Schmidt was to meet Helga in half an hour at a restaurant. More than my mouth. What was Wagner talking about? If they weren’t watching him because of his indiscreet and traitorous remarks? Mentally, he framed a question —.
Wagner cleared his throat. Schmidt swung around. Fräulein Dressler, her overcoat skimming the floor, was going with her precise walk to a table in a far corner. A huge man followed her closely, as though paying court. He removed an old military-style greatcoat, passing it to a waitress, who staggered under its weight. Schmidt noted the luxuriant moustache. A delicate pink necktie added a strange touch to the gigantic, muscled figure.
‘Our dear fraulein,’ Wagner said tersely, ‘and her father, Senior Detective Dressler of the Municipal Police. They’ll have plenty to consider tonight. You might say a prayer on their behalf.’
~ * ~
7
A
T 6.30 PM SCHMIDT walked to the city centre.
Around him buildings soared up like stony cliffs. His # % shoe-leather smacked down sharply in the empty streets of the financial district. Streetlamps swung in the wind. He turned a corner, and was assaulted by electric light and crowded streets. It was the sensation he imagined an actor might have stepping from the wings onto a bright stage. Stage? Actor? Were these notions presentiments? Or, was everything down to chance? Wagner, the Calvinist, would sneer at that.
The few dim figures he’d spotted on his way suggested covert forces closing in. Closing in on individuals and groups throughout the Reich. Overt forces, too. His own case. Beaten down in the street and his eye whipped out in a second. The terse official apology acknowledging his ‘cooperation’. The bureaucratic cover-up of heedless animalistic violence, with the euphemism ‘mistaken Party fervour’.
A night for sad and nervy recollections.
Helga was waiting at their favourite restaurant. She was bare-armed, and he’d an illusion that summer hadn’t gone. Her pale skin, the blonde permed hair, was set aglow by the shaded wall lights. For the thousandth time, he admired the freckles across the tops of her breasts. This was very much better. He kissed her hand, thinking her in the full flood of her existence.
‘Franz, so serious. Even for you. What’s wrong? The bank?’
He smiled. ‘Nothing is wrong on your birthday.’
‘You don’t deceive me,’ she said.
‘Is Trudi better tonight?’
‘She ate her supper, and we read a book together. She’ll go to school tomorrow.’
He nodded pleasantly, checked the room. He’d been a patron for twenty years. The owners, the chefs, the waiters, the decor, hadn’t changed; they were all gracefully ageing together. He’d never seen a brown or a black uniform or a Nazi badge here. Far too staid a place.
He chose a sparkling Rhine wine, and the waiter with a discreet, congratulatory flourish filled the long-stemmed glasses. Helga had turned thirty-eight.
He raised his glass. ’Dearest! My warmest congratulations. You look more beautiful than ever.’
She flashed him a smile, a look. He wondered if these days his compliments bored her; she never dwelt on them. They were totally sincere. Immediately she was serious. ‘Franz, a letter from mother. She must have an operation. Her gall bladder. I should be with her when she comes out of hospital.’ She spoke dates.
‘Of course.’ He showed his concern; her mother was seventy. He was fond of her, and his sister-in-law. As the only man in the family he felt a responsibility. ‘Will you take Trudi?’
‘Yes. It will be the holidays.’
He said, smiling, ‘You’ll miss the concert.’ The bank’s concert had never been a star event even in their limited social calendar. Speaking of stars: his mother had mentioned that Frau Webber had said that Herr Hitler ‘was following his star’. She was an avid horoscopist. He told Helga.
He found it strange that his pragmatic wife was also a believer. She reminded him that she was a Sagittarian, he a Pisces. Where would his star take him?
‘The Fuehrer is an Aries, I think, though on the cusp of Taurus,’ she said.
He shrugged. How did she know this? He regretted raising that name. They ate Essigbratlein, the speciality of the house.
‘Can Wagner survive?’
He was startled. The question matched his own preoccupation. What was her idea of ’survive’? He recovered himself. ‘He’s needed more than ever at the bank. A brilliant international man. I’ve warned him to watch his tongue.’ Schmidt spoke quietly. ‘He knows they’ve got watchers everywhere.’
Tonight his suspicion had strengthened that something more was going on with Wagner than his loose mouth. Hadn’t he almost admitted it? They ate their dinner.
Helga regarded him thoughtfully. ’If he’d a wife and family he’d be more reliable.’ Her favourite hazelnut torte had been brought.
‘Do you think so? He has his beer, his cigarettes, his housekeeper, his international trips — and Mozart. No love-life, these days, that I know of.’
‘Like all of you he has the bank.’
Schmidt smiled slightly. He wouldn’t worry her with the dangerous turn in Wagner’s affairs. Nor would he confide his even deeper worry at the clearer peril of Fräulein Dressler. He gazed into the glinting, greenish-golden wine. What action could he take there, beyond his minor act of arson? He shook his shoulders.
‘Be careful yourself, Franz.’
