The Eye of the Abyss - [Franz Schmidt 01]

by Marshall Browne

  She’d chided him: ‘What does it say about our marriage, your love for our child?’ He’d come from these bouts of study in a daze. ‘Returning from the cosmos?’ she’d ask.

  She’d been putting behind her the eye. He’d seemed quiescent. But that had changed in the past month; she could sense it. Was it conscious or unconscious? Would his thraldom to the Order’s fantastic ideals, archaic lore, bring them all into deadly danger?

  God! What was he doing, what was he considering at this moment? The concert was tonight. Her lips tightened, making her pretty face severe. ‘Forget the Nazis, Franz,’ she whispered. ‘Let them do what they must.’

  She must quieten down. Be her usual pragmatic self. She took deep, steady breaths.

  Trudi stood at the window, the doll clasped to her heart, watching Dresden’s platform drift by, looking for her grandmother, her aunt. There they were!

  A few years ago Helga’s mother’s friends had still called the mother and her daughters the three sisters. Now she took in at first glance the new frailty in the woman who stood arm-in-arm with her elder sister, and thought: No longer. Everything’s changing.

  Schmidt gave it a look: a nondescript building wedged between two small streets looking like a mean slice of cake. He had left work early due to the pain in his mouth. He went up the narrow stairs to the first floor, aware of why the dentist had been reluctant to accept the appointment. But his jaw had settled into a throbbing ache, and he’d been Dr Bernstein’s patient for many years.

  The waiting room was empty and the door to the surgery open, and the auditor heard the clatter of instruments on marble. ’Come in, Herr Schmidt,’ the doctor called.

  Schmidt removed his hat and coat and went into the surgery. The nurse was absent. ‘Good evening, Herr Doctor. Herr Wagner sends his regards.’

  The Jew smiled sightly. ‘I’m glad to have them.’ He gestured at the chair. In a moment, he was gazing into the auditor’s mouth. He probed the tooth, causing Schmidt to flinch. ‘Aha,’ he sighed. ‘A wisdom tooth. Decay. It should come out.’

  ‘Do it,’ Schmidt mumbled. In turn, he was gazing up into Dr Bernstein’s pebble-thick glasses, his puffy white face, black slicked-down hair. Wagner had once said the doctor was also a skilled financier; Schmidt didn’t know what that meant.

  With sure movements the doctor made an injection. ‘We’ll wait a few moments,’ he said. ‘I’m to cease practice.’ Standing back, he shrugged.

  The odour of corruption filled the air as the tooth came out. Then Schmidt was rinsing and spitting, and a small dressing was inserted. ‘Bite on it for half an hour. The bleeding will stop by then. Rinse well with salt and water tonight.’

  Just like the eye, Schmidt thought, putting on his coat and hat. Dr Bernstein waited at the door, a card in hand. ‘Here is the name of a good dentist — for the future.’ He smiled thinly, and gave an expressive shrug.

  They shook hands with mutual regret, and Schmidt went down the stairs to the street. He stood on the pavement in the dusk: More, and more, change ... a man wrapped in a greatcoat walked away into the black mystery of a dilapidated alley. His attention caught for a moment, the auditor wondered why anyone would be going that way. He stared after the figure. Momentarily, he’d felt a cold breeze on his face. The breath of danger? He turned to hasten from the locality.

  ~ * ~

  10

  T

  HIS NEXT destination, Schmidt looked up from his reading. Had the person sitting across the table spoken to him? Apparently not. The man’s face was lowered to his book. Schmidt noticed a prominent mole on his right cheek.

  The auditor lifted his head more, scanned further: shaded reading lamps daubed the special reading room of the Municipal Library with green light. He glanced at the man again: an unearthly pallor. Like himself, no doubt. A homburg rested on the table near his elbow. He wore black leather gloves. Curious ... Schmidt was sure he hadn’t been sitting there when he’d come in.

