The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  In the corridor, Schmidt said, ‘Fräulein, I can’t locate a list of the Swiss correspondent banks and Herr Fischer’s not in his office.’

  ‘I will get you the list, mein herr.’

  They walked away from the canteen. Anna’s heartbeat settled down. This was a pretext. The chief auditor wouldn’t have normally approached her in the canteen with such a routine request. He’d summed up the situation and stepped in. Amazing!

  Walking at his side, she wondered whether this man could help her. In a vivid flash she remembered the moment they’d first met. The kind of mutual connection in their eyes had been a shock. She’d never had such an experience. But she’d put it aside. Now, intuitively, she perceived the current of sympathy in him. What was his story? Really, she knew nothing about him. He was a Nazi. She shivered slightly. Like Herr Fischer’s, her life was becoming more complicated by the hour. She prayed silently that she would make correct decisions.

  ~ * ~

  Freda Brandt was at her desk - had been since 8.00 am. She was frowning at a report but her thoughts were a long way from its subject. Today, she’d dressed in a black costume that accentuated her sensuous hips and displayed her shapely legs. A crisp white blouse and a silver pin through the hair, precisely gathered at the nape of her neck, compounded her aura of efficiency. Only the tapping of her large hands on the desktop betrayed her nervous state.

  She’d not heard from Julius Sack and her two phone calls to his office at Gestapo headquarters hadn’t been returned. Apparently, Herr Fischer was proceeding with the Zurich trip without any impediment. He intended to be on the express departing at 8.00 pm.

  ‘My God! What is Julius doing about it?’ she asked herself. If Fischer’s visit was to be delayed, Sack was leaving it very late. The sturmbannfuehrer didn’t overlook things; perhaps urgent state business had intervened to distract him.

  She rose from her desk to pace the room. Fischer was on a mission to influence his Swiss friends against the transfer and he had the capacity to succeed. She’d no doubt about it.

  Her eyes darted to the Fuehrer’s signed photograph. Did he realise how many were working against him with their covert personal agendas, or their careless neglect? President Funk should’ve stopped Fischer.

  She tossed her head angrily at the vision of the small, sleazy chief of the Reichsbank. If the Fuehrer could only see him through her eyes! She turned to the door. She would go and put Fischer under observation. If Julius wasn’t acting, there had to be a way she could personally intervene; stop the damned oppositionist in his tracks. My God! Challenge him to his face!

  ~ * ~

  ‘There’s the list,’ Anna said, handing it to Schmidt.

  The auditor nodded his thanks. The moment he’d stepped forward into the nasty scene he’d realised it was a mistake. Yet the overbearing sordid Rossbach, obviously threatening a woman as fine as this one, had impelled him to do it. Compelled him to. One of his spontaneous reactions but going right against his advice to himself. It was the same force that’d brought him to Lilli Dreisler’s aid at Wertheims.

  ‘It’s your knightly genetic code,’ Helga had told him in a voice tinged with sadness. And it was not the only force at work. The marriage bonds that he held so faithfully to had dropped from him, seemingly swept away in the new current of risk-taking and danger.

  Fräulein von Schnelling was watching him expectantly. He realised his heart was beating with the same rapidity as when they’d first met. Here was a real breath of spring air in this stifling and over-earnest institution; she was outwardly calm and collected, but he felt her tension. Fischer was right to be worried about Rossbach, the deputy manager was after her like a ravenous jackal. Was she strong enough to hold him at bay? Could he risk doing more than he’d already done?

  An officious rapping on the door’s glass panel smashed his reverie. The door was flung open and Fräulein Brandt stepped in. She pulled up short, seeing Schmidt. Her eyes swivelled between the auditor and the blonde woman, assessing the situation. She nodded at Schmidt. ‘Mein herr.’

  She turned to Anna. ‘Where is Herr Fischer?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Fräulein Manager, I don’t know. Could I assist?’

  ‘There is nothing you could do for me, fräulein.’

