The next Tuesday evening, as she was heading to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, she nearly smacked into a shadow in the front hall. The lights were off, to save on the electric bill, but she knew the broad shoulders hidden beneath brown fabric, and the muscular neck encircled by a plain khaki collar. Reinhard.
“Hello, Gretl,” Reinhard said in his careless way. “I’m heading to Osteria Bavaria to hear Uncle Dolf speak. You ought to come. Holing up in this house like a hermit’s bound to make anyone go mad.” He grinned while she stared at him. It’s your fault I’ve been holed up here, you monster.
“Fine,” she said, surprised by how cool she sounded. “I’d love to go.” Some of the men from the Residenzstrasse march might be there. If she was clever, she could question them about the putsch.
“Good.” Reinhard ruffled her hair—in precisely the way she had always hated. As she fetched a hat and pocketbook from her room, checking in the mirror that the bruises lingering around her eye were concealed with powder, a tiny part of her wondered if this was Reinhard’s way of apologizing.
No. Reinhard was incapable of feeling sorry. There was still so much about psychoanalytic theory she didn’t understand, but Whitestone had promised he would start explaining Hitler and Reinhard to her, now that he had taught her the fundamentals.
His voice had been soft when he added, There is one thing you must understand about people like Reinhard—in some ways, they’re all the same. They are utterly incapable of forming natural attachments to others, such as friendships. In the purest sense of the word, they are alone.
She reached the front door. Together, she and her brother went out into the soft September night.
Osteria Bavaria was one of Hitler’s favorite restaurants. The owner kept a side room reserved for him, a long, low, dark space, the walls decorated with paintings of hunts and pastoral scenes. Typically, the same men occupied the table, laughing and droning on under the heavy iron chandeliers.
Tonight was no different. Some of the usual companions sat with him at his regular table: Hanfstaengl, Eva’s boss Heinrich Hoffmann, Hitler’s secretary Rudolf Hess, and several others.
A crowd had swelled to fill the room so tightly that Gretchen almost expected the walls to bow out from the pressure. The typical SA and SS fellows ranged about the room, leaning against the walls and keeping an eye out for any unwelcome guests. There were no women and none of the prosperous burghers or society folks who had flocked to hear Hitler at the Circus Krone.
She had expected to stand in the shadows, but Uncle Dolf saw her immediately and motioned her over, while Reinhard stayed back to talk with Herr Röhm. Dread weighted her feet, and every one of her muscles wanted to turn and run. Feeling Uncle Dolf’s watchful eyes tracking her progress, she threaded her way through the crowded room.
He smiled when she reached him and kissed the backs of her hands. All, apparently, was forgotten. She shouldn’t have felt surprised. She knew Hitler’s method of dealing with people he found unpleasant or embarrassing; he either froze them out or acted as though nothing bad had ever happened between them. He seemed to have chosen the second approach for her.
“My sunshine,” he said. “Your hair! You are quite changed; I shouldn’t have known you! What a lovely young thing you are becoming. Surely the boys are crowding around your door these days.”
Daniel’s image flashed in her mind, and her heart lurched. If Hitler only suspected the boy she couldn’t keep from her thoughts . . .
“No beaux,” she said, trying to sound like her old playful self. “I think the boys worry about impressing you, and so they keep their distance.”
He laughed, slapping his thigh delightedly. “Yes, I am quite the protective papa bear, am I not? Go, sit, eat something, my child. The cauliflower cheese is excellent tonight.”
“Thank you, Uncle Dolf.”
She wove herself through the mass of men again, finding a seat at the table’s far end, beside Rudolf Hess. He gave her one of his shy, close-mouthed smiles.
He was so unlike the raucous, back-slapping, brawling and beer-swilling sort who liked to cluster around Hitler. A quiet, brown-haired man from the gentleman class who rarely spoke and seemed to blend into the walls so effectively that she often forgot he was in the room. She glanced at him now. He was one of the earliest Party members. Perhaps he had known Stefan Dearstyne. . . .
