“If ever I can,” I said.
As I was about to drift off to sleep I remembered Boris’s letter. I crept out of bed and into the living room.
Dearest Hannah,
I know that what I asked you to do, and how I asked you to do it, goes beyond apologies. But also know that Trudi has not slept a night through for months. And now that he is free and walking the same streets, my housekeeper or I must walk her to and from school. He is free, but she is not.
You know something of traumatized children. Anton is a boy with a past of his own. I know that he is not yours, in spite of him calling you Mother. You took him in, took him away from whatever shaped him, and you are trying to give him something better. I admire that in you, for all that it is unspoken. Would you judge me for wanting to do the same for Trudi?
We are connected, you and I, not only physically, but also through the damage done to our children and all we wish to do to repair it.
If you can move past our disagreement and forgive me, you know how I may be found.
Yours, Boris
I bowed my head over the letter. Boris had seen far more deeply into me than I had thought. I could not give him the address of the rapist, but I could no longer blame him for wanting it. Perhaps after I had dealt with Röhm, Boris and I could start over. I held the letter for a long time before I went to bed.
The metallic click of a key in the front lock startled me from an uneasy sleep.
Heart pounding, I leaped to my feet. I needed a weapon. The dagger was in the kitchen. I crept out of the bedroom, silently closing the door. The intruder must not discover Anton.
I slipped into the dark kitchen. I fumbled in my satchel until I found the dagger that had killed my brother. Gripping the smooth handle, I crept across the kitchen floor.
Heavy footsteps walked into the kitchen.
I raised my arm. The kitchen light flicked on. Light flared off the knife as I brought it down.
A hand grabbed my wrist. The dagger clattered to the floor.
“Hannah?”
“Paul?” I heard the shock in both of our voices.
Paul folded me into his arms. “I’m so grateful you’re alive.”
I pulled back. “I’m grateful I did not stab you.”
The reality of the past moment sank in, and I collapsed onto a kitchen chair. For a few seconds Paul and I merely stared at each other in the warm kitchen light.
Paul retrieved the dagger from the floor. “There’s blood on this.”
“I did not put it there,” I said. “Although I probably would have added your blood to it if you had not . . .” My voice trailed off. I hated to even say that I’d almost hurt Paul, but I had come within centimeters of stabbing him.
Paul kept hold of the dagger, probably not trusting me with it. Not that I blamed him.
Thinking of what I’d almost done, I started to shake and stood quickly to cover it. “I’ll make tea.”
Paul reached out his hand as if to comfort me, but I walked to the sink and turned on the faucet. Neither of us said a word. Water splashed into the kettle, and I managed to stop shaking. Paul kept his eyes politely averted until I did, glancing around Sarah’s kitchen, probably remembering happier times we three had spent together here.
“I went to your apartment,” he said finally. “It’s a mess.”
“I know.” I’d forgotten that he still had my house key, and Sarah’s. Paul, the keeper of the keys. And I had almost stabbed him. I gritted my teeth and tried to think about something else.
“I hoped you might come here. If—” He swallowed and continued. “If you were still alive.”
“Oh.” If Paul thought I might come here, who else might?
“I opened your letter.” Paul placed it on the table. I set the kettle on the stove and lit the flame.
When I turned back to the table, I read the outside of the envelope. “In the event of my death, deliver to Fritz Waldheim at the Berlin Alexanderplatz Police Station.” It seemed as if I’d written the letter in more innocent days.
“Why didn’t you give it to the cop at the Alex?” I kept anger out of my voice. He’d had no business reading it.
Paul turned the letter over in his elegant hands. “After you were fired, and I saw your apartment, I feared the worst, but I wasn’t sure you were dead.”
“And I’m not, so it’s just as well you kept it.” I had thought him more reliable. I turned back to the stove.
Paul rose and stood so close behind me that I felt the warmth of his body. I ached to lean into him, knowing how it would feel to fit myself against him. “I was sorry to hear about your brother.”
