‘I’ve been trying to contact you all day,’ she said to Sack.
He stood up, holding his hat. ‘And now I’m here.’ Turning his back on Rossbach, he said, ‘Could we go to your office?’
She nodded, staring past him with steely eyes at her drunken deputy. Tomorrow he would feel the edge of her tongue.
~ * ~
Herr Fischer was homeward-bound. Seated at the rear of the tram without a cigar — the Fuehrer had personally decreed that smoking was no longer permitted aboard trams — Herr Fischer smiled. Anna had been almost overwhelmed by the gift. But the pleasure had been his. His daughter was dead, she and her dear mother were lying in their graves, and he’d no hope that they’d ascended to some mysterious realm. The cold earth is the end for all of us, he thought.
Anna stood in his daughter’s place. He became sad. In the space of a few moments, his mood had swung from pole to pole - these days he was like that. It was best if she left the bank, the way things were changing. Not best for him. How he’d miss her.
His thoughts drifted back to his approaching trip. He must be at the Bahnhof by seven-thirty. Could he succeed in his self-imposed task? Kreuger was well disposed but would he be able to sway his board? It was a decision fraught with political pressures and consequences for the Swiss, whichever way they went. The decision wouldn’t be known till tomorrow.
Herr Fischer gazed along the tram and nodded at the conductor’s familiar face. Herr Bosch. The man with the birthmark on his forehead bobbed his head. They’d been travelling together for years.
Herr Fischer looked aside at the passing street-scene: a swathe of blackness patchworked with electric light. Cold as the aspirations of the Nazis, he thought. Snow was forecast, probably he’d be tramping through it tomorrow in Zurich . . .
He faced his front and casually looked at the man opposite him who was reading a newspaper, an umbrella tucked between his knees. Decisively the man folded up the paper, his eyes now on the big banker. The tram was approaching a stop. The thickset man rose to pull the cord, took up the umbrella and began to edge out to the aisle.
The needle-like thrust went deep into Herr Fischer’s thigh. He cried out in agony, his eyes sprang wide open, not quite believing what had happened. The umbrella point had jabbed into the flesh through the thick material of his pin-striped suit. He clutched two-handed at his thigh, looking up at the man expecting an effusive apology. Unaccountably, the man’s back was all that he saw.
The tram jerked to a stop. The conductor had seen the incident. He rushed down the aisle to the stricken man’s assistance. ‘Mein herr?’
Herr Fischer’s shocked eyes turned up to Herr Bosch, then rolled back in his head as he slumped forward on the opposite seat, his attaché case for the trip to Zurich slithering to the floor.
~ * ~
Anna arrived home at ten past six. The chill on the stairs took her breath away. As she passed by the janitor’s lighted room, the woman glanced out suspiciously. All buildings had their block spy and the woman performed that function here, though not too diligently; most of the time she was absent from her room in the warmer flat behind. How much money was she taking from Frau Singer?
‘Good evening, Anna.’
Frau Singer was at her half-open door as the younger woman came onto the landing. Anna stopped, and found a smile for the vision of fine eyes and hair, a golden silk scarf draped over her shoulders. She’d been waited for.
‘My dear, would you come in and have a drink with me?’
Anna hesitated. There was a hint of strain in the Jewish woman’s tone. ‘Of course, Frau Singer, a pleasure.’
Anna entered the apartment, placed her handbag on a high-backed carved chair in the hall, took off her coat, hat, and gloves, unwrapped her scarf and also arranged them on the chair. She followed Frau Singer into the salon.
Once more, her eyes slipped over the imposing room. When she’d moved here from the big house at Grunewald, Frau Singer had brought the most precious of her family’s possessions. Massive oak furniture stood along every wall, the carved Gothic fronts making a facade that reminded Anna of rows of old houses in Saxon towns. Porcelain and silverware were set out on tables. Similar furniture and fine things were in her parents’ house. Now hers, but a ghost-house shrouded in dust-covers with the steward battling to keep the estate solvent.
