The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  ‘My dear friend, will you attend to Fritz for me?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Rubinstein frowned at the thought that he’d had. There was something else he would attempt to do tonight.

  ~ * ~

  Schmidt descended the stairs, an insignificant figure in the cavernous stairwell.

  He passed the janitor’s office.

  Von Streck would be heavily censorious of any diversions. But at this stage President Funk’s activities were as obscure to Schmidt as a cliff-face in a sea mist; a cliff-face on which he’d not yet found a hand or foothold. He could only wait and watch.

  Leaving the building, he considered how he might help Anna. He grimaced as his breath was whipped out of his throat by the freezing cold. He tightened his jaw. He’d do his best to help her with her grief - and with the threat of Rossbach.

  Shrugging deeper into his overcoat, he paused on the pavement. A few cars were about, no pedestrians in view. There was no sight or sound of an approaching tramcar. He’d freeze if he stood still. Already his toes were tingling despite his thick socks and stout shoes. He decided to walk toward home. At the sound of an approaching tram he’d hurry ahead to the next stop.

  He set off. The vast city seemed full of dark corners; it was one great dark corner to Schmidt. The scattered retail and commercial localities glowed like constellations of stars in the pitch black cosmos. Here, at any rate, the skeletal trees were sketched in by the blurry circles of streetlights. He hurried out of a residential area into one of medium-sized office buildings, whose architecturally over-worked facades dripped moisture and darkness. The tactile sound of his footsteps echoed in his ears.

  He was being followed.

  He stopped, peering back, listening. Footsteps, quiet but distinct, on the frosty pavement. A single person. The footsteps halted; then resumed, coming closer.

  Schmidt was irresolute. An innocent similarly nightbound walker like himself? Perhaps not innocent.

  He looked aside then stepped into a wide doorway, and quickly and quietly ascended several steps. He blinked. A figure was at the foot of the steps peering up at him.

  ‘Herr Schmidt.’ A harsh whisper.

  With his single-eye vision, his heart beating hard, Schmidt peered down. The voice was familiar. ’Judge Rubinstein!’ he breathed.

  The ex-judge gave a short, low laugh. ‘We meet again.’

  Schmidt moved down the steps, fumbling for the other’s hand. ‘What are you doing in Berlin - here?’

  Rubinstein moved into the shelter of the doorway. ‘There are people in Berlin who are in need of my help. Also, in a sea of four million I’ve a better chance of surviving.’

  ‘Here, right now?’

  ‘To my great surprise, I saw you at the fräulein’s door.’ Ah, Schmidt thought, that door closing. ‘Not such a great surprise. Some days ago I learned you’d come to Berlin and the Reichsbank.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We pay close attention to those with whom we’ve had dealings. Those few who’ve gone beyond sympathy with deeds.’

  Schmidt considered this, and said, ‘It’s dangerous for you at this hour. The police patrols . . .’ He saw that the bearded man was much thinner.

  ‘I don’t have far to go. The Gestapo are on my trail. Yesterday they missed me by minutes. Friends are suffering as a result.’ His lips twisted grimly in the beard. ‘From now on, I won’t expose anyone else to such a risk.’

  His hand gripped Schmidt’s sleeve. ‘Fräulein von Schnelling’s in danger. She should be warned, and told to disappear. She’s in a group of women who’re assisting Jews, and others. I’ve been working with two of these women. I’ve warned them it’s only a matter of time before the Nazis discover them. She may not be fully involved, but they’ll all be taken.’

  With a sinking heart, Schmidt listened.

  Rubinstein released Schmidt’s arm but peered even more intensely at the auditor. Here was an individual who was a person with two faces. The moment they’d first met, the judge had sensed that. No doubt the duality had been imposed on him by his confrontation with the Nazis. From the mid-distance came the sound of an approaching tramcar. ‘We must leave,’ the ex-judge whispered. ’Good luck.’ They clasped hands again.

  Schmidt descended the steps and stared after him. He was carrying a limp, rolled-up parcel under his left arm. Then he was gone. Schmidt turned and hurried toward the next tram-stop.

  ~ * ~

  In a side street, Rubinstein slid the limp long parcel into a municipal trash-can. Had it been possible he would have interred Fritz in a patch of woods where the dog had loved to run. But it made no difference to Fritz. Besides, the ground was frozen hard.

  The deadly danger of human beings was what dominated Rubinstein’s world. He swept his eyes along the street. Who would think that this was a city of four million souls?

  Twenty metres on he slipped, like a phantom, down area steps into a black hole. He’d a key for this empty house. Deftly he found the lock by feel. There were many Jewish houses standing empty and he had a key to several. He’d also developed the breaking and entering skills of some of those who’d come before him in the courts. Tonight he’d sleep in the attic of the house of a merchant whom he’d navigated, with his family, across the forested border into Switzerland. He trusted they were sleeping safe tonight.

  ~ * ~

  16

  S

  NOW HAD FALLEN overnight and the dreary streets and buildings along the route to Mitte looked cleaner and softer. But Berliners didn’t notice that. In the tramcar, Schmidt heard complaints about the precipitation. Something to be complained of with safety, he thought.

