A Trace of Smoke (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  “Shut your trap,” breathed a squeaky voice in my ear. A cold blade pressed against my ribs. “I can let some air into you. We only need the boy.”

  I nodded my chin against his arm. The knife retreated, but the man held my neck fast. His sweat smelled of vinegar.

  “Put her out,” said a voice with a Swiss accent.

  The honey odor of chloroform suffused the air. I held my breath. Too late. My captor gripped me so tightly I did not fall.

  2

  I drifted awake, slung over the back of a storm trooper who smelled as if he had not bathed since before the zeppelin left South America. To my left, Anton lay as lifeless as a rag doll in the arms of another massive storm trooper. Was Anton still breathing? I struggled toward wakefulness. I could not move toward him.

  “You give him too much, Mouse?” asked the man on my right. He spoke like a man in command. He had excellent diction and a light Swiss accent, like the actor Emil Jannings.

  Mouse bent his head to Anton’s chest, and I flopped around on his shoulder. “He’s breathing good.” I recognized the squeak. The man who had held the knife to my ribs. And, from the sound of his accent, he was from Berlin. A traitorous voice from home.

  Grass crackled underfoot when we marched onto the field. The first passengers milled out of the hangar, silhouetted against the sunset. I thought I recognized Señor and Señora Santana at the front of the pack. They always rushed onto the field.

  Because explosive hydrogen filled the zeppelin, smoking was forbidden there and in the hangar. They spent the entire trip snapping chewing gum and dashing off every time we docked to grab a quick smoke. Twin matches flared and illuminated their faces. Surely they must see us. Red embers glowed at the tips of their cigarettes, and the smell of cigarette smoke wafted across the field.

  I opened my mouth to call out, but instead I floated away again.

  This time I came to in the backseat of an automobile, jammed between Mouse and the storm trooper who had carried Anton. I assumed that Jannings must be the driver but would not know unless he talked.

  Anton lay across my lap. I breathed to clear my aching head. He twitched and I squeezed his hand.

  The automobile shot forward through the twilight. We must still be near Friedrichshafen, where the zeppelin had docked. Not far from Switzerland.

  Flight was our best alternative.

  I shifted so that my shoes rested against the floor. When we jumped I would need to push against something solid. Anton tensed. The men on either side of us seemed not to notice.

  I counted a few breaths, then cautiously cracked open an eye. Dark trees flashed by the window, illuminated by the last gray light of evening. We traveled about forty kilometers an hour, so perhaps we were in a town with a tree-lined street, full of friendly houses. Did such a thing exist in Germany anymore? I must hope so. It was unlikely that this would work, but we had to escape as soon as we could.

  I grasped Anton’s hand. Be ready, I thought. One, two, three.

  I lunged to the left, swinging my elbow at Mouse’s trachea. Unfortunately, his muscle-bound shoulders surrounded his neck, so the target was small. I missed, but scrabbled for the door lever anyway, right hand clasped in Anton’s.

  Mouse grabbed my arms and tossed me back against the seat. For good measure, he slammed his elbow into my left side. My breath whooshed out. The man on the right yanked Anton across the seat.

  Jannings’s hands stayed relaxed on the steering wheel. “Keep her quiet, but don’t—”

  Mouse grabbed the back of my head and slammed my face into the front seat. My nose struck the wooden top. Blood dripped onto the black leather upholstery.

  Anton struggled in the other man’s arms. He boxed Anton’s ear.

  Mouse yanked me upright. Springs squeaked in protest. I struggled to inhale. Blood ran from my nose.

  “Mind her face, you stupid bastard,” said Jannings. “We’re not to damage it.”

  Mouse grimaced, obviously used to causing pain but unused to keeping faces pristine while doing it.

  He drew his palm across the blood from my nose and wiped it on the automobile seat, leaving a dark streak on the leather. My eyes watered.

  “It ain’t broken.” He released me and I slumped against the seat.

  Air returned to my lungs in painful, shuddering breaths. Each one sent a dagger of fire down my side, but my body craved oxygen.

  Anton bit his assailant on the thumb. He grabbed Anton by the scruff of the neck and squeezed. I could not speak to tell Anton to let go, that they would hurt him. Mouse wrenched Anton off the other man’s hand. Beads of scarlet blood dotted his thumb. With an ease born of long practice, Mouse twisted Anton’s arms behind his back. He yelped.

  “Easy on the little one,” said Jannings. “He’s not to be harmed.”

  “He bites.” Mouse did not let go of his arms.

  “He’s a child,” said Jannings. “Should I hold him while you drive? We could switch, if you’re not up to the task.”

  Mouse swore under his breath, and Anton swore back at him. I looked at him, shocked. I had not heard such language from him in years. But he remembered everything, even the vocabulary of his early years being raised by a prostitute.

  I gritted my teeth and drew in a long breath. “Where,” I gasped, “are you taking us?”

  “Where we’re told,” said Jannings. “And no harm will come to you unless you fight us.”

  “We will comply. Release the boy.”

  “Do it,” Jannings said.

  Mouse let go of Anton’s arms. Anton rubbed his wrists and glared.

  “Respect your Uncle Mouse.”

  “You’re not my uncle.” Anton looked ready to attack. “I don’t have any uncles.”

  I studied Anton. His emphasis on the word “uncle” gave me pause. Before I took him in, an uncle in his world was a pimp. Was Mouse a pimp? Did Anton recognize him? I held his hands to calm him down.

