Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Erika lay spread-eagle, face down, hands and feet bound to the bedposts—his favorite view of any woman, totally vulnerable and exposed to his predation. He would have preferred to hear her plea for his mercy, but she would not shut up when ordered, so the gag became necessary. Wouldn’t want to wake the household, would we? She had lain that way now for over an hour, her ass streaked and welted from his belt. He had raped her as the capability struck him. Eventually she would reveal everything. They always do.

  For over a week she had been up to something, avoiding him at every turn, unable to look him in the eye. She still had value to him as a social attribute to his professional career: Erika von Kredow, the officer’s wife with the striking looks and witty personality. At the last SS gathering however he had watched her interact with the male guests. She appeared distracted, yet spent an inordinate amount of time with some officers, even briefly with Klaus Pabst. There was also a new SD officer present with whom she seemed unusually animated. This gave him pause.

  Horst was surprised to learn the next morning that she had left with the boy, ostensibly to see her ill mother. Oskar had confirmed the trip to the station, and Klaus had set up a tail in Marburg. Klaus was invaluable to him. His “dagger” had discovered her disloyalty with that asshole American years before, and remained the model of loyalty and discretion in looking after his reputation and career. He wondered if Erika’s sudden trip had been a ploy to meet with someone on the train.

  Both the chauffeur and the child’s governess had been directed to keep an eye on his wife at all times. Beyond the typical outings with the boy and shopping excursions, there had been little of interest until the previous evening. Oskar had reported Erika’s visit to the National Socialist League of Women, a group he knew she avoided at all costs. And equally inexplicable was a stop at the Memorial Church on Breitscheidplatz—ostensibly for prayer—where no one had contacted her, not even God? He laughed at the absurdity, knowing his wife’s opinion of religion. And why the Charlottenburg cathedral when others were so much closer, more accessible?

  Then—thanks to Frieda Loos—he knew for certain his wife was making a fool of him. The child’s nanny first reported Erika’s reading of his private papers in the study, undoubtedly spying for one of his colleagues. Horst knew he inspired jealousy in many; brilliance always did. Then, that very morning, Erika had managed to lose Oskar’s shadow for most of the day, the boy with her. Wife and son had returned home later by cab. With Frieda’s encouragement the child revealed that his mother had met “Mutti’s friend” in a park and the two had “hugged and kissed.” How long had she been fucking this bastard? He would learn soon enough. Her lover was undoubtedly an SS colleague. Many would love to see him appear the cuckolded fool, so he had to act quickly and decisively. She would reveal the identity of her lover, and the man would disappear cleanly from her life. He would see to it personally.

  Horst intended to go slowly, enjoy the process, even if it took all night. One thing for certain, he would do nothing obvious to mar her looks. She could still be a social asset when this was over, and she would never try anything so foolhardy again after what she would endure this night. He admitted his earlier leniency was partially responsible; he had left her on her own for far too long. She had become complacent in the marriage with little appreciation for all he had given her. Without him she would still be a Hessian Hausfrau—no luxury, no society, no public admiration. It was time she learned just how dangerous he was, and tonight’s little lesson would be a good start. Horst tossed back the cognac and poured another double shot, the amber bottle now half-empty. He rose from the chair and approached the bed, steadying himself on the corner post.

  “I’m being cruel, aren’t I, darling?” he whispered in her ear, his voice as smooth as the cognac. “And most selfish.” He took another swallow, enjoying the warmth of the alcohol. “Allow me to share a bit with you. Yes, let’s sterilize your ass, my love. After all, it’s seen so much activity lately.”

  He emptied the cognac over the raw welts. Erika’s muscles clenched from the agonizing pain and she arched against the bonds, the ties tearing into her wrists and ankles, her cry stifled by the gag.

