Elisabeth was no fool but was she overconfident? What could be done?
Von Beckendorf had recovered his energy. ’The group should be disbanded. The members should disperse. If there’re papers or records, burn them I can’t emphasise —’ He began to cough. It was such a strain to talk. He took out a white handkerchief and held it to his mouth. Instantly it was flecked with blood.
Horrified, Anna jumped up and ran from the room. She raced back with a damp flannel and a towel and pressed the flannel into his hands. ‘You must stay here tonight.’
‘No, Anna.’ He bunched up the handkerchief and thrust it in his pocket, then wiped his mouth and chin with the flannel. ‘Have you a little brandy?’
Herr Goebbels’ powerful voice continued, ‘If coffee is in short supply for a while, it is hardly a necessity of life. It would be something different if potatoes or bread were lacking . . .’
She brought Eugene a glass of brandy in a small etched glass she’d inherited from a mutual aunt. He drank it carefully while she stared at him, as if mesmerised by his condition. She broke her silence, her mouth close to his ear. ‘Dear Eugene, I can’t abandon Elisabeth. She’s been like a sister to me, a mother to so many of us. How could I do that?’
Grimly, he said, ‘You must do what I’ve said. If she was thinking straight she wouldn’t have exposed you all to such danger.’ He turned to look into her eyes. They both knew it wasn’t as simple as that; that it was painful for him to speak of the woman he loved like this. ‘At least warn her about what I’ve said.’
On the radio, Goebbels laughed and, with deliberate timing, said, ‘It is not a matter of “guns instead of coffee”.’
The Reich Minister’s voice then ceased. Music was playing again. Eugene was absorbing Anna’s distress. The brandy had revived him a little. Had he expected another outcome than this? Since childhood he’d known that his cousin had a will of iron. He stared across the room. All the years of happy association, all the family gatherings, were running in his head featuring the ghostly figures of departed relatives and servants, some dear, some less dear. But all gone. Except her. God willing, this wouldn’t destroy her.
‘I’ll go. I’m feeling much better. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Anna, I’m not going back to the sanatorium. I’ll be at my flat.’
At the door, she kissed and hugged him. ‘Eugene, please take the greatest care. Please believe I’m taking everything you’ve said seriously.’
Von Beckendorf stepped out to the hall and the door closed behind him. He lingered there a moment, putting on his hat and tucking his scarf around his throat. He thought: But will she act? Without a sound the door opposite opened and a bearded man stood there. He stepped back quickly and shut the door.
Eugene slowly descended the marble stairs, gripping the rail. His legs felt shaky. A Jew. Unmistakably. With a sinking feeling in his heart, he remembered the elderly Jewish lady who lived in the flat the man had retreated to. The woman who Anna had befriended. His cousin was surrounded by dangerous complexities.
His heels striking a tattoo in the icy stairwell, he went down to the street. Goebbels’ laughter was still echoing in his head. That crew are laughing at how easily they’re infecting the nation with their corrupt ideologies. Wearily, he walked toward his flat. His books, his beloved Shakespeare, awaited him there; a short respite from this bogus and dangerous world.
~ * ~
8
W
HEN HE ENTERED THE REICHSBANK at 8.15 on Wednesday morning, Schmidt was extremely tense, though outwardly calm. This morning he ignored the Fuehrer’s brooding bronze features; it was the impending meeting with von Streck that dominated his thoughts.
Grateful to reach his warm room, he removed his thick overcoat, the woollen scarf knitted years ago by Helga, and his homburg which was sprinkled with droplets of moisture from the fog that was again swirling across the city. He sat down at his desk, and adjusted his reading light to throw its beam onto the blotter.
His third day at the bank but it felt like he’d been there a month. His deputy had placed a file of current matters on the desk. Gott was an early starter. The fellow was still sniffing and mopping his nose, but capable and industrious. He quickly checked the items - a miscellany of correspondence relative to past and current audits, an exchange of information with the Economics Ministry, an audited report on last week’s movements in foreign currency holdings. Ever downward, he noted.
And this: a requisition from Herr Fischer for travel expenses to visit Zurich, departing Sunday evening. Schmidt stared at Fischer’s circumspect signature. No details of the business to be undertaken. At Bankhaus Wertheim, the foreign department had been meticulous in detailing a mission’s programme. Even Wagner, cavalier about procedural matters, had conformed.
The requisition had been approved by the deputy president’s office. Gott had written beneath this: ‘His last visit was only three weeks ago??’
The outspoken Prussian had not mentioned the trip last night. Thoughtfully, Schmidt turned over that sheet.
At 10.00 am Fräulein Esser brought his coffee and a piece of cake; a person on the third floor was having a birthday. Another birthday. Sipping his coffee, staring at the untouched cake, Schmidt considered last night’s dinner. Not a word about the Swiss trip. He frowned. Very strange. Even for Fischer, travelling outside the borders of the Reich wasn’t a routine event.
He put it aside and looked at the Fuehrer’s photograph, repositioned on the wall; eyeball to eyeball. Nerves flickered in Schmidt’s stomach.