I longed to turn around into the shelter of his arms and weep, as I had so many times in the past, but I did not. I did not want to involve him in any of this. I knew better than to involve a half-Jewish man in an SA matter. They would kill him without a second thought, and no one would ever question it. And what if he told Maria? With her recent anti-Semitic comments, I sensed that she was being pulled closer to the Nazis herself.
“I am worried about you, Hannah.” I heard protectiveness in his tone and bridled at it. I could look after myself.
“It’s not your problem.” The strong scent of cut black tea wafted up as I scattered tea leaves into Sarah’s blue-and-white teapot. Now there was nothing to do but face Paul. I brushed past him and sat back down at the table.
“Who is the child, Anton, you mentioned in the letter? And how did you find out that your brother was dead?” Always the reporter, Paul. He would not let go until I gave him something. I must be careful not to give away too much.
My voice quavering, I told him of finding Ernst’s picture and learning he was dead.
The kettle screeched. I went to it and poured steaming water into the teapot, grateful for a distraction and for the distance from Paul.
“What’s happened since you wrote the letter?” His voice was quiet, and his eyes full of worry for me. I looked away and poured the tea.
I summarized what I’d learned about Rudolf and Anton. I did not mention Röhm or anything to do with him, the ruby, the letters, and tomorrow’s meeting.
After I finished talking, we sipped tea in silence for a few moments. I cradled my warm cup and watched Paul thinking, his dark eyes staring, unfocused, into his teacup.
“Interesting.” He took a sip. “Now tell me the rest.”
“There is no rest,” I said. “Not yet.”
Knowing that I was lying, he gave his head a quick impatient shake, as if a mosquito was buzzing in his ear. “Why don’t you go to the police?”
“I cannot put Sarah in danger.” But that was only part of the truth. If Röhm was involved in this, the police could not keep me safe.
“The price for you helping Sarah was never to be your own life.” Paul’s voice rose.
“Shh.” I glanced toward the bedroom door, worried that he might wake Anton. “I know what I’m doing.”
Paul exhaled, making an irritated sound I’d heard a hundred times before. We both laughed.
“I don’t know what is worse,” he said. “How crazy you sound, or that you really think you know what you’re doing.”
“You’d best be off,” I said, not wanting him to discover that, in fact, I did not know. “Before Maria finds out you’ve gone.”
Paul looked at his watch and swore.
“You will watch for Sarah’s letter at the paper?” I walked him to the front door. “And keep it safe for me?”
“Of course,” he said. “It appears to be all I can do.”
“Are you safe going home this time of night?” I asked, ignoring his hurt feelings.
“I’m safer going home now than explaining to Maria why I was out all night. Or staying here with you if you’re armed.”
“Take care,” I said, and locked the door behind him.
After I washed the cups in the kitchen, I brought the dagger back into the bedroom and set it on the bedside table.
Best to k
eep it close.
24
The next morning we dressed in ill-fitting clothes from Sarah and Tobias. We looked more like scarecrows than the fine lady and young gentleman we’d been after our Wertheim visit on Friday. Anton seemed unconcerned about the change. I left the dagger and my notebook on Sarah’s kitchen table.
I gathered one of Röhm’s letters, and a few bills from the envelope of money in Sarah’s mailbox, before we went out to prepare for our big day. At a stationery store I deliberated for a long time before purchasing thick bond paper, an expensive Parker pen, and a bottle of royal-purple ink. I bought Anton a tiny toy square with a round silver ball to roll around and try to catch in the holes in the clown’s eyes and mouth.
We hurried to a tobacco shop where I added ten packs of Ravenklau cigarettes to our supplies. They cost more than other brands, but they were what I needed. As an afterthought, I bought a few cheaper packs too.
The game kept Anton busy while we rode the streetcar north to Tegel. When the bumps knocked out his little ball, he poked his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and concentrated on maneuvering the ball back in.
