A Night of Long Knives (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  “Trudi,” I cleared my throat, “is listed in the files as a devout National Socialist.”

  “That should keep her safe. Until they change their minds and come for her. I’ll have to convince her to come with me.”

  “Will she go?” I asked, surprised.

  “No. But I must try.”

  “If you tell her.” I hated what I must say. “She will know what you plan to do. And even if she does not inform on you—”

  He dropped his arms and turned away. I was grateful I could not see his expression.

  “Even if she does not, she will know, and that will compromise her.”

  “Are you suggesting I don’t even say good-bye?” His voice echoed around the room.

  “What is the cost to her of you saying good-bye?” I did not wish to be the one to tell him this, but he must be reminded. Although I could not see his eyes, the set of his shoulders telegraphed anger as he retreated toward the entryway and the steps leading upstairs. I followed.

  “I am sorry, Boris.” I climbed behind him, trailing my hand over the railing for the last time.

  “What’s in your file?” he asked, stopping so abruptly, I crashed into him.

  I gripped the railing to steady myself. “That I kidnapped Anton. That I was supposed to marry Röhm. That I have been interviewing people about the events during the Night of the Long Knives.” If he was leaving, I need not hide it.

  “Sometimes you don’t have the sense God gave a flea.” His voice sounded exasperated.

  I stepped up next to him. “In this instance it has proven useful to you.”

  He laughed. Not quite his old, deep laugh, but something. He sobered. “So they have enough to arrest you too, then.”

  “If they catch me, yes.” He squeezed my hand, and we went up the stairs together.

  He stopped on the top step, moonlight illuminating his worried face. “Will you go with me?”

  “I cannot.” I dropped my eyes from his. “Not without Anton.”

  He turned and strode into his bedroom. He pulled a suitcase from under his bed and dropped it on his rumpled quilt. “Then I can’t either. We must leave this house, of course, but I won’t leave Germany without you.”

  I stared at him, mouth dry. He moved to his wardrobe and pulled out a stack of neatly folded shirts. Frau Inge’s handiwork.

  I could not let him run such a risk. “If the SS find you—”

  “I imagine things won’t go any better if they find you.” His hands packed swiftly, and his voice was determined.

  I put my hands on top of his. “You have to leave. I cannot—”

  He turned to me and wrapped both arms around my waist. “You control many things, Hannah, but you don’t control me. I will do as I please, and you waste time trying to convince me otherwise.”

  “Stubborn bastard.”

  He smiled and returned to packing. “Part of my charm.”

  “Such as it is,” I answered, but I was grateful.

  26

  Boris wrote Frau Inge a note saying that we would be gone for a few days. Perhaps that would keep her suspicions at bay long enough for us to get clear. We packed the wedding dress and his best suit. Let her think we were getting married.

  We drove to Anhalter Bahnhof, where I had left Claire days before. The great hall loomed out of the darkness, lights blazing. People were already on the move. We could find a hotel near here easily. I leaned across the seat and kissed him, inhaling his musky citrus scent. “Are you certain?”

  “Enough, Hannah. I am certain.”

  We found a nearby hotel and paid extra to use false names on the register. Hannah Vogel and Boris Krause needed to disappear.

  I stood staring out the tiny hotel window at the street below. Even though few people moved in the darkness, I worried that each was a member of the SS. Not just my life was forfeit. If they caught me, or I led them to Boris, his life was gone as well.

  He wrapped his arm around me from behind, fingers resting on my collarbone. My heart pulsed under his palm.

  I turned to him and we kissed with an urgency that I had never experienced before, even the first time. There was fear, and an understanding that this might be the last time, ever. In two steps we reached the bed. A button clinked on the wooden floor as I struggled to pull off his shirt.

  But once we were in bed, time slowed down almost unbearably. I could drown in his eyes, darker than usual. He brushed a strand of hair off my forehead as gently as if I were made of fragile glass. Never looking away from his eyes, I turned and kissed his palm.

