A Night of Long Knives (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  Mouse’s crumpled form leaned against the wall. My stomach dropped into my feet. Where was Anton? I looked right. No one else was visible, but I could not see behind the mill.

  I circled the platform, making certain it was empty before approaching Mouse, gun gripped tight in my hand. He turned his head when I came close. Blood stained his brown shirtfront. I dropped to my knees. His coppery blood smell mingled with the smell of ground grain. I gagged.

  His breathing rasped through the air. When was he shot? While I was upstairs?

  “Mouse?” I tore off one of his sleeves to make a bandage to staunch the blood, but it looked hopeless. Blood pooled thickly around his legs.

  He opened his eyes and watched me.

  “Won’t help,” he choked out through gray lips. His breathing bubbled.

  I pressed the bandage against the bloodiest part of his chest. “It might.”

  Blood drenched my makeshift bandage. Too much blood. I could not drag him to the taxi before he died. I knew the signs, from my days as a nurse.

  “Where is Anton?” I peeked through the railings down at the field. Still no one.

  “Gone.” Blood stained his lips like lipstick.

  “Where?”

  “You never know.” He labored to breathe. “What a person can do.”

  “Who?” If he did not tell me before he died, I would never know. “Did you give him to the Nazis?”

  “You trust someone.” He coughed, a wet tearing painful sound. “Always a mistake.”

  “Where is Anton?”

  Then he simply died, staring up at me until his gray eyes lost focus. I closed his eyelids, picturing Claire and Manny, alone. They were better off without him.

  I went through his pockets, hoping for a clue. He had a few coins, a subway ticket stamped at Potsdamer Bahnhof, and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Nothing of use to me. Or to him, anymore.

  Where was Anton? I jumped to my feet, shaking. I had to search for him before the twilight failed. He had to be fine. Perhaps he ran away, hid somewhere. Perhaps I could make a torch, then he could find me in the darkness. “Anton!”

  I searched the grass again. He was so small. I would never see him from up here.

  A pair of headlights tore across the dusky field below me. Then another. Police.

  I dropped to my hands and knees to crawl across the splintery boards to the edge of the platform, hoping that the police had not seen me. I scanned the fields around the mill. Only police cars. Anton and whoever had killed Mouse must be gone.

  I stood and ran back toward the door to the inside, past Mouse’s body, thrusting the gun back into my satchel. I had to get away. If the police caught me, they would arrest me for murder. I would never find Anton.

  I nearly fell down the stairs to the second floor, caught myself, and climbed more carefully to the first. I stumbled through darkness to the back door. I rattled the handle. Locked. How could I get out?

  My shoe trod on something soft, and I pulled back to examine the object in the weak light from the window. A hand.

  I stifled a scream and looked closer. The miller, a blotch of sticky blood on his apron. Gritting my teeth, I crouched next to him, first searching for a pulse on his limp arm. No sign of life.

  The miller must have had keys. I groped around on the floor next to his body. Nothing. Where would he keep his keys? I bit my lip and slid my hand into his pocket. Still warm, and so were his keys.

  I drew them out and unlocked the back door. With shaking hands I wiped any fingerprints off the keys with my dress and dropped them on the floor. I sprinted across the field, satchel bouncing against my hip, dress wet with blood.

  19

  When I reached the edge of the field, I scrubbed my bloody hands on grass. Someone arrived before me and killed Mouse and the miller. Perhaps the person in the taxi that forced us off the road. There could be no explaining to the police why I was covered in blood, carrying a gun, but completely innocent. I could not have done it even before the Nazis infiltrated the police force.

  Whoever had killed Mouse must know about the ransom, or they would not have been here. Surely someone like that would keep Anton safe for another ransom attempt.

  I limped along, knees stinging. Blood trickled down my shins. Warm blood, so it had to be mine. I must have torn them open crawling across the platform. My dress covered the wounds, but if anyone looked closely, they would see bloodstains. I should have worn a darker dress.

