Prisoner of Night and Fog

by Anne Blankman

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  37

  DANIEL’S COUSINS HAD GONE TO FRANKFURT AM Main for the weekend to visit their parents. Without them, the apartment felt large and quiet. From Daniel’s doorway, Gretchen watched him light the candle on his nightstand. Its golden warmth touched his face, softening its angles and planes.

  She had never been inside his room before. There were two narrow beds, one wedged beneath a window, the other shoved against a whitewashed wall. Plain cambric curtains framed the window, and an ancient-looking armoire stood in the corner. Stacks of books covered the writing table, and beneath lay a pile of clothes she suspected were desperately in need of laundering. Cheap reproductions were tacked on the walls. She recognized the sharp Cubist shapes of Picasso and the wild colors of Klimt—two artists Hitler loathed.

  “I shouldn’t be in here,” she said.

  Daniel looked at her. “Shouldn’t? Or don’t want to?”

  He stood so close, she felt warmth emanating from his skin. “I want to be here.”

  His gaze locked on hers. “With a Jew?”

  Once she had seen him as nothing more than that. She moved nearer, keeping her eyes on his. Not a caricature, but a person, whole and wonderfully complex and unique. Love for him welled in her heart. “With Daniel.”

  “We are one and the same,” he said, looking serious. “My faith is part of me, Gretchen. If we wish to be together, we must accept every part of each other.”

  Hesitantly, she placed her hands on his shoulders, felt the muscles flexing beneath her fingers. “I accept every part of you.”

  He smiled and cupped the back of her neck, propelling her closer until they kissed. Everywhere his lips touched, she felt circles of sparks revolving under her skin. He kissed her mouth and her neck and her temple, and she kissed him back, his mouth, and the delicate curve where his neck met his shoulder, and the warm flesh beneath his ear, and she felt the blood in her veins soften and smooth into liquid honey.

  “You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “So lovely, my Gretchen.”

  She drew back. Beautiful. How could she be pretty, when her family was mired in such ugliness and secrecy? She sank onto the bed’s edge, staring at the unevenly varnished floorboards. What must Daniel think, when he looked at her? What must he see?

  “Gretchen?” The mattress sank under his added weight. His knee brushed hers. “What is it?”

  “I’m not beautiful. My family . . .” She forced the words out. “My family is twisted into such ugliness.”

  For a moment, he was quiet. “You are your own person, separate from your brother and your parents. Do you really think you’re responsible for what they became? These are ties of blood, nothing more. You have chosen who you want to be.”

  Her throat tightened. “I’m so ashamed of them.”

  For an instant, he said nothing. “Do you think I don’t understand shame?” he asked at last. “I’m a Jew. All my life, I’ve been hated and mocked.”

  He stretched himself out on the bed, pillowing his head on his interlocked hands. Scarcely believing her nerve, she lay down beside him. She rolled onto her side, resting her head on his chest.

  He told her a story she had never heard before. Last December his father had taken him to the Mozartsaal theater on the Nollendorfplatz in Berlin. The American version of the film All Quiet on the Western Front was playing for its second night. Automatically, Gretchen stilled, for she knew its plot. She had read the book last year, even though Hitler despised it, as he despised all books that portrayed the Germans’ experiences in the Great War in a critical light. But she had been curious, and had hidden it beneath her stack of library books.

  The evening was supposed to be a grand treat, Daniel said. As the film began, hordes of men poured into the darkened theater, screaming, “Jews, get out!” Missiles flew off the balcony, falling onto the seats below, where Daniel and his father were sitting. The missiles exploded on impact, filling the air with a hideous smell.

  Stink bombs, Daniel had realized, even as people started screaming, and he started to get up, shouting at his father to escape. Then he heard mice squeaking—the sound was horribly magnified, as though countless numbers were rushing toward them—and he felt their sharp claws digging into his shoes and saw their little eyes shining in the darkness, dozens—no, hundreds—of white mice, swarming across the floor.

