At 8.00 am, he boarded the tramcar in the platz. He paused before taking his seat, and glanced around; the kettle was still singing. The few faces, most known to him by sight, were pale and considering. No chatty little conversations today just dead quiet. ‘What is it?’ he asked himself. ‘Has something momentous occurred?’ He should listen to the wireless.
The platz, a tonal study in greys and blacks, had succumbed to the depressing season. Streetlights, yellowish blurry orbs, stood in the gloom like mourning-candles. A deathbed feel. How could the human spirit cope? Was that it this morning? Bouts of general depression did wax and wane during winter … he unfolded his newspaper.
They started off. Herr Dorf, sombre-faced, came along. Ignoring his fare-collecting he went to the front of the tram, and spoke confidentially to the driver. Even his agility seemed constrained. He merely nodded to Schmidt.
Schmidt opened his paper. Dastardly Murder in Paris: German Envoy Shot by Jew. He read the headlines, the first paragraph. The tram started down Bonnerstrasse. A sharp intake of breath came from across the aisle. Schmidt looked at the man, past him to the outside world. Good God! Smashed shop windows, destroyed displays, merchandise littering the streets. God in Heaven! Unaccountably, had a flood surged through in the night? The thought shot to the surface. He stared at the panorama of destruction rolling by the tram window like a grainy black-and-white film, and held his breath. Here, depicted in the flashes of his single vision, was a fouled-up world. In the fastness of his apartment, his suburb, he’d heard nothing!
‘You’re not dreaming my friend’ – Wagner’s voice in his head. As though a switch had been flicked in his brain, enlightenment came. Some of his fellow passengers were screwed around in their seats, gaping, others had had his flash of insight, and were averting their eyes. People stepped forward at the stops, their faces strange, their shoes crunching glass. His right hand gripped the backrest. Then he was breathing again. Hitherto the thugs of the SA had perpetrated random acts of terror while the authorities turned a blind eye. Here was stark evidence of the full weight and connivance of the Reich. Insidiously, the cold travelled up his limbs to bring a dull ache to his chest. His mind shifted urgently. What did it mean for her? For the Prague plan?
They rattled across another platz. A synagogue sat like a ship ablaze and dead in the water. Deep in its heart pulsed an incandescent glow. Obscene smoke alive with sparks boiled from its high orifices into an overcast, aglow as from a mistimed sunset. To the auditor’s horrified eye, the whole sky seemed to sag like a great overindulged belly. Several fire carts and groups of firemen stood idly by.
This particular spectacle animated four or five well-dressed men and women in the front of the tram. They pointed excitedly, laughed amongst themselves. ‘This’ll show them!’ a man cried. Defiantly he caught Schmidt’s eye.
The tramcar shuddered over points, glided into the city centre. No change here. He hurried to the bank, anxious to get within its walls. Once inside, he sorted rapidly through the pile of letters on his desk, found the envelope from the Registrar of Births. He extracted the document, scrutinised it, then going to his safe took out the manila folder containing the passport application, attached the birth certificate to it, and put the folder in his desk drawer.
At 9.30 am, he retrieved the folder and went to the first floor.
He hesitated outside the anteroom. Going through that door was another crucial step. Instantly, the spontaneous embrace returned, as fresh as though it had happened minutes ago. In the ten years of his marriage, he’d never broken his marriage vows. Not once. Then, last night, precipitately and dramatically, the ground had shifted under him. The incident, insignificant to others perhaps, was for him a metamorphosis sharpened by the brutish chaos viewed this morning … He remembered Wagner’s words about drowning. He entered the anteroom, wearing his professional mask. She glanced up, and watched him approach, equally well grounded in her Wertheim character. The eyes that met his were calm, her air of superiority unchanged. He found that he wanted to say her name. ‘Fräulein Dressler … here’s the submission for Herr Wertheim.’
She nodded, and gave him a smile, an almost indecipherable curve of her lips, which he drank in. She had on a crisp white blouse and her lips, which had been without colour last night, were reddened with a bright lipstick. What was in her mind this morning? How did he seem in her eyes, what motives did she find in him? He left without another word.
