A Night of Long Knives (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  “He has everything to do with you. As we both well know.”

  I closed my eyes, waiting for the shot, afraid a grab for the gun or any other move might set her off. Boris stopped too.

  “I will not kill him here unless I have to. It will be worse for you not to know when and where that will happen. I will raise him as a good National Socialist. My Ernst has friends in high places, even now. I know where he will be safe as long as I want him to be.”

  A sharp pain stabbed my hip. I gasped. Something large bumped past, light glinting at its middle.

  My leg went out from under me as if the dirt had turned to ice. Pain lanced from my hip to my foot. My arm scraped the rough wall. The ground rushed toward my face, but I could not get my hands forward in time.

  I landed facefirst in dirt. Everything went out of focus. I sensed Boris kneeling next to me, warm against my side. I pulled my head back so I could breathe.

  Go after Anton, I wanted to scream, but soil filled my mouth. A gunshot roared. Glass crashed to the floor. I turned my head and bloodred wine gushed onto my face.

  Boris ran deft hands up my leg. “You’ve been stabbed.”

  I spit out dirt and gulped air. Blood oozed down my hip, and pain knifed from my hip up my back. “Go after them.”

  Another gunshot boomed. Boris pulled me behind a rack of wine bottles. Glass crunched underfoot. The bottles around us would not stop the bullets, but we had no other shelter.

  “I have a gun.” I fumbled with my satchel.

  He pulled out the Luger and swung the satchel strap over his shoulder. He aimed down the dark passage.

  Another gunshot thundered. A bottle shattered near my ear. It smelled like a good year, ruined.

  “You might hit Anton!” I screamed, but he had already fired. Someone ahead fell heavily against a wine rack. Bottles thudded to the dirt.

  I struggled to my feet and lurched forward. My wounded leg would not obey my will. He put an arm around my waist and pulled me with him. “I shot the bastard who stabbed you. He won’t be taking any more potshots.”

  I hoped that he was right, and that Anton did not lie bleeding on the ground ahead.

  Finally we were close enough to see. Frau Röhm’s maid stared with wide eyes. She held a kitchen knife in one hand, a gun in the other. I should have been grateful that she had stabbed me instead of shooting.

  “A woman?” Boris’s voice shook. His shot had hit her in the neck. He lowered me to the floor and checked her pulse. He need not bother. No blood pumped from her wound. Her heart had stopped.

  “I killed an innocent woman.” He closed her cobblestone-gray eyes with trembling fingers.

  “She was not innocent.” I pressed my palm harder against my wounded hip.

  He remained kneeling. I wished I could stay to comfort him, but I dragged myself deeper in the passage after Anton. Blood saturated the side of my dress and dripped onto the floor.

  Another gunshot cracked. I jumped to the side. My bloody leg buckled. I slammed against a wine rack. My head struck the end of a bottle.

  Boris lifted me to my feet. “Upsadaisy,” he said as if I were a small child. “Are you hurt?”

  “No more than before,” I lied through gritted teeth.

  He supported my weight.

  We stumbled down the tunnel, hugging the sides in case she kept shooting. But she had vanished. How would I find them?

  The clatter of feet on wood resounded in the tunnel. They were climbing the steps on the other end. What if she bolted the door from the top? We would never make it in time. I limped faster.

  Gritting my teeth against the pain in my leg, I pulled myself up the ladder and hefted my shoulder against the hatch. It burst open. I climbed up into the light, a mixture of wine and blood spattering on the floor. We were in an office building across the street from the Adlon. A janitor pointed to the door with his mop. Boris stuck my Luger in his trouser pocket.

  We careened by and onto the street.

  Sunlight blinded me. I squinted and shaded my eyes with one bloody hand. I did not see them. She had won. We had lost him. My eyes watered.

  Boris yanked me into the doorwell. “There!”

  Their car pulled into traffic. Two men who made Mouse look small sat in the front seat. Anton’s pale face looked at me through the back window.

  My heart rose. “Where is your automobile?”

