“Is that right?” Berkel said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. “She told me she was going back to Munich.”
“Huh. Well, she’s here. One of my men checked her papers here in town just the other day. Everything seemed normal, but I thought I’d tell you. It’s likely nothing . . .”
“But suspicion is our business.”
“Quite. I would have brought it to you sooner, but I’m as busy as you are.”
“I understand. Thank you. I know where she’ll be. I should pay her and this boyfriend of hers a visit, seeing that the roads are almost clear now. Nothing wrong with paying a visit to an old friend, is there?”
“Nothing at all.”
Vogel stood up and gave the salute, which Berkel returned.
Vogel left, and Berkel sat back in his seat and waited a few minutes before going to the basement. He knew exactly where her file was and went right to it. It felt light in his hand—a life’s work summed up in a few lines he’d read so many times that he didn’t actually need to look at them anymore. She’d said she was leaving. She was still here. What did she need crutches for? His other cases were going to have to wait.
January had been warmer than expected, and her car was almost freed from its bondage. John was exercising the best he was able to when Franka returned with the firewood. She kicked the slush off her shoes before shouting to him, announcing her presence. He appeared a few seconds later.
“Just a few more days, and then we’ll see how your legs are. You’re through the worst of it,” she said.
“Thanks to you,” he answered before going outside to drag the firewood in. She pulled the sled, piled up with wood, inside. He did his best to help her, but as usual, she ordered him to sit down. She sorted through the firewood, tossing the driest pieces in the basket by the fire. It was the twenty-first of January. The six weeks she’d insisted on him wearing the casts would be up in four days, and then he’d be gone, never to see her again. She’d be just one more face who’d drifted into his life, then out of it. He made his way over to her and began sorting through the second pile of wood she’d not gotten to yet. The fire was crackling orange, the evening drawing near.
“What are you going to do after I leave, Franka?”
“I’m not sure—look for a job most likely.” She continued sorting through the wood. “There’s always going to be a need for nurses, especially with a war going on.”
“Nurses with a history like yours?”
“I didn’t say it was going to be easy to get a job, but chances are they’ll be so desperate—”
“Have you ever thought about getting out?”
“Of where, the Black Forest? I did already—I lived in Munich.”
“No, not the Black Forest—Germany. Have you ever thought about getting out of Germany?”
She put down the two-inch-thick branch she had in her gloved hands. “Of course, but where would I go? Germany’s all I’ve ever known. And even if I had somewhere to go, how would I get there?”
“I have to leave in the next few days. You could come with me.”
“To where, Philadelphia?”
“I wish. I won’t be going home for a while, but I could get you across the Swiss border. You could start again. Someone with skills like yours is always going to be in demand. You’d get a job, and you’d be safe.”
“Getting across the Swiss border isn’t just a case of presenting your papers while the boys in the Gestapo wish you a pleasant vacation. The border’s closed. There’s no guarantee we’d even make it.”
“I know about the border. It’s going to be tough, no doubt about it, but what have you got to stay here for?”
“John, I’ve lived here my whole life. What do you mean by asking that? This is my home.”
He struggled to his feet, cursing under his breath as he followed her into the kitchen. She went to the stove to sort through another pile of firewood she’d brought in. He sat down in the kitchen chair two feet from where she was kneeling.
“Why don’t you think about it at least?”
“What am I to do in a country where I know no one and have nothing?”
“You could be free. You could start again.”
“In Switzerland?”
“If you want, or maybe even in America. I could petition to get you a visa.”
“How are you going to get a German citizen a visa in the middle of the war?”
“I have some powerful friends. If my father couldn’t get it done, my boss sure as hell could.”
The light outside had all but faded to black, and Franka stood up to light the oil lamp.
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. What are you so afraid of?”
“I’ve never been to America before. You’re the only American I’ve ever known.”
“I must warn you that not all Americans are as fabulous as I am.”
“Are they all as sure of themselves? You’re so confident about getting across the border, but you can’t even walk.”
“My legs feel good. You said that they were healing well yourself. I can’t just sit here waiting when I’ve got that film. I have to deliver it to the consulate in Switzerland. I have to try.”
“Do you know how ridiculous you sound? You can’t go anywhere yet. You can’t walk.”
He stood up. “Let me show you. I can do more than walk. Come with me.” He held out a hand to her, the crutches propped up under his armpits.
“What are you doing?”
“Just come with me.”
She took off her gloves and threw them down but didn’t offer him her hand. John shrugged and motioned her to follow him into the living room. He went to the radio, flicking it on. A news program in English came on.
“What are you doing?”
“Wait a few seconds,” he said as he began to cycle through the channels. “You’re always in such a hurry.” He settled on a music station. “I can do more than walk,” he laughed. He lifted his arms, and the crutches fell to the floor with a clatter. “May I have this dance, Fräulein?”
“You’re being ridiculous. This is dangerous.”
