The Eye of the Abyss

by Marshall Browne

  An object lay on the table before the man. He flicked it with the black-gloved index finger of his right hand; it slid across, and came to rest before Schmidt. The auditor gazed at the leather identity-holder, at the gold, embossed eagle and swastika.

  ‘Please open it.’

  Schmidt glanced at him, did so, and looked down at a photo of the man’s face, at the Party seal. On the facing page he read: Manfred von Streck. In the space for rank/title had been typed: Special Plenipotentiary. It reeked of the Third Reich at the highest bureaucratic level.

  Schmidt returned to the man in person. A chill had come over him, and he blinked quickly, to better focus his eye. This Nazi was short in stature but immensely broad and thick-set; on his feet he might look grotesque. On the other hand, good clothes and grooming gave him a stylish air. Now Schmidt was being watched meditatively; the man’s hands were joined under his chin. He motioned for the document to be returned.

  Employing the Nazi’s method, Schmidt sent it back. He said, ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s quite a simple matter.’

  Smoking was also forbidden, but von Streck produced a cigar and scratched a match alight. ‘I wished to meet because of your responsibility for the Party’s banking affairs at Wertheim & Co.Your unique position in relation to matters of special interest to me.’The cigar-end glowed red. ‘Within the Party, I’ve a parallel duty, amongst others.’

  Schmidt’s mind clicked into focus; he’d alighted on terra firma: the NSDAP accounts were illuminated in his mind, and on the margin, winking like a warning light, was Herr Dietrich’s instruction about the monthly special payment. But, such small beer?

  ‘I see the official reports from your famous bank, and from the Party functionary seconded there, but an unofficial channel could be most useful. Sometimes the most important information, the real situation, comes along such a route. Regardless of that, it’s also in place for emergencies.’ An ironic smile. Schmidt watched the slight movement of the thick, mobile lips, and wondered at the terse identification of Dietrich. ‘An escape road off a steep mountain descent, a way out should the brakes fail.’ He dropped ash on the pristine floor.

  Schmidt listened, his nerves strangely quiescent. Perhaps dealing with Dietrich was conditioning them. He wondered what ‘special plenipotentiary’ meant. Of course, there’d be massive distrust and suspicion within the Party, given the type of people the Nazis were, the rampant ambition, the scramble for power. Checks and balances would be imperative.

  ‘Therefore, Herr Chief Auditor’ – a note of authoritative formality – ‘I want you to report to me if you find any special irregularity, or anything noteworthy. You may never need to make a report. I hope that’s so. However, here’s my card.’

  A card came across the table.

  Schmidt didn’t touch it, didn’t move.

  ‘You’re in doubt, Herr Schmidt?’

  ‘I must say I am.’

  ‘In what direction does this doubt lie? The basis of my authority? The irregular nature of what I propose?’

  Schmidt had passed through his surprise, and was thinking fluently. He didn’t doubt this Nazi’s authority, though he would check it as far as possible. There was a logic to the approach which he understood. And there could be an advantage to himself in having special access to the Party: though he’d be closer to the fire.

  He leaned forward.A certain polite reticence always worked well for him. He said earnestly, ‘Mein herr, with the greatest respect what you ask puts me in an invidious situation. Already I report directly to Herr Wertheim – also to Herr Dietrich. From the tenor of your remarks, I assume those gentleman are not to be informed of this additional reporting line.’

  ‘Correct. You won’t mention our arrangement to anyone. That’s a strict requirement.’

  ‘I’m not comfortable with such a deceit.’

  The Nazi official puffed away at his cigar, and pondered the pleasant-looking, correct man. ‘I respect your professional ethics, but you should look at it this way: it’s simply that escape road, purely for emergencies. The decision to use it will be yours.You’re an intelligent man, Schmidt. I’m certain you’d know if and when it should be used.’ Escape road, Schmidt thought. Intelligent? How does he know? ‘We live and work in complicated times. For instance, in the past year, there’ve been five assassination attempts against the Fuehrer.’ Schmidt was startled. The Nazi smiled. ‘When you’ve thought about it you’ll see no insurmountable difficulties, only advantages. I’m going to count on that. There’s something else.’