  Boris pointed to the street. I staggered toward it, Boris holding me up with one arm. We were too slow. He helped me into the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel.

  I pressed my hands against my hip to staunch the bleeding while he manuevered onto Unter den Linden. We shot down the street, horn blaring. I searched frantically for their car.

  “Someone’s behind us,” he said.

  I turned. A man in an SS uniform followed less than a car length behind. Lars’s man.

  “Do not get too close to her car,” I said. “If he does not know where she is, I am not helping him find her.”

  “But we might lose Anton.”

  “Better to lose him than to turn him over to the SS.” Tears ran down my cheeks. My hands were too dirty to wipe them off.

  We slowed. As the SS automobile closed in, I hoped that she would keep him safe, safer than I could. Lars could never get us out of this.

  The SS automobile closed to within inches of our bumper. Boris’s hands twitched on the wheel. I knew he longed to outrun the SS car, but we did not dare to lead them past Frau Röhm. Instead I watched her lead lengthen until I was no longer sure which automobile was hers.

  I glanced at the SS car. Blue smoke billowed from under the hood. It veered right and hit a lorry.

  “Engine trouble?” Boris was already accelerating.

  I smiled, heart light. “Thank you, Lars,” I muttered.

  “Where could they be going?”

  “Clean up,” Boris said. “Wherever it is, they won’t let you in looking like that.”

  When I leaned into the backseat, my rib twinged in protest. I opened my suitcase, pulling out a fresh dress. I used the old one as a rag to clean myself. Boris had a jug of water in the backseat. I scrubbed blood off my hands and legs and combed pieces of glass from my hair with clean wet fingers. I tore my old dress into lengths and fashioned a bandage for my hip.

  Boris winced when I tied it.

  “It is not so bad. Deep, but short. I can stitch it later.”

  His face took on a greenish cast. “Lovely.”

  Having made myself presentable, I looked beyond the dash at the hood ornament at the end of the long black bonnet. The ornament doubled and lurched back together. I closed my eyes, nauseated. “I do not see them.”

  “After that crack on the head, I doubt you can see beyond the hood. They accrued too sizable of a lead while we were ditching your SS friend.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Mehringdamm. Bearing south. Where do you think they’re headed?”

  “I do not know.” I shook my head. Lights popped at the corner of my vision, and I resolved never to shake my head again. I swallowed.

  He glanced at me. “There’s a flask of brandy in the glove box. Help yourself.”

  I pulled out a silver flask with a BK engraved on the front in filigree. The brandy slid down smoky and warm. Only the best for Boris. “She must be going somewhere Röhm still has friends.”

  “I don’t imagine he has many living friends left.”

  I sipped more brandy. “Bolivia.” A warmth flooded through me that had nothing to do with Boris’s brandy. “Röhm lived there, training their army.”

  “That’s just a guess.” He stowed the flask back in the glove box.

  “All we have are guesses.”

  He looked unconvinced. “You think they are headed to Tempelhof?”

  “It is the correct direction. And the zeppelin is there. The Graf Zeppelin leaves today for South America.”

  Boris turned hard right on Friedrichstrasse. “How do you know that?”
/>   “Anton and I were going to take it back to South America. It stops in Switzerland after it leaves here. After that it flies straight to Pernambuco, Brazil.”

  “What if she’s taking a train, or a boat?”

  My stomach tightened. He could be right.

  We turned left into the airport. A parade ground under the kaiser, its open fields had plenty of space for a zeppelin. I sighed with relief at the familiar silver cigar shape, even with its swastika on the tail.

  I spotted their car.

  Anton, Frau Röhm, and one of her thugs jumped out and disappeared into the long brick terminal building. The other thug stayed with the automobile.

  Someone was expected back.

  Boris touched his trouser pocket, probably feeling for the Luger.

  I opened the door almost before we stopped. When I stepped onto the hot pavement, the ground heaved and lurched. Boris grabbed my arm to keep me from falling.

  “I will be fine,” I said, doubting it.

  His lips twisted into a smile, but he knew better than to argue. “Your head looks bad. Put on a hat.”

