A sumptuous hall led to his room. I tried not to be intimidated by the gorgeous rugs and elaborate sconces. It was just a hotel.
He unlocked his room with a giant metal key. Inside the room the ceiling practically disappeared overhead. A massive walnut bed with an elaborate headboard and a Battenberg lace coverlet looked like a handkerchief in the huge space. The desk alone cost more than all the furniture I had ever owned. The smell of beeswax furniture polish hung in the air.
“Not quite up to my standards,” I said. “But I suppose it will do to type a story.”
He looked around as if seeing the room for the first time. “It’s a nice little room.”
“Indeed.”
He pulled a battered black Remington typewriter out of the wardrobe, where it had rested on the floor next to a pair of polished black dancing shoes. He set it on the desk, careful not to damage the finish.
“A portable?” I ran my fingers over the gracefully arched keys. “You actually lug that back and forth?”
“Perils of journalism. Makes me wish I had a valet.”
He rolled in a sheet of paper and opened a tiny white box with a new ribbon. “I like it crisp.” He changed the ribbon. “I have my standards.”
I smiled as he pulled out his desk chair for me and bowed. Certainly a more pleasant place to write than the bullpen at the Berliner Tageblatt, but part of me missed the energy and the collegiality.
I stared at the blank page, gathering my thoughts. I pushed down on a round white key. It clacked against the paper, the action smooth and well-oiled. Easy typing. I made my first mistake and groaned.
“British key layout. Harder to type stories in German. So I grant you some mistakes. I’ll clean it up later.” He stared out his window at the street below. “Just get it down.”
“Is anyone out there?”
“Should there be?”
“Not on my account. Not as far as I know.”
“There is a man pacing across the street. He doesn’t look like a Nazi. More like a businessman waiting for a rendezvous.”
“Those naughty businessmen.”
“Just type.” He sat on a leather club chair and picked a newspaper off a giant stack. He was the only person I knew who read more newspapers every day than I.
I typed a full account of Röhm’s arrest, the events at the Hanselbauer, and what I had seen at Stadelheim. Sefton read each page as I pulled it out of the typewriter. Occasionally he whistled, but he said not a word until I finished.
I slid my chair back, and he handed me a glass of water. I downed the water, then rotated my wrists around, tired.
“How do you know what Hitler said in Röhm’s room?”
“Off the record?”
He nodded.
I hesitated. But I had trusted him this far, and he needed to know that the story was true. “I was in the bathroom, peeking out the door.”
He froze, mouth open. I had never seen him look so comically surprised before. He needed a full minute to regain his composure. “What were you doing in Röhm’s bathroom?”
“Taking notes.” He was getting no more than that.
He chuckled and shook his head. “I see.”
He stared at the page in his lap, then lit a fire in the grate and dropped the paper in. I snatched it out of the flames.
“Are you insane?” I blew out the fire. Ashes fell on the rug.
“I can’t smuggle so many pages across the border. They’d be found.”
I clutched the singed paper. “So, you memorized them? Stored them in that wine-soaked brain of yours?”
His gaze flicked to the typewriter. Next to it sat the tiny white box that had contained the new ribbon.
I looked at the box too, and smiled. “You old fox. Every character that I typed is on the ribbon. You carry out the typewriter with the ribbon in it. The story is all there.”
“I must type my poor fingers to the bone transcribing it,” he said in a mock-injured voice.
“That is my top story. Make no mistakes.”
“I won’t,” he promised. “It’s more dangerous than I thought. Like you.”
“You confuse dangerous with being in danger.”
“Sometimes.” He dropped a sheet into the fireplace. “It’s the same damn thing.”
I crumpled a sheet and fed it to the flames.
“What about the women you met today? If it’s a one-night stand, I want to get all I can.”
“Such a gentleman.”
He gestured to the typewriter. I leaned back, and my spine cracked. He called for tea from room service.
I used only the women’s initials, but I typed up a full accounting of my morning. “You must shape it into a story. Or turn it over to your friends in intelligence.”
“I have no friends in intelligence. Don’t spread such rumors.”
“You may have no friends with intelligence. But your being in intelligence is not a rumor.”
“Did that come from Röhm?” He tapped his pipe against the grate.
I stopped typing, surprised. “You and Röhm were close?”
He shifted his eyes to the side.
“I showed you mine. You show me yours.”
“We met,” he said after a pause. “At various events. He once took me to that bar he fancied. The one with the transvestites and those Chinese gongs.”
“El Dorado.”
“That’s the one. Anyway, he would try to get me sloshed and then plead for me to carry messages to the British government.”
“And did you?”
“I told him that I didn’t have that kind of influence.”
“Did he believe you any more than I do?”
He shook his head. “Answer from the government was that we only deal with Hitler, and then only through the embassy. Shame, really. I think Röhm would have been more sane than Hitler. He wasn’t as enamored with killing. Loved war, though. Liked the idea of soldiers fighting soldiers. Hitler’s more enamored with soldiers killing civilians, I fancy.”
“What is the take on this purge, overseas?”
“People say now that they are eating each other, it won’t be long before the Nazis are out of power.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “This was a power consolidation. And a warning to his opponents. This is not over.”
