Then, gripping her face in his hands, bringing her closer, closer, losing himself entirely, he corrected himself once more.
Maybe it had been forever.
Chapter Nineteen
The evening rituals in the Kohl household had been completed. Dishes dried, linens put away, laundry done.
The inspector's feet were feeling better and he poured out the water from the tub and then dried and replaced it. He tied the salts closed and put them back under the sink.
He returned to the den, where his pipe awaited. A moment later Heidi joined him and sat down in her own chair with her knitting. Kohl explained to her about his conversation with Gunter.
She shook her head. "So that's what it was. He was upset when he got home from the football field yesterday too. But he would say nothing to me. Not to a mother, not about such things."
Kohl said, "We need to talk to them. Someone has to teach them what we learned. Right and wrong."
Moral quicksand...
Heidi clicked the thick wooden needles together expertly; she was knitting a blanket for Charlotte and Heinrich's first child, which she assumed would arrive approximately nine and a half months after their wedding next May. She asked in a harsh whisper, "And then what happens? In the school yard Gunter mentions to his friends that his father says it's wrong to burn books or that we should allow American newspapers in the country? Ach, then you're taken away and never heard from again. Or they send me your ashes in a box with a swastika on it."
"We tell them to keep what we say to themselves. Like playing a game. It must be secret."
A smile from his wife. "They're children, my darling. They can't keep secrets."
True, Kohl thought. How true. What brilliant criminals the Leader and his crowd are. They kidnap the nation by seizing our children. Hitler said his would be a thousand-year empire. This is how he will achieve it.
He said, "I will speak to--"
A huge pounding filled the hall--the bronze bear knocker on Kohl's front door.
"God in heaven," Heidi said, standing up, dropping the knitting and glancing toward the children's rooms.
Willi Kohl suddenly realized that the SD or Gestapo had a listening device in his house and had heard the many questionable exchanges between himself and his wife. This was the Gestapo's technique--to gather evidence on the sly then arrest you in your home either early in the morning or during the dinner hour or just after, when you would least expect them. "Quickly, put the radio on, see if there's a broadcast," he said. As if listening to Goebbels's rantings would deter the political police.
She did. The dial glowed yellow but no sound yet came through the speakers. It took some moments for the tubes to heat up.
Another pounding.
Kohl thought of his pistol, but he kept it at the office; he never wanted the weapon near his children. Yet even if he had it, what good would it do against a company of Gestapo or SS? He walked into the living room and saw Charlotte and Heinrich, standing side by side, looking uneasily at each other. Hilde appeared in the doorway, her book drooping in her hand.
Goebbels's passionate baritone began surging out of the radio, talking about infections and health and disease.
As he walked to the door, Kohl wondered if Gunter had already made some casual comment about his parents to a friend. Perhaps the boy had denounced someone--his father, albeit unknowingly. Kohl glanced back at Heidi, who was standing with her arm around her youngest daughter. He unbolted the lock and swung open the heavy oak slab.
Konrad Janssen stood in the doorway, looking fresh as a child at holy communion. He looked past the inspector and said to Heidi, "Forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Kohl. It's unforgivable at this late hour."
Mother of God, Kohl thought, hands and heart vibrating. He wondered if the inspector candidate could hear the pounding in his chest. "Yes, yes, Janssen, the hour is not a problem. But next time, a lighter touch on the door, if you please."
"Of course." The young face, usually so calm, bristled with enthusiasm. "Sir, I showed the picture of the suspect all over the Olympics and half the rest of the city, it seemed."
"And?"
"I found a reporter for a British newspaper. He'd come over from New York on the S.S. Manhattan. He's been writing a story on athletic fields around the world and--"
"This Briton is our suspect, the man in the artist's picture?"
"No, but--"
"Then this portion of your story doesn't interest us, Janssen."
"Of course, sir. Forgive me. It's sufficient to say that this reporter recognized our man."
"Ah, well done, Janssen. Tell me, what did he have to say?"
"Not a great deal. All he knew was that he is an American."
