The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  The wall-clock’s fast ticking, combined with the rapid clatter of her typing of Herr Fischer’s last words, made Anna feel she was keeping this loathsome man at a distance and would soon be able to escape from his presence.

  At 5.25 pm she rolled the last sheet of paper out of the machine, put the cover over it, and stood up.

  Rossbach’s bloodshot eyes shot to her. ‘Where are you going, fräulein?’

  ‘I’ve an appointment, Herr Rossbach.’

  ‘Well, that is a pity because I require you to stay late.’

  ‘I’ll come earlier tomorrow.’ Her eyes were troubled but determined.

  ‘No, fräulein, you will stay tonight.’ He reddened with anger. ‘Have you forgotten the warning I gave you about the Jewish woman? At the snap of a finger, I can have her rooted out of her filthy nest.’

  With alarm, she noted his heavy breathing. He pushed himself upright, walked around the desk to the door and turned the key in the lock. He spun around, a tense grin on his face. His eyes narrowed. She could see that he’d lost control.

  Oh God, surely he won’t try anything here? She glanced desperately at the coatstand where her hat, coat and bag waited.

  Rossbach, who’d picked his targets in the past to ensure easy conquests, sized up the petite blonde woman afresh. She was showing fight. Should he bide his time? A month ago, prowling around late, he had found and spreadeagled a plump cleaning woman on a desk. She’d turned as soft as butter, giggled like an idiot as he’d thrust hard into her. Here was a real challenge. Lust was flooding his brain and body. ‘Are you a virgin, fräulein? Is that the problem? Easily fixed.’ He gasped the words and spittle showered her face.

  ‘You’re mad.’ She edged away, looking for a weapon.

  Rossbach leapt forward, seizing her by her upper arms before she could raise them, half-lifted and swung her onto Fischer’s desk. She fell on her back with a jarring impact and cried out, the air driven from her body. He heaved himself up onto her. She could still twist her head away from his wide-open mouth lunging at hers. He abandoned this, tore at his trouser flies, raising himself, leaning back to get it out. For an instant she’d room to move. She drew back her right leg and with all her strength drove the high-heel of her shoe into his exposed testicles.

  Rossbach screamed and went off the desk and across the room, clutching his privates. With a great heave of his gut, he vomited on the floor. Anna slid off the desk, not yet feeling the pain in her back. In a moment she’d twisted the key in the lock and flung open the door. With a startled cry, she collided with the chief auditor. Schmidt pulled her aside and leant her against the wall. Then he entered the office.

  Bent over, his breath wheezing out in a high-pitched whine, Rossbach held his injured groin with both fleshy hands. The muscles of his face working in spasmodic grimaces sent the moles running amok, vomit trickled from the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Arrggh,’ he groaned, and spat. Schmidt came into focus as the auditor calmly took Anna’s coat, hat and handbag from the coatstand.

  Rossbach was trying to speak, hatred burning in his agonised eyes.

  Schmidt, expressionless, regarded the temporary manager. Then he turned, Anna von Schnelling’s things over his arm, and left, closing the door behind him on the raucous sound of more vomiting.

  ~ * ~

  17

  I

  N A SOUNDLESS flighty ballet, flurries of snow darted and whirled across the facade of the grim building on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse In a prosaic contrast, its interior was resonant with clacking typewriters, jangling telephones, raised voices, and hurrying footfalls.

  A blackhearted bureaucracy in full flood.

  Sturmbannfuehrer Sack wasn’t conscious of this phenomenon. He was short-handed, and he’d spent the whole afternoon juggling and re-assigning his agents. They were largely reliant on a growing network of informers for information, which was bringing processing problems.

  The Jew, Rubinstein, continued to evade their net though, in recent days, there’d been a possible sighting in Oranienburgerstrasse. Sack glanced at the map on the wall: a district favoured by middle-class Jews. He suspected the ex-judge was holed up in a Jewish residence that stood empty; probably moving between several such hide-outs. The sighting had been at night, suggesting that he kept off the streets during the pitifully brief period of daylight.

