Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Their one-way ticket out entered the club a few days later. Shortly before noon the place was finally empty. Early evening would bring the first guests looking for a good time, but afternoons were usually quiet. Only the stale odors of dirty ashtrays and spilled booze lingered downstairs, permeating table linens and draperies. Occasionally a customer might descend nursing a hangover after a night spent upstairs and would leave in a hurry, but there was little else to disturb the lethargy of the joint.

  On Brandt’s request, Isabel had left the front door unlocked and waited in the main lounge, nervously smoking, still upset over what she had witnessed at the river. He was finally bringing the friend who could get them safely out of the city by private car. Brandt suggested she meet him and their savior alone and wearing her most attractive dress. Toni had come through again, this time with a short-skirted number that showcased Isabel’s legs. Saying good-bye to such a trustworthy friend had been difficult, but Toni handled it in her usual casual manner. “Come back to see me when we’re free of the Nazi bastards, okay?”

  Now Isabel chain-smoked in anticipation of meeting Brandt’s mystery guest. Karl concealed himself behind a wooden stage curtain. He would observe through holes used to display breasts or other appendages of beauty contestants while hiding faces to avoid undue influence on the cabaret audience. Although they trusted Brandt, their growing uncertainty demanded a backup plan in every case. Karl knelt on the boards of the stage, his blade ready.

  The detective strolled in with a nattily-dressed gent in chalk-striped suit and high-winged collar. The dandy set his walking stick and bowler atop one of the tables and made himself at home. Isabel stubbed out her smoke and came forward. Brandt introduced her to Anton Kessler, and Isabel recognized a regular she’d occasionally seen in the old days at the club when she and Toni had been an item. Kessler was reputed to run shady enterprises in the underworld of Berlin West, so Isabel was surprised to find the notorious gangster and man-about-town completely at ease around a top cop. She had heard from Toni that this swell was particularly popular for his free-spending ways and his affinity for Gougnettes, expensive call girls who indulged either sex.

  Brandt immediately explained the odd partnership: “Herr Kessler and I go way back—a few scrapes in our youth made us comrades, and we fought our way out of mutual trouble often enough. Anton took a somewhat different route to his dubious success, but his heart’s good and his word’s his bond.” He lit up a cigar and chuckled. “Besides, I have enough on this criminal bastard to take advantage of his friendship from time to time.” Kessler, unfazed by either the joke or the insulting moniker, grinned at Isabel. He took in her face and legs in obvious appreciation. Toni’s dress worked its magic and the boyish haircut accented her high cheekbones. He shook her hand.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Herr Kessler?” She glanced toward Brandt for reassurance.

  “Well, my dear, the pleasure’s all mine. Our beloved inspector here says you wish to leave our fair city in a rather secretive manner. If there’s one thing I know well, it’s how to by-pass more conventional exits and means of transport.” He turned his grin on Brandt. “My detective friend knows nothing about any of this, of course.”

  Brandt blew cigar smoke high over his shoulder and feigned distraction, muttering: “About what?”

  Isabel wondered if she should bring Karl out from hiding. “We would be most appreciative of your help, Herr Kessler.”

  Kessler appeared surprised and pivoted to Brandt. “We? I only recall hearing of this lovely lady’s need for a ride, my friend, and since she’s all I imagined and more, I thought perhaps to accompany her myself.”

  Brandt laughed through another cloud of smoke. “Do you really think my trust extends to allowing a woman of such class to fall into your clutches? The lady has a traveling companion, a young colleague of mine, by the way, and most capable of protecting her honor.” He tapped off the ash. “Just in case you get any ideas, he must be around here somewhere.” Brandt made a show of glancing around the empty lounge.

  “Then it’s my loss, Gregor.” He grinned again at Isabel. “Can you leave this evening, miss?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Excellent. Consider it done. Meet my driver in the first alleyway a block to the north as you leave the club. Eight p.m. exactly. A dark blue sedan will take you as far as Magdeburg. From there you’re on your own.”

  “My sincere gratitude, Herr Kessler.” She shook his hand again. “You’re a life-saver.”