My satchel weighed heavy on my shoulder as we climbed off the streetcar and walked toward our destination through the dappled shade cast by the trees lining the sidewalk. A woman with a fruit cart was parked in the strip of grass in the middle of the street. I bought us bananas, a luxury Anton had never eaten before.
Two guards paced in front of a tall brick wall. They wore plain gray uniforms with gray-and-black caps. Behind the wall stood an imposing brick building.
“What is that?” Anton chewed on his banana with a surprised expression on his face. He did not seem to know what he thought of it, but he kept eating.
“Tegel Prison.” I savored the smooth texture of the banana. I had not eaten one in a very long time and who knew when I would again.
“Don’t leave me.” Anton’s voice was high and full of fear. “People go in and never come out again. Please, I’ll be good.”
I stopped walking and picked him up. He trembled, and his muscles were taut under his shirt. “I won’t leave you, I promise.”
“Then why are we here?” Anton’s eyes strayed to the twin spires of the prison church, outlined against the clear blue sky.
“I have to visit a man I know.”
Anton nodded. He understood visits to men.
We walked closer to the guards. They should have been pacing in front of the heavy steel gate, but one was telling the other a complicated story about a horse.
“Can I go with you?”
I shook my head. “They don’t allow children.”
“Will you come back?”
“I will,” I said. “Just like I come back when you’re at Bettina’s.”
Anton seemed satisfied with that.
“Good morning, Herr Berndt,” I said to the guard on the left.
“Fraulein Vogel.” He took off his hat respectfully and held it in his hands. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Liked your article about the Düsseldorf trial.”
“Thank you.”
He called through a tiny barred window and with a screeching sound the gate swung open. Anton and I stepped over the raised metal lip on which the gate rested, and we were through the wall. Leafy elms shaded the wide prison courtyard. Although the high red walls seemed more like part of a castle than a prison, the function of the prison buildings themselves was unmistakable. Soot streaked the thick brick walls and bars crossed each arched window. A few faces peered through the bars, and whistles split the air as I led Anton into the guardhouse next to the gate.
Once inside I persuaded the guard to let Anton sit there until I returned. It cost me a pack of cigarettes, but not the Ravenklaus.
My satchel was searched, but I’d hidden Röhm’s letter in my brassiere. Procedure dictated that they pat me down, but they had not in years, and they did not this time either. They did not raise their eyebrows at the cigarettes. Everyone knew what they were for. They assumed that the paper and ink were for me to take notes.
I’d been to the jail often for the newspaper, so I was used to the catcalls of the men in the cells and ignored them as I walked down the long brown hall to the visitors room. The metal chairs were hard and uncomfortable as always, but I managed to trade the remaining cheap cigarettes for a room with a table and uninterrupted privacy with a prisoner. When the guard left to get the prisoner, I slipped Röhm’s letter in with the new paper. The room smelled musty and mold grew in the corners. The only window was in the door. It felt oppressive and cold. I straightened and restraightened the papers, waiting.
The guard showed in a man who looked much the worse for wear. He was shorter than I, with perfectly combed brown hair. A coarse cotton shirt had replaced the finely laundered linen he had worn when I first met him. I stood.
“Fraulein Vogel.” He took my hand between his ink-stained ones. “Always a delight to see you.”
“Thank you, Herr Silbert.” I extricated my hand. “You are looking well.”
“Would that it were so.” His gallant smile was pained.
I looked pointedly at the guard, and he shuffled out, closing the door behind him. If we hurried, we’d have enough time.
“I have something for you,” I said. I took out a pack of cigarettes.
“Ravenklau.” His brown eyes twinkled. “A lady never forgets a gentleman’s favorite cigarettes.”
“I have a request,” I said. “But those cigarettes are yours to keep regardless, for agreeing to meet me.”
“It is always a pleasure to meet with a beautiful lady,” he said silkily, slipping the cigarettes into his pocket. “Even for one with a schedule as busy as mine.”