  Frowning, he put this aside. He hadn’t heard from Freda since last night. He’d waited with her at the bank until the special agent he’d detailed to the task phoned in with a one-word confirmation. The call came at 7.15 pm. Her troublesome colleague had been dealt with. He’d been surprised at her shocked reaction. What had she expected? The man was working against the Reich in a vital matter that she’d been powerless to stop; which the president of the bank was unwilling to stop. There’d been only one solution.

  He shrugged, and also dismissed this from his mind.

  The Swiss doctor was running late.

  In a basement passage, amid blows and curses, several handcuffed men were being shoved towards the cells. Sack could hear it. He began to flick through the interrogation record of the lawyer and his wife who’d sheltered Rubinstein. Fools. This week they’d be on trial. For such traitors the court had only one verdict. They’d be executed before the end of the following week. He slipped the file into the out-tray.

  He turned to a troublesome episode that he’d been assigned to deal with. He clucked his tongue in disgust. Sturmbannfuehrer Strasser’s men had arrested a piano teacher, mistaking him for a fugitive of identical name, and the fellow had died under interrogation. Now his shattered family wanted his body back, but it couldn’t be surrendered in its condition. Sack made a note on the file approving its return in a sealed coffin. The file joined the other in the out-tray.

  He trusted that Strasser would be disciplined. The Gestapo weren’t answerable to the judicial process, but mistakes like this were inexcusable lapses of efficiency. Sack sneezed and blew his nose into a handkerchief.

  ‘Have you a cold, Herr Sack?’ Dr Lobe stood in the open doorway, snowflakes glistening on his overcoat.

  Sack gestured him to a chair. The fellow still had his hat on. Now he’s going to put it on my desk, Sack thought. These Swiss were arrogant sods. He folded up his handkerchief and put it away.

  Dr Lobe sat down, keeping his overcoat on, his pink face aglow from the icy streets he’d walked through; in their red rims his eyes seemed tinged with a fiery light. ‘I’m returning to Zurich tonight. I have that letter. The woman brought it to me at the hospital.’ He took it from a pocket and laid it between them.

  Sack picked it up and examined the handwritten address. ‘What is this woman’s name?’

  The doctor gave it. Frau Kapp. He didn’t know her address. Possibly it would be in the letter.

  ‘Please wait fifteen minutes while I have an expert open it and a copy made.’

  The Swiss gave a terse nod.

  Twenty minutes later the doctor hurried off to catch his train, the re-sealed letter again in his pocket. Sack stood up and went to the window. The snow still whirled in the dark air and the lights in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse had a festive look. The letter had enclosed a cheque on a Swiss bank for one thousand francs; the recipient was to pay an individual identified only as Hans.

  Sack sneezed again, and mopped up with the handkerchief. An exchange control crime, punishable by death. Let alone what was behind it. Did these people understand anything? The little group headed by the schoolteacher was doomed. What fools they were to let a man like the Swiss into their circle. Following their arrests, he’d discover just how deep the traitorous roots ran.

  Meanwhile, the Reich Minister was taking an interest in the case. Instantly, they’d begun surveillance of the teacher and the countess. The teacher was quite notorious in the women’s education sphere, and the countess and her diplomat husband were already under suspicion. However, he couldn’t move to make arrests until authorised.

  He turned back to
the room.

  Freda was angry with him. They’d not made love for over two weeks and he was edgy. Perhaps he’d go to her flat tonight and see if her mood had improved. Before that, he’d check the surveillance on the schoolteacher; with Herr Himmler’s interest he couldn’t afford a slip-up.

  Annoyance flickered on his face. The arrested men who’d been brought in earlier were from Wedding; they’d been holding traitorous discussions. An undercover Party member had betrayed them to the secret state police. More fools. No-one could be trusted. Such transgressors were falling into their hands like over-ripe plums from the bough. Even on his floor he could hear their screams in the basement. Strasser was on the job. Strasser routinely welcomed prisoners by breaking noses and shattering teeth with a rifle butt - a habit he’d developed when interrogating communists.

