly the woman called von Schnelling is the one at the Reichsbank whom Freda complains of as a non-Party member. Or, perhaps a relative. It was an aristocratic name. There wouldn’t be many of them around.
~ * ~
Later that evening, Herr Fischer was enjoying a cigar after his supper. Young Pieter had been out all day making a nuisance of himself collecting money for the Winter Relief, and the Reichsbank manager had unlocked a small safe in his study and burned several folders of papers in an incinerator at the far end of the narrow back garden. He’d been intending to do this for some time. Burning papers was a suspicious activity and it was best to avoid it going into the snooping youth’s notebook.
These papers were more than suspicious; they related to the banned, but not entirely defunct, SPD. He’d no doubt that the Nazis had got their hands on the membership list of the Berlin branch. He’d taken care to resign at the time it had been declared illegal. No longer had he seen a way forward against them along that route.
Poor Wagner must’ve hung on. A bad mistake. He guessed that the Bankhaus Wertheim manager had been running foreign currency out to the fugitive headquarters in Paris. A lost cause. Tragic.
He tapped a column of ash into a tray at his elbow. How much did Herr Schmidt know about that? The two men had been life-long friends. Once, when they’d been drinking beer in Zurich, Wagner had spoken of Schmidt as an unusual man with depths that only he, Wagner, knew of. Wagner had said nothing more. Not knowing Schmidt, he’d taken only a slight interest in the remark. Now, the auditor had landed on his doorstep!
Fischer was an astute judge of character. Was Schmidt’s Nazi Party membership merely a good career move by an ambitious man? No, not the story he’d decided, more likely camouflage for a more convoluted agenda. On the surface, the mild, correct fellow could be considered an unlikely candidate for the last. However, the Prussian banker sensed something to the contrary beneath the low-profile exterior.
He drew out his watch and flicked open the gold lid. In a few minutes, he’d try to put through a trunk-line call to the home of his friend at Bern Trust & Privatbank. He would see him on Tuesday morning, but Fräulein Brandt was working fast and he wanted to be sure that no decision was taken before he and his friend had a chance to address the bank’s board.
God willing, ethics and common sense would prevail, and they’d reject the transfer authority for the gold deposit, probably forced from the Czechs at gunpoint.
His efforts with the SPD having failed, this was an avenue for action still open to him. He laid aside his cigar and went to the telephone. The cat came with him, then ran ahead. It took him ten minutes to get through. The operator was under pressure, and brusque. Waiting, Fischer pictured her lined up with her colleagues, plugging in connections to distant parts of the Reich, to the capitals of Europe. How many calls were being intercepted by the state agencies?
‘Mein herr, are you finished?’The operator was speaking to someone else.
Suddenly he was connected. After the usual pleasantries, in guarded terms he conveyed his worry to the Swiss, who promised that no decision would be taken before their meeting. Of course, the actual subject wasn’t mentioned.
Fischer replaced the receiver on its hook and went out to the hall.
Pieter was in the doorway to the parlour, a strange look on his face. ‘Good evening, mein herr,’ he said with a slight bow
Listening, Fischer thought. Had his mother told him of the conflagration? No, she wouldn’t. She was on her employer’s side. And the phone conversation had been non-informative to outsiders. Nonetheless, the fact that he’d rung long-distance would go into the unpleasant youth’s notebook. Fischer passed him with a nod, went to the front hall and peered through the window. He couldn’t discern any lights from the house opposite.
Motionless, he felt Pieter and his palpable suspicion in his chest like a bout of indigestion. He suspected the youth saw the decorative iron railings out front as a potential donation to the production drive. Over his dead body! He smoothed his moustache. Tonight he was depressed. Even, he must admit, fearful. A wet freezing winter night was a time for depression. But what, specifically, was his fear? Physical pain, death? Unendurable pain, certainly; not death. His wife and daughter had passed into that country and it held no fears for him.
He was frightened of failing in this task - the mission that he’d put at the centre of his lonely life. His jaw tightened and he took a fresh cigar from his pocket and lit up.
~ * ~
Schmidt burned his wife’s letter in the kitchen, and flushed the fragile ashes down the sink. Grimly, but with determination, he flushed the act from his mind and went to the study. The gas fire was lit, throwing its warmth a short distance into the room.
He’d reached a decision on something he’d been considering all day. He’d go to Dresden next Sunday. Trudi would be unaware of it, but her father would be there to hear her sing. One day, he might be able to tell her about it. Of course, Helga wouldn’t know either. He imagined her saying, ‘Papa’s here in spirit.’
If he was careful, and with reasonable luck, he wouldn’t be seen; apart from his family no-one knew him in Dresden. He had no reason to believe that he was being followed or that anyone, at this point, was concerned with him or his movements.
