A vendor stood in front of a cart, white apron smeared with mustard. A lone wurst rested in a steel pan of water that no longer looked hot. Trying not to think about how long the wurst had been floating there, I bought it with a roll and a dollop of mustard. I wolfed them down where I stood. It was not warm enough, but my stomach did not care. I had not eaten since my stolen breakfast. Stadelheim had robbed me of my appetite.
I mounted the stairs into the giant monstrosity of the Munich Hauptbahnhof. The brickwork and soot stains reminded me of the Borsig factory in Berlin: utilitarianism dressed up to look grand. An architect had worked hard on the building, but I would have traded the columns and arches for larger signs directing travelers where they needed to go.
I wandered about, trying to get my bearings. In the busy station people spoke in the soft Bavarian accent that Ernst Röhm and his mother had used. I missed the clipped tones of Berlin.
I hunted up the ticket counter and purchased a fare on the night train to Berlin from an agent with his hat pulled so low over his face that I would not have recognized him if he had been my own brother.
Even though I dreaded it, I called Frau Röhm. The maid answered.
“Hannah.” I did not want to use my last name on the telephone.
“I will fetch her.”
I scooted a cigarette butt out of the telephone booth with the toe of my shoe, thinking of Eicke smoking on the prison steps. How would I tell her? What if she wanted details?
“Röhm.” Her voice sounded old and tired.
“It is Hannah. It is with great regret—”
“Do not lie to me. Or give me stock phrases. You are a writer. You can do better.”
I blinked. Straight facts then. “Your son—”
“Dead?”
“Yes. He died bravely, I heard.”
“Of course he did.” Her voice broke, and the maid came back on the line.
“Is there more?” the maid asked.
I told her that I must go to Berlin to complete the paperwork for his body to be released for burial. I did not tell her that he had been shot multiple times. Nor by whom.
Then I ended the call and found the platform for my train. First to board, I lugged my suitcase down the narrow corridor to my compartment, muttering with each stab in my side. I longed to find Mouse and break his rib. He should feel the same pain he inflicted.
I slid the steel door open with the hand that held the wedding dress, the other still curled around the handle of my suitcase. I checked the door lock before I went in. Not strong enough to withstand a couple of good kicks. Even if the door were sturdy, the conductor had a master key. No security here.
Sighing, I entered and examined the window. It tilted in at a forty-five-degree angle. No going out there. Even too small to toss out my suitcase.
Stop it, I admonished myself. No one but the prison guard and Frau Röhm know you might be here. This is how the train compartment is set up, and you cannot change it. Relax and sleep. Who would be following you? No one knows that you are linked to Röhm. Except for everyone invited to the wedding.
I laid the wedding dress across the seat and stowed my suitcase. It would not be a full train. A few mothers with children and a couple of businessmen milled about on the platform. No one seemed out of the ordinary, and I did not see a single Nazi uniform—neither the brown shirts of the SA, nor the black ones of the SS.
A businessman in a pin-striped suit kissed a young woman good-bye, hands buried in her luxuriant long hair. I imagined it was Boris seeing me off on a short trip, regretful but secure in the knowledge that we would be reunited soon. A simple pleasure, perhaps, but one that we had always been denied. After the couple separated, she touched his cheek once. Her lips mouthed a farewell. He kissed the top of her head and climbed onto the train.
The platform contained only those left behind, waving. I suppressed an urge to wave back. But of course I had no one to wave to. I was alone.
“All aboard!” The conductor slammed his door. With a lurch and a whistle, the train started. We trundled out of the station and through the yard. Soon we picked up speed. The buildings of Munich streamed by my window.
Two thumps startled me. “Tickets!” A deep voice rumbled through the door.
I unlocked the door and opened it to reveal a round conductor with a walrus moustache brandishing a ticket punch. I handed him my ticket. “The attendant will be around in ten minutes to unfold the bed. Make yourself comfortable.”
I could not imagine what comfortable felt like anymore, so I sat with my hands folded in my lap and dozed.
