The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  The auditor peered over the rim of his glass at the high Nazi. Did he know that he had a double traipsing around Berlin, a Gestapo agent of striking resemblance aping his civilian dress, his mannerisms, his limp?

  Schmidt stiffened. Von Streck was ten paces away, standing behind the Reich Minister. He looked even broader, the coal-black curls tight above the domed forehead. Rock-like in the throng, he was brooding on the scene. Schmidt pivoted to examine another photograph: a beaming mother with eight scrubbed children, lined up like track and field trophies on a sideboard.

  A portly man in a suit clapped his hands, demanding attention. The hubbub subsided. ‘Dear friends, it is my honour to introduce the Reich Minister, who’s graciously consented to open this important exhibition.’ A smile on his dark face, relishing the outburst of enthusiastic applause, the diminutive man limped the few paces to the photographer, took her hand and carried it almost to his lips. He smiled up at the tall woman then whirled to gather in the crowd with his alert eyes. In the voice implanted in the national consciousness by a swarm of wireless broadcasts, he said, ‘Fräulein Martha Solmitz. A supreme artist with the camera. A member of the Party whose brilliant images exalt motherhood. Mothers and children of the Third Reich — adored by the Fuehrer. Fräulein, I am at your feet.’

  The last was declaimed in a semi-humorous tone. Amid further applause he declared the exhibition open, clinked a glass with the Fräulein, handed it to an aide and made his way through the parting crowd to the doors, accompanied by the portly man and the sultry, smiling Martha Solmitz; black-uniformed aides sprang from the room’s corners.

  The Reich Minister’s head, with its shining slicked-back hair, bobbed its way out amid a phalanx of shielding bodies.

  As if breaking free from restraint, the hubbub roared up; the drinking became even more exuberant. Befitting the Reich’s bright future. Living for the moment in this bogus world. However, Schmidt was here to obtain a special camera, and instructions on how to use it.

  He cast his eye around the room. Von Streck had disappeared. Do it now. He put his glass on a table and threaded his way toward the photographer, who’d returned and was talking to the two women in the fur coats. The auditor clicked his heels and bowed. ‘Fräulein, congratulations. The darkroom exposes the truth.’

  The woman started and looked down from her height at his face. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the others. She took Schmidt by the arm and led him to a photograph. She pointed a thin, yellow-stained finger at a detail: a squirt of milk frozen in perpetuity as it looped from a swollen bosom. ‘Behind there,’ she said quietly, nodding at a green velvet curtain, ‘is the door to the darkroom. Please go in. I’ll join you shortly’

  The room was not dark. It blazed with light. Schmidt ran his eye over the equipment and paraphernalia. Shiny prints were pegged to cords strung across the room. The noise from the party was faint. A moment later, Martha Solmitz swept in and locked the door. The cigarette and holder were gone but she still held a half-full glass of champagne in her yellowed fingers — not nicotine, he realised, but fixative from her developing. One hand on her angular hip, she drained the glass, said, ‘French. Provided by the ministry. Now, mein herr, to business. I’ve only a few minutes, so watch and listen.’

  She opened a drawer and produced the smallest camera Schmidt had ever seen. She held the stainless steel container, barely larger than a matchbox, in the palm of her hand. ‘This is a Minox camera, designed in Riga in 1936 by a man called Zapp. It is brilliant for photographing documents. Do you understand a little about cameras?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded and held up a tiny cassette. ‘Here is the film. It takes fifty exposures. This is how you load it. Come closer. Watch.’

  Her thin fingers slid open the backing case, inserted the film and fed the leader onto a spool. She shut the lid and wound it on by pushing the camera at each end. ‘It is fortunate, Herr Schmidt, that you have small fingers. Try it.’ She removed the film and handed it and the camera to the auditor. Back in his family life he’d owned a Contax; Helga had it now It was fiddly even for his small fingers but he did it.

  ‘Good. I presume you will be photographing at night. You will need illumination. A good desk-lamp will do — focus it on the document. You should use a tripod. Like this.’ She held up what looked like a fat pencil to Schmidt. ‘Watch this.’ In a few seconds her deft fingers took it apart, and a tiny stainless steel tripod stood on the desk. She screwed the camera onto it. ‘You will work the shutter with a cable release. This one.’ From one of the hollow tripod legs she took a cable release. ‘It goes in here.’

  Schmidt was amazed at the miniature precision instruments.

  ‘Yes, a marvel,’ she said. ‘Now, focusing…’

  In a few terse sentences, and a minimum of hand movements, she explained how Schmidt should position the material to be photographed — how he should measure the distance to the lens with a small chain; how he should move the distance scale dial.

  ‘Leave the shutter speed as it is.’ She placed a small wooden stand on the table and on it a sheet of printed paper. ‘Now, taking the picture . . . Put your eye to the viewfinder. What you see is what will be photographed. Your eye is the same as this lens. But note the precise distance between the camera and the paper. Measure it with the chain. Don’t go closer than this. See? Now, is the print in focus?’

  Schmidt was squinting through the viewfinder. It was. ‘Yes.’ He was accustomed to single-eye vision.

  ‘Operate the shutter.’