  He hesitated releasing her hand. Bending closer, he whispered: “And should you ever return to the city unaccompanied, feel free to get in touch.” He handed her a business card. “I believe you and I might have much to enjoy in common.” He winked with obvious intent. “Now, if you will excuse me, the inspector and I have a luncheon engagement.” He reached for his bowler and cane.

  She walked them to the door. “And thank you so much, Detective Brandt, for everything you’ve done for us.”

  “A pleasure, Fräulein. May you and Karl find happiness wherever you two end up.” He took a thick envelope from his breast pocket and put it in her hand. “You’ll find these useful, I expect, and I’ll be sending your friend Lemmon a clipping on the recovery of your friend’s remains. Let’s hope it closes that door permanently.”

  “I’m most grateful.”

  He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Now travel safely.”

  The men stepped out under the overcast sky. Brandt turned and whispered to Isabel: “You should probably release our friend from behind that screen.” With a chuckle he rejoined Kessler as a dark sedan pulled to the curb. Sliding into the rear seat, he called out to her one last time: “And tell him I’ll miss his fine work. I wish we had more of his kind.”

  Isabel remained beneath the portico until the car disappeared at the corner. Karl already waited in the lounge. She opened the envelope and extracted two slim document bundles. His newly-forged identity card listed him as a journeyman printer. The photo did him justice, showing off the strong cleft in his chin and the deep-set eyes. She couldn’t help stealing a sideways glance at his right ear, still damaged from her brick attack. Would it never heal? No matter. He was still a handsome man. A letter from the printers’ local put him on assignment to an affiliated union in Munich.

  Her gray booklet identified her as Isabel Friedrich, a secretary and native to Dresden. She recognized the stapled photo as one taken for the municipal police file when she had registered as a foreign correspondent in Berlin a few years prior. It was clearly time to let her hair grow out again to match the picture. As she handed Karl his papers, a handwritten note fluttered to the ground. It listed several names and contact numbers in other cities, along with the notation that Brandt had alerted each to a possible future contact from trustworthy parties.

  Karl scrutinized his packet beneath the pink shade of the table lamp. He ran his finger carefully over each page, holding the paper over the bulb while looking for watermarks, following the contours of an official-looking stamp covering a third of his photo. “Young Becker’s work and adequate,” he judged at last, reaching for Isabel’s papers to give them the same treatment. “But not even close to my own.” He smiled at her, his grin infectious. “I pride myself on expert forgery and counterfeiting.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Berlin, Germany

  December 1941

  The well-worn clothing did suggest a recent financial challenge, though surely it was a ruse. Maturity suited him. The wrinkles at his eyes were deeper, but he’d always been a smiler and the ruggedness only added to his looks. Those remarkable blue eyes recalled better times and could still draw her in if she gave them half a chance. One aspect of his face did show a marked alteration: the once patrician nose was off-kilter from some cruel blow.

  Beyond those physical changes, she sensed an unexpected toughness and new confidence. The naïve Ryan she’d seduced was nowhere to be seen. Sitting beside her was a man with a poten
tially dangerous edge, honed on cruelties such as she herself had experienced. This new Ryan Lemmon would be good for what she had in mind. What Brandt had in mind. But would he be open to what would be demanded of him? Sharing her story had been the first step. He had taken it well so far. She valued the compassion shown, the understanding for what she had done to him and to others. To Doro.

  His reappearance had certainly come as a blow. Brandt had known enough to deliver the news in person. She had laughed to hear Ryan was likely an American spy, but her laughter had rung hollow. Inwardly, she was still guilt-ridden by what she’d put him through and sensed in herself an unexpected longing for their lost times. Brandt told of Ryan’s inscrutable robbery of the Reichsbank. He had taken something of such value that it threatened the self-satisfied lives of the Nazi bigwigs, and his face now graced the “most wanted” list of the Gestapo. The flyer showed a decent likeness, and she was pleased her old flame hadn’t lost his sense of adventure. Perhaps she had contributed in some small way to his bold transformation.