  He returned to Felix de Sales’ Annales de l’order teutonique. He was rereading the Orders conquest of Prussia in 1233. It’d been a highwater mark for the knights. After that, slowly but intractably, their power and wealth had declined. They’d begun the descent to oblivion. He gazed at the page without seeing it. Thoughts of the end had taken him back to the beginning; the twelfth century in Palestine during the Third Crusade. In 1188, with crusading forces besieging Acre, some German merchants from Bremen and Lubeck had formed a fraternity to nurse the sick. They’d become known as the House of the Hospitalers of Saint Mary of the Teutons in Jerusalem. As a boy he’d thought the long name had a marvellous sound to it. He smiled at the memory of his enthusiasm.

  ‘Herr Schmidt!’

  He had been right. He stared across the table in expectation, and the man slowly raised his eyes. A slight smile played on his lips. Warily, Schmidt studied him. A mass of tiny black curls flowed back from a large domed forehead. The dark eyes appraising him were sardonic. What was going on here? Why hadn’t the man spoken when he’d looked up the first time?

  ‘I beg your pardon, mein herr. Did you speak?’ Talk was forbidden, but they were the only people in the room.

  The man nodded. ‘Yes, I spoke your name.’

  ‘I’m sorry, have we met?’Was he an acquaintance he’d forgotten? Schmidt felt disorientated. When he did his research he entered this other world unreservedly, and came out in a daze. He wasn’t yet back on terra firma.

  ‘I’ve not had that pleasure. This will serve to introduce me.’

  An object lay on the table before the man. He flicked it with the black-gloved index finger of his right hand; it slid across, and came to rest before Schmidt. The auditor gazed at the leather identity-holder, at the gold, embossed eagle and swastika.

  ‘Please open it.’

  Schmidt glanced at him, did so, and looked down at a photo of the man’s face, at the Party seal. On the facing page he read: Manfred von Streck. In the space for rank/title had been typed: Special Plenipotentiary. It reeked of the Third Reich at the highest bureaucratic level.

  Schmidt returned to the man in person. A chill had come over him, and he blinked quickly, to better focus his eye. This Nazi was short in stature but immensely broad and thick-set; on his feet he might look grotesque. On the other hand, good clothes and grooming gave him a stylish air. Now Schmidt was being watched meditatively; the man’s hands were joined under his chin. He motioned for the document to be returned.

  Employing the Nazi’s method, Schmidt sent it back. He said, ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s quite a simple matter.’

  Smoking was also forbidden, but von Streck produced a cigar and scratched a match alight. ‘I wished to meet because of your responsibility for the Party’s banking affairs at Wertheim & Co. Your unique position in relation to matters of special interest to me.’ The cigar-end glowed red. ‘Within the Party, I’ve a parallel duty, amongst others.’

  Schmidt’s mind clicked into focus; he’d alighted on terra firma: the NSDAP accounts were illuminated in his mind, and on the margin, winking like a warning light, was Herr Dietrich’s instruction about the monthly special payment. But, such small beer?

  ‘I see the official reports from your famous bank, and from the Party functionary seconded there, but an unofficial channel could be most useful. Sometimes the most important information, the real situation, comes along such a route. Regardless of that, it’s also in place for emergencies.’ An ironic smile. Schmidt watched the slight movement of the thick, mobile lips, and wondered at the terse identification of Dietrich. ‘An escape road off a steep mountain descent, a way out should the brakes fail.’ He dropped ash on the pristine floor.

  Schmidt listened, his nerves strangely quiescent. Perhaps dealing with Dietrich was conditioning them. He wondered what ‘special plenipotentiary’ meant. Of course, there’d be massive distrust and suspicion within the Party, given the type of people the Nazis were, the rampant ambition, the scramble for power. Checks a
nd balances would be imperative.

  ‘Therefore, Herr Chief Auditor’ — a note of authoritative formality — ‘I want you to report to me if you find any special irregularity, or anything noteworthy. You may never need to make a report. I hope that’s so. However, here’s my card.’