The soft knock of the attendant woke me. I let him in. He wore a dark uniform and a different cap from the conductor. “Fräulein.” He touched his cap. “I’m here about your bed.”
He gestured with his silver master key. “Top or bottom?”
“Bottom.” Easier to get out of in a hurry.
I stepped aside as he snicked his key into the silver slot. He folded my bed out of the wall, one hand under it as if he could stop it if it fell down too far. His efficient hands pulled the sheet and blanket free on the top corner and folded them back in a triangle. He smoothed his hand once over the bedding, straightening it. His actions reminded me of how the steward prepared our beds on the zeppelin. Only days ago I had slept on a bottom bunk, with Anton on the top as Indian lookout, complete with a bow and arrow we had fashioned in South America. I had put my foot down about putting curare on the arrow tips, although he had put up a spirited argument in favor of complete authenticity.
I locked my door and positioned my suitcase across the threshold. It would not slow anyone down much, but sometimes a second can make a difference. I slipped into a nightdress.
Where did Anton sleep tonight? Safe with a friend of Frau Röhm’s? Or had the Nazis killed him to eliminate evidence that Röhm was not the moral degenerate they claimed? I forced my thoughts away from such morbid possibilities. Frau Röhm knew where he was, and he was safe. I only had to fulfill the terms of our agreement, and she would give him back. An old woman did not need the care and bother of a young boy she would not live long enough to see grow into a man.
I had to believe that. In the last three years Anton had become a part of me. Keeping him safe was more than a duty. Watching him grow up unfettered by the violence and anger that my brother had endured was a pleasure. His wonderful sense of humor and steadfast belief in right and wrong reminded me of my own as a child, values far too easy to lose track of on the journey to adulthood. I had never regretted my decision to walk away from my life to keep him safe, and I would sacrifice everything to get him back. The Nazis would not turn him into a mindless drone of the state while I still lived and breathed.
After the lights of Munich gave way to the darkness of the countryside, I carried his passport, the one that said Anton Röhm, into the bathroom. It was a death sentence. I cut out the picture with nail scissors. I might need it later. The rest I cut into tiny bits and slowly fed down the toilet and onto the tracks below. When I finished, the pieces were scattered over miles of Bavarian countryside.
I tucked the picture into my satchel, trying not to think that it might be the last one of Anton I might see. I climbed into the bottom bunk. Unable to sleep, I mulled over which identity papers to use in Berlin. Hannah Vogel; Frau Röhm knew her, and that identity was already linked to Röhm. I thought of the Swiss passport and ticket in my suitcase. Our Swiss identities as Adelheid and Anton Zinsli were compromised. Someone had informed Röhm that we traveled on the zeppelin. That was why he diverted it. I ran through the list of passengers and crewmen in my head. Who had it been? I came up with no answers, but decided to leave that identity in my suitcase. It might be useful to have in case Hannah Vogel got into trouble. Hannah Vogel was quite proficient at that.
The clack of the train and rocking of the car were hypnotic. The stress of the last day caught up to me, and when full darkness came around midnight, I sank into a troubled sleep, jerking awake often. When I g
ave up and rose, we were pulling through the flat outskirts of Berlin, sunrise gold on the horizon. The sun rose a little before five at this time of year. In South America, we lived near the equator and the days were almost the same length in summer and winter. I had missed Berlin’s late summer nights, when twilight lingered until well after ten o’clock.
As dangerous as I knew the city was these days, my heart lightened. Even if the Nazis ruled from here, they never captured the majority of votes. Munich was the cradle of National Socialism, Berlin only accidentally its home because the capital was here. This city was where my friends lived, where I spent many happy years. I could not wait to walk the cobbled streets, hear the sarcastic jokes, drink the wonderful beer, and feel at home. I knew the people. I knew the places. After years on the run, I was home, even if only for a little while.
I washed and dressed quickly, eager to arrive at the station.
