Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  These days Ryan had no time for apparitions with reality enough of a burden. He preferred his dead truly dead, the gone permanently gone. Yet the spectral vision just spotted from his tram left him stunned. The woman’s features were identical: the curve of the neck, the full lips and dimpled cheeks, the shapely body once known intimately. Her crimson beret stood out in a sea of drab grays and browns. He lunged to the window, but she had already disappeared in the sea of pedestrians.

  An American woman lost to Nazi atrocity a decade earlier was crossing Alexanderplatz!

  They’d both been reporters in those violent early ‘30s when the Weimar Republic teetered on its last legs, but ravishing Isabel had been much more than just another journalist. She’d challenged him to explore the dangerous underbelly of Berlin. Journalistic excellence did not lie in dispassionate observation for this woman; her stance was total immersion in the historical moment, reporting as a participant looking out.

  Together they’d snuck into a communist gathering in Wedding to get a good story, only to barely escape with their lives when a Nazi group staged a surprise assault. Days later Isabel had suggested infiltrating a closed meeting of those same Nazis. Still nursing a severely bruised belly from confronting the attackers, Ryan found the challenge too daunting and rejected the proposal. A furious Isabel had slammed down the telephone, going on without him and disappearing without a trace. Weeks later a headless body turned up in the Spree, a known calling card from Nazis discouraging investigation into Party secrets.

  Racked by self-recrimination, Ryan had often wondered what might have happened had he only agreed to her hare-brained scheme. Might he have spared her that horrible death? His guilt still surfaced with disturbing regularity, eliciting a vivid mental picture of the horrors she surely endured. Now that same woman, clearly still alive, mocked that memory and left him bewildered. Though he feared a trick of the mind, he had to see if his eyes had deceived him.

  His streetcar rolled on toward its next stop. Forcing his way past offended passengers, Ryan jumped off the rear step as the tram slowed. Pedestrians gave way begrudgingly, but his opportunity was quickly passing. She was lost in the crowd. He scanned the many businesses fronting the square and narrowed the choices. Entering an office building he took note of the tenants—physicians, dentists, lawyers, notaries. Where might she have gone? The concierge hemmed and hawed and finally accepted Ryan’s tip, only to concede he had seen no woman in a red beret. The next lobby was equally unproductive, and each shop along the way—florist, tobacconist, millinery—gained him nothing once the sales clerks learned he had no interest in their depleted stock.

  In frustration, he found a café overlooking the square and took a window table on the second floor. The long minutes ticked by as he smoked mechanically and observed the pedestrians below. To help pass time he eavesdropped on those around him. Two surprisingly fashionable women chatted about children, the weather, and the quality of the cakes. Bored businessmen smoked over beer glasses, casting the occasional glance at fellow customers. Two SS officers conferred in the corner, a bottle of schnapps between them. And an ill-tempered dachshund yipped each time the waiter approached his mistress’s table. Once he would have overheard spirited political debates, the sharp Berlin wit taking down even the highest political figure a peg or two. Now Berliners were content to while away their leisure with bland small talk. No mention of war or of any deprivations. Ryan understood that little personal danger lay in shallow conversation. The waiter clipped another ration coupon and a fresh cup of ersatz coffee appeared before him. Ryan added a splash of cream and a little sugar to blunt the bite of burnt grain.

  A Strauss fanfare interrupted the quiet radio concerto and another waiter dialed up the volume. A special report proclaimed new Wehrmacht successes in the North African campaign. Always a “campaign,” never “war.” Who needed a reminder of the humiliation of the Great One, of casualties and brutal deaths, of subjugation to the whims of the conquering powers? Ryan ignored the inflated count of that week’s English captives, knowing well that Dr. Goebbels’ incessant propaganda thrived on hyperbole. The news report shifted next to the massive Wehrmacht assault in the east, where the towers of the Russian capital were already in Reich gunsights. In the months since Hitler had broken his pact with Stalin the Wehrmacht had covered thousands of kilometers to put the screws to Moscow. Certain and uncompromising victory was the only acceptable outcome, and no one doubted it was coming.