“A wretched time,” he said after they had reminisced about the old days for a few minutes and she screwed up her courage to ask him about the putsch. “I took two ministers hostage at the Bürgerbräukeller and forced them into a car. The plan was to take them to a hideout high in the mountains, so they could be used as leverage if our revolution failed. I was still driving in the mountains when I got word that the putsch had ended in a shoot-out.
“All my dreams were destroyed in that instant,” he continued, staring into his foam-topped beer stein. Around them, men laughed and talked loudly, and Gretchen leaned closer to Hess, straining to hear him. “I escaped along a mountain trail into Austria and lived there for a while in exile. But when I heard the Führer had been found guilty of high treason, I knew I must return and take my rightful place beside him. I was sentenced to eighteen months and, in captivity with the Führer, began to work with him on Mein Kampf. What do you know about energy currents?”
The abrupt change in conversation forced Gretchen to bite her lips so she wouldn’t burst into nervous laughter. Energy currents and vegetarian diets were two of Hess’s favorite topics. His alibi would be easy to check. She could cross him off the list.
A voice cut into her thoughts. “Have you heard the news about Amann?” an SA fellow asked Hess. “Poor dwarf’s lost his arm in a hunting accident.”
Dwarf? Gretchen remembered the photograph in Dearstyne’s apartment of her father, Uncle Dolf, and three other men heading into the beer hall minutes before they launched the putsch. One of them had been dwarf-like. Was it possible he knew what had happened during the automobile ride to upset her father? She didn’t dare ask Uncle Dolf, not after he had turned her aside so easily when she’d needed him. Ulrich Graf was still unwell, after being shot during the putsch, and she avoided Alfred Rosenberg and his endless ramblings about the Jews and Communists if she could. Perhaps, though, this Amann could tell her something.
“Who’s Amann?” she asked Hess, but he put a finger to his lips.
Hitler strode to the front of the room. “The question of the Jews,” he began, “is a question of race, not religion.”
The men’s chatter stopped.
The room was so quiet, Gretchen could hear the men around her breathing. “Some may believe that the Jews can convert to Christianity and shed their true nature,” Hitler went on. “But they will never be like us. Their polluted blood marks them for all time. Judaism is in their souls.”
The same angry words she had heard for years. But she had never listened—truly listened—before. She looked at her hands, folded demurely in her lap, pale fingers intertwined, blood coursing beneath the skin. Blood that Hitler had told her she should cherish because it was pure. Aryan. And she thought of Daniel’s blood, as blue as hers in his veins, and surely as red as hers when exposed to the air.
How had she swallowed all of the lies so easily, without question? She had been so young, a mere girl of five when Papa first brought his old war comrade Adi to their apartment. She hadn’t had a proper chance to form her own opinions. She looked away from Hitler’s reddening face.
Another roar went up, and Hitler lifted a hand to silence the crowd.
“The internal purification of the Jewish spirit is not possible,” Hitler said. “For the Jewish spirit is the product of the Jewish person. Unless we expel the Jews soon, they will have polluted our people within a very short time.”
The men shouted again, a harsh, guttural cry filling the room. Gretchen glanced at Reinhard, who stood with others along the wall, his face cold and untouched. Why was he here, if he didn’t care? Why did nothin
g seem to touch him at all?
“But surely,” shouted a man to be heard above the din, “but surely what you propose, Herr Hitler, is barbaric? Are we not a civilized nation, and as such, do we not offer equal protection to all our citizens?”
“Who said that?” Hitler demanded. “Who spoke?”
A man stepped forward from the clumps along the walls. It was Fritz Gerlich. He looked like a schoolmaster, standing among the mostly uniformed crowd in his plain suit and round wire spectacles. Gretchen looked away, hoping he wouldn’t let on if he recognized her. There was a sudden hush, and every man turned toward Hitler, waiting to see what he would do.
“Ach, Gerlich.” Hitler shook his head, like a weary father scolding a naughty child. “Barbaric, you say? Wars are necessarily barbaric. Make no mistake—we are engaged in a mighty battle with the Jews for our lives, for our souls, for our Fatherland! And Gerlich”—he almost smiled—“I suggest you make your exit quickly.”