  And now, for whatever reason, Ryan was living near the Alex, passing himself off as a reporter for an American magazine, or—were one to believe his forged papers—a German engineer with the Todt Organization helping Hitler create a new Berlin. Either way, Brandt had him over a barrel. Ryan might participate willingly by appealing to his country’s best interests, or through his sense of what was right. But first she had to confess everything she had experienced before she could win him over to their cause. Her disappearance had hurt him badly, more than she had expected, but he seemed to be handling the revelations well. She trusted that his suspicions or revulsion would melt away when confronted by all the horrors she had endured. In the end, she hoped to win forgiveness rather than recrimination.

  ❖

  Munich, Germany

  1931 – 1933

  Escaping Hallinger’s reach had been fraught with tension, yet oddly uneventful. Anton Kessler’s driver was a slender young man with an acne problem. Isabel’s flirtations convinced him to forgo Magdeburg in favor of the far longer haul into the heart of Bavaria. In Munich they contacted the local printers union and were well received, thanks to Brandt’s introduction, and within weeks had joined a socialist cell. Applying his impressive knowledge of printing, Karl soon found a journeyman position in a small print shop off Ulmerstrasse. Working after hours, he forged new identities and they dutifully registered with the authorities as a respectable married couple. A legal marriage would wait until the Nazis were thwarted.

  Hugo Haussmann, the owner of the shop, was nearing retirement. He had fought honorably in the Great War and paid for his courage with lungs scarred by mustard gas and a weak left arm. A bullet had rendered his elbow a liability. He rarely appeared at the business, preferring to spend his days at a tavern closer to both home and ailing wife. Hugo recognized Karl’s skills, shared his leftist political leanings, and gladly surrendered day-to-day operations to the young man who produced beautiful customized stationery, handbills, and advertising posters. By day. At night Karl secretly printed anti-Nazi pamphlets. For his legitimate labors he pocketed a decent 50 marks a week, allowing him to maintain a new household with Isabel while still working to undermine the National Socialists.

  Leisure time didn’t sit well with Isabel. Having always thrived on new challenges and expressing her own voice, she missed the action and resolved to maintain some semblance of her former life. Soon she was penning searing anonymous attacks on the Nazis and helping covertly distribute the political tracts rolling off Karl’s nocturnal press. In sharp contrast to such bold activity, women in Munich who held no secretarial position or had no shop to tend were expected to focus on running their households and raising their children. Thus it was a great surprise when a maternal sensibility began to grow in Isabel alongside an unplanned child. The parents-to-be were delighted.

  March of 1933 ended with hints of a warm spring to come, but the couple’s mood was chilled by unmistakable and immediate threats to the Weimar Republic. Hitler had gained control of the Reichstag and much of Bavaria appeared to ignore the looming tyranny. On the last day of the month Isabel set out to cross the city on trams and buses. At each transfer she left behind political tracts for others to find. Karl would work till evening fulfilling commercial orders, then remain at the shop late into the night. A major print job was on rush to benefit their cause. She would drop by after hours with sandwiches and beer.

  The socialists were taking to the streets that night to plaster the central city with posters decrying the growing menace. It was a bold and dangerous maneuver with pro-Nazi propaganda and support ramping up, but without full commitment there would be no stopping the fascist tide. They would have their hands full wrapping up the protest under cover of darkness and they knew the risks. Rumor had it a man in the Schwabing cell had already died after a brutal beating, and ever fewer dissidents were stepping forward to risk all for human dignity and self-government.

  It was a hard-pressed and somewhat taciturn Karl who raised the metal shutter for Isabel around seven that evening. The soles of her feet ached from blanketing the town with pamphlets and the metallic smell of ink and oiled machinery left her queasy, recalling her bouts with morning sickness. But the concern on Karl’s face seemed unrelated to her obvious exhaustion. She took a rag and brusquely wiped sweat-smeared ink from his chin. “Why so glum, darling? We’ll finish in time, right?” She set down the paper bag holding his dinner.

  “Yes, of course, love. But it’ll be a rush, as usual.” He paused to allow the apprentice to peel the damp poster off the press and lay it on the rack to dry. “You may have to feed me while we work.” He reached for a cloth and wiped the platen.

