The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  Hoffmann dropped his eyes. Anna could see how agonised he was at her situation. For a year, she’d known that he was in love with her, but the prospect of love for them was lost below the horizon. From the concern Eugene was showing, plainly the major was engaged in important work against the Nazis.

  Hoffmann lifted his eyes. ‘You must leave.’

  ‘And so must you,’ Eugene said. With hope and conviction, he thought: The auditor can be relied on. Must be relied on. There was no ready alternative. Grimly, in the final analysis, Eugene realised that he was staking his beloved cousin’s life on his Abwehr training in the selection of reliable agents.

  ~ * ~

  25

  T

  HE DOORBELL’S shrill racketing penetrated to the flat’s core. Schmidt froze in the act of pouring from the Meissen pot. He glanced at his watch: seven thirty-five. His mind leapt into the realm of possibilities. He set down the pot and moved silently into the hall. Agents of the state would’ve been banging on the door by now, shouting, ‘Geheime Staatspolizei’, shattering the neighbourhood’s peace and quiet. He swallowed down his nerves. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Fräulein von Schnelling.’

  Feeling a surge of relief and surprise, Schmidt unbolted and opened up. The lovely wan face of the featherweight woman stared at him. She held a suitcase, was breathless from the stairs. ‘Fräulein . . . ?’ But he knew the answer. Without another word, he held the door open wide and the Reichsbank secretary entered the flat on Savigny Platz.

  ~ * ~

  At 8.05 am, as the tramcar rattled over points on its departure from the platz, Schmidt looked back at his own windows, checking on their anonymity.

  In a rush of her soft cultured voice she’d informed him that her cousin’s flat was now unsafe; that yesterday the Gestapo had been looking into Eugene, apparently, based on the Abwehr man’s sighting in her company and the teacher’s. It was a terrible thing to ask, but could he give her shelter for a few days while other arrangements were made?

  Automatically, he’d nodded his assent. His safeguarding plan to distance himself from Fischer, from her, had well and truly been overtaken by events; his impetuous aid against Rossbach had put paid to it. And now his personal feelings were involved. He knew that beyond anything else.

  As he’d listened closely to her, Schmidt’d thought: But how safe is my flat? They knew about his brief meeting with the teacher; Freda Brandt had let that cat out of the bag. Would the black-clad Goebbels imitator be the next one to come knocking on the door? Schmidt’s heart sank . . . The captain had sent a message with his cousin. They needed several days to get her out of Berlin. The auditor shook his head. The fellow was an optimist, though maybe he had the connections to do it.

  Herr Bosch was on duty, and the auditor gave the conductor a preoccupied nod.

  The snow had been swept from the streets. Disregarding the passing scene, Schmidt gazed into his mind. He’d stepped from the dead Fischer’s protector role into an even greater hazard. She was a fugitive of a type that would have the Gestapo scouring the city. Von Streck’s condemnation would drop onto his shoulders like a block of concrete.

  Schmidt straightened his slight body on the wooden seat. The complexities around the mission, and his life, were multiplying. Yet something of substance lay against his heart: the long box, snug in his breast pocket.

  He left the tramcar and walked to the bank.

  Hurrying past the petrified Fuehrer, nodding at the obnoxious, heel-clicking Herr Wolff, Schmidt headed for the lift. Now he had the situation with Freda Brandt to deal with. He could hardly believe last night. Another tract of unreality he’d strayed into! She was a promiscuous woman, that was beyond doubt. Possibly she’d relegated last night’s event to the past; once done, of no importance. He’d soon know.

  He hastened to his office to dispose of his hat and coat before going to his duties in President Funk’s room.

  From beside his door, Fräulein Esser blurted, ’Herr Rossbach is dead! Fallen down steps!’

  Schmidt halted in his tracks. Snapped out of his thoughts, he gazed at the distraught woman who seemed to exist in an aura of urgent or disastrous tidings. ‘That is terrible, fräulein,’ he heard himself say in a strange voice.

