Bettina gasped and took my hand. I could finally admit it. I sat in the bed and cried. Bettina enfolded me in her warm arms. Even without seeing her face, I knew that she was looking sternly at Fritz, cautioning him not to question me until I finished crying.
Eventually, I let go of Bettina and dried my eyes on the handkerchief she gave me. Like Fritz’s handkerchief the day I’d seen Ernst’s picture, it smelled of starch. Bettina smoothed my hair out of my eyes and inched her chair closer to the bed.
“So that’s why you stole the picture,” Fritz said.
“You knew?” I said, shocked that he had done nothing about it.
Fritz paced up and down the tiny room. “I am no fool, Hannah. I trusted that you had a good reason and that you would bring it back when you were done with it.”
“Do you know who killed him?” Bettina squeezed my hand.
“Josef Lehmann,” I pushed the words out, knowing that they had to be said. “Ernst Röhm’s lieutenant.”
“He was found shot to death at the bottom of Ernst’s stairs,” Bettina said, her eyes round. “What happened?”
So he had followed Röhm’s orders, died the only way a soldier in disgrace could die. Ernst’s murder was avenged, but I felt no joy in it.
Fritz turned to her. “Bettina, my dear, you must leave the room now.”
I had never heard Fritz use that tone with her before. She pressed her lips together and left the room without a word.
“Continue,” Fritz said, but before I could speak, Kommissar Lang stormed in.
“I assume command here,” he said, his high-pitched voice angry. “I am in charge of this investigation.”
Fritz nodded.
“You may leave the room,” Kommissar Lang said. Fritz cast me a sympathetic glance before he closed the door.
Kommissar Lang poured me another glass of water. “You haven’t been completely honest with me, have you, Fraulein Vogel?”
I shook my head. How much truth could I tell him?
“Shall you begin now?”
I smiled weakly. Now was the time to remember the things Mother had taught me about proper ladylike behavior. A proper lady would be fragile in my condition and a proper gentleman would want to help her.
“Tell me what happened at the apartment where you were shot. Leave nothing out.”
“Rudolf von Reiche shot me.” My voice quivered. I sat up in panic, looking around the room. The wound in my side hurt, and I gasped. “He’ll come back for me.”
Kommissar Lang smiled encouragingly. “We have two detectives outside your door. He could not get past them.”
I sank back against the bed, breathing hard. Moving hurt more than I’d expected.
“What was Herr von Reiche doing at this apartment? What were you?”
“It was my brother’s apartment. I was there to meet Ernst Röhm.”
“Why?”
“He and my brother were . . .” I paused. “Friends.”
“Why was Herr von Reiche there?”
“Is Wilhelm Lehmann being taken care of?”
“Why would you ask about him?” Kommissar Lang leaned forward solicitously.
“I heard a shot,” I said. “Lieutenant Lehmman left the room most upset, and his son followed him, and I heard a shot.”
“Perhaps we should begin at the beginning.” Kommissar Lang placed Ernst’s death photograph on my lap. “How about starting with the day that you saw this at the Hall of the Unnamed Dead and Lied to me?”
“Forgive me,” I said. Perhaps he could be led to believe that shame over my brother’s life had kept me quiet. I dared not let him suspect that I had other reasons for remaining silent. Loaning Sarah my papers was a criminal act. I silently cursed him and his party friends for putting Sarah in danger and forcing me down this path. If I’d had my papers, I could have let the police investigate this entire affair. Aloud I said, “I was distraught. There was much about my brother that I did not want the world to know, you least of all.”
Kommissar Lang looked unconvinced.
“My brother was—” My voice broke. It was a relief to talk about him in the past tense, to admit that he was dead, even to Kommissar Lang. “He loved—”
I took another sip of water and pulled myself together. Kommissar Lang sat politely, his pen poised over a notebook.
“My brother loved men.” I dropped my eyes to my hands. “From the time he was a boy.”