She took his hand, aware of the fact that she was still wearing her old woolen coat. He brought her body into his, their faces inches apart, one hand on her waist, his other together with hers. “I was quite the dancer once,” he said.
He rocked back and forth on his feet, just able to keep his balance. His body was rigid, and she doubted he’d be able to balance without holding on to her.
“I can see that,” she laughed. “You’re very much the graceful mover.”
“I call this the ‘buffalo with a broken ankle.’”
He was perhaps six inches taller than she. Neither spoke for a few seconds, their faces illuminated. The song ended, and she broke away.
“Is our dancing over for the night?”
Franka heard the sound of a car pulling up the hill outside. Her insides collapsed.
“A car,” she whispered. “Get to the hiding place.” The crutches were on the floor. Franka got them for him, and he made for the bedroom without a word. He closed the door behind him and laid the crutches on the floor beside the loosened floorboards as he lifted them up. The car’s engine died, the headlights dimmed, and she heard the sound of the door opening. John slid into the hole under the floorboards, his backpack at his feet, his Luftwaffe uniform inside it. The darkness of the hole consumed him.
Franka took a few seconds to respond to the rapping on the door. John’s coffee cup was by the fire. His book. No other signs he’d been here. They’d been careful. All of his belongings were with him under the floorboards. She took a deep breath and went to the door. A howl of wind came just as she opened it. Berkel was alone.
“Heil Hitler,” Berkel said through the scarf over the lower half of his face.
“Heil Hitler,” she replied. She noticed her hand trembling and pulled it back down to hide it in her pocket.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Fra
nka?” he said, taking his scarf off.
“Of course, Herr Berkel, please come in.”
He brushed past her and wiped his feet on the doormat before taking off his black trench coat. He handed it to her without looking, though he must have seen the coat hooks just inches from his face. He was wearing the full uniform of the Gestapo, complete with medals for outstanding service in defense of the Reich. She hung up his coat. He had already gone into the living room and was looking around the old place as she caught up with him.
“Amazing,” he said, shaking his head. “How long has it been, eight years? The place hasn’t changed, except for the lack of pictures on the wall.”
“It could be eight years.”
“A lot of memories.” He took off his black hat.
“Yes, indeed,” was all she could manage.
“So aren’t you going to offer me a cup of coffee?”
“Of course, how rude of me.”
He followed her into the kitchen and stood against the frame of the door.
“It was quite a surprise to hear that you were still here. You led me to believe that you’d be going back to Munich before Christmas.”
Franka placed the kettle on the stove before turning to get a mug from the cupboard.
“Yes, I had a change of plans. The snow was so thick. I couldn’t get the car out. I decided to stay another few weeks.”
“I see the car is free now. And the roads have been open for several days.”
She turned to him, almost able to feel his eyes piercing through her.
“Yes, it’s high time I left. I’ve been lazy, I suppose.”
John stilled his breathing, keeping his hand over his chest in an attempt to soften the beating of his heart. The jumbled sounds from the kitchen were identifiable as a conversation, but it was impossible to make out more than a few words. His hand was on the bag, reaching in for a pistol. The feel of cold metal told him that he’d found it.
“It must have been lonely up here all this time,” Berkel continued. “You were always such a sociable girl.”
“I needed some time to myself after what happened to my father. The cabin is the perfect place to get away.”
“Indeed,” he said, nodding. He watched her for a few seconds, letting her pour the scalding hot water into the mugs. Steam wafted through cold air. “Thank you, Franka,” he said as she handed him the mug. “Can we go back into the living room? We have so much catching up to do.”
“Of course,” she said. It almost hurt to smile.
He led her back to the living room, taking the fireside seat John had been sitting in minutes before. His book, All Quiet on the Western Front, lay facedown on the table beside Berkel. It would be enough to land her in jail for several nights. Berkel took a sip from his coffee cup before placing it down beside the old, scuffed paperback. Franka sat opposite him and tried to keep her eyes off the book. Berkel rested back in the rocking chair, his fingers locked together in front of his stomach. His hat was on his lap.
“Yes, so many memories here. We had some good times, though, didn’t we?”
Franka nodded, her head feeling like it was held in place by steel wires.
“We were so young then,” he continued. “It hardly even seems real. They say youth is wasted on the young, but I’m not sure I agree with that. What do you think?”
“I regret many of the decisions I made in the folly of my youth. I think I can see where that saying comes from.”
“I don’t think I agree with that sentiment anymore. I mean, there are always cases of young people doing stupid things, but in my job you come to realize that you don’t have to be young to act idiotically. I see it every day. Just last week I interrogated a man, a father of five in his forties, who got drunk and started shouting out to all around him that the führer was never going to stop until every last one of them was dead. He called the führer a liar, and a scoundrel—even a murderer. Can you believe someone would do that?”
“It is hard to fathom how anyone could think such a thing.”