  We made love slowly, and without breaking eye contact. I could not stop looking at him, afraid that he would disappear. He held me tightly even after he fell asleep. I could not even turn over in his arms, and I did not want to.

  What would tomorrow bring? I did not know where Anton was, or if I would ever find him. I tried to shake off those thoughts, to concentrate on what to do to find him, but panic rose in my chest, smothering me.

  The next morning we had a quick breakfast at Anhalter Bahnhof. I choked down a stale snail pastry and a cup of strong tea. I would need my strength today, and every day, until I got Anton back.

  Boris ate silently. He was paler than usual, but seemed calmer than I. How did he manage that? It had been difficult for me to leave behind my life in Berlin three years ago, and he had far more to walk away from than I. How long before Trudi realized that her father had gone?

  I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled and laid a warm arm across my shoulders. “Don’t look so worried. We’re still free and alive.”

  “So far.”

  He chucked me under the chin. “What’s next, Optimistic Little Detective?”

  “I need you to search the woods around Britz Mill for any trace of Anton.”

  “I will.”

  “I would do it, but I am the top suspect in the police file, and the SS linked me to Mouse’s murder and—”

  “I am happy to help, Hannah. You don’t need to explain. What will you do?”

  “Try to reach Frau Röhm. Perhaps she has heard something.” Desperation colored my words. “After that? I do not know.”

  He took my hand. “We’ll get through this.”

  I hoped that he was right. “I will be back tonight. Perhaps even in time for lunch.”

  “I will be here,” he said, kissing my hand.

  I stroked the top of his head, glad to have him with me.

  Then I stood and gathered myself together for the day.

  Already the air was hot. I hurried to the nearest telephone booth.

  “Röhm,” answered the maid in a hushed voice.

  “Frau Röhm, please.” I did not give my name, trusting her to recognize me.

  “She is not here. She has gone to church.”

  Church on Friday morning. “When do you expect her to return?” If I did not speak to her today, I would travel to Munich and see her in person.

  “She said.” The maid gulped, as if she were crying. “She said that you should meet her at the church.”

  “What church? When? How am I to get to Munich?”

  “She said to meet her at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. Now.”

  Then, as they say, the other coin dropped. I gripped the telephone receiver while the world spun. Frau Röhm was here, in Berlin. And if she was here, she could have been here at any time. Including the day of Mouse’s murder. I had never once reached her directly in Munich.

  The maid must have a number where she could be reached. A number in Berlin, somewhere close to the church.

  “Hello?” asked the maid. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. Frau Röhm could have been the one in the taxi. One passenger arrived, but two left.

  “Do you know where that church is?”

  Only a Bavarian would ask that question. The neo-Gothic Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church was a Berlin landmark near the zoo, home to weddings of the rich and famous, including Marlene Dietrich. “
I do.”

  The maid cleared her throat. She was crying.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Talk to Frau Röhm.” She broke the connection.

  I stood in the hot telephone booth and listened to static crackle. Why was the maid so upset? I did not recall tears the day I visited and told Frau Röhm of her son’s impending execution. Sweat trickled down my back. I hung up the receiver and pushed open the door.

  I hopped into the subway. The hot air barely stirred, even with the windows open. It had been hot for so long that the tunnels had heated up, so the underground provided no respite.

  At Zoo Station a man in the corridor serenaded me with a guitar. His haunting melody echoed off the concrete walls, and I paused to listen. Other commuters pushed past as if they could not hear the music.

  The man’s dark eyes were grateful when I dropped coins into his velvet-lined guitar case. He inclined his curly black head in my direction without pausing in his song. He dressed like a Gypsy, in colorful patched pants and a red vest, although that did not mean that he was one. What would become of the Gypsies under Hitler? He had no tolerance for nomads, especially dark-skinned ones. Everyone must be placed and counted. I dropped in an extra coin and hurried on.

