A Night of Long Knives (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  The next folder was Anton’s. The file listed him as Anton Röhm, with a question mark next to the name. Lang was unconvinced that Röhm was his father. The file listed me as his mother, but my name was struck through. Elise Karlson was written in and circled. Death by overdose. The woman who had raised Anton, whom he called Sweetie Pie. Anton’s location was listed as Unknown. My heart lifted. If the Nazis had killed him, surely there would be a note of it here.

  Manfred Brandt’s file was next. My knees buckled. Lang knew. He had made the connection between Mouse, Anton, and me. If he had read the telegram, he must have known that Mouse had Anton. He could have followed Mouse to Britz Mill and killed him. And I knew what he would do with Anton. I swallowed.

  I read Mouse’s file to find another reason for his murder. He had been reporting on Röhm’s activities to the SS, including treasonous statements Röhm had made about Hitler while drunk. Mouse was a spy. So perhaps he had been killed by Röhm loyalists. If they knew about Anton, they would keep him safe until they could use him against the Nazis. That seemed the safest scenario for Anton. I stood, uncertain what to do.

  The door held other files. I had to get through them. I would think about what it meant after I was outside of the apartment and somewhere safe.

  I pulled out the next file. Theodor Eicke, Röhm’s murderer and the head of the camp at Dachau. I hurried through the other files. Most contained information on prominent members of the Nazi party. Röhm’s was not among them. These files had been started before the Nazis came to power in 1933, and they contained notes as recently as a few days ago. He was keeping track of his own people. A sheaf of paper between the folders contained the purge list. I ran my finger down the alphabetized names. Manfred Brandt’s name was not there, probably spared because he had betrayed Röhm to the SS. Not taking time to read the other names, but wishing I could, I set the papers on the floor and pulled out the last folder. I gasped when I read the name. Boris Krause.

  Against my better judgement, I opened it. The file listed his address, his telephone number, and the address and telephone number of the bank. Trudi was down as next of kin, noted as a devoted National Socialist. That alone would break his heart.

  Lang had catalogued every trip Boris made to London to visit me, although he did not note what he did overseas. I was safe. It chilled me to think how close the SS had been to finding me during the last three years. Was I the reason they had started watching Boris?

  I read further. He was under suspicion of helping Jewish depositors transfer their assets to Switzerland. I felt proud of him, until I turned the page. The informant who had tipped the SS off: Frau Inge.

  I skimmed the details. She joined the Nazi party right after they came to power, a little over a year ago. The report listed her as devout and reliable. She had needed six months of membership to decide to inform on Boris. She had delivered her first report days after he returned from visiting me in London. Her husband, also a party member, was a clerk at the bank. According to Frau Inge, she and Boris were engaged in an ongoing sexual affair. I read that part twice before continuing. Her behavior toward me made sense. How dare he question my relationship with Sefton or anyone when he was involved in an “ongoing sexual affair” with Frau Inge?

  I swallowed my anger and forced my attention back to the file. I was not mentioned by name, so either she had not told Lang about me, or he had written nothing down.

  The file described a plan to arrest Boris when a certain transaction completed. I checked the date and time: Friday, July 6, 1934 at 1700. Tomorrow when the bank closed. They had reserved him interrogation room seven, and a place at Dachau Concentration Camp.

  I do not know how long I stood with the files in my hand. I might have been standing there staring at them when Lang arrived, but the baby wailed next door.

  With shaking hands I replaced the folders in the order I had found them and slid the panel back into the wardrobe. Boris was one day from torture and perhaps death in Dachau. As angry as I was over his affair, I felt guilty too. She would not have informed on him if he had not met me.

  I knelt and swept the sawdust that had fallen under the wardrobe, removing all traces that I had ever been here.

  As I turned to leave, a key clicked in the front lock. Lang.

  25

  I looked at the wardrobe. Too small to hold me, and likely one of the first things Lang would do was open it to hang up his clothing.

  My eyes darted to the closed windows. Even assuming I had time to open one, the sound might alert him.

  Boards by the front door creaked as he stepped over the threshold.

  I raced across the rug and slid under his single bed, the only hiding place. My heart thudded so loudly, he must hear it from his entryway.

  He wandered around his parlor, opening windows and whistling Beethoven’s “Für Elise.” He was quite a good whistler.

  How could I get past him? Perhaps luck would favor me, and he would leave again, even if only for a moment. I gripped his warm metal key. The gun in the satchel pressed against my hip. I thought of drawing it, but I could not shoot him for the crime of entering his own home.

  Shiny black shoes marched into the bedroom. He paused and stopped whistling. I thought he sniffed, and I held my breath. Could he smell me?

  He crossed the room in a few strides and opened the windows. The left window opened silently, but the right squeaked. He would have heard if I had tried to escape through it. A light breeze trickled into the room. He stood at the window for a long moment before beginning to whistle again.

  Shoes disappeared into the bathroom. He did not close the door, a long-term bachelor. Water turned on. Perhaps he would take a bath? That might give me time to escape out the front door. But the water turned off again quickly. I almost groaned in frustration. I listened to him brush his teeth, use the toilet, and flush. He washed his hands for a long time. His mother would have been proud.