I stared at the light reflecting off the water in my glass. Kommissar Lang let the silence lengthen.
“His lover was Rudolf von Reiche, the man who shot me.” I took a deep breath. It was difficult telling this to Kommissar Lang. I wished that Fritz had stayed, that someone was here who understood Ernst and trusted me. I did not tell Kommissar Lang of my brother’s relationship with Röhm.
I told Kommissar Lang as much of the truth as I could. I told him that Lehmann had killed Ernst for having an affair with his son, Wilhelm. That Röhm had told Lehmann that he was a disgrace and he disappeared, and I heard a shot. That Rudolf had shot me to keep me from telling Röhm more about his son’s childhood. That Röhm had taken Anton, and that he might be the boy’s father, although since his mother had been a prostitute when Anton was born, anyone might be the father. I explained that Sweetie Pie was probably the mother, although I was no longer certain of anything.
Kommissar Lang listened attentively. I almost broke down a few times, but I held myself together. I needed to get through it all.
“Why were you in your brother’s apartment with all of them?” Kommissar Lang asked.
“Rudolf threatened me,” I said, not mentioning the Röhm letters. If I told the police about them, they would confiscate them as proof that Röhm committed the crime of sodomy and prosecute him under Paragraph 175. But Röhm and Hitler had allies in the courts and they might destroy the letters, and Röhm would walk free. If the letters were published, their destruction would not matter. The courts would have to decide under pressure of public opinion. “He told me that Ernst had something Röhm wanted and that we were going to meet in Ernst’s apartment to discuss it.”
“Why didn’t you call the police? Or talk to your friend Waldheim?”
“I was afraid. After what Rudolf did to my apartment I was afraid that he would kill the boy. And me.” I smiled wryly. “As he almost did.”
“What did Röhm want?”
“His son, although I did not know that at the time.”
“What did you think it was?” Kommissar Lang raised his eyebrows.
“Something else. Anything else.” I looked over at the white curtains blocking the light.
“What else could it be?”
“Where is Wilhelm?” I asked. “Was he there when your men arrived?”
Kommissar Lang nodded. “He was.”
“Is someone with him? He should not be alone.”
“He is protected,” Kommissar Lang said. “Tell me more about his father’s death.”
“I know little about it. He left the room.”
Kommissar Lang began his questioning again. It seemed as if hours passed. I answered the same questions, my voice hoarse from talking. I did not tell him about Sarah, the letters, or the ruby ring. About everything else I told the truth, again and again.
I retched. Kommissar Lang handed me a bowl, and resumed his questioning. So much for relying on his gentleman’s background.
Eventually a doctor appeared, furious.
I lay in bed trembling, too weak to do anything else. My head pounded.
The large and reassuring doctor took my pulse and gave me two tablets. They tasted bitter.
“Is she well enough to continue?” Kommissar Lang asked.
The doctor shook his head. “She wasn’t well enough to start. If I’d been here, I would have kept you from her bedside.”
Kommissar Lang stood. “It is police business.”
“The hospital is my business.” The doctor held my wrist. “I must insist that you leave. Here, I o
utrank you.”
Kommissar Lang tried to stare him down, but the doctor did not budge.
Kommissar Lang bent and whispered in my ear. “I hope, for your own sake, that you have told me the whole truth. I do not wish to see you in jail any more than you wish to go.”
He straightened and walked out of the room.
The doctor let go of my wrist. His eyes were kind and green, like a forest in summer. “The medication is taking effect already. Rest. You must sleep for the next few days to get your strength back.”
I wanted to get out of bed and float through the window to freedom. Float? What kind of medication had he given me? I tried to sit up, but could not. Unwillingly, I slept. I needed more strength to escape.
27
I awoke to the gentle light of the late afternoon. A familiar-looking doctor held my wrist, taking my pulse. He wore a white lab coat and was turned away from the door, counting out my heartbeats. His dark head turned to face me.
