Wagner was overexcited tonight even by his standards. Schmidt regretfully decided to measure off some distance between them. With a shock he realised that he’d done the same with his family. Like the good ship Wertheim he’d changed to a new course. It made him sad-hearted. Yet he felt a slow-burn of excitement
After the concert, Fräulein Dressler was waiting for him. He was slightly embarrassed at not having accompanied her from the hall. She’d understood his reason: as much influenced by his married state as the presence of Dietrich. Even so, who might they encounter at this café? They shook hands, briefly, firmly. Her hand out of its glove was warm and smooth. His first touch of her. Zither music throbbed from a cellar. He hesitated. Under the hard streetlight her face was stark-white, sculpted. The languorous look was obliterated. He was reminded of the shining purity of enamel. Her eyes seemed larger, iridescent.
She said, ‘If you wish privacy, my flat is within a ten-minute walk.’
He nodded, under a spell. Side by side they set off. Though it wasn’t Jewish, it was a neighbourhood he knew only slightly. His mother’s district evoked for him an image of multi-tiered wedding cakes on gilded plates; this, boiled beef on a tin plate. And, tonight, it seemed depopulated. She spoke only once. ‘Did you drink that wine? Isn’t it terrible? A cousin of Herr Wertheim makes it. He thinks it’s marvellous. And he gets it free.’
The shabby building they arrived at had several lighted windows. Wagner, also, had climbed these same stairs after the 1936 concert — according to Wagner. The flat was of modest size, but freshly painted and furnished with solid chairs and cabinets. In an armchair he took the cup of black coffee which she offered. At the same instant, as though a chemical release had occurred in his brain, his interest in her took yet another stride forward: it was intriguing to see this woman from the bank’s hallowed first floor in her private domain. He took a spoon of sugar, and looked up into her expectant face.
‘I suppose you’re surprised ...’ He paused. She sat opposite, watching him. In the shadowed interior her face had lost substance. He thought: No, not surprised. He looked down, studied the carpet. ‘Fräulein, I’ll come straight to the point. You may already know this, but, in case not, Herr Dietrich’s investigating your parentage. Like many of these Nazis he’s an authority on the Nuremberg Laws. He hasn’t verified his suspicions yet, but I fear it’ll only be a day or two.’ He paused, reluctant to be communicating this, yet certain it was necessary. ‘Your birth certificate’s disappeared from your dossier, which has delayed his inquiries.’ Her eyes widened. He went on quietly. ‘I hope to have a replacement by noon tomorrow for the passport application. I expect Herr Dietrich to take your situation to the General-Director when he’s ready to do so. What will happen at that point ...’ His voice had faded out.
She sat totally still, watching him as if he were telling an absorbing story. He’d not expected an emotional response, but this didn’t meet his expectations either. He realised he was breathing quickly, though lightly. Abruptly, heavy footsteps crossed the floor above. In a quick reflex, he glanced up. She started, as though coming out of meditation. He sensed something like an inner sigh.
‘My heartfelt thanks for your concern. Herr Dietrich’s intentions have been crystal clear. Herr Wertheim is doing his best for me, I’m sure, but if the obstacles are too great — even for him - then I’ll look in another direction.’
Schmidt sat back slowly, and felt a sense of reassurance. His admiration, also, was rising to a fresh level. What a remarkable woman! She spoke with calmness and fortitude — almost as if she were fully in control of her destiny. Then he thought: What other direction? The choices were few and dangerous. Bravery, intelligence and competency breathed across the room at him. That these might not prevail seemed a travesty, but that was what they were facing. He came back to earth - hard, autumn earth — and said, ‘We’ll hope for the best result with Prague. I trust we’ll be on that train together.’
He’d forgotten his coffee; it was only warm as he drank it now. When he’d made his excuses earlier, Wagner had stared at him critically, shrugged, and slouched moodily off. Two years before, on this anniversary, he presumed Wagner had been in this same chair. What words had been spoken, moves made?