Herr Wertheim would have to move fast, tap into that special channel before Dietrich acted. Schmidt walked and thought. Analysis in these corridors was a chilly business, but according to the G-D, didn’t the brain work better in the cold?
The new painting had shocked, then amused Dietrich. In Munich in the summer of 1937, the Fuehrer had been absolutely clear about which art was degenerate. The grotesque eye at his back, as he faced Herr Wertheim across his desk, was a cut and dried case; patently a chancre in the general-director’s make-up. What a paradox the old banker was presenting! With such interesting exploitative possibilities! But should he accept it at face value? It seemed so crazy.
Turning his handsome face, his brilliant blue eyes downward to regard his cigaretteless hands, he thought: Could the general-director be playing a game where he, Dietrich, had missed the commencing whistle? Perhaps a convoluted duplicity was at work here which required unravelling. If one could ever crack this porcelain-like shell of urbanity!
However, he’d no doubts on the subject he was about to raise. Decisively, he cleared his throat, and looked up. ‘Herr Wertheim, I’m obliged to draw your attention to the situation of Fräulein Dressler.’ He paused, checking his tone for the appropriate delicacy. ‘The rather unfortunate situation …’ Herr Wertheim watched the Nazi. This wasn’t unexpected.With a pang, he wondered whether he’d left it too late. It had been long in the back of his mind: might’ve still been, but for her request to go to Prague. ‘ … and to the Nuremberg Laws, and the subsequent supporting decrees. With respect, Herr General-Director, she should not be employed here. Of course, mein herr, with your great burdens I understand how easily this might’ve been overlooked.’
Dietrich’s tone was insistent but respectful – he was confident of his mastery of the diplomacy required, sure of his ground – the dramatic events overnight had given him that edge. He spoke in the dogmatic yet respectful cadences of a hundred lawyers the banker had listened to. How far would Dietrich go? Wertheim wondered. Could he be bought, or was the situation too close to home for the Nazi to run such a risk? And the vital question: had Dietrich the power to neutralise the strings which he hoped to pull in the higher echelons of the Party?
Dietrich was experienced in situations of this type. No need to refer to certificates of descent, or birth certificates. Each party was fully conversant with the issues: if not on the table, they were in the air. He watched the banker’s face, and confidently guessed his deliberations. They could have only one conclusion; no need to unduly force the pace. Nonetheless, for the record, it was necessary to play his next, entirely predictable, card.
‘I must say, that when the Party entrusted its investments to your fine bank it had certain expectations.’ No need to say more, but he did add: ‘The Party’s steadfast on this question – as are the people. One has only to look at a certain district this morning.’
Herr Wertheim pondered, as though analysing the yield on an investment. After a moment, he said: ‘Yes, indeed!’
Dietrich leaned forward, a trifle impatiently. He was dying for a smoke. This old banker used silences as effectively as an experienced preacher in a pulpit. He wanted to get on now. Nail him down. The momentous overnight events were staggering; he was astonished his colleagues hadn’t forewarned him, and was anxious to phone Berlin.
‘You know, Herr Dietrich, she’s a greatly valued employee. Of immense use to me, her father’s of good Aryan stock … a war hero.’ Herr Wertheim was thinking quickly.
The Nazi shrugged his heavy shoulders in a minimu
m show of sympathy. ‘I’m afraid such considerations don’t change the law.’
‘Of course – of course!’ Herr Wertheim instantly was avuncular, decisive, pragmatic. ‘Leave it in my hands, my dear colleague.’
Surprised, the Nazi hesitated, then, seeing his departure was required, rose, bowed stiffly, and left. He strode past Fräulein Dressler, genuinely not seeing her.
Watching him go, she thought: I’ve ceased to exist.
Two grey-suited men, each with a matching pallor, sat in the anteroom conversing in tense whispers. For once the newspapers had been disarranged, as the visitors had scanned headlines. Directors of an insurance company, the bank’s client for fifty years, they were facing disastrous claims, an outcome which the Nazi bosses apparently had overlooked when they’d set last night’s madness in train.
From his door, Herr Wertheim watched them. He expected it might be easier to solve their problem than the one remaining from his previous interview. But he never failed to solve problems — was famous for that. The thornier the better. Suddenly he frowned with pain. He’d been getting these sudden fierce headaches recently. He must ask the fräulein for aspirin.
