The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  Schmidt gazed curiously at the handsome woman in her late forties, with the small hat perched on the side of her head. She was examining him in a similar way. Instinctively, he knew that here was the famous teacher, the woman whom Rubinstein had identified as the leader of the dissident group. He bowed. ‘Will you sit down?’

  She shook her head, her eyes on the badge. ‘Goodbye, mein herr.’ The hat bobbed, and she turned for the door.

  Schmidt sat down abruptly and watched her graceful departure. Carefully he looked around. Were they following her - if so, had he been seen with her — this notorious woman in the Gestapo’s sights? That was super-dangerous territory for Franz Schmidt and von Streck’s project. Tension tightened his throat as he signalled the waiter for the bill.

  A few moments later he stepped again into the freezing street. President Funk expected to see him in thirty minutes. The patches of darkness between the streetlights seemed as impenetrable as the zones of doubt in his mind. Hurrying back, he wondered what the Reichsbank head had in store for his chief auditor, whether it might open up a way for him to move forward. However, the dominant worry in his mind was Anna von Schnelling’s danger and his failure to deliver Rubinstein’s warning. He breathed one of his rare curses. He should’ve taken the risk and told her when they’d been alone in Fischer’s room. Forget it! It was now spilt milk.

  ~ * ~

  Sturmbannfuehrer Sack had severely jarred his hip in the fall. His crippled leg had caused him to slip. The head waiter’s eyes rounded with shock as he watched Reich Minister Goebbels enter the café and limp toward him. Even as he realised his mistake, the shock didn’t abate; now he was staring down at the feared warrant card discreetly held in the bony hand. Not removing his coat, Sack was promptly shown to the seat he selected beside a potted plant. What was the schoolteacher up to?

  Auditor Schmidt. Sack sucked in air. A big surprise. And it took a lot to surprise Sack these days. He observed the short encounter. The woman left and he watched the auditor follow a few moments later. What had been communicated so briefly?

  Sack left the café. The teacher and the agent assigned to tail her had already vanished, as had Chief Auditor Schmidt. They’d only begun following the teacher and the countess. Even the woman who’d sent the letter to Switzerland wasn’t under surveillance yet. He coughed into his gloves. The Reichsbank secretary should be put onto the list. Any day the order could come down from the top to close the net, and they’d need to grab them all in a synchronised round-up. No slip-ups.

  Gingerly, he moved off. Freda’d be very interested to hear of the company that this Schmidt kept. Last night she’d asked him why he was interested in the von Schnelling woman and the teacher but he’d fobbed her off. Tonight he’d go and tell her. Her mood might have improved. An hour or two in her bed would do wonders in warming up his extremities, not to mention his damned hip.

  ~ * ~

  18

  T

  HE FUEHRER, as usual, was on guard in the bank’s foyer just as he was on the tens of thousands of stark posters in railway waiting rooms and public buildings throughout the Reich. But tonight, where in person was the great leader? Entering the bank, the last thought flitted in Schmidt’s mind. He took the lift to the third floor and hurried to his office. Unlocking his door, he stepped into its warmth and rapidly removed gloves, hat and coat. Then he returned to the refrigerated corridor, this time taking the stairs to the first floor. Apart from the sentries outside and the watchman in the foyer — Herr Wolff had gone off duty - he saw no-one.

  In the corridors, the rows of frosted glass door panels were black. The building’s layout was rapidly becoming a blueprint in his brain and its atmosphere was infiltrating his system. Soon it’d be home ground.

  The chief auditor entered the anteroom. No Frau Heyer. She’d be home, having her dinner. Schmidt checked his watch and paused to control his breathing: eight o’clock precisely. He knocked on the inner sanctum’s door.

  ‘Come!’

  The auditor opened the door and stepped into the room.

  Standing behind his desk in semi-darkness, the president was unpacking a small brown satchel.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ Schmidt snapped the salute, then bowed.

  Dr Funk waved his hand. ‘Ah! Chief Auditor, come in, come in.’

