After a while he put down his pen, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his good eye. Dressler’s heavy, cautious face came to him. It merged into the imagined silent images of a grotesque gunfight; finally, to a giant, bloodied, bullet-riddled corpse. He shook his head as though to deny this. Another image came into his mind’s eye: peeled of their black leather, six pink, also bloodied corpses. Harmless now as skinned rabbits. No regrets here.
He tried to steady himself. Nearly ten o’clock. No word from Dietrich. He checked and found that the director hadn’t arrived. Was he sleeping off the champagne? Or had Party business taken him elsewhere? He did disappear frequently to mysterious meetings.
Sharply the thought came: Had the Nazi been involved in Herr Dressler’s death? Had the Dresslers, en famille, become an obsession? He turned it over in his mind like a coin. His earlier amazement returned: Too much was interweaved in his life these days to dismiss anything. At ten he went out and collected Herr Dorf’s 4,000 marks, and returned to the bank.
At 11.50 am the intercom phone rang and the Nazi’s voice boomed painfully into his ear: What a night I’ve had Franz!’ He laughed exuberantly — but confidentially. ‘I’d counted on excitement but not the kind that turned up! I’ve spent this morning at Gestapo headquarters, sorting it out for them. It’s something which will surprise and interest you. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow evening, my friend. Be at my apartment at six. We’ll have that drink.’
Schmidt felt his skin, his hair, prickling as he listened, as the line went dead. The Nazi had whirled to another sector of his existence, revelling in a new triumph. Forbiddingly, it seemed the connection had been established: in his mind’s eye Dressler had appeared in a shadowed doorway, nodded significantly in confirmation. Dietrich again! The Nazi’s evil hand was everywhere. Schmidt again had the feeling of speeding downhill in an out-of-control tramcar, his hand frozen on the shut-off lever. He moved his tense shoulders, seeking relief.
Nearly 12.00, he stared at the phone now. As the second hand of the wall clock swept past 12.00, it rang; the trunk-line operator announced a call from Zurich — a Herr Wagner — and the deputy foreign manager’s familiar voice crackled down the line.
~ * ~
34
V
ON STRECK WAS still unpacking a bag when Schmidt was shown into his room by the tall, blond resident of the outer office with the bulge beneath his armpit. It was 3.30 pm. The Nazi functionary had a scarf around his neck. His homburg rested on his desk. Here was the man of affairs, seemingly still on the move even as he came to rest. He’d peeled off the black leather gloves.
He waved the auditor to a seat, and continued arranging papers. The auditor sat neat and erect on the straight-backed chair in his overcoat, his own hat on his lap, and waited for attention. A portrait of the Fuehrer watched him with a melancholic expression highly charged with suspicion. He reflected: Watches the whole population, down to the last railway ticket clerk. In my case, as to suspicion — quite appropriate. These brooding portraits were almost as prolific as the swastika flags — equally reviled by Wagner.
‘Well, Herr Schmidt,’ von Streck said, removing the scarf, ‘this is a surprise. I presume you’ve something important to tell me about the Party’s banking affairs.’
‘Yes, Herr Minister, unfortunately, I do.’
Now seated in his leather swivel chair, the short, power-fully-built man raised an eyebrow, pursed his lips, settled himself more comfortably.
‘I see.”Unfortunately”? I’ve a feeling I’m not going to like what you’re about to tell me, but proceed.’
Schmidt edged his body forward. Uneasiness had begun to run in him like sand through an hourglass; something was in the air which he couldn’t fathom, something not quite right; but he was committed now.
‘Your instructions in mind, Herr Minister, I’ve been watching over the Party’s business with special care. In any event, that’s my duty ...’ Though he’d rehearsed for this interview, suddenly he felt an imperative to take even greater care with his words. The Nazi’s eyes were bright, but expressionless, his face unreadable, his manner uncommunicative. Different from the Municipal Library. He’d no choice but to go on. ‘I believe ... fear, a substantial amount of the Party’s Reich bonds may have been misappropriated.’