  In the Reichsbank’s foyer the Fuehrer’s bronze eyes brooded on the white-edged Gothic facade opposite the front door. Schmidt nodded to Herr Wolff as he hurried to his room. It was 8.15 am.

  The headline in this morning’s paper had proclaimed: 22,000 NAZIS RALLY IN NEW YORK. Far away in America. Here in Berlin, Herr Fischer, manager of the Reichsbank’s Foreign Bank Relations, was dead. Today that fact would dominate the bank. As if seeking his reaction, Herr Wolff had shot him a wide-eyed look. Throughout the labyrinthine building, Fischer’s abrupt passing would be the subject of shocked discussion; his longstanding service recalled and dissected.

  Yet, by tomorrow the institution would be moving on. Schmidt had experienced a similar situation at Bankhaus Wertheim.

  Once in his office, he took several deep breaths. Would the objective of the dead manager’s short-circuited mission to Zurich now come to light? Or would it be buried forever?

  At 8.30, as he went to the president’s office, Rubinstein’s warning flashed in his mind like a red light. The Jew was reliable. A remarkable man, and he wouldn’t have exaggerated the danger. His warning should be acted on. But would she act? And where could she go? It was almost unbelievable that this frail, lovely woman was involved in such matters.

  Frau Heyer was on the verge of tears. She and Fischer must have been long-time colleagues. Schmidt wondered if in years past the intimacy had been closer. ‘This is a terrible loss, Herr Chief Auditor.’ Her voice trembled, her eyes clung to Schmidt’s. Gravely, he acknowledged that it was. She sighed deeply. ‘The president wishes to see you at 8.00 pm in his office — after he returns from the Ministry.’

  Schmidt’s pulse lifted. ‘Very well.’ He knew that each night the president had been returning to the Reichsbank at 8.00 pm.

  Frau Heyer said, ’He’s working all hours. I believe he intended to sleep at the Ministry last night, although I don’t know if he did.’ She opened the door into the inner sanctum for the auditor. He entered and she closed it behind him.

  Schmidt sat down at the small desk where the green leather folder had been laid out. He didn’t touch it, instead, he sat there soaking up the silence. At what stage was the blueprint? Logically it’d be early days. But what if the relevant papers were being kept at the ministry? He stared down at his hands. Negative thinking! He must stop that. He h
ad his proven opportunism, adroit skills and cool nerves to work with — and, this amazingly fortuitous access to the inner sanctum. A connection to the Reichsbank’s beating heart!

  So far, so good.

  ‘You’re a man with extremely unusual and useful qualities, a Machiavellian mind. A man upon whom good luck smiles,’ von Streck had announced to him in November. It was true, though he’d only become aware of it in those last vexed and dangerous months at Wertheims.

  Automatically, his eye went down the room to the alcove. Then he opened the leather folder and began to read the president’s incoming communications.

  ~ * ~

  Anna stared at the room with disbelief. His desk was clear; the faint odour of cigars remained. But he was gone. Despite taking the pill, she’d hardly slept. Familiar images of him moved before her eyes in the dark bedroom, the warmth of his voice when he spoke to her was in her ears. In a broken dream, the entangled trees in Elisabeth’s tapestry had stepped menacingly from the massive hanging into the room. She’d woken with a convulsive start.

  Finally she got up, turned on lights, and made tea. Last night, Herr Schmidt had suggested that she take today off. No. Herr Fischer’s personal effects and files must be sorted out and packaged up for delivery to his home. She didn’t want anyone else touching them.

  A paragraph had appeared in the paper concerning the death, and just as she was leaving for the bank, Elisabeth’s maid arrived, having hurried through the snowy streets to deliver a warmhearted note of condolence. The note also asked for a meeting at 6 pm. Anna had paused, indecisive. Elisabeth suggested the tearooms in a department store where they occasionally met. She’d stroked her cheek with her gloved hand. She would meet Elisabeth. After that, she’d decided she must go to see Eugene.

  At 11.15 am the telephone on Herr Fischer’s desk rang. Oh God! Zurich! She hadn’t thought to ring them. It was Herr Fischer’s contact, Herr Kreuger. ‘Fräulein, Herr Fischer hasn’t arrived for his appointment . . .’The Swiss-German accent came eerily down the trunk-line.

  Anna gulped, then spoke in as calm a voice as she could manage. ‘Mein herr, I regret to tell you Herr Fischer died last night.’

  The shocked silence from Zurich seemed to hiss in her ears. Then Anna spoke of what she knew. The Swiss bank director mumbled his condolences then, after a hopeless hesitation, said goodbye and hung up.

  She couldn’t think about Zurich; had not known what he was doing, except that it was worrisome to him, and plainly to Herr Kreuger. She’d forced herself to look at the newspaper. He was to be buried on Wednesday. Emptying the drawers in his desk, she worked quickly. She had a good idea of what might happen now.

  A few minutes after noon the expectation was fulfilled. Herr Rossbach strode into the section with a triumphant bravado that made her gasp. He stopped inside the door, a small carton in his arms. ‘Heil Hitler! Well, here I am, fräulein. I’m appointed manager pro tem, but I’ve no doubt I’ll soon be confirmed in the post.’