Frau Singer, in her stoop-shouldered yet confident walk, carried in a tray with long-stemmed glasses decorated with vine leaves, and a decanter of wine.
‘Where is Fritz?’Anna asked.
Frau Singer gave her a sad look. ’In the kitchen, he’s not well. I’m afraid it’s old age, like his mother.’ She smiled at the young Reichsbank woman and put the tray on a table. ‘However, this is a riesling my husband was fond of. It’s twenty years old and still improving.’ Dreamily, she looked at the decanter. ’I remember the cases being delivered to Schwedlerstrasse as if it were yesterday.’ She sat down close to the young woman and filled the glasses.
Anna sipped the wine. Frau Singer must live on such memories. The wine was luscious. In a stark contrast, Rossbach flicked into her head - images of him on the landing on Friday night, at the bank today. The lovely taste in her mouth, the dark obscenity in her mind, brought a small involuntary gasp from her lips.
Frau Singer leaned forward. ‘That man,’ she said. ‘A colleague?’
Anna closed her eyes, and nodded. The older woman put aside her glass and reached out for the younger woman’s hand. ‘Anna, you must consider leaving the bank.’
Anna nodded, and Frau Singer released her hand. ’I’ve something to give you. Something I hope you’ll accept.’
Anna noticed the small leather case in Frau Singer’s lap. With a slight smile, the Jewess presented the case with both her fine-boned hands. Anna was surprised: the numerous valuable rings usually on the thin fingers were gone. Only a single gold wedding band remained.
‘Frau Singer . . .’ she said hesitantly. A new uneasiness had come down on her.
‘Open it, my dear.’
Anna unclipped the lid.
‘Oh!’ She gazed at the emerald brooch. Six intricately cut stones in an unusual filigreed silver setting.
Anna was stunned. Twice, in one day! Two brooches! Such gifts . . . from two persons she was fond of. Two persons in trouble. She lifted her head and gazed into the older woman’s luminous eyes.
‘It belonged to my favourite aunt — my mother’s sister. Sarah. Will you remember her name?’
‘Of course, but -’Anna shook her head in bewilderment.
Frau Singer smiled. ‘Finally, I’m leaving. It’s time to do so, the arrangements are made.’ She leaned back, her voice changing from affectionate and a touch wistful to pragmatic. ‘I can’t take such things with me. It’s a parting gift, a token of our friendship.’
Anna stared at her, remembering two woman visitors she’d observed on the stairs in the past few days. Frau Singer had been disposing of her jewellery. Leaving! Anna felt a surge of relief mixed with sadness. Where? When? She almost asked, but drew back. Such information should not be lightly sought. The Jewish man she’d seen here must be helping.
But how would the Dortmund sisters survive with their old friend gone? She bit at her lower lip. She must offer to help them.
Tonight, Frau Singer might have been following her every thought. In a changed voice she said, ’The Dortmund girls have been sent away. Taken away by the government.’ She looked at her untouched wine, then said in a whisper, ’I don’t think they’re still with us.’
Anna felt a jolt of shock, then an acute pain in her heart. Frau Singer’s meaning was crystal clear. Anna thought: Dear God! We’re all just innocent children lost in a forest at nightfall with wolves baying in the distance, coming closer…the dangerous world of old folktales.
But even that was a more innocent world than the one now revealing itself in horrible daily cameos on the streets.
In the street below, a tramcar’s wheels squealed in the
tracks, accompanied by a violent hissing of sparks as its pole detached from the line. Frau Singer said simply, ‘We’re all in God’s hands.’
Keenly she watched the blonde woman’s delicate face pinched tight with concern and tension, as if it might evaporate before her eyes. ‘Anna, you must be very careful from now on. You should not speak to me again.’
Despairingly, Anna realised that the firm words matched the reality of their situation.
~ * ~
15
I
T’S FRAULEIN BRANDT.’ The voice came strong and clear into Schmidt’s ear. The jangling of the phone had again startled him and he d hurried into the hall. He glanced at his watch: 8.05 pm. This woman! What now?