Von Streck gazed unresponsively at the auditor’s face, specifically his artificial eye, making Schmidt wonder if he’d taken in the dramatic revelation. His disquiet was growing; this wasn’t an auspicious atmosphere for his plan to bear fruit. Perhaps if I told him the Fuehrer’s going to be shot?
‘“Believe”, you say ...?’The Nazi frowned. ‘No matter — we’ll pass that over for the moment. Go on.’
Schmidt studied the functionary. Where had he been? Had his journey been so long and wearisome? He’d carefully planned the sequence of his revelations; however, there was a major gap which required filling: how the bonds had got to Zurich. Wagner must have time to do whatever he had to do, and get out to France. Presuming he survived Zurich. It was a point of danger, but waiting for it to be resolved was also very dangerous.
The Nazi official had turned to stone: stone arteries tracing into a stone heart, all animation sealed in. So judged Schmidt. But, unaccountably, something was encouraging him to feel that the missing link in his chain of deception might be safely ignored.
‘With great regret, it’s my duty to inform you the persons I suspect are Herr Dietrich and Herr Otto Wertheim.’ Von Streck’s eyes had flickered. ’I suspect both gentlemen have opened Swiss bank accounts. I’ve evidence that the combinations to the NSDAP safe of the two custodians other than Herr Otto Wertheim - that is myself and Herr Wagner - were obtained from the bank holding them on the signatures of those gentlemen.’ He paused. ‘I fear what an audit will reveal.’ In the street below, a tram clanged its bell. Abruptly, the heating pipes gurgled in the room.
‘“Misappropriated”? What does that mean, precisely?’
‘I suspect the bonds may’ve been removed to Switzerland.’
‘Why do you suspect that?’
‘I happened to observe Swiss bank account mandates on Herr Dietrich’s desk. I can’t think of any reason why he’d have such forms.’
The lie fell easily from Schmidt’s Ups, but his fingers tightened on the brim of his hat.
The Nazi, still expressionless, gazed at the auditor. ‘Have you disclosed your suspicions to anyone else?’
‘No, Herr Minister.’
Schmidt did not know if he was a Minister; where he fitted into the Nazi machine.
‘If what you say is true — how could these gentlemen expect to get away with it?’
‘Sir, the bonds surplus to a working balance are sealed under their joint control. A deficiency might go undetected for a good while.’
‘But ultimately, it would be?’
‘Funds come in each day to build up the working balance. The sealed envelope in their joint names might not need to be disturbed for some time. I can’t imagine what is in their minds as to the ultimate situation.’
What use are German bonds to them in Switzerland? I fail to see what their plan might be.’
With his one eye Schmidt stared steadily at the Nazi. Friend or foe? The question echoed in his head. ‘There are people who run clandestine discount markets in all European bearer securities. It’s a matter of smuggling them back to source. Swiss nationals are crossing our borders every day. German businessmen, too. As to their plan ... ‘ He shrugged the slightest of shrugs.
Von Streck’s glance flicked along the edge of his desk, shot to the auditor’s face. ‘By what means could they’ve got the bonds to Switzerland? Opened these accounts?’
Schmidt pursed his lips: an earnest man seeking an elusive explanation. Von Streck had found his gap, the gap that any court or Party tribunal would surely run up against. Strangely, he still had that ‘all clear’ feeling.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
Von Streck brooded on framed photographs o
f the Nuremberg Rally of 1937, a slight, cynical smile now on his lips. ‘An outside audit could open up this imbroglio — if it is such?’
‘Yes.’
‘Presumably these accounts would be numbered — to keep the account-holders’ identities secret.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
The Nazi brooded on this, and then abruptly spun his chair to survey another part of the room. Without looking at the auditor he said, ‘I find this unbelievable, Schmidt. That those men would act in such a way.’