  She could only stare at him. He swaggered forward and dropped the carton with a thud on Herr Fischer’s desk. ‘I’m glad to see you’re clearing out his desk. When you’ve finished, please put my things into it.’ He turned to leave, said over his shoulder, ‘Fräulein, don’t think I’m a man without feelings. I find it regrettable that Herr Fischer has died.’

  He left. Anna stared after him. There’d been not a gram of sincerity in the remark. She realised just how alone she now was.

  ~ * ~

  Back in his office, Schmidt looked through his own mail. Most of it was routine, and he marked it for Herr Gott’s attention. One item was of a personal nature. A formal letter from the Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, advising that he’d been accepted for the course for propaganda leaders to be held in April. A few days ago, when he’d applied for it, he’d been seeking to deepen his cover. Now he wondered if he would have the time, and April seemed an aeon away.

  The muscles in his face tightened as his thoughts turned to Anna. The first thing on his mind when he’d woken had been Rubinstein’s warning. But it could be dangerous to speak to her within these walls. This evening, outside, unobserved and not overheard ... It might appear suspicious if she were to leave the building during the day. But he must arrange something.

  Schmidt rose from his desk, left his room and hurried along the corridor to the stairs.

  ~ * ~

  Anna’s eyes jumped to the door at the soft, precise rapping on the frosted glass.

  Schmidt entered and saw that she was alone, absorbed her wan face, her nervous tension. Quickly, she brushed back her hair and stood up. ‘Herr Chief Auditor, Herr Rossbach’s been made temporary manager of the section.’ Her tone was deeply depressed. She stood beside her typewriter, her hands gripped together.

  Ah! Schmidt nodded, his eye not leaving hers. So. Another shocking blow. But compared to the other danger it was a sideshow. The sooner she left the bank the better; her flat, and Berlin. ‘Fräulein, could we meet briefly this evening?’ He spoke quietly. He doubted if these rooms were wired, but the way things were going you couldn’t be certain.

  She put both hands to her cheeks, intent on his every word. ‘I’ve an appointment at six.’

  ‘Seven, then?’ He whispered the name of a café near the Adlon Hotel. It was a place he knew.

  She nodded, giving him a questioning look. Schmidt smiled reassuringly and went out. He regretted having to leave her up in the air but it was safer.

  His mind working through a checklist, he stared fixedly ahead as he walked back to his office. Behind the frosted glass of doors an occasional blurred figure moved, a scrap of talk emerged to the corridor. Should he have whispered urgently to her: Leave at once. Leave Berlin. Go to a distant relative or friend. Drop from sight? It wouldn’t be enough to do that. All the same, it’d give her a start on them, especially as she wasn’t a ringleader.

  No. Such a speech would send any normal person into a panic. He needed time to explain, maybe to persuade her she must leave. He felt his own tension stirring deep in his belly.

  The corridor smelled of cabbage soup. It was food which Schmidt disliked but today, strangely, he found the pungent odour familiar and comforting; an anchor of stability in his fast-changing existence.

  ~ * ~

  On the second floor, Fräulein Brandt paced her room. Fischer wouldn’t be making his traitorous representations to the Swiss bankers. Her contact in Zurich informed her that the board was meeting this morning. A decision on the Czech gold in their vaults was imminent. Would she hear today? Even with Fischer out of the picture, would she have excellent news to take to the president? If she could find him. Frau Heyer was close-lipped about his movements. She’d found out only that he was spending each day at the Economics Ministry. Something special was in the air.

  She pulled up short. The chief auditor. Given access to the president’s office! Being used virtually as a private secretary. Only here five minutes and already in the inner sanctum! She - a manager for three years - could hardly get in the president’s door. White-lipped, she considered it. It was unprecedented. What was going on? Well, he would be at her home tomorrow night. She’d obtained a duck to cook for the auditor. It should be a goose! The thought was without humour. The fräulein possessed little of that.

  Her mind jumped back to Zurich. She looked at the phone as if willing it to ring. In an undertone, she muttered, ‘Come on you Swiss stuffed-shirts, don’t make it hard for yourselves. Decide correctly!’

  The difference between success and failure in the bureaucracies of the Third Reich could be wafer thin. She was furious with Julius! She’d wanted Fischer’s visit deferred. Not the man murdered! God, she’d have to watch him more closely in future. It had been a total shock. He was adamant that there’d be no repercussions but, despite his infatuation with her, how far could one really trust a Gestapo agent? She’d not asked him for details because she feared the answer.

  ~ * ~

  Anna kept t
yping a report that Herr Fischer had left for her to do. Rossbach had asked what she was working on, and grunted when she told him. He’d returned after four o’clock smelling of brandy, and she had no doubt that he’d been celebrating his preferment with one of his cronies. He was generally disliked and avoided, but he held sway over a few junior men who were awed by his seniority and bravado. Now he sat at the desk flicking through a file of the section’s recent letters, muttering sarcastic comments to himself as he read.