A Night of Long Knives (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  Anton was close. I hurried to the yellow door. My heart raced. Perhaps I could sneak him out before Mouse saw me. I did not want to use the gun. I had never shot anyone, and I dreaded to think how I could get past the men in the bar if I had just shot one of their own.

  I turned the warm knob. The door held fast, then finally broke loose with a crack. When I pulled it open all the way, the smell of urine spilled into the warm bar. Grime rounded the corners of the empty stairs. The only door was at the top. No way out except back through the bar or forward into the apartment. If anyone followed me in, I had nowhere to run. But at least I could not be grabbed from the sides.

  I stepped through, leaving the door to the bar open in case I came back in a hurry. The railing stuck to my hand. I peeled my hand off, gritted my teeth, and wiped my palm on my dress. I mounted uneven stairs. The farther I climbed, the darker it became. If there was a light at the top, it was off. The satchel banged against my hip.

  Without taking the Luger out, I flipped off the safety before knocking. Mouse was fast. I dared not give him a second to react. But could I shoot him, in cold blood, in front of his child, and mine?

  No answer from inside.

  I pounded on the door. It opened as far as the chain would allow. Gray light filtered through the crack. One bloodshot eye watched me.

  “Bar’s downstairs,” a woman rasped, voice ruined by cigarettes and alcohol. “Piss room in the back.”

  “I am not here for that—”

  “You can’t use the room up here for customers. Nor the stairs.” She started to close the door.

  “I am alone.” I stepped aside so that she could see past me down the empty stairs to the sallow light of the bar.

  I cast about in my head for a story, something that would make her open that door.

  “I need a place to stay for a few hours. There is a man out there. And I cannot go back out the front door until he leaves or passes out.” As Mouse’s girl, she must know plenty about angry drunkards.

  “This ain’t no hotel.” Her rough voice contained no sympathy.

  “I can pay. Gold.” I pulled a five-franc coin out of my satchel with my left hand, my right never leaving the gun. “Just a floor to stretch out on until morning.”

  I moved the coin toward the crack. Her hand snaked out and grabbed it. Her face disappeared from the door. Was she examining the coin, or was that the last I would see of her?

  Her eye reappeared. “Let me see both your hands. And turn around.”

  I lifted both hands over my head. Then I turned in a circle. Where was Mouse? Was he standing behind her? He might hear my voice, and be ready for me.

  The woman closed the door. The chain rattled, then tapped against the doorframe.

  “Come in, but quick.” She opened the door wide enough for me to fit sideways. If Mouse was on the other side and recognized me, I would have no chance to respond. But if Anton was there, I had to risk it. I slipped through the opening.

  No one else was in the filthy room. I let out a breath I had not realized I held. With my first breath, I drew in the stench of urine, excrement, and spoiled milk. I breathed through my mouth and tried not to think of Anton living in this room.

  I strained my ears for the slightest sound. The apartment was silent. As near as I could tell, we were alone. My heart sank. I would have to check each room. I counted three: the one I stood in, and whatever was behind the two doors set into the far wall. I guessed that one led to a kitchen, the other to a bedroom.

  I slid my hand into my satchel, feeling the pistol, keeping it close in case I needed it.

  “You want food or tea, it’s extra.” She gestured toward the doors. One hung askew on its hinges, the other partially open.

  I followed her. “I can pay extra for tea.” Anything to see one more room.

  She kicked open the door, and I followed her into the dirtiest kitchen I had ever seen. Grime and grease coated every surface. I wished I had not asked for tea. I would not consume anything prepared in this room. Who knew what foul diseases lurked here? Had Anton been taking his meals in this room? Be grateful that he ate at all, I chided myself.

  I cast about for a conversation opener. A slingshot rested on the windowsill. Her son’s? “What is the slingshot for?”

  She looked at it and scowled. “Boy likes to shoot cats with it. Or pigeons. For dinner.”

  I wondered if only the pigeons were for dinner, or also the cats, but I did not ask. I did not want to know the answer. I had to get to that last room.