  “Winnetou stalks the deer.” I hoped that he would know what I meant. Winnetou knew that stalking meant waiting for your moment, quietly. Anton nodded and some tension drained out of his shoulders.

  Then I turned toward Jannings. “We are Adelheid and Anton Zinsli. Swiss citizens. I demand to be brought to our embassy.” I said it more because it was what a Swiss citizen would say than because I expected results.

  “I’m sure it will get sorted out.” Jannings’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Fraulein Hannah Vogel.”

  Anton gasped, and I cursed inwardly. “I have no idea to whom you are referring.”

  “You will,” Jannings answered. “In good time.”

  Anton fumed next to me. Bruises bloomed on the pale skin of his arms. I fought down a rush of blind rage at Mouse. He would pay for hurting Anton.

  After the anger subsided and my nose stopped bleeding, I had time to become afraid.

  We drove north and east, probably toward Munich. But Röhm should be in Berlin. Or Venice. I thought of the pictures of Hitler and Mussolini in the newspaper, Röhm absent from them. Since we left Germany in 1931 he had stood on Hitler’s right in almost every photograph I had seen. His absence was unexpected. I hated the unexpected.

  “He’ll be glad it went off so well,” said Anton’s assailant. I named him Santer, after the villain in the Winnetou books. His breath reeked so strongly of beer that I smelled it even through the metallic scent of blood in my nose.

  “It’s not over yet.” Mouse ran a scarred hand through his greasy blond hair, revealing gray streaks at his temples. His pale blue eyes had more cunning than I expected.

  “Will be soon.” Santer flexed his fist. “They won’t give us any more trouble.”

  Santer in the books died most painfully, I reminded myself. I fingered my side. It hurt every time I inhaled. I breathed shallowly to lessen the pain. Every so often I endured a deep breath to keep from getting dizzy.

  “How’s your side?” Mouse asked. “I don’t reckon I cracked more than one rib. Just enough
to keep you quiet.”

  No accident then. He had known just what he was doing. Breaking ribs was probably his trademark.

  “Thank you for your restraint.” Sarcasm dripped from my words, and he smiled.

  “Feisty one, ain’t you?” He wound a strand of my hair, the same shade of blond as his own, around his index finger.

  I yanked my head away.

  “None of that.” Jannings watched in the rearview mirror. “The boss has his own plans for her.”

  Mouse shrugged. “Maybe after.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and winced. Anton shot Mouse a murderous look. I grabbed Anton’s arm.

  “Cracked rib,” I told him, thinking back to my nursing training during the Great War. “Nothing serious.” I did not add that it might be serious and was always painful. Instead I smiled, but he looked unconvinced.

  “Where are we going?” I asked again.

  No one bothered to answer. Mouse tipped his uniform hat over his eyes and started to snore.

  Santer reached across me. I gasped when he pressed on my rib. He thumped Mouse on the chest. Mouse snorted and turned to the side.

  Silence reigned.

  Even with the windows down, it was too hot jammed between Mouse and Santer. I hugged Anton’s small form. Under normal circumstances he never would have allowed it, but he was as frightened as I.

  We looked out the window. Dark fields streamed by. If houses existed out there, all were unlit.

  “This is Germany,” Anton whispered. “I was born here.”

  I ran my fingers down the bridge of my nose. It did not feel broken. “It was a different country then.” I did not try to keep anger and bitterness from my voice.

  “It’s a better country now,” Jannings said. “Stronger.”

  “Stronger does not always mean better,” I answered.

  “It does.” Jannings kept his eyes on the road. “You’d do well to remember that.”

  Santer fell asleep. I thought of attempting another escape, but the automobile traveled at least eighty kilometers per hour. Even if we landed uninjured, we had nowhere to hide. I twisted around. The round hump of the trunk was where we might end up if we tried to flee again.

  Anton sat as alert as an Indian scout, waiting for his chance. I was proud of him, but furious with myself. How could I have accepted the zeppelin assignment? Switzerland was too close to Germany.

  We approached the outskirts of a large city; Jannings slowed. House windows glowed yellow on either side of us. Perhaps someone would hide us, or come to our defense.

  “Almost there.” Jannings handed Mouse a brown bottle. He withdrew the glass stopper. The odor of chloroform filled the car. I kicked at his hand. If the bottle broke everyone might go down. But Mouse was too strong and had no qualms about leaning on my rib.

  Anton struggled against Santer, cursing.

  Mouse smashed a damp cloth against my throbbing nose. A sticky sweetness filled my mouth. Air shimmered, moved, and then it was dark.

  I woke stretched flat on a bed, my clothing stuck to me. How long had I been unconscious? My head pounded, my nose ached, and my side burned. Moaning, I rolled onto my injured rib. We told our patients to lie so, to let them inflate the uninjured lung fully. Now that it was my own rib, I regretted how blithely I gave that instruction to wounded soldiers almost twenty years ago, surprised none had taken me to task for dispensing such painful and probably useless information. I lay still, breathing shallowly, afraid to open my eyes. Was I in a concentration camp?

  I forced open my eyelids. Dark wainscoting clad the walls to waist height, flocked yellow wallpaper above. My suitcase rested next to a waxed pine Biedermeier wardrobe, near the front door as if deposited by a friendly bellhop. Heavy curtains covered the windows, blocking out all light. A green-shaded lamp shone on the night table next to my bed. Next to the table stood a solid wooden chair.

  Seated in the chair was Ernst Röhm.