  Schmidt advanced into the room. The president had been drinking. His voice was a little slurred, his eyes shone like glass in the subdued light. He finished what he was doing, and plumped down in the large chair that, formerly, had accommodated Herr Schacht’s ample backside. Taking off his spectacles, he rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘Damned eyes.’

  Schmidt looked sympathetic. The reedy, slowed-up voice lingered in the room. Schmidt was respectful and silent. Von Streck said he was a drunkard. Where had he been drinking tonight? The ministry, or one of the clubs where the drinks were served by good-looking blond youths in short leather pants? Schmidt had heard of Nollendorfplatz. Whatever the temporary diversions, he was being driven between the Economics Ministry and the Reichsbank in his limousine, avoiding the bitter winds scouring the Reich’s iron heart.

  Funk replaced his spectacles. ‘Herr Chief Auditor, you’re doing a good job. I find your selection of cables and other matters for my attention satisfactory.’ He regarded the man standing before him with a bleary but steady stare. ‘I’m engaged in vital work . . . Night and day we’re toiling at the ministry. The Fuehrer’s magnificent plan depends on it.’ He tapped the folder he’d removed from the brown satchel with stubby fingers. ‘All in here. Financial and economic dynamite.’

  Schmidt didn’t look at the folder, kept his eye on the man’s face.

  ‘We need gold, Schmidt, and Fräulein Brandt’s found some in Switzerland. She’s panting after it. Some the Czechs salted away. Cunning creatures . . . sent main reserves to London. We’ll get them too.’

  Schmidt maintained his gaze. He remembered Herr Fischer’s explanation of the nature of the Czech reserves. Now the Prussian was to be buried tomorrow.

  There was a desktop reading stand on the president’s desk. Dr Funk glanced at a paper on it.

  ‘What d’you think of that woman?’

  ‘Herr President, she appears a very competent official.’

  Funk’s lips twisted. ‘And a very wholesome woman. Should be on a poster, don’t you think? Those strong legs, blonde hair, blue eyes. Tribute to the womanhood of the Reich. To impending motherhood.’ He sniggered to himself. ‘Yes, definitely a poster.’

  The dark-eyed, swarthy man swung around to peer toward the alcove, as though it was a destination he might attempt to reach. He fished a bunch of keys from his pocket, and dropped them with a clank on the desk. He turned back to the auditor. ‘How long’ve you been in the Party?’

  ‘Only a short time, Herr President.’

  ‘Long enough to make an important contribution. You’d be flattered what Reich Minister Himmler’s office says about you.’

  Schmidt blinked. Himmler! He’d guessed right, von Streck was operating under the auspices of the head of the Reich police forces. In the heart of the Nazi labyrinth! That fitted. Better than Goering did. Goering was running the Four-Year Plan. If von Streck was in the Goering camp, he’d not have needed Schmidt to obtain access to Funk’s blueprint. He should’ve thought of that.

  With a puzzled air, Funk was staring at photographs on the wall of the bank’s past presidents. Stalwarts of German banking, most dead as far as Schmidt knew. But the redoubtable Schacht wasn’t. The Fuehrer had sacked him but still admired him for his work on breaking the hyper-inflation of the 1920s. Would he be called in to second-guess the blueprint his successor was drawing up?

  The president broke his gaze away from the unsmiling faces. With an effort, he rose to his feet, picked up the keys and the satchel of ‘financial and economic dynamite’, and walked unsteadily toward the alcove.

  Schmidt watched the progress of the diminutive figure, the misshapen head tilted on its squat neck. Funk disappeared
into the alcove. Schmidt heard the key scraping, the president’s impatient muttering. He was having trouble inserting it. Then, abruptly, the bolts clunked back.

  Quiet on the thick carpet, Schmidt walked to the alcove. Bent over, Dr Funk was stowing the satchel in an internal compartment that had its own lock. He fumbled this door shut but didn’t lock it. Then he swung the heavy main door closed, worked the handle to shoot home the bolts, and noisily turned the key. Only one key in use. The big one. Schmidt hurriedly but silently retreated.