  He pulled on his father’s arm, urging him to hurry. But his father shrank back, murmuring if they stayed silent they would be left alone. SA brownshirts raced up and down the aisles, grabbing men at random and punching them in the face, shouting, “Jews, get out!”

  Daniel felt hands gripping his arms and spinning him around. Light from the flickering movie screen illuminated the SA man’s face. Grinning.

  Daniel’s hand clenched into a fist. But before he could land a punch, the other man hit him squarely in the jaw. Daniel fell back, half-collapsing from the sudden white-hot pain. His father seized him, dragging him down into the seats. “Not a word,” his father said, and the man went on, searching for more victims as police whistles blasted.

  Daniel couldn’t look at his father. Papa had done nothing. He had watched as that man hit his son. Because he thought silence and acceptance meant survival. In that moment, as police officers started pouring into the cinema and the SA hordes ran out, Daniel resolved never again to feel ashamed. Never to submit. He would fight until his last breath. Only death would stop him.

  When he had finished, he and Gretchen lay quietly for a moment. Her beautiful Daniel, passionate and loyal and true to himself. She had never known anyone like him. Like sunlight sparkling on clear water, not the fog and shadows she had known all her life.

  She sat up, so she could look him squarely in the face when she said the words she had so longed to say back to him on the train ride from Berlin.

  “I love you, Daniel.”

  He smiled. The candlelight reflected in his eyes, glimmers of gold in the brown. “I love you, too.”

  A golden warmth pooled in her chest. She couldn’t stop smiling as she lay down beside him again. Through their clothes, she felt his heart thudding into her back. Listening to his soft, even breathing lulled her into dreams, and she surrendered to their welcome oblivion.

  In the morning, they had hard rolls with cheese and coffee for breakfast. Gretchen checked her watch. Half past nine. They had slept terribly late.

  “I must hurry.” She drained her cup. “I’m due to meet Geli at eleven.”

  Daniel stared at her. “You’re still planning on going to Hitler’s apartment?”

  She carried her dishes into the kitchen and set them in the sink. “Herr Hitler left for Nuremberg last night. He’s gone on a campaigning trip he’s been planning for quite some time, so he won’t miss it. Sometimes he insists on Geli’s having chaperones, but not if she’s going shopping with a girlfriend. There will be no one at the apartment except for Geli and the servants.”

  She filled a pot with water and set it on a burner to boil. Daniel dumped his plate and cup into the sink. His face was dark.

  “I must, don’t you see?” Gretchen asked. “Geli needs to know that he’s dating”—Eva’s name stuck in her throat, and she hurried on—“someone else, and she’s free of him. Daniel,” she added when he said nothing, and took his hands in hers, “you didn’t see her face at the picnic, when she whispered that her uncle was watching her again. She loves him, I think, but she feels trapped.”

  He sighed. “You have a good heart, Gretchen. Please, be careful.”

  The pot started to boil, and Daniel reached past her to pick it up. “I’ve got to get to the office. There’s talk there will be a Communist demonstration in the Odeonsplatz tonight. If there is, the brownshirts are sure to be there to start a fight. My editor wants me to cover it.”

  “Can I come with you?”


  He poured the boiling water into the sink. Steam floated up, hiding him from her for an instant. “Your brother might be there. He’s one of the SA’s best brawlers.”

  She raised her chin. “It’s a small city. I’ll have to see him again sooner or later.”

  Daniel had started to scrub the dishes, but he stopped to look at her. “That sounds as though you plan to stay in Munich. It isn’t safe for you here anymore. Not now that your brother has seen us together.”

  “I know.” She felt suddenly shy and busied herself with tidying the table. She picked up the bread knife and her pocketbook. “I’m not leaving until I can learn what happened to my father. But I must get out at some point. There’s nothing else here for me but you.”

  His expression was so remote she couldn’t guess what he was thinking. “You’d like Berlin,” he said at last. “And my parents would like having me closer again.”

  Was he suggesting what she thought? She wasn’t sure how to ask him, and before she could say anything, he resumed washing the dishes. He hadn’t put on his suit jacket yet, and she saw the muscles moving beneath his white shirt as he scrubbed the plates in circular motions. A boy who washed dishes.