  “You have a bedroom? I will pay extra for that. One with a door.”

  She turned on a faucet. Rust-colored water bled into a teakettle. She carried it to the stove, but found no match. I smelled gas before she gave up and turned the stove off. “No matches. No tea.”

  “I can manage,” I said, relieved. I stood in the center of the kitchen, clutching my satchel, unwilling to sit down.

  “Sit.” She pointed to a wooden chair textured with something I charitably hoped was oatmeal. I forced myself not to wipe off the chair before I sat. That was no way to be friendly.

  I extended a hand and continued lying. “My name is Maria.” I almost smiled. Maria was an old enemy from the newspaper.

  She shook it. “Claire. Like the saint.”

  “What a lovely name,” I said, on cue.

  She smiled. She had been a beauty in her youth, but now she had only one upper tooth, a handful in her lower jaw. Bad dental hygiene, or Mouse? She sat in a chair next to me. Her threadbare housecoat slipped up, revealing a thigh as white as a haddock, and smudged with bruises. When she caught me looking, she pulled the housecoat down.

  “About that bedroom?” I wanted only to view the last room, find Anton, and leave without having to draw my gun. I held up a coin between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Might as well. But first I need to roust the boy from his nap.” My heart raced. Her boy, or mine?

  I peeled myself off the chair and stood. Frau Inge would have fainted dead away at the housekeeping standards.

  “Manny!” she screeched. “Company.”

  A small boy with her curly hair appeared at the kitchen door before she finished yelling. Even though supposedly straight from a nap, he was dressed in short trousers, a dirty vest, and shoes.

  “I’m here, Mum.” Even with his head bowed I saw his black eye. More evidence of Mouse? Or his mother? Had they hurt Anton too? I clenched my jaw. If they had, they would regret it.

  “Show the nice lady the bedroom.”

  Manny turned and headed toward the bedroom. Red welts on the backs of his legs showed where he had been beaten with a switch. The state of his family made it easier to contemplate shooting Mouse.

  I followed Manny, hating to turn my back on Claire, but seeing no alternative. I did not hear her follow, but did not turn to look. I was more worried about finding Mouse ahead of me than her behind.

  The door was ajar, and Manny kicked it open all the way, just as his mother had kicked open the one in the kitchen. I guessed that was how they moved between rooms here. Thinking of the chair, I did not blame them for not wanting to touch the doors.

  I reached behind him to turn on the light. He blinked.

  Mouse was not there. Nor was Anton. I staggered back against the dented doorframe. It could not be. But it was. Anton was gone. If he had ever been here.

  A brown SA uniform shirt hung over the door. Without moving my head I recognized Mouse’s vinegar sweat smell. Anton had been here.

  I drew my pocket watch out of my satchel. My hands trembled so much that it was hard to read the time. Almost five o’clock. Four hours until the ransom. Far too early for Mouse to go to Britz Mill. Where was he?

  Manny stared at me curiously. “Whatcha got there?”

  “A watch.” My mind worked furiously on a good lie that would elicit information about Anton. “I bought it from Buffalo Bill Cody.”

  “I had a friend who talked about Buffalo Will.” He scratched his neck
. He probably had lice, as Anton had the night I met him. A line of bruises encircled his pale wrist.

  “What was your friend’s name?” My heart pounded.

  “Anton. French, like my mum’s name.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “They left a little while ago.” He looked back at my watch.

  “Where did they go?” In my mind, I begged Claire to stay away one more minute.

  “Don’t know. Don’t matter anyway. I won’t see him no more.”

  “Why not?” My heart lurched.

  “Papi’s going to sell him. Just as well. He was trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Tried to run away. Papi had to handcuff us together.” He held up his bruised wrist. “But before he did, he beat me. Said he couldn’t beat Anton. Told Anton he’d beat me again every time he tried something.”

  I swallowed. Anton would have been hobbled by his sense of honor, even assuming he could have gotten free of the handcuffs. What else had he been through in the past days? Damn Mouse.

  “But it’ll turn out fine. The rich lady will pay a lot for him.”

