Prisoner of Night and Fog

by Anne Blankman

  She tore around the corner, the Amalienstrasse slipping away behind her. Eva was gone to her. Hitler had taken her, too. Silent sobs filled Gretchen’s chest. She pushed Eva’s tear-streaked face out of her head and pulled forward the image of Geli standing among the sloe trees along the shore, murmuring that her uncle was watching her again. Eva had made her choice. Geli still had a chance to make one.

  She didn’t stop running until she reached a hotel and slid into one of the telephone boxes in the lobby, closing the accordion doors and breathing hard in the sudden silence. For a moment, she rested her forehead against the wall, letting the smooth feel of the wood tether her to the world.

  With shaking fingers, she dialed the exchange for Hitler’s apartment, hoping Geli had returned from the mountains by now.

  She had. “Gretchen! How are you, darling? What a splendid time I had with you at Haus Wachenfeld!”

  “I must speak with you.” The words tumbled out. “It’s about your uncle. He’s dating—”

  “Sorry, darling, I can’t hear a thing.” Geli’s silvery laugh rang out. “Uncle Alf’s coming through the door now and making a tremendous racket.” She paused. “He’s angry about something. But it can’t be me.”

  Geli sounded anxious. “He ordered me back yesterday afternoon, and I barely argued, even though my brother had come all the way from Austria to visit, and now Uncle Alf is leaving tonight anyway on one of his silly campaigning trips.”

  Through the telephone wire, Gretchen heard muffled shouting. Something about dancing. “Geli, what’s happening—”

  Geli sighed. “Uncle Alf’s merely raging again because I want to go to a dance. Like any ordinary girl my age, I might add!” She nearly shouted the last words, and Gretchen imagined her aiming them at Hitler as he came into the room. “Uncle Alf, I shall be along for luncheon in a moment.”

  A pause. Then Gretchen heard harsh, labored breathing mingling with Geli’s shallow intakes of air. Hitler. He was listening. There had been no click of a separate extension being picked up. He must be pressing his head against Geli’s, straining to share the earpiece so he could eavesdrop on their conversation.

  She didn’t know what to say. “I—I thought—”

  “We could go to the shops tomorrow morning?” Geli finished. “Splendid. I’ll take you around to my favorite hat store in the Maximilianstrasse. Shall we say at eleven?”

  The tension in Gretchen’s shoulders eased. Geli had understood. They could speak freely in the shops, without the chaperones Hitler often insisted accompany his half niece. By tomorrow, Hitler would be in Nuremberg, giving Geli enough time to learn about Eva and get out of the city, away from him.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She listened to Geli’s murmured good-bye, the words mixing with Uncle Dolf’s breathing. And when she rang off, she couldn’t stop shivering, even as she stepped into the warm, fog-filled air and headed back to Daniel’s apartment.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  36

  GRETCHEN SPENT THE AFTERNOON IN DANIEL’S apartment, listening to the ticking of her wristwatch, waiting for the cover of darkness. Finally, night laid itself across the city, and she and Daniel ventured to the boardinghouse, creeping into the back courtyard through an alley on the adjacent street.

  She watched the lights in the boardinghouse blink out, one by one. Stones bit into her knees, and she half-rose from her crouched position next to a walnut tree. A shadow was moving behind the kitchen windows. For an instant, it paused, and Gretchen could trace its profile in the air if she wished, for she knew it so well: long, narrow nose, full lips, smooth forehead, broad jaw. Reinhard.

  Beside her, she sensed Daniel moving in the darkness. She felt his hand touch the small of her back. “He can’t see you, Gretchen.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. But her fingers tightened on her knife’s hilt anyway.

  Through the window, she saw Reinhard open the door into the front hall, his shape outlined by harsh electric light. Then the door swung shut, and the light filling the slivers of space around the door went out. He must be going upstairs. It was time.

  Gretchen and Daniel ran forward lightly. The back door was locked, but a few turns of her wrist forced the locking mechanism to slip out of place.

