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The Iron Heart
[Franz Schmidt 02]
Marshall Browne
No copyright 2012 by MadMaxAU eBooks
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1
A
T ONE MINUTE TO NINE on a bitter morning, Franz Schmidt walked Berlin’s Wilhelmstrasse cocooned in a throng of phantom figures. The fog blanketing the city had cut visibility to just metres and, peering ahead, the auditor decided that the footfalls tapping eerily on the pavement were a percussion performance from a host of lost souls.
Thoughts like that eased Schmidt’s tension and this morning he was very tense; fully aware that each step was taking him back into the dangerous life he’d lived last November in his home city. He shivered in his thick overcoat and, for warmth and comfort, turned his mind to his family. They were with him on this walk, his ex-wife, Helga, and Trudi, his beloved six-year-old daughter; actually, in Dresden, but very close in his head, his heart.
Treading through the murk he remembered another foggy morning last October, when his family had walked with him to the tramcar; the first stage of his daily journey into Bankhaus Wertheim; the morning his life had turned upside down.
He thrust that thought away, now tasting the acrid fog in his mouth; but it was his eye that troubled him. Tears were icing on his cheek. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed below his left eye, then, more precisely, the prosthesis. Winter fogs and gritty summer winds alike had this effect.
The principal streets and buildings of the government district were already fixed in his mind: the Reich Chancellery, the ministries of Finance, Armaments and War Production, Aviation, Interior, Public Enlightenment and Propaganda and many others bounded by Mauerstrasse, Hermann-Göring-Strasse, Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse and Unter den Linden.
If only you could see them! He stopped and squinted up at a street sign. Bodies bumped into him and moved past. He turned left and walked about fifty metres. Here. He’d not been to the Reichsbank but knew exactly where it was — every senior banker in Germany did.
He took a deep breath, and walked up the steps.
Two SS sentries, stationed outside the main doors, swivelled their eyes to him, then resumed their straight-ahead stares.
It was Monday 23 January 1939.
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The Fuehrer’s eyes fastened on Schmidt’s slight figure the moment the auditor entered the foyer; cold, metallic eyes. The bronze bust was a chilly and assessing presence in the large unheated space under a high cupola.
Checking each and every entrant: Loyal servant or deadly traitor? Schmidt was momentarily frozen to the spot.
‘Mein herr?’
Schmidt pivoted in the direction of the voice. Real eyes, blue, yet equally as cold regarded the auditor from behind a counter in the corner of the foyer.
‘Herr Schmidt, chief auditor,’ Schmidt said, using his voice for the first time that day.
‘Herr Chief Auditor, you are expected!’The self-important official’s several chins shook. He ducked his close-cropped head, straightened his corpulent figure, clicked his heels and thumped his hand down on a bell-push. An assistant at attention against a wall sprang forward.
‘Mein herr, this way please,’ the assistant chanted.
Schmidt sighed. The meaty official wasn’t a man to warm his heart; nor was this kind of reception.
He was ushered into a lift. Laboriously it ascended to the second floor, its miscellany of clanks similar to those of the antiquity at his previous employer, Bankhaus Wertheim. He was conducted along corridors of doors half-panelled with pebbled glass and bearing only numbers. He had stepped into insider territory, a labyrinth to strangers. Topography would be his first challenge.
His guide halted and knocked on one of the doors. Room 213. ‘Come.’ A female voice. The man opened the door, recited, ‘Fräulein manager, Herr Schmidt!’ shuffled aside for the auditor, and Schmidt stepped through the door and into his new assignment.
The woman stood up behind her desk. Schmidt removed his hat, advanced into the room and gave one of his slight bows. The woman dropped her head in formal acknowledgment then snapped it up.
‘Heil Hitler!’
Schmidt blinked. ‘Heil Hitler.’
The woman lowered her arm and a slow smile appeared on her face. She came around the desk and offered her hand. ‘Herr Chief Auditor! A pleasure. Welcome to the Reichsbank. I’m Fräulein Brandt, head of the Precious Metals Department.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, fräulein.’ Schmidt took the large hand and shook it. His own was lost in her firm grip. He gave a polite smile. She released his hand, stepped back and briefly touched her hair.
A statuesque figure - no other description would do. Tall with her blonde hair drawn wire-tight into a bun; no hand touch-ups required. Features perfectly regular. The word perfect could also be used to describe her figure, though the calves of her shapely legs might be judged a trifle too muscular. Well-cut dark green suit and a plain white blouse; a Nazi Party badge in the suit’s lapel.
Schmidt noted this with his single-eyed appraisal, also that the vivid blue eyes were regarding him with caution and curiosity.
She said, ‘I’ve been instructed to receive you. Today we’re slightly disorganised. The new president has arrived.’
Schmidt nodded. Dr Funk, the Fuehrer’s personal choice. Unconsciously, his grip on the rim of his homburg tightened.
She gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Please take off your overcoat. We’re heated on this floor.’ Schmidt removed his coat and placed it on a chair with the homburg. Rooms were heated, but obviously not corridors. He watched her eyes flick to the Party badge revealed on his own lapel. Party membership required skilful interpretation; some saw it as a conduit to promotion or an option for an easier life. In his own case it was camouflage, carefully deployed. This woman exuded her love for the Party.