  His lopsided grin pulled the left corner of his mouth higher than the right. “Are you going to watch or help?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” She snatched up a dishtowel and dried a plate. “It’s just . . . I’ve never seen a boy wash dishes before. It’s wonderful.”

  He surprised her by catching her hand in his wet one and kissing the knuckles, every one.

  After they finished cleaning, she left quickly, before she could change her mind. Jews and Eastern European immigrants walked past—some of the ladies in all black, some of the men in traditional Hasidic dress, and other men and women wearing ordinary suits and dresses, plain and much mended—and everywhere she heard them talking to one another, German, Yiddish, Russian, Polish, all these unfamiliar words wrapping around her like a cloak. She might have been in a different world from the Munich she had always known.

  She watched her reflection in storefront windows. No one was following her, but a few of the pedestrians glanced at her in obvious fear. They must have noticed her necklace. In another section of Munich, she would have seemed an ordinary girl. Here, her black skirt and green blouse and heels marked her as not one of Isavorstadt’s typical residents. And the Hakenkreuz, gleaming gold around her neck, identified her as one of the district’s enemies. She touched the charm, its sharp edges biting into her fingers. No, she wouldn’t take it off. Not until she had learned once and for all who had killed her father, and she could cut the chains linking her to National Socialism forever.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  38

  HITLER’S HOUSEKEEPER ANSWERED THE DOOR after one knock.

  “Oh, Fräulein Müller, it’s you.” A handkerchief fluttered in Frau Reichert’s hands. Her normally placid face looked pale and drawn. “I was expecting the police.”

  Gretchen started. “The police? What’s happened?”

  Frau Reichert hesitated. “It’s—it’s Geli.” She held the handkerchief to her mouth, as though she wished she could muffle the words. “Herr Hitler will be so brokenhearted when he gets back.”

  Fear squeezed Gretchen’s heart. Geli must be hurt. She had to get to her at once. Quickly, she pushed past the housekeeper. From the front hall, she heard men’s low murmurs, but not the silvery tinkle of Geli’s voice.

  Four men sat in the parlor, ranged in a circle, leaning forward and talking so intently none noticed her approach. From the doorway, she watched them for an instant. Even from the back, she recognized the thin slope of Rudolf Hess’s shoulders and the cloud of his dark hair. She didn’t recognize the others: a baby-faced brown-haired man; an older fellow with a long, heavy face; and a fourth gentleman, who seemed familiar, middle-aged, thin, black-spectacled, balding.

  Sweat beaded this man’s upper lip as he said, “The bad publicity will be devastating.”

  “Can’t be helped,” The older man growled. He pointed at the baby-faced man. “Do it.” The fellow bent over the telephone and dialed. “Listen, you’re to tell the press it was an accident, not a suicide.”

  Gretchen froze. Suicide? No. They couldn’t be talking about . . . Her mind wouldn’t complete the thought.

  The baby-faced man exclaimed into the telephone, “What! You didn’t! You’re awfully quick off the mark. It’s only been twenty minutes since I last rang you!” He ran a hand through his hair, his forehead furrowed in concentration as he listened. “No, it isn’t your fault, naturally not. Good-bye.”

  He hung up and groaned. “We’re too late. The Braunes Haus has already released a statement to the press. What a disaster.”

  Gretchen gripped the door frame so hard her fingers went numb. No. They couldn’t be talking about Geli.

  The old man sighed. “All right, let’s think. After Hitler and Hoffmann left last night, Geli succumbed to her growing fears regarding her future as a professional singer. She committed suicide last night.”

  Geli was dead.

  Gretchen cried out before she could stop herself.

  All four swung around to stare at her.

  “What the devil is she doing here?” Hess surged to his feet.

  She staggered backward. Impossible. Geli would never kill herself. Not laughing, sweet, merry Geli. She had been too alive to seek death.

  “Fräulein Müller, come here,” Hess extended his hand toward her.