  The auditor remained absolutely still. His responsibility. So easily initiated with a lie. But the fellow had been an animal -Fischer’s word — a Nazi animal who could have endangered the mission. He blinked. Rossbach may have fallen down steps, but Schmidt didn’t believe that.

  Her eyes moist with strain, Frau Heyer was waiting for Schmidt, the leather folder of the president’s morning mail in her hand. ‘Herr Rossbach . . .’ she whispered.

  Schmidt nodded, taking the folder. ‘I’ve heard.’ Coming to the president’s anteroom he’d passed several groups of clerks and typists engaged in whispering conversations. An office boy had run excitedly down a corridor. Another manager dead! Including his predecessor, three deaths within the past month. Were they wondering if the new chief auditor would be next? Or whether an evil eye had fallen on the Reichsbank?

  A distinct possibility, in each case though, at least with the predator Rossbach gone, the young typists could breathe more easily.

  Now accustomed to the task, he swiftly processed the president’s cables, memoranda and letters. Top-level Nazis were seeking financial preferment in a range of matters; the bank’s official in the London embassy sent a concise wrap-up on the Bank of England’s foreign currency reserves.

  He sat back from the work. The big room had a deserted air. At present the only animation it witnessed was his morning visit, and the president’s nocturnal return with that brown satchel. He looked toward the alcove. The box was ‘in waiting’ in his breast pocket. Somehow he had to obtain an impression of the key that President Funk kept attached to his person.

  Frau Heyer’s eyes flicked uneasily here and there when he gave her the sorted mail. ‘Herr Schmidt, you won’t forget your appointment with Herr Funk this evening, will you? Nine o’clock at his house.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Here — the address and directions.’

  Schmidt took the card. The woman was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Schmidt concluded that the dwarfish president had this effect on women who came under his power. It was probable Frau Heyer thought Schmidt was of the same sexual persuasion as that rumoured of Funk. He smiled at her, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor.

  Freda Brandt stood there. The vivid blue eyes gazed at him out of a face that was taut and tragic. A faint scent wafted from her and he recognised it from last night. He knew she’d been waiting for him.

  ‘Herr Rossbach was a fool.’ The words spat at him across the frigid space. ‘He should’ve controlled his drinking. Apart from anything else.’

  Schmidt studied the tight face. She was bitter and angry at the demise of the man whom she’d hand-picked to manage the foreign bank relations section. A fellow who would do her bidding. Her protégé.

  Schmidt looked noncommittal. ‘A sad end,’ he murmured. ‘Another tragic accident.’

  With an effort, she composed herself. ‘Today’s world is full of accidents. You should bear that in mind.’

  Schmidt was silent.

  She continued. ’Accidents awaiting the unwary, like the Fräuleins von Schnelling and von Bose. Stuck-up aristocrats who’re now fugitives.’ She studied him. ‘Those traitors.’

  He shook his head. He’d let a shocked silence stand instead of questions.

  She was peering at him even more intently. ‘Be very careful, Herr Chief Auditor.’

  She broke out of her statue-like pose and moved closer. The tip of her pink tongue moistened her lips. ‘Well, Franz, how did you like my cooking? I think I may call you Franz now in private.’ Light glinted in her eyes.

  Schmidt blinked behind his gold-framed glasses at this change of mood. Did she see through his smokescreen? He said, ‘Of course. The cooking was excellent, fräulein manager.’

>   ‘Good! You may call me Freda. Well, I have the gold shipment from Zurich on my plate and more gold to find.’ She flicked him a final look and strode away.

  Grim-faced, Schmidt returned to his office. That had been an ambush. Her shock about Rossbach hadn’t sidelined her doubts about him. She was avid to penetrate his reserve and his life, hungry for the top-level information crossing the president’s desk. After last night, she might think she’d moved closer to accessing both.

