Of course it had. She’d been paid to let men beat her. “Hopefully not like that.”
“I can keep them away,” he said. “With that dagger.”
“You are very strong and very clever. But so am I,” I said. “I am keeping the dagger.”
I would have to turn Wilhelm in to Fritz as soon as I recovered my papers. After all my worries about Rudolf, Ernst had been killed by someone he loved and trusted. Someone I had trusted. And I knew that the police would probably let Wilhelm go. They had only my word for all of it. But I knew.
“There’s the tenth rat!” Anton shouted.
22
I dragged myself to my feet. The river flowed by as it had all morning, as it would long after my own death. But Anton needed lunch. I decided to make him an omelet and then take a long nap. I hated to believe that Wilhelm was the murderer, not after all his tears and worries. Did Ernst’s death have anything to do with the letters, the ring, or the mysterious package that Röhm expected delivered tomorrow? Perhaps Wilhelm too, was involved with Röhm.
I tucked Anton’s hand in mine and did not let go all of the way home. Usually he chattered, but today he stayed uncharacteristically silent. My thoughts were on locking myself alone in the bathroom so I could cry without him having to see. As much as I wanted to shield him from it all, I did not think I could keep up a façade of calm much longer.
I checked the mailbox, wondering if Ernst had left me any more unexploded bombs. A letter fell out, unstamped. It must have been hand-delivered. I tensed, but then relaxed when I recognized the handwriting. Boris. I slipped it into my satchel.
Silently we climbed the stairs.
The apartment door stood ajar. A stripe of light ran along the door frame and spilled onto the dirty landing floor. I stopped dead, listening. No sound came from my apartment.
I bent down and slipped a hand over Anton’s mouth. “Quiet,” I mouthed.
He nodded, and I pulled my hand away. He drew in a quick breath.
“Go up one more flight of stairs,” I whispered. “And wait for me. The brave must be silent.”
He tiptoed away. I waited until the sound of his footsteps reached the top of the stairs before I pushed open my front door.
Every dish in the kitchen was smashed on the floor. The iron pot where I had once hidden the ruby ring lay on its side. The drawer where I kept my story notes sat on its side on the floor, empty.
I drew the SA dagger from my satchel and stepped inside. Every instinct screamed that entering was a foolish thing to do, but I was furious that someone had destroyed my home. If it was Ernst’s killer, I wanted to meet him.
No one was in the kitchen. I tiptoed to my bedroom and opened the door. No one was there, but my clothes were thrown out of the wardrobe and onto the floor.
Someone had slit the mattress and pulled out the stuffing.
I tightened my grip on the dagger and opened my bathroom door. Mitzi’s body hung out of the toilet, tail hanging limp down to the floor. I bit back a shriek. Slipping the dagger in my satchel, I ran out of the apartment.
Before I could slam the door, a familiar, high-pitched voice called, “Fraulein Vogel?”
Trembling, I turned to face Kommissar Lang. What was he doing here? Was he responsible?
“What has happened to your apartment?” He pushed past me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Someone came when I was out.”
I clenched my hands and followed him into my kitchen. He pulled one of the chairs upright and held it for me.
“Where were you going?” he asked.
“To find a policeman,” I said. I had only known that I was going away. “Why are you here?” I tried to keep sharp suspicion from my voice, but did not succeed. Had he ransacked my apartment? How did he have my address? I edged away from him.
“I came to call on you,” he said. “Perhaps to arrange another meeting.”
“It is good that you came.” I realized that he was innocent. If he had wanted to attack me, he would have closed the front door. And as an innocent man, he would expect me to be helpless, terrified by what had happened. As if I were innocent myself. “What do I do?”
“Did you go through the house?” he asked.
“I was afraid to,” I lied.
“You were correct to be afraid,” he said. “Wait here.”
He walked quickly through the rooms. I sat, at a loss for what to do.
“There is no one here,” he said quietly. “Let us go through the rooms together to see if anything is missing.” He helped me out of the chair as if I were old and fragile.
