A Trace of Smoke (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  “But they are necessary,” he said at last, turning to me.

  “Then they are accepted.”At that moment I would have forgiven him anything, if he kept standing next to me.

  He smiled. “I am grateful.”

  Anton bumped against my back. “Trudi has a cache of supplies,” he said. “We can journey for one whole moon.”

  “A whole moon?” Boris said. “I will need someone to help steer, while I sleep tonight.”

  I sat in the bow and felt the sun warm me through and through as Boris explained the mechanics of sailing to Anton. Anton held the tiller while Boris and Trudi raised the sails. It was wonderful to watch how easily he moved, swaying with the boat. When Boris took the tiller again, Trudi showed Anton some complicated thing with the ropes and sails. Anton concentrated with his whole body.

  I turned to face the beach. The water was a lovely light blue, and air ruffled through my hair. I could not remember when I’d felt so relaxed. I reminded myself that I was in the eye of the hurricane, but I did not care.

  On the golden sand, bathers arranged and rearranged themselves on towels, their bathing costumes and caps black and white in the sun. Cheerful orange-and-white-striped umbrellas shaded mothers with fat, pale infants. A balloon vendor strolled down the beach, on the lookout for indulgent parents, with his colorful orbs bobbing above his head. When an adventurous youngster dashed into the water clutching a shovel and pail in his chubby fists, his diaper drooping, his mother dashed after him, her unfashionably long hair cascading down her back.

  I turned to watch the tree-covered islands sliding by. A flock of starlings wheeled and dipped, punctuation marks dancing in the sky.

  “Nothing beats the feeling of being on the water.” Boris sat next to me.

  I tensed. “Who is driving the boat?” I turned around to see Anton at the tiller, Trudi standing next to him.

  “Sailing the boat,” Boris corrected me. “The children can do it. Trudi could take this boat out on her own if I’d let her.”

  I was very conscious of his open shirt and the dark hair curling on his chest. I peeked for only a second then resolutely turned my attention to the sun-spangled water in front of us. Other sailboats dotted the lake, their bright sails looking like huge prehistoric birds.

  “Still on guard with me?” Boris asked. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his relaxed smile. It looked as if it went right into a peaceful, happy soul.

  “Not at all,” I lied. He thought I was afraid that he would yell at me again, as he had in front of the courthouse. I was more afraid that I would lean forward and kiss those lips, in front of the children and a few hundred swimmers. I looked away, hoping that Boris would not notice the flush spreading up my neck. What had gotten into me?

  “Glad to hear it.” Boris pulled his straw hat low over his eyes and gazed at the water.

  We sailed along in silence. I heard only the sound of the water rushing under the hull and the occasional snap of the sail.

  Then we talked about life and politics. Boris, like me, was a social demo crat, and I teased him for being the only socialist banker in Germany.

  “Banking is my job,” he said. “It is not who I am.”

  “You are a complicated man.”

  “As are you,” he said with a smile. “Peter Weill.”

  I knew that I should tell him I’d been fired, but I did not want to speak of anything sad today, so I just smiled back. Boris had a wonderful, lazy smile.

  We dropped the sails in the middle of the lake and swam. Boris and Trudi swam like otters, sleek and swift. I was a cautious swimmer, having learned when I was tossed off the dock by Father as a child. Anton had never been in the water, but Trudi tied him into a life jacket and he bobbed around like a cork, splashing everyone wildly when Boris dove underwater to tickle his toes.

  It was a wonderful day. Anton was sleepy and sunburned a rosy pink when we returned to the dock. He no longer resembled the pale, thin urchin who had arrived at my apartment three nights ago.

  When I stepped off the boat, the dock bobbed up and down and I stumbled. Boris caught my elbow.

  “I am always falling around you,” I said.

  “And I keep catching you,” he answered, not letting go of my elbow. I blushed scarlet and held out my hand for the large picnic basket that Trudi lugged off the boat.