  “No problem, and I won’t let Ludi starve either.” She emptied the contents of her sack on the table alongside a growing stack of finished posters. Karl’s teenaged trainee smiled in gratitude. They took several quick bites of liver sausage on rye and set the rest aside for later. Ludi, applying fresh ink to the platen, also appeared down and distracted. She opened two bottles of beer and set them near the clattering machine, and both took greedy swigs before returning to the heaving press.

  Isabel climbed onto a stool to watch them work. Karl was clearly hiding something worrisome. After several anxious minutes she broached the subject: “All right, out with it, Liebling. What’s eating you?”

  His attempt at a grin failed. “You read me like a book, Izz.”

  “An easy read, my love.” She hoped her smile would ease his concerns. “What’s going on?”

  He stilled the press. “We’re down three tonight. Some SA assholes mouthed off at a beerhall this afternoon and went after a Jew out front, and a couple of our guys stepped in.”

  Her smile disappeared. “Which of ours?” Isabel knew each cell member well, knew their wives and husbands, partners and families. “Are they all right?”

  Karl gave the names with respect bordering on reverence: “Hans-Gustav, Georg and Little Max.” His fists were clenched. “Hans-Gustav and Georg should be okay—a broken arm, bad bruises. Georg may have busted ribs. It’ll all take time.”

  She feared what was coming next. “And Little Max?” A skinny boy, he was barely sixteen and undersized for his age, shallow-chested but as bold and committed as the older ones.

  His eyes cut to Ludi, a close friend of young Max. “Still unconscious is all we know for sure. His mother’s with him at the hospital now. They thrashed him pretty good and he’ll lose an eye—one sonofabitch took a blade to his face…” He choked up. “But that’s not the worst of it. They aren’t sure he’ll pull through.”

  “Oh my God!” She nearly stumbled as she came off the stool raging. “But he’s only a boy!” Her jaw trembled. “Those cretins have no decency, no shame.” She wiped tears with the same rag she’d used on her husband’s chin.

  Karl put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re not going to like what comes next, darling.” He hesitated. “Ludi and I are stepping in for th
em tonight.” He hushed her instant protest with a finger to her lips. “We’ve no choice: the posters go up no matter what.”

  She wrenched herself loose from his arm and her voice rose: “Bad enough you spend every minute of every day in here.” The reproaches multiplied: “Forget me, forget my needs! What the devil will it mean for our baby if you end up crippled, or worse? Some of those bastards carry pistols, you know. Must our child grow up fatherless?” Isabel crossed her arms in defiance. “If you’re going I go with you, and there’s nothing you can say or do to stop me!”

  He tried again to offer comfort but she pulled away in protest and turned her back to him. “Come on, Isabel. The risk’s too great for you and our baby. If nothing else, think of our child!”

  “You’ve just made my point, Karl. It’s too great for all three of us! If Germany falls to these brutes none of us is safe, not even this baby.” Her hands cradled the bulge of her belly. “If you’re going to put yourself on the line, then so will I. This child will learn exactly what his parents are made of.”

  Ludi had retreated behind the press, wiping his hands with a rag while awaiting resolution of the standoff. Karl leaned against the table and bowed his head as she quietly fumed. Finally, he turned back to her. “You’re right, love. I can’t expect less of you than I do of myself. We’re in this together, come what may. Our lives are worthless anyway if we lose this thing.” He took her in his arms. “What kind of world will be left to our baby if we let the bastards have their way?” He called over to the waiting Ludi: “It’s decided then. We all go out together. We win together.”

  By eleven their comrades began to arrive in small groups. The rear door to the alley was unlocked for the new arrivals. Lookouts stood watch at each end of the street in case word had slipped in idle conversation or someone had snitched. The chatter was halfhearted. By now all had heard about the losses. Minutes before midnight the last of the posters came off the press, and everyone helped roll up the broad sheets, fill glue pots, and assemble the long-handled brushes. Just past twelve their cell leader, Matthias, distributed hand-sketched maps and assigned key locations in the targeted streets. There was little discussion. Each activist knew the gravity of the coming deed.