Schmidt stared steadily at the Nazi’s profile. ‘The fraudulent acts of trusted officials are always “unbelievable”, mein herr.’ He paused. ‘I should report, also, that Herr Dietrich has instructed that 500 marks be paid to him each month from the Party’s Number Four cash account. He calls it a commission. I believe this was also his practice in Berlin.’
He spoke in the tone which he used when addressing the board. This was minor and makeweight — yet it added another bad odour.
‘A commission,’ the Nazi repeated.
‘He demanded I take an amount for myself but I have not, for obvious reasons.’
Von Streck raised his eyebrows again and softly cracked his knuckles. He abruptly swivelled his chair again to face the auditor. Were these intimations of excitement? This process was like tapping brass nails into a coffin. Schmidt selected another nail. ‘Herr Dietrich is a homosexual. He’s made that very clear to me.’
The Nazi’s face suddenly showed animation. ‘What an interesting experience the gathering of all this knowledge — that, in particular — must’ve been for you, Schmidt?’
Schmidt didn’t respond; sat there, the steadfast auditor grounded in his professionalism, at the minister’s service.
‘You’ve suspicions, and certain evidence of a possible crime, Herr Schmidt. Is that what you’re saying? If it’s factual, if a crime has been perpetrated, of course a criminal and grossly traitorous act. However, if upon investigation it can’t be proved I trust you understand the consequences?’ Schmidt nodded. ‘All right, Herr Auditor. Your message has been received. Not one word to anyone else. You may go.’
Schmidt left, glad to be out. As he walked quickly away in the chilly afternoon from the nondescript building, he pondered what von Streck’s reaction would have been if he’d dropped the words ‘Teutonic Knights’ into the interview. His instinct had held him back. Yet it had seemed close to the surface. Periscope depth, he thought. His mind was hyperactive after the interview. A vision came to him of a panorama of the nation viewed from the stratosphere, cities, towns, black and brown stained countryside, forest and fallow — or SS and SA, frozen under the season — and the march of history. He saw no sign of life. His eye began to weep copiously; routinely he padded his handkerchief to it, drawing the glances of passers-by, the sentimentally inclined of whom imagined they were witnesses to a personal tragedy.
Now the father was dead. Herr Wertheim thought: This affair of the Dresslers is like a Greek tragedy. But the performance has ended — nothing else can be done to them. An all-pervading fate beyond any control has ruled off their lives. ‘Beyond any control?’ The question echoed in his mind — as did Lilli Dresslers voice in certain phrases which she’d commonly used as they’d worked side by side.
But always compensations; he felt empowered by his risk-taking, the new course for the Wertheim with battle flags up. Nothing seemed fixed or unchangeable in his mind. Even his precept to maintain the value of clients’ capital was now a shadow of its former significance. Though — going into battle for whom? Right now he felt his brain to be as sharp as ever, yet there were phases of a confused nature. He admitted that.
Thus, it was Herr Wertheim’s turn to gaze into the abyss. He did so by gazing at The Eye. Gradually his mind seemed to levitate, to be looking down on his life and times, miniaturised by distance. These days, his mind did shift gears unexpectedly. Slow down, pick up speed. And yes — the bank was forging ahead on well-oiled, well-tuned engines. Not only had the Aryanisation business given it a fresh impetus, but their old industrialist clients were thriving, and each week came windfalls of Jewish clients leaving the scores of Jewish private banks, which were being forced to close down. Given the Aryanisation deals which Otto was pursuing, the chickens rushing into the fox’s den! He rubbed his hands to stimulate some warmth.
His room was as quiet as a cloister. He lifted his head from its gaze, to listen. The phone rang. ‘Von Streck here, General-Director, please be at the bank tomorrow at eleven with all your directors. I wish to review certain aspects of the Party’s business.’
The phone went dead. The briefest of exchanges. The G-D replaced the receiver. Did Dietrich know of this? Von Streck. A man with power which was the more formidable because of its mysterious nature. ‘Certain aspects’ - what was the nuance there?