  He slid another small object across the table. Schmidt gazed down at a photograph of himself. It was embossed on a stiff card, a swastika next to his head, his personal details typewritten on it.

  The morning street photo! Now in amazement he stared up at the Nazi.

  ‘A good likeness? I think so. That will enable you to obtain prompt access to me.’ He appeared to be memorising Schmidt’s face. He reclaimed his homburg, and nodded at the large tome before the auditor. ‘I must go. I see you read French. I’ll leave you with your research. There’s a paragraph which I, personally, find of particular interest.’ He mentioned a page number. ‘Good reading!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Though I trust you’ve not forgotten the concert begins at eight?’

  Schmidt watched the Nazi depart. His powerful figure seemed almost as wide as it was high.Yes, grotesque in a way - yet, that air of being above the ordinary. The homburg was placed squarely on the mass of small curls. Despite his bulk, he walked panther-like through the green-hued semi-darkness, as if the special reading room was his home away from home, and not the arcane jungle that it was.

  What did a man like that know of the Annales de l’order teutonique? How had he known he was reading this book? Schmidt turned over the pages, and ran his finger down the close-printed columns until he found, unmistakably, what von Streck was referring to. He read it carefully, twice, then closed the book and stared at the room of medieval knowledge, wondering what new territory he’d entered tonight. The section he’d just read concerned a knight of the Order called Erik Streck, who had gone with the Grand Master to Marienberg, the new headquarters of the Order’s feudal state which included not only Prussia but the eastern Baltic lands. A man who’d lived in the fourteenth century.

  11

  ‘A STRAUSS OVERTURE to begin,’ Wagner muttered sarcastically, nudging Schmidt’s elbow. ‘Offenbach’s next. It’s beyond their imagination to leave him out. I speak only of the quality of the music.’ He puffed steadily away at his cigarette, and stared stonily at the conductor who stood, baton raised.

  Schmidt thought: But Mozart later, so be patient.

  For over thirty years, Wertheim & Co had subsidised the symphony orchestra and this annual concert for the bank’s staff and families, three hundred of whom were gathered that evening in the gilded hall situated beside a Lutheran church, was a major event in the bank’s calendar.

  Wagner was even nervier than usual, the cigarette grafted to his fingers. They sat in the dress circle overlooking the two rows of directors and their families. Schmidt had picked out Dietrich immediately. The Nazi’s hair gleamed in the light like a gold coin as he sat erect between Herr Wertheim and the ultra-thin Frau Wertheim – identified by Wagner as Frau Thistledown.

  ‘Offenbach?’ Dietrich said to the general-director, lifting his hard eyes from the program also to the conductor. ‘Isn’t the fellow French – and Jewish?’

  ‘Yes, but born in Germany,’ Herr Wertheim replied, smiling urbanely. He’d especially requested Offenbach.

  The concert began and Schmidt kept on with his thinking. He’d caught a glimpse of Fräulein Dressler as they’d entered; she was sitting somewhere behind them. It wouldn’t take long to give her the warning, for all that was needed was privacy.

  Submerged in the music, sniffles and coughs, he pondered the encounter in the Municipal Library. A chilling question came. God! Could it be that this Nazi was a fanatic involved in the Orde
r Castles? Rumours had been circulating about the schools for the Party’s elite, grounded in the heritage and traditions exappropriated from the Teutonic Knights. He sat like a statue now, completely oblivious to the music.

  Wagner leaned close: ‘They’re playing tonight like an old dog dragging its belly up the street.’ He laughed contemptuously, nudged Schmidt at some further transgression of conductor or orchestra …

  Why had the Nazi revealed that he knew of Schmidt’s connection to the Order – perhaps his obsession with it? He hadn’t needed to; the reason given for approaching him had been plausible. He shook himself out of this, looked around, and saw faces again. The hall was poorly heated, but inside his overcoat he’d begun to perspire.

  By interval he’d recovered. He stood with Wagner stoically enduring the deputy foreign manager’s foul cigarette, and the overpowering odour of mothballs. They were sipping a sparkling Rhine wine, the same one Herr Wertheim had served the past two years. Following Dr Bernstein’s instructions, he’d gone to the lavatory to rinse his mouth out; his jaw was aching formidably.

