A Trace of Smoke (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  Time got away from me, and it was early evening when, full and lazy, we stepped out of the store with our purchases. The store was closing, and they locked the door behind us.

  I looked out from the archway at the dark, overcast sky. Rain pelted down.

  Anton squeezed my hand. “Soldiers.”

  A sea of brown uniforms surrounded the store’s entrance. Men’s faces shone orange in the flames from their torches. “Not soldiers,” I answered, struggling to keep fear from my voice. “Nazis.”

  I bent down to look into Anton’s frightened blue eyes. “Do not let go of my hand unless I fall down. If I fall, run. Take a taxi to Aunt Bettina’s. I will come for you.”

  “A brave does not leave his fallen friends.”

  “A brave must obey his chief,” I said.

  “I do not know the way.”

  I wrote Bettina’s address on a twenty Reichsmark bill and tucked it into the pocket of his new trousers. “Give this to the taxi driver and he will know where to go.”

  Anton nodded, and together we stepped out of the protective shelter of the arch. I pushed forward, the shopping bag with the ring and coins heavy in my hand. Cold rain blew into my face.

  At least a hundred Nazis stood between us and the street, carrying signs with carefully printed Nazi slogans, such as “Don’t buy from Jews” and “Germans, protect yourselves.” Nazi flags, red with a white circle and black swastika in the middle, waved in the wind. I strode through the crowd, head held high.

  A round man dressed in a shopkeeper’s suit pushed his way to us. “Don’t you know that Germans need that money?” Spittle sprayed my face. My shoulder crashed into his, and I slipped on wet cobblestones. I caught my balance, kept going. Anton clutched my sweaty hand.

  “Are you a Jew or only a Jew lover?”

  We were halfway through the crowd. The only way out was through. The crowd sang the “Horst Wessel Song,” the unofficial Nazi anthem.

  “Hold high the banner” rang out. At least I no longer heard individual jeers. The street was clear ahead. We were almost free.

  A strong hand wrenched the shopping bag from my hand. I gasped. The ring was in that bag.

  “Anton,” I shouted down to him. “Run. I must go back.”

  I tried to pry my hand out of Anton’s grasp, but he would not let go. His round eyes stared at me, and he shook his head.

  “Anton,” I said. “Let go. Go to Aunt Bettina’s.”

  The crowd closed around us, chanting. Anton would not let go.

  “The chief orders it,” I yelled above the chants. If he would not go to Bettina’s, I had to send him somewhere. “Run to the advertising pillar with the red words.”

  Anton released my hand and darted between the legs of the men surrounding us. I lost sight of him immediately.

  “Prove that you are German,” shouted a harsh voice. “Show us papers.”

  I thought of my identity papers, safely traveling to America.

  Had Anton gotten free? A brown wall of men crowded in on me. “Germans protect yourselves,” they chanted.

  Bettina would see him taken care of, if only he could make it to her. I raised my arms to protect my face.

  “Halt,” shouted a voice. “She is a German woman, and she is not to be treated that way.”

  I turned toward the voice, but I could not tell who had said it.

  “Hannah,” said a different voice at my shoulder. “It’s Wilhelm.”

  Wilhelm, Ernst’s friend from El Dorado. Let him bear witness, if nothing else.

  He held my shopping bag and wore a Nazi uniform and a reassuring smile. I was dizzy from relief and would have fallen, had there been room. He would get me out of the crowd, back to Anton. Wilhelm hooked his hand under my elbow.

  A tall, muscular man with close-cropped blond hair shouted, “Enough.”

  With a military precision more frightening than their mob behavior moments before, the singers turned away from us. Wilhelm and I walked to the other side of the street unmolested while the mob waited for the next victim to come through the doors.

  Anton darted out from behind the pillar and threw his arms around my knees. I bent and held his trembling body, stroking his hair. “We are safe now,” I said. His heart thundered against my chest, racing like a bird’s.

  I glanced over his head at the brawny man who had called off the crowd. He was the same bull-like man who had struck Wilhelm and marched him out of El Dorado.