  Horst held the ceremonial SS dagger a hair’s breadth from her eye. His hand trembled. He ordered her to admire the weapon, pointing out the bluish sheen of the metal and sharp edge. She stared in terror. “There’s an important lesson here for you, my dearest.” He angled the ebony handle toward the lamp at the bedside, catching the light on the shining blade. “The words etched here read ‘My Honor is Loyalty.’ Do you even understand loyalty? Honor?” He rocked the blade back and forth, as if testing the balance of the weapon. “I would say no, you don’t. And it was on this very day, November ninth just three years ago, that I received this beautiful weapon at my SS initiation. A fitting moment to put it to first use, wouldn’t you say?”

  She strained against the bonds.

  “My dear Erika, you will always be my little treasure, and you do serve me well in public. Any man would be proud to have you.” He lifted the hair from the side of her face with the sharp tip of the blade. “But obviously one too many has done just that, and sharing you with other men insults my honor.” Horst spoke slowly to avoid slurring. He sat down heavily beside her and used the dagger to caress her shoulder, gently tracing down the length of her spine before slipping the blade slowly between her thighs. She shuddered.

  The telephone startled them both. He stood, stumbled, then regained his balance by gripping the bedpost. He lifted the receiver. “Von Kredow here. What is it?”

  The familiar voice of Klaus on the line: “Have you heard, Horst? Very big developments across the Reich this evening—Dr. Goebbels’ work, we’re told. Tomorrow should be very interesting.”

  “And for this you disturb me at this hour, and at home?” He glanced over at Erika, thinking of trying to take her again. He was probably too drunk to make it happen, but he felt the excitement growing.

  “No, Horst, another matter, something you should know about as soon as possible.” The usual deference seemed muted tonight, but perhaps it was just Horst’s difficulty concentrating on the words. “This news affects you directly.”

  “Well, out with it, for God’s sake. I don’t have all night.”

  “It’s better discussed in person, Horst. Your place within the hour?”

  “As I said, I’m busy now, I can’t be disturbed. I meet Heydrich at ten tomorrow. We’ll discuss it right after. Now, gute Nacht.” He dropped the receiver in its cradle and stood still for a moment, swaying slightly. He felt ill, and realized he would have to be sharp for the morning.

  Stretching across Erika, he severed her bonds on wrists and ankles with the blade and left the improvised gag in place. “Just know this—” he carefully enunciated each word as he rolled her to her back and dragged her toward him. Erika winced as her raw flesh smeared the rumpled sheet. He held the tip of the knife to her nipple. “Just know this,” he repeated, “there are many ways I can make you less attractive to other men, ways which will never show in public. Clear?” She nodded. “And we’ll be taking this up again later, after my personal investigation. Just be certain of one thing—I will find him.” He shook his head to clear his vision, and felt a sharp stitch in his cheek. “Now clean yourself up. You’re a mess.”

  He bent forward to slide the dagger beneath the stocking around her head and slit the silk. A small drop of blood rose on her cheek. Abruptly, he slumped across her. He was out cold.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  She held the syringe to the light, clearing the bubbles from the pale liquid. Her hands trembled. She could still sense the adrenaline, the terror, the pain. Her determination to give Horst a fatal overdose, decided in the throes of his assault, now gnawed at her conscience. She considered how much morphine would eliminate him from her life. She picked up the small vial, cradling it in her palm. She had often wondered at the transformative properties of this drug, for Horst’s dependence had me
ant her independence for most of four years, had made her life with him so much easier to bear. Now she could remove him as a threat forever.

  Erika rose carefully from the armchair and went to his side. He was spread across the bed, his crotch smeared with her blood, his flaccid penis exposed. He snored. She steadied her hand and slid the needle effortlessly into his arm. The hypodermic slowly surrendered the drug to his vein, and he barely stirred.

  She released the pressure on the plunger and shook her head, disgusted with her own weakness in the face of such evil. She simply did not have what it took to kill him, no matter all he had done, all he had become, all he planned to do. She knew that killing him would not keep the Nazis from their plan, perhaps not even slow them down. Things had already progressed too far. Far better to let a powerful country like America intervene and prevent such barbarity. She withdrew the needle, half of its contents still unused. He had received twice the normal dosage. She could not kill him, but she also would not risk his awakening too early.