“Paul.” I tried to sit. The room spun, and I suppressed an urge to throw up.
“You shouldn’t sit in your condition, Fraulein Vogel.” Paul eased me down onto the pillow.
“Why are you wearing that coat?” I asked quietly.
“There are two detectives outside.” Paul’s eyes darted toward the door. “No one is allowed in to see you, although there’s a handsome man who’s been trying all day.”
“A handsome man?” I smiled. “You?”
He shook his head. “Boris. I can’t stay long. I had to use all my journalistic expertise to get in here.” His eyes twinkled. Journalistic expertise were our code words for lying. “I intercepted a letter addressed to you at the paper. It’s under your pillow, with your passport.”
“They made it.”
He nodded. “Sarah and Tobias are in New York.”
I had my papers. I could leave Berlin. I could leave Germany. Rudolf could not harm me if I was far away.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he whispered. “I don’t do the crime beat, so I don’t have any sources at the police station. What I do know is that the man who insisted Peter Weill be fired—”
“Rudolf von Reiche.”
The fat detective glanced our way, and Paul leaned over and pried one of my eyelids farther open. He peered into my eye officiously. “He disappeared. There was a story about it this morning. Maria’s been in touch with his family for quotes already. Apparently he was expected at an important dinner last night and did not appear.”
I wondered if Röhm had killed him or if Rudolf was hiding out, waiting to silence me. He had more reasons to want me dead than ever before, now that I could accuse him of attempted murder. He had escaped from Röhm the night he shot me, because Röhm had tried to protect Anton from seeing me, and because Röhm had stopped to bind my wound.
“I told Boris to wait in front of the hospital for you.” Paul let go of my eyelid and brushed hair off my forehead casually, but I felt his hand tremble. “That maybe you could take a walk soon. He has a black Mercedes.”
I could not stay in the hospital. Rudolf would bribe someone to turn his head or give me an injection or slip something into my food. The next person who came to take my pulse could stop it. I was the only one who could link Rudolf to my shooting, except Röhm.
“You’re looking much better,” Paul said in a normal voice. “A few more days of rest and you’ll be in tiptop shape.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said. “For everything.”
I squeezed his hand. Paul took my hand between both of his, and I stared into his dark eyes. So much was left unsaid. The thin policeman started into the room. Paul dropped my hand.
“Until later, Fraulein Vogel,” he said.
I nodded and watched him leave.
A few minutes after Paul left, I called for the nurse and asked to be taken to the bathroom. I washed my face and hands, listening to the sound of water outside. When I glanced through the narrow window, I saw a fountain and empty benches ahead. I was on the first floor. I had to go for a walk to see how I might get out. The disinfectant from the floors reeked. I was light-headed and dizzy.
“I wish to go outside now,” I said.
The nurse looked at the detectives. The fat one sighed and stood.
“We’ll go with her.”
Were they here to protect me from Rudolf? More likely they were here to keep me from escaping. I guess it depended on whether they thought I had shot Lieutenant Lehmann or he’d shot himself.
I felt better as soon as we got outside. The air smelled fresh and clean, and a light breeze played on my face. I stood, wondering what to do. And then I saw Boris at the edge of the front hospital lawn, leaning on his automobile. He did look handsome, as Paul had said. He wore a dark-blue three-piece suit with a burgundy tie. He looked every bit the banker.
I walked in his direction, nurse and policemen in tow.
He glanced over when he saw us coming and stood. He took a step toward us, but I turned away from him, and he stopped. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him lean back against the car again.
“Do you see that bird?” I asked the nurse, pointing to a giant fountain next to the street. I watched Boris’s head move to follow my pointing finger. I only hoped he could guess that I wanted him to go there. I did not dare speak to him with the policemen around.
“I don’t see it, ma’am,” she said. “But my eyesight’s not so good.”
“I am not feeling too strong after all,” I said. “Can we go back to my room?”
