The Eye of the Abyss

by Marshall Browne

‘Of course, they’ve been colleagues for many years.’

  ‘Who else is he close to at the bank?’

  Helga thought methodically, decided boldly. ‘Herr Dietrich. He’s closely associated with him.’

  They dwelt on this for a moment.

  ‘Has your husband taken trips away? Especially abroad?’

  ‘No.’

  The three of them were silent, as though they were players on a stage who’d lost the thread of a scene. The team leader’s face was expressionless. He reconsidered two paragraphs in the teletype: the incident with the SA three years ago, the recent death of the man’s mother during an investigation by colleagues involving a Jewish woman: two dramatic incidents sitting damned strangely in such an uneventful life.

  ‘Why have you returned to Dresden?’

  Helga had lowered her chin, now she brought it up and tossed back her blonde hair. ‘My mother continues to need my support.’ Doubtless they’d know about the operation.

  ‘Yes? But you’ve a sister here.’

  Deliberately, she moistened her lips. Was it the right time to make the revelation? Perhaps the perfect opportunity. Her heart was beating much faster.

  ‘There is a private reason. I’ve decided to divorce my husband. I will not be returning home.’

  A flicker of animation passed over their faces. ‘Uhuh?’ the leader grunted. ‘What’s the reason for this sudden decision?’

  ‘It’s not sudden. We’re no longer compatible in the married state.’ In her ears, her voice sounded like someone else’s.

  The leader sucked at his teeth, as though retasting his last meal. ‘You’re disturbed by his actions, his opinions? Isn’t that so?’

  ‘No, that is not correct. I’ve told you the reason.’ She stared at them, willing them to go. Then she’d think about what such questions meant for Franz. Contact him. She presumed they’d not yet questioned him. Why hadn’t they? But perhaps they had …

  The men looked at each other, the leather coats crackled, electrically alive. She thought: In tune with their thoughts.

  ‘We won’t detain you longer, Frau Schmidt,’ the leader said. They turned their backs and went down the porch steps.

  Helga listened for the sound of their car but heard nothing. All her fears had been well founded. That the situation had crystallised here – tonight – was inexplicable. An idea came: Perhaps it was Wagner they were interested in. It was a straw to clutch at. Her heart was really pounding now. ‘Dear Franz – it’s a device – not the end for us.’ She whispered the fervent explanation out to where the owl sat, searching the darkness for telltale movement.

  The leader sat in the passenger seat assessing the house and grounds. The huge, dim oaks which hemmed in the house didn’t impress him. The suburban streetlights failed to penetrate the massed trunks.

  ‘That woman’s either honest, or cunning. See? Even in a routine job like this, our work’s no fucking picnic.’ He sounded as if he were clinching an old argument.

  ‘A bit of work on her can fix that,’ the other grunted.

  ‘Don’t count on it.’

  ‘Has he gone off the rails?’

  The leader shrugged. ‘Maybe. Let’s go, I hate this fucking suburb, it stinks of the bourgeois.’

  The engine started, and gravel crunched under the tyres. In the hall, Helga slowly let out her breath.

  Schmidt hurried to the cathedral. Again, the giant detective wasn’t there. The stone embrasure was empty. Schmidt surveyed the platz. Six forty-five pm. Was he too late? At a loss, he gripped the attaché case and stared across to the ever-present, incandescent café-life. The intervening motor traffic latticed headlights across the platz.

  What now? He felt exposed, the attaché case a deadly liability.

  A touch on the shoulder. God! He whipped around. Dressler loomed above him – like a statue displaced from the public gardens; a mobile statue which’d stepped out of a pool of darkness, and approached silently on thick rubber.

  Schmidt exhaled his tension, gasped: ‘My apologies.’

  ‘I went to look the neighbourhood over. Also to see if you’re being followed. It doesn’t appear so. Now Herr Schmidt, we must get a move on. The people we’re to meet have the nerves of wild deer. They won’t wait.’

  They walked into a dark district. Breezes sang softly in the alleys: sighs of despair. Did Dressler feel this atmosphere? Schmidt had to break into a run to keep up, which spurred his thinking. Beside him, Dressler’s breathing whistled in the dark. They turned under an arch. A touch of life: a violin was playing deep in an interior. Congratulations to the player. Schmidt tripped, plunged out of control into a black abyss. Dressler’s giant hand shot out and plucked him back, steadied him.