  “I’ll take that.” Boris released my elbow and relieved her of the basket. “Can we give you a ride home?”

  I opened my mouth to decline, but Anton shouted, “Yes. Oh yes. Trudi says your automobile is as fast as the wind.”

  “There you have it then. How about you two run along ahead?” Boris asked.

  Trudi gave him a searching look, then took Anton’s hand and headed down the path.

  I started after them, but Boris caught my arm. “Let’s allow them to get a bit ahead, shall we?”

  I turned to him, surprised. And he leaned down and kissed me. He tasted like salt, and wind. I opened up under his mouth. Time seemed to expand, and I could have stood there forever. When Boris pulled away, we were both shaking.

  When I had my breathing back under control, I reached up and traced his lips with one finger. “What is it about us?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he said in a husky voice. “But I would very much like to find out.”

  I leaned closer to him, but he stepped away. “Not here,” he said. “I don’t think I could stop again.”

  I smiled. “It would be embarrassing to be arrested for public indecency.”

  “And marched past the children.”

  We turned as one and headed back down the path toward the car. I was happier than I’d been in a long time.

  “I imagine you do a great deal of research for your stories.” Boris’s voice sounded strained.

  I nodded. “More for some than others, but I try to be thorough.”

  “How do you do your research?” Boris shifted the picnic basket to his other hand and walked closer to me.

  “Ask questions, look things up.” I quickened my pace, my shoes crunching in gravel on the path. I needed to behave myself until I got to the automobile. “It’s boring mostly.”

  “I don’t imagine it’s that boring. I work in a bank. That is boring. Every day the same.”

  “My days were not exactly the same,” I said, looking at his wind-blown, dark hair. “But there was a sameness about them.”

  “Was?”

  “I . . .” I looked at the ground, surprised by my strong feeling of loss. “I do not work for the paper anymore.”

  “By choice?” He stepped closer, sounding concerned.

  I stepped away. “No. I was let go. This Peter Weill is retired now.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” he said. “After I got over being angry, I liked your piece on that man. And the piece on the dead prostitute, did you write that?”

  “My last piece.” I cleared my throat.

  “I take it the rich man with the card that you mentioned in your article retaliated?”

  “How could you know that?” I stopped walking.

  “I only guess, Hannah,” he said. “I am a powerful man. I know how powerful men think.”

  “Sadly”—I hurried toward the automobile—“So do I.”

  “What will you do with your research?” He lengthened his stride to keep up. His legs were long and powerful. “Write a book, perhaps?”

  I had not thought of that. “Interesting idea,” I began, slowing.

  He leaned forward eagerly. “I could help you. I know some publishers.”

  “My notes are at the paper,” I lied. I was unsure why, but I wanted to tell him no more. “All of my research is confidential.”

  “Even information about the rapist?” He stopped in front of me on the path, blocking my way. “You would protect him?”

  “For you,” I said. “That information is especially confidential.”

  His gold-flecked eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Are
you going to hunt for him, Boris?” I asked. “Bring about your own justice?”

  “What an obscene idea,” he snapped. And I knew that I was correct.

  “I won’t help you become a murderer.”

  “For a man, there are worse things. During the war—”

  “Killing in war is not the same.” I knew immediately that I should have said nothing.

  “Do you know this?” he asked, his voice deadly quiet. He grasped my arms. “How many men have you killed?”

  “None,” I whispered, thinking of the murderous rage I’d felt when looking at Ernst’s picture the second time. “How many have you killed?”

  He smiled grimly, not answering my question. He released my arms. “Besides, there are worse things you can do to a man than kill him.”

  I shuddered and moved away from him on the path.

  Boris stepped close to me again. His face was closed and hard. No trace of relaxed sailor in him now. “If you won’t part with them for justice, how about money?”

  “You cannot buy me.” I fought to keep my voice level, to conceal my fear. I was alone on the path with a man I barely knew.

