The Iron Heart - [Franz Schmidt 02]

by Marshall Browne

  He swung around at a slight sound. A tall man in an overcoat reaching almost to his ankles, hat in hand, stood in the still open doorway like an apparition. ‘Herr Schmidt?’ - more confirmation than question. The auditor swallowed, and gave a sharp nod. The fellow had a white scar across his forehead. ‘This is for you.’ The stranger strode across the room, put an envelope into Schmidt’s hand, bowed, turned and left. Schmidt gazed at the empty doorway, then at the unaddressed envelope. He’d not uttered a word. Who . . .? What kind of authority had he shown to get past Herr Wolff?

  He closed his door and opened the envelope.

  Please meet me at 4 Weinerstrasse, Wedding at 6.00 pm.

  I will wait for you in the foyer. Hoffmann. Destroy this.

  Schmidt peered at the words. Then he memorised the address, tore the note to tiny pieces and dropped it in the bin. He went to his desk and sat down. The major must have news of the plan for Anna. Yes, best if he avoided coming to the flat again. But he still had to get the passport. If Rubinstein had been taken . . .

  Gazing at his blotter, he put that disastrous scenario out of his mind. Tonight he must provide the opportunity for Rubinstein to make contact, meet Hoffmann, dodge the Gestapo agent on his tail — who he guessed was now lurking across the street from the bank’s entrance — and enter the president’s safe. A viperlike nest of challenges and uncertainties.

  Unconsciously, he shifted his shoulders, re-settling them.

  He must remain positive. He looked now at his in-tray, piled high by the indefatigable Gott.

  The internal telephone rang, making him start. Freda Brandt’s voice brought him to higher alert. ’Herr Chief Auditor . . . Franz. I’m having a little celebration at my flat tonight. The Czech gold. A few friends and colleagues. You’ll come? Eight o’clock.’ She sounded exuberant. The tang of her perfume was still in his nostrils.

  Schmidt thought quickly. ‘Fräulein manager, thank you, but I have arrangements —’

  ‘Herr Chief Auditor! You’re not going to refuse me?’

  ‘I’m afraid —’

  ‘You can come late.’

  He hesitated. Her tone was such that he knew it would be best for him to attend. ‘I can’t promise —’

  But she’d gone. She knew the Gestapo were following him— doubtless from her limping friend. In a flash, his uncertainty about whether she was involved in Fischer’s death evaporated. Now a celebration. Grimly he thought: They’d be dancing on Fischer’s grave.

  ~ * ~

  In The People’s Court, with Judge Freisler presiding, Elisabeth von Bose was shocked by the speed of the deadly proceedings. They’d been brought in at 3.53 pm. It was now 4.30 and the judge was behaving as though he was driving a fast car to a destination to which he was late. Pressing for a speedy end, he’d been bullying the prosecutor and defence counsel alike, even the Gestapo witnesses.

  For those political prisoners of the Reich actually brought to court, their trial was an abbreviated phase in a hellish journey. Elisabeth, stunned by the enormity, the falseness and the malignancy of it had, as if at a great distance, recalled the democratic principles she’d instilled in her young women. Young German women.

  Dazedly she shook her head. Any hope she’d brought here was in ashes. She was only vaguely aware of the depressing room faintly illuminated by dusty electric bulbs, at the pinched and pasty faces of the court officials and guards.

  She’d tried to hold Frau Kapp’s hand as they stood side-by-side but a guard struck her arm away, making her gasp with pain. Frau Kapp was unaware of anything. It was for the best.

  The teacher had only had a few quick washes in recent days and her hair was lank and bedraggled, though she’d tried to comb it with her fingers. The odour of unwashed humanity hung in the courtroom, mingled with the stench of disinfectant wafting in from the lavatories. The cold rose from the stone floor with vicious intent. Elisabeth couldn’t remember when she’d last felt warm. Nonetheless, she held herself erect and her eyes were steady above the bruised circles beneath them. The stylish coat she wore was grimy but gave her a dash of elegance. However, no-one in this motley charade had the time or inclination to notice.

