Prisoner of Night and Fog

by Anne Blankman

  Beside her, Daniel walked quickly, head down, hands in his pockets. The sight of him tore at her heart. Suddenly, she stopped walking. He halted, looking at her with despairing eyes.

  “How can we stop them when no one will listen to us, when no one pays attention to my newspaper’s articles?” He waved a hand toward the street. “They’re all too busy trying to enjoy their lives, and I can’t even blame them. The truth is so shocking and cruel, it hardly seems real. I can understand why they don’t believe me and the other reporters.”

  She stepped toward him. “I believe.”

  For a moment, he looked at her intently, in a way no one had ever looked at her before. He stood so close she could smell the scents clinging to his skin, soap and oranges and boy, and she heard the nerves in his voice when he said her name, and she knew what he was about to do, and her heart started pounding.

  He kissed her.

  His lips felt soft and warm on hers. And feather light, the barest pressure, like a whisper or a sigh, so gentle she might have imagined it.

  Breathless, they separated and stared at each other. In that instant, she was more aware of Daniel than she had ever been of anyone in her life: the high cheekbones beneath his olive skin, the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the tiny shaving nick that meant he had bothered with his appearance for her. His expression was so unlike his usual sarcastic grin she almost didn’t recognize him. He didn’t smile but kept his eyes steady on hers.

  She stepped closer. Their ragged breathing, and the far-off sounds of laughter and music from a nightclub pushed against her ears. But the whole world fell away when she placed her hands on his shoulders, feeling the corded muscle beneath her fingers, and stood on tiptoe so she could reach him. He smiled.

  “Am I still surprising you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “And I’ve never been gladder of anything in my life.”

  Then he cradled her face gently, touching her so tenderly she could scarcely breathe, and brought his face to hers until their lips met in a kiss that burned her mouth.

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  27

  HOURS LATER, A SINGLE, NAGGING THOUGHT wormed itself into Gretchen’s mind until she finally woke. Her father’s old wartime memories had been bothering him while he milled about the Bürgerbräukeller. At a time when he should have been concerned only with the putsch. In the pale moonlight, she slid into her robe, her mind spinning.

  Why hadn’t she remembered Fritz Gerlich’s remark until now? The former journalist, the fellow who had spoken to her father moments before the SA storm troopers burst into the beer hall. Foolish. She should have listened more closely.

  Perhaps something Herr Doktor Whitestone had said earlier tonight had pulled Gerlich’s comment to the front of her consciousness. After Daniel had walked her back to the boardinghouse, and watched from across the street until she went inside, she had gone to the Englishman’s room and found him packing his things, preparing to catch a late-night train out of Munich, to begin his long journey back to Oxford. Her heart had twisted in her chest. She had forgotten he would be leaving tonight.

  And then he had seen her and had smiled in his gentle way and ushered her inside. I was ready to miss my train because I was determined to speak to you before I left, he had said. I want you to understand how your brother thinks, so you can be on your guard against him.

  The grandfather clock in the front hall sounded two long, low notes as she crept down the stairs, her bare feet soundless on the floorboards.

  Permit me to list some characteristics, Herr Doktor Whitestone had said, and you nod at each that sounds like Reinhard. Charming at times, moody and unapproachable at others, unable to keep friends or a job. Cannot comprehend emotions such as guilt or shame, and cannot form close bonds with others. Prone to violent outbursts.

  She had nodded at each one. How do you know all this? Who told you all this about Reinhard?

  The cellar was cold and dark as pitch. She found the old lantern and book of matches sitting on the top step. The tiny orb of light was all the illumination she needed to creep down the stairs.

  No one had to tell me, Fräulein Müller. All of the characteristics I’ve listed are typical of a certain type of personality. This type treats life as a chess match and is always eight moves ahead of anyone else. He looks at others as opponents or victims, never as friends or lovers.

  She clutched the stairway railing for balance. Below, the cellar yawned—a black hole.