This paltry confirmation was worth a burst heart? Kohl sighed.
But the inspector candidate, it seemed, was only pausing to catch his breath. He continued. "And his name is Paul Schumann."
Words spoken in the dark.
Words spoken as if in a dream.
They were close, finding in each other a comfortable opposite, knee to back of knee, swell of belly to back, chin to shoulder. The bed assisted; the feather mattress in Paul's bedroom formed a V under their joint weight and seated them firmly. They could not have moved apart had they wanted to.
Words spoken in the anonymity of new romance, the passion past, though only momentarily.
Smelling her perfume, which was in fact the source of the lilac he'd smelled when he'd first met her.
Paul kissed the back of Kathe's head.
Words spoken between lovers, speaking of everything, of nothing. Whims, jokes, facts, speculations, hopes... a torrent of words.
Kathe was telling him of her life as a landlady. She fell silent. Through the open window they could hear Beethoven once again, growing louder as someone in a nearby apartment turned up the volume. A moment later a firm voice echoed through the damp night.
"Ach," she said, shaking her head. "The Leader speaks. That's Hitler himself."
It was yet more talk about germs, about stagnant water, about infections.
Paul laughed. "Why's he so obsessed with health?"
"Health?"
"All day long, everybody's been talking about germs and cleanliness. You can't get away from it."
She was laughing. "Germs?"
"What's so funny?"
"Don't you understand what he's saying?"
"I... No."
"It's not germs he's talking about. It's Jews. He's changed all his speeches during the Olympics. He doesn't say 'Jew' but that's what he means. He doesn't want to offend the foreigners but he can't let us forget the National Socialist dogma. Paul, don't you know what is happening here? Why, in the basements of half the hotels and boardinghouses in Berlin are signs that were taken down for the Olympics and that will be put back up the day the foreigners leave. They say No Jews. Or Jews Not Welcome Here. There is a sharp turn on the road to my sister's home in Spandau. The sign warns, Dangerous Curve. 30 Kilometers Per Hour. Jews Do 70. It is a road sign! Not painted by vandals but by our government!"
"You're serious?"
"Serious, Paul. Yes! You saw the flags on the houses of Magdeburger Alley, the street here. You commented on ours when you arrived."
"The Olympic flag."
"Yes, yes. Not the National Socialist flag, like on most of the other homes on this street. Do you know why? Because this building is owned by a Jew. It's illegal for him to fly Germany's flag. He wants to be proud of his fatherland like everyone else. But he can't be. And how could he fly the National Socialist flag anyway? The swastika? The broken cross? It stands for anti-Semitism."
Ah, so that was the answer.
Surely you know....
"Have you heard of Aryanization?"
"No."
"The government takes a Jewish home or business. It's theft, pure and simple. Goring is the master of it."
Paul recalled the empty houses he'd passed that morning on the way to meet Morgan at Dresd
en Alley, the signs saying that the contents were to be sold.
Kathe moved closer yet to him. After a long silence she said, "There is a man.... He performs at a restaurant. 'Fancy,' it would be called. That is to say the name of the establishment is Fancy. But it is fancy too. Very nice. I went to this restaurant once and this man was in a glass cage in the middle of the dining room. Do you know what he was? A hunger artist."
"What?"
"A hunger artist. Like in the Kafka story. He had climbed into his cage some weeks before and had survived on nothing except water. He was there for everyone to see. He never ate."
"How does--"
"He is allowed to go to the lavatory. But someone always accompanies him and verifies that he has had nothing to eat. Day after day..."
Words spoken in the dark, words between lovers.
What those words mean is often not important. But sometimes it is.
Paul whispered, "Go on."
"I met him after he had been in the glass cage for forty-eight days."
"No food? Was he a skeleton?"
"He was very thin, yes. He looked sick. But he came out of the cage for some weeks. I met him through a friend. I asked him why he chose to do this for a living. He told me he had worked in the government for some years, something in transportation. But when Hitler came to power he left his job."
"He was fired because he wasn't a National Socialist?"