  ~ * ~

  Anna hurried away from the Reichsbank. She’d recovered to a degree from the terrific emotional shock, now she was conscious of the pain in her back and in her upper arms where Rossbach had gripped them. She’d wrapped her scarf tight against the freezing air.

  In the corridor, in the aftermath of the assault, her limbs had been shaking, her eyes stark, her breathing distressed. She’d felt as though she had awoken from a nightmare in a strange bedroom. Again Herr Schmidt had come to her rescue. The chief auditor had helped her compose herself, had given her a glass of water in his office before escorting her to the main door.

  Walking as fast as she was able on the slushy pavement and with her stiffening back, thoughts streamed through her brain. What would happen now? She couldn’t step back into a room with Rossbach. Would Herr Schmidt advise her? She wondered what the purpose of the 7.00 pm meeting was.

  Her life was moving into unfathomable depths, and the provincial auditor was assuming a significant role in it.

  If she told Eugene he might go calling on Rossbach with vengeance in his heart. He was a poet, but also an officer with a pistol and a loving and highly protective attitude toward her.

  Through a brass-mounted revolving door she pushed her way into a marble domain. Damp, cold, time-strapped shoppers who’d rushed here from their workplaces were milling around, hurrying to lifts. She took the lift to the tearoom. Until this year the store had been owned by a Jewish family, its founders. Now they’d gone to America and a Hamburg shipowner with links to the Nazi Party had acquired it.

  Elisabeth was waving to her from a corner table. Anna stopped in her tracks. Eugene was with her.

  ‘Anna, is there anything wrong?’ Elisabeth von Bose stood up and came to her, kissed her on her pale cheeks. ‘So cold. You look unwell.’ Anna shook her head and they moved to the table.

  The teacher had on one of the small pert hats for which she was famous among her friends. On someone else, it might have looked frivolous and out of season, yet above her oval creamy face it accentuated her good-humoured personality. But now she was grave.

  Eugene was on his feet, taking Anna in. He moved to kiss his cousin. Anna gave him a questioning look. A waitress took her overcoat. As she sat down, she flinched with pain.

  Renewed concern leapt into Elisabeth’s eyes. ’Anna!’

  ‘I’ve strained my back. It’s nothing.’ She’d decided that she wouldn’t tell Elisabeth — especially not Eugene — what had happened at the bank. She felt demeaned. Dirtied.

  Elisabeth nodded. ‘Very well.’

  Anna removed her gloves and laid them beside her plate. Her thoughts were in a turmoil. Eugene being here was a shock. Why had Elisabeth brought him? He must’ve taken it on himself to speak directly to the teacher about his fears. Of course, he would do that. Her eyes flicked over him and she was appalled afresh. He looked so wretchedly ill, had lost so much weight.

  ‘I’m so very sorry about Herr Fischer,’ Elisabeth was saying. Anna bobbed her head. She was holding that tragedy back. Just. Her teacher and mentor had something important to communicate; she’d never been asked to tea by Elizabeth without something being in the wind.

  The tearoom was filled with well-dressed women and a few men. Oblivious to the roar of conversation, waitresses in black dresses with white collars and cuffs slipped between the tables with trays of tea-things. The teacher swept her eyes around, leaned forward and said, ‘Anna, I guessed it was Eugene. So I went to see him. It’s clear to me now, our tea parties must end. The countess is telling the others.’

  Anna blinked.

  ‘I’ve also been warned by someone else,’ Elisabeth said.

  ‘Who else?’ Anna was perplexed.

  ‘It’s best you don’t know.’ Elisabeth paused. Just as it was that Anna shouldn’t know that her admired teacher, the countess, and Frau Kapp, the Swiss correspondent, were engaged in actions more ‘criminal’ than ‘political discussions’. Elisabeth now bitterly regretted bringing the others to the fringe of this. Guilt by association. Her self-confidence and ability to overcome obstacles had blinded her. She’d been guilty of a great stupidity.