Gerlich shot him a look of such open disgust that Gretchen wondered at his daring. Then he strode out of the restaurant, into the night. There was some muttering as he left and a few men started to follow him, but Hitler called out.
“Must I remind you that we have a far more dangerous enemy than Gerlich? And they are in our very midst, insinuating themselves into every crevice of our society, poisoning us from within.” He smacked his fist into his palm for emphasis.
“We are different from political parties!” Hitler shouted. “Can there be anything greater or more all-encompassing than our National Socialist beliefs?”
He was practically screaming now, his tone so high-pitched and frantic Gretchen could scarcely bear to listen to him. He had become a stranger. “National Socialism is the desire to create a new and better mankind!”
“Heil!” the crowd shouted, their arms extended in the National Socialist salute. Gretchen felt stares drilling into her back. Some of the men must be wondering why she hadn’t gotten to her feet yet. Hurriedly, she rose, whipping her arm out. The movement must have caught Hitler’s eye, for he glanced at her. Sweat streamed down his flushed face. She barely recognized him.
“My fellow Germans,” Hitler screamed, turning back to the crowd, “you know what you must do!”
“Heil! Heil!”
Hitler snatched his hat off the table, jammed it on his head, and strode from the room, his usual companions trailing after him. Slowly, Gretchen let her arm fall to her side.
Behind her, the room seemed to explode into sound. The men were shouting, clapping one another on the back, finishing off their steins and smacking them down on the table. “Death to the Jews!” several of them cried.
The men might begin pouring into the street in another instant, eager to begin another night of Jew hunting. Daniel. His friends in Isarvorstadt. She must get word to him, straightaway.
The crowd surged like an ocean wave toward the doors, and she let herself be pulled by its current, keeping her head down so no one would be tempted to call to her and offer to escort Hitler’s little pet home. As long as nobody noticed her, she could warn Daniel in time.
Once she reached the street, she raced to the nearest café, just a few buildings down the Schellingstrasse. There was a public telephone near the restrooms, in the back. She dialed the exchange for the communal phone in Daniel’s building. When a woman answered, Gretchen asked for Herr Cohen and waited anxiously until she heard his voice. “Hello?”
“Daniel, it’s Gretchen.”
“Gretchen! At last! Is it finally safe for us to meet?”
“Listen to me,” she said urgently. “I’ve just come from Osteria Bavaria, where Herr Hitler gave a speech. All of you in Isarvorstadt are in danger. He’s whipped up the crowd. There’s no telling what they might do tonight. The men were shouting ‘Death to the Jews’ when I left.” She took a quick breath. “Promise you won’t go out again tonight, Daniel. Tell your cousins, tell your friends, lock your doors and windows, don’t leave your homes. Please.”
Silence hovered over the line for an instant. In her mind, she begged for him to believe her. But she knew she wouldn’t blame him if he thought she was lying.
“All right, I’ll stay home. But I must ring off so I can start telephoning other buildings and send out the alarm.”
Relief made her sink onto a stool beside the telephone box. He had believed her. He trusted her. “And the police,” she said. “I’ll ring up the central station on Ettstrasse and warn them.”
“Gretchen, you know the police will do nothing.”
“But they must. They should—”
“Of course they should,” Daniel snapped. “But Munich is rapidly becoming one man’s city and they haven’t tried to stop him yet. I must ring off. And Gretchen”—his voice deepened, warming—“thank you.” He hung up.
Slowly, she replaced the receiver. She saw the truth now.
The man she had loved as a father was a fraud. He kissed the backs of her hands and advocated war; he ruffled her hair and preached death; he had played with her on the carpet with toy soldiers, and all along he had been planning the extinction of an entire people.
There would be no resettlement in the east. No carefully orchestrated exodus of Jews from Germany, no trains wending through the mountains, carrying Jews to another home in another country. There would be no peaceful expulsion. It was obvious now; Hitler had said it himself tonight. The internal purification of the Jewish spirit is not possible.