  The president emerged from the alcove, blinked at the auditor standing before the oak desk, and weaved his way back. ‘Herr Chief Auditor, you’ll visit me at my house. Very soon. Frau Heyer’ll inform you. Social occasion.’ His shiny eyes peered at Schmidt, trying to find a more precise focus. ‘D’you understand?’

  Schmidt dropped his head. ‘An honour, Herr President.’

  ‘Mystery man,’ Funk mumbled, half to himself. Schmidt waited. ‘Manfred . . . von Streck. Special pleni . . . potentiary - for what?’

  Schmidt’s heart seemed to freeze. Had von Streck put his name to the commendation? Then he thought: Unlikely. From what he’d observed, the high Nazi was a behind-the-scenes operator. So ... ?

  Funk reached his chair and sank into it with a satisfied grunt. He leaned his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands. He appeared to have forgotten what he’d just said. Plainly, the interview was over.

  Schmidt bowed and left the half-dark room.

  He stopped in the corridor. The point of the interview had appeared to be a social invitation! He sucked at his lips. Past presidents of the bank wouldn’t have extended social invitations to the chief auditor. Von Streck’s prediction last week in the Tiergarten had been fulfilled. Funk’s homosexuality was possibly the one predictable aspect of his character.

  This was a problem to be dealt with in the future. Right now the salient factor was that the papers of the president’s special project were held overnight in the safe. A safe locked with the big key on a bunch attached to Dr Funk’s person by a leather thong, with a button-hole worked in it that fitted a button on his trouser-band. He checked his watch: 8.32 pm. He must track down Anna von Schnelling. Any further delays could be disastrous.

  All the day’s events were crowding in his head but as he hurried through the silent building to collect his hat and coat, the president’s remark about von Streck stood out. Mystery man was correct, but what did Funk know about him? The traitorous plenipotentiary, in the heart of the SS, was in as dangerous a situation as a human being could be in the Third Reich.

  ~ * ~

  ‘Captain, this is unwise, you’re risking a much more serious haemorrhage.’ The elderly white-coated doctor thrust his stethoscope into a pocket in a gesture of resignation.

  Eugene continued to dress. He was signing himself out of a hospital for the second time in a week, with fear for his cousin foremost in his mind. She’d gone home an hour ago. Hoffmann had come not long after. On being admitted, Eugene had asked a nurse to telephone the major. Hoffmann had hurried to the hospital, concerned for his friend but equally concerned for Anna. He’d brought bad news, news that had reached him this evening.

  Eugene shrugged himself into his overcoat, wrapped his scarf around his neck. Immediate action was essential. Hoffmann had offered to go from the hospital to Anna’s flat, but Eugene had refused to allow him to. Hoffmann’s work was too vital to be put at greater risk. Even for Anna.

  He nodded to the doctor and left the hospital.

  Outside, he shuddered at the icy blast but walked with determination and care toward a street where he could take a tramcar. He felt light-headed yet Anna’s situation was lodged in his mind like a glowing coal. She must leave her flat tonight. Mustn’t return to the Reichsbank. Where could she find temporary sanctuary while arrangements were made to get her out of Germany? And then there was Elisabeth. God Almighty! What to do?

  In moments of great tension he found himself drawing on his beloved Shakespeare. In this freezing world with coldblooded state agents of terror and persecution awake and alert on all sides, he intoned the bard’s words: ’Warnings, and portents and evils imminent.’

  ~ * ~

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Freda Brandt, holding her gown tight around her throat, examined Sack’s face, parchment-yellow in the hall light. Her voice was weary and wary, rather than surprised.

  The Gestapo agent smiled, removed his hat ‘Not the warmest greeting for an old friend on a freezing night.’

  She sighed. ‘Oh, for God’s sake come in then.’

  She looked amazing in a dressing-gown, her hair loose on her shoulders. His eyes devoured this version of her. She turned and walked down the hall, saying, ‘No news from Zurich. The directors of that bank are stalling.’