He should leave. He stood up. Unexpectedly, she helped him into his overcoat in the tiny hall, that flower-like perfume again. As they moved awkwardly in the tiny space, like strangers avoiding each other on the back platform of a tram, her hair brushed his face.
Suddenly he’d the notion of being a detached observer, taking notes. Had this been the way of it with Wagner? No, Wagner didn’t think like that. She was in front of him now. He took a small step forward and without the slightest misjudgement their bodies met, and then their lips. Instantly, the mouth moving under his own was passionate, at first yielding then pressing forward, yielding again in a kind of desperation. His right hand was on her breast. They staggered, broke apart — breathless. Later, he held no detail in his head of the moment of connection, only of that disconnection.
He’d no memory of coming down the stairs, either. He stood in the dark doorway vaguely conscious of a cold breeze. He was not in a state of equilibrium — a rare experience for him. But it was returning.
Hardly believable! He’d been where Wagner had been after the 1936 concert! Not quite where Wagner’d been. Not that far - thank God. The dark neighbourhood seemed neutral, reluctant to bear witness to anything concerning him. Car lights undulated down a street. A sense of horror swept over him. A miscellany of considerations - foremost, the images of his wife’s and daughter’s faces. For the chief auditor of Wertheim & Co, what had occurred was not trivial. For Franz Schmidt — likewise. That embrace had taken him from the margin into the heart of her life. Now he remembered the flashed expression in her eyes — of trust? Of hopes aroused? ‘We must get to Prague!’ Had she whispered that in the tiny hall, or had he received it by a kind of mental telepathy?
He didn’t know. But he felt a new man was standing in his shoes. He squared his shoulders, as though to meet the great challenge of his life.
~ * ~
12
H
AD IT REALLY happened? A rhetorical question expressing his amazement that it had. Schmidt switched on the bedside light. Last night’s scene in the tiny hall was stark in his mind. He shook his head: it was hard for a man of his profession and upbringing to believe. In the middle of this wonder, by a kind of osmosis, he became conscious of a sullen atmosphere. A spongy silence. Quite eerie. He lifted his head to listen better. A memory of the curfews of the Weimar Republic came.
Shaving and washing, eating his breakfast prepared by Maria, with his family absent, Schmidt felt a stranger in his own house, and regretted it. However, he put this regret into store as he had, yesterday, at the station. He rose from the breakfast table and went to the window. A few pedestrians were treading the footpaths; no motor traffic yet. But the significant silence intensified, and insistently began to sing in his inner ear like an edgy kettle on the hob. He returned to his coffee. What obscure anthem was the city playing today?
At 8.00 am, he boarded the tramcar in the platz. He paused before taking his seat, and glanced around; the kettle was still singing. The few faces, most known to him by sight, were pale and considering. No chatty little conversations today, just dead quiet. ‘What is it?’ he asked himself. ‘Has something momentous occurred?’ He should listen to the wireless.
The platz, a tonal study in greys and blacks, had succumbed to the depressing season. Streetlights, yellowish blurry orbs, stood in the gloom like mourning-candles. A deathbed feel. How could the human spirit cope? Was that it this morning? Bouts of general depression did wax and wane during winter ... he unfolded his newspaper.
They started off. Herr Dorf, sombre-faced, came along. Ignoring his fare-collecting he went to the front of the tram, and spoke confidentially to the driver. Even his agility seemed constrained. He merely nodded to Schmidt.
Schmidt
opened his paper. Dastardly Murder in Paris: German Envoy Shot by Jew. He read the headlines, the first paragraph. The tram started down Bonnerstrasse. A sharp intake of breath came from across the aisle. Schmidt looked at the man, past him to the outside world. Good God! Smashed shop windows, destroyed displays, merchandise littering the streets. God in Heaven! Unaccountably, had a flood surged through in the night? The thought shot to the surface. He stared at the panorama of destruction rolling by the tram window like a grainy black-and-white film, and held his breath. Here, depicted in the flashes of his single vision, was a fouled-up world. In the fastness of his apartment, his suburb, he’d heard nothing!