She understood. In Hitler’s Germany, the Jews would have no place at all.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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25
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, GRETCHEN PACED outside Herr Hoffmann’s photography shop on the Amalienstrasse, screwing up her courage to go inside. A fine autumn rain pattered softly on the sidewalk, but she barely felt the damp. Her reflection in the display windows followed her, superimposed on the bouquets and apples in bowls on the left, and the parade of pictures of Hitler on the right.
As Hitler’s personal photographer, Hoffmann maintained a huge cache of photos of his best client, and today, Uncle Dolf looked sternly at Gretchen from a large studio portrait, his usually untidy hair combed neatly against his skull, a formal black suit substituted for his favorite blue serge. Her pale face wavered over his images in the glass, mixing their features, and she jerked away.
Inside the shop was dim and cool. A camera apprentice waved her on, saying Eva was in the back with the boss. She followed the sound of voices down a corridor, into Herr Hoffmann’s office. He sat at his desk, talking with Eva and Uncle Dolf.
Panic seized her heart. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Back at the Braunes Haus this morning, Hanfstaengl had grumbled about Hitler wandering off to an art gallery just as an important industrialist was supposed to come by and discuss donating a sizable amount to their presidential campaign. So typical of Hitler, with his bohemian airs and total inability to follow a timetable, Hanfstaengl had muttered before dismissing her for luncheon, and she had rushed to the nearest public telephone exchange to ring the Munich Post.
But no one had answered—they must all be out, tracking down potential stories, and Daniel was fine, she had promised herself, even as nerves prickled her skin—and she had raced to catch the nearest streetcar. She would have to be quick, if she wanted to return before her luncheon break was over.
Not that Herr Hanfstaengl would probably notice. The Braunes Haus was run in such a slapdash fashion, she doubted anyone would take note if she disappeared for a two-hour lunch. As she had ridden the streetcar toward the Amalienstrasse, every muscle in her body cried go, go.
If only she knew what had happened to Daniel after they’d spoken last night. When she’d arrived at work this morning, none of the other employees had mentioned Jew hunting in Isarvorstadt, and asking the young adjutants in the visitors’ room had netted her blank look
s.
Just as Herr Hoffmann was looking at her now, a thin line of confusion marring his forehead. He and Hitler rose, bowing slightly.
“Ah, Fräulein Müller, what an unexpected pleasure,” Hoffmann said. His usual scent of alcohol washed over her, and red rimmed his pale eyes. She had always been surprised that Hitler tolerated Hoffmann’s drinking, but he had confided once that Hoffmann had been much cut up by his wife’s death and they really must make allowances for the poor fellow. A kind gesture, she had thought at the time, but now it reeked of hypocrisy.
“I apologize for interrupting,” she said.
“Not at all,” Hoffmann replied. “Herr Hitler and I were discussing our next campaign trip to Nuremberg. I have no doubt he’ll capture the presidency at the upcoming elections.”
Uncle Dolf nodded, sitting again. “I go the way that Providence dictates with the assurance of a sleepwalker,” he said. “All is coming to pass precisely as I intend.”
Eva beamed. Odd, as Eva didn’t care a pfennig for politics, but her cheeks had gone pink and her hands fussed with her skirt’s hem, a sure sign she was excited.
“Fräulein Müller, you must come around to the studio soon,” Hoffmann said. When he sat, she heard the sloshing of liquid in a flask, probably concealed beneath his suit jacket. “I would like to photograph you and Henny for more propaganda pictures—you know the sort we like, healthy, lovely young people.”
“I would be delighted.” She and Hoffmann’s daughter had served as models many times in the past, sometimes in Hoffmann’s studio, sometimes in the little garden behind his villa in the Bogenhausen suburb. Once they had flitted between the trees in the garden while Hoffmann ran a cine camera and Uncle Dolf and Hanfstaengl lay in the grass in their shirtsleeves, eating cake and watching them. “I wonder if I might borrow Eva for a few minutes? For luncheon,” she added, although she had no intention of eating.
“Of course!” Hoffmann became charming and expansive, making shooing motions with his hands at Eva. “All this talk of politics must be dull for Fräulein Braun! Go, and have a pleasant time.”
Prisoner of Night and Fog Page 17