  “It wasn’t you I wanted to buy.” Boris turned and strode away, his white shirt bright in the shade of the trees.

  I lingered on the way back to the car. If I did not have to pick up Anton, I would have doubled back and taken the subway home. But I had responsibilities.

  Boris was leaning against his automobile when I arrived. It was, predictably, a Mercedes. Anton turned somersaults on the grass to impress Trudi. His new shirt was ruined.

  “He’s a fine boy,” Trudi said as I walked up. “But he says the oddest things.”

  “He’s had a strange life,” I answered.

  “That isn’t good for a child,” Boris said, coldly.

  I looked into his angry eyes. “It has not been.”

  “Vati,” Trudi interrupted our strained silence, “look at Anton’s somersaults. He can do three in a row.”

  On the drive to my apartment, Boris and I spoke only to the children. As I turned to climb out, he caught my arm.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you, or your information, were for sale,” he said in a low voice, so that the children couldn’t hear. “I am very sorry.”

  “You did not imply it.” I pulled my arm free. “You said it outright.”

  He pulled a card out of his glove box. “Call me if you need me, or if you change your mind about anything.”

  I looked at the card. Boris Krause, bank director. “I won’t change my mind.” But I tucked it into my satchel all the same before climbing out of the car. “Thank you. Anton had a wonderful time.”

  I gritted my teeth and waved until they drove out of sight, then wheeled around and stalked to my apartment building. “Come along, Anton,” I called.

  Anton sprinted up to me, chattering about the boat trip. He said it was the best day of his life and recited facts about sailing.

  I nodded without listening. Before Boris had tried to bribe me into giving him information, I’d had a lovely day too. Boris was much like Walter—strong, thoughtful, and gentle. He was a wonderful father to Trudi, the kind of man Bettina would marry. Anton would miss him. I shook my head. I would miss him.

  I increased my pace. I could not miss a man who wanted to use me to hurt or kill someone the courts set free. A man who tried to trick and bribe me. I fumbled for my keys.

  At least he had not seduced the information out of me. My judgment for men was getting worse by the day. I had thought that I had a connection to Boris. Instead I’d been wasting time sailing on boats instead of searching for Ernst’s killer.

  Mitzi yowled on the stoop next to me.

  “I hear you,” I said. “I almost have the key.”

  “And then Herr Krause said—” Anton continued talking.

  “It’s time for bed, Anton.”

  Anton nodded without stopping his stream of words.

  As I poked the key into the lock and opened the door, a rough hand shot out from behind me and grabbed my wrist.

  It was a man’s hand. Someone dressed in Nazi brown.

  With my free hand I shoved Anton through the open door. He skidded into the lobby and fell on his knees on the tile floor. He glanced up at me in shock as I slammed the heavy front door so hard it rattled in its hinges. It was locked again. Anton was safe inside. Mitzi disappeared in a streak of white.

  20

  I whirled to face my assailant, yanking my wrist free. He stepped back in surprise.

  “Hannah.” It was Wilhelm. He held both his hands up at shoulder level. “What are you doing? It’s only me.”

  I let out a deep breath and leaned against the sturdy door. My knees shook. Wilhelm stepped closer and held out his hands to catch me, as if afraid I might faint. Schmidt the news seller wheeled toward us on his makeshift cart, arms pumping fast. I waved to him. “There is nothing to concern yourself with.”

  Schmidt rolled to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. I wondered how he could have climbed them to help me. “You sure, Fraulein?”

  I nodded. “I was startled, but I know this boy.”

  Schmidt looked from Wilhelm to me, undecided.

  “I am not a boy,” Wilhelm said indignantly.

  “Thank you for your help, Herr Schmidt,” I said. “It is good to know that you are watching out for me.”

  “Can’t let anything happen to my best customer.” Schmidt smiled and pushed himself back to his newsstand, his fingerless gloves sliding along the pavement.

  I turned to Wilhelm. “Why are you here?”