‘You’re not dreaming my friend’ — Wagner’s voice in his head. As though a switch had been flicked in his brain, enlightenment came. Some of his fellow passengers were screwed around in their seats, gaping, others had had his flash of insight, and were averting their eyes. People stepped forward at the stops, their faces strange, their shoes crunching glass. His right hand gripped the backrest. Then he was breathing again. Hitherto the thugs of the SA had perpetrated random acts of terror while the authorities turned a blind eye. Here was stark evidence of the full weight and connivance of the Reich. Insidiously, the cold travelled up his limbs to bring a dull ache to his chest. His mind shifted urgently. What did it mean for her? For the Prague plan?
They rattled across another platz. A synagogue sat like a ship ablaze and dead in the water. Deep in its heart pulsed an incandescent glow. Obscene smoke alive with sparks boiled from its high orifices into an overcast, aglow as from a mistimed sunset. To the auditor’s horrified eye, the whole sky seemed to sag like a great overindulged belly. Several fire carts and groups of firemen stood idly by.
This particular spectacle animated four or five well-dressed men and women in the front of the tram. They pointed excitedly, laughed amongst themselves. ‘This’ll show them!’ a man cried. Defiantly he caught Schmidt’s eye.
The tramcar shuddered over points, glided into the city centre. No change here. He hurried to the bank, anxious to get within its walls. Once inside, he sorted rapidly through the pile of letters on his desk, found the envelope from the Registrar of Births. He extracted the document, scrutinised it, then going to his safe took out the manila folder containing the passport application, attached the birth certificate to it, and put the folder in his desk drawer.
At 9.30 am, he retrieved the folder and went to the first floor.
He hesitated outside the anteroom. Going through that door was another crucial step. Instantly, the spontaneous embrace returned, as fresh as though it had happened minutes ago. In the ten years of his marriage, he’d never broken his marriage vows. Not once. Then, last night, precipitately and dramatically, the ground had shifted under him. The incident, insignificant to others perhaps, was for him a metamorphosis sharpened by the brutish chaos viewed this morning ... He remembered Wagner’s words about drowning. He entered the anteroom, wearing his professional mask. She glanced up, and watched him approach, equally well grounded in her Wertheim character. The eyes that met his were calm, her air of superiority unchanged. He found that he wanted to say her name. ‘Fräulein Dressler ... here’s the submission for Herr Wertheim.’
She nodded, and gave him a smile, an almost indecipherable curve of her lips, which he drank in. She had on a crisp white blouse and her lips, which had been without colour last night, were reddened with a bright lipstick. What was in her mind this morning? How did he seem in her eyes, what motives did she find in him? He left without another word.
Herr Wertheim would have to move fast, tap into that special channel before Dietrich acted. Schmidt walked and thought. Analysis in these corridors was a chilly business, but according to the G-D, didn’t the brain work better in the cold?
The new painting had shocked, then amused Dietrich. In Munich in the summer of 1937, the Fuehrer had been absolutely clear about which art was degenerate. The grotesque eye at his back, as he faced Herr Wertheim across his desk, was a cut and dried case; patently a chancre in the general-director’s make-up. What a paradox the old banker was presenting! With such interesting exploitative possibilities! But should he accept it at face value? It seemed so crazy.
Turning his handsome face, his brilliant blue eyes downward to regard his cigaretteless hands, he thought: Could the general-director be playing a game where he, Dietrich, had missed the commencing whistle? Perhaps a convoluted duplicity was at work here which required unravelling. If one could ever crack this porcelain-like shell of urbanity!