  I circled through the field back to the road, shielded only by tall grass. I wished that the sun did not linger so long in the middle of summer. I had about a kilometer to go before I reached a civilized place where I might hide. The taxi driver probably supplied the police with a detailed description of me. After all, I had stiffed him on the fare.

  Sweat ran down my back. Where was Anton? Had Mouse’s killer snatched him? Had Anton been here? I tried in vain to remember details from the taxi that had forced us off the road. I had only glimpsed it. Had he been in that taxi?

  What if Mouse had a partner? Perhaps the partner killed him and kidnapped Anton. Gerber. Agnes had mentioned a partner named Gerber. That fit with Mouse talking about betrayed trust. If I had not known that Claire could not have beaten me to the ransom, I would have pegged her as the killer. He might have trusted her. But she would not kill him before I arrived with the money. Why had the killer run before the ransom money arrived? And who notified the police? Unlikely that someone not involved had heard the shots over the mill.

  My side ached by the time I reached a street with houses. Dead or not, I cursed Mouse for breaking my rib.

  I had to change clothes. I cut behind the row of houses, peeking over each fence. There should be laundry hung out to dry on such a windy night. At the third yard, fabric snapped on the line. I scaled the fence, praying that they had no dog. Keeping laundry between me and the cozy lighted windows of the house, I crept across the lawn. Though I longed to leave money in exchange for the clean dress I pulled down, it might be a clue for the police. I hoped that the owner would think the garment blew away.

  I stopped at a rain barrel tucked under the house’s eaves. Hoping to be left alone, I slipped out of my bloodstained dress. Wearing only underclothes, I wet the back of my old dress and used it to scrub my knees, hands, and arms clean before putting on the new dress. Soft and threadbare, it smelled of hay and sunlight. I smoothed it over my hips. My size. I balled up my own dress and tucked it into my satchel, having no place to hide it. It would not do for the police to find a bloody dress purchased in South America at the town nearest the murder. They must not suspect that I was ever here.

  I walked back down the sidewalk along the empty main street. What should I do? A lighted inn beckoned to my right, but I dared not register. The police might start house-to-house questioning. I must find my way back to Boris’s, where I could disappear. Even though we had fought yesterday, I trusted him to take me in. Since I had met him, he had been my haven from danger.

  I hurried on, hoping to find a bar, the most likely place for a taxi to park at this hour. Luck favored me, for an ordinary black taxi stood in front of a place called Haus Hubertus. I circled the building. Crates of mostly empty bottles lined the back wall, like behind Sing-Sing. I searched for the newest-looking crate, reached in, and pulled out a bottle. I needed to have beer breath without taking the time or calling the attention on myself to order and drink one. I swished a swallow around my mouth, gagging, then spit it out before creeping around to the front. Walking into a small-town bar, where everyone would know I did not belong, where the gossips would mark the details of my appearance, was too risky. I preferred to take my chances with the taxi driver and the night.

  The taxi driver’s head lolled against the seat back. I hoped that he was asleep and not dead. I climbed into the backseat and closed the door.

  He started and turned surprised dark eyes to me. “I didn’t see you come out, Fräulein.”

  “Quiet as a mouse, I am.” Thinking
of how quiet Mouse was, I wished I had put it another way. I slipped into a Berlin accent that matched my faded clothing and the patrons of the bar. I gave him the name of a street near Tempelhof Airport. Nearly ten kilometers away, but if anyone followed my trail, he might think I left on an airplane. I could hop onto the streetcar there and ride it almost all the way to Boris’s. “How much?”

  “Whatever’s on the meter. It’s a fair price.”

  I nodded uncertainly, as if I had never been in a taxi before. “That’ll do.”

  I leaned against the seat to hide my face in shadow.

  I clenched my hands in my lap and tried not to think of Anton, Mouse, or the police. I counted in my head until we arrived, concentrating on my breathing and the reassuring rumble of the taxi’s engine. I could not break down and cry, or I would never find Anton.