  ‘Careful, Herr Schmidt. This isn’t like your suburb. The municipality doesn’t spend money here.’

  The detective slowed, inspecting doorways. They stood under a portico, heard a bell resound in the interior. Schmidt was vaguely aware of masonry columns on either side. A house of large proportions. A scratching came at the door; like a rat going at ceiling wiring.

  Three men waited in a library. Rubinstein, his hat removed on this occasion, gestured to chairs set at a vast table gleaming like a mirror. Schmidt was dazzled; a surfeit of electricity here.

  A greater surprise was the short, barrel-chested, white-moustached man, his massive head on one side as if it were a burden. He stood apart. The famous Jewish banker watched them with a speculative air, smiled slightly at Schmidt’s sign of recognition. The man had dropped from public view. The auditor bowed formally, took his place beside Dressler at the table.

  Rubinstein studied Schmidt. He said, ‘May I ask what value you’ve brought, and in what form?’

  Schmidt welcomed the absence of preliminaries. He silently drew in a breath. ‘I have 500,000 marks of Reich bonds — in denominations of 100,000. As I understand the situation, the 200,000 – is it? — necessary for Fräulein Dressler’s case, and 300,000 to be used at your discretion.’ He spoke rapidly, in a meticulous tone.

  A younger man with black, glued-down hair looked up quickly from the tabletop. They considered the figures stated.

  Rubinstein said, ‘A generous proposal. However, you’ll understand we give no guarantees. Circumstances are variable, sometimes we succeed, sometimes not. The persons we deal with can be trusted only to the degree their self-interest is satisfied. They’re not people of honour. And the influence they have today may be gone tomorrow. The Nazi leadership, as much as they can, keep things on the move.’ His hands made gestures, massaging his words. ‘The fact that she’s in detention is a complication.’

  Schmidt glanced at Dressler. He opened the attaché case, passed the packet across the desk. Rubinstein examined the Wertheim & Co identification, and regarded the auditor with curiosity. Schmidt thought: Everything isn’t known. The ex-judge passed the packet to the younger man, who opened it, examined the top document, held it up to the light, inspected watermarks with an eye-glass, put on a rubber thumb-stall and counted with the same facility Schmidt had shown earlier in the evening. Then he examined the other bonds. They watched in silence.

  The banker had moved to watch the young man over his shoulder. His eyes downcast, he said deeply out of that chest, ‘These will be fed onto the markets in Berlin, Frankfurt, Hamburg over several days. However, they’re numbered, of course, and it would not be impossible to trace individual bonds back to source – should an investigation commence, and the investigators have enough power, skill, and luck. And if records have been kept. I presume it’s inevitable they’ll be found missing at some point.’

  He’d spoken in a relaxed tone. He looked directly at Schmidt. ‘Doubtless you’ve taken that factor into account.’

  Dressler sat erect, huge and silent at the table, as though he were a non-combatant watching a barrage going up. The flick, flick of the count, the stiff rustle of the security paper, was beyond his experience.

  Back in the street Schmidt wondered at the d
etective’s thoughts. Then he wondered at the force within himself which had impelled him on this strange odyssey.

  ‘Thank you, Herr Schmidt.’ Dressler’s voice unexpectedly vibrated with emotion, as though he, too, was thinking about Schmidt’s conduct. ‘Now, let us get away from here.’

  26

  AT 7.30 am the next day the doorbell shattered the bachelor-silence. At the breakfast table, Schmidt froze. Who …? Maria went into the hall. The auditor waited, breathing suspended, coffee cup held in mid-air. He thought: Gestapo. He heard muffled voices.

  Maria returned, and gave him a curious look. ‘A gentleman to see you, Herr Schmidt.’

  Schmidt got up, feeling he might be going to meet his fate. Though, one man …

  An obese man waited in the hall, exuding an air of reluctance to be there. He had faded blue eyes as clear as glass; many chins. He wore a provincial-looking overcoat, and the ringed fingers of his left hand clutched a homburg. He bowed minimally, and held out an envelope. Up close this visitor smelled of cigars. He stared at the auditor with a kind of alarm.