  Polished shoes walked to the bed. He sat. The slats drooped centimeters closer to my sweaty nose. He removed each shoe and placed his black stocking feet on the floor. He crossed to his wardrobe. A soft swish and the smell of shoe polish drifted down to me. His hands picked a shoe tree off the bottom of the wardrobe and placed it in his left shoe, then slid the other shoe tree into his right.

  He slipped off his jacket and gave it a shake before hanging it in the wardrobe. I lay still under the bed, listening to him undress. He was getting ready for bed. I cast my mind back over the drawers that I searched. No pajamas. He must sleep in the nude. Lovely.

  Bare feet padded over to his dresser. He opened a drawer, but I was unsure which until a whisper of paper brushing against the side of the dresser drifted down to me. He had removed my picture.

  I held my breath. He closed the drawer again and padded back to bed. I wondered if he had the picture with him as he pulled back the blanket and sheet and climbed in.

  The slats on the bottom of the bed almost touched my nose.

  I lay under the bed, heart pounding so loudly, I could barely hear anything else. He moved and shifted centimeters above me, breathing restless. He did not fall asleep easily. Should I wait until he left in the morning? If they moved up the timetable, the SS might have Boris by then. And Lang might discover me at any time.

  Finally his breathing slowed and deepened. I waited a bit longer to be sure that he was asleep, then eased off my shoes and gripped them in my right hand with the satchel, the key in my left. I eased out from under the bed centimeter by centimeter. He did not stir.

  I slunk out of his room, across the parlor, and down the hall. Careful to avoid the squeaky board by the door, I slid the key into the lock.

  The tumblers crashed like boulders rolling down a cliff.

  I stepped through and silently closed the door. I weighed whether or not to lock it again, but decided not to. Too loud.

  I hurried down the hall shoes in hand, sliding out the front door.

  I turned in the opposite direction of his
window and ran down the sidewalk, stone warm against the soles of my feet even this late at night. I ran a full block before I stopped to put on my shoes. The subway clattered to Boris’s house. I knew that I should be wondering why Lang kept the files in his house, especially Mouse’s, mine, and Anton’s, or why he spied on his own people, but all I thought about was Boris’s file, his imminent arrest, and his ongoing sexual relationship with Frau Inge. Hopefully the impeccable Lang had made a mistake.

  No wonder she loathed me. I thought she disapproved of my erratic way of popping in and out of Boris’s life and having relations with him outside of marriage. But it went well beyond that.

  At Boris’s house the windows were dark. He had not waited up for me, although he had left the light on near the front door. I stood outside the circle of light. I was exhausted, but I hated to knock and risk waking the neighbors, especially when he knew that I should have a key.

  I could not stand there forever. In this posh suburb of Zehlendorf a policeman would run me in for loitering.

  I tapped on the door. What if Frau Inge slept inside? I knocked more loudly. He had kept any hint of an affair with her hidden. He certainly would not have her sleeping in his bed on a night when I was due to arrive and slip into the house unannounced with my key. I hoped.

  The bolt drew back with a clunk.

  “Where’s your key?” He stepped aside to let me in. I brushed past his sleep-warmed body and resisted the urge to fit myself against it.

  “I do not have it.”

  “Did you find Anton?”

  I shook my head. If he asked that question, then neither had he.

  His gaze flicked to the grandfather clock standing in the entryway. “Come to bed.”

  The little girl part of me wanted to climb the stairs obediently and enjoy one more sweet night’s sleep in his arms. The part that had been dwelling on his file for the entire ride home shook her head and marched past. I turned on a reading light instead of the overhead light. I did not want to see clearly.

  He sighed and followed. “Please let this be quick. I have work tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand like a little boy. “Have you eaten? Would you like something to drink?”

  Always the host.

  I sat on the chair. I did not want to sit on the couch and have him sit next to me.

  “I was trapped in the house of an SS officer. Hauptsturmführer Lang.”

  “Did he hurt you?” He pulled his dressing gown around himself and moved next to me.

  “He did not know that I was there.”

  His shoulders relaxed, and he sat on the couch. “Is he related to the Kommissar who investigated Anton’s disappearance?”

  “The same. He is holding files on various high-level members of the Nazi party.”

  He yawned. “I see.”

  “He also has my file there, Anton’s file, and, of most interest to you, yours.”

  “Mine?” He sat up straight. “The SS has a file on me?”

  “They have records of you transferring Jewish assets illegally out of the country.”

  Even in the dim light I saw him pale. It was enough to send him to a concentration camp. “How did they get them?”

  “Frau Inge.”

  “She would do no such a thing! I’ve always been good to her.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, and my voice sounded cold. “Perhaps she is angry that you are sleeping with me, considering your history together.”

  He whistled. “Those SS investigators are thorough.”

  “That does not ring of a denial.” Hot rage flooded my belly. Jealousy? I had never been jealous before. I had never needed to.