His eyes fell on the third thing that he’d brought with him to Berlin: the small doll on a table below the engraving. Trudi, her tongue in the corner of her mouth, had plaited the golden locks perfectly, kissed the tiny painted lips and had held it out to him. ‘Look after Papa,’ she’d said. He’d given her a tight smile, feeling tears in his eyes.
Yes, he would go to Dresden on Sunday. Seeing his family from a distance would be a great sadness, yet a refreshment of his hopes for the future.
In the hall, the phone jangled. Schmidt’s nerves leapt. He swung around to gaze toward the phone. Who had this number? The sound was like a protracted scream. Obdurately, he walked to the hall and took up the receiver.
‘Hullo?’
‘Herr Schmidt?’
Fräulein Brandt! ‘Fräulein manager, good evening.’ The surprise in his voice was genuine.
‘Herr Schmidt, I wish to ask you to dinner at my flat on Wednesday evening.’ There was a pause. ‘You’ve already dined with Herr Fischer…’ She laughed in her deep throaty
voice. ‘Other colleagues will, probably, extend invitations to you. The atmosphere among senior colleagues at the bank should be friendly, don’t you agree?’
Schmidt’s mind moved into gear. ‘I do. I would be honoured, fräulein manager.’
‘Very good. Shall we say seven o’clock? Tomorrow I’ll give you directions. Good night, Herr Chief Auditor.’
Schmidt slowly replaced the receiver on its hook. Who had told her he’d dined with Fischer on his birthday? He went back to the study. This was unexpected. However, it would be a chance to observe this model of ’Strength through Joy’ at closer quarters. He visualised her tall stature, the muscled legs, the severe yet sensual mouth. Doubtless, her intention was to have a closer look at this auditor who, inexplicably, had been foisted on them from the provinces. Quite a natural reaction of a dutiful and committed Party member.
Reich Minister Goebbels’ look-alike, limping down the Reichsbank corridor to Fräulein Brandt’s office, appeared abruptly in his mind’s eye; the odour of leather in his nostrils; the suspicious eyes assessing the new chief auditor. Schmidt’s throat tightened with nerves at the sinister image.
~ * ~
13
H
ERR PRESIDENT FUNK will be at the Ministry all day,’ Frau Heyer said when Schmidt entered the I anteroom on Monday morning at 8.30 am. ‘His mail is laid out on the small desk in his room. Herr Chief Auditor, perhaps -’
‘Very good,’ interrupted Schmidt, moving toward the inner sanctum. ‘I’ll attend to it and then give you my instructions.’ He opened the door, entered, and closed it with a formality that forbade disturbance. Gazing after him, open-mouthed, Frau Heyer was struck by the mild auditor’s new tone of authority. These Party members were all the same!
In the inner sanctum, Schmidt sighed. He’d offended her but he wanted a free run in the president’s room, and it would be necessary to keep Frau Heyer at a distance. He surveyed the room. On his previous two visits he’d been totally focused on Dr Funk. A small desk was at right angles to the president’s; a green leather folder was the only item on it. He moved to the small desk. Yet again, his eye was drawn to the Fuehrer: a full-length study, grandly framed in gold leaf. The melancholic look fell into the dun-coloured room with the dull thud of a steel girder onto a factory floor. Schmidt grimaced. Not light relief.
In reality, there was silence, except the clock ticking with a majestic cadence, the muffled sound of traffic coming from Wilhelmstrasse, his own breathing. The tension had begun to drip into his bloodstream like a transfusion. His eye returned to the green folder. How on earth could he achieve von Streck’s objective? Obtain access to the blueprint? He mightn’t be able to get anywhere near it! Even if miraculously he could, how to obtain a copy so that no clue was left of the spying?
Schmidt stared across the room. Doors, as yet undetected, would need to spring open, and rooms that he couldn’t yet imagine, walked into. He must have confidence in himself — and in Providence.
Photography. Von Streck’s remark shot into his head; if he could master the technical aspects. He must! Must be ready. He realised moisture was running down his left cheek. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed up the trickle coming from behind the prosthesis. The breeze had cut into his face as he walked to the bank, and the draughts in its corridors were also troublesome. To work. Presumably the president would return in the late afternoon or evening to go through what Schmidt set aside for his attention.
Schmidt opened the folder and began to scan and sort the miscellany of cables, letters, and memoranda. Once, he drew in his breath, paused to thoroughly digest what he was reading: a memorandum marked ‘urgent’ headed: Czechoslovakian Gold at Bern Trust and Privatbank. Fräulein Brandt earnestly recommended the president’s reconsideration of her request to postpone Herr Fischer’s ‘imminent visit to the above-named bank’.
After thirty minutes he was finished. At the end of the room, near the windows, there was an alcove. Hidden from the rest of the room, a large steel safe stood in it. It was mud-coloured, so it blended into the wallpaper. Schmidt walked to examine it. A brass plate indicated it was made in Hamburg in 1907. No combination lock. The outer door opened with two keys. He turned and went to the door.