  The kitchen was dark and empty. Beside the pantry stood the door leading to the cellar, and on the top step sat the lantern and a box of matches, just as she had left them a few days ago. Together, she and Daniel moved cautiously down the rickety steps.

  When they reached the packed-dirt floor, Gretchen slipped the knife into her skirt pocket and Daniel held the lantern aloft, its tiny circle of gold battling the gloom. In the corner loomed the enormous coal furnace, a sleeping monster, silent and unlit. Vegetable bins lined the opposite wall, and the boarders’ trunks and boxes sat in the cellar’s far corner.

  She flung open Mama’s trunk and pawed through the jumble of junk: old letters, photo albums, the book of dried wildflowers, a sachet of potpourri that had lost its scent long ago. There it was, at the bottom. Her heart pounded as she lifted the paper out. The paper’s stamp bore the words DOKTOR BAUER CLINIC OF PSYCHOANALYTICAL TREATMENT 56 SENDLINGER STRASSE MÜNCHEN, and someone had added the date, 3 October 1923. A month, almost to the day, before the putsch and Papa’s death.

  Daniel brought the lantern closer to the paper. In silence, they scanned the medical report. Doktor Bauer had seen Reinhard Müller, age ten, on the preceding day. After interviewing the child, and speaking with both parents regarding the child’s past behavior, the doctor wrote, it was his expert opinion that Reinhard Müller displayed the symptoms of a developing psychopath.

  Gretchen let out a small cry. Her mother had gone to the doctor’s appointment, too. Her mother had known and had kept them in the same house.

  Daniel touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak. But Daniel seemed to understand her need to go on. He squeezed her shoulder, and they turned back to the report.

  It was his opinion, the doctor continued in his looping handwriting, that the child had not developed the ability to bond with others during his infant years. Without treatment, such as talk therapy or electric shock therapy, the child’s behavior would worsen. Violent outbursts would increase in frequency. Lack of empathy would grow more pronounced. Without proper intervention, the child would eventually progress from playing tricks on others to brutal forms of retribution.

  Gretchen folded the paper with shaking hands. Now she understood why Mama hadn’t taken Reinhard in for treatment. After Papa’s death, they could have afforded a physician’s fees—someone in the Party would have given them money for the therapy.

  But Mama loved Reinhard. She couldn’t bear to see him locked away in an asylum.

  Gretchen had to swallow twice before she could speak. “It’s almost ten o’clock. In a few minutes, my mother should check the first floor one final time before bed. We can wait for her in the kitchen.”

  Daniel kissed her cheek. “You aren’t alone,” he said. “Not anymore. I’ll be with you.”

  She nodded, blinking hard. She could withstand anything, as long as Daniel was with her. She watched as Daniel closed the trunk, and they turned to go.

  A door opened in the darkness above them. Reinhard stood at the top of the stairs. He had turned on the light in the kitchen, and the yellow glow lit his back and the sides of his face, leaving most of him in shadow. Gretchen saw his eyes gleaming, watching them.

  She couldn’t move. Beside her, she heard Daniel’s quick intake of breath. His hand brushed hers, a silent warning. They must be careful.

  “I thought I heard something,” Reinhard said. “What are you doing, mucking about down here?” His eyes flicked over Daniel. “Who’s this?”

  Gretchen found her voice. “He’s my friend.” Even to h
er ears, her voice sounded unnaturally high. “We—we just wanted to talk to Mama.”

  “In the cellar?” Reinhard laughed. In his careless way, he loped down the steps, leaving the door open. He glanced at Daniel again. “You look so familiar. . . . I’d swear I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “We haven’t met.” Daniel’s voice was hard. His hand patted his breast pocket, searching for something.

  Oh, God, another minute and Reinhard might remember that he’d seen Daniel at Hitler’s speeches at the Circus Krone, or sitting with the other Munich Post reporters at Café Heck, watching Hitler and his cronies at their regular table.

  Reinhard smiled. His teeth were a white slash. “Where have you been, Gretchen? Mama and I have been wondering where you went after Uncle Dolf summoned you back to Munich. Have you been with him all this time?” He paused. “Shall we start calling you Frau Hitler?”