  ‘Herr Schmidt? Herr Fischer. From Dresden. A neighbour of your mother-in-law. As I was coming here, your wife asked me to bring this letter to you.’ Schmidt took the letter. ‘Thank you, mein herr. Some coffee?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m late for an appointment.’The stranger’s chins vibrated. He edged towards the door. Schmidt moved to hold it open, and somehow they shook hands.

  ‘Of course, again our thanks.’

  The man from Dresden left. Schmidt was sure of a sigh of relief from the stairwell. An appointment at 7.30 am.? He returned to the breakfast table. The messenger had impressed as a fortunate survivor of the Inflation; one who’d bought assets as others had sold.

  He read Helga’s letter quickly, then reread it. When he’d finished he sat with the pages in his hand, and felt loneliness creep from the corners of the flat into his heart. Abruptly, he went into his study and burnt the letter – as she’d requested.

  ‘Hugs and kisses from Trudi.’ The phrase stood in his mind after the pages were ashes. Dear Helga, pragmatic in the face of disaster. ‘In the interests of Trudi, my family, myself …’ Always, totally honest. His vision blurred with tears. He stared blindly across the room. The Gestapo were still in the picture. Dietrich might have less influence than he believed. Or was working with them, watching him for a false move. Maybe they’d observed his meetings with Dressler. His mouth had gone dry, and his hands were sweating. He got up and paced the room. He and Wagner could already be finished. He steadied himself. That is not the message I’m getting from Dietrich.

  ‘God willing we will come through this, be together again, my dearest one,’ she’d written as she moved to her separate planet. They could no longer trust the phone, the post, or meet. She’d made an appointment with her mother’s lawyer, to begin divorce proceedings.

  Schmidt stared at Dürer’s knight on his wary ride past the unattainable castle. He went to the window, and looked down into the street. Wintry sunlight. An illusion of easy normality, lulling the unwary spirit into lowering its guard.

  Fervently, he prayed that the Gestapo had finished with his family.

  He heard them coming, despite the double-glazing. Twenty Brownshirts marched into view, singing, jackboots stamping, each holding aloft a red-and-black swastika on a brass-tipped pole – identical to the one which had hoicked out his eye. Had the Dresden messenger, with super-sensitive hearing, heard them?

  With a sense of urgency, he turned away.

  An hour later, at the bank, he considered more tangible matters. Lilli had vanished into ‘protective custody’. He speculated on the channels Rubinstein would be following. It would be a highwire walk, dealing with corrupt Nazis. How long would they have to wait for news?

  He drank coffee, and gazed at his safe as though he’d X-ray vision and could see the remaining 9,500,000 marks worth of bonds. He felt keyed-up, but no fear. ‘My phlegmatic colleague,’ Wagner had called him. The possibility of torture chambers, broken bones, bloodied faces, assaulted genitals – as whispered by the knowledgeable – seemed to be circulating around him. The world of von Streck and Dietrich – now his world. It was true, he felt no fear for himself … instead, a strong sense of predestination. He smiled thinly. It seemed Wagner’s Calvinism had shifted subtly into his bloodstream.

  Wagner? The deputy foreign manager shouldn’t come to his flat tonight; he’d use his mother’s. Anxiously he settled down to reconsider the vital unresolved second stage of his plan. The internal phone on his desk rang.

  ‘Herr Auditor? Come to my office, please.’

  The corridors are a degree or so colder each day, he thought. ‘Healthy’ Herr Wertheim reportedly told the directors. ‘Coming out of overheated rooms into fresh air stimulates the brain.’ And, ‘Better higher salaries than higher heating costs.’ This slogan amused the general-director, and irritated his codirectors, as salaries were fixed by the government. Had the G-D calculated the point when the water pipes would freeze up?

  Deliberately he carried these routine thoughts to Dietrich’s door.

  Dietrich had nothing on his desk but his coffee cup — and the auditor’s latest report. The ice-blue eyes transfixed Schmidt. ‘There you are! Just a moment of your valuable time, Schmidt.’ Grinning, the Nazi gestured towards a chair. ‘By the way, have you looked out of the window lately, and observed the wonderful progress the Fuehrer is making in the Czechoslovakia negotiations?’

  Dietrich’s tone was ironic. A gibe against the introverted Wertheim world. ‘Never mind. The auditing sphere may be boring to my more mercurial mind, but it’s a valid function. Please feel relaxed about that.’