  As the radio report closed with martial music Ryan abruptly sprang to his feet. The phantom Isabel was again crossing the square to board a streetcar! Leaving a few coins on the table, he forced his way downstairs and onto the sidewalk, hurdling that same boisterous dachshund and ignoring the protests of the matron holding his leash. His full focus was on the departing tram. The streetcar rolled past him only a stone’s throw distant but he’d seen enough to be certain. He pushed on, determined to reach the tram at its next stop, but a double-decker bus swerved to the curb, blocking his view and slowing his advance. Once around the obstruction he saw only indistinguishable streetcars in the distance.

  Verdammt nochmal! How the hell to find her now?

  Tamping down his fury, he returned to the café for his hat and pipe. He would get to the bottom of this deception, but suppressing his anger was a struggle. What the devil was she doing here now, alive and well in Berlin? Why had she disappeared on him and what the hell had she done since? Not one word in over ten years! If COI couldn’t be bothered getting back to him, solving the mystery of Isabel’s reappearance offered a new challenge. He would tackle this puzzle with or without Ellington’s approval.

  For the next two days he passed the noon hour in the same café overlooking the Alex, arriving before the lunchtime crowd to claim his table at the window. A one-time errand might have brought her to the square, but he was willing to endure a long wait on the off chance she might return. After all, what else to do but sit on his hands and wait for Ellington’s contact? On day three he spotted her again, this time emerging from that very building where the concierge had pocketed his tip. She wore a bold red scarf at her neck and her chestnut hair partially hidden beneath the same crimson beret that had first caught his attention. Painful memories flooded back and for moments the long-standing grief gave way to anger and accusation.

  He joined the pedestrian flow, hugging the storefronts, his collar up and his hat brim low. She was heading toward the tram stop of days earlier. Slowly she glanced back in his direction, as if aware of being observed. He pivoted toward a shop window and brought his handkerchief to his nose, just one more Berliner suffering from a head cold.

  He was still uncertain how to approach her. Hello, Isabel, long time no see. Not a chance. Well, Darling, didn’t you get my calls? Ridiculous. Nothing suited the hell storm of grief and worry she had put him through, no light banter could ease the gravity of her dismissal and loss. They had shared so much, yet her actions had been so callous, and he was determined to learn why.

  Unusually heavy rains had surrendered to an early December chill. A stark wind raked the streets, pelting pedestrians with sleet and promising snow by evening. She claimed a seat at the front of the two-car tram, just as on the previous sighting. Isabel a creature of habit now? Not the woman he remembered. He boarded the second car, the overheated air soured by damp wool and unwashed bodies. He loosened the scarf at his collar and picked up an abandoned Morgenpost to shield his face. Sighting between the newspaper and the snap-brim of his fedora, his eyes never left her.

  They moved northward. Scheduled stops came and went, sometimes smooth and marked by the squeal of brakes, other times in fitful lurches when ice on the rails refused traction. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen more as they moved farther out into Wedding. He occasionally lost sight of her as passengers moved on and off, but each time a quick look reassured him. Another quarter hour was gone before the ticket taker announced the end station.

  She was barely out on the platform and he was
already on her tail. He hid behind a man in a bowler waddling between SS officers. She headed toward the suburban railcar on the adjoining tracks. The men shielding him hastened to make the same connection, the destination Oranienburg, home to the notorious Sachsenhausen concentration camp. Being so damned close to that prison awakened a heart-rending memory: his dear friends the von Haldheims had disappeared into its depths years before.

  He entered the rear carriage as the train eased from the station and found a seat among SS officers, businessmen in drab overcoats, and housewives returning from shopping in the city. The women sat quietly chatting, their headscarves obscuring their faces and mesh bags of groceries resting at their feet. Isabel’s red beret was visible midway ahead in the leading railcar. Did she live in the village, or was she actually prison-bound? The hair at the nape of his neck tingled. For the first time in weeks he again felt truly alive. He barely noticed the suburban dwellings and fallow vegetable plots flashing by.