  She’d heard of this judge, had read that he was a scourge on the opponents of the Third Reich. A merciless-mannered man with facial tics, garbed in black and grey; colours representing death. On the giant-sized swastika behind his head, red, black and white blazed at the room; colours standing for power. For a moment Elisabeth closed her eyes. In her head, the faces of a host of loved ones, friends and students appeared as a huge group photograph.

  Hardly lifting his eyes from the papers, the judge said, ‘Prisoner Elisabeth von Bose . . .’

  Elisabeth opened her eyes. Her hands kneading her injured forearm, she waited, thinking: Nothing of one’s past life counts now. Everything meritorious and noteworthy is erased.

  ‘. . . you are found guilty as charged. Do you have anything to say?’

  Elisabeth said nothing.

  The judge pronounced the same verdict on Frau Kapp.

  ‘Take them out,’ he snarled, reaching for the papers of the next case.

  ~ * ~

  At 5.30 pm Schmidt stepped from the bank’s foyer into the street, and once more inserted himself into the flow of office-workers. In a few minutes he reached Wilhelmstrasse. No Rubinstein. Now he was deeply worried. Perhaps he’d slip the passport into Schmidt’s mailbox. No. He wouldn’t risk coming to the flat.

  Walking to the tram-stop, Schmidt dabbed at his good eye, which was watering. Rubinstein might be ill; no possibility could be excluded.

  Tonight he used a department store, made his quick convoluted way through its crowded floors and lifts, and left by one of its many exits. He ran to catch a departing tramcar. Craning his neck back he checked that no-one had leapt aboard after him. If he was still on the job, the bespectacled agent would be cursing this lively bank auditor.

  Number 8 Weinerstrasse was a grimy, baroque stone building. In summery weather it might present an air of run-down charm; in the deep-set Berlin winter it looked down-at-heel and cheerless. An anonymous coat of arms, carved in stone, was set above the front door.

  The foyer was freezing, dusky and empty. Like fireworks exploding, the auditor’s footsteps cracked on squares of well-worn black and white marble. A staircase, also in marble, ascended to upper floors. Schmidt waited by the staircase, unwilling to create more detonations. He shrank deeper into his overcoat and rubbed his gloved hands. Five minutes went by. Another aborted meeting? He could hear a strong breeze whining in electricity wires outside. He felt nerves flickering under his good eye. This was the right address. He was meticulous in remembering such details. He couldn’t wait any longer. He turned toward the door.

  Major Hoffmann stepped into the foyer. The broken-nosed man offered his hand, a brief apology, and said, ‘Let us go upstairs.’

  On the first floor, Hoffmann pushed open a door and entered a wood-panelled hall. There was heat here. An emaciated man in a vague kind of uniform hurried forward, clicked his heels, wordlessly took their coats and hats. The major kept the thin leather attaché case he was carrying.

  Schmidt glanced around. It was some kind of club. The major gestured him to follow and led the way down a corridor, then through a series of small dim rooms filled with ancient leather armchairs and small tables. The place was deserted - not even servants in evidence. The seediness of the building’s exterior was duplicated in its interior. Finally, Hoffmann halted in a room and closed its door. He indicated an armchair to Schmidt. ‘It’s safe to talk here.’

  Schmidt nodded.

  The major placed the attaché case between them on a table and splayed his right hand on it. ‘Have you the passport?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Hoffmann frowned, and studied Schmidt’s face. ‘Very shortly, I expect to have documentation from England that will connect the Swiss doctor with an English intelligence department. What they call MI5. Of course, it’s false, th
e man’s a rabid Nazi.’ He lifted his hand and sat back. ’At four-forty this afternoon, Fräulein von Bose and Frau Kapp were found guilty of crimes against the Reich and sentenced to death. They’re to be executed tomorrow morning.’

  Schmidt stared at the member of the Abwehr. His heartbeat had begun to tap in his chest like a light hammer. The major had delivered the terrible news in a flat voice. The auditor looked down at his own clenched hands.