  Back at his desk Schmidt dealt with the matters requiring his comment or decision. Herr Gott was diligently dealing with the auditing duties, as he had under the deceased marathon runner. This suited Schmidt. Carefully, in his neat hand, he wrote notations and directions on relevant documents. He must keep his cover intact. His phone had hardly rung since his first day at the bank, though he was accustomed to the backroom atmosphere of the auditor’s world. He grimaced. Grey men with grey thoughts, and green-inked pens.

  If he could bring off this coup for von Streck, would he be plucked out of here to be plunged into another of the Reich’s key engine-rooms by the anti-Nazi? Was it possible that he might be released to a normal life, reunited with his family? That had to be doubtful while the Bankhaus Wertheim events hung over him; while he remained under the power of von Streck. With all the uncertainties currently on his plate, he was a light year away from considering the future.

  The morning passed and his clock tick-tocked away in the silent room. Bleeding minutes — a relaxing thought. At 10.00 am, Fräulein Esser, on the verge of tears, her hands still trembling, brought in coffee. Schmidt wondered why the secretary would waste tears on Rossbach. Already Schmidt had put the fellow and his fate out of his mind. It was as if his previous experience with the Nazis at Wertheims had immured him from normal human feelings — at least in regard to members of the Party.

  He was now looking ahead to the two evening appointments; each vital in the task that von Streck had set him.

  But Anna, back at his flat, the teacher and her group of friends, and the ailing and mysterious Captain von Beckendorf, kept slipping into his mind.

  At lunchtime, Fräulein Esser brought him a meat sandwich from the canteen.

  At 3.15 pm, a sharp rapping on the glass-panelled door startled him. The door was flung open and Freda Brandt stood there. ‘The teacher von Bose was arrested by the Gestapo last night.’

  Schmidt gazed at her, stunned. They regarded each other, eye-to-eye. There was a glow of triumph on her face. ‘They’ll soon find out what she’s been up to, and with whom. And they’ll soon lay hands on Anna von Schnelling. Something for we Party members to celebrate, eh Franz?’

  She smiled and departed, closing the door much more deliberately than she’d opened it. The auditor stared at the closed door.

  ~ * ~

  Schmidt left the bank just after 5.30, inserting himself into the dreary eventide crush. He moved carefully into the stream of office workers.

  The overcoated arm shot out from a doorway blocking his way. Jesus Christ! Schmidt staggered against it. His heart lurched. He peered along the arm to a face. Rubinstein. The bearded face under the homburg was staring at him from the recess. Another ambush! God! He’d nearly had a heart attack. The Jew gestured and drew him into the doorway. ‘I’m sorry —’

  The auditor jerked his shoulders and glanced around hurriedly. Here he was in the company of another fugitive. How long had the Jew been loitering here?

  ‘They’ve taken Fräulein von Bose.’ The ex-judge was exhaling quick puffs of white vapour.

  Schmidt was edgier by the second. ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh? And another of the women.’ The Jew had a grip on Schmidt’s sleeve. ‘Listen, the Reichsbank secretary was good to my old friend Frau Singer. The frau is dead. A heart attack.’

  Schmidt stared at him. Rubinstein said urgently, ‘I know you’re in contact with her — and her cousin.’

  Overcoated bodies were flowing past, almost bumping the stationary pair.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’ Schmidt almost whispered.

  The ex-judge gave a sharp nod. Schmidt swallowed down nerves. ‘It’s getting harder to escape. I have a Swiss passport which might save her — I commend it. The photograph would need replacing.’

  Tightening his grip, he spoke in a low urgent tone. ‘I’d recommend one that shows a changed appearance. Perhaps a new hairstyle.’

  Schmidt was absorbing all this. This man — his experience and judgement - could be trusted. ‘How would I get it to you?’

  ‘I’ll contact you tomorrow. Time’s of the essence, Herr Schmidt, for her and for you. Each hour she’s in your flat the danger multiplies. A tragedy for you if they find her there.’