He pondered the shadowy power of von Streck. Real power, though. He recalled their meeting at the Party’s headquarters in Berlin. He’d been in no doubt that von Streck was the key decision-maker in the transfer of the investment business. At one stage, he’d been high up in the Ministry of Economics ...
‘Who is master here?’ Herr Wertheim realised that he’d spoken aloud to the painting.
He smiled, pleased by how often he was surprising himself lately.
Schmidt sat in his study in an attitude of listening. Maria had finished the dinner dishes and gone to the cinema. In recent days he’d shut himself into a world concentrated on the devious passage of events in which he was engaged. Tonight, he’d poured himself a brandy. Doubtless, the shock of Dressler’s death, the day’s tension ...
Wagner was due back at noon tomorrow. In the brief, guarded phone conversation he’d reported ‘the task at hand’ completed. The deputy foreign manager’s experiences on the mission would be narrated another time, and he’d sensed there was much to hear. But would he ever hear it?
What would von Streck do? The consummation was now in the hands of the Nazi functionary. The next move might be the Gestapo knocking on the door of Franz Schmidt.
‘We’ll see,’ he said to the knight engraved in his perpetual patrol. Delineated with increasing clarity he could hear in his head the clatter of hooves, the creak and jingle of harness -’and as he rode his armour rung’. His reservoir of the Order’s history, of current dangerous events was continuously circulating in his mind. Circling back, he returned to von Streck. Had the Nazi, in directing him to the specific era of the Order’s history, wherein the knight, Eric Streck, had struck at its evil and corrupt strategies from within, intended it as a guiding light? He sipped brandy. He was gambling that he had. Did the story run like this: Von Streck, the insurgent, the speculator, casting his eye over the Party’s banking affairs, had alighted on Schmidt in his new pivotal role, dredged this auditor’s past — discovered the incident with the SA, and, above all, his connection with the Order?
Had a man who did not love the Nazis found a tool to damage them? A tool of opportunity: himself! What if this was rubbish?! The product of his warped and wishful thinking? Tension crawled over him afresh; he’d lost his taste for the brandy. And Dietrich — at this moment? The thought scraped like a dead leaf blown over cobbles to a hidden corner. Did the Nazi suspect the forces running against him, was he engaged in counter-actions?
A sharp vision came, doubtless sponsored by innumerable newsreels, of the Fuehrer, quite alone, pacing back and forth in the shadowy great hall of the Berghof, his mind locked in fantastic thoughts. Schmidt felt he could reach out and tap him on the shoulder.
He cut this off and thought of Dresden, of Helga and Trudi. He glanced at his watch — pictured them in his mother-in-law’s familiar house, storytime, bedtime. He heard his daughter’s childish voice repeating her prayers.
~ * ~
35
N
EXT MORNING IT was windless, with fog. Walking quickly around the bend in the street Schmidt’s eye went to the two flags drooping from the flagstaff’s. The bank looked becalm
ed, waiting for a breeze, maybe a new course. The head messenger’s hacking cough echoed in the foyer’s gilded cupola. The auditor said, ‘You need medicine, Herr Berger.’
Berger nodded respectfully. ‘I’m taking medicine, Herr Schmidt.’ Breathlessly he proceeded Schmidt to the lift.
The usual stack of post, the usual quiet room, the customary atmosphere. He swiftly opened and sorted the post. He glanced up at the clock: 8.45 am; for him, tension vibrated in the air. For others? His inner calm seemed to be faltering.
If von Streck believed his story - if he chose to act - how long? The confidence he’d felt as he’d left the Nazi functionary’s office had thinned. But hadn’t the man sought him out for a watchdog role, presumably had his reasons for doing so? To this point, he’d given his plan a good chance of unfolding as it had, but everything now felt well beyond his control. In the hands of fate.
The Eye of the Abyss - [Franz Schmidt 01] Page 24