I thought of fleeing, but I would have to go upstairs to get Anton and we would never make it past Kommissar Lang on the way back down. I followed Kommissar Lang into the bedroom.
“I have nothing of value.”
“No jewelry?”
At Herr Klein’s, fortunately. I shook my head. “1923 was a tough year.”
He smiled sympathetically. Everyone in Germany knew that most people had been forced to sell everything to survive through the inflation years. “Especially for a woman alone.”
I took in the damage to my bedroom. The slit in the mattress gaped like a wound.
“Whoever did this was angry,” he said, looking around. “I think they were threatening you. Are you perhaps involved with a man who—”
“No. There is no one.” My heart raced. My vision blurred around the edges, and I sat on the ruined mattress.
“Let me fetch you some water.” Kommissar Lang disappeared into the bathroom. I was grateful that I had not been forced to see Mitzi there again.
He came out with my toothbrushing glass full of water. “Do you have a cat?”
I drank the water and nodded. “Why?”
He sat next to me on the bed and put his hand on my knee. “I—”
“Mother?” called Anton, coming in to the room.
“Here, Anton.”
Kommissar Lang looked from me to Anton. I could see his mind working. He was remembering that Fritz had told him I never married. And yet I had a son—what must be an illegitimate son. Kommissar Lang yanked his hand off my knee as if it were covered in sewage. He stood and took a few steps back from me.
“I must fetch your local police officer,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “Wait for us in your kitchen. Do not leave, Fraulein.”
His voice told me that he expected obedience.
I nodded politely, as if his entire attitude toward me hadn’t just changed. “Thank you.”
I took Anton’s hand. He stared at the apartment, and his eyes grew round.
I gave Kommissar Lang a few moments to reach the bottom of my stairs. When the front door to the building slammed, I pulled Anton down the stairs, and we crept through the back door.
All I had was the ring, the letters, and Anton. More than enough.
I hailed a taxi. “Turn around here,” I commanded.
The taxi driver swore and pulled the wheel around.
“Now left.”
I told him to take more U-turns, then quick turns to the left and right, staring behind us to see if we were being followed. Eventually I sat back in the seat and gave him Ursula’s address.
“Mother,” said Anton quietly. “Can I talk now?”
I turned to him. “Yes, Anton.”
“Why did you make me go upstairs?”
I did not trust the taxi driver. I bent down next to Anton’s ear and whispered. “I did not think that the apartment was safe. And it was not.”
“Where are we going now?” he whispered.
“To my sister.”
“Why are you shaking?”
“I am not—” I looked down at my trembling body.
“You are.”
“I am,” I said. “And I cannot explain why.”
That seemed to satisfy him, and he stared out the window.
I tried to regain control. I certainly could not go see Ursula in this condition. I slowed my breathing and clenched and un
clenched my fists. It helped, but I could still see Mitzi hanging out of the toilet.
I ran through a list of suspects in my mind, people who might do such a thing to my apartment. First was Röhm. Perhaps he or his men had destroyed my apartment looking for the letters or the ring. Certainly letters that could destroy his life’s ambition and a million-dollar ring could warrant such a search. He would want me to be intimidated, to know that keeping the letters would have serious consequences.
And then there was Wilhelm. He knew where I lived, had been in and out of my apartment days before. He’d been there alone with Anton and with me. It was easy to picture him searching my apartment looking for something that could link him to the murder.
Boris could have been there, searching for information about the rapist. I pictured him as someone who would search carefully, like the banker he was. But who knew what he was capable of, especially in a fury at the man who had wronged Trudi. My story notes were missing.
Rudolf also was anxious to find whatever Ernst was supposed to deliver. Perhaps he was jealous of Ernst’s love for the cat. The taxi hit a bump, and I jumped, startled.
Enough, I told myself, glancing at the back of the driver’s black hat. This will not solve your immediate problem: how to keep yourself and Anton safe.