‘Good evening, fräulein.’
‘Herr Schmidt . . . I’m afraid I have bad news.’ She was breathing quickly. ‘Herr Fischer’s dead. Collapsed in a tramcar going home. Some kind of seizure. He died in hospital.’ Her voice was shaking.
Schmidt’s body and brain froze - his first reaction to disastrous news — but he recovered quickly.
‘Herr Schmidt?’
‘Yes, fräulein. Was it a heart attack?’
She gasped, ‘That - or a stroke.’
‘A great loss to the bank,’ he heard himself saying as his mind grappled with the numbing development. An image of the Prussian banker, wedged into the tramcar seat on his birthday night, came back. ‘Has Fräulein von Schnelling been told?’
‘Yes.’
The blonde woman would be devastated; her mentor, her father-figure, if Schmidt had judged correctly, gone.
Fräulein Brandt was speaking again. ‘We’ll have more details tomorrow.’
They hung up. Neither had anything more to say. Schmidt went back into the study and stood gazing into the orange brilliance of the gas fire. Poor Fischer. A solid banker of sound ethics. A caring person. His trip to Zurich, his personal mission, was history As was his life. Anna von Schnelling would be grief-stricken.
He tilted his head, frowning. The tremors of shock and dismay in Freda Brandt’s voice lingered in his ear. It was a side of the Reichsbank manager new to him. A more human side? The predatory intentions of deputy manager Rossbach would enter new territory. His heart beat faster at the thought.
He began to pace his study. But he couldn’t be concerned with that. All his ingenuity and efforts, all his luck must be focused on President Funk’s special project; on von Streck’s mission.
He pulled up. Despite her physical fragility the secretary was a strong person. By resigning from the bank, she could leave the problem behind her. ‘The way out is through the door.’ He remembered Wagner quoting one of his philosophers.
The auditor pivoted to examine the etching. For him, it wasn’t frozen in time. Each occasion he viewed it he saw the knight riding out on a fresh mission; there was enough evil in existence for an infinity of them. He sighed deeply. Fräulein Brandt and Fischer were enemies. That had been plain to Schmidt from his first day at the bank. Thus her shocked reaction struck a surprising note. Grim-faced, he bent to turn off the gas.
Fifteen minutes later, standing beneath the street sign for Rankestraat, Schmidt peered at the building that he’d observed Anna enter a few nights ago from his homeward-bound tram. An over-embellished stone-built block, circa 1890. Berlin’s inner suburbs were studded with them.
The icy breeze had found his weakness. He crossed the street, entered the foyer, and paused to dab beneath the eye with his handkerchief. He scanned the mailboxes. Second floor. The janitor’s office was dark. He climbed the dusky staircase. From its public area, one might conclude that the building had expelled any sign of life. His mother had lived in one like this, and he knew that behind the blank doors a startling and rich assortment of lives could exist.
Schmidt pushed the doorbell and stood back. Behind him, on the other side of the landing there was the click of a door closing, and he turned quickly to the sound. A blank door. He faced the Reichsbank secretary’s again. This was going to be unpleasant.
~ * ~
Anna, dead-pale, peered at the face beneath the black homburg in the gap of the door. The bank’s chief auditor! In ten years no-one from the bank had come to her flat. Now two persons had, in a few days.
Schmidt removed his hat. ‘Fräulein, I’m very sorry. Is there anything I can do?’
Uncomprehendingly, Anna gazed at the sympathetic face. This was the man who’d come to her aid in the canteen at noon — when dear Herr Fischer had disappeared to one of his secret corners - and here he was offering further assistance when Herr Fischer was no more. She couldn’t believe what was happening in her life.
Putting a hand to her brow, she unchained the door with the other. ‘Please come in, Herr Schmidt.’