  Frau Röhm must look like a rich woman to Mouse; I probably did as well. “Do you know her name?”

  He shook his head. He lifted his chin to scratch his throat, exposing two rings of gray grime in the folds of his neck. “But we’ll get a pile of money.”

  “How will you spend it?” I hurried out of the bedroom. I must get to the ransom location.

  “Papi says he’ll buy me a pony.” He followed. “And we’re going to leave this place and move someplace where there’s grass everywhere to feed one.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” I was halfway to the front door.

  He slapped greasy hair out of his eyes. “At least that’s what he says. He don’t always keep his word, but Anton said that part of being a man is always keeping your word.”

  Anton believed in honesty and honor. And he knew that I would hold to my word to keep him safe, or die trying. Manny had no one to trust. I stopped and handed him a gold coin. “Use it to buy sugar for the pony. Or something for yourself.”

  He slid it in his vest pocket before Claire stepped out of the kitchen.

  “I must go.” I thrust coins into her palm and bolted down the stairs. I shot through the bar. Out on the street I ran without stopping until I sat on a streetcar, speeding south toward Britz Mill.

  Mouse had left early. I had no time to beat him there and make sure that he could not double-cross me.

  18

  When I had traveled far enough to hail a taxi, I traded the streetcar for one.

  “Where to?” The driver’s dark hair was shaved almost to his scalp, and bristles stuck up like a pig’s. Round piggy eyes added to the effect.

  “Britz Mill.”

  “The windmill?”

  I nodded. He did not ask why I wanted to go to an empty windmill after business hours. Not a curious sort. I hoped that he stayed that way.

  Bending forward so that he could not see, I pulled the Luger out of my satchel, to feel it in my hands. If I had to tangle with Mouse, I would want to incapacitate him from as far away as possible. Pistols were inaccurate at great distances, but it would have to do. I closed my eyes and pictured the anguished expression Anton must have worn while Mouse beat Manny in his stead. He would be as angry as I. I dropped the gun back into my satchel, on top.

  The driver never once looked into the backseat.

  As we drove through lengthening shadows cast by the late evening sun, I worried. Tall buildings full of contented families flashed by. Automobiles heading home at the end of a long workday congested the streets.

  I checked and rechecked my pocket watch. Even though I left after Mouse, I would still arrive at Britz Mill long before the appointed time. Nothing to do but stay calm and be ready when the time came; but still I fretted. Would Mouse keep his end of the bargain and bring Anton? Or would he shoot me, steal the money, and deliver Anton to the Nazis?

  We were near the mill when another black taxi heading in the opposite direction appeared. It looked like the taxis would collide head-on. I braced myself against the front seat. At the last moment, my driver spun his wheel hard to the right and we careened off the road.

  I whipped my head around to see who sat in the other taxi, but dust obscured the window. We bumped through a field and stopped in a tan cloud. I coughed, taste of dirt strong in my mouth. Why was a taxi heading back from Britz Mill at this hour?

  “Scheisse. What was that bastard doing?” He steered back to the road, but even on its smooth surface we lurched forward. He stopped.

  We both climbed out.

  “I just washed the taxi. Now look.” The driver shook his head.

  Air hissed from the front wheel, fountaining dust onto the fender. He cursed again, and I longed to join him.

  “Can you repair it?”

  “It’ll take a while. Make yourself comfortable in the back.”

  “I can help.” Anything to get the taxi moving.

  He opened the trunk. “Begging your pardon, Fräulein, but I’d just as soon do it myself.”

  Before I could argue further, he pulled the spare tire out of the trunk. Flat as well. I poked the warm rubber.

  A string of profanities issued from his mouth.

  I interrupted. “What now?”

  He ran the back of his hand across his pink forehead. “I’ll walk back. I saw a house with lights on a short way away. If they have a telephone, I’ll have the taxi company send another tire.”

  I might be late for the ransom. “I can walk.”

  “It’s about five kilometers.”

  I checked my watch. Quarter past seven. I could still be early. “Meet me there when the taxi is fixed. For your fare.”