I smiled at his sarcasm. Prison bored him. We’d had long conversations about it when I’d interviewed him for a story.
“I have a letter.”
“A legal document?” He shook his head, feigning shock. “You know I could do nothing with that.”
“It is a personal letter,” I said. “From one soldier to another.”
“Do I know these gentlemen?” He was brilliant at recognizing handwriting.
“I doubt it.”
“Then what do you wish me to do with the letter?”
We both sat down in the uncomfortable chairs. Herr Silbert crossed his legs, sitting like the gentleman he’d been raised to be.
“I would like you to make a copy of it for me, for safekeeping.”
“Why me?” Herr Silbert pointed his hand at his chest.
“Your handwriting is so beautiful,” I said. “And accurate.”
He laughed. His handwriting was the cause of his imprisonment. He’d been arrested for forgery. “I am a calligrapher.”
“The letter is one page only,” I said. “And I will pay you fifty marks and five packs of your cigarettes.”
“If I’m correct about the size of the container, you have nine packs in there.” He eyed the paper bag.
“Perhaps some are for myself.” He loved haggling, so I should not give in immediately.
“You do not smoke, my dear, as I recall.”
“The remaining four packs, then.” I shook my head as if I’d been tricked into giving him the cigarettes, although we both knew I must have brought them all for him.
“Let me see the letter.” He held out his thin ink-stained hand.
I handed him Röhm’s most graphic letter, the paper, and the ink.
“You matched the paper exactly,” he said. “And the ink is correct as well. It would be dangerous for the community at large were you to climb from your moral pedestal and take up my former profession.”
“Attention to detail is always important.”
“Care in everything one does.” He began his copy work. He bent over the table, each stroke delicate and precise. It was a treat watching him work. He was an amazing artist. If I had not placed a tiny lipstick mark on the corner of the real letter, I would not have been able to tell the difference. It was only
after my shoulders relaxed that I realized how tense they had been. Perhaps this would work.
“Is this about blackmail?” he asked when he had finished. “I don’t read much when copying, but there are graphic details in there. Illegal too. The man is besotted. You can see it in his handwriting.”
“Indeed.” I folded the new letter inside of Röhm’s original and slid them in the middle of the blank paper. Herr Silbert had analyzed handwriting for me before. He could divine amazing details from the letters in the simplest note.
“It’s nothing to do with me,” he said, bowing. “But I think I deserve a piece of the profits.”
“There will be no profits,” I said. “It’s political.”
“A politician?” He leaned forward. “A rich one?”
“A poor one,” I lied. “But one who owes me a favor, now.”
Herr Silbert studied me. “I never know if you are lying or not,” he said. “But I can tell that this letter places you in danger. I am in prison, but I still know what is going on outside.”
“This is insurance,” I said. “To keep me safe.”
“Fraulein Vogel.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “I know I am no longer a great gentleman, but heed my words: this letter cannot make you safe. Get rid of it and any others you have like it.”
He was as correct about the letters as Herr Klein had been about the ring. And I dearly wished that I could follow their advice. But I had no choice. I had to use the tools I’d been given, no matter how dangerous the outcome. I no longer had the luxury of walking away. I thanked him, but knew that I would ignore his warning.
Back at Sarah’s apartment, I packed my satchel carefully. I pinned the ring to the bottom, and slid in the letters, the forged one stuffed in the middle. In the outer pocket I slipped Ernst’s death photo and Wilhelm’s dagger. I hid the original letter that Herr Silbert had copied from in Sarah’s mailbox, along with most of my gold and money.
I thought about taking Anton to Paul’s, but I knew Anton would refuse. Having no time to argue, I took him with me to Ernst’s apartment, hoping Ernst’s landlady could be persuaded to watch him. If everything went wrong and I were killed, she would take him to an orphanage. She was a practical sort that way. I shuddered, wishing I did not have to think in such terms.
A Trace of Smoke (Hannah Vogel) Page 19