A Trace of Smoke (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  “Good day, Hannah,” he said with an outstretched hand. We had not shaken hands since Ernst moved out.

  “Herr von Reiche.” I nodded my head fractionally. I did not take his hand. I would not pretend I liked him in front of his secretary or anyone else.

  “This way, please.” He led me through the door and down a hall with dark wainscoting. When we stepped into his office, it smelled of coffee.

  Another huge Persian rug covered the floor, anchored by a massive desk and a collection of chairs. The desk was suspiciously free of papers, as if he thought I would snoop if given a chance, which, of course, I would.

  “Please seat yourself.” He gestured to an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair across from his desk. It was every bit as unpleasant as I expected, like Rudolf himself.

  “What a large desk,” I said with a smile. “Compensating for something?”

  Rudolf snorted and steepled his fingers, his onyx cuff links clacking against the mahogany desktop.

  I handed him Anton’s identity papers. “Where is his mother?”

  Rudolf skimmed the papers, straightened them out, and tapped them square on his desk. He handed them back, his face expressionless. “His mother is sitting across from me. And what an ugly little drama it is.”

  “Are these forgeries your handiwork? Or were they done by someone in your employ?” I tried to keep my voice level.

  “Tut-tut, Hannah.” The corners of his lips twitched into a smug smile. “They are fully genuine, I assure you. Obtained when the boy was age two with all of the requisite legal documents, including the mother’s legal papers and a very good signature too, I might add.” He chuckled.

  “Except that I am not his mother.” I felt a flush rise in my face.

  “A triviality.” He steepled his fingers again. “That would be harder to disprove than to prove.”

  “Rudolf,” I began. He had control of the conversation, and I did not like it. I wanted only to find Anton’s mother. “You broke the law. Who were his real parents?”

  He cocked his head to one side. “The certificate says Ernst and Hannah Vogel.”

  “Which you and I know to be untrue, perhaps on both counts.”

  He gave me his tight-lipped, thin smile. “Think so?”

  “How long have you known about the boy?”

  “Since I met Ernst.” His eyes darkened with what looked like sadness, although I did not believe it of him. “He once trusted me with everything. Even with this delicate matter.”

  “Why?”

  “He needed papers for the boy, and the boy was already two years old.” Rudolf fished a lace handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. “And he needed money to support him.”

  “He supported Anton?” I said in surprise. “Why?”

  “Because he was a fatherless little boy.” Rudolf wiped his nose. “And your brother is a kind soul, underneath it all.”

  “Have you met the boy?” I shifted on the uncomfortable chair.

  “Once or twice.” Rudolf folded the handkerchief in fourths and stuck it back in his pocket. “How is the little tyke dealing with the death?”

  I stared at him, open-mouthed. He knew Ernst was dead. He’d been pretending all along. My eyes darted to the closed door. Did he plan to kill me in his office?

  “Don’t look so astonished,” he said. “Weren’t you aware that his mother was dead? She died last night.”

  “I—I—,” I stuttered out the words. I knew nothing, apparently. But I did know enough to lie. “I never met her. Or the boy.”

  “She was a prostitute,” he said. “I identified her body at the morgue only this morning.”

  “Why you?”

  “She had my card on her person when she died.”

  Last night I had seen Francis give a package to a prostitute. Perhaps she was the one who had died. Would Rudolf have been so careless as to include a calling card in Francis’s package? “Why is that?” I asked. “Did you give her one?”

  Rudolf ignored me. “Could have been a scandal, but I was having dinner with Count Nessler and friends last night, so my alibi is impeccable.”

  “Indeed,” I said, grateful that he had not seen me at the El Dorado last night. So he lied to me, although I would not have known it from his demeanor. I studied him. Sometimes you learned more about a source from the lies they told than from the truth that they hid. Why was he lying? Had Francis been running an errand for him, or acting on his own? Was the woman I saw last night Anton’s mother?

  “Frequenting female prostitutes does my reputation good. My father would approve.” The corners of his thin lips curled.