In the anteroom he gave the green leather folder to Frau Heyer. ’These are for the president to see.’ He handed her another pile of papers. ‘These may be distributed as you normally do.’
She bobbed her head.
In the corridor, walking back to his office, he thought about the item that had stopped him in his tracks. So that was what was taking Fischer to Zurich. If the gold doesn’t come to the Reichsbank, Fischer will have achieved his objective - and sealed his fate. Unless he’s designed a cover-story of terrific veracity.
Dolefully, Schmidt shook his head at that improbability.
~ * ~
At noon, Anna went to the canteen. She selected her meal and hurried to a corner table. Only twenty or so persons were eating at this hour. All the confirmations for Herr Fischer’s appointments had come in now. His tickets for the 8.00 pm express to Zurich had been delivered by the administration section. She’d eat her lunch quickly and get back to her desk. The briefing extracts on the banks he was visiting were still to be inserted into his mission folder.
Herr Fischer was tense this morning, although still his customary courteous self. His cigars kept going out, which was a signal that he was preoccupied. Anna was worried, thought, whatever he’s doing, God help him. She took several deep breaths.
The cabbage and sausage soup was hot, and she laid her spoon aside. She gazed at the room. Yesterday she’d done her laundry, ironed her clothes, and cleaned her flat. All the while the Saturday tea party had been replaying itself in her mind. Had Elisabeth really listened to her warning? Despite her idealism and her crusading nature, the teacher had always known when to draw back. ‘The sky is clouding over,’ she would say, ‘we’d best put up our umbrellas.’ Anna had heard that remark so many times.
Anna’s heart plummeted. Herr Rossbach strode into the canteen, his plump body swaying from side to side in his self-important walk. She’d come early, hoping to avoid him. His eyes flicked to her. He made a rapid selection of food. Holding an amply filled tray, he strode across the room to her corner. His eyes drank in the delicate blonde woman, a predatory smirk on his face. ‘Well, well, fräulein, here you are.’
He put down his tray beside hers, and dragged a chair around to block her exit from the table. He clucked his tongue in reproof, and muttered, ‘Friday night. You would’ve found my conversation most interesting.’
Anna avoided his eyes, felt nausea rise. He sat down, busily arranging his various plates on the table, then leaned back and studied her again with the same greedy look he’d given his food. His eyes dropped to her figure. His face became pink. ‘That old Jewess didn’t take to me, did she? Well, I won’t lose any sleep over that. But maybe she should. I can spot those pigs a kilometre off.’ He laughed.
The remark pierced Anna.
He murmured, ‘I’ll come to see you again. I trust you’ll be at home when I do.’
She looked directly at him. ‘Please don’t do that, Herr Rossbach.’
Rossbach regarded her with his stony, bloodshot eyes. He took his knife and fork and deftly sliced a pork sausage. ’Fräulein, at the Reichsbank we’re all working with our full strength for the Reich, for the dear Fuehrer. The better we’re acquainted, the better the work will go.’
Anna moistened her lips. What could she do against this person - suddenly dangerous to Frau Singer, to herself? Would Herr Fischer see a way out of the dilemma? Though she realised her boss was more and more an outsider at the bank.
Rossbach forked a piece of sausage into his mouth and chewed vigorously. He waved his knife, saying, with quiet menace, ‘I’m surprised you’re on friendly terms with that Jewess. On any terms. She shouldn’t be occupying a flat in your building, fräulein.’ He speared up cabbage and sent it after the sausage.
Anna stared into the masticating face on which the moles jumped around like disturbed flies. Her complexion had paled to become almost translucent. Her worst fears were being realised. The deputy manager leaned across the table, and a blast of sausage and cabbage breath came with his muted utterance: ‘Fräulein, on my next visit, if I have any trouble I’ll make it my business to sort her out. Now—’
‘Fräulein von Schnelling. When you finish your meal, would you kindly assist me with a matter?’ The voice, polite but authoritative, penetrated the plainly unpleasant scene.
Anna’s head jerked up to see the chief auditor standing close by. She gasped, shook her head as if to dissipate the threats she’d just heard. ’I’m finished here, Herr Chief Auditor. If Herr Rossbach will permit me to squeeze past.’
Rossbach, his face flooding a deeper red, rose reluctantly from his chair, pulled it back and dropped his head. ‘Herr Chief Auditor.’
Anna slipped past the obese deputy manager and joined Schmidt. They walked to the door. Rossbach remained on his feet, staring after them every step of the way. His truculent yet bewildered attitude spoke of prey that had escaped in an eye-blink. Two women clerks at a nearby table were smiling behind their hands.
The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02] Page 10