"No, he quit because he couldn't accept their values and wouldn't work for their government. But he had a child and he needed to make money."
"A child?"
"And needed money. But everywhere he looked, he could find no position that wasn't tainted with the Party. He found that the only thing he could do with any integ-- What is that word?"
"Integrity."
"Yes, yes, integrity. Was to be a hunger artist. It was pure. It could not be corrupted. And do you know how many people come to see him? Thousands! Thousands come to see him because he is honest. And there is so little honesty in our lives now." A faint shudder told him she was shivering with tears.
Words between lovers...
"Kathe?"
"What have they done?" She gasped for breath. "What have they done?... I don't understand what has happened. We are a people who love music and talk and who rejoice in sewing the perfect stitch in our men's shirts and scrubbing our alley cobblestones clean and basking in the sun on the beach at Wannsee and buying our children clothing and sweets, we're moved to tears by the 'Moonlight' Sonata, by the words of Goethe and Schiller--yet we are possessed now. Why?" Her voice faded. "Why?" A moment later she whispered, "Ach, that is a question for which, I'm afraid, the answer will come too late."
"Leave the country," Paul whispered.
She rolled about to face him. He felt her strong arms, strengthened from scrubbing tubs and sweeping floors, snake around him, he felt her heel rise and find the small of his back, pulling him closer, closer.
"Leave," he repeated.
The shivering stopped. Her breathing grew more regular. "I cannot leave."
"Why not?"
"It's my country," she whispered simply. "I can't abandon it."
"But it's not your country any longer. It's theirs. What did you say? Tier. Beasts, thugs. It's been taken over by beasts.... Leave. Get away before it gets worse."
"You think it will get worse? Tell me, Paul. Please. You're a writer. The way of the world isn't my way. It isn't teaching or Goethe or poetry. You're a clever man. What do you think?"
"I think it will get worse. You have to get out of here. As soon as you can."
She relaxed her desperate grip on him. "Even if I wanted to I cannot. After I was fired my name went on a list. They took my passport. I'll never get exit papers. They're afraid we'll work against them from England or Paris. So they keep us close."
"Come back with me. I can get you out."
Words between lovers...
"Come to America." Had she not heard? Or had she decided no already? "We have wonderful schools. You could teach. Your English is as good as anyone's."
She inhaled deeply. "What are you asking?"
"Leave with me."
A harsh laugh. "A woman cries, a man says anything to stop the tears. Ach, I don't even know you."
Paul said, "And I don't know you. I'm not proposing, I'm not saying we live together. I'm just saying you have to get the hell out of here. I can arrange that."
In the silence that followed, Paul was thinking that, no, he wasn't proposing. Nothing of the sort. But, truth be told, Paul Schumann couldn't help but wonder if his offer wasn't about more than helping her escape from this difficult place. Oh, he'd had his share of women--good girls and bad girls and good girls playing at being bad. Some of them he'd thought he'd loved, and some he'd known he had. But he knew he'd never felt for them what he felt for this woman after such a short period of time. Yes, he loved Marion in a way. He'd spend an occasional night with her in Manhattan. Or she with him in Brooklyn. They'd lie together, they'd share words-- about movies, about where hemline lengths would go next year, about Luigi's restaurant, about her mother, about his sister. About the Dodgers. But they weren't lovers' words, Paul Schumann realized. Not like he'd spoken tonight with this complicated, passionate woman.
Finally she said dismissively, irritated, "Ach, I can't go. How can I go? I told you about my passport and exit papers."
"This is what I'm saying. You don't have to worry about that. I have connections."
"You do?"
"People in America owe me favors." This much was true. He thought of Avery and Manielli in Amsterdam, ready at a moment's notice to send the plane to collect him. Then he asked her, "Do you have ties here? How about your sister?"
"Ach, my sister... She's married to a Party loyalist. She doesn't even see me. I'm an embarrassment." After a moment Kathe said, "No, I have only ghosts here. And ghosts are no reason to remain. They're reasons to leave."