Sweat soaked my hospital gown by the time I lay back down.
The detectives stationed themselves outside my door again.
“I’ll go get your doctor,” said the nurse. “You don’t look well.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She shook her head. “I’ll send your doctor by as soon as he finishes his rounds,” she said before closing the door.
I slid out of bed and hurried to the bathroom, carrying a small bundle containing my scarf, my passport, a fifty-mark bill Paul had thoughtfully tucked inside it, and Winnetou. I had to get out before the doctor came. I had no idea how long Boris would wait, if he’d be there at all.
I locked the bathroom door, tossed the bundle through the window, and climbed out myself. Luckily my room was on the first floor. The way the world spun, I would not have made it down any drainpipes.
Wind blew under the thin hospital gown I wore, as I’d had no clothes in my room. I wrapped the green scarf around my shoulders. If Boris was any less clever than I hoped, I’d soon be caught and kept under such close watch that I’d never escape again. I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and walked across the grass as if I was supposed to be strolling around the front of the hospital unattended.
Boris waited where I’d pointed, with his motor running. He leaned across and opened the passenger door.
I slid into the front seat and crouched on the floor clutching the bear. Boris’s citrus-and-cedar scent filled the air. Comforting, like Christmas.
“This isn’t what I thought would happen when the police called me last night.” He pulled out into the street without glancing down at me.
“Why did they call you?” My ribs throbbed every time I took a breath, and my head spun.
“You had my card. Remember?” Boris drove calmly and confidently. “I told them I was your banker.”
I laughed. “Really?”
“It is not entirely untrue,” Boris said, looking down at me.
I climbed onto the seat and wrapped the scarf around myself.
“Are you cold?”
“Just feeling modest.”
“In such a fetching frock?” Boris’s beautiful lips smiled down at me.
I did not answer.
“Am I breaking you out of police custody?” he asked.
“Aren’t you better off not knowing the answer to that, so that you can deny it later?”
“I guess that’s my answer.”
We drove to h
is house, a grand manor in Zehlendorf, on Kronprinzen Avenue. We pulled to the back door, and he draped his suit jacket around me. I wondered if it was to keep me warm or to spare the neighbors.
Boris wrapped his arm around my shoulders and helped me through his back door.
“I can walk on my own.” I tried to pull away.
Boris did not let go. “If you could see how weak you look, you would save your strength for walking.”
I followed his advice because he was so obviously correct. We inched up a flight of marble stairs to a bedroom. A light blue quilt covered an antique four-poster bed. Everything in the room was in perfect order and shone in the sun. Boris was a meticulous man, or a man with a meticulous housekeeper.
“You are as white as chalk.” He sat me down on the bed. “Do you need anything?”
I shook my head, fighting waves of nausea. Boris left and returned with a glass of water.
When I could breathe normally again, I glanced at him. He looked worried, but also slightly amused.
“Would you like to tell me why I’ve broken the law?” He handed me the water.
“You broke no law.” I took a sip of cool water, then another. “You picked up a woman next to the hospital.”
“A suspect in a murder case, I believe.” He took the glass from my hand and set it on his night table.
“Did the police tell you that?” I wondered what he knew.
He shook his head. “They said that you were found, covered in blood, in suspicious circumstances, with a dead man downstairs. They suggested that you had shot him, in self defense, and he wandered down the stairs to die. I have no idea what the truth is.”
I pulled his jacket closer around myself, cold.
“I have to say that you are acting very suspiciously,” Boris said. “Please tell me that I won’t regret my decision.”
“I cannot give advice on regret,” I answered.
Boris studied me before speaking again. “Why did you need to leave the hospital?”
“I had to get away from the hospital. I am in danger.” Even I could hear that I sounded like an actress in a bad movie, so I talked more quickly. “The man who shot me will try again.”
Boris raised his eyebrows. “He is not dead then?”
A Trace of Smoke (Hannah Vogel) Page 22