  “We are safe,” I repeated and stood, lifting Anton in my arms. He wrapped his arms around my neck and buried his face in my shoulder.

  “Of course you are,” said Wilhelm. “We don’t harm women and children.”

  “Thank you, Wilhelm,” I said. “For helping us. Who spoke?”

  “My father,” Wilhelm gloated. “He’s in charge of the demonstration. He is very highly placed in the SA.”

  “I am grateful that he let us go.” I stroked Anton’s hair. His heartbeat slowed. He raised his head and looked at Wilhelm.

  “Naturally, Hannah.” Wilhelm took the other shopping bag from me. “Please let me see you safely home.”

  “We’ll take a taxi.” I never rode in taxis. They were too expensive, but now I had money. Even though it was a few short blocks through elegant shops to the subway station at Potsdamerplatz, I wanted to get away from the Nazis immediately. I scanned the wide street for a black automobile with a familiar checkerboard stripe on the side. A street car rattled by in a flash of red and cream, but otherwise the usually busy street was deserted. No one wanted to get too close to a Nazi protest.

  I walked down the street, carrying Anton.

  “You have great courage.” Wilhelm offered Anton his hand to shake. “I am Wilhelm.”

  “A brave has the courage he needs.” Anton did not take his arms from around my neck to shake Wilhelm’s hand.

  “But why should he need it?” I asked. “To buy clothes and eat cakes?” Wilhelm had the good grace to look ashamed. “We don’t want to frighten good German citizens.”

  “Yet you do.” I raised my hand for a taxi. Anton tightened his arms on my neck. A taxi drove by without stopping. I swore under my breath.

  Wilhelm raised his hand, and a taxi stopped in front of us, its top raised against rain. He climbed into the front seat and turned to face us. I gave my address to the driver and climbed into the back, setting Anton next to me. He squeezed my hand. I glanced out the window at the automobiles passing us. It felt strange to be in an automobile. Decadent.

  “You shouldn’t buy from the Jews,” Wilhelm said. “Not when so many German storekeepers are going hungry.”

  “And what of the Jewish ones? Do they not need to eat?”

  “They will find a way,” Wilhelm said. “They always do.”

  “Are you a warrior?” Anton asked. His grip on my hand loosened.

  “Yes,” Wilhelm answered with a smile.

  “No,” I said at the same moment.

  “I wear a uniform,” Wilhelm explained, ignoring me. “And I am part of a unit. We are trying to restore Germany to greatness.”

  “Regardless of the cost.” I pulled Anton closer to my side.

  “There is always a cost.”

  “And no cost is too great when others are paying it.”

  Wilhelm turned to Anton. “And I have weapons. Would you like to see my knife? It’s an SA dagger. Only special warriors get them.” He looked down at his waist.

  “Where is it?” Anton asked excitedly, peering over the seat at Wilhelm while still holding on to my hand.

  “I can’t find it,” Wilhelm said, looking back up. “It must be at home.”

  Anton looked unconvinced, but he sat back down.

  “How is your brother?” Wilhelm turned to me. “Still off with his soldier man?”

  “I have not seen him today.” I glanced at rain-slick streets. Ghostly light reflected from the tall streetlamps, but it was more comforting than orange Nazi torches.

  “Do you know where
he is?”

  “Perhaps you are correct, and he is with the soldier you said he went to meet,” I said, thinking of the ring. “Was the soldier a Nazi?”

  “Maybe a Nazi. Maybe a member of the regular army.” Wilhelm pulled at his too-red lower lip. “Ernst would not give me details. He said it would be too dangerous to tell me.”

  My heart quickened. “Did you believe him?”

  “I think it was a game, but I don’t know, and I don’t care. Does he miss me?”

  “I imagine so.” I tousled Anton’s hair, and he looked up at me, surprised.

  “So he doesn’t talk about me?” Wilhelm asked.

  “I don’t see him often.”

  “More than I, I bet.” He stared out of the window, a muscle twitching in his cheek.

  “I am sorry, Wilhelm.”

  “I thought we were so close in school,” he said. “Did he tell you?”

  “Not much.”