  A card came across the table.

  Schmidt didn’t touch it, didn’t move.

  ‘You’re in doubt, Herr Schmidt?’

  ‘I must say I am.’

  ‘In what direction does this doubt lie? The basis of my authority? The irregular nature of what I propose?’

  Schmidt had passed through his surprise, and was thinking fluently. He didn’t doubt this Nazi’s authority, though he would check it as far as possible. There was a logic to the approach which he understood. And there could be an advantage to himself in having special access to the Party, though he’d be closer to the fire.

  He leaned forward. A certain polite reticence always worked well for him. He said earnestly, ‘Mein herr, with the greatest respect what you ask puts me in an invidious situation. Already I report directly to Herr Wertheim — also to Herr Dietrich. From the tenor of your remarks, I assume those gentleman are not to be informed of this additional reporting line.’

  ‘Correct. You won’t mention our arrangement to anyone. That’s a strict requirement.’

  ‘I’m not comfortable with such a deceit.’

  The Nazi official puffed away at his cigar, and pondered the pleasant-looking, correct man. ‘I respect your professional ethics, but you should look at it this way: it’s simply that escape road, purely for emergencies. The decision to use it will be yours. You’re an intelligent man, Schmidt. I’m certain you’d know if and when it should be used.’ Escape road, Schmidt thought. Intelligent? How does he know? ‘We live and work in complicated times. For instance, in the past year, there’ve been five assassination attempts against the Fuehrer.’ Schmidt was startled. The Nazi smiled. ‘When you’ve thought about it you’ll see no insurmountable difficulties, only advantages. I’m going to count on that. There’s something else.’

  He slid another small object across the table. Schmidt gazed down at a photograph of himself. It was embossed on a stiff” card, a swastika next to his head, his personal details typewritten on it.

  The morning street photo! Now in amazement he stared up at the Nazi.

  ‘A good likeness? I think so. That will enable you to obtain prompt access to me.’ He appeared to be memorising Schmidt’s face. He reclaimed his homburg, and nodded at the large tome before the auditor. ’I must go. I see you read French. I’ll leave you with your research. There’s a paragraph which I, personally, find of particular interest.’ He mentioned a page number. ‘Good reading!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Though I trust you’ve not forgotten the concert begins at eight?’

  Schmidt watched the Nazi depart. His powerful figure seemed almost as wide as it was high. Yes, grotesque in a way — yet, that air of being above the ordinary. The homburg was placed squarely on the mass of small curls. Despite his bulk, he walked panther-like through the green-hued semi-darkness, as if the special reading room was his home away from home, and not the arcane jungle that it was.

  What did a man like that know of the Annales de l’order teutonique? How had he known he was reading this book? Schmidt turned over the pages, and ran his finger down the close-printed columns until he found, unmistakably, what von Streck was referring to. He read it carefully, twice, then closed the book and stared at the room of medieval knowledge, wondering what new territory he’d entered tonight. The section he’d just read concerned a knight of the Order called Erik Streck, who had gone with the Grand Master to Marienberg, the new headquarters of the Order’s feudal state which included not only Prussia but the eastern Baltic lands. A man who’d lived in the fourteenth century.

  ~ * ~

  11

  A

  STRAUSS OVERTURE to begin,’ Wagner muttered sarcastically, nudging Schmidt’s elbow. ‘Offenbach’s next. It’s beyond their imagination to leave him out. I speak only of the quality of the music.’ He puffed steadily away at his cigarette, and stared stonily at the conductor who stood, baton raised.

  Schmidt thought: But Mozart later, so be patient.

  For over thirty years, Wertheim & Co had subsidised the symphony orchestra and this annual concert for the bank’s staff and families, three hundred of whom were gathered that evening in the gilded hall situated beside a Lutheran church, was a major event in the bank’s calendar.