  “Font of sympathy, you are.” But I followed his advice.

  The thug who had gone in with Frau Röhm exploded out the front door and hopped into the automobile. They idled, not leaving. Boris pulled my suitcase out of the backseat. “She’s alone.”

  “I hope Anton does not bolt.” I bent to pick up my bag.

  “Let me take that.” He reached for it.

  I shook my head, remembering too late my resolution to never shake my head again. I held the car door until the ground stopped swaying. “Do you have papers for Switzerland?” I hoped that he did, but did not see how he could have procured them so quickly.

  “I’ve had an escape route planned for months, just in case,” he said, one hand still on my arm. “Through Poland.”

  “You cannot enter Switzerland legally without papers. And it is almost impossible to sneak in.” I stepped close. “They watch the Swiss border closely, especially for escaping bankers.”

  He chuckled. “Where else would an escaping banker go?”

  “Be careful in Poland.” I slid my hands around his waist. “And meet me in Zürich.”

  “I won’t let you go again.” He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and I relaxed into his chest. I inhaled his familiar scent. “I’ll get on that zeppelin somehow, Hannah.”

  “I need you here in case we come out of there in a hurry.”

  “They’ll never know I’m there. I’ll get a mechanic’s uniform. I can—”

  I reached up and traced my index finger across his warm lips. “If I have to get on the zeppelin, any commotion puts Anton and me in danger.”

  “But—”

  “If I can grab him before the zeppelin leaves, I need you here. You cannot help me there.” Hurt flashed in his brown-gold eyes.

  “But you are wounded. And Frau Röhm is armed.” Muscles worked in his jaw.

  “I can handle myself. She is only an old woman.”

  He kissed the knot on my head through my hat. “She’s a tough old woman.”

  “Last time,” I said grimly, “she had the element of surprise. This time, I do.”

  He shook his head stubbornly. I stepped away.

  “Do not make us pay the price for your heroism. If I get him in the hangar, I need you on the outside, motor running.”

  He stared at me for a long minute. I held his gaze. He knew I was right.

  “Very well.” I heard how much he hated saying it. He placed the Luger into my satchel and handed me the paper packet of sleeping powder I’d given him at the Adlon, the top carefully folded so that none had spilled out.

  I smiled at the care he had taken with it, even under dire circumstances, and slipped it into my clean dress pocket.

  He drew me into a long sad kiss. I wished that I did not have to leave the shelter of his arms. He pulled back reluctantly and wiped tears from the corners of my eyes with his thumbs. “Take care, Hannah.”

  “You too.” Missing him already, I told him where I would wait in Zürich.

  I slipped my satchel over my shoulder and hefted my suitcase, biting my lips against the pain. He draped the wedding dress, still surprisingly pristine, across my free arm, then touched his hat like a chauffeur. I walked toward the Flughafen Berlin sign, wondering if I would ever see him again.

  Poland was hours away. Much could happen before he got clear. And I too faced dangers. I shook myself. I would not succumb to melancholy and exhaustion. I would see him soon. We would meet in Switzerland and enjoy our scheduled weekend. And whatever came after.

  With a rising sense of dread I limped up the three steps and pushed open the tall glass terminal doors.

  My rib twinged as I set my suitcase and the wedding dress in front of the zeppelin ticket counter and handed the smartly dressed woman my ticket. I had only moments before departure.

  She glanced at my ticket and passport, then my face. “Hello, Frau Zinsli. You and your little boy disappeared so mysteriously last week.”

  “When the boy’s grandmother heard that the zeppelin was docking here, she insisted on a visit.”

  “How lovely.” She ticked my name off her list. “Was it enjoyable?”

  “Exhausting, but rewarding. She said they would meet me here. Have they arrived?” I hoped that they had. If they boarded an airplane instead of a zeppelin, I might never find them.

  She handed me my ticket and passport. “They’re already on board.”

  My knees buckled. I clutched the counter. My guess was correct. I would not think what would have happened if I had guessed wrong. “Will the Santanas be on this flight?”