  “How did she die?” Francis had left her alive, but he could have returned.

  “Cocaine overdose, they believe.” He glanced at the door. “I did not tell the police about the boy. That helps no one. Has someone delivered him to Ernst?”

  “No. Ernst hasn’t seen the boy in days.” Or longer.

  “They will. Her friends know that’s where the money is.” He paused. “How did you get the birth certificate?”

  “From a source,” I said, shading the truth. I would not give Rudolf a scrap of information I did not have to.

  “Your brother, you mean.” Rudolf shrugged. “Tell Ernst to bring him to me immediately, and we can talk. Now,” he said, standing. I stood as well. “Where is your brother? Did he send you in here to blackmail me about these papers?”

  I smiled. “Why Herr von Reiche, how could you think such a thing?”

  “I won’t pay him for this.” He took out his gold pocket watch. “I’ll drag your name through the mud with his. An incestuous child. Is that what you want your friends at the paper to hear?”

  I kept my voice light when I answered, waving my hand around the office that his father’s money provided. “I think you have more to lose than I.”

  “Not as much as you might think.” He shut his watch with a click. “Do not tempt me. And instruct Ernst to come in person for these little exchanges. Or is he afraid to see me?”

  “Why would he be afraid of you, Rudolf?” I placed my palms flat on his cool, smooth desk and leaned toward him. “Is there any danger?”

  “There is always danger, my little treasure.” He leaned close enough to kiss me. “As Ernst well knows.”

  A chill went down my spine, but I smiled at Rudolf and walked out of his office with my head held high.

  12

  I kept my brave façade until I was out on the street, out of Rudolf’s sight. There I leaned against the cool stone wall and took a few deep breaths. Rudolf was a powerful man to anger.

  I combed my fingers through my hair as I walked to the subway station. So, according to Rudolf, Ernst had fathered a child with Sweetie Pie. But why had Rudolf helped to give the child a legitimate mother, even if it was me? Why would Anton need a fake birth certificate at all?

  Perhaps Anton’s mother was still alive. I owed it to the boy to find out. Rudolf was too accomplished a liar for me to accept what he said at face value.

  I boarded a subway bound for Alexanderplatz where, only the day before yesterday, I had started this nightmare.

  When I arrived at the police station, I raced down the long Hall of the Unnamed Dead, never looking at the spot where I’d seen Ernst’s photograph, hoping that I would not see Kommissar Lang. He would surely want to follow up on his refused dinner invitation. I focused in front of me, seeing the door at the end, the polished floor.

  Today, I would not ask about the pictures, but after I had my identification back and Ernst’s killer was found, I would do a piece on the Hall of the Unnamed Dead for the paper. Fritz was not responsible for posting the pictures, but he would know who was. The people of Berlin needed to be reminded about this hall, how it worked, and why it was needed. Perhaps a few would come and find a lost loved one. Perhaps a few would try to change a world that allowed so many people to die alone and unclaimed.

  I paused in front of the sturdy oak door to Fritz’s office. It would not d
o to barge in looking as if I’d just finished the Six Day Bicycle Races. I smoothed my hair, patted perspiration off my forehead with a plain handkerchief, and waited until my breathing returned to normal. I straightened my shoulders and walked in, my polite smile ready.

  Behind the tall counter that ran along the front of the room sat a row of desks and typewriters, with men pecking out reports. It looked like the newsroom, except that the typists were all men. And they wore newer suits. Bureaucrats earn more than reporters.

  I checked each one. Kommissar Lang was not there. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Hannah,” Fritz called when I caught his eye. “Back so soon?”

  He closed a file cabinet and walked to the counter. His smelly cigar hung from the corner of his mouth. Bettina hated his cigars, so he only smoked them at work. I wondered how he would react when he got home tonight and discovered I had dropped an unclaimed child off at his house for a day of play with his daughter. But I dared not mention it to him. I was unsure I could lie to him, not if he started asking the right questions. So I told him nothing, even though I knew he would never fully trust me again.