13
AT 11.00 AM, Schmidt took the lift to the basement and entered the bank’s vault. Wagner was waiting, ashen-faced, badly shaven. The deputy foreign manager raised a cryptic eyebrow, plainly harking back to last night and his being left to drink alone. The acerbic remark on his lips was cut off by the arrival of Herr Otto.
Without a salutation, Otto growled, ‘I have clients coming in. Get this over Schmidt, without your boring delays.’
Schmidt took in the brand-new Nazi Party badge. Politely deferring to seniority, he invited the general-director’s nephew to take off his combination-lock from the safe reserved for the NSDAP. Otto had his usual trouble remembering his numbers. Goddammit! His fleshy face flushed a bright pink. Angry and embarrassed he consulted a scrap of paper, and made another attempt.
Wagner watched with undisguised contempt, Schmidt patiently. Was the embarrassment due to yesterday’s encounter in the corridor when he’d had Fräulein Dressler against the wall? What had that been about? Schmidt had sensed more in the air than Otto’s infamous lust. Then he recalled his own encounter.
Otto got his combination off, and stood back staring moodily while the deputy foreign manager twirled the dial with disparaging aplomb, and the chief auditor followed with his usual care and precision. The working stock of bearer bonds which the investment department used in their trading activities was due for Schmidt’s first audit. About once a week the trio attended in the vault with investment staff while bonds were lodged or withdrawn, but this was a different procedure. He took the opened packet to a table together with the register which recorded the ins and outs, the running balance. He proceeded to count and examine each certificate held in the working stock, comparing its number with that recorded.
Wagner lit one of his offensive cigarettes, and leant against a wall.
‘God save us!’ Otto complained. He moved away, paced up and down, weighty matters on his mind. Schmidt balanced the face value of the certificates against the running total.
The young director pulled up, swung around on them. ‘I trust you’re meeting all of Herr Dietrich’s requirements?’
Wagner shrugged carelessly. Schmidt intervened quickly, ‘Herr Dietrich’s watching everything with great care. He tells me he’s satisfied thus far.’
Otto grunted and resumed his moody patrol. Schmidt verified the seal and notation on a second large expandable envelope. He replaced the two in the safe, locked up, and they went their ways. Doubtless, Otto would retape the scrap of paper with its secret combination numbers to the side of his left-hand desk drawer, where Schmidt had once observed it. Strictly against the bank’s regulations, but the heir apparent had already begun to make his own. No political affiliations was the unwritten Wertheim dictum; predictable, that Otto now saw that as obsolescent.
‘Christ!’ Wagner said to Schmidt as they parted on the landing.
Herr Dietrich was waiting in Schmidt’s office, an air of impending action about him. Standing in the door, Schmidt felt a surge of adrenalin; this reaction was becoming chronic. At one point, as he’d checked the bonds, he’d had the uncongenial notion the Nazi was double-checking over his shoulder.
‘There you are, Schmidt.’With an amused expression, the Nazi regarded the auditor. ‘Busy as a beaver, as the Americans say.’
Schmidt nodded.
Dietrich laughed. Clearly, he was in an ebullient mood. ‘I have visited the United States, you know. An interesting place. Never mind. I wished to tell you that I’ve settled the Dressler matter. Not quite settled yet, but it will run its course to a satisfactory conclusion. She’s Jewish. The birth certificate provides the clinching evidence. We lawyers are meticulous with the facts. I’ve spoken with Herr Wertheim, and I’ve no doubt he’ll take the correct action. So there we are!’ He paused and silently added: ‘And how do you like that, my little friend?’
Schmidt regained his chair, and held his composure together. As he’d listened to the Nazi his thoughts had run a kind of parallel race.Wertheim, the old silver fox, playing for time, might’ve deceived the Nazi about his intentions, might’ve fobbed him off while he sorted the matter out at a higher level. On the other hand, the banker might have capitulated, and sunk his good intentions. Unfailing urbanity was the G-D’s only predictable characteristic, especially these days.