  The future of her son and parents was now at stake. The revenge for her pain and humiliation might be sweet, but her husband would be missed in the morning, and any manhunt would be all the more rabid were he to turn up dead. She could not imagine the police accepting as coincidental his family’s disappearance on the night of his “suicide.” Horst had repeated often enough: The Gestapo doesn’t believe in coincidence.

  Carefully replacing both vial and syringe in the small case, she considered taking some of the painkiller into her own vein. She knew the damage from his brutality would test her resilience over the next twenty-four hours. She zippered shut the case, determined to remain sharp for whatever was still to come, but decided to take it with her. Just in case.

  Only half an hour had passed since she had rolled him aside in both relief and disgust and dragged herself awkwardly from the bed. Back in her room she had cleansed her sensitive wounds and examined her tortured backside in the mirror. There was no way to bandage the welts, so she used a salve and cushioned her torn skin with extra underwear. The nick near her ear was barely noticeable. A little face powder later to disguise it, should time allow. Long sleeves and dark stockings should hide the marks left by the ties.

  Before leaving her room Erika had placed a few pieces of the most valuable von Kredow jewelry in her handbag and pulled the valise from under the bed. The throbbing welts and aching abdomen made everything an effort. She was hesitant to leave the unconscious Horst alone for long, knowing that Frieda might be on the prowl. Once back in his bedroom, she had forced a wad of tissue paper into the keyhole and reinserted the key to turn the tumbler. No spy would watch her inject Horst and photograph the document, a beacon of evil in its lustrous black portfolio.

  Once the drug kit was closed and the temptation to eliminate Horst suppressed, she reviewed the camera controls for focusing, shutter speed and aperture, then cleared the table, leaving only the lamp in place. She set the shade aside to give optimum light to the tiny Minox. Page after page clicked off with solid precision, exactly forty-six sheets of sterile bureaucratese promoting the murder of millions.

  Erika steadied her shaking hands, her body wracked by pain, her mind overwrought by anxiety. For the first time since her student days in the Frauenklinik, she now knew she was doing something unselfishly, something solely to help others. She forced herself to relax. A discomforting glance at Horst found him still sprawled across the bed. He would be no further trouble tonight. The very sight caused hatred to well up again, but there were more important matters to attend to. She replaced the lampshade, organized the report in its folder, and left it on the seat of the chair where Horst had abandoned it. With the table and room returned to a semblance of normal, she switched off the light, closing the door to this horrifying segment of her life. She didn’t look back. She intended never to set eyes on him again.

  As she moved along the corridor toward Leo’s room, two final matters came to mind. In Horst’s study she opened a small wooden box on the desk, Horst’s birthday gift from Heydrich the previous spring, its embossed-leather top bearing the eagle-and-swastika. She placed its contents in the pocket of her handbag. She then opened the right-hand drawer of his ornate desk and removed a ledger and a few letters. A false bottom hid thick stacks of banknotes bound with rubber bands. She helped herself to two bundles, all she could fit in her crowded bag. Again, just in case.

  Ryan’s call to René from a public phone at the S-Bahn station went unanswered. The operator reported the lines across the Reich especially busy that evening. He should wait for a call-back when the connection went through.

  Ryan stood next to the booth and watched the passers-by enter the Zoo station. Working men and women hurried home after a long day in store or office, their collars up and scarves wrapped tightly to ward off the chill. Some carried mesh bags with foodstuffs intended for the evening meal. Many carried briefcases under the arm, or umbrellas, even though no rain was forecast despite the cooler weather. Helmeted policemen wandered through the crowd. The occasional Brownshirts swaggered past in pairs, thumbs hooked in belts, rifles slung over shoulders.