  “You know I can’t keep away from you, Fritz.”

  Fritz shook his large, close-cropped head and studied me. “Feeling better, are you?”

  “Much,” I said, glad that I’d caught my breath outside the door. “I needed rest.”

  “And chicken soup,” he said. “Bettina makes a wonderful chicken soup with dumplings. Puts you right back on your feet.”

  “I am a terrible cook,” I lied. Bettina used my chicken soup recipe, but I would keep her secrets. “I have to stay on my feet without the soup.”

  “Pity.” He took out his cigar and shook it at me. “Stop by and have some of Bettina’s. She’d like to fatten you up and pair you off.”

  “Like a lamb to slaughter.” I smiled my first real smile since I’d entered the building.

  “So far, you’ve gotten away every time, lambkin.” He chuckled, his gray eyes twinkling.

  “I am a fast runner.”

  “But do you always have to run?” He put his cigar between his lips and puffed. The smoke smelled stronger than cigarettes, and I could see why Bettina hated it. “Kommissar Lang asked me about you. He’s a good man. Perhaps even a little lovestruck.”

  “He’s a member of the SS,” I said, louder than I intended.

  “Many men are.” He chewed on the cigar end. “And more join every day. Soon you’ll have no one to date if you don’t date Nazis.”

  “I’d rather be alone.”

  He shook his head. “What’s the real reason you’re here, besides my irresistible nature? Or perhaps a chance to see Kommissar Lang?”

  “I am doing a piece on drug overdoses and prostitutes,” I said. “Any recents?”

  “Other girls come in here asking about family and friends,” he said. “With you, always the story.”

  “A girl has to eat.”

  “Chicken soup if she can get it.” He ambled back to the file cabinets. He retrieved a few gray folders. Fritz had an amazing knack for finding the right cases for me. When he went on vacation I never got anything useful out of the office.

  “Some of these are old.” He slapped folders down on the counter in front of me. “But I never know which one will have the best details for you.”

  “You are a born newspaperman, Fritz.” I opened the first folder, aware of his eyes on me. It was about a fourteen-year-old girl named Gretel who overdosed on heroin. I sighed and skimmed through the details. I had to look interested in all of them, but I also wanted to get out of there before Kommissar Lang came in. Lovestruck or no, he was no fool. He might have matched up Ernst’s folder with the picture I’d been standing near.

  Four folders in, I found her. Alias: Sweetie Pie. Name: Unknown. She looked like the woman I saw with Francis last night, but I could not be certain. It had been dark.

  I sat the folder on the counter and took out my notebook. I skimmed the rest of the report. Age: early twenties. That made her anywhere from fourteen to eighteen when she gave birth to Anton. Cause of death: cocaine overdose. Her body had been found in the public toilets at Wittenbergplatz. My knees weakened, and I clutched the counter. I had been one of the last people to see her alive.

  There were no coincidences, Paul used to say. Only reporters who were not smart enough to see the whole picture. Francis had seen her last night. He had given her money to buy the drugs that had killed her. But why?

  Occupation: prostitute. The police had no name, they had no origin, no next of kin, and no address. How had she managed to practice her trade for all these years without anyone knowing her real name? If Rudolf had known more about her, he had kept it from the police. Nowhere did the report mention that she’d been identified by Rudolf von Reiche, so I assumed that must have cost him a bit for a bribe. She was listed as single with no children.

  And, like that, Anton became an orphan. An invisible one.

  I turned the folder upside down so Fritz could read it. “Tell me about this one.”

  Fritz glanced at the report. “Nasty piece of work, that one,” he said. “I was here when they brought her in this morning. Chockfull of diseases, I imagine. Sores everywhere. Bone thin too.”

  I nodded and massaged my temples. Anton had no mother and no father. Anton’s only relatives were me and Ursula, assuming that the dead Sweetie Pie was his real mother and Ernst his real father. I looked down at the photograph. What kind of childhood had Anton experienced so far?

