by JJ Toner
Fischer looked at his boss. “What did they say?”
“That’s a dead end, I’m afraid, Fischer. Kurt Framzl is no longer with the Gestapo. He has been stripped of his rank and sent to Sachsenhausen concentration camp.”
Chapter 76
December 1939
On December 7, leaving Ule with his father, Greta Kuckhoff paid a visit to Madam Krauss in Kurfürstenstrasss. She came bearing gifts as well as her usual basket of food for the Rosen family. December 7 was the first day of Hanukkah, the Holiday of Lights.
The front door was open as usual. She called Madam Krauss’s name. Getting no answer, she went into the back parlor. A scene of devastation greeted her. The room was in disarray, tables and chairs thrown about, Tarot cards scattered. No sign of Madam Krauss. Greta ran up the stairs to the attic. The closet door was open and inside the closet, the secret door had been kicked open, the place ransacked. The family was gone, leaving the few possessions they owned scattered on the floor.
Greta sank to the floor in disbelief. Someone must have informed on them. She gathered up some of Sophie’s reading books. The thought of Sophie in the hands of such thugs gave her cramps in her stomach.
In hopes of finding a clue about where Madam Krauss and the Rosens had been taken, she searched every room upstairs before going back downstairs. She searched all the rooms downstairs, but found no clues. Perhaps Libertas could use her magic with Emmy Göring to find out where they had been taken, maybe even to get them released.
Greta was in the hall preparing to leave when she heard a slight sound. What was it? Where was it coming from? She listened and waited, but heard nothing more. She must have imagined it. She opened the front door. Then she heard it again. A whimper, like a dog in distress coming from somewhere on the ground floor.
“Hello? Is anybody there?”
Nothing.
She closed the front door and moved quietly toward the rooms at the back of the house, listening for the sound. In the kitchen she heard it again, a definite whimper, a child’s cry, coming from one of the kitchen presses.
“Sophie?” She opened the press and found Sophie inside, knees tucked up to her face, her eyes tightly closed.
“Hey Sophie, it’s me, Greta. Come out of there.”
Sophie crawled out and threw herself into Greta’s arms. She cried long and loud. Greta held her tightly.
When her cries became gulping sobs, Greta used a dishcloth to dry her eyes. “Tell me what happened, Sophie?”
This question was greeted with another flood of howling tears.
“Come on, girl, dry your eyes and tell me.”
Between sobs, Sophie told Greta how men in gray uniforms had taken her parents. She was in the washroom in the house when they broke into the secret room. She managed to hide in the kitchen.
“It was my fault,” she wailed.
“Don’t be silly, child. How could it have been your fault?”
“It was. Frau Krauss had a visitor in a gray uniform. I saw him from the top of the stairs.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know. A few days ago.”
“And the man saw you?”
“No, no, I don’t think so. But when Frau Krauss was talking to him, Mama said I should be extra quiet. I… I dropped a cup on the floor. It made a terrible noise.”
“And the man came up the stairs to see what the noise was?”
“No. Frau Krauss said it was all right. She said she was trying to contact the man’s father who was dead.”
“A séance.”
“She said the noise of the cup falling made the man think his father was there, listening.”
“So Madam Krauss said the noise was a good thing, not a bad thing?”
She nodded. “Yes. But then the man sent his friends and they took Mama and Papa away.” She howled again, dry-retching.
“It wasn’t your fault, Sophie. You can’t blame yourself for what bad men do. Now come with me. Look, I have some of your books. Is there anything else upstairs that you need to take with you?”
“Aschenputtel.”
“Where is she? Is she upstairs? Come on, we’ll go get her.”
Dragging her heels, Sophie followed Greta up the stairs. She stopped halfway up.
“Wait here,” said Greta. She ducked into the secret room and grabbed the doll.
Sophie took the doll and clung to it. Greta carried child and doll down the stairs.
#
Back at Greta’s apartment, Greta and Adam spoke about this new turn of events while Sophie played with Ule in another room.
Adam said, “You did the right thing, Greta, but we can’t keep her here. We should ask her aunt Pauletta to look after her.”
“You think Libertas and Harro will be happy about that?”
“I’m sure they won’t object.”
Greta took Sophie to the car and Adam drove them to the Schulze-Boysen’s house. When Pauletta opened the door, Sophie threw herself, sobbing, into her arms.
Pauletta picked her up. “Whatever’s the matter, Sophie?”
Sophie was too upset to reply. Pauletta took her into the kitchen.
Greta followed her. “Matilde and David have been taken, Pauletta.”
Sophie interrupted her sobs to say, “It was my… my fault.”
Greta rubbed Sophie’s shoulder. “Nonsense, Sophie. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Pauletta drew a sharp breath. “Do we know where they’ve been taken?”
Greta shook her head. “We thought we should bring Sophie here.”