That jolted him out of his momentary introspection. Helga with her sharp mind and her intuition was certainly watching him, worrying about his naive, romantic nature. As she saw it. She would never understand that he was super-alert, was tuning in rapidly to the hazards of their times. Sharp as a trumpet call a resolution came: Helga, Trudi, his extended family, must never be put at risk.
Into the silence in which so much was shared, so much not, he said, ‘I’m always careful.’ The stooped waiter held Helga’s fur coat. It had been her thirty-sixth birthday present, the year he’d become chief auditor.
He didn’t count the occasion a success, though she seemed happy enough, was humming to herself as they came upstairs to a side-street. Bitterly cold air and a dearth of light greeted them. Dried leaves skirled across the road, scraping like metal foil. Odours of sausage and sauerkraut wafted past their faces. They huddled into their coats.
Kraang! Kraang! Their heads whipped around in unison. A column of Brownshirts was bearing down, sparks dancing under their iron-nailed boots. Raucous commands rang out. At the last moment the SA troopers swung out to pass the well-dressed blond couple. The leader saluted. They pounded on, roaring a slogan. The wind hurled back the odour of sweat, the hard-edged words.
Helga had tightened her grip on his upper arm. Now they walked in the other direction. That salute? Could it be that his photograph was posted at every SA branch office as a person for special treatment? Impossible. Already the incident would be submerged in their files. More likely an edict had gone out: Salute obviously Nordic citizens!
‘Forget them,’ Helga said, ’let’s hurry home and look in on Trudi.’
The Brownshirts had finished off her birthday. In his jaw, the toothache flared up.
Fräulein Dressler and her father walked through the windy night to her flat, the guarded conversation they’d had over the meal in their minds. Dressler’s head was lowered on his massive chest, huge hands buried in his coat pockets. Beside her erect carriage and precise steps he went with a swaying motion, transferring his weight from side to side. His breathing was laborious. His daughter, a tall, well-made woman, didn’t reach his shoulder.
It had come. Senior Detective Dressler told himself that the change at the bank had been just one of the potential catalysts to her situation. Day by day, patrolling his patch, he’d observed the government closing in on Jews, dissidents. It’d been a nagging fear in his mind. Now it was out in the open. To be dealt with.
They reached the shabby building where she’d lived for five years. Entering the foyer she thought: What a carefree time that seems now. Th
is morning the Nazi director had come to the door of the anteroom and stared at her. She felt sick with fear as she relived it. Her father remained on the steps. Massively immobile, he gazed at doorways one by one.
‘Papa, will you have wine?’
‘No thank you, Lilli. Perhaps coffee?’ He was still wheezing from the walk. Once inside, he removed his overcoat and sat down, uncomfortably wedging himself into her largest armchair. She took his coat, saying, ‘What a weight! It must be giving piles to waitresses all over town.’ Nervously, she laughed her throaty laugh.
‘I’ve had it since the war,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t usually eat at restaurants.’ A stool at a zinc bar, with a plate of the day, his coat hung up by himself, was his normal routine.
His large blue eyes had gone first to the silver-framed photograph of his late wife. How his daughter resembled her. The features, eyes, hair. Even the same languorous movements. More the pity. No, he couldn’t say that. He’d not been here for six months. She was playing it safe. Some of the distinctive family silver was no longer on display.
She brought in a tray with coffee and his favourite biscuits, then sat down and watched him sip the coffee.
‘Herr Wertheims known that important fact from the first. He’s always treated me with great consideration. I was a particular favourite of his in the past, not in the present. But we won’t go into that. It’s the way of the world, papa.’
He knew what she was telling him. Years ago, he’d suspected the relationship they’d had.
‘He’ll do what he can, should it become necessary.’
Dressler studied the rug. He remembered the day his wife had chosen it. He didn’t wish to frighten his daughter, but it was already necessary. This new Nazi director staring at her with his hard suspicion had made that clear.
He said, ‘Herr Wertheim can’t be totally relied on. In the end, his interests, those of the bank, may be placed first.’ He spoke in his usual dolorous tone, tinged now with deep affection. He looked into her intelligent eyes. ‘That’s the way of these matters.’
She thought: Yes. The bank’s been a haven these past ten years. But she must forget that now. Not to do so would be a paralysing self-deception. Everything was changing. And these days, there was something new about Herr Wertheim.
In the grip of his own paralysis, Dressler felt as if he were up against a hopelessly difficult investigation. As a fall-back, they must look elsewhere for a solution. But where? She might go to his sisters in Hamburg or Berlin, but that was no guarantee of safety. Each day the Nazis were becoming more adept at ferreting out. On duty he’d witnessed several painful incidents. The frontiers were now walls of steel. By paying massive bribes a few were still getting out. Even that would finish soon if he was any judge. They couldn’t raise twenty thousand marks between them.
‘I know I can’t stay at Wertheims.’
He was silent. He, of course, was not Jewish. He wished he were. He could hardly stand it that they were divided into separate worlds. His heart felt heavier than any time in his life.
‘I do have an idea, papa.’ He looked at her. ‘At the Prague branch they’re putting in a new management system. I’m familiar with it. If I suggest to Herr Wertheim that I go there to help, he might agree. With the bank’s new influence, he might be able to have a passport issued.’ The building was as silent as a cemetery at night. She listened, and ran a hand through her hair. ‘I wouldn’t return. He would know.’