The taxi ride to Ursula’s took more money than I made in a week of work. I would have to sell the rest of the jewelry to get through this. Get through this how? For now I needed a place to stay and someone to care for Anton.
I rang the bell at Ursula’s grand front door. She lived in an expensive apartment building with a wrought-iron fence and a gate. Her apartment was not that large, but, just like Ursula and her husband, it presented a wealthy front.
“Hannah,” said Ursula, opening the door. She stepped outside and closed the gate behind her. Her carefully dyed hair formed a golden halo around her head. We had not spoken since her birthday party, six months ago. We had not quarreled any more than usual then, but neither of us tried to keep up a closer relationship.
“Good day, Ursula.” I smiled. “May we come in?”
“Who do you have here?” She looked down at Anton as if she smelled something unpleasant.
“Anton, ma’am,” he said. He gave a tiny soldier’s bow.
“What do you need?” Ursula’s glance flicked back to me, her eyes pebble hard.
“A place to stay.”
“They have hotels for that.” Her voice was cold.
“Ursula,” I said in my best shocked tones, although I was not surprised. “We’re family.”
She drew in a breath. “You ceased being family when you sided with that degenerate.”
“Ernst w— is not a degenerate,” I said. “And I’d thank you not to—”
“Please.” She rolled her eyes. “I watched him prancing around that club of his. He’s humiliating all of us.”
“In front of whom? Do your friends go to the El Dorado?”
Ursula compressed her lips.
“I am in trouble.” I gestured down to Anton. “We are in trouble. And we are family.”
“We’re all family?” Ursula motioned toward Anton with a sneer.
I nodded, unwilling to reveal more.
“Then I suppose that’s his bastard,” Ursula said, guessing the truth as she so often did. She was unpleasant, but very smart. “And I won’t have you bringing your troubles to my door. I am a respectable woman.”
“What’s a degenerate?” Anton asked.
Ursula looked down at him. “I think explaining that is your job. You have more experience with it.” She turned and walked back to her front door, her back as stiff and straight as Father’s on the parade ground.
“A degenerate,” I said loudly, “is someone who does not perform her duty.”
“I understand,” Anton said.
I took Anton’s hand, and we began the long walk to the bus stop. I wished she had taken us in, and Nazis had ransacked her house, destroying our parents’ china, their antique furniture, and her precious respectability. In fact, I wanted to stomp into her house and do those things myself. If the situation were reversed, I would have helped her because she was all of the family I had in the world. Now I had no family. Except perhaps Anton.
I took a deep breath. Where were we to go?
23
“You’re hurting my hand,” Anton said, and I loosened my grip.
“I am sorry.”
As we waited for the bus, I went over my options. I did not want to be a danger to Bettina and her children, so I could not go there. If the person who killed Mitzi knew where I lived, perhaps he also knew where my family and friends lived. The thought of someone injuring Sophia made me shudder.
A black automobile slowed as it drove by. Pretending to be interested in a ginger cat picking its way across a window box of geraniums, I studied the automobile out of the corner of my eye. The driver wore a homburg with a gray feather in the brim, hat pulled low over his face so that nothing showed but a nondescript chin. He sped up and turned the corner.
“We will walk to the next stop,” I told Anton. He jumped uncomplainingly to his feet, and we hurried around the corner away from the automobile.
“Anton.” I glanced over my shoulder. No sign of the car. “Bad men came to the apartment today.”
“I know.”
We walked down the broad sidewalks under leafy linden trees. A squirrel climbed a telephone pole. We stopped to admire him. His long tail was fuzzy. He looked as if he’d escaped from a children’s book.
“They wanted to find me and hurt me,” I said. It sounded ridiculous, here in this place of peace and calm. “They are very dangerous.”
Anton took my hand.
“I think that you need to go somewhere safe.” I squeezed his hand.
“Without you?” Anton did not take his eyes off the squirrel, who ran along the telephone wire as nimbly as an acrobat.