Libertas appeared at the kitchen door. Pauletta began to explain. “Sophie needs my help…”
Libertas stopped her with a wave of her hand. “Adam has told me. You can make up the small bedroom for her.” She hunkered down to talk to Sophie. “Sophie can stay with us for a while. Now, tell me what your beautiful doll is called.”
#
Max answered a knock at the door. Anna was reading a book. She heard a whispered conversation and then Frau Greta appeared at the kitchen door wearing a serious frown.
Anna knew something was seriously wrong. “Is it Sophie? Has something happened to her?”
Frau Greta shook her head. “The child is fine. She is safe, but her mama and papa have been taken.”
Anna slumped onto a kitchen chair. “Oh no! Where is she?”
“I’ve left her with her aunt. She’ll be safe there until we can arrange to get her out of the country.”
Max said, “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. They were hiding with Madam Krauss. The Gestapo found them. Sophie hid under the kitchen sink. The poor child blames herself for what happened.”
Anna was having trouble focusing. She wiped her eyes. “How can Sophie blame herself? What about Madam Krauss?”
“She was taken too.”
“Where were they taken?”
“We don’t know.”
Anna’s heart ached for the Rosens and for the child, orphaned in the most cruel way imaginable. “Is there any hope for them?”
Frau Greta shook her head. “Libertas will ask Emmy to intercede for them, but there’s a limit to what even Hermann Göring can do.”
As Frau Greta was leaving, Anna hugged her and handed her two children’s books that she’d bought for Sophie. It was all she could do.
Chapter 77
December 1939
On Christmas Eve, Max knocked on the door of his mother’s house in Wittenberg. She opened the door without a word, turned on her heels and left him standing on the doorstep. He stepped inside and closed the front door.
Once again the house was dark, with no tree, no lights, and no candles. Christmas had been cancelled in this small corner of the universe.
In the hallway, he saw a new hallstand and on the stand a shiny new black telephone.
He followed her into the front parlor. She stood in the far corner of the room in a self-hugging pose facing the window. This was odd, even for her.
She moved her head in an ambiguous gesture.
“Are you all right, Mother? You do know it’s Christmas Eve?”
No answer.
“I’ve brought you a gift. It’s from Anna and me.” He strode across the room, holding out a small parcel wrapped in Christmas paper.
She ignored him.
“I’ll leave it here. You can look at it later.” He placed it on top of the upright piano beside the picture of his father in his uniform. He got no word of thanks, and not even a flicker of curiosity as to the contents of the parcel.
“I see you have a telephone at last, Mother. Why didn’t you ring me and let me know? How long have you had it?”
She turned her head and snapped, “You should have called me.”
“I would have if I had your number. Give it to me now.”
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s Christmas Eve, Mother. I always visit on Christmas Eve. I’ve brought you a gift.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t you like me visiting you?”
“There’s no need. You can ring me on the telephone in future.” She turned her body to face him. “You can see yourself out, can’t you?”
That was a short visit! All of seven minutes.
Max went out to the hall. He found his mother’s telephone number written on a pad on the hallstand: 58515 He turned to the second page to write his own telephone number and found a second number on there marked with a single letter: ‘W 10267.’ It was not his mother’s handwriting. His heart skipped a beat. Could that be his father’s number? W for Wilhelm?
He picked up the telephone handset intending to dial the number, but had second thoughts when he heard the dial tone. He replaced the handset on its cradle. Then he wrote ‘Max 12388’ in big letters on the pad. As he went back toward the parlor to ask her whose number it was, his mother scuttled out. She disappeared into the kitchen and closed the door.
He called to her through the closed kitchen door. “I’ve written my number on the pad, Mother. Now you can call me whenever you like.”
No answer.
“Mother, did you hear me?”
Still no response.
Max left.
When he got home, he picked up the telephone and dialed 58515.
His mother picked up the telephone after an age. “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mother. It’s Max. I just rang to see if your telephone was working and to wish you a very joyous Christmas.”
No answer.
“You can call me whenever you like now, Mother. I wrote my number on your pad.”
“Yes, all right.”
“Mother? Are you still there? Are you all right?”
“Goodbye, Max-Christian.” She ended the call.
He re-ran the conversation in his mind. She hadn’t sounded depressed. Was she angry about something? But what could she be angry about?
Anna entered the room, carrying a bottle of wine. “Who was that on the telephone?”
“Mother. She sounded strange.”
Anna handed Max a glass of wine without comment.
“Stranger than usual, I mean.”
He told Anna about how odd his mother had been on his visit.
“Did she seem unhappy?”
“No, she seemed angry about something.”
“Angry about what? Was she angry with you?”
“I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”
Anna responded quietly, “She’s as mad as a March hare. I just hope it’s not hereditary.”
Max told her about the telephone number he’d found on her telephone pad ‘W 10267.’
“I thought it might be my father’s number. W for Wilhelm.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been wondering if he might be alive. Maybe he survived the War and came back.”