At eleven-thirty, Schmidt put on his overcoat, took up his hat, and went out to the corridor; the strong smell of soup from the yet unvisited canteen wafted there. Cabbage or potato? These were staples and plentiful. Already he’d overheard numerous comments by Berliners on the food shortages.
These brown-painted corridors and staircases - some might find them depressing, but Schmidt didn’t. He smiled a tense smile, they could be termed his natural habitat.
~ * ~
Anna von Schnelling entered the office at 8.45 am. Cigar smoke already drifted in the room. She sighed. However, her father had smoked as many cigars as Herr Fischer.
Fischer rose from his desk to greet her and they shook hands. The manager insisted on this each morning, which even by his old-world standards was eccentric.
Gruffly, he said, ‘My dear fräulein, thank you for the champagne. It was memorable.’
Anna removed and hung up her outdoor clothing. She smiled. ‘I hope you had a pleasant celebration, Herr Fischer.’
He studied her with his rounded, watery eyes. ‘Very quiet, but very pleasant.’ Her lovely face was pink from the cold, he noted.
She went to her typewriter in the corner. ‘I’ll complete the Zurich arrangements today.’
He nodded, returned to his desk and became absorbed again in the report he’d been reading. He’d wished to depart on the Sunday night express but a ticket couldn’t be obtained until Monday. Traffic between the Reich and Switzerland was growing rapidly.
Anna checked the programme in Zurich for next Tuesday and Wednesday. She was waiting for two confirmations of appointments. Herr Fischer was to visit four Swiss banks; she surmised that two of them would be surprised to see him again so soon. One of the appointments he’d made by telephone himself: The Bern Trust and Privatbank; with his old friend Herr Kreuger. She sensed this call was the focal point of the trip and that the others were camouflage. It made her uneasy. She knew he didn’t disclose in his reports all that he did on his visits to Switzerland.
She rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter. Last night she’d lain awake worrying about what Eugene had said, worrying about him. On Saturday, she must attend Elisabeth’s tea party. She’d arrive early to speak to her former teacher alone.
Eugene usually concealed his innermost feelings, spoke in calm language, but last night had been a noteworthy exception. She stopped typing, and pursed her lips. Had they cocooned themselves in a fool’s
paradise? In education and feminist matters, Elisabeth had always been progressive — and outspoken. A leader. She’d been able to do that during the Weimar Republic and the early Nazi days; be controversial but not political. Now, everything was political.
The rest of us are followers, Anna thought, but are we all falling into the abyss? Her heart seemed to be beating in tandem to her speedy typing.
Behind his desk, Fischer laid aside his cigar and lifted his head from the report. Herr Kreuger’s face at Bern Trust was in his mind’s eye. Would his friend be strong enough, influential enough, to resist the Nazi pressure? To sway the other directors, when the demand came to release the Czech gold? He’d have the answer to that late Tuesday morning.
Round-eyed, he regarded the closed door to the corridor as if it were the gate to a fortress. Fischer, old fellow, he thought, this time you’re really balancing on a knife-edge.
~ * ~
At noon, standing in a patch of lukewarm sunshine, Schmidt looked around. He believed he was in the correct spot. The grassland, trees, and paths of the Tiergarten spread away in a bucolic scene. Because of his single vision he moved his head progressively to cover the wide expanse. At this hour, and in this doubtless brief interlude of relatively fine weather, a fair number of persons were in the great public park. The cafés and restaurants scattered throughout the vast green area were beginning to receive luncheon patrons. With whoops and cries, children ran over the grass; a few kites were airborne. He’d heard that people picked mushrooms here after the spring rains. Spring seemed a century away. An illusion of peace and normality prevailed. Some fine Sundays he’d taken Trudi to play in the tranquil park near their apartment in the southern city. Golden Sundays.
Schmidt knew that chance meetings with friends and acquaintances were quite usual in the Tiergarten. Von Streck would’ve taken this into account. But where was he? Schmidt turned his body full-circle, looking further afield.
The auditor removed his homburg to feel the faint warmth on his head. His nerves leapt. Ten paces away a thickset man, grotesquely wide of torso, had stepped away from the trunk of a tree and was moving toward him.
‘There you are, Schmidt! Welcome to Berlin.’ With his panther-like walk, von Streck, his own homburg in hand, revealing his domed forehead and the tiny black curls sweeping from it to mass on the back of his head, glided toward him. His sardonic eyes surveyed the small man. He didn’t offer his hand. The auditor folded into his slight bow. ‘I trust you’ve settled in to the Reich’s financial engine-room.’ Schmidt nodded. ‘Good! I don’t need to hear about it. We’ll take a little walk. This won’t take long.’
Von Streck, staring into the distance, took a path that led toward a distant group of cafés and tea-houses. Schmidt fell in beside him, lengthening his stride to keep up.
‘Have you met President Funk yet?’
‘Yes. On the first day. He summoned me.’
‘Hmm. Did he give you any particular instructions?’ The functionary now gazed across the park, as if looking for a landmark.
‘I’m to watch the gold and foreign exchange position . . . He said that he’d heard commendable things about my service to the Party.’