  I climbed the stairs blindly, mind on Frau Röhm’s invitation. What did she want of me? Did she have Anton?

  I paused in front of the Gothic spires, glancing at the tall steeple with its gold cross poking the belly of the sky. A stained glass rose window at the front glowed, oval windows surrounding the central circle like exquisite petals of a glass flower. It looked fragile, yet it had survived wars without a single broken pane.

  I stepped through the thick front door into the cooler church, inhaling the scent of incense and stone dust. My rib twinged. Gold mosaics drew my eyes upward. An angel held his arms out, blue wing feathers deepening to purple, finally tipped with black. Curlicues swirled behind like jungle plants about to engulf him.

  I turned toward the door as it closed behind me. Above the door hung a marble sculpture of a woman holding Jesus’ body, a marble sun setting behind them. Underneath words carved in stone read IT IS DONE.

  I turned away and stepped into the nave. Dark figures shuffled in the shadows on either side as I walked down the line of wooden pews. An old woman in a black hat knelt in prayer near the altar. She fidgeted from knee to knee.

  I moved down the pew and eased to my knees next to her, the wooden kneeler pressing against my bandaged knees. It must be playing havoc with hers too. I glanced over. Frau Röhm, face obscured by a black veil. In mourning for her son.

  “Good day,” I murmured. Had she killed Mouse?

  She finished a whispered prayer. “Fräulein Vogel.”

  “I am sorry for your loss.” The words sounded stiff and formal, although I felt compassion for her. Her son had been taken, and she was alone. I sympathized.

  She inclined her head fractionally to indicate that I continue, veil grazing her shoulder.

  “I have filled out the paperwork to have your son returned to you.” I pressed on through the awkwardness, certain that she would give me no information until I had told her what I knew. “I have been assured that his remains will be released in a few weeks.”

  “Remains?” Her raspy voice sounded loud in the church.

  “It is my understanding that they are cremating his body.” I stopped, not knowing what else to say. I did not want to tell her how he had died. I wanted to spare her that.

  “Do you know who killed him?” She gripped the pew in front of her so tightly that her clawlike knuckles whitened.

  “Theodor Eicke.” She deserved to know. “And, I believe, another SS officer, but I do not know his name.”

  She nodded and turned to the altar, head bowed. I clasped my hands in prayer and offered up a plea that Anton be returned to me. Prayer felt unfamiliar, but I figured it could not hurt.

  We knelt in silence. My knees throbbed. Behind and around me the sounds of shuffling feet reverberated through the church. Why were so many people here on a hot summer day?

  “Excuse me.” I interrupted her prayer. “But I must ask now. Have you news of Anton?”

  “Yes.” Her quavery voice was barely audible.

  “Thank God.” Excitement gave me renewed energy. “Where is he? Was there another ransom note?”

  She shook her head, veiled face still turned away.

  “Do you have him?” I tried to contain my anxiety. I dared not anger her. “Where is he?”

  “You love him much.”

  “Yes. I have cared for him for these past three years as if he were my own son.”

  “Sons are a precious gift.” Tears filled her voice. “I learned that too late, you know.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” I shifted on my sore knees. I longed to throttle the information out of her. “But please tell me news of mine.”

  “I shall.” She dipped her head. “In my own good time.”

  I bit my lips and waited.

  “You would never leave him? Even if it was best for him?”

  “Leaving him in Germany would not be best for him. It is too dangerous. Surely you see that too. We must flee.”

  We sat in silence for a long time.

  “If I had him, I would give him up to you.” Her voice had changed. It sounded more decisive, as it had when I stood at the bottom of her stairs in Munich.

  “You do not have him?” My heart sank. She had received no further ransom note, and she did not have him herself. Or was she lying?

  “He is with God,” she whispered.

  “What does that mean?” My voice echoed off the walls. She flinched. I stood. “With God?”

  “I have seen him.”

  Had the stress of losing her son affected her mind? “Seen him with God?”

  She turned to me impatiently. “I am not an addled old woman, Hannah.”