  Following, he shook his head. ‘Freda, you should be patient. The world doesn’t run itself to your timetable.’ His limp was more pronounced. His hip was stiffening up.

  ‘Spare me your little lectures,’ she said tartly. Off-duty, her appearance might differ markedly from that presented at the bank, but not her cutting remarks.

  He smiled ruefully, removed the leather coat, scarf, hat, and vigorously rubbed his thin hands. Things weren’t looking good. ‘Is there coffee?’ he asked hopefully. She clucked her tongue but went out to the kitchen, and put on water to heat. He looked around. The room was as chaotic as ever. A model of efficiency everywhere but here.

  When she came back, he said, ‘I do have some news for you about the auditor, Schmidt.’ Instantly attentive, she looked at him. ‘Tonight he met with the teacher Elisabeth von Bose, a very brief meeting. That woman’s in dire trouble, and maybe he is now, too. She’s leader of a group of traitors that includes your Fräulein von Schnelling. It’s only a matter of time before we arrest them.’ He paused to observe the effect of this.

  Astonished, Freda stared at him. Behind the screen of her stare, the Reichsbank manager was thinking: So! That was his interest in those women. My God! What is the chief auditor up to? How does he know this teacher? And von Schnelling taking part in such activity! If it’s true . . .

  She detested the little blonde aristocrat but hadn’t taken her for a fool. The auditor was coming to dinner tomorrow. Here was another dimension to probe. The president’s favour would be speedily withdrawn if anything compromising turned up on the ‘provincial interloper’, as Rossbach called him. In that situation, she’d no doubt that Dr Funk would be fast on his feet.

  She smoothed her cheek with her hand. ‘What will you do about it?’

  ‘Him? Nothing at present. Maybe he has a proper explanation. The others.’ He shrugged. She was looking overwhelmingly desirable. He felt his penis hardening.

  She went out to make the coffee and returned with the pot and cups. Sack didn’t take his eyes off her as she filled the cups. He’d something else to tell her. His empty stomach rumbled in the silence. He sipped coffee and said, ‘Rossbach phoned me tonight. In quite a state. He denounced a Jewish woman — neighbour to Fräulein von Schnelling — says the fräulein’s her friend. The drunken oaf wants me to do my duty.’

  Sack saw that he’d surprised her again. He added, ’I had the impression that he merely wanted to fuck her. Not finish her.’ Frowning, the Reichsbank manager gazed into her coffee. She must’ve turned down his sexual advances flat. That hadn’t stopped him with other women. She would find out about this tomorrow. She became aware of Sack’s special look. The coffee was warm in his stomach as he said, ‘It’s been a while, Freda.’

  Freda Brandt’s eyes slipped away to a photograph of the Fuehrer at a Munich rally. She was three years older than Sack. They’d met in the summer of 1933 when they were both instructors at adjoining camps of the Hitler Youth and the League of German Girls. She’d taken the gasping, crippled man’s virginity in an apple orchard. He’d been a political policeman stationed in Potsdam - but a late starter in sexual activity. All the more potent for it!

  She looked back at
him. Her thin lips flickered a smile. ‘Very well.’

  In the bedroom, she removed her dressing-gown and then pulled her night-gown over her head, revealing the soft blonde hair in her armpits. Sack drew in his breath, as he always did at the full revelation of the perfect figure. He tore off his own clothes. She lay on her back and spread her legs. ‘Make this a good one, Julius.’ Then she gasped as he went in.

  ~ * ~

  Sack awoke to a stinging slap on his buttocks. ‘Get off, and go home. I need to sleep now. Tomorrow’s going to be busy.’

  Five minutes later, the aching in his balls abated, Sack was back in the freezing air. He felt weary but exhilarated. One of his better performances. His skinny white bum had pumped away like a machine. He’d trained himself to hold back his ejaculation and had brought her to three of her shattering climaxes. His chest was lacerated with the raking of her fingernails. He’d rub ointment on it when he got home; months ago he’d bought a tube for the purpose.