  ‘Anna, we must cut the connections between us all. I’m afraid the rational world has vanished.’

  Eugene was nodding, his eyes continuously checking that they weren’t being overheard.

  Elisabeth gave a strained smile. ‘Now. Let’s have tea. At least we can still have these civilised moments.’

  A waitress brought tea and plates of sandwiches and cakes.

  Eugene, leaning forward, said, quiet but emphatic, ‘You must take more drastic action than that —’ He burst into coughing. Hurriedly he clasped a handkerchief to his mouth. The two women stared at him, alarmed. The handkerchief was turning red. Eugene shoved his chair back, coughing hard.

  Elisabeth raised her napkin, ready to assist. Eugene dropped the bloody handkerchief onto the table and seized the napkin. ‘Anna, he’s having a haemorrhage!’Elisabeth spoke urgently. ’We must take him to hospital.’

  People at the next table were suddenly silent and staring.

  The napkin was soaked with blood. Anna took it from his fingers and pushed her own to his mouth. The manager of the tearoom had appeared, was hovering over them: Could he be of assistance? Could be obtain a taxi? The coughing ceased. Eugene waved the man away.

  ‘Yes, we’ll have a taxi, please,’ Anna said decisively. The manager hurried off. She stood up. ‘I’ll take him to hospital.’

  ‘I’ll come,’ Elisabeth said. They helped Eugene to his feet. The worst seemed over for the moment.

  ‘My apologies,’ the Abwehr captain muttered, dabbing at his mouth.

  In the street they were about to get into a taxi, the door held open by the tearoom manager, when Anna remembered her appointment. Hurriedly she explained the situation to Elisabeth. Her friend agreed to meet the man and tell him what had happened. Briefly, Anna gave the schoolteacher the details. ‘Small, handsome, fair hair, a little moustache, about forty . . .’

  The taxi pulled away, leaving Elisabeth standing on the pavement amid crowds of pedestrians. Ten metres away, someone slipped in the slush and fell with a thump. Several men rushed forward to help the leather-coated man to his feet, collectively brushed the dirty snow from the coat. Even under these ministrations, and despite the pain in his leg, he only had eyes for the tall woman in the tiny hat.

  ~ * ~

  Schmidt was accustomed to the claustrophobia of institutional buildings often imposed by the labyrinthine architecture of the last century. As a young man he’d cut his auditing teeth in one, then that of Bankhaus Wertheim had followed; now he had the Reichsbank. These places were rich in obscure, semi-abandoned corners. He’d become adept in turning them to his own advantage. Hurrying along Wilhelmstrasse, a snow-shower needling into his face, he perceived that the early darkness and the besetting weather were dealing out their own brands of claustrophobia. It was as if he were sallying forth from within a castle to enter a dark forest; his ancestor of the Teutonic Order kept flashing into his thoughts.

  He slipped on ice-crusted slush, almost losing his balance. Grimly, he went on, taking even m
ore care. The prosthesis was like an icy gemstone in the wincing, encircling flesh. He’d heard the temperature hadn’t been above three degrees today, was colder now.

  Minutes later he entered the café. The sudden warmth seemed unreal to Schmidt. At a table, he sipped a mulled red wine. Two minutes to seven. He watched the door and arranged words in his head. How much time did she have? The Gestapo might be allowing the women some rope, but nothing could be counted on; it was best to assume the worst. His eye travelled from the door over the packed tables. Two hundred or so here; ordinary citizens, a sprinkle of military uniforms. The waiter, noting his Party badge, was respectful and attentive.

  Schmidt looked at his watch. She was late.

  ‘Herr Schmidt?’ Schmidt swung around at the soft voice. A woman had come up on his blind side. He nodded, and stood up. ’I’m a friend of Fräulein von Schnelling. She can’t meet you, her cousin is ill and she’s taken him to hospital.’