  “You have seen him how?” I struggled to maintain my patience.

  “At the morgue.”

  I grabbed her shoulders and drew her to her feet. “Anton? You saw Anton at the morgue?”

  I shook her thin frame.

  “Yes.” She pulled from my grasp. “The Nazis took him at Britz Mill.”

  Lang. He knew the contents of the telegram. He had followed Mouse to Britz Mill and taken Anton.

  “You can leave Germany.”

  I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Anton is dead?”

  27

  I collapsed on the pew and wept great howling sobs that would soon bring priests out to shove me from the quiet sanctuary into the harsh sunlight.

  Frau Röhm hobbled to the end of the pew. I was past caring what happened to her.

  I sobbed into my folded arms. It could not be true. It could not be. Surely they could not murder an innocent boy for an accident of parentage. But I knew that they could.

  A gentle hand touched my shoulder, and I turned to face the priest.

  Not a priest. Lang. Behind him stood two black-uniformed SS men. I turned the other way; two other men stood between me and the end of the pew. They must have been listening when I called the maid.

  “You must come with me,” Lang said. He slipped my satchel off my shoulder. Now he had my Hannah Vogel passport and my notebook. Either was enough to send me to the camps. He spoke, but what he said did not matter. He had killed my son.

  I stood, and we sidestepped down the pew. Poor Boris would not meet me for lunch, or any other time. I hoped that he had the sense to get clear. Someone I loved should live through this day.

  At the end of the church stood Frau Röhm, face invisible under her veil. Had she set a trap for me, or was she merely basking in my arrest? I could not summon up energy to care.

  I let them lead me out of the dark church into the heat of the day. Lang put his hand protectively on the crown of my head as he helped me into a waiting automobile. As if it mattered that I might bump my head.

  I folded in half in the backseat and wept. When we pulle
d away, I did not look out the window.

  Eventually we stopped, and someone pulled me out.

  I squinted against bright sunlight. The street sign read Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Headquarters for the Gestapo, a branch of Himmler’s SS. We entered the building. I wondered if I would ever come out through the door alive. It did not matter.

  They led me to a cell where I collapsed on the floor. On the warm floor I cried and slept, slept and cried, indifferent to the bed in the corner.

  Sometime later I awoke on the warm floor to black boots, in need of a polish, positioned next to my face. Rough hands yanked me to my feet.

  “Walk with me,” a voice said. I fell back to the floor.

  He and another man, one with shinier boots, hauled me to my feet again. Each grabbed my arm below the shoulder and marched me off. My chin bobbed against my chest. If they wanted me to look at something, they could move my head.

  They dumped me in a chair and left. The door closed silently. Well-kept hinges, I supposed. I imagined a diligent Nazi janitor oiling them. Amazing what one’s mind thinks about when it is on holiday. My mind wanted to be anywhere but in my body, knowing what it knew.

  A broad mahogany desk, intended for a larger room, swallowed half the space. Had the owner been demoted but held on to his desk? Or was the desk a symbol of hope for a bigger office? Or just surplus?

  I thought of Anton: how he folded those little airplanes, throwing his name out into the world to say hello; or how his hair stuck up in the back, no matter how he wet it down; or how he talked as if he lived in a Karl May novel.

  Where was my interrogator? They were supposed to be prompt. Or perhaps they were letting me stew, worry about what I had done. Perhaps they wanted to catch me doing something else.

  I stood listlessly and circled the wooden desk. I opened desk drawers. The top one contained pens and ink. The bottom right drawer was locked. The bottom left held confession forms. I supposed I would be writing and signing one before this ended. Like Sefton, I was unconvinced that I would stand up to torture, although I would try.

  Atop the confession forms rested a form stamped URGENT. A death warrant for an interred prisoner, a man not much older than I. I read the signature. Hauptsturmführer Lang. In his careful handwriting, with no signs of hesitation. Would he have as little trouble signing mine?