‘Please be seated. You don’t smoke?’
Schmidt shook his head. He did, but infrequently. He sat down in one of the chairs before her desk.
‘Good! I don’t permit it in my room.’
In a few strides she returned to her own chair, efficiently settled herself in it, and joined the large hands before her on the desk. ‘Well, Herr Schmidt, it’s a big day for us. A new president! Herr Funk’s already in conference with our deputy president.’ She smiled again, ‘And a new chief auditor.’
Schmidt nodded. The famous former president had fallen from the Fuehrer’s grace with a resounding thud - in the press and on the wireless. Dr Walther Funk now had the job.
Schmidt released his own slight smile. According to the man who was placing him in the Reichsbank, he would report directly to the new president.
On the wall behind the manager hung a photograph of the Fuehrer. A brooding portrait. Schmidt gazed at it. A mentor-like presence watching over her? He surmised this woman might regard it like that.
Manfred von Streck’s voice came into his head. ‘The chief auditor’s died. A fortuitous opportunity, Schmidt. For you, for us.’
The Nazi plenipotentiary had smiled one of his dark traitorous smiles. ’I’ve no doubt there’ll be ways for you to make a valuable contribution.’
For the moment, this contribution was merely a watching brief in the financial heart of the Third Reich, until a specific task emerged from von Streck’s fecund anti-Nazi mind.
The fräulein’s sculpted lips twisted in another minimal smile at this reticent auditor. ‘President Funk brings a new broom, Herr Chief Auditor. To sweep out obsolete thinking and practices, obsolete people. I’m greatly encouraged.’
She paused, her face clouding over. What she’d just said was largely true, but she was disco
uraged by one aspect that clung to the new Reichsbank chief like an unsavoury odour; his rumoured homosexuality. How had the dear Fuehrer overlooked it? Her attention returned to Schmidt. ‘Chief Auditor Halse will be greatly missed. A good Party member.’ A shrug of the powerful yet shapely shoulders. ‘Now, I’ll take you to meet your deputy.’
Her eyes flicked over the small, compact, blue-eyed man: the handsome face, the serious demeanour and again, the Party badge. He had appeared out of the blue. What was the story behind it? At least he was a big improvement on Halse in the looks department.
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Deputy Auditor Gott was tall and lean, wore a dusty black suit, a shining white celluloid collar and a starched shirt-front. A facial tick flickered on his right cheek and his eyes showed pain. Ah yes, Schmidt thought, the disappointment of being passed over. Contempt, too, for the provincial interloper who’d stepped into Halse’s shoes from nowhere; doubtless unprecedented, and a great shock. Gott had a heavy cold and apologised for it.
Nonetheless, after Fräulein Brandt had taken her leave, he efficiently familiarised Schmidt with his room, and in a bulky register had him sign for the keys of office, explaining the purpose of each, then demonstrated the internal and external telephone systems, and named each file in the neat stack on the chief auditor’s desk.
All done, he stepped back from the desk. ’Fräulein Esser, our typist, is waiting outside.’
Schmidt smiled pleasantly. ‘Please ask her to step in.’
Gott brought in a plump, blushing young woman and made the introduction. Schmidt bowed and she vanished out the door.
‘Do you require any further assistance at this stage? My room is three along the corridor. Fräulein Esser is there too.’
Schmidt shook his head. ‘This is a good start, Herr Gott.’
The man lowered his eyes and left the room. Schmidt heard him blowing his nose in the corridor as his footfalls faded. His deputy seemed to be a thorough man. In this institution, it was to be expected.
Schmidt brushed his lips with his fingertips. Fräulein Brandt. There would be few women in the Reich’s civil service of this high rank. It possibly equalled his own, though he would have the auditor’s usual independence. At least, in theory.
Would she know anything of his past, of his sponsorship to the Reichsbank? He sat back in his chair and gazed at the wall. Younger than him, she exuded the atmosphere of the Hitler Youth summer camps, gymnastics, the ‘Strength through Joy’ posters. He’d a good idea of the life she would have led up until this point, although one couldn’t be totally certain.
Caution was ingrained in Schmidt as an auditor, as a person.
He took out his fountain pen, unscrewed the cap, and laid the pen on the blotter. For the next hour he scanned the assembled files with his professional eye. He paid special attention to the audit programs. There were variations to Bankhaus Wertheim - a private bank - for instance, the custody and movements of the nation’s gold and foreign currency reserves.
The deceased Halse had also been competent. Schmidt scanned the most recent reports under each program; there were matters to look into, but nothing earth-shattering that needed urgent follow-up.
He closed the files. How was President Funk settling into his position? Schmidt expected to be summoned to his office within the next few days.
On his wall, another photograph of the Fuehrer. With each passing hour, the madman, as his deceased friend Wagner at Wertheims had called him, was more omnipresent in their lives. The photograph must be kept. However, he might shift it out of his direct eye-line. Having only one eye made you particular about what you wished to see. He sighed. The only picture he’d had in his office at Wertheims was of the bank itself.