  Anna stared at the arrogant Nazi manager and nodded slightly. They lived and worked in the same cloistered world, yet were worlds apart. ‘He is in the building. When he comes in I will tell him

  Freda Brandt cut off the secretary. ‘It’s of no special consequence. I’ll see him in due course.’ She studied Anna as though summing up her life in all its details — from when she’d last had sexual intercourse, till when she’d last menstruated. Fräulein Brandt had perfected such looks.

  She turned her back on the secretary. ‘Herr Chief Auditor, could I have a word?’ She moved past Schmidt toward the door. The auditor nodded to Anna and followed the female manager into the corridor. Freda Brandt flicked her head back toward the room. ‘Like Fischer, she’s not one of us. Gradually, we’re getting rid of this redundant type.’ She smiled tightly at Schmidt, staring into his face. ‘President Funk will see to it that the type is swept out with the dirt on the floors.’

  Mildly, Schmidt observed this obnoxious and malignant woman, who was so wholesome in her appearance, so athletic in her movements. She produced a note from a pocket. ‘I’m glad you’re coming to dinner on Wednesday. Here are the directions.’

  They each walked the corridors back to their rooms.

  ‘Is it his left eye, or the right?’ she asked herself. ‘I’ll ask him on Wednesday night.’ He’d been standing very close to that woman, gazing at her in a kind of dream. Coldly she rejected the notion that the chief auditor, her fellow Party member, would find anything attractive in that skinny, not as young as she looked, aristocrat. However, there was an atmosphere about him that hinted at surprises. One thing was certain in her mind, a handsome man like that should have a real woman.

  ‘My God! Where is Julius? Why hasn’t he called?’ she demanded of the empty corridor.

  ~ * ~

  Rossbach shovelled down the rest of his lunch, then left the canteen and stalked the corridors. Fury at the way the damned auditor had taken the woman away from him boiled in his veins. How dare the bastard! Eyes glazed, cursing under his breath, he headed for his room. He’d been deliberately thwarted. He smacked one fist into the other, frightening the daylights out of a typist who was passing. The provincial upstart had better not interfere again! He stopped. Perhaps she’d be alone in Fischer’s room.

  Rossbach whirled around and with his rolling walk headed in that direction. Turning a corner, he saw Freda and the auditor walking away from him. He pulled up again, to give them time to get clear. He’d a good idea where Fischer was and it wasn’t in his office.

  ~ * ~

  Bang! The door smashed open, rattling the glass panel. Anna gazed at Rossbach standing in the doorway The deputy manager, eyes shooting everywhere, was breathing in harsh gasps as though he’d just sprinted here. Her hands froze above the keys of her typewriter.

  Savagely, Rossbach cleared his throat. ‘Fräulein! I’d not finished talking to you when we were so rudely interrupted. I trust you’ll keep in mind the serious situation of your Jewish neighbour. And your own. I wish to be your friend. You would be unwise to rely on the new auditor.’ He thrust his face at her, blinking rapidly. ‘Who is he? Where’s he come from? How long will he stay?’

  He jerked up his meaty hands. ‘As for Fischer, I tell you, I’ll have his job - and very shortly.’ His flaccid face grimaced and the moles chased each other across it. He sneered, ‘He’ll be my subordinate. I’ll run that old man around the corridors like a messenger boy. I’ll put him in an office the size of a broom cupboard.’ The words tumbled out as he warmed to the task. ’I’ll destroy him.’

  Her hands now resting each side of the keyboard, Anna stared at the madman. The terrible threats seemed to vibrate in the air around her. She drew her lips
tight. Scornfully, she tossed the fall of hair back from her forehead. Although usually controlled, she was unable to hide her feelings now.

  Her anger and defiance made his eyes bulge and redden. ‘Fräulein!’ he spat out. He glared at her, and left the room.