  ‘I’m afraid this Swiss has performed other “services” for the Gestapo. Although this is his most vile contribution to date.’ Hoffmann gave a grim nod. ‘One I trust he’ll live to regret.’

  Schmidt looked up; this time there’d been an edge in the officer’s voice.

  ‘In sheltering Fräulein von Schnelling, you’ve done a great thing. A dangerous and heroic act. Now there’s something else.’

  Hoffmann’s look bored into him, and suddenly Schmidt’s mouth had become as dry as ashes. ‘We ask you to confront the doctor and, with the help of the “evidence” we’ll supply, to persuade him to escort Anna to Zurich.’ Hoffmann paused. ‘It’s something I wished to do personally. However . . .’

  Another twist in the scenario! Schmidt was stunned, but kept his face blank. He felt moisture trickling down his left cheek but refrained from dabbing it.

  The major’s gaze had become even more intense. ‘It would greatly improve her chances.’

  They regarded each other in the ensuing silence.

  Then Hoffmann’s red eyelashes spasmed. ‘No-one could blame you for refusing. If you are unable to do it, it won’t be done. She’ll have to go unaccompanied. Assuming that the passport is obtained.’

  Schmidt’s eye was aching but, unflinchingly, he met the other’s,

  Hoffmann asked, his voice strained now, ‘Could I have your answer?’

  Schmidt peered past him into the gloom. Anna’s face, last night in the candlelit study, was irradiated in his mind. ‘I’ll do it, mein herr,’ he said.

  The Abwehr man lunged forward and grasped the auditor’s hand in a powerful grip. The force shook the small man. Behind his stern exterior, Hoffmann was as keyed-up as himself, Schmidt realised. ’What if this man merely pretends to accept our demands?’

  ‘You must make a judgement on that.’

  Schmidt nodded slowly He’d need to gaze into the inner man. He guessed this doctor would be intelligent and calculating. ‘He must be put in deadly fear.’

  Hoffmann gave the auditor a shrewd look. ’He has a daughter and a mother . . .’ The major had assembled an impressive amount of material on the doctor’s family members and told the auditor all he knew. Meaningfully, he added, ‘We know their whereabouts. His flat is the best place to approach him. Here is the address. He returns there about 8.00 pm each evening. However, the shifts he works may vary.’

  Schmidt took the scrap of paper. The Abwehr man moved his body to one side and reached into a pocket. ‘You may need this to gain entry.’ An automatic pistol had appeared in his large hand. ‘If, finally, you’re uncertain about him, you must use it.’

  Schmidt blinked.

  ‘He’s a betrayer, Herr Schmidt, who shouldn’t be allowed further opportunities to practise his vile habit.’

  Schmidt remained silent.

  Hoffmann shrugged. ‘Today it’s not easy to remain a human being.’ He held the weapon up. ‘It’s loaded. You work the action - here - to put a bullet into the chamber. Then simply pull the trigger. From that point it’s automatic. Here’s the safety catch. All right?’

  Schmidt nodded. In his youth, he’d received training with a similar weapon in Wertheims’ cashier’s department.

  ‘If she — or they — are questioned during the journey, this will be her cover story . . .’

  A few minutes later, Hoffmann gave a tense smile. ‘There you have it. I will contact you as soon as the “evidence” is to hand.’

  He left Hoffmann and took a tramcar back to Mitte, remaining ignorant of the identity or nature of the club. In its hall, instead of a photograph of the Fuehrer, there had been a portrait of Hindenburg; it spoke of another existence; one unknowing of the Third Reich.

  With sudden clarity he realised he wasn’t daunted by this new task. In fact, he felt invigorated. Like Dietrich at Wertheims, this Swiss was a target for a knight’s intervention. There was no romanticism in the thought; it was entirely pragmatic. Was he becoming addicted to danger and intrigue? Had that settled in his bloodstream like a drug, despite all his fears and yearning for his family? Thoughtfully, he regarded the ill-lit streets, spotted with snow, rolling by in the tramcar window. Right now, they weren’t propositions he needed to consider further.