Schmidt stared down at his hands, the left one bare of the gold wedding ring that Helga had chosen for him. More camouflage. It was tucked into a secure compartment of his wallet, carried close to his heart.
The auditor looked in a drawer and found a Reichsbank directory, precisely where Herr Gott had said it was.
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Eleven o’clock. The fourth floor. Room 407. Schmidt knocked on the door, opened it and stepped into a haze of tobacco smoke. A man at a desk, cigar in hand, lifted his eyes from what he was reading and regarded Schmidt with both suspicion and a tinge of annoyance. ‘Mein herr?’
‘Herr Theodore Fischer?’ The auditor smiled his conservative smile. About sixty, the man was bear-like in stature; his large stomach overhung the desk, nudging into a pile of papers that lay between his sausage-like fingers. His head seemed out of scale with his body: smaller, with finely chiselled features. Brown spots like birth-marks mottled his brow and hands.
In a corner of the spacious room, seemingly out of range of the main pall of smoke, a youngish woman operating a chattering typewriter glanced up from her machine without pausing in her typing.
‘You’re looking at him, mein herr.’
‘I’m Schmidt, the new chief auditor.’
‘Ah!’The man laid the cigar aside and despite his bulk rose fluently from his chair, offered his big pink hand across the desk. ‘We’ve been awaiting your arrival, Herr Chief Auditor. Eagerly awaiting it.’ He removed wire-framed glasses and scanned Schmidt’s face, then took in the badge on his lapel.
Though the last remark had been made with a serious, even concerned expression, Schmidt thought he’d caught an ironic inflexion. He was being waved across the room to a leather armchair; Fischer was advancing on one opposite it. ‘Apart from extending a welcome, what can I do for you, Herr Schmidt?’
‘I wish to introduce myself to new colleagues. Nothing more for the moment.’
Fischer immediately went back to the desk for his cigar, a thoughtful look on his face. His hair was absolutely white, sharply parted in the middle.
Schmidt watched him return to his seat. This over-sized fellow of the old school in his pin-striped dark grey suit would be wondering why, in the proliferation of departments, sections, sub-sections, his own had been honoured by the auditor’s visit on the first morning of his arrival.
The reason was that von Streck had given him the name of one person only in the Reichsbank — this man’s. ‘He could be a person of interest to you, Schmidt. ’Whatever that meant. Fischer frowned. His round watery eyes contemplated the auditor. ’Herr Chief Auditor, all of this has been a great surprise. Herr Halse was a very fit man. Absolutely in the pink. A runner in the parks. Not inclined to an excess of food and drink like myself. To have a seizure on a tram, and pass away within minutes . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It verges on the unbelievable.’
Schmidt nodded gravely. More of von Streck’s words replayed in his mind: ‘A fortuitous opening that’s arisen, Schmidt. A role which you’ll be able to slip on like a glove.’
‘Arisen’ or been created? Von Streck had been smiling one of his enigmatic smiles; the auditor was a non-stop reader and interpreter of nuances, and the remark had left him uneasy.
Fischer drew on the cigar, blew out smoke, coughed, and patted his chest. ‘Halse was a Party man like you, unlike me. He attended courses. I believe the last was an intriguing seminar on propaganda. Wasting his time. His duties here should’ve had his full attention. However, he’s now gone.’
Schmidt nodded politely. ’You’re responsible for foreign bank relations.’
“I am.”
They were critical responsibilities. Especially with the Swiss. The Reich was strapped for foreign exchange and the Swiss offered life-lines in that respect. Schmidt’s eye drifted past Fischer to the corner where the typist was at work. A slight, even fragile woman. Around thirty, her face as pale as a bowl of milk. Blonde hair down to her shoulders. Fast on that machine.
Fischer’s eyes, shrewd amid the water, said, ’Ah! I’ve neglected to introduce my assistant, Fräulein von Schnelling. Forgive me. Forgive me, Anna,’ he said over his shoulder.
Schmidt stood up and bowed. The fräulein did, also. As Schmidt’s eye met the blonde woman’s, he blinked,
as if reacting to a jolt of electricity. The face that he was now staring at, the eyes that he was looking into — deep-seeing, curious and good-natured, seemingly all at once - were having an extraordinary effect on him.
The auditor froze and his speech dried up under this optic spell.
Fischer was studying him. ‘Herr Schmidt?’
Schmidt heard his name from afar, and dropped his gaze.
He turned to the banker. ‘I won’t interrupt you any further.’
Fischer rose and accompanied him to the door. Looking down at the small man, he said, ‘You were with Bankhaus Wertheim.’
Schmidt gave a brief nod. People here had already been looking into his past.
‘A fine old bank. I knew Herr Wertheim. A pity he’s gone. Also Wagner, the deputy foreign manager. That was very sad. We met in Zurich now and then. A couple of times we dined together in Berlin. Another untimely departure.’ He gave the auditor a calculating look. ‘A good man.’
The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02] Page 1