  I dropped money on the front seat before climbing out, face turned from the driver. I walked to the first house, flattening against the door until he drove away. If he remembered where he brought me, the address was a dead end for the police. After he left I doubled back to Tempelhof, boarded a streetcar to Zehlendorf Mitte, then a taxi down Kronprinzenallee to Boris’s house.

  In near darkness I limped past the pillars at the gate and down the familiar path to his front door. A light burned in the downstairs parlor. I let myself in with the key he had given me and followed the light.

  He did not stand. “That’s not what you were wearing when you left the house.”

  “I got blood on the other,” I said, trying to decide how much to tell him. I did not want him considered an accessory for Mouse’s murder.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  I lifted my dress to display my bloody knees. “May I clean up?”

  He winced at my lacerated knees. “What did you do to yourself?”

  “I crawled on some splintery boards. You are better off not knowing details.”

  “Right.” He clenched his jaw and walked to me. “Let me clean that up.”

  He led me to the upstairs bathroom and ran a hot bath. I let him. I did not have the energy to insist on doing it myself.

  The last man to draw me a bath was Ernst Röhm.

  He undid my buttons and slipped off the dress. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “Not where it shows.” I climbed into the tub.

  He washed my hair, hands gentle on my scalp. “What happened? Is it Anton?”

  I nodded, biting back tears while he rinsed my hair.

  “Hannah?”

  “I lost him.” I sobbed. Boris pulled me out of the tub, wet, onto his knees. He rocked me back and forth, waiting for the rest of the story.

  When I stopped crying he wrapped me in one of his thick towels and sat me on the stool in front of the sink. “Do you want to talk yet?”

  I shook my head, afraid that I would break down again if I started talking.

  He wiped my face with a washcloth, eyes on mine. “I’ll take the splinters out of your knees.”

  He winced more than I as he removed them. He doused my knees with alcohol, and bandaged them with deft fingers, a parent used to binding up skinned knees. I thought of all the times I had bandaged Anton’s knobby knees. Would I ever do that again?

  “All done.” He kissed the bandages covering my knees and I flinched. “I’ll fetch you something to wear.”

  I sat alone in the bathroom. Where was Anton? He must be with a stranger, someone who may have shot Mouse in front of him. He probably feared for his own life, and knew the adventure was over.

  Boris touched my shoulder. “Hannah?”

  I stood and let him dress me in a nightshirt. He had changed out of his wet clothes into pajamas.

  He led me to his bedroom, tucked me under the quilt, and held my hand between his. “Tell me.”

  A thousand images ran through my head. What could I tell him? Knowing of Mouse’s murder made him an accessory. Hearing it would pull him into a web of politics and murder. “It puts you in danger too. Implicates you.”

  “So, you decide what’s in my best interest, as if I were no older than Anton?” He handed me a glass of water. “Let me help you.”

  “You cannot help me.” I cradled the glass in my palms.

  “Quite a testimony to my abilities.” He ran his thumb across my cheek, where the tears had been earlier.

  I lost my train of thought and relaxed under his hands.

  “Hannah?” His voice brought me back. If I told him, the court would find him as guilty as I appeared to be. I did not want him landing in jail as an accessory.

  “I know something about discretion. And I won’t give in. Let’s save time.”

  I looked into his serious gold-flecked eyes. I believed him.

  I drank a long draught of water, then told him what I could: a man had kidnapped Anton and the ransom had gone badly, with the ransomer dead and Anton gone when I arrived. The police had reason to suspect me, and the Nazis were after Anton.

  He stroked my hands for a moment before speaking. “I know a detective. I’ve worked with him on insurance cases at the bank. He’s an ex-policeman, dogged, and very smart.”

  “I cannot trust anyone right now.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Do you trust me?”

  I studied him. I heard my brother’s voice saying “You don’t have to do every damn thing alone, Old Bird.”

  “Can’t I help you?” He stroked a curl of wet hair off my forehead.