  A harried businessman in a long tweed overcoat, his cheeks flushed from the cold, approached Ryan’s phone booth and hovered impatiently. Ryan apologized, explaining his wait for a connection on that line, and directed the man to the next booth a few steps away. The man mumbled a gruff response and moved away, but did not leave. Obviously a lot on his mind.

  Ryan’s phone rang. The operator confirmed his connection to the Kehl number.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” René sounded relaxed. Ryan could picture a snifter of Cointreau in his friend’s hand.

  “It appears the Lone Ranger is needed sooner rather than later, my friend.” Ryan kept his voice as low as possible, given the din at the station. He glanced casually to his left and right as he spoke, avoiding the furtive “German glance.” Gestapo informants were common, especially in public gathering spots. “How’s tomorrow looking? Have time to greet some old friends; perhaps arrange a river outing?”

  “A bit chilly this time of year, but name your time and place.”

  “I’ll know more by morning. Where’s best to reach you, office or home?”

  “At home, at least till noon, fewer distractions here. After that, use the other number.” Ryan had memorized both.

  “Travel safely,” said René, “and stay in touch.” They wished each other well and cut off the call.

  Ryan turned back toward his hotel. The harried tweed overcoat now loitered a short distance down the grimy wall. He stared past Ryan toward the station entrance, as if waiting to meet someone. As the American headed toward him, the stranger quickly shifted his gaze toward the line of buses across the street. The man had not used a phone while Ryan was on the line with René. Too early for paranoia?

  He stopped at a small restaurant off the Ku-Damm and ordered grilled sausage and pan-fried potatoes with a half-bottle of Franconian wine. During dinner he observed the street outside for any further sign of the tweed coat. No one caught his attention. Suitably fortified for a long night, Ryan returned to find the hotel elevator out-of-order, and climbed the five flights of stairs to his room. He set aside a few items he had purchased and made preparations for the morning, arranging his clothes in the brown-leather valise, checking for the third time to be sure his passport and visa were in his suit jacket. There was little to pack, just toiletries and a change of basics.

  Minutes later he was done. He set the frail wooden chair under the ceiling lamp for better light and tried to read a newspaper he had lifted from the lobby on his way up. The words were clear enough, but the meanings escaped him. Tomorrow was too distracting—too many possible scenarios, too much that could go awry. As an actor in college he had never suffered from stage fright, but this role would put other’s lives at risk, not to mention his own. His nerves were getting the better of him. Stretched out on the narrow bed in his underwear, the room still overheated and
stuffy despite the open gable window, he found sleep elusive.

  Dressed once again, Ryan went down to the corner bar to find a beer. An hour later on his way back up, he settled his bill with the night clerk. Around midnight he shaved before packing away all but his comb, hoping to speed his getaway in the morning. Sleep finally came fitfully, the plan surfacing again and again in his mind, turning and twisting, excitement and trepidation.

  In the velvet darkness of Leo’s room Erika shifted frequently in the overstuffed chair. She found no comfortable position. Her body ached, and the aspirin did little to alleviate her pain. Her nerves were as raw as her flesh, yet she still fought a mental numbness which threatened to engulf her and take away the will to act.

  It was here in this armchair that she had nursed her baby and quietly promised him a future full of joy. She could hear the untroubled breathing of her son in the nearby bed. How lucky to still be so innocent, so free of worry, for just a few minutes longer. She wished his life could have turned out differently. Her Leo was such a sweet little boy, so attentive to her moods and anxious to please.

  Horst had never shown much interest in the boy; she knew that the youngster felt no special affection for him. Not a surprise, given how distant and cold he was to all. She thought she saw a touch of fear in Leo, perhaps only a reflection of her own constant unease in Horst’s presence.

  Their life together had changed dramatically once they had moved to Berlin. She realized quickly that Horst had won her over with charm and social expertise solely to display an attractive wife to further his career ambitions. Once her pregnancy was known and they married, his attitude became neutral, then totally disinterested. He had other worlds to conquer. Now the relationship had devolved into hatred and abuse.