  He shrugged his broad shoulders carelessly. “Why deny it? You’ve seen the files. You’ve met Frau Inge. You’ll draw your own conclusions.”

  For the first time, I doubted the files. Relief washed over me, and I chastised myself. He had denied nothing. And, if he had, could I trust him? What hold did I have over him? We had never discussed the future, never discussed the terms of our relationship. When we could, we met. Beyond that nothing had ever been mentioned, but I knew what I felt.

  I stared at his lovely brown hands, imagining them buried in her luxuriant long hair.

  “Hannah?”

  “Are you having an affair with her? I mean, Boris, a servant?” My mother’s rigid upbringing echoed in my words, and I hated myself the moment I uttered them.

  Sensing my thoughts, he said, “Shocked to find that your socialist background doesn’t run as deep as you thought?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Not that a servant is unworthy of you. More that you are in a position of power over her. A position from which you should not exploit her for your own sexual gain.”

  “Very upright of you.” He smiled without warmth and crossed his arms. His dressing gown gaped open, displaying curly chest hair. I longed to reach over and put my palms on his warm skin, but instead I looked at the floor.

  “Are you?” I vowed not to ask again.

  “As you reminded me the last time we discussed this topic, I don’t recall making promises of fidelity. Nor did you.”

  “And yet I have kept them.” I clasped my hands together.

  “Have you?” He sounded as if he wanted to believe me as much as I wanted to believe him.

  “Yes.”

  He knelt in front of my chair. “I have no desire to fight.” His palms rested lightly on the backs of my hands and, as always, a jolt of electricity shot through my body. Damn him and the effect he had on me. He cleared his throat. “I’ll say this one time. I am not currently having an affair with Frau Inge. That part of the file is wrong.”

  I wanted to believe him. But I did not. I reluctantly pulled my hands from his. “Currently?”

  He sighed. “I had an affair with her for a brief time after my wife died.”

  I twisted my hands in my lap.

  “It was over long ago. More than fifteen years. Once I came to my senses, I ended it. We talked about it, and she wanted to continue working here.” He looked at the floor. “And she was always so good with Trudi.”

  The grandfather clock ticked.

  “I am not proud of my actions, but it’s been over for a long time. It was never a problem. Until you arrived.”

  He had kept secrets from me just as I had from him. Was that so wrong?

  “Hannah?” His voice was pleading.

  “They have reserved you an interrogation cell for tomorrow. If you live through that, they are sending you to Dachau.”

  He swore and glanced around the room, as if expecting the SS to be there already. His shoulders drew up, and I longed to reach out and massage them.

  “Now that I’ve been honest.” He covered my hands with his. “What were you doing in Lang’s apartment until this late?”

  “Snooping. He threatened me a few days ago, and I wanted to see what he had on me.”

  “How did you get in?” He released my hands.

  “I stole his key. I switched it for yours when the landlady was distracted.”

  “And you don’t trust me?”

  We did not have time to talk through this tonight. He had to leave before the SS came. “Are you helping Jews move their money out of Germany? Is that correct?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He leaned his head against my hip. “And it’s more than enough to have me killed.”

  I told him what had happened in Lang’s apartment, except for the part about my picture in his underwear drawer. I did not know if I was embarrassed or avoiding another argument. Or, improbably, perhaps I was protecting Lang’s secrets.

  “You must flee.”

  He nodded, but did not move.

  We sat in silence in the dark parlor, his head on my lap. I ran my fingers through his warm, thick hair. As always, time with him felt as if it stood apart from all else.

  “Do you have a picture of me?”

  “You’ve never given me one.” He rub
bed his face against my leg and my breath caught in my throat. I had to concentrate to remember what I was saying. Picture. “If you had a picture, where would you keep it?”

  “The mantel.” He lifted his head and pointed to the marble mantelpiece behind me where his family pictures stood in a long row. “Why?”

  “What if you needed to hide it? If you were married?”

  “But I’m not.”

  “If you were.”

  “In a drawer at the office, I suppose. I imagine my wife would have full run of the house.” He looked up at me calculatingly. “But if you were my wife I don’t suppose any place would be safe.”

  I smiled.

  He stood and held out a strong hand to help me from the chair. I let him pull me into an embrace. I held him fast and dropped my head against his chest to listen to his heartbeat. My muscles relaxed. I spoke without lifting my head. “You must leave Germany, you know.”

  “Perhaps.” His voice sounded deeper than usual because my ear rested against his heart. “Perhaps Lang wants a pile of cash in exchange for silence.”

  “I do not think so.”

  “How well do you know him?” He leaned back to look at me.

  “I spent hours under his bed. And I went through his house. If he cared for money or possessions, I found no sign of it there.”

  “What does he care for then?”

  I thought of my picture in his drawer, and his polished and pressed SS uniforms. “Only the party,” I lied.

  “He might be more complicated than you think.”

  “Where will you go?”

  He glanced around his beautiful parlor. His eyes lingered on a large antique globe that his father had purchased for him when he graduated from university. Objects that his family had owned for generations filled the house. He would have to leave them.