  Thoughts leapt through Schmidt’s head. Snowflakes whirled and fell against the streetlight. Two men were walking toward them against the pedestrian flow that was parting for them. With a fresh leap of his heart Schmidt recognised the uniforms of Order police. Rubinstein was speaking hurriedly. ‘There’s no hope for Fräulein von Bose. She helped others. I trust it will be over quickly.’

  Schmidt removed Rubinstein’s hand and stepped out of the doorway. He clapped the Jew on the shoulder and laughed uproariously as though at a joke. The police glanced at them and passed on. Schmidt could see the sweat glistening on Rubinstein’s forehead, could smell his pungent body odour. There wasn’t time to talk about risks — or anything else. Unless the cousin and his contacts had a better alternative, this was it.

  Rubinstein muttered in his ear, ‘She stands for decency and a little hope in the rotten chaos we’ve fallen into.’

  ‘I’ll have the photograph tomorrow,’ Schmidt said speaking rapidly. The Jew touched his hand and in a moment was lost in the crowd.

  Schmidt loosened his shoulders again. With the ponderous certainty of the panzers he’d seen rolling along Unter den Linden, he was being pulled into the life of the Reichsbank woman.

  ~ * ~

  26

  T

  he new german woman.

  Exhibition 3rd Floor.

  Photographs by Martha Solmitz.

  At 6.05 pm, Schmidt entered a building in a winding street in the inner suburb of Kreuzberg. Half-a-dozen black limousines were parked nearby, with chauffeurs standing around them, some in SS uniforms. Schmidt shot them a look. What was von Streck sending him into?

  The foyer was a chilly marble cube with a staircase and a metal-caged lift. Two women in their fifties, wrapped to their throats in fur coats, preceded Schmidt. He removed his hat and bowed as the three of them entered the lift together and rode up in silence.

  On the third floor, a large coloured poster depicted the smiling Fuehrer bending down to a group of awe-struck children: Children love the Fuehrer/The Fuehrer loves children. Schmidt glanced at it. This was a new one - these abominations were appearing with stunning rapidity.

  A white-coated man was taking overcoats and hats and hanging them on a mobile rack. Removing his own, Schmidt looked into the adjoining room. Already it was crowded; men and women in about equal numbers. The women stood out in stylish gowns and the glitter of jewels, but Schmidt’s eye scanned the men, many in uniform.

  Now chattering gaily, the two women walked ahead of him into the exhibition. They’d retained their fur coats. A hubbub of voices filled the air. Waiters stood near the doors with trays of drinks. Schmidt took a glass of champagne, noted the glances that slipped to him then away, uninterested in the small lounge-suited man. He moved to his left along the wall. Black and white photographs of women and children covered it. Not many were looking at them; this was Berlin, and it was party time.

  Schmidt searched the room with his single vision. In these conditions, he used it like telescopic sight. In the centre of the room, a tall, whippet-thin woman with lank blonde hair was smoking a cigarette in a long tortoise-shell holder. The artist. A vivacious crowd surrounded her but she was a study in boredom. Her bright red, lipsticked mouth drooped in disdain.

  Schmidt took a sip
of champagne and kept moving, again eyeing the photographs. Motherhood was obviously the theme; patriotic motherhood. The Honour Cross was on several of the proud, pictured breasts…It was going to be difficult to get the artist alone. He’d have to bide his time. Why hadn’t von Streck set up a more discreet meeting? He blinked at the bright ebbing and flowing scene, moved further to his left, studied a photograph of a woman with an infant suckling at each bountiful breast. An owlish fellow in a rumpled suit said to Schmidt, ‘Yesterday, they burned four thousand foul paintings in the courtyard of the fire brigade. That’ll show them!’

  Schmidt nodded, looked suitably impressed, kept moving.

  His eye shot to a brown uniform with the red and black swastika armband. Reich Minister Goebbels! The small, swarthy man was gesturing and smiling amid another group. Handsome women were fawning over him, many with adoration on their faces, but to the auditor’s observant eye, it wasn’t universal. Schmidt recognised a film actress, then another. Helga would have loved this.