  “I came to warn Ernst,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”

  I unlocked the door again and hurried inside. Anton stood ramrod straight, lips pressed together, and blood trickling down his knee.

  “I’m sorry.” I knelt to look at his skinned knee. I’d pushed him too hard, without thinking. “I did not mean to hurt you.” Poor child. He deserved a real mother.

  “The brave knows no pain.” Anton’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  “Indeed not.” Wilhelm took a handkerchief from his pocket. “Especially a tough warrior like you.” He wiped blood off Anton’s knee and bandaged it with his handkerchief.

  I stood there helplessly. “I was frightened when I pushed you,” I said. “I did not mean for you to be hurt.”

  Anton looked down at the dirty tile floor. I remembered how I had told him that I did not hurt children. Another promise I had broken.

  Wilhelm scooped Anton up like a kitten and slung him on his back. “I will carry the brave upstairs.”

  “The brave can walk in his own moccasins.”

  “Naturally you can,” Wilhelm said. “But a soldier must listen to his medic. The medic says to ride your horse.” He trotted up the stairs behind me, neighing like a horse.

  Once upstairs, I put on water for tea and warmed milk for Anton. I washed his knee and kissed it. When he shot Wilhelm an embarrassed look, Wilhelm winked and said, “Kisses are magic medicine, Anton, even for soldiers.”

  Wilhelm took over with Anton. It was a treat to watch them together. Wilhelm pretended that Anton’s milk and honey was the ceremonial tea of brotherhood, and they drank it together. He sat Anton on his lap and told him stories of camping in the woods and fighting mock battles with his friends. Wilhelm had read more Karl May cowboy and Indian books than Anton and told him an entire story. Anton listened raptly, but fell asleep in Wilhelm’s arms before the story ended. I was reminded that Wilhelm himself was little more than a boy.

  Wilhelm carried Anton into bed, and I pulled off his new singlet, socks, and shoes. He looked so innocent lying there with his sunburn and his scraped knee. I covered him with my feather duvet. How many times had I covered Ernst as a little boy? More than I could count, although too few after a long, happy day.

  “He likes you,” I said, as Wilhelm and I returned to the kitchen. I refilled his tea.

  “I like him too,” he said. “I always wanted a
little brother.”

  “You have sisters?”

  He shook his head. “I am an only child. My mother died in childbirth and my father never remarried.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “I have a gift for Ernst,” he said. “From Francis.” He handed me a heavy envelope.

  I did not want any more surprise envelopes for Ernst. “Are they friends?”

  “Yes, but nobody is supposed to know. Ernst told me all about it, but I think it was a secret to most people.”

  “Why?” If the hostility he showed toward Ernst in our conversation at the El Dorado was an act, it was a convincing one.

  “Ernst said that Winnie doesn’t like his performers to be friends. He says they don’t work as hard. Please give it to him.”

  I turned over the envelope. It was sealed with gold wax and the outside was blank. I set it down on the table and sipped my tea. “Why didn’t you mail the envelope to Ernst?”

  “Francis paid me to make sure that Ernst receives it. He said I should put it in his hands myself.” Wilhelm shrugged. “I thought putting it in your hands was good enough.”

  “Why doesn’t Francis deliver it himself?”

  “Francis left for America.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. I didn’t open the letter. It’s not addressed to me, remember?”

  “When did you get the letter?”

  “Late yesterday.”

  Yesterday evening I had thought I saw Francis in front of my front door. “Is the letter why you came?”

  “One of the reasons.” Wilhelm gripped his cup so tightly I feared that it might break.

  I cleared my throat. “Tell me the others.”

  “Do you know where Ernst is?” Wilhelm looked at me hungrily. His need for Ernst crackled in the air between us.

  “Yes.” I stood and walked across the kitchen to the sink. His look frightened me, and I did not want to be sitting near him. That kind of need could turn to rage so quickly.

  “Is he angry with me?” Wilhelm lost interest in me and stared into his teacup. “Was I not what he expected?”