“A man who will kill his best friend will do anything.”
Someone rapped on the door. I jumped. It reminded me of another hotel, another rap on the door.
Sefton carried the typewriter back to his wardrobe and set it next to his shoes with the current page still in it. He closed the wardrobe door while I tidied up the paper and ribbon box. When all traces of our activities were hidden, he opened the door to a white-jacketed waiter pushing a tea tray with a silver tea set and lovely china cups.
The waiter stared at the ashes, surprised to see anyone lighting a fire during the hottest summer month in Berlin in years. Sefton smiled, not bothering to explain, gave him a lavish tip, and ushered him out the door.
Light reflected off the silver surface as Sefton poured. “Why’d you look so dodgy when the waiter knocked?”
I picked up my cup with a hand that still trembled. “They came into Röhm’s room that way. He expected room service with his breakfast.” I sipped tea to steady myself. “But it was Hitler.”
He eyed me over his teacup. “You were in Röhm’s room, about to have breakfast?”
“You are not getting that story.” The information I had given him so far could have come from the SS twins, or Hitler himself, but what happened in the room before they arrived could have only come from me.
I finished my tea and typed up the stories of the women at Lichterfelde. He burned each page after he read it. The smell of burnt paper filled the room.
“What about your notes? Shouldn’t you burn those?”
“Not till I get word from you that the information is safely out.”
“It’s a huge risk, Hannah.” His voice was deep and uncharacteris
tically serious.
I eyed his innocent-looking typewriter. “A risk we both run.”
Together we crushed the ashes with the fireplace poker and shovel.
The rays of the setting sun slanted through the window, and I realized with a start how late it must be, almost ten. Boris might be worried. I was unused to anyone worrying about me.
“I must get home.” I packed my notebook into my satchel.
“Where is home?”
I smiled. “Home is where they must take you in.”
“I was thinking of a physical address. Where I could reach you.”
“I will contact you. Care of the Hotel Adlon.”
He embraced me, holding tight. I winced and he loosened his grip, but he did not let go. “Be careful, Hannah.”
I looked up into his worried eyes. “You too Sefton. Trouble for you is trouble for me.”
“You always seem to be in more trouble than I.”
I stepped away and turned to go. No point in arguing with him when he was correct.
13
Sefton opened the door, and I stepped into the empty hall. The tea things tinkled as he wheeled the tea cart out behind me. Not wanting to face the elevator operator after Sefton’s talk of one-night stands, I crept down the stairs to the lobby, each step jarring my rib.
By the row of wooden telephone booths on my way to the front door, I thought of Frau Röhm. I had not contacted her yet today. Even though it was late, I pushed open a door and stepped inside. It closed behind me, offering a feeling of privacy. Unlike public telephone booths, those at the Adlon smelled of beeswax wood polish, just like the rooms.
I fumbled through my satchel and pulled out the scrawled paper the maid had given me. I gave the number to the operator and she connected me.
The telephone rang in that closed-in house in Munich. I imagined the dogs looking at it curiously, then barking and waking the neighbors.
The telephone rang and rang. Frau Röhm, as I knew from embarrassing experience, was a light sleeper, so she would hear it even if she slept. How long would it take her to come down the stairs to answer? Terribly late to be calling. What would my mother have said?
“Röhm.” The maid’s voice was heavy with sleep.
So she slept there? Odd. She had not the night I broke in to search for Anton, but perhaps Frau Röhm gave her the night off, just as she sent away the dogs. “Hannah. I must speak to Frau Röhm.”
“She is not taking calls.” In faraway Munich, the maid yawned into the telephone.
“It is urgent.”
“She instructed me that she is taking no calls, no matter how urgent.” Her voice was firm. She followed orders.
“Please take down a message.” I gave a brief account of my meeting at Lichterfelde and my appointment on the following day to finish filing the paperwork, then hung up and stepped out of the gleaming glass door. I still had not told her that the prison burned Röhm’s body.
I hurried to the subway. Even so late, it felt humid and sticky inside the cars. I forced open a window, grateful for the breeze. The hot car reminded me of the zeppelin. After living so long in South America, Anton loved hot weather and could tolerate extreme heat far better than I.
I rode the rest of the way to Boris’s trying not to think of Anton sleeping in the stifling heat, alone. Instead I wondered if I had done the right thing in giving Sefton the women’s stories. We were both in danger, and who knew if it would help to bring down the Nazis? I resolved not to involve anyone else in our information-gathering scheme. I wanted no more blood on my hands than absolutely necessary.
I walked the last few blocks. The yellow glow of the streetlamps did not reach the sides of the grand houses. In a sumptuous neighborhood such as this, I would not ordinarily be afraid, but tonight every shadow seemed to hide an SS informer. Like everyone else in Germany these days, I had something to hide.
I hurried between Boris’s pillars and up the stone path. Lights burned in his bedroom and in the kitchen. I smiled. How wonderful to have a home to come back to, especially after a day like today.
The stories of the women who had lost their men in the purge almost overwhelmed me, but being here protected me, let me stop worrying for a night about whether Sefton could get the stories out, or if the SS would come for me. I could sit in the parlor and drink wine and ask Boris about his day at the bank like a proper housewife with nothing to worry about.