However, he’d no doubts on the subject he was about to raise. Decisively, he cleared his throat, and looked up. ‘Herr Wertheim, I’m obliged to draw your attention to the situation of Fräulein Dressler.’ He paused, checking his tone for the appropriate delicacy. ’The rather unfortunate situation ...’ Herr Wertheim watched the Nazi. This wasn’t unexpected. With a pang, he wondered whether he’d left it too late. It had been long in the back of his mind: might’ve still been, but for her request to go to Prague. ‘... and to the Nuremberg Laws, and the subsequent supporting decrees. With respect, Herr General-Director, she should not be employed here. Of course, mein herr, with your great burdens I understand how easily this might’ve been overlooked.’
Dietrich’s tone was insistent but respectful — he was confident of his mastery of the diplomacy required, sure of his ground — the dramatic events overnight had given him that edge. He spoke in the dogmatic yet respectful cadences of a hundred lawyers the banker had listened to. How far would Dietrich go? Wertheim wondered. Could he be bought, or was the situation too close to home for the Nazi to run such a risk? And the vital question: had Dietrich the power to neutralise the strings which he hoped to pull in the higher echelons of the Party?
Dietrich was experienced in situations of this type. No need to refer to certificates of descent, or birth certificates. Each party was fully conversant with the issues: if not on the table, they were in the air. He watched the banker’s face, and confidently guessed his deliberations. They could have only one conclusion; no need to unduly force the pace. Nonetheless, for the record, it was necessary to play his next, entirely predictable, card.
‘I must say, that when the Party entrusted its investments to your fine bank it had certain expectations.’ No need to say more, but he did add: ‘The Party’s steadfast on this question — as are the people. One has only to look at a certain district this morning.’
Herr Wertheim pondered, as though analysing the yield on an investment. After a moment, he said: ‘Yes, indeed!’
Dietrich leaned forward, a trifle impatiently. He was dying for a smoke. This old banker used silences as effectively as an experienced preacher in a pulpit. He wanted to get on now. Nail him down. The momentous overnight events were staggering; he was astonished his colleagues hadn’t forewarned him, and was anxious to phone Berlin.
‘You know, Herr Dietrich, she’s a greatly valued employee. Of immense use to me, her father’s of good Aryan stock ... a war hero.’ Herr Wertheim was thinking quickly.
The Nazi shrugged his heavy shoulders in a minimum show of sympathy. ‘I’m afraid such considerations don’t change the law.’
‘Of course — of course!’ Herr Wertheim instantly was avuncular, decisive, pragmatic. ‘Leave it in my hands, my dear colleague.’
Surprised, the Nazi hesitated, then, seeing his departure was required, rose, bowed stiffly, and left. He strode past Fräulein Dressler, genuinely not seeing her.
Watching him go, she thought: I’ve ceased to exist.
Two grey-suited men, each with a matching pallor, sat in the anteroom conversing in tense whispers. For once the newspapers had been disarranged, as the visitors had scanned headlines. Directors of an insurance company, the bank’s client for fifty years, they were facing disastrous claims, an outcome which the Nazi bosses apparently had overlooked when they’d set last night’s madness in train.
From his door, Herr Wertheim watched them. He expected it might be ea
sier to solve their problem than the one remaining from his previous interview. But he never failed to solve problems — was famous for that. The thornier the better. Suddenly he frowned with pain. He’d been getting these sudden fierce headaches recently. He must ask the fraulein for aspirin.
~ * ~
13
A
T 11.00 AM, Schmidt took the lift to the basement and entered the bank’s vault. Wagner was waiting, ashen-faced, badly shaven. The deputy foreign manager raised a cryptic eyebrow, plainly harking back to last night and his being left to drink alone. The acerbic remark on his lips was cut off by the arrival of Herr Otto.
Without a salutation, Otto growled, ‘I have clients coming in. Get this over Schmidt, without your boring delays.’
Schmidt took in the brand-new Nazi Party badge. Politely deferring to seniority, he invited the general-director’s nephew to take off his combination-lock from the safe reserved for the NSDAP. Otto had his usual trouble remembering his numbers. Goddammit! His fleshy face flushed a bright pink. Angry and embarrassed he consulted a scrap of paper, and made another attempt.
The Eye of the Abyss - [Franz Schmidt 01] Page 8