The detective frowned. If it could be done, it would rebound dangerously on Wertheim. He might be able to deal with that. How did the mind of such a man work?
He said, ‘It depends on Herr Wertheim.’
She nodded.
He added: ‘I doubt Prague will be safe for long.’
‘I would not stay there.’
He still held his coffee cup, almost invisible in his great hands.
‘Don’t worry, papa. Drink your coffee.’
He drank the coffee, and worried on. If only she could have found a good man, married, and migrated. The USA. They’d missed that chance. She was a beautiful girl.
‘Yes, Lilli, you should do it. Carefully, the way I know you will. However, we must have another plan in reserve. We mustn’t allow things to drift along with false hopes.’
He was putting more vigour into his speech than usual; regret — and fear — in him as sharp as the pain in his head. The failure to act in time. He was perspiring, he wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
‘Papa, please don’t worry.’
Clumsily, he embraced her, held her head against his chest, looking down with his inarticulate love.
From the doorway he examined the street. Quiet. Distant car lights. The icy air scarified his weathered face. He was watching his front as he had in the war. Even in circumstances like this she could make her little jokes. He shook his head. Since childhood she’d been like that. He’d been wounded three times in the war. And gassed. He kept an oxygen cylinder beside his bed for bad winter nights. He was a holder of the Iron Cross First Class. In the ‘twenties he’d been a dead-minded man walking his police beat, a piece of steel in his head. Obviously, in the Third Reich, none of that made the slightest difference to their case.
~ * ~
8
A
BLACK-SUITED MAN holding a camera stepped directly in front of Schmidt and snapped his photograph. The auditor was startled, but he walked past before stopping and turning. The black suit had disappeared in the office-bound crowd. A street-photographer? But no ticket had been handed out. People were bumping into him. Considering the incident, he continued on, arriving at the bank at 8.45 am. From a flagpole on its pediment, a brand-new swastika snapped in the breeze. He paused to gaze at it. Alongside the Nazi flag, the blue, worn Wertheim flag fluttered like a washed-out rag. Hitherto, the house flag had been flown, absent-mindedly, on a few notable days each year. Obviously no longer: the new affiliation was to be advertised.
He continued to gaze up, his face showing nothing, but his nerves had sharpened at the irritating snapping. Wagner’d have a fit! Then he remembered: Tomorrow was Memorial Day — ‘blood witness’ to the Hitler putsch of 1923.
He rubbed the wet from his shoes on the mat, and stamped his feet. His eye socket was weeping. He dabbed it. Herr Berger watching with patient sympathy said, ‘The post’s in your room, Herr Schmidt.’
Schmidt nodded politely, and was ushered to the lift. This foyer’s as chilly as a meat-packing factory, he thought. He’d found a small oil heater for Berger, which he kept in his booth.
Entering his room a stronger sense of pressure came down on him. A week had elapsed since Helga’s birthday. He’d not seen the general-director s secretary during it, but her face kept appearing in his mind. A week had passed, too, since Herr Dietrich had disappeared to Berlin. The Nazi had been absent longer than expected. Why? This uncertainty was part of the pressure.
And at 7.30 am, he’d farewelled his family at the station. He could tell Helga was reluctant to leave him alone in this situation, though she didn’t know its extent. He’d felt sick and dull as he’d watched the two ghost faces at the misted carriage window being carried away. However, as the last carriage was claimed by the foggy day, his determination had risen: He was free to act. And Dresden wasn’t the moon.
Dealing with the post, he was surprised at the Wednesday morning bonanza of half a million for the Party. He registered the details, donors’ identities: today no household names, just medium-sized firms from the length and breadth of the Reich. Sending the post on its way, he began to check the typing of his current report, then suddenly put it aside. He must act! No more delays.
But at that moment a summons arrived from Herr Wertheim.
He entered the general-director’s warm and spacious anteroom. Fräulein Dressler looked up from her work. His heart turned over.
‘Herr Wertheim’s waiting.’
‘Thank you, fraulein.’ He bowed slightly and moved past. Definitely, someth
ing special in that look. He entered the inner sanctum.
Though it seemed like only yesterday, it was four weeks since his previous attendance here. At rest in his cushions, Herr Wertheim regarded Schmidt amiably, and raised a languid hand. ‘Sit down Herr Schmidt, tell me how you are getting on with our new client.’
‘Everything is under control, Herr General-Director.’ Calmly he reported some details. Herr Wertheim listened, and nodded.
‘And Herr Dietrich? You’re able to cooperate with him, and meet his reasonable requirements?’
Schmidt regarded the silver-haired banker: ‘Silverfox’, two generations of the staff had dubbed him. Was it a fox-like question? He thought not. However, was Dietrich s instruction on the special payment a ‘reasonable’ requirement? He doubted the G-D would welcome him raising it. In money terms it was small beer.
The Eye of the Abyss - [Franz Schmidt 01] Page 5