  ‘Filthy taste. It’s the same as last year,’ Wagner complained, holding his glass up to the light. ‘The really bad news might be that our esteemed General-Director’s cornered the vintage.’

  Schmidt smiled vaguely. Same conversation as last year.Wagner knew Helga and Trudi were away, and he’d want to go out drinking beer afterwards to remove the taste of the wine.Wagner’s story of how he’d escorted Fräulein Dressler home from the concert two years ago was in his mind. A Wagner exaggeration? He’d been nearly drunk the night he’d spoken of it. Schmidt framed an excuse to give his colleague the slip.

  ‘Look at that,’ Wagner hissed.

  Dietrich, his athletic body bending efficiently at the hips, was saluting the directors’ wives. His tight-lipped mouth side-slipped over the back of each raised hand, his heels clicked, his eyes shot here and there. His baritone boomed pleasantries above the din.

  Schmidt thought: Party manners tonight. Smooth as the new machines with their steel ball-bearings, lifeblood of the Reich’s reindustrialisation. He watched the small play of insincere formalities, aware that his calm observation of the Nazi was infuriating Wagner.

  His heart stopped. Through the haze of tobacco smoke, Dietrich, a strange look on his face, had him under observation. The Nazi looked away quickly.

  Wagner blurted out, ‘Doesn’t all that make your blood run cold?’

  Uneasily, Schmidt said, ‘Is it so remarkable?’

  Wagner stared at him. ‘My God! Are you becoming immune too? Careful, my dear …’ He turned abruptly to push his way back into the auditorium. He spoke to Schmidt only once more during the performance, out of the corner of his mouth, ’Listen! He shakes a hand, kisses a hand. Close-up, he gazes into a face searching for a hint of the Semitic. That is what it’s about.’

  Schmidt knew that was only a part of it. The pursuit of ambition was also in play, a series of poses being employed, each calculated for effect. A conviction was forming in him that Dietrich was not a straightforward Nazi, if such an animal existed.

  Wagner was overexcited tonight even by his standards. Schmidt regretfully decided to measure off some distance between them.With a shock he realised that he’d done the same with his family. Like the good ship Wertheim he’d changed to a new course. It made him sad-hearted. Yet he felt a slow-burn of excitement

  After the concert, Fräulein Dressler was waiting for him. He was slightly embarrassed at not having accompanied her from the hall. She’d understood his reason: as much influenced by his married state as the presence of Dietrich. Even so, who might they encounter at this café? They shook hands, briefly, firmly. Her hand out of its glove was warm and smooth. His first touch of her. Zither music throbbed from a cellar. He hesitated. Under the hard streetlight her face was stark-white, sculpted. The languorous look was obliterated. He was reminded of the shining purity of enamel. Her eyes seemed larger, iridescent.

  She said, ‘If you wish privacy, my flat is within a ten-minute walk.’

  He nodded, under a spell. Side by side they set off. Though it wasn’t Jewish, it was a neighbourhood he knew only slightly. His mother’s district evoked for him an image of multi-tiered wedding cakes on gilded plates; this, boiled beef on a tin plate. And, tonight, it seemed depopulated. She spoke only once. ‘Did you drink that wine? Isn’t it terrible? A cousin of Herr Wertheim makes it. He thinks it’s marvellous. And he gets it free.’

  The shabby building they arrived at had several lighted windows.Wagner, also, had climbed these same stairs after the 1936 concert – according to Wagner. The flat was of modest size, but freshly painted and furnished with solid chairs and cabinets. In an armchair he took the cup of black coffee which she offered. At the same instant, as though a chemical release had occurred in his brain, his interest in her took yet another stride forward: it was intriguing to see this woman from the bank’s hallowed first floor in her private domain. He took a spoon of sugar, and looked up into her expectant face.

  ‘I suppose you’re surprised …’ He paused. She sat opposite, watching him. In the shadowed interior her face had lost substance. He thought: No, not surprised. He looked down, studied the carpet. ‘Fräulein, I’ll come straight to the point.You may already know this, but, in case not, Herr Dietrich’s investigating your parentage. Like many of these Nazis he’s an authority on the Nuremberg Laws. He hasn’t verified his suspicions yet, but I fear it’ll only be a day or two.’ He paused, reluctant to be communicating this, yet certain it was necessary. ‘Your birth certificate’s disappeared from your dossier, which has delayed his inquiries.’ Her eyes widened. He went on quietly. ‘I hope to have a replacement by noon tomorrow for the passport application. I expect Herr Dietrich to take your situation to the General-Director when he’s ready to do so. What will happen at that point …’ His voice had faded out.