  When his footsteps had died away, she dropped her head on her chest and tears came pricking into her eyes. Was it possible that he could take Herr Fischer’s job? She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. In this new world anything, apparently, was. What in God’s name could she do? She’d no idea how Frau Singer had been able to stay on in her flat. Certainly she was rich. Maybe money could be a way out. Perhaps this awful man could be bought off.

  It was after two o’clock before the door of the foreign bank relations section opened again and Herr Fischer came unhurriedly into the room.

  Anna rose from her chair and went toward him, her eyes searching his face. She’d regained her composure. He seemed paler, and now she caught a whiff of brandy. He’d been closeted with one of his old colleagues. He sometimes did this while they discussed bank politics.

  ‘Herr Fischer, Fräulein Brandt was here asking for you. She said she’d see you in due course.’

  He grunted. ‘Very good, Anna.’ His eyes regarded her fondly.

  ‘The files you need are ready.’ She pointed to his desk. Should she tell him about Rossbach, about Herr Schmidt coming to her aid? Even about Eugene’s warning? She bit her lower lip. No. She wouldn’t worry him about it on the eve of the trip that obviously was causing him such angst. Anyway, he knew what kind of man Rossbach was. If necessary, she’d tell him upon his return; he should know what Rossbach was saying about him.

  For the next half hour, Fischer sat at his desk reading and signing the letters she’d typed that morning, smoking a cigar all the while. At 3.00 pm he began to pack papers and files into an attaché case. As he finished, a woman brought in their afternoon coffee.

  Putting down his cigar, taking up the cup, Fischer sipped at the bitter beverage, and winced. ‘Every day it tastes worse,’ he’d said to Anna last week, but he made no comment beyond his grimace today.

  ‘This time tomorrow you’ll be in Zurich,’ Anna said. She knew the city, had relatives there.

  ‘True.’ He put down his cup and looked at her intently. ‘Is there anything wrong, Anna?’

  ‘No,’ she replied quickly.

  He glanced at her in disbelief, but nodded, opened a drawer and took out a wrapped package. With a start, Anna recognised the wrapping paper. Very neatly wrapped, obviously by his housekeeper, Frau Seibert’s, hands.

  Fischer came to her desk. ‘My dear, I want you to accept this little gift. I’ve been meaning to give it to you for some time.’

  Her face flooding with colour, Anna let him put it into her hands.

  ‘Please open it.’ He looked almost shy.

  Carefully, she unwrapped it to find a small blue leather lidded case bearing the name of a Potsdam jeweller. She opened it. Nestling in white satin was a brooch — a constellation of five rubies set in finely spun gold. Anna stared at the bright red gems. She was holding her breath.

  ‘It was my wife’s,’ the Prussian said quietly. ‘My present to her on our first wedding anniversary. It would have gone to our daughter . . .’ His big shoulders rose and fell with his deep, sentimental feelings. His blue eyes held Anna’s, conveying more than words and gesture could.

  Anna stood up, unable to speak, the case in her hand, and clumsily he embraced her in a bear-hug. She was conscious of his heart beating, of the rich tobacco odour and, for a few precious moments, she felt secure and forgot about the gathering storm.

  ~ * ~

  14

  N

  IGHTFALL DESCENDED on Berlin this Monday evening with all the solemnity and dread of a Wagnerian musical drama as Sturmbannfuehrer Sack entered the Reichsbank.

  Sack absorbed its muted atmosphere of money and probity and acknowledged that each government edifice he’d occasion to visit had an individual feel; the Propaganda Ministry was sly and conniving, the Air Ministry had a brass-band type of impact - doubtless coming down from its bombastic chief, etc. His own building at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse was something else altogether, and he didn’t attempt to categorise it.

  On returning to his office an hour ago he’d picked up Freda’s messages. He’d been coming to see her tonight anyway. Within the hour, he expected to have news for her that would be impossible to convey in detail by telephone; he might as well wait in her company as in his own office. It’d be a respite from the frustrating hunt for the Jewish ex-judge. The Swiss doctor’s report would soon have the Reich Security Office on his back too. Not to mention the headache-making clangour of Gestapo phones.