I packed everything into my suitcase and draped the wedding dress over my arm. I stood in front of the door as we pulled into Anhalter Bahnhof station. When we stopped, I pulled open the door and jumped to the platform, not waiting for the conductor to come along with his wooden steps.
Trains from all over Europe arrived around me, steam puffing into the sky. I inhaled the Berlin air, ignoring my rib. Nothing smelled like that air in all the world. The scent of cinders, manure, and automobile exhaust mingled with a thousand ladies’ perfumes. Home. I had not realized how much I missed it, how out of place I felt everywhere else. For better or worse, this was where I belonged. Yet I knew I would have to leave it soon.
Still, my heart was light and I barely noticed the pain in my side as I tramped out to catch the subway. I had hours before the city offices opened, and I knew a place in Berlin where I would be taken in, fed, and helped to get well. A place, and a person, that made me feel safe waited.
10
I walked down the brick path, admiring the manicured lawn and the roses blooming by the front door. A red bush on the left, a white one on the right, like Rose-Red and Snow-White from the Grimm’s fairy tale. At least the roses loved this heat.
Their scent hung on the still morning air. Whoever had chosen them had taken fragrance into account. I smiled and rang the doorbell. It was answered promptly, as it always would be, even so early.
“Are you selling something?” The woman at the door tilted her head back to peer down her nose at me. She stared at the wedding dress in my hand. “We have no interest.”
She pushed the heavy door, but I maneuvered my suitcase between the door and the jamb.
“Why, Frau Inge. It is I. Fräulein Hannah. I am certain that Herr Krause will see me.”
“I do not remember any Fräulein Hannah.” It was plain from the way she pursed her lips when I said my name that she did. “And I cannot disturb Herr Krause at this time of day.”
“Who is at the door?” A warm thrill ran through me at the sound of Boris’s deep voice.
Frau Inge turned, no longer blocking my view. Boris walked into the front hall carrying a piece of toast. His dark hair made a nice contrast with his half-open white shirt. My breath caught in my throat. He was every bit as gorgeous as he had been six months ago, when we shared a week in London.
“Boris!” I pushed past Frau Inge into the foyer. I set my suitcase on the marble floor and let the wedding dress fall. I grinned at him. Emotional tears welled up in the corners of my eyes and I did not even care that I felt like a schoolgirl.
“Hannah?” He dropped his toast and crossed the hall in two quick steps. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Frau Inge watch the toast hit the marble. “You are full of surprises!”
When he swept me into his arms, I cried out.
“What have you done to yourself?” He set me down gently. “Where is Anton?”
“I . . .” My voice trailed off, and I stared at him. His citrus-and-cedar scent enveloped me. I leaned into him. Everything would be fine.
Frau Inge stood by the open door, one hand resting on the door handle, as if ready to close it with me on the outside.
He looked at the silk dress pooled on the floor. “Is this a proposal?” He gave me an amused smile, and ran one hand through his thick brown hair. “I haven’t a thing to wear.”
I laughed, wincing at the pain in my side. “Perhaps I carry it as a hint.”
“I have other questions for you,” he said in a worried tone. He paused, looking at Frau Inge. “Frau Inge. Please take Fräulein Hannah’s bag and dress to my bedroom.”
She slammed the front door. She yanked my suitcase up with one hand and the dress with the other and stormed up the stairs. A few seconds later a crash echoed from the bedroom—the sound of my suitcase hitting the floor. Lucky I had nothing fragile in it.
His arms cupping my shoulders, Boris leaned down and kissed me. I slid my arms up his back and fit my body against his. A low moan escaped from deep in my throat. I wanted him right there on the marble floor.
He pulled back.
“She’s right upstairs.” His voice was husky.
I nodded, trying to catch my breath.
He led me to the kitchen and set me down at the table. It was littered with papers. Typical Boris, up early to work. He poured a cup of coffee and handed me the remains of an omelette, his own breakfast.