  He looked about to argue, but stomped off down the hard-packed street instead. I hurried toward the setting sun.

  Not a single automobile passed on my way to the mill. I arrived winded, cursing Mouse with each painful breath I drew. My feet and sides ached too, but it was worth it. I was an hour early. My watch read eight o’clock, and late evening sunlight lit the mill.

  The mill rose out of the sere field like a scene from a Dutch movie, four sails rotating. The bottom two stories were constructed of burnt-orange brick that looked bright against a spade-shaped door built large enough to admit a wagon. A wooden platform ran around the outside of the structure where the brickwork ended, which made the platform at the base of the third floor. The platform looked empty, but I could not see the back. Wooden shingles overlapped like scales on the third, fourth, and fifth floors. On top rested the cap, with the sails attached to it, dark against the apricot sky.

  Each wooden story had two fingernail-shaped windows that stared, black and lonely, at me. Someone might be standing behind one, spying on me.

  I turned, looking in each direction. No one. But hiding was simply a matter of dropping into the tall grass out of sight. An entire battalion could be steps away, and I would never know. From the top floor I might see anyone hiding in the grass, just as anyone there could watch me.

  I pulled the satchel up on my shoulder and slipped one hand inside to touch the oily surface of the Luger. “Mouse! I am here for Anton.”

  No answer.

  Mouse had probably not arrived. I decided to check inside the mill and secure the high ground.

  I marched down the beaten dirt path. The sails groaned in the wind, loud as a train. I had never been to a windmill before, but I had thought them more peaceful.

  I circled the mill. It was not round, as it appeared from a distance. Instead it had twelve sides. The large spade-shaped wooden door was the main entrance, a smaller door led out the back.

  The thick front door stood open a crack. A chill stole down my spine. Were Mouse and Anton here already, even so early?

  I drew the gun from my satchel and pushed the door open. Blackness gaped inside. “Take the risks, Old Bird. Life’s too long already,” Ernst h
ad counseled me. Of course, he was talking about dating, not leaping into mortal danger. But perhaps he was right. I clenched my jaw and stepped into the darkness. It could be a trap, but I had no choice.

  Noise smote my ears. Huge wooden cogs creaked. Stone ground against grain. I sneezed out flour dust and edged forward. Anyone waiting here would see me before they would hear me.

  The exits on this floor were the front and back doors. I crouched, straining to see through the gloom. I saw no one, but it was too dark to be certain.

  I decided to climb to the top and work my way down. I hurried to a set of rough wooden steps built into the wall and climbed to the second floor, wishing for more light. I crept up the stairs. Anyone above could grab me.

  The second floor had windows. Umber light wavered through dusty panes, illuminating a floor grayed by decades of flour ground into its wood. I climbed ladder after ladder until I reached the tiny room at the top where giant wooden cogs turned, pushed by wind on the sails. The top floor had no window. The turning machinery drowned all sound, and dark blanketed the room. I groped along, hoping not to stick my fingers into machinery.

  I climbed down to the fifth floor. The windows afforded a good view of the field around the mill. The fifth floor was the most likely place to meet Mouse. It was where I would wait if I were him, where I could see everyone who came and went, and shoot them if I wanted. If he was there, he did not call out, or the ocean of sound produced by the mill swallowed his voice.

  I hugged the side wall, hand slippery with sweat on the Luger’s stock. I circled the room, feeling with one outstretched hand. The fifth floor was empty. I wiped flour dust from the window with the edge of my dress and peered through the glass. Not a soul stirred. I swept the field, my vision repeatedly obscured by the rotating sails. Near the dirt path, large strips of flattened grass showed where someone had turned off the road to park an automobile or truck behind a stand of trees. Was the automobile still parked there?

  Cogs ground above me, relentless as the wind. The miller would not have left them turning, would he? Where was the miller?

  I hurried through the fourth and third floors. Both empty. I opened the door to the third-floor platform and stepped into the cool breeze, shutting the door. The closed door blocked much of the sound. Failing light made it difficult to see, but I still felt exposed. I looked left.