  The steps creaked. “Reinhard?” Mama called. “Who are you talking to?”

  She appeared on the stairs, wraithlike in a white nightgown and robe. Barefoot, she hurried down the steps, stopping when she saw Gretchen. “My God, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”

  She flew the rest of the way and wrapped trembling arms around Gretchen. “Who is this with you?” she asked, pulling back to look at Daniel. “Don’t tell me you’ve been with a boy for the last two days! And what’s this?” She snatched the paper out of Gretchen’s hand.

  “No!” Gretchen darted forward. Her mother mustn’t see the paper now, while Reinhard watched. But it was too late. One glance had been enough. Slowly, her mother’s arms fell to her sides. Her eyes were dull.

  “You know about Reinhard,” Mama said.

  “Yes.” Gretchen felt Daniel take her hand. His presence steadied her enough so she could ask. There could be no more caution. She might never have another chance. “Papa knew Uncle Dolf had received the same diagnosis, didn’t he?”

  Reinhard moved closer. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “You don’t understand.” Mama stretched out her hands, palms up, in a pleading gesture. “Papa and I knew the doctor had to be wrong! Herr Hitler was the leader of a new political party, not a raving madman! So we knew our Reinhard wasn’t a monster either. All the doctors were wrong.”

  Daniel brought his mouth to Gretchen’s ear. “We must get out. Your brother . . .”

  Reinhard stood, motionless, at the bottom of the stairs. Blocking the exit. Smiling in that blank, easy way of his. He rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets. But Gretchen knew how quickly he could move if he wanted. How would they ever get away from here? Through her skirt, she touched the cool metal knife in her pocket. That was one way. She prayed she wouldn’t have to use it.

  “I don’t like people speaking in riddles,” Reinhard said.

  “I’m sorry, Reinhard.” Mama went to him, reaching up to stroke his cheek, but he stepped away, his feet hitting the back of the bottom step. He nearly fell. As he regained his balance, his eyes flashed with fury. Gretchen lost her breath. For an instant, he had looked so different. So enraged. As though the mask he wore had slipped out of place.

  “Please, Reinhard, darling,” Mama cried. “Don’t be angry! I have kept secrets for your sake, so you wouldn’t be sent away. I have loved and protected you always!”

  Reinhard glanced at Gretchen over their mother’s shaking shoulders. “At least I can depend on you not to dissolve into hysterics. What does she mean?”

  “Don’t,” Daniel said, gripping Gretchen’s hand, and she understood. If they hoped to get out of the cellar, they mustn’t upset her brother.

  “It’s nothing—” she was starting to say when her mother interrupted, sobbing.

  “How could I abandon him when I had made him what he was?”

  In one swift motion, Reinhard cupped his mother’s chin, tipping her head back so their eyes met. “Explain yourself.”

  “It was my fault.” Mama kept crying. “The psychoanalyst we took you to—he said I didn’t hold you enough when you were a baby. But I was pregnant with Gretchen, and so ill and exhausted all the time, and I let you lie in your crib for hours so I could sleep. At first, you used to cry all the time. And then you never did. Ever. It was unnatural. You didn’t seem to feel anything at all. I would try to hug you, and you would push me away. . . .”

  Gretchen glanced at Daniel. He shook his head slightly, in silent understanding. They shouldn’t try to run past Reinhard. There was no way both of them would make it up the stairs.

  “And then Papa came home from the war, so horribly changed,” Mama choked out. “So sad and so angry and unable to control himself. And the peculiar things you used to do—pushing Gretchen into a wall and laughing, or throwing stray animals into rain barrels—they confused us so much. Herr Hitler always said you were just high-spirited, but we weren’t certain.”

  Mama trailed off. Reinhard’s expression remained calm, quiet. His eyes flicked back and forth, as they always did when he was thinking. Gretchen slipped the knife from her pocket. From the corner of her vision, she saw Daniel pull something from an inner pocket in his suit. Something metal, gleaming dully in the pale light washing down the steps from the kitchen. A pistol.