  A military bus rumbled and smoked curbside at the Oranienburg S-Bahn station, vapor whipping from its exhaust. The sign above the driver’s window read Sachsenhausen. He dared go no farther. At the bus Isabel greeted the two SS men who clearly knew and liked her. The officers introduced the portly man in the bowler. She shook hands all around, and even from afar he recognized her laughter. Baffling! He waited behind an iron pillar as the bus took on a half-dozen additional passengers, then left the station in a billowing cloud of exhaust.

  The policeman at the entrance to the terminal nursed an inflamed tooth. A folded handkerchief pressed to his jaw did nothing to hide the pained expression on his face. He waved Ryan and the few others through with only a glance. It seemed obvious that a person dangerous to the Reich would unlikely spend an afternoon so close to a notorious prison. Ryan purchased the afternoon papers and took a seat on the hard bench to pass time scanning classifieds for a covert signal from Ed. No sign of the agreed-upon telephone number, so as of yet, no news forthcoming. He would stick to his private mission until directed otherwise, no matter where it led.

  Shortly after seven that evening he was back in the heart of the city. He had followed her to a moderately prosperous housing block a short walk beyond Unter den Linden. He watched as she entered the building through a curtain of sleet, then waited for the closing of blackout drapes to reveal her flat on the second floor. He delayed a moment before approaching the stoop. The name on the call board read “I. Friedrich.” The register identified the lower apartment to the right as the domicile of a Hausportier. Such concierges often functioned as apartment house snitches, earning credits with the Gestapo by noting unusual comings and goings. A sliver of light shone at one edge of the drapes shielding the concierge’s window, an imprecise seal sure to draw the ire of any civil defense warden. Ryan decided to wait until the doorkeeper turned in for the night. By now the sidewalk was more suited to ice skating than walking, and the street itself had turned to a morass of slush after evening traffic. With no secure spot to wait, he took shelter from the biting cold in the deep shadows of a facing alleyway. Tightening his scarf and securing his hat from the wind, he settled in for the long wait.

  Over an hour passed before luck glanced his way. The stray fissure of light blinked out. A minute later an elderly gent with a noticeable limp worked his way down the steps, one hand firmly gripping the metal railing, the other a cane. Another disabled veteran off to toast fading memories with comrades? He hobbled up the block and disappeared into the darkness. Ryan crossed the street, slush saturating his shoes and trouser cuffs. His toes felt numb. He rang her flat, got no response, then pressed a second time and did not let up. In the long hours at the Oranienburg station he had decided not to overthink his approach. Enough was enough.

  “Hallo! Wer ist da, bitte?” A voice he thought never to hear again requested his identity.

  Ryan sensed worry and hesitation, but who welcomed an unexpected nighttime visitor in Nazi Germany? He braced himself and lowered his voice: “Ryan Lemmon.”

  A gasp. “Ach Du lieber Gott!” Barely a whisper.

  Ryan pictured her at the speaker box, perhaps as stunned as he had been upon discovering she lived. He spoke quickly: “Isabel. Open up. We must talk.”

  Only the low-frequency hum of the speaker rose beneath the patter of ice crystals pelting his hat and shoulders. She was not ringing him up, and his anger mounted. At last she spoke again, now in English: “I’ll be right down.”

  Whatever might happen now, too much water had passed beneath the bridge to make up for all he had suffered at her expense. He sensed rather than heard her hesitant footsteps just beyond the door, followed by the clunk of the lock as she cracked the door. My God, as beautiful as ever! Isabel held a finger to her lips, her eyes wide, her face drained of color. She pulled him inside, then removed his hat to expose his face to the dim bulb and gave his cheek a gentle caress. Her hand trembled as she guided him upstairs to the first landing. The open door to her living room fed its warmth into the dark hall. She hurried him in and threw the bolt into place. Ryan started to speak, but she again raised a finger to her lips and led him deeper into the room. The radio was pre-set to a government broadcast. She turned up the volume, filling the room with music.