Soon I would trade Röhm’s body for Anton, and we could leave Germany under our own names. Perhaps Boris might be persuaded to go with us now that Trudi was married and on her own. How would we fare as a normal couple, able to spend days and weeks and months together? It sounded heavenly, but since I left my parents’ house I had lived with no one but my brother and Anton. Perhaps we would tire of each other. Thinking of this morning, I smiled. I certainly would not mind spending so much time in Boris’s bed that it became routine.
Grateful that Frau Inge must be long gone, and I would not face her hostility, I unlocked the front door. Finding the kitchen empty, I climbed the stairs to the bedroom. The door was closed.
I swung it open, but instead of Boris lying in bed, Frau Inge stood in front of the long mirror. She wore my wedding dress and her hair was loose around her shoulders. The dress, I noted, fit her perfectly. For the first time, I saw a beautiful, flirtatious girl in her. She must have been quite attractive when she was younger and more carefree.
Her eyes met my reflection, and we stared at each other, both shocked into silence. I dropped my satchel. The Luger inside clunked against the wood floor.
“I . . .” Her voice trailed off. That was a shame. I would have loved watching her try to explain.
“I believe you are wearing my dress.” My voice dripped ice. Even then I saw the ridiculousness of the situation. It was not my dress. It belonged to Frau Röhm. And I had hoped never to wear it. I should not care if Frau Inge tried it on. But I did.
“Pardon me.” She sounded uncontrite.
“I would appreciate it if you would leave my things alone.”
“As you wish.”
Her fingers fumbled with the long row of covered buttons that ran down the back. How long had she needed to do them up on her own? I let her struggle for a full minute.
“For heaven’s sake.” I finally crossed the room to undo them myself. She stood still. I pulled a long sleeve off her thin arm.
“Herr Krause is not with you?”
I shook my head.
“He has not been home since this morning. His dinner is warming on the stove,” she said.
That explained what she was doing here so late.
“Thank you.” I gave the appropriate response through gritted teeth. Where was he? Worry coursed through me, but I turned my mind from it. He was a grown man who could take care of himself. He worked in a bank. What could happen there?
She stepped out of the dress and handed it to me, fingers caressing the silk one final time. “It is lovely. I am certain that you and Herr Krause will be as happy as two maggots in bacon.” I stifled a smile at the old expression. Trust Frau Inge to make happiness sound so unappealing.
“Will we?” I folded the dress over my arm, conscious of its weight.
She smoothed her slip and crossed the room to gather up her dress. “After your marriage.”
“I see.” He had never indicated that he expected marriage, but she must have drawn her own conclusions from the wedding dress.
“Herr Krause would make a fine husband, if he wanted to.”
“Indeed.”
“Kind and caring.” She slid her dress over her head. Her voice was muffled. “And faithful.”
She looked so triumphant as she spoke that I was confused. “He is all those things.”
“Is he?” She stepped into her shoes and rolled her luxuriant hair into a bun, transforming back into a no-nonsense housekeeper.
The front door creaked open, and Boris’s familiar steps entered the hall. Why was he home so late?
It was almost eleven.
“I will not tell him that you were wearing my dress.” I pitied her.
“You think you need to keep my secrets?” She turned and hurried down the marble stairs. I hung up the wedding dress and followed more slowly.
She was heaping boiled potatoes on his plate when I walked into the dining room. His face was flushed under his mussed hair. Had something happened? Perhaps to Trudi?
“The meat is drier than it should be,” Frau Inge said. “It’s been warming for hours.”
“I am certain it will do nicely,” he said, “and you well know that you did not need to wait.”
“I see.” She took in his rebuke without further comment. She looked at me as if to ask if I too wanted dinner, but instead clamped her mouth closed.
“Long day?” I dropped my hands to his tense shoulders. He jerked away.
“No longer than yours.” He chewed his potatoes tiredly.
He turned to where Frau Inge stood in the doorway to the dining room, the pan that had held the potatoes gripped in her hand as if she was ready to brain me with it. “You may go home for the day, Frau Inge. We will clear.”
She nodded once and headed through the door to the front hall.
“When will you get Anton back?”
I sighed. “I filed the paperwork today, but it may take a few weeks. I tried to talk to Frau Röhm about it, but she is not taking calls.”
Muffled thumps told me that Frau Inge was still in the kitchen, probably putting away the pan. A moment later the front door closed quietly.
“At least she did not slam it,” I said with a smile. “Such progress.”
He set his fork down on the china plate with a chink and folded his arms across his chest.
“Did something happen to you today, Boris?”
“Did something happen to you?” A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“I am more concerned about you.” I did not wish to talk about Sefton and the danger I had put myself in. “You seem—”
“No distractions,” he snapped. He had never used such a tone with me before. “Tell me about the rest of your day.”
I paused, shocked. “It was—”
“Why don’t you tell me the highlights? Shall we pretend we’re a normal couple? What did you do for dinner?” He spat out the word dinner and thrust his own nearly full plate away.
A Night of Long Knives (Hannah Vogel) Page 12