“I cannot eat your breakfast—”
“Of course you can. I’ll have Frau Inge make me another.”
“Good. She would poison mine.” She had always treated me with disdain. Perhaps she hated me personally, or perhaps she hated anyone who upset her routine.
“That’s my Hannah.” He smiled. “Eat something, then tell me why you’re here. And where is Anton? You’re supposed to be in Switzerland.”
“I could not keep away.” I stared at him, so solid and real, drinking coffee in his sunny kitchen. My eyes lingered on the honey-brown skin at his hands and throat. He had been spending time on his sailboat.
“Eat. You’ll want to keep your strength up.” He tidied the papers into a folder.
I ate. She was a fine cook; I had to give her that, even as she stomped around upstairs, venting her displeasure. I savored the flavor of chives and cheese in the warm omelette.
“So why are you really here? It’s not safe.”
“The zeppelin was diverted to Friedrichshafen.”
“Röhm?” He sipped his coffee.
“How is Trudi?” I could not tell him much with Frau Inge about to barge in.
He laughed. “Changing the subject?”
“And I want to know how Trudi is.”
“Married to a Nazi officer.”
I choked on the omelette. Trudi, his daughter, was only seventeen. “A Nazi?”
He fidgeted with the cream pitcher. The skin under his brown-gold eyes tightened. It always did when he suppressed his feelings. “They eloped two weeks ago. Apparently Frau Inge suspected something, but I had no idea. Trudi never brought him home to meet me. Doubtless she knew I would not want her to marry a Nazi.”
I should congratulate him on his daughter’s marriage, but neither of us approved of the groom’s politics. “Is she happy?” I asked instead, washing down the omelette with strong coffee.
He shrugged. “So far. He’s a strapping man. Handsome and charming. She thinks it’s true love.”
“That should last at least six months.”
“Such confidence in the power of true love.”
He reached over and stroked his fingertips along my cheek. My breath caught again. What I felt had less to do with true love and more to do with physical need, the same as the grown-up Trudi. Boris’s full lips curved upward in one of his slow sexy smiles. “I’ll give Frau Inge the day off.”
I finished his breakfast, trying not to imagine the expression on her face when he sent her home. Somehow, I did not think she would be thrilled to have a holiday.
He returned, looking peeved.
“Is Frau Inge on her way?” Before he replied, a slam from the front door gave me my a
nswer.
He led me up the marble staircase to the second floor.
His bedroom was as I remembered it. Morning light shone through an open casement window. His blue quilt sat square on the bed. The only thing out of place was my suitcase, on its side near the end of the bed, and the wedding dress hanging, not in the wardrobe, but on the back of the bedroom door, a calculated bit of insolence from Frau Inge. Other than that it was as if time had stopped in this room.
What if I had stayed here, eating Frau Inge’s food and sharing Boris’s bed, instead of kidnapping Anton and spending three years on the run, among strangers? Once I had Anton again, I could stay here still, perhaps. But what if I did not find him?
“What’s wrong?” Boris stood in front of me, smelling of starch and cologne and himself. “We can go back downstairs if you’re not ready. You can tell me what’s going on. And where Anton is.”
I shook my head. I did not want to talk about it, not yet. I wanted to forget everything but our bodies and this room, if only for a while. That would give me strength to do what must be done.
I pulled his face down to mine and kissed those full lips I had dreamt of. He tasted of coffee and sugar. He wrapped his arms around me, and I groaned in pain.
He released me at once.
“Cracked rib. Left side.”
An annoyed expression crossed his face, but before he could say anything I stood on tiptoes and kissed him hard.
I undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled him close. I had no interest in talking. I longed to feel his skin against mine.
While he unbuttoned my dress I traced the muscles of his back, already damp with sweat.
He slid his hands down my body, and I shuddered.
He lowered us onto the bed, careful to keep his weight off my ribs. He drew back his head and looked at me, brown eyes dark. “I’ve missed you.”
A Night of Long Knives (Hannah Vogel) Page 9