Dietrich watched the auditor. ‘Another matter. Have you ever considered joining the Party? … I invite you to do so. The Party needs competent people of sound stock. Naturally, membership brings arduous responsibilities. As the Americans say: There’re no free lunches … what do you say?’
Schmidt gazed into the hard but avuncular blue eyes. This morning the Americans were really to the fore. He considered his desktop, the spot where the manila folder with Fräulein Dressler’s passport application had lain an hour ago. Sound stock? Could von Streck’s knowledge of his heritage extend to Dietrich? Another nerve-stirring idea. Nothing could be counted out.
‘A great honour, Herr Dietrich. Not to be taken lightly. Of course, the bank’s regulations – ’
‘Would not stand in the way. Look at Herr Otto.You’re such a serious fellow, Schmidt. And you don’t have to tell me again it’s a professional characteristic. But think about it. Each of us must plan our future. I know about the unfortunate business with your eye. I trust no bitterness lingers there. We’ve eliminated undisciplined elements, people are now reliable.’ If it had happened to him he would’ve been bitter and revengeful. Why not this auditor? This correct little man had courage to do what he’d done. No doubt about that. He moved easily off the desk. ‘You’ve seen the streets this morning. The selected streets. This is a watershed, Schmidt. It’s time for us to become more rigorous about the question of the Jews. It’s all gathering momentum, all under control.’
He grinned, showing his regular, though nicotine-stained teeth. ‘They’re calling it Kristallnacht.’
He went off, to ring Berlin for the latest news.
The auditor remained immobile, heedless of his stacked in-tray. He wished he knew what was in Fräulein Dressler’s mind this morning.What of Prague now? He hoped she was staying calm. He hoped, also, that Herr Wertheim was still seeking a path through the thicket of complexities.
The teasing, probing character of the Nazi was a worry. He felt he was only half a move ahead of him, if he was ahead at all.
Herr Wertheim had been fifteen minutes on his call to Berlin. Fräulein Dressler felt a pain in her heart as she glanced at the light on his private line. God grant him aid! She was breathing lightly, quickly. He was talking to a man he knew well at the Party’s headquarters. Aid for her from that source seemed an unlikely proposition. However, in the past she’d seen him manufacture miracles out of thin air.
She couldn’t concentrate on her work. The minutes ticked by and her thoughts became more in
tense. More worried. She’d neither seen nor heard the overnight outrages, but the banner headlines, deadly smoke-trails and stench of burned material drifting over the city told the story; had begun the day-long constriction of nerves in her throat.
Herr Schmidt’s appearance in the anteroom at nine-thirty had been reassuring. He moved about the bank like a shadow. She’d concluded that he was honest and principled and compassionate. It would have surprised him to know the depth and longevity of her scrutiny.
That spontaneous embrace! For him to step out of character like that — how remarkable! What a woman she must be! She smiled a tight, self-mocking smile.
Herr Dietrich had passed through the anteroom like the stale wind which blew in summer off the city’s industrial fringe.At 11.00 am, the insurance company directors had departed and she’d received instructions from Herr Wertheim to convey to the director of lending. She’d rearranged the papers; they’d felt sticky and repulsive. Then Herr Wertheim had placed the call to Berlin.
The light on the private line went out.
For nearly an hour, Herr Wertheim remained incommunicado. She resumed her duties, glancing frequently at a bulb which, when lit, would summon her to the inner sanctum. He often sat immobile for long periods these days gazing down his room at that painting. ‘Repositioning the furniture,’ she’d named these interludes. Today her situation was the furniture. And the delay wasn’t a good sign. She stopped her work, put her hands to her face.
The light on his private line winked on again. He was making another call. This lasted about ten minutes. Her heart was pounding. The bulb to summon her lit up, making her catch her breath.
‘My dear fräulein … sit down, won’t you?’ Wertheim stared across his desk into the eyes which, despite his interpretative skills, had always baffled him, even during their intimate moments years ago. As though turning over the pages of a photo album, he remembered passionate afternoons at a little flat he kept. She’d been slimmer in those days … For ten years, she’d efficiently administered the first floor, absorbed without trace the bank’s secrets, his own. Made her little jokes.What a pity, he thought. No! What a tragedy!
The Eye of the Abyss Page 8