  I hesitate to diagnose your brother because I’ve never met with him as a patient, and the only reason I speak frankly to you is because I fear for your safety. But you must know the truth. Your brother is a psychopath.

  The strange word had sounded familiar; she had felt a vague rustling in her mind, as though her thoughts were stretching back into the distant past, but the sensation fell away before she could snatch hold of it.

  The cellar’s packed dirt floor felt cool and soft beneath her bare feet. The lantern’s light barely touched the darkness, turning the vegetable bins along the opposite wall into shadows.

  Psychopaths are distinguished primarily by their utter lack of conscience and lack of remorse for misdeeds, Whitestone had said, and their inability to bond properly with family and friends. They care for no one but themselves.

  What you’re describing sounds like a monster.

  Not a monster, but someone who is deeply, profoundly ill.

  The boarders’ trunks and boxes sat in the far corner. For a fee, residents could store their extra belongings in the cellar. The one she wanted was stamped HARTMANN—her mother’s maiden name—along its curved top.

  Have you ever noticed the similiarities between your brother and Herr Hitler? Whitestone had asked. They are, perhaps, sides of the same coin, or distorted reflections of each other.

  You mean . . . they are both psychopaths. But that can’t be right! They’re not the same.

  In many ways, all psychopaths are identical.

  She knelt before her mother’s trunk. The hinges squealed when she opened it. An old photograph of her father and Uncle Dolf stared at her from the top of the piles of junk. They stood in a field, dressed in their Great War uniforms, a small white terrier at their feet. The war comrades, so young it made her heart ache, thin and haggard from meager rations, Uncle Dolf nearly unrecognizable behind a drooping mustache, like a Spanish desperado. His old wartime memories were troubling him, Papa had said to Herr Gerlich, only sixteen hours before he was killed. . . .

  Surely, Herr Doktor Whitestone, psychopaths are rare creatures. Two residing in the same city, with such interconnected lives, would strain the limits of credulity.

  Even the flat black-and-white image couldn’t soften the magnetic pull of Hitler’s gaze. Shuddering, she flipped the photograph over.

  What I have witnessed may be hard to believe. But the NSDAP leadership seems to contain an extraordinarily high number of mentally diseased men. Narcissists, psychopaths, lovers of violence and death—something about National Socialism appeals to them on an elemental level.

  There were stacks of loose papers—letters, her report cards and Reinhard’s, a lavender-colored book of pressed wildflowers, an album full of dusty daguerreotypes of people she didn’t recognize, an old-looking report from a doctor’s visit—and finally, near the bottom, what she had been looking for, a stack of envelopes jumbled together.

  I wish you weren’t going back to England, she had said when Whitestone closed the suitcase.

  You still have my card, don’t you?

  Yes. I shall write to you, Herr Doktor, if it is agreeable to you.

  He had smiled then and patted her hand. I am expressing myself poorly. The card is an invitation to come to my home. Anytime. I would be honored if you would like to stay with my family. His smile had widened at her obvious amazement. You are a remarkable y
oung woman, Fräulein Müller. If you were ever to have need of my assistance, I would be glad to do all in my power to help you.

  It was more than she had ever expected or dared to hope for. Tears had closed her throat, so all she could do was nod and smile her thanks. He had taken her face in his hands and kissed both of her cheeks, as her father had.

  In that instant, realization had blazed across her mind like a tongue of flame. She knew what she was meant to do. She wouldn’t be a doctor and heal sick people’s bodies; she would be a psychoanalyst and heal their minds. Somehow, she would find a way to pay for her schooling, and she would do for others what she had always wanted someone to do for her family—release the illness trapped within brains.

  Now she flipped through the envelopes. It was all wrong. She thumbed through them twice before she could accept the truth. None were addressed to Mama in her father’s hand; they were a motley collection of letters, some from her grandparents, others from her mother’s younger sister, still others from old school friends. None were from her father. All of the letters she had watched Mama pack away after Papa’s death—all of the letters he had written to his wife during the Great War, and she had held together with a faded pink ribbon—were gone.