“Thankfully there was a plethora of people willing to do the right thing. I must have had ten separate eyewitness accounts. It was heartening to know how many loyal Germans were present, and how heavily good people outnumber the bad apples among us.” He took another sip of coffee and placed his hat on the table where his mug had been. “One of my younger recruits crushed the man’s fingers between two metal bars and pulled out his fingernails. The man confessed quickly. I think my man did it to gain a measure of revenge for saying that about the führer. We take such matters personally.”
Franka pressed her hands down on her thighs to still their shaking. “It’s an important role.”
“Very much so. We’re the only power that stands between the Reich and her enemies in the fatherland. The war within our own country started long before the one against the Allied forces, and we’re winning it day by day.”
Franka wanted to say something, but her lips weren’t moving. The words wouldn’t come.
“Yes, we’ve become quite different people, you and I, haven’t we?” he asked.
“Have we?”
“Oh, I think we have. We were so similar once.”
I recognized the evil. You embraced it, became it.
“But now,” he continued, “many people would say that you represent the very ills that I’m trying to eradicate from the Reich. Some might say that you represent the worst of our society.”
Franka fought the fear threatening to overtake her. This man had absolute power over her. He could drag her from this place and throw her into a cell, and no one would ever be told. He could kill her on a whim, and no one would question his motives. There was no legal process here, no higher power. The National Socialists had made Daniel Berkel a god, and he would exercise his power how he saw fit.
“I’d like to think that the Reich still has a place for people such as me who made mistakes. I’ve served my time—”
“I didn’t say that I felt that way, Franka,” he said, laughing to himself. “Oh, you always were such a silly girl. It’s unsurprising that you were so easily led astray.”
“I was confused. It was hard to be sure what was right or wrong after my brother died.”
“Yes, I did hear about that,” he said, staring down into the fire. The flames lit his eyes as he brought them back to hers. “An unfortunate, yet necessary business.”
“Necessary?” She felt her true feelings spike inside her. The mention of Fredi was kerosene to the flame of resentment flickering within her, and she fought to keep her rage from exploding.
“Of course,” he said. “The führer himself was first to point out that it would be more merciful to end the suffering of the incurably ill, the handicapped, and the idiots. The useless eaters who took food from the mouths of the brave soldiers fighting for our collective futures needed to be eliminated. It was merely common sense, and a vital part of the policy of racial hygiene that is returning our country to its rightful place among the greatest in the world.”
“Excuse me, Herr Berkel,” she said. She got up and went to the bathroom. She stood with her back to the closed door, letting the tears come, her body shaking. She had to get through this. This wasn’t just about her anymore. Paranoid thoughts about the man who’d offered her the cigarette in Stuttgart flooded her mind. Did Berkel know about the microfilm somehow? Were more Gestapo men coming? Was Berkel toying with her before he took her in?
No, he can’t know. He doesn’t know anything. It’s up to you to deal with this.
Franka reached for a towel and wiped away the tears. She looked at herself in the mirror. The hatred surging through her would cloud her judgment. She tried to shove it aside. He was still sitting by the fire as she came back out. His eyes seemed stuck to her as she moved to her place opposite him once more.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Herr Berkel, particularly at this time of night?”
“We defenders of the Reich work all hours. Insurg
ency never sleeps. And please, call me Daniel. We have so much history together. We’ll forever be part of one another’s lives.”
It felt like cockroaches were under her skin.
“Okay, Daniel. What can I help you with on this winter’s night?”
“This isn’t a social call, though I wish I had time for such things. Are you alone here, Franka?”
“Of course. Well, apart from you, but yes, I’m alone.”
“And you’ve been alone the entire time you’ve been up here?”
“Yes.”
Berkel reached for the cup of coffee and took another sip.
“So who were the crutches for?”
Franka’s body tightened. “Oh,” she said, trying to smile. “The crutches were for my boyfriend. He was here for a few days, but he left. I should have mentioned him. I’m such a scatterbrain sometimes.”
“It’s funny you keep referring to the fact that you’re a scatterbrain. I must admit I feel quite the opposite. I know you and always found you to be most intelligent, and strong-willed. Certainly no idiot, or one to be led astray easily.” He put down the coffee cup. “And who is this boyfriend?”
“His name is Werner Graf. He’s from Berlin. He’s a pilot in the Luftwaffe.”
What if he found John—could they maintain his cover? No, not while he was hiding under the floorboards. She couldn’t reveal anything. Lying was her only chance, but this man was trained to see through liars, and she was sure he was seeing through her.
“A flier in the Luftwaffe, eh?” he said. “I’m surprised one of our brave pilots would lower himself to be with a whore like you.”
“He . . . he left several days ago,” she said.
“You showed him that pretty ass of yours, did you? You fooled him into thinking you were a loyal German woman, instead of a dissident whore?”
He reached for the novel on the table beside him.
“Well, look here. The whore is reading a banned book. Do you know that this is more than enough for me to take you in?”
“It’s an old book, Daniel. I was just looking at it. I’m so sorry . . .” She recoiled in her chair and looked toward the door. She knew she’d never make it that far.
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