  Schmidt pressed the cable release. Beyond the darkroom, the noise of the party revived, as if re-ignited by the soft click of the shutter.

  She gave a sharp nod. ‘Good. Now, to advance the film simply push and pull the camera at each end. Like this. The same as when you load the film. Then take the next exposure . . . Now, you will take it apart and re-assemble it.’

  Schmidt did so, taking his time, burning each process into his memory.

  ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘You are a quick learner.’ She opened a drawer. ‘Here are more films.’ She handed a handful of the tiny cassettes to the auditor. ‘Any questions?’

  Schmidt said, ‘Can I take a passport photo with it?’

  She frowned. ‘Yes. But a larger camera is better. Take it from this distance. Otherwise, the same procedure. Do it in daylight.’

  Someone tried the door, then knocked insistently.

  ‘One moment,’ she called. ‘Can you do it?’

  Schmidt nodded and quickly disassembled the apparatus, put the camera in one suit-pocket, the fat pencil and the rest in the other.

  Before he understood what she was doing, she thrust her head down and kissed him full on the lips. Startled, Schmidt drew back, feeling the stickiness and taste of lipstick.

  ‘Now we will go out.’ She smiled briefly at his expression. ‘I have my reputation to live up to. Good luck.’ She said that with a new fervour, and he sensed her strong passion of opposition. She whispered, ‘Tonight you’ve looked at propaganda, not art.’

  They went out. The portly man was standing there, holding the green curtain aside. He stared at Schmidt’s face and a smirk passed over his fleshy features.

  ‘Good night,’ the artist said to the auditor, giving him an ironic look. ‘I’m so glad you like my work. It was a very pleasant conversation.’

  Schmidt claimed his hat and coat and went down in the lift. The party was showing signs of exhaustion, and the numbers had dwindled. The waiters were no longer offering champagne despite prompting from two inebriated men. Descending alone, he rubbed the evidence of the kiss from his lips with a moistened handkerchief. Her photographs were technically good, yet the theme and execution, that of a Party hack. But this woman didn’t love the Party.

  He could see now that von Streck might have thought the transaction safer in these circumstances rather than at a clandestine meeting. The functionary’s mind was as sinuous as a snake threading through summer grass.

  Schm
idt stepped out into the dark blue freezing evening with more snow in the offing. He marvelled at the special plenipotentiary’s network. How many did he have embedded in institutions throughout the Reich? He imagined von Streck juggling them like eggs. Did a few splattered yokes lie at his feet?

  Schmidt settled his shoulders, patted his coat, and controlled his fear. He was a walking compendium of spy materials and he was going to need terrific luck not to become a splattered yolk.

  President Funk was next. Grimly, Schmidt wondered what the high official had in store for him. The flat box of waxy material in his breast pocket was what he had in store for the architect of the economic and financial mainspring of the Four Year Plan; if he was given a chance.

  ~ * ~

  Sturmbannfuehrer Sack’s anger had been fermenting all day. On arrival at headquarters at 7.00 am he’d been infuriated to discover what Strasser had been up to in the small hours. The ambitious bastard had surpassed even his previous blunders. And he’d achieved nothing! The Kapp woman had been driven crazy, and even the strong-minded teacher appeared to be in a state bordering on the catatonic.

  At 10.30 am, accompanied by the agent who’d followed the teacher the night Sack had taken the bad fall, he’d gone to Captain von Beckendorf’s apartment to find the Abwehr officer absent. The janitor could throw no light on where he was. In the foyer of the building, he’d pondered the situation. The officer was on sick leave, but still on the strength of Admiral Canaris’s Abwehr. Even a Gestapo major should move carefully. He decided to leave his subordinate to await the captain’s return — assuming he hadn’t taken off like his Reichsbank cousin.

  Back at his desk, still fuming at Strasser, he muttered, ‘The bastard got nothing. Destroyed them as informants!’ Unbelievable. He’d called in a doctor to do what he could to salvage the situation. The Jew Rubinstein hadn’t returned to the abandoned flat. Maybe the fellow had died overnight in a garret somewhere. It wouldn’t be so easy for him to get food without taking risks, or medical attention if he needed it. But he sensed the ex-judge was still operational.

  His throat tightened as he wondered who was watching his efforts from on high. With the Reich Minister’s interest in the case, someone would be. Everything looked black! The church had lodged a strong protest about the death of its pastor.

  At 7.30 am he’d gone to his superior officer and filed a formal complaint against Strasser; heaped a ton of blame on him for last night’s debacle, and for the foul-up with the piano teacher last week. When the sadistic bastard returned to duty he’d have explaining to do. Though he was as much a specialist at getting out of trouble as he was at getting into it.

  Sack pushed a buzzer, and a few moments later Buhle stood stiffly in the doorway. ‘What do you know about the Reichsbank fellow Rossbach’s death last night?’

  ‘The Order police looked into it. The man was drunk. Appears to be accidental. Broken neck.’

  Sack grunted. How was Freda taking it?