  Papers rustled as she paged through her roster. “No, I’m afraid not. You must hurry. The zeppelin leaves soon. You should see a glorious sunset from up there tonight. And have a wonderful flight back to South America.”

  “I shall.”

  She gestured toward my suitcase and a boy ran forward to grab it. She gave him a scrap of paper. “Here’s the lady’s cabin number. Leave her bag there, but go quickly.”

  I pulled my hat farther down on my head and marched across the dry grass. Only a week before, three men, now dead, had kidnapped me from this very zeppelin. It felt like another lifetime.

  I stayed behind the boy who carried my suitcase. I wondered if Frau Röhm watched as I climbed the ladder. What was her cabin number? How would I find her?

  It was a needless concern. Frau Röhm faced away from me by the viewing window, Anton beside her. His back was tense, one fist thrust deep into the pocket of his lederhosen. Her veined hand clutched his other wrist. She whispered in his ear, but he shook his head, face set.

  He glanced toward the door and shifted on the balls of his feet, poised to run. I positioned myself in his line of sight and waited. When he looked again, I held up my hand palm out, like an Indian greeting. He grinned.

  I shook my head when he leaned toward me, but flashed him a quick smile. I bent my fingers forward, our sign to wait. He turned back to her.

  I walked to the other side of the viewing area and paced. We had hours before Switzerland. I pulled my wide-brimmed hat lower on my face. I ached to cross the viewing area and hold Anton in my arms, but I had to be patient.

  Frau Röhm must be neutralized first. Our false identities might not stand up to the scrutiny she could bring to bear. Anton fidgeted and squirmed next to her. The zeppelin rose into the sky.

  “Come, Anton,” she finally said in her quavery voice.

  He followed her obediently. If she knew him, that should have made her suspicious.

  My heart pounded. I followed them to their cabin, feet silent on the carpet. Their cabin adjoined mine. They would have to pass my door to leave. They could not get by without my knowing.

  I paced my cabin, the folded-up beds and striped stool achingly familiar. Even the daily Argentinian roses rested in their vase. Red tipped the fragrant white petals, as if the blooms had been dipped in b
lood.

  I cleaned myself up thoroughly. Were they in for the night? I could knock on the door and hope that Anton heard and she did not, but she was a light sleeper. And she was armed, with no compunctions against shooting me.

  When the steward came to fold down the lower bunk I asked him to have someone bring me a late dinner.

  The jingle of a food cart sounded outside my open door. I had to do something soon. Switzerland was close.

  I stepped into the corridor and ran into Dieter, the waiter who had been enamoured of Señora Santana. He pushed a cart with three covered plates.

  “Frau Zinsli!” he said in a delighted voice. “I did not know you were returning on this flight. Are Herr and Frau Santana with you?”

  “Regrettably, they are not.”

  His face fell. “This plate is yours.” He carried it into my cabin and set it next to the roses, carefully aligning the silver on the linen napkin. I longed to tell him to hurry, but kept silent.

  “There you go!” he said.

  I handed him a tip, and stepped out into the corridor. When he pushed the cart away, I stopped it with one hand. It was heavier than it looked.

  “I have a strange request.” I gave him an uncertain smile. “My son Anton is in the next cabin with his grandmother. Is that where you are taking this food?”

  He nodded. They too had ordered dinner. Perfect. I had an idea.

  “May I perhaps borrow your uniform to serve it? It would be a funny surprise.” I injected warmth and humor into my voice, trying to play it as light as the hydrogen that held us aloft. And as dangerous.

  “That is irregular.” Dieter was not a man who liked irregular things.

  “But Señora Santana taught him so many practical jokes. I would like to show him one myself.” My heart pounded, but I forced out a giggle.

  “Did she?” A smile lit his face. “I didn’t know that about her.”

  “She is quite a whimsical woman.” My lie gained strength. “I cannot wait to tell her about this prank in my next letter.”

  “You have her address?” he asked, eyes open wide in surprise.

  I lied again. “Of course.”

  “Would you . . .” His voice trailed off. It was improper to finish the sentence.