  I gave in. “Tomorrow could you check the orphanages around Britz Mill? If Anton . . .” I gulped. “If Anton escaped and got picked up, the police might have brought him there.”

  “And you?”

  “I will try to reach Frau Röhm.” I could try Agnes again tomorrow too.

  He climbed into bed and held me. I lay awake for a long time. Anton was gone, and I had no idea where he might be. And neither did Frau Röhm. For the first time since he had arrived on my doorstep filthy but proud, Anton was truly lost to me.

  We had a quick breakfast and left the house early, still tired from our late night.

  I thought of Frau Inge’s face in the mirror while wearing the wedding dress. I could leave nothing unattended at the house. I hefted my satchel of ransom money onto my shoulder.

  I found a call box and laid out my pfennigs. Boris had given me a pile of German money my first day, refusing to take Swiss money in exchange, insulted that I offered.

  I fed in coins and listened to the telephone burr in Frau Röhm’s front hall. I pictured her black Bakelite telephone ringing in its special alcove next to a pad of paper and fountain pen. I had seen it during my futile search for Anton.

  I hoped that she had already received another ransom note. That would mean there was still a chance that Anton lived.

  “Röhm.” The burly maid sounded worried. She had likely received only bad news over that telephone for days. In the background dogs barked.

  “I must speak to Frau Röhm immediately,” I said, reluctant to give my name. “Is she in?”

  The maid chirped as she had the day I visited the house. As before, the dogs fell silent. “She’s not taking calls. She’s ill.”

  “I must speak to her.”

  “Are you calling from prison?”

  “Why would you think such a thing?” Prison?

  Silence stretched out between Berlin and Munich. “Who is this? We’re expecting a call from . . . Stadelheim Prison.”

  “It is I, Hannah,” I said, surprised that she did not recognize my voice.

  “I will inform her that you called.”

  She broke the connection. When I placed the call again, the line was engaged.

  Had Frau Röhm received another ransom note? What if she had heard nothing? What if someone not intent on a ransom kidnapped Anton? If the Nazis had Anton, he was already dead, so that just could not be. There must be another answer, and I had to find it.

  I pressed my forehead against a glass pane, trying not to cry. Why would Nazis go all the way to
the windmill to kill Mouse? How would they know he was there? Could Lang have made the connection? He knew Röhm’s associates. Perhaps the only one with an M name left alive was Mouse. But if they wanted Anton dead, why not kill him there with Mouse? Why take him?

  I must assume that someone else had killed Mouse. That possibility left Anton alive. I ran through my options. Visit Claire and see what she knew. Difficult, as she had already seen me. Return to Agnes and find out more about Mouse’s partner, Gerber. Impossible, as Agnes would not arrive at work until late afternoon. That left me with difficult or impossible. I chose difficult.

  I left the stifling telephone booth and headed for Sing-Sing, all the while checking to see if someone shadowed me. I saw no one, but that did not mean that no one was there.

  Just as my taxi pulled to the curb in front of Sing-Sing’s dilapidated front door, Claire emerged with a suitcase in one hand, her other clutching Manny’s shirtsleeve. He carried a small cardboard suitcase, his chin raised defiantly. They looked like a battered version of Anton and me. Early for her to be up and about. Something was amiss.

  I climbed out. “Wait,” I told the driver, and hurried off before he had a chance to complain and drive away. If he wanted his fare, he had to wait.

  “Claire,” I called. She jumped.

  “I lost my watch last night. Did you find it?”

  She gave Manny a suspicious look before answering. “We didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean.”

  I shook my head. I knew that. It was in my satchel. “Heavens no. I just thought it might have fallen from my pocket.”

  “We’re going,” she said. “No time to take you upstairs to look. But I checked pretty close when I packed. Nothing there.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.” The taxi horn beeped.

  She hefted her suitcase. Too heavy for her. I smiled.

  “Perhaps you might care to share my taxi? We are headed back to Anhalter Bahnhof.” I suspected that was her destination—a place to get a train out of Berlin. I waved back toward the taxi. The horn beeped again.