  The Nazi’s window faced the street, but Schmidt had never seen him look out. His dealings with the world were by phone. He appeared to spend much of each day with that instrument glued to his ear. Now he assumed seriousness. ‘I reemphasise something, Schmidt. Don’t make another mistake in your personal relations. You will keep clear of Deputy Foreign Manager Wagner. That man is not of the right calibre. Are you listening, Herr Schmidt?’

  Schmidt gazed at the Nazi, thinking: Listening? I’m listening and watching you with the kind of attention you’d hardly credit.

  Another warning about Wagner. He felt the worry turn over in him. What did Dietrich know about Wagner’s future? Did he have him in the same sights he’d brought to bear on Lilli? Wagner was so careless with his slanders of the Party – a criminal offence. But, what else? His own doubts about his colleague surfaced again.

  ‘Herr Director, I do have duties to discuss with Herr Wagner on a regular basis.’

  Dietrich raised his hands. ‘I said personal relations. I could hardly have missed that you’re a walking repository of discretion. Use it.’

  The auditor nodded.

  ‘Another matter. How much unused safe-custody space do we have in the vault?’

  ‘For what purpose, Herr Director?’

  Dietrich worked his lips over his teeth. ‘For gold bullion. Let us say, for thirty or forty millions.’

  Schmidt blinked. ‘Space can be made.’

  ‘Good. I’m looking ahead, my friend. I mentioned Czechoslovakia. Now I’m mentioning the Czechoslovak National Bank – and its gold reserves. Need I say more? Of course, your lips are strictly sealed.’

  Schmidt did not show surprise, though it had given him a solid jolt. The idea seemed ridiculous. The Nazi was smiling again.

  ‘Does it worry you, my dear Franz – your eye?’

  ‘I’m used to it.’

  ‘Good! Now, our little dinner.’

  His voice had dropped. He leaned forward intimately, suddenly at his most personable. ‘Tomorrow night, my apartment. Seven o’clock. Here’s the address. You’re going to enjoy this, my friend. Have no doubt.’

  Politely, Schmidt indicated pleasurable anticipation.

  The phone rang; reluctantly the Nazi withdrew from further preview of the golden occasion, and gave an a
iry wave of dismissal.

  Schmidt returned to his office. In terms of what he had on his plate, tomorrow night seemed an age away.

  Otto Wertheim passed through the general-director’s anteroom with a feeling of acute discomfort. Under the appraising eyes of Else Blum, his usual self-important swagger deteriorated to a hasty waddle. It made him angry, but he felt powerless. By a laborious mental process, he’d decided that her innocent demeanour was a mask for a huntress type. How else to explain it? Her cunt was made of Krupp steel! He was still sore, and rigorously avoided eye contact.

  ‘Herr Director, please advise when you again need special assistance in the archives,’ she said earnestly.

  He nodded tersely, eyes rigidly ahead, missing the gleam in her eye. His face was hot. Last night he’d visited his favourite club to soothe his bruised ego with a woman who’d cooed and melted beneath him like butter. With indignant relief, he closed the door of his uncle’s room behind him.

  ‘Yes, Otto?’

  ‘Our recent talk … I’ve done some research. The Dortmund’s pipe and blast furnace company is to be Aryanised. I think we could get it for a million. Its net worth is six, at least. We can easily fund it from the Party’s balance of Reich bonds. Would you agree to me working on it with Herr Dietrich? ’

  He stopped, out of breath, apprehensive for this opportunity. That Blum pig had shaken his confidence.

  Herr Wertheim stared at the soul-searching Eye. Otto had really been burning the midnight oil, though what else had he been up to? He’d that uneasy air which had accompanied several of his past escapades. Well, no doubt he’d find out about it. Heinrich Dortmund’s sober face appeared in his mind’s eye. He’d known the Jewish capitalist for thirty years, served alongside him on several committees. He could hear his slow, thick, kindly voice laying down the building blocks of civic life.

  His mind seemed to blink – the image vanished like baggage thrown off a train; he was seeing the Eye again. The die was cast for the Dortmunds, and some banker was going to be involved in the end of their business empire. If it were Wertheims, perhaps he could temper the ill wind. Yesterday, the bank had approved the loan for the Ruhr industrialist and his Aryanisation project.