  She sat totally still, watching him as if he were telling an absorbing story. He’d not expected an emotional response, but this didn’t meet his expectations either. He realised he was breathing quickly, though lightly. Abruptly, heavy footsteps crossed the floor above. In a quick reflex, he glanced up. She started, as though coming out of meditation. He sensed something like an inner sigh.

  ‘My heartfelt thanks for your concern. Herr Dietrich’s intentions have been crystal clear. Herr Wertheim is doing his best for me, I’m sure, but if the obstacles are too great – even for him – then I’ll look in another direction.’

  Schmidt sat back slowly, and felt a sense of reassurance. His admiration, also, was rising to a fresh level. What a remarkable woman! She spoke with calmness and fortitude – almost as if she were fully in control of her destiny. Then he thought: What other direction? The choices were few and dangerous. Bravery, intelligence and competency breathed across the room at him. That these might not prevail seemed a travesty, but that was what they were facing. He came back to earth – hard, autumn earth – and said, ‘We’ll hope for the best result with Prague. I trust we’ll be on that train together.’

  He’d forgotten his coffee; it was only warm as he drank it now. When he’d made his excuses earlier, Wagner had stared at him critically, shrugged, and slouched moodily off. Two years before, on this anniversary, he presumed Wagner had been in this same chair. What words had been spoken, moves made?

  He should leave. He stood up. Unexpectedly, she helped him into his overcoat in the tiny hall, that flower-like perfume again. As they moved awkwardly in the tiny space, like strangers avoiding each other on the back platform of a tram, her hair brushed his face.

  Suddenly he’d the notion of being a detached observer, taking notes. Had this been the way of it with Wagner? No, Wagner didn’t think like that. She was in front of him now. He took a small step forward and without the slightest misjudgement their bodies met, and then their lips. Instantly, the mouth moving under his own was passionate, at first yielding then pressing forward, yielding again in a kind of desperation. His right
hand was on her breast. They staggered, broke apart – breathless. Later, he held no detail in his head of the moment of connection, only of that disconnection.

  He’d no memory of coming down the stairs, either. He stood in the dark doorway vaguely conscious of a cold breeze. He was not in a state of equilibrium – a rare experience for him. But it was returning.

  Hardly believable! He’d been where Wagner had been after the 1936 concert! Not quite where Wagner’d been. Not that far – thank God. The dark neighbourhood seemed neutral, reluctant to bear witness to anything concerning him. Car lights undulated down a street. A sense of horror swept over him. A miscellany of considerations – foremost, the images of his wife’s and daughter’s faces. For the chief auditor of Wertheim & Co, what had occurred was not trivial. For Franz Schmidt – likewise. That embrace had taken him from the margin into the heart of her life. Now he remembered the flashed expression in her eyes – of trust? Of hopes aroused? ‘We must get to Prague!’ Had she whispered that in the tiny hall, or had he received it by a kind of mental telepathy?

  He didn’t know. But he felt a new man was standing in his shoes. He squared his shoulders, as though to meet the great challenge of his life.

  12

  HAD IT REALLY happened? A rhetorical question expressing his amazement that it had. Schmidt switched on the bedside light. Last night’s scene in the tiny hall was stark in his mind. He shook his head: it was hard for a man of his profession and upbringing to believe. In the middle of this wonder, by a kind of osmosis, he became conscious of a sullen atmosphere. A spongy silence. Quite eerie. He lifted his head to listen better. A memory of the curfews of the Weimar Republic came.

  Shaving and washing, eating his breakfast prepared by Maria, with his family absent, Schmidt felt a stranger in his own house, and regretted it. However, he put this regret into store as he had, yesterday at the station. He rose from the breakfast table and went to the window A few pedestrians were treading the footpaths; no motor traffic yet. But the significant silence intensified, and insistently began to sing in his inner ear like an edgy kettle on the hob. He returned to his coffee.What obscure anthem was the city playing today?