  He rapped on her door and opened it. No-one there. His eyes locked with the Fuehrer’s, unlocked. Shutting the door, he stood in the corridor, his head tilted. Her coat and hat were on the hatstand. He glanced at his watch: two minutes past five. He turned and headed for her deputy’s room, his limping gait softly resonant on the corridor’s linoleum. She might be in conference with Rossbach. His lips curled in contempt; she’d be better off without that fool around her neck.

  ~ * ~

  Deputy Manager Rossbach had finished for the day and packed his work into a basket. ‘A fucking terrible day,’ he told himself. The bottom drawer of his desk was open, allowing him access to a brandy bottle. A glass of the liquor, his fourth since late afternoon, was before him on the blotter.

  He jerked his head up at a movement. Sack. The Gestapo man was standing in his open door. He hadn’t heard a knock nor any sound of the door opening.

  ‘Good evening, mein herr,’ the sturmbannfuehrer said. His voice was very quiet. ‘Do you know where Fräulein Manager Brandt can be found?’

  Rossbach licked his lips. ‘I do not, Herr Sack.’ Uneasily, he eyed the black-clad man. Sack had caught him at a disadvantage - he was sober enough to realise that. ‘She’ll be in the building. No doubt she’ll return soon.’

  Sack inspected the soggy features before him. The fellow was a drunkard, with the morals typical in the city’s 1920s which, progressively, the Party had eradicated. The scum had been locked up or run out of town. But not this one — a Party member.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down? Pour you a drink?’

  ‘I will sit down,’ Sack said. He did so. He would apply some pressure to this man, observe how he reacted.

  Guiltily, Rossbach stared at his glass. He mumbled, ‘Work rising daily. A little relaxation . . .’ He faded out as though he’d lost his train of thought.

  Sack, overcoat and hat still on, was silent.

  Rossbach frowned, attempting to concentrate. His watery eyes regarded his hands as if mesmerised by them. This crippled Gestapo prick was fucking Freda. Half his luck. Besotted with Goebbels. Aped the Reich Minister. Admittedly fucking remarkable resemblance to work with. Aped - right word to describe the propaganda chief.

  Rossbach choked back a titter. Fellow hardly ever strung two sentences together, just watched you, plotting his fucking guttersnipe moves. This train of thought petered out like his earlier words. He frowned. A vision of the blonde wraith-like secretary came. Sexually explicit. He was beginning to realise she was tougher than she looked. He raised his glass and brandy dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Good! Her penetration would be a triumph! That moment had been marinating in him for months; had sponsored wet dreams and bouts of masturbation.

  He jerked his head up. He’d almost forgotten this bastard. Clumsier than usual, he leaned across the desk toward Freda’s boyfriend. ‘Have you come across our Fräulein von Schnelling, mein herr?’

  Sack shook his head, but his look became sharper.

  ‘Ha! Superior bitch ... in foreign bank relations. Prussian aris-to-crat. Thinks her shit doesn’t stink. Not a Party member.’ He sniggered. ‘One fine day . . . going to sort her out. Mine might be a bit big.’ He raised his hands and held them wide apart. ‘But . . . considerate. No big thrust. Though te
mpting . . . get a full-blooded shriek out of a delicate flower.’ He laughed outright.

  Sack stared at the loathsome drunken man. The fellow was mad to talk like this to him. Not mad — a monumental cretin. Curtly he said, ‘Von Schnelling. Does the woman have any connection with Elisabeth von Bose, the women’s educationalist?’

  Rossbach blinked, confused. ‘Edu-cation-ist? What are you talking about?’

  From behind Sack, Fräulein Brandt’s voice cut in, ‘She was a pupil at Elisabeth von Bose’s Heidelberg school.’

  Sack turned quickly. ‘Ah!’

  Rossbach was peering at his superior’s manifestation in the doorway, his eyes attempting to find finer focus.