Outside, laughter and drunken shouts. A slurring male voice sang, "When the Olympic Games are done, the Jews will feel our knife and gun...." Then the crash of breaking glass. Another song, several voices singing this time. "Hold high the banner, close the ranks. The SA marches on with firm steps.... Give way, give way to the brown battalions, as the Stormtroopers clear the land...."
He recognized the song that the Hitler Youth had sung yesterday as they lowered the flag at the Olympic Village. The red, the white and the black hooked cross.
Ach, surely you know....
"Oh, Paul, you can really get me out of the country, without papers?"
"Yes. But I'll be leaving soon. Tomorrow night, I hope. Or the night after."
"How?"
"Leave the details to me. Are you willing to leave immediately?"
After a moment of silence: "I can do that. Yes."
She took his hand, stroked his palm and interlaced her fingers with his. This was by far the most intimate moment between them tonight.
He gripped her tightly, stretched his arm out and struck something hard under the pillow. He touched it and, from the size and feel, realized that it was the volume of Goethe's poems that he'd given her earlier.
"You won't--"
"Shhhh," he whispered. And stroked her hair.
Paul Schumann knew that there are times for lovers' words to end.
IV
SIX TO FIVE AGAINST
Sunday, 26 July, to Monday, 27 July, 1936
Chapter Twenty
He had been in his office at the Alex for an hour, since 5 A . M ., painstakingly writing out the English-language telegram that he had composed in his mind as he lay sleepless in bed beside peaceful Heidi, fragrant with the powder she dusted on before retiring.
Willi Kohl now looked over his handiwork:
I AM BEING SENIOR DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WILLI
KOHL OF THE KRIMINALPOLIZEI (CRIMINAL POLICE) IN
BERLIN STOP WE SEEK INFORMATION REGARD AMERI
CAN POSSIBLY FROM NEW YORK PRESENTLY IN B
ERLIN
PAUL SCHUMANN IN CONNECTION OF HOMICIDE STOP
ARRIVED WITH AMERICAN OLYMPIC TEAM STOP PLEASE
TO REMIT ME INFORMATION ABOUT THIS MAN AT KRIM
INALPOLIZEI HEADQUARTERS ALEXANDERPLATZ
BERLIN TO DIRECTION OF INSPECTOR WILLI KOHL
STOP MOST URGENT STOP THANKING YOU REGARDS
He'd struggled hard with the wording. The department had translators but none worked on Sunday and he wanted to send the telegram immediately. It would be earlier in America; he wasn't sure about the time zones and he guessed the hour to be about midnight overseas but he hoped that the law enforcers there would keep the same long shifts as police in most countries.
Kohl read the telegram once again and decided that, though flawed, it was good enough. On a separate sheet of paper he wrote instructions to send it to the International Olympic Committee, the New York City Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He walked down to the telegraph office. He was disappointed to find that no one was as yet on duty. Angrily, he returned to his desk.
After a few hours' sleep, Janssen was presently en route back to the Olympic Village to see if he could pick up any more leads there. What else could Kohl himself do? Nothing occurred to him, except hounding the medical examiner for the autopsy and FPE for the fingerprint analysis. But they, of course, were not in their offices yet either and might not come in at all on Sunday.
He felt the frustration acutely.
His eyes dropped down to the hard-worked-on telegram.
"Ach, this is absurd." He would wait no longer. How difficult could it be to man a Teletype machine? Kohl rose and hurried back to the department, figuring he would do the best he could to transmit the telegram to the United States himself. And if, because of his clumsy fingers, it ended up being sent by mistake to a hundred different places in America, well, so much the better.
She had returned to her own room not long before, around 6 A.M., and was now back in his, wearing a dark blue housedress, pins holding her hair flat to her head, a little blush on her cheeks. Paul stood in the doorway, wiping the remnants of the shaving froth from his face. He put the cover on his safety razor and dropped it into his stained canvas bag.
Kathe had brought coffee and toast, along with some pale margarine, cheese, dried sausage and soupy marmalade. She walked through the low, dusty light streaming into the front window of his living room and set the tray on the table near the kitchen.
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