  “Gone?” Mama repeated as she spooned porridge into bowls for the boarders’ breakfast. “I haven’t had those letters for years, Gretl.”

  Gretchen placed the bowls on a tray, listening for Reinhard’s heavy tramp on the stair. Nothing yet. She still had time to question her mother. “Did you throw them away—”

  “Of course not.” Her mother sounded impatient. Her movements were jerky as she poured coffee. “Herr Hess offered to take them for me. For safekeeping, he said, and I was grateful for his kindness because one’s possessions are not always secure in a boardinghouse.”

  Gretchen placed a handful of checked cloth napkins on the tray. “Herr Hess took Papa’s old letters?”

  “That’s right.” Her mother wiped the counter. “Considerate, wasn’t it?”

  What possible use could Rudolf Hess have for her father’s old wartime correspondence? She lifted the tray with trembling hands. Something was in those letters. A secret Hess didn’t want anyone to know.

  She knew Herr Hess’s reputation as a peculiar, but always exceptionally polite and devoted, follower of Hitler. He would do anything for his beloved Führer. Including, perhaps, hide an important secret from Hitler’s past.

  But, in his own way, Hess was a man of honor. During evenings at Café Heck, while other men boasted about their exploits and wheedled for better jobs within the Party, Hess sat quietly, sipping beer, his gaze trained on Hitler. He cared nothing for his own advancement within the Party. He cared only for his Führer. He wouldn’t destroy something that didn’t belong to him. Which meant those letters still existed somewhere.

  Hastily, she dumped the tray on the dining room table, barely hearing the old ladies’ twitters. The hour was nearly eight; Daniel might still be home. If she rang him now, she might catch him before he left for work.

  Nerves wound in her stomach as she handed out bowls of porridge. There was only one place Hess would possibly think was safe enough to hide the letters—his office at the Braunes Haus.

  Which meant she needed to break in.

  The next night, Gretchen crouched in Hanfstaengl’s office, listening to the building settling all around her. Nothing. No footsteps, no doors opening or closing. During the day, the place seemed as busy as a beehive at the height of pollination season. Tonight, it was as silent as a grave.

  Slowly, she uncurled from her hiding position behind Hanfstaengl’s desk. For the past three hours, since the six o’clock end of the workday, she had waited.

  Around nine o’clock, she heard the bronze front doors bang closed. Perhaps the two front guards locking up and leaving for the night. Schedules at the Braunes Haus were unpredictable at best, and she had heard that Hitler sometimes liked to conduct business late at night.

  With careful fingers, she seized the door handle and pulled the door open. An empty, darkened corridor stretched out in either direction. No one. And Hitler wouldn’t come back this evening. He was the guest of honor at an NSDAP dinner party, one of those fund-raising events designed to wring coins and tears from old ladies. Which was why she had waited an entire day before attempting to get into Hess’s office. Hitler was gone until morning, luncheon probably, judging by his late rising habits. She wouldn’t chance running into him. She was safe.

  But her legs shook as she crept down the stairs. All of the lights in the front hall had been extinguished, transforming it into a pocket of shifting shadows. For an instant, she paused on the bottom stair, listening, holding her breath. Still nothing. It must be now.

  She darted across the hall. The enormous front door groaned when she shoved it open. A lone figure stood on the sidewalk, its back to her. Daniel. He had come, as he had sworn he would.

  When she had rung him up yesterday morning, whispering her newest suspicions and her plans to sneak into Hess’s office, he had insisted on accompanying her. You mustn’t be alone, he had said. I want to help you. And she couldn’t stop the warmth flooding her heart. He cared.

  “All clear,” she whispered.

  He sprang up the steps and, together, they ran up the grand staircase. A long corridor lined with closed doors spread the length of the second story. Hess’s office stood beside Hitler’s. Locked, but a few seconds’ work with Daniel’s pick solved that problem.