  Only then did she dare speak, keeping her distance now, wary: “Oh my God, Ryan, what on earth are you doing here?” She shrugged off the coat draped over her shoulders, removing a pistol from the pocket and placing it on the table alongside the radio. “I heard you’d returned to the States, so what are you doing here? Damn but you’re still handsome! Do you still write for Kansas papers?” Her words came without a break, as if questioning him would postpone having to explain where she had gone, what she had done, who she had become. “How on earth did you find me after all these years?”

  “It’s what I do now,” he said, ignoring the serendipity which had brought him here. It was up to her to offer clarification, to somehow justify her cruel vanishing. He sensed deception in her response to his sudden reappearance, and she was clearly involved with the SS, which made everything she said suspect. He had seen the interaction with the officers at Oranienburg—almost a flirtation—so the danger was very real. But despite himself, he still felt attraction after all those years. He kept his voice hard. “I thought you were dead. There was a body in the Spree.” He left the unspoken accusation hanging in the air.

  She turned to the radio, as if drawn to the overly loud music, her eyes downcast. “I know. It was unfair of me, cruel even…but necessary.” She smoothed her skirt. Her fingers fiddled with the top button of her blouse. It bore some crest. He realized her outfit was official, something appropriate for a government worker.

  “Why didn’t you contact me? I was in Marburg for years, and you had my parents’ address in Kansas.” He fought to keep his voice from cracking. “What the hell happened back then?” He held his fists clenched, the hurt ingrained and his anger surfacing. “I grieved for you, and yet you stand here very much alive. I deserve an explanation.”

  “You do.” She dropped to the sofa and patted the seat beside her. “It won’t be easy, but I owe you that, and more. But first—something I must know: how did you find me? At the risk of sounding melodramatic, lives do depend on it!”

  He forced himself calm but remained standing. “Pure chance. I spotted you on the Alex.”

  She thought for a moment before speaking, her tone firm, now all business. “And you saw where I went from there? Where I work?”

  His brow creased as he nodded. “The camp.”

  “Does anyone else know you’re here?” Urgency in her voice. “Were you followed?”

  “I’m too good for that.” He thought of Klara and knew it was a lie. Had he been careful enough this time?

  Her features relaxed a bit. He saw a gleam in her eyes. “You always were good, especially with that tongue of yours.” When he failed to respond to the tease she became more earnest. “Honestly, Ryan, how often I’ve thought of those days and nights and wondere
d about the choices I made.” She looked at him imploringly. “But made is made, done is done, and now so much depends on your understanding, your silence.”

  Ryan resisted the temptation. He wasn’t about to let her off easily, and the SS connection was deeply disturbing. “I don’t bring you trouble, but you do owe me clarity. What the hell happened?”

  “A long story…” She glanced toward the front door, as if fearing someone might come bursting in. “And difficult to tell.”

  “It damned well better be a good one.” She blanched at the sharpness of his tone, but the long-held pain lay too near the surface for him to surrender easily to a tale from their shared past.

  Isabel was undeterred. “You’re positive no one saw you come here? What about the concierge?”

  “Out for the evening. Let it go—I know what I’m doing.”

  “Then here’s my story—please don’t hate me for it—and afterwards you must leave for now and go as invisibly as you came.”

  “The radio?” He gestured toward the wireless as he finally took a place on the sofa. “I’m a fan of Mozart, but perhaps a bit quieter while I hear what you have to say?”

  “Of course.” She rose to lower the volume, then returned to the couch and tucked her legs beneath her. Drawing a deep breath, she began to recall that night in ‘31 when she had hung up in a huff, determined to attend the Nazi meeting without him, undercover and in disguise.

  chapter NINE

  Berlin, Germany

  February 1931

  “Come on, Doro! You know you want to.” Isabel switched the receiver to her other ear. She needed a companion for the night’s adventure, and the tight space of the Kranzlerecke newsroom was annoyingly loud. Chuck Brady, fellow correspondent for the Daily News, sat next to her, shouting at full volume to get his story across a scratchy line to Chicago. Isabel’s dirty look went unnoticed.