  If Rubinstein didn’t deliver the passport, it would all be for nothing.

  ~ * ~

  34

  F

  REDA BRANDT’S PARTY was over. It was nearly eight-thirty and Sturmbannfuehrer Sack knew he should return to his office, yet he lingered among the uncollected glasses and plates of leftover canapés.

  Freda had obtained six bottles of champagne. She’d been ebullient during the party, one of her colleagues had toasted her - for ‘the acquisition of the Czech gold’. She’d beamed, basking in the accolade. Now she was slightly drunk — and angry. The chief auditor hadn’t appeared. ‘He’ll be here,’ she’d assured Sack, but the party had finished, and no Herr Schmidt. Earlier, the agent detailed to watch the fellow had phoned Sack to report that he’d lost him. Another fucking incompetent! The sturmbannfuehrer had viciously berated the man.

  ‘My God! The little bastard’s slighted me,’ the head of precious metals hissed, clenching her fist. She’d wanted the chief auditor here to display like a trophy to their colleagues, and later, to complete that unfinished matter. Also, Julius would’ve had a chance to observe him before she sent the Gestapo man packing.

  Sack shrugged and looked around for his overcoat. ‘He knows he’s under surveillance, twice he’s given my man the slip. He’s proving slippery with department stores and their multiple exits.’ He sighted the coat. ‘He’s not acting like an innocent man. Or an auditor.’

  She gave a harsh laugh. ‘Innocent! God knows what he’s up to. He comes here out of the blue, next thing, he’s the president’s right-hand man.’ She couldn’t get that out of her mind. And he hadn’t cared about the gold.

  She stared across the room, the alcohol oppressive in her head. Abruptly, she slapped a hand to her cheek. My God! Was the connection between them Funk’s perverted sexuality?

  Watching her, Sack said, ‘Not out of the blue. From under the wing of someone who might be under the wing of Reich Minister Himmler.’

  His voice became hushed as he spoke the last phrase. He continued, ‘I’ve decided to go south early tomorrow, to where he rendered this so-called hero’s service. My colleague down there has information on your Herr Schmidt and was very reticent on the phone, which may be significant.’

  Her eyes widened, ‘Thank God! Now we might get somewhere.’

  Sack’s face twisted in his grimace-like smile. He kissed his lover’s hand and took his leave.

  ‘Presuming I make any discoveries,’ he told himself, as he limped away from her block into the night. Nonetheless, he was feeling more and more confident.

  ~ * ~

  Five kilometres away from Fräulein Brandt’s flat, Schmidt re-entered the Reichsbank. He’d stopped at a café for a hot drink and a light meal. Not normally a big eater, the stress and tension continued to play havoc with his appetite.

  He passed the steel-helmeted SS sentries rigid in their chilly confrontation of the deserted street. Herr Wolff, at the front desk, bowed to the hurrying auditor.

  ‘Working late, mein herr?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Schmidt said.

  ‘The heating shuts down at eleven.’

  ‘I won’t be here then.’ He judged he could not stay beyond that time without it being especially noted. Herr Wolff was already making an entry in a register; the chief auditor’s late-night r
eturn was going into the record.

  Schmidt took the lift to his floor and, being as quiet as possible, walked the empty corridors. The bank had subsided into its off-duty mode. He unlocked his door and entered his office, removing his hat and overcoat. His heartbeat quickened as it did frequently these days; a legacy of last November’s troubles. Would it see him through? Would his nerves? He’d consulted no doctors.

  He re-locked his door, and unlocked the desk drawer. For a moment he stared at the camera and equipment, then began to transfer the items to his pockets.

  He glanced up at the clock. Nearly nine-fifty. Had President Funk made his return to his office before going home - or to an evening engagement? He must assume so. He couldn’t inquire of Herr Wolff about this. He stepped out of his office, didn’t lock it and took the stairs.