  Another man replaced Buhle in the doorway. A shifty individual in a dishevelled suit whom Sack had no time for. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sturmbannfuehrer - the Rubinstein case. One of our men showed a batch of photographs to the maid at the von Bose house. She recognised the Jew, said she remembered seeing the teacher with him in a small café near the house about a month ago. She happened to be passing on the way to market.’

  The man withdrew. Sack sat back at his desk, spread his hands and examined them. Well, well. The women’s circle was showing further potential. In his shadowy world, he’d no right to be surprised at the interconnection of individuals whom he’d hitherto not even contemplated as being connected. Day by day such things kept cropping up. It was certainly something to ask the teacher about. Had they been doing more than blackballing the Party, more than smuggling letters to Switzerland? What new line of inquiry might open to Section 4?

  However, it was the image of the Reichsbank’s chief auditor that stepped forward. That polite, handsome little fellow who seemed to be standing on the edge of this convoluted situation, like a spy waiting at a frontier for a special delivery. According to Freda, he had wormed his way into the confidence of the president of the Reich’s financial nerve centre.

  Should his next move be toward the auditor? He’d wait. A file on the fellow had been found, and was being sent to him.

  ~ * ~

  In the flat facing Savigny Platz, Anna kept well away from the windows ail day. Before he’d left for the Reichsbank, Herr Schmidt had warned her about it. He’d said, ‘Please don’t turn on the wireless, answer the door or the telephone. Remember no-one is supposed to be here.’ Of course, she’d thought of all that. They were both wired tight with anxiety.

  It was 7.05 pm. She’d made several cups of tea, and a sandwich at lunchtime. Otherwise she’d sat in the study, trying to control the fearful thoughts circulating in her mind. Had the Gestapo gone to her flat as Eugene and Herr Schmidt had feared? To Eugene’s?

  But above all she was sick with worry about Elisabeth and her other friends. This morning, even Martin Hoffmann hadn’t known what had happened overnight. It had been too early. Probably he knew now. Pray to God they escaped.

  Gazing with unseeing eyes across the small room, in her heart Anna knew that it was a flawed hope.

  She stood up and paced the room, absently brushing back the hair that fell over her brow.

  Eugene and Martin Hoffmann would come up with a plan. In the armed forces intelligence sector, they were the planning kind. What she’d vaguely suspected before was now quite clear; they were plotting against the Nazis.

  She wanted to live. To escape. To survive to come back and see a return to sanity and decency in her beloved country. To see this Nazi disease swept and scrubbed from the face and heart of Germany.

  Dear Herr Fischer. Oh God, she wished she could stop thinking! She stopped and gazed up at the engraving of the knight. She knew the famous engraving, was surprised to find it here. She wondered what significance it had for Herr Schmidt.

  As snow fell in the darkness, setting the drab city aglow, she was waiting for him; the enigmatic chief auditor and Nazi Party member who’d turned into her saviour - thus far. The why and wherefore of that was one more factor she was ignorant of, but in her mind’s eye, she saw his sincere, caring and competent face and knew that she trusted him.

  ~ * ~

  27

  I

  N THE SUBURB of Wannsee, Schmidt was a long way from home, and the time of his return was problematic. He’d been standing in a bus shelter for several minutes, his shoulders and hat dusted with snow. He ran his tongue over his lips; they still had the sweet taste of the photographer’s lipstick. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to eight.

  He was watching Dr Funk’s house and steadying his nerves. The pang of fear he’d felt earlier had subsided. He was drawing on deep resources within himself. The villa’s windows were illuminated, and waited like a shiny trap ready to be sprung. A fine residence befitting the president of the Reichsbank. In its pre-confiscation days, it’d befitted the Jewish banker Arnhold. The auditor recalled von Streck’s comment about this in the Tiergarten.

  He stamped his feet to gain warmth. He was aware of the slight bulges in his coat pockets; there had been no time to return to the bank and lock away the photographic equipment. And the box in his breast pocket would be needed — if an opportunity arose or could be created. Time was short; no better chance might come. He peered at the house, as if X-raying it to discover where the key resided when the president was home and at ease.

  No sentries. A quiet neighbourhood. He sensed the big lake nearby as an unseen and somnolent presence. A few car headlights flared in the distance. He checked his watch again, looked each way and crossed the street.

  He walked up the path and climbed the imposing steps. In the brilliant electric light in the portico, he took several deep breaths, then pushed the bell. With alarming rapidity the large door sprang open. Schmidt blinked at the thin man i
n a butler’s uniform.

  ‘Mein herr.’ The servant lowered his head and stood aside.

  Schmidt’s cold feet stepped into warmth and opulence.

  ‘My dear Schmidt!’

  Dr Funk was descending the staircase. Unsteadily. ‘Welcome to my villa, formerly the home of the Jewish banking magnate, what’s-his-name?’

  Schmidt stood to attention and saluted. ’Heil Hitler!’ Sharply he dropped his head. ‘Good evening, Herr President.’

  Funk waved a hand dismissively. ‘No formality here, Schmidt. Come into the salon, Karl’s put out very good caviar and champagne.’

  The tiny man smacked a small hand to his brow and weaved through a doorway. ‘God! The pressure. The work I’m engaged in is arduous. One must be right! So much hangs on being right, Schmidt. Do you understand?’