  Fritz lifted the picture. “I never look at these,” he said. “Luckily, it’s not my job.”

  I took it out of his hands and studied it. The woman lay on the white tile floor of a bathroom stall, trapped between the toilet and wall. Her black hair pillowed her head. She wore knee-high lace-up leather boots and thigh-high dark stockings with a rip above the knee. The rip was so sad that I stared at it instead of her pale face, turned artificially toward the camera. I was grateful to see no resemblance between her and Anton.

  “There’s not much information on her.”

  Fritz nodded. “Maybe not from around here. And not all of the local girls have a history with us.”

  “She looks so old to be in her early twenties.”

  “That kind of life burns them out young.” Fritz looked down at the picture. “I don’t think she got much chicken soup either.”

  “Or gave out any,” I said, without thinking.

  “You think she had children?” Fritz asked. “Her kind gets them cut out before they are ever born.”

  True. Pregnancy was bad for business and a child such a burden. Why did she carry him full term? Perhaps it was before her life on the street? Perhaps her parents cast her out because she was pregnant? Poor Anton, losing both parents within a few days of each other. A coincidence, or something more sinister? Was he in danger? Was I?

  I slid the report back into the file with shaking fingers.

  “You’re taking this one a bit seriously,” said Fritz. “I’ve seen you look at worse than this before. Did you know her?”

  “No,” I said, glad that I did not have to try and lie to Fritz when he asked a direct question. “Getting soft in my old age.”

  “You have a long way to go to get soft,” Fritz said. “But you’re softening. I read your story on the little girls in that rape case. It was refreshing to see someone writing about the victims instead of analyzing the poor, sad perpetrator.”

  “Thank you.” I skimmed the rest of the files to disguise my interest in Sweetie Pie. I’d never concentrated on prostitutes before, unless they were murdered. They died many other ways as well: malnutrition, tuberculosis, syphilis. Most had names, real names, next of kin, and real addresses. But Sweetie Pie was not the only one cut off from everyone and everything.

  I tried to take notes for Anton, but there was nothing I wanted to tell him about how his mother had lived and died.

  “Useful bits?” Fritz asked.

  I han
ded Fritz back the folders with a smile. “Not many. But perhaps I can turn them into a story.”

  “Need anything else?”

  I took a deep breath and willed my voice to sound calm. “How about those floaters you told me about the other day? How many of those do you have, say over the last two weeks?” Ernst was sure to be included in that group. I concentrated on keeping calm, but my heart raced, and my breath was short and quick. It hurt to call Ernst a floater.

  Fritz turned and headed to the file cabinets. “I’ll take a look.”

  I pretended to take notes in my notebook about the prostitute files I’d seen, trying to distract myself while Fritz opened cabinets and shuffled through folders.

  “Here you go.” Fritz set a few more folders in front of me. “More light reading.”

  “Thank you.” I forced my hands to slow down and open each stiff folder in turn, eyes darting to the photograph. The first one was not Ernst.

  “I’ll leave you to your work,” Fritz said. “I have reports to type. Let me know when you’re done. And, Hannah, take a day off. You don’t look well.”

  He walked across the room to the shiny black typewriter. He was so relaxed and solid, I felt suddenly bereft.

  The next folder was Ernst’s. I placed my green notebook on top of it, as if taking notes, and slid the picture between the pages. I hoped Fritz would not notice that the picture was missing. It was not his job. I copied details from the report to my notebook mechanically, trying not to read them.

  But I did read them. I became Peter Weill, the detached reporter. Ernst had been killed by a single stab to the chest. It’s rare for a person to die of a single stab wound. A murderer with military training, perhaps? Or a doctor? A policeman? Or a very lucky stroke? It seemed most likely that the person had military training, but that was no help. Almost every man over thirty-five had received military training for the war.

  Hard to believe he’d let an armed man get so close to him. Ernst was no fool. But there were no bruises on his body to indicate that he’d fought back. No bruises, no cuts to his hands. Except for the stab wound, there were no marks on his body. Did he know his murderer?