“That makes no sense, Max.”
“Suppose he survived the War but decided not to return to the family home.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He might have been badly wounded or had shell shock. Or maybe he just couldn’t face living with Mother anymore.”
Anna thought about that for a few moments. “Why don’t you ring the number and see who answers?”
“I suppose I could…” Max was torn between the desire to ring the number and maybe make contact with his long lost father and the prospect that he might finally learn that his father was really dead.
“What are you waiting for, Max?” Anna picked up the telephone and handed it to him.
Max dialed 10267.
It rang three times before a man answered. “Hello?”
Max said, “Hello, who am I talking to?”
Silence.
“This is Max Noack. Is that you, Father?”
The line disconnected.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. He broke the call.”
“Did it sound like your father?”
“I have no idea what my father sounds like, but the way he broke the call suggested it might have been him. If it wasn’t him, surely he would have said so, don’t you think?”
Anna put her hand to her mouth. “That’s creepy, Max.”
“Yes, it felt like I was calling a dead man, you know.”
“If only we could ask Madam Krauss. She could try to contact him. If she reached him, you’d know he’s definitely dead. If not, we’d know he must be alive.”
Chapter 78
January 1940
Oberassistent Fischer went looking for Schupo Officer Gretzke in Bismarckstrasss, the police station closest to St. Angar’s Church. Gretzke recognized him. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“You reported a new priest in St. Angar’s Church.”
“That’s right. Father Gunther Schlurr.”
“When did you first see him?”
“About a year ago.”
“And when did you last see him?”
Gretzke scratched his head. “Funny thing, but I don’t recall ever seeing him again.”
Fischer pulled out his notebook and pencil. “What did he look like, this disappearing priest?”
#
Fischer came into Neumann’s office wearing a hangdog look. “That Father Schlurr turned into a phantom, Boss. The Schupo man says he met him only once, a year ago.”
“Check with the archbishop’s office. They should know where he is.”
“I did that. They have no priest called Schlurr anywhere in Berlin. A wider search unearthed a Father Michael Schlurr who served in a mission in German West Africa. He died out there in 1927.”
“We can’t rely on their records. It is possible that this second pastor has also been murdered.”
“You mean we could be hunting a serial killer that only kills religious pastors?”
Neumann ignored the question. Fischer’s sarcastic tone was close to insubordination. “What about the fingerprints on the cigarette lighter, Fischer?”
“That has come up dry, Boss. We’ve checked every record we have. He’s not in there anywhere.”
“You’ve checked all the other Berlin districts?”
“Every one, Boss. We’ve even checked the files in all the other major cities in the country.”
“What about Austria?”
“The Austrian police have been searching for weeks. They haven’t finished yet, but we’ve had no success there either. I don’t know what else we can do.”
Neumann lit a Russian cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Have you spoken to the Gestapo?”
Fischer shook his head. Neumann picked up the telephone. “Get me Jürgen Traut in the investigation department in Gestapo headquarters.”
He was put though straight away.
“This is Traut.”
“Jürgen, this is Erhart Neumann Berlin district 6. Good morning.”
“What can I do for you, Kommissar?”
“I’d like to interview Kurt Framzl in Ethnics and Racial Affairs. But your office tells me he’s been sent to a concentration camp.”
“That is correct. Framzl was found guilty of corruption. He has been stripped of his rank and is cooling his heels in Sachsenhausen. Tell me why you want to interrogate him.”
“I’m working on a murder case. We have found a positive link to Kurt Framzl.”
“You’d better explain that.”
“A member of the public complained that her grandfather’s grave had been interfered with. We found the body of a priest wrapped in a carpet in the burial plot. His neck was broken. When we investigated his recent activities we came across a wedding that he conducted in March. Framzl told the registrar that the Marriage Authorization was a forgery.”
“The name of this priest?”
“Vigo.”
“Salvatore Vigo?”
Neumann sat up in his chair. “You knew him?”
“We’ve had our eyes on him for some time.” Neumann was not surprised. The Gestapo had their grubby fingers everywhere. “Can you say where and when Vigo was killed?”
“We know he was killed somewhere between October 5 and October 8. He was buried in a fresh grave on the night of Sunday October 8. We don’t know where he was killed.”
Silence from the other end of the line.
“Jürgen, are you still there?”
“October, you say. Didn’t you think to alert me before now?” Traut sounded tight-lipped.
“Why should I have? It’s just one of dozens of violent deaths on my caseload.”
“I’ll be there in 30 minutes.” The line went dead.
#
SS-Sturmführer Jürgen Traut swept into the Storkowerstrasss police station and strode past the desk sergeant toward the inner offices. No one attempted to stop him. If at all possible, senior ranked police officers avoided contact with less senior ranks within the Gestapo, but such confrontations were not unheard of. They generally gave rise to tricky interagency incidents. In this case, there was no contest. A Sturmführer of the SS easily outranked everyone at the station.