  The curtains hadn’t been drawn, so silvery starlight sprinkled across the room. A desk, a few chairs, a couple of filing cabinets: an ordinary-looking office.

  Daniel yanked open a drawer. “A stack of envelopes tied with a pink ribbon, right?”

  “Yes. They were all written by my father to my mother, so they’ll be addressed to Liesel.” She darted a glance at the door. Still no sound. Hitler’s office was only a few feet away. . . . She might never have another chance.

  “Go,” Daniel said. With rapid fingers, he flipped through the papers in the drawer, then eased it shut and opened another. He didn’t stop searching to look at her, saying only, “Hess is a methodical man. If the letters are here, it shouldn’t take me long to find them. And you mightn’t have another opportunity to go through Hitler’s office.”

  How could he understand her so completely? She barely had time to wonder, just nodded in gratitude and rushed out.

  The door to Hitler’s anteroom was unlocked.

  She hurried into his office. She’d been in here so many times, playing the part of prattling pet whenever Hitler was in a poor mood and needed cheering up.

  The room looked different in the moonlight. Quieter, less ostentatious. The highly polished wood and brass gleamed. Across the room stood his desk, small, plain, a flat table with several drawers. Overhead, a chandelier hung darkly, its unlit bulbs covered by miniature green lampshades. Formal red upholstered chairs lined the walls. A bouquet of yellow roses in a cut glass vase sat on a round table. On the wall opposite hung a portrait of Hitler’s idol, Frederick the Great.

  She rushed to the desk. The drawers opened easily. But the memorandums and copies of official letters she had expected weren’t there. A fountain pen, a razor-sharp letter opener, a handful of thumbtacks. Nothing hinting at the desk owner’s personality. Her breath caught. A blank canvas. Like Reinhard’s room . . .

  She closed the drawer and opened another, filled with receipts from an auto garage. Details of repairs to Hitler’s precious red Mercedes. Scribbled notes about used cars he was interested in buying . . . She tidied them and slid them back in the drawer.

  A thick manila folder lay inside the last drawer. More car receipts, most likely, or some other meaningless papers. She opened it and froze.

  A smudged charcoal drawing . . . of her. Although the portrait was clumsily done, she recognized the high curve of her forehead, the long length of her nose, the wide shape of her mouth, the childish braid.

  Shock bla
nked her mind. Like an automaton, she looked through the drawings. All head portraits, done in charcoal or pencil, without a trace of color. Pictures of her, laughing, smiling, frowning pensively. Two pictures of her and Eva, her oval face close to Eva’s round one, as though she were confiding a secret. And a dozen portraits of Geli. Gazing down, eyes shadowed, dark curls dusting her shoulders, or staring off into the distance. Never looking directly at the artist.

  She closed the folder. Somehow, she felt as though she had seen something indecent. As though she had pushed open a door into Hitler’s mind, one that he wanted to keep closed. But she couldn’t understand what lay beyond the door.

  Why had these drawings been concealed in his desk, and why had he never confided that he had drawn her portrait so many times? He always said he had wished to become an artist, but the Academy of Arts in Vienna had been against him. Was he somehow ashamed of his sketches? At their lack of fine skill? Or was art now beneath him, since he had become a well-known politician?

  Somewhere, a door opened and closed. Please, let that be Daniel. Her shaking hands placed the folder back in the drawer and closed it.

  She hurried out. Daniel was stepping into the anteroom as she entered. He held a pack of white envelopes tied with a pale pink ribbon. “You found them.”

  “Yes.” Daniel looked grave. “We should leave.”

  Together, they checked the offices a final time, making sure everything had been put back precisely, then jiggled the locks back into place. They raced down the stairs and outside, into the still-warm night. At this late hour, no cars cruised the avenue and no pedestrians walked its sidewalks. Gretchen’s heart throbbed against her ribs. They had done it.

  They said nothing until they had walked several side streets and reached a streetcar stop. No one else waited on the corner with them, and only the lighted windows in the nearby buildings’ top floors indicated anyone else was awake in the city.