  She spun away from him and raced through the sprawling apartment to the long corridor where Hitler’s and Geli’s bedrooms sat side by side. She wouldn’t believe it. Not until she had seen for herself.

  Geli’s door had been broken down. The door frame’s hinges hung drunkenly, and wooden splinters lined the gaping hole. Gretchen skidded to a stop in the doorway and stared.

  In the room, Geli lay facedown on the floor. Blood had pooled beneath her chest and spread out on either side of her body. It had faded to the color of rust. She must have been dead for hours. One arm stretched across the carpet, as if reaching for the gun lying on the sofa.

  Gretchen knew that gun so well—it was the Walther 6.35 that Hitler kept on a shelf in his bedroom. Nausea hit her like a strong wave, and she had to brace herself on the door frame so she didn’t sink to her knees.

  She snatched a quick impression of the room. It was as she remembered: the dainty vanity table crowded with pots of powder and bottles of scent; the prettily made bed; Hitler’s landscape painting on the wall; the framed photograph of Muck on the desk. Today, there was a sheet of paper on the table. If she squinted, she could make out the final sentence. When I come to Vienna—I hope very soon—we’ll drive together to Semmering an . . . The sentence stopped in the middle of a word. Not a suicide note.

  Hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her back.

  “You mustn’t see this, Fräulein Müller. It’s too upsetting for a young girl—”

  She ripped herself out of the man’s grasp. It was Hess. His deep-set eyes seemed hooded beneath his thick brows.

  “What happened to her?” she cried.

  “Fräulein Raubal was distraught,” he said in his slow, deep voice. “Or perhaps she was playing with the Führer’s gun and it went off.”

  Geli would never hurt herself. Gretchen felt her insides turn to water. Unless she had been driven to it. Even then, Gretchen knew who must be responsible.

  Hess took her arm, guiding her along the corridor. Gretchen moved like a sleepwalker. Each thought seemed to travel miles before surfacing in her brain. If only she could break through this haze and think. . . .

  “It’s such a terrible tragedy,” Hess said. “The Führer’s grieved beyond measure. I telephoned him myself at the hotel in Nuremberg only minutes ago. I have never heard him scream like that. He’s in such a state that we a
ll fear he may do himself a mischief.”

  Gretchen stumbled. Geli lay dead on the floor, and Hess was worried about Hitler’s well-being. Because he was the only one who counted.

  The older man appeared at the end of the corridor. “Herr Hess, you must leave. The police should be here any minute. Herr Schwarz shall remain. He’s a city councilman,” he added as Hess opened his mouth, probably to protest. “It’s best for the Party if a prominent citizen can deal with the inspectors before Herr Hitler returns.”

  “Very well. But I should prefer to remain for the Führer’s sake.”

  “You can best serve him by leaving.” The man stared at Gretchen while Hess strode away.

  Panic swamped her chest. What was this stranger going to do to her? As she backed away, his hand shot out and fastened on her wrist. “I’ll say this only once, so listen well. Herr Hitler and Herr Hoffmann left yesterday evening on their campaign trip. Afterward, Fräulein Raubal went into her room. She must have shot herself sometime during the night. This morning, the servants were concerned when she didn’t appear for breakfast, and they broke into her locked room. Do you understand?”

  She understood nothing. She tried to pull away from him, but his grip remained firm.

  “Let go of me!”

  A doorbell jangled. “The police,” he muttered. “Come.”

  She wouldn’t go anywhere with him. She tore her arm free and raced headlong down the corridor.

  Another man stepped out from the entryway. She was going too fast to stop herself, and she collided with him. She heard the air push out of his chest in a sudden gasp. In the dim light, his spectacles had turned into blank discs, concealing his eyes from her. The fourth man from the parlor. She remembered him now, from countless dull evenings at Café Heck. Franz Xaver Schwarz, the Party treasurer. She could count on no help from him.

  “Ah, Herr Schwarz,” the older man said behind her. “Take the young lady to Frau Reichert’s room. I don’t think we can depend on her discretion, so there’s no need to alert the police to her presence.”