  Wagner was even nervier than usual, the cigarette grafted to his fingers. They sat in the dress circle overlooking the two rows of directors and their families. Schmidt had picked out Dietrich immediately. The Nazi’s hair gleamed in the light like a gold coin as he sat erect between Herr Wertheim and the ultra-thin Frau Wertheim — identified by Wagner as Frau Thistledown.

  ‘Offenbach?’ Dietrich said to the general-director, lifting his hard eyes from the program also to the conductor. ‘Isn’t the fellow French — and Jewish?’

  ‘Yes, but born in Germany,’ Herr Wertheim replied, smiling urbanely. He’d especially requested Offenbach.

  The concert began and Schmidt kept on with his thinking. He’d caught a glimpse of Fräulein Dressler as they’d entered; she was sitting somewhere behind them. It wouldn’t take long to give her the warning, for all that was needed was privacy.

  Submerged in the music, sniffles and coughs, he pondered the encounter in the Municipal Library. A chilling question came. God! Could it be that this Nazi was a fanatic involved in the Order Castles? Rumours had been circulating about the schools for the Party’s élite, grounded in the heritage and traditions exappropriated from the Teutonic Knights. He sat like a statue now, completely oblivious to the music.

  Wagner leaned close: ‘They’re playing tonight like an old dog dragging its belly up the street.’ He laughed contemptuously, nudged Schmidt at some further transgression of conductor or orchestra ...

  Why had the Nazi revealed that he knew of Schmidt’s connection to the Order — perhaps his obsession with it? He hadn’t needed to; the reason given for approaching him had been plausible. He shook himself out of this, looked around, and saw faces again. The hall was poorly heated, but inside his overcoat he’d begun to perspire.

  By interval he’d recovered. He stood with Wagner stoically enduring the deputy foreign manager’s foul cigarette, and the overpowering odour of mothballs. They were sipping a sparkling Rhine wine, the same one Herr Wertheim had served the past two years. Following Dr Bernstein’s instructions, he’d gone to the lavatory to rinse his mouth out; his jaw was aching formidably.

  ‘Filthy taste. It’s the same as last year,’ Wagner complained, holding his glass up to the light. ‘The really bad news might be that our esteemed General-Director’s cornered the vintage.’

  Schmidt smiled vaguely. Same conversation as last year. Wagner knew Helga and Trudi were away, and he’d want to go out drinking beer afterwards to remove the taste of the wine. Wagner’s story of how he’d escorted Fräulein Dressler home from the concert two years ago was in his mind. A Wagner exaggeration? He’d been nearly drunk the night he’d spoken of it. Schmidt framed an excuse to give his colleague the slip.

  ‘Look at that,’ Wagner hissed.

  Dietrich, his athletic body bending efficiently at the hips, was saluting the directors’ wives. His tight-lipped mouth sideslipped over the back of each raised hand, his heels clicked, his eyes shot here and there. His baritone boomed pleasantries above the din.

  Schmidt thought: Party manners tonight. Smooth as the new machines with their steel ball-bearings, lifeblood of the Reich’s reindustrialisation. He watched the small play of insincere formalities, aware that his calm observation of the Nazi was infuriating Wagner.

  His heart stopped. Through the haze of tobacco smoke, Dietrich, a strange look on his face, had him under observation. The Nazi looked away quickly.

  Wagner blurted out, ’Doesn’t all that make your
blood run cold?’

  Uneasily, Schmidt said, ‘Is it so remarkable?’

  Wagner stared at him. ‘My God! Are you becoming immune too? Careful, my dear ... ‘ He turned abruptly to push his way back into the auditorium. He spoke to Schmidt only once more during the performance, out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Listen! He shakes a hand, kisses a hand. Close-up, he gazes into a face searching for a hint of the Semitic. That is what it’s about.’

  Schmidt knew that was only a part of it. The pursuit of ambition was also in play, a series of poses being employed, each calculated for effect. A conviction was forming in him that Dietrich was not a straightforward Nazi, if such an animal existed.