  Their eyes met. He held his right arm against his body, waiting. Her fingers tightened on the knife handle. They both might manage to get out. But what about Mama? They couldn’t leave her here with Reinhard.

  Her mother’s sobs had subsided. “Papa tried to beat you into submission, but you would stand there and watch him without saying a word. We kept hoping you would turn into a normal little boy. Then one day I found the cat. Strangled and left on the kitchen windowsill.”

  A wave of nausea rolled over Gretchen. She had been right.

  Reinhard’s hands dropped from Mama’s face. “Why are you upset?” He sounded confused. “It was only a cat.”

  Mama didn’t seem to hear him. Misery had woven itself into the fine wrinkles around her eyes and the slender slope of her shoulders. Suddenly, she looked far older than her thirty-eight years. “It was an animal, not a piece of garbage to be thrown away! We took you to a doctor, to see what he recommended. And then Papa died a few weeks later, and I knew I must keep the three of us together, however I could.”

  Reinhard sighed and looked at Daniel again. “I know I’ve seen you before—”

  “Why don’t we go upstairs,” Daniel cut in quickly, “where we can be more comfortable?”

  Shrugging, Reinhard turned and started up the steps. Thank God. He hadn’t gotten angry. Gretchen’s legs wobbled beneath her as she climbed the stairs beside her mother, Daniel just behind. In a few minutes, they could be outside.

  “Wait.” Reinhard spun around on the top stair. His eyes fastened on Daniel. “You,” he said, loading the single word with venom. His face had changed, hardening into granite. At his sides, his hands curled into fists. “You’re that reporter from the Poison Kitchen. The Yid.”

  Gretchen raised her knife. Below her, she sensed Daniel swinging his arm up, pointing the pistol directly at Reinhard. Dimly, she heard her mother gasp.

  “We prefer that our newspaper be referred to it by its proper name.” Daniel sounded cool. “Not the ridiculous appellation Hitler has given it. Now let your sister and mother pass.”

  Reinhard’s lips twisted in disgust. Then he turned and ran. Gretchen saw him race across the kitchen and hit the door hard with outstretched hands. The door swung open and shut, open and shut behind him. She heard him pound across the hall and wrench the front door open, the hinges rasping in protest. He thudded down the steps and into the street. Then all that was left of him was the echo of his running footsteps, growing fainter.

  With a small moan, Mama lowered herself to the steps. She sat, hugging her knees to her chest, sobbing.

  Gretchen knelt beside her mother. “Mama, you shouldn’t stay here. Reinhard might come back tonight.”

  Her mother lifted a tear-blotched face. “I can’t le
ave him. He’s my child. All I’ve tried to do is love and protect you both.”

  Pity stirred in Gretchen’s heart. How young and alone her mother must have felt, after Papa died, without any money or relatives willing to shelter her if she took Reinhard, too. How could a mother choose between her children? Then she thought of Reinhard, throwing her to the floor, looming over her in the darkness, and she felt sick. There were always choices.

  “I won’t leave my son,” Mama said. “I’ll be fine. Go where you will be safe, Gretl.”

  Daniel seized Gretchen’s hand, pulling her upright. “Come,” he implored, and she followed him through the kitchen and outside. They scaled the back wall, dropping easily into the courtyard of the building behind the boardinghouse. When they reached the street, they broke into a run and didn’t stop for several blocks until they saw a streetcar grinding to a halt on the corner.

  Inside, they stood close together, breathing hard, trying to ignore the curious gazes of the other passengers. A few young men, university students perhaps, and a couple of middle-aged fellows in patched trousers and jackets, slurring, probably heading home from a beer hall. Gretchen turned away from them, resting her forehead on Daniel’s shoulder, breathing him in. How long did they have before Reinhard tracked them down?

  “He doesn’t know my name,” Daniel said. He had guessed at her thoughts. “Even if he remembers it, he won’t be able to find us tonight. My cousins are listed in the city address directory, not me. I’ve moved too recently to be included in the most recent edition. We’re safe, for tonight at least.”

  “For tonight,” she repeated, and fell silent. She could not even guess what might await them in the morning.