  “He used to defend me against the other boys. He is a powerful fighter. Once he even stood up to my father.”

  “What happened?”

  “My father beat—” Wilhelm looked uncertainly at Anton. “Ernst did the best he could, but my father is much stronger than he.”

  Ernst often came home from school badly beaten. I wondered if one of those beatings came from Wilhelm’s father. Ernst never would tell me who was responsible, adhering to the schoolboy honor code.

  “Thank you again,” I said. “For helping us.”

  Wilhelm stared at me and shrugged. “You can trust me not to let anything happen to you.”

  “You are a trustworthy person.”

  He smiled wryly. “Unlike your brother, I try.”

  “Choose your friends wisely,” I said. “Or you will violate that trust.”

  We rode the rest of the way home in silence. When we arrived, Wilhelm insisted on paying for the taxi. I let him. Let his Nazi money get us home safe. If the Nazis had not frightened me so, I would have taken the subway.

  As Anton and I walked up the stairs to the front door, I felt Wilhelm’s eyes on me. Mitzi marched imperiously next to us, flicking her tail and staying one step away from Anton.

  “That was an adventure,” I said to Anton. “Let’s check the mail.”

  I pried my hand out of Anton’s grasp to open the front door.

  “We’re safe now,” I said.

  We walked across the lobby to the mailbox. I had not checked my mail for a few days. Sometimes I would receive a check for poems or drawings I had sent to different magazines. When I opened my mailbox a package the size of a brick fell out. Anton picked it up and handed it me.

  I had not expected a package. “Thank you.” I glanced down at the address written on the simple brown paper. It was addressed to me in Ernst’s flowery handwriting. The outside read, “Hold until I arrive.”

  Oh God. Another package from Ernst. After discovering the ring, I could not stand dealing with one more surprise from him. Still, this package could not possibly be more dangerous than the million-dollar ring. Could it?

  17

  I had a strong urge to shove the package back in the letter box and walk away. Instead, I dropped it in one of the shopping bags and led Anton and Mitzi upstairs.

  I filled the washtub for Anton. While he splashed around, I put away his new things. He was less interested in the soap than the last time, but he had learned how to scrub himself. His flea bites were healing, and he had no nits in his hair. I might not be a perfect mother, but he was at least marginally better off than when he’d arrived.

  “A new nightshirt for you,” I said, after I’d dried him off and helped him brush his teeth.

  “It’s so white,” Anton said. “Like new snow.”

  “It will keep you warm too.”

  We read the “The Ugly Duckling” from Bettina’s storybook. I wanted to stop after a few minutes and open Ernst’s package, but Anton was still frightened so I stayed by the side of his bed, reading until he fell asleep. I wanted to talk about the incident at Wertheim, to tell him again that we were safe now—but were we? I had no job. The Nazis grew stronger every day. And both of his parents were dead.

  I pulled the coat out of the shopping bag and unpinned the ring and money from the pocket. I’d come close to losing them. For the first time I wondered if Wilhelm had pulled the bag from my hands or rescued it from someone else who had. I wrapped the ring and money in a shabby tea towel and hid them in an iron cook pot before I allowed myself to look at the package.

  If Ernst were alive, I never would have opened it, as he must have known. I would have held it until he arrived, as instructed. I looked at the postmark: May 29, 1931. Mailed the day before he was murdered. It must hold something he wanted to keep secret. It could be harmless love letters he’d exchanged with Wilhelm back in school, or perhaps it was a gift for me and he had wanted to watch my face while I opened it. In my heart I knew it was neither. It was something that had frightened him so much that he could not keep it in his own home.

  I stared at the package, afraid to know what was inside. Ernst had left the million-dollar ring at his apartment, but had been frightened enough about the contents of this package to mail it to me. I slit the twine with an old kitchen knife.

  A heavy, musky scent wafted out of the package. I pulled out a packet of envelopes, tied with a red silk ribbon. The bow was flattened. My shoulders dropped with relief. Love letters.

  I glanced at the return address: E. Röhm. I dropped the letters on the table in shock.