“Without me. At least for a while.”
His eyes filled with tears. He looked at me and said in a stern little voice. “I won’t allow it.”
“Anton,” I said, just as sternly. “It’s for your own good. I will find a nice place.”
“An orphanage.” His voice was matter-of-fact. He pulled his hand back.
“What makes you say that?”
“Auntie Sweetie put me there sometimes.” He drummed his shoes on the ground. “I won’t go.”
“Anton,” I said softly. “You are a child. You must go.”
He shook his head. “My name is Anton Vogel. And I know yours too: Hannah Vogel. And I know your address.” And he recited it.
I stared at him in shock.
“I will tell them that at the orphanage and they won’t let you leave me. The police will find you. I’ve done it before.” He crossed his arms.
“You are a clever little man.” I laughed.
“A brave keeps his wits and his arrows sharp.”
We walked down the empty street to the next bus stop in silence. Anton drooped with tiredness, but did not complain. He was a brave soldier.
I sighed. He was too young to be a soldier, brave or otherwise, and it was my job to keep him safe. Tomorrow I would deliver the letters or the ring, whichever they wanted. Then they would leave us alone. Or they would kill me. But not Anton. I had to keep him safe.
I took him to Sarah’s apartment, the only place I could think of. Röhm or Wilhelm could not link me to this place. I cooked us a late lunch, grateful that I had bought all of that food yesterday. I thought I had been buying it to help out the peddlers, but had I sensed, even then, I would need a hideaway?
More to soothe him and myself than because he needed one, I heated water and gave Anton a bath. He played with the soap and let me scrub his back while he chattered about the three little pigs. Which house was this? I wondered. My house was made of straw. Was Sarah’s house the safe, brick house or would the wolf reach in and crush it too?
When I dressed Anton in one of Tobias’s o
ld nightshirts, the sleeves hung past the ends of his fingers like a Chinese robe and the hem touched the floor. He looked as tiny and defenseless as an infant.
I tucked him into Sarah’s bed. We would sleep in the same bed tonight. At least our fates would be bound together if we were found. I could not bear the thought of Anton frightened or injured without anyone who loved him to comfort him. Ernst died like that. I had not protected him, and now I did not know if I could protect Anton either. I held him so tightly that he stirred in his sleep.
I returned to the kitchen and drank Sarah’s excellent tea. I would have to meet with Röhm at Ernst’s apartment to trade him the ring or the letters, or both, for my safety and Anton’s. The ring I did not mind. It was rightfully his. But the letters I did not want to give up. They might be a key to stopping the evil that had driven Sarah away. Perhaps they were a key to the way out.
I believed that eventually the German people would recognize the evil in the Nazis’ anti-Semitism and vote them out. Sarah had always disagreed with me, but looking around her tidy apartment, with everything neatly packed away, it was as if she too, expected to return one day and step back into her old life.
I wanted it to be ready for her. Nervously I paced around, dusting Sarah’s possessions. Her ruby cut-glass goblets and her simple dishes. A Hummel figurine of a shepherdess with a tiny sheep that I knew she’d received as a gift from her mother-in-law. Her candleholders, with glass globes and cut-glass crystals hanging down.
Guttural moans cut through the air. I flicked off the light to not cast a silhouette against the front window. Careful not to move the fabric, I peeked between the curtains. Two men kicked a third man crumpled on the ground. The man on the ground moaned again.
“Filthy Jew,” shouted a rough voice. Their Nazi uniforms ate up the light cast by a streetlamp.
A board creaked behind me, and I spun around. Anton stood in his oversize nightshirt at the edge of the living room.
“What is making that sound?” He rubbed his eyes with his fists.
“It is nothing we can help.” I crossed the room to him. “Bad men doing bad things.”
I lifted him to carry him back to bed. He wrapped his warm arms around my neck. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You will keep me safe.”
A Trace of Smoke (Hannah Vogel) Page 18