They sat in facing armchairs. She wore no make-up and there were tear stains beneath her eyes. They had no details of Fischer’s last moments to give each other. In a low voice, she told Schmidt of Fischer’s heart trouble; how last year he’d been in hospital for a month. She stopped. She could still feel his heartbeat against her face as he’d held her, only a few hours ago.
Schmidt saw that the main shock was yet to come. In his sincere voice, he offered his support at the bank. Semiconsciously, head lowered, she nodded her thanks. Fräulein Brandt had been reserved and correct in conveying the news to her. There had been a distinct tone of regret in her voice. Anna realised that later; at the time, she’d been barely able to take it in; hardly able to speak.
She looked up at Schmidt. Was this man’s Nazi Party membership a similar aberration? Then her mind went to the ruby brooch that Herr Fischer had presented to her. Had he had a presentiment? She felt she was drowning in unutterable sadness.
Quietly, Schmidt took his leave, shaking the hand that she held out.
Gazing at the door after it had shut, Anna realised that she had offered him no hospitality. She went back to the armchair and sank into it. She wanted to break down and weep, but she couldn’t. Grief was in her heart, weighty as a rock, stuck in her throat. It had taken her a year to recover from the death of her parents in an automobile accident. Perhaps they were close by now . . . She murmured, ‘Papa, Mother, if you can hear, if you ever want to help me, please help me now.’ She brushed at her eyes with her finger-tips. More to the point, Eugene was close by. She must get some rest to face the ordeal tomorrow. She would take a pill. She must see Eugene.
~ * ~
At first, ex-Judge Rubinstein was uncertain about the man. He’d gone into the hall of Frau Singer’s flat when they’d heard the muted footfalls on the stairs. Very few persons climbed those stairs late at night. The footsteps had gone to the opposite flat. Carefully, Rubinstein had opened Frau Singer’s door a fraction. From five metres, he saw the man’s face in profile as he rang the bell. Silently he drew in his breath and blinked quickly to improve his vision. Auditor Schmidt? How? He stared harder. It was.
Rubinstein eased shut the door, wincing at the audible click. He stood in the hall and in the next instant the auditor’s appearance here fell into place. Three days ago he’d heard from an informant that Schmidt had arrived at the Reichsbank. From Frau Singer, he knew that her young neighbour worked in the bank. So!
Rubinstein was a deeply pragmatic man but he wondered at the revolving circles of fate in their lives. Five months ago in another city, he’d become connected to the auditor in a life-and-death matter. The auditor had embarked on a brave and convoluted action to save a co-worker in his bank — a Jewish woman. That kind of underworld activity had become the ex-judge’s speciality. They’d failed. The woman had died. Schmidt, through means the ex-judge didn’t understand, had caused the downfall of the Nazis responsible.
In today’s world there were few persons whom the judge could rely on; the mild-mannered auditor was one of them. His narrow face showed his concentration. Was history repeating itself? Another woman in distress? He knew something about the young neighbour beyond what he’d been told by Frau Singer. The Reichsbank
secretary was in great danger. They might be watching her already. In coming to this address, he could be putting himself in more danger. He shrugged. Nowhere was safe.
He went back into the living room. Despite her vicissitudes Frau Singer’s handsome face usually showed her mildly ironic good humour, but now it was shadowed and taut as she looked inquiringly at the bearded man.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said.
She sat back in her chair. The Jewish woman had also suffered a bereavement today. An hour ago Fritz had whimpered a final recognition, laid down his head and died. She’d wept, then dried her eyes. She wouldn’t weep again. It was fortuitous that the dear animal was gone, she couldn’t have taken him with her.
Frau Singer and the ex-judge had been making arrangements. Gravely, they continued their discussion. She’d given away her jewellery and some small valuable items, but all the rest of her belongings would have to be abandoned. Doubtless, the officials of the Third Reich would find suitable beneficiaries among Party members. All in all, she was remarkably calm about what lay ahead, calmer than he with all his experience. All she wished to do now was to visit her husband’s grave. Time was short. He’d return on Sunday at 5.00 pm, God willing.
The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02] Page 12