  Ernst Röhm was the head of the Sturm Abteilung, indispensable to Hitler and, if rumors could be believed, his best friend. Hitler’s right-hand man had been writing to my brother.

  I touched the letters again with a trembling hand. Röhm held the hearts and souls of more than one hundred thousand men. He was known for his militarism, his brutality, and his flagrant homosexuality. My Ernst must have known him. And known him well. A fling with a teenage boy wearing a Nazi uniform like Wilhelm was one thing, but an affair with one of the most powerful Nazis in the party was another thing entirely. How could Ernst have given himself to such an evil man?

  I picked up the top letter. Röhm must want these letters back. If he did, his men would stop at nothing to get them. They roamed the streets at will, beating and killing Hitler’s opponents. They would not think twice about destroying my apartment and killing me. Perhaps even Anton. I dropped the letter back onto the pile.

  I thought about burning them unread, but what if Röhm was looking for them? Had Röhm quarreled with Ernst? It would be so like Ernst to anger the leader of the most powerful private army in Germany. He would toss off a rude comment and wait for the result. That’s what he learned from Father—how not to fear physical pain or death. Just have a witty retort. Deep in my heart I felt proud of his audacity, but practically I wished he had been more wary. Perhaps then his photograph would not be hanging on the wall in the Hall of the Unnamed Dead. And Anton and I would not be sitting in this shabby apartment, waiting for someone to kill us over the ring, or these far more inflammatory pieces of paper.

  I took a deep shuddering breath. I had to read the letters. Part of me said that I needed to know what they said to keep us safe, but another part suspected it was journalistic curiosity. They started early in the year, soon after Röhm returned from Bolivia, and continued right up to two weeks ago. About six months. Around that same time Ernst had become more distant toward me. I ordered the letters by postmark. It seemed important to read them in the same order they’d been mailed. To better understand their story.

  Dear Bootsie,

  Now I knew where the ring came from. I was even more frightened, if that was possible. Röhm had given my brother a million-dollar ring. They must have been lovers. Close lovers.

  How I miss the sight of you marching around in my jackboots, swinging your long hair and your cock back and forth.

  I put the letter down. I covered my face with my hands and took a deep breath. I knew that
Ernst loved men, but I did not know these details. I picked the letter up again and read. Even my journalistic side did not want to know these details. I skimmed the sexual parts. I gleaned that Röhm had met my brother at the El Dorado and quickly become infatuated with him. One of the letters contained a sonnet entitled “Ode to Bootsie’s Cock,” which extolled Ernst’s unflagging duty to cock and country.

  Röhm claimed to love every single thing about Ernst, from his physical appearance, scrutinized down to the smallest detail, to his performances at the club, to his views on politics. I did not know Ernst had views on politics, let alone views that the number-two Nazi would appreciate. I disliked the thought of it, although it sounded as if Ernst had talked about Socialism. Socialism, after all those years of teasing me for being idealistic. He’d listened more closely than I knew.

  One letter talked about the ring, the Burmese Python, given to Röhm by a count because he saved his life in the Great War. Röhm actually sent Ernst the ring through the mail. One million American dollars trusted to every postal clerk between Munich and Berlin. The naïveté was staggering. How could he have been so foolish? But perhaps Röhm was unaware of the value of the ring when he sent it. And, of course, it did work out in the end. The ring came through.

  Later letters talked about trysts on trains, at cottages, in dark rooms, at party headquarters. They had spent a great deal of time together. Did Rudolf know? I thought not. Röhm was certainly more of a threat to him than Wilhelm.

  I hurried to the letters at the end. Röhm listed all of the men in his battalion who did not survive the war and described the manner of their deaths. No one had ever told me what happened on the front, not like this. Men with no faces, men with no heads, blood spurting from friends, from lovers. In spite of his warrior demeanor, these deaths bothered Röhm, even though he kept repeating how important they were for the Fatherland. But even now, thirteen years after the end of the War, he had trouble sleeping and when he could not sleep, he wrote to Ernst.

  Mitzi jumped onto the table. I started. “What are you doing?”

  I pulled her into my lap and stroked her soft fur, my heart slowing.