Von Streck smiled. ‘Well, that’s a good start. Since Monday he’ll have heard more good things. Details of your outstanding service in the Bankhaus Wertheim affair — from a source he’ll greatly respect.’
A pair of birds swooped over their heads and cut away toward a copse. Von Streck pulled up and watched their flight. Schmidt waited. The Nazi took out a cigar and lit up. ‘Listen carefully to what I’m going to say, Schmidt.’ He threw away the match, but remained immobile. ‘Last night, President Funk was summoned to the Air Ministry and given an important task by Field-Marshal Goering. A task of vital importance to the Fuehrer. The Fuehrer has made the Field-Marshal head of the Four-Year Plan. You know that. But Goering’s no economist. Far from it. He’s a financial and economic ignoramus. He’s fond of saying, “If the Fuehrer says four plus four equals five, that is the correct answer”.’
Schmidt remained still.
Von Streck drew on the cigar, continued to gaze ahead. ‘A cornerstone of the Four-Year Plan is the funding of the armaments program. Former president Schacht dealt brilliantly with the Inflation, the Depression . . . But he became too big for his boots. So now there’s Funk.’
They began to walk again, but more slowly.
‘Funk’s going to make the blueprint for the financing of the Reich’s march to war.’ He glanced aside at the auditor. ‘Don’t look surprised, Schmidt, that’s the highway the Fuehrer intends taking us down . . . unless ways can be found to close it off.’
Schmidt was unaware that he’d shown surprise. He was concentrating hard on absorbing each phrase as it was uttered by this traitorous Nazi.
‘The Field-Marshal’s given Funk three weeks to complete the job.’ He stopped again on the path, and turned toward the auditor. ’Your mission is to obtain access to the blueprint. Detailed knowledge of it at the earliest stage will be vital in a campaign of counter-measures.’
Von Streck’s vibrant dark brown eyes studied the compact, blond man. ‘Obviously, you’ll need to get close to the president. Very close. With such a secretive and suspicious individual that won’t be easy. He’s fearful for his position, his future. But I know what a resourceful fellow you are.’
Now Schmidt was in a daze. The enormity of the task! The danger involved! Von Streck was treating it like a Sunday jaunt. The auditor looked toward the small colony of tea-houses ahead.
‘My friend, you’re an attractive man. May I say that? To women and men, alike. The president has a weakness for attractive men. You have your experience with that type of fellow.’ Von Streck gave a fuller smile. ‘Need I say more? Anyway, it’s one possibility. Above all, you’re an individual who inspires trust. One whom the Party views in a very favourable light and, as I said, superbly resourceful. I could not be putting the mission into better hands.’
The avuncular words resounded in Schmidt’s ears.
The high Nazi’s eyes scrutinised every figure in view.
‘Thank you, mein herr,’ Schmidt said quietly. Moment by moment, he was steeling himself for the task.
‘Are you a photographer?’
‘I’ve taken photographs.’
‘Hmm. The fact that the information’s been stolen must be kept secret. No-one must suspect that.’
A photographer! Of course, it was the only way Could he manage such a technicality? He’d never even driven a motor car.
Fischer came into his mind — and how much the Prussian banker knew about him. Schmidt moistened his lips. ‘Herr Fischer, the Manager of Foreign Bank Relations, appears to have made a judgment about me. About the nature of my Party membership. Is he - ?
Von Streck stopped and turned to the auditor. ‘No, Schmidt, he’s not one of my people. He’s a former member of the SPD. Like your ex-colleague Wagner. Fischer’s been successful in covering his tracks about that, otherwise he wouldn’t have survived at the Reichsbank. Not completely successful, because I know. He may still be playing a hand in the SPD’s game.’
‘Why did you give me his name?’
‘Because he’s a fellow traveller. Though he’s on a road that’s redundant. The Reichsbank’s new territory for you, Schmidt, the connection could be useful.’
They moved on. Schmidt considered the reply. The special plenipotentiary had misjudged the situation. He didn’t know of Fischer’s enemies within the bank. Fräulein Brandt in particular. A connection with Fischer could imperil his mission. Mentally he reaffirmed his decision to steer clear of him in the future.
‘By the way, Fischer was born in the same town as former president Schacht, they were school companions.’
Schmidt blinked. The probable reason for Fischer’s continued tenure at the bank had surfaced. Another thought struck him. Was the mission as opportunistic as it looked? It seemed that von Streck, from his obscure power base, might’ve k
nown about this special project ahead of President Funk.
They reached one of the cafés, where a few hardy souls sat at tables outside greedily absorbing the weak sunshine. Schmidt’s eye fell on von Streck’s bodyguard; he was at a table, a newspaper and a beer in front of him. The blond giant’s eyes moved over the auditor and away.
Schmidt drew in his breath silently. He’d a stark vision of this man, two months ago, stepping over the bodies of the Nazi SD pair he’d shot with the big revolver that he carried in a shoulder holster.
‘The Reich’s economy is in a calamitous situation, Schmidt. Schacht and his fellow directors had the bad judgement to tell the Fuehrer that he must drastically cut back on armaments expenditure. He sacked them. Funk must have his hands full
The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02] Page 6