“And?”
“I paid her.” He sounded numb now, as if he was past caring. “I gave her money to leave so that she could have the other baby somewhere free. But the only place that she could go was Poland, and she would never go there.”
I remembered Paul’s words. “What happened to Miriam in Poland?”
He spread his hands wide. “Horrible things. It’s why she came here. And then I met her, and everything got so complicated.”
“She died there,” I said. “In Poland.”
He gulped back a sob. “She always said that Poland would kill her quicker than the Nazis ever would.”
“Did you have a hand in that?”
“Me?” He blew his nose on a crisp white handkerchief. “If I had wanted to kill her, I would have done it here. No one would investigate the death of another Jew in Germany.”
I studied him. His words seemed true, but even if they were not, I would not come to the root of them here. If Miriam was murdered, I might never know. I thought back to the mysterious translator in the stable. What had become of her?
I stood so suddenly that Anton almost tipped my chair over. “I am done with you, for now. But I am watching you. If you do not change your behavior, I will turn you in. I have heard that Oranienburg is lovely this time of year.” Just a quick reminder of the concentration camp near Berlin where he might be sent.
He flinched.
I swept out with my head held high, my shoulders square and angry. Anton was so close behind me that I worried he would tread on my heels. “Not a word,” I told him.
We made it past the disapproving officer by the door and walked several blocks before I cut left and circled back toward the lorry.
“All right, Anton,” I said. “You may speak again.”
“I had no idea you could lie like that!” He looked at me with admiration. “He was terrified!”
I hated to hear his enthusiasm over my skills in deception. “Unfortunately, that is probably all the punishment he will ever receive for abandoning his daughter.”
“You should have shaken some money out of him.”
“Anton!” Shocked, I stopped walking.
“For Ruth,” he said. “She probably needs it more than he does.”
“Blackmail is…” I wound down. I had blackmailed him for information, if not for money. “For life and death, I will do it. But not for cash.”
That was a fine distinction to make, and I was not certain that Anton agreed, but he held his peace.
* * *
We stopped at a telephone booth on the way to the lorry. I called the newspaper again. Herr Marceau answered on the first ring.
“It is I,” I said. “No names.”
“I have news for you.” He paused uncertainly.
“Is it good?” I asked, although I could tell from his tone that it was not.
“No—”
“First answer a question for me.” I glanced up and down the nearly empty street. I had assumed that the Gestapo monitored the telephones near the ministry, but I could not be certain about this one either. “Could you look at the envelopes of the letters I received and tell me where they were postmarked?”
“Berlin, but—”
“I know that, but do they have anything on them to indicate where in Berlin?”
“The police have them,” he said. “Now, be quiet and listen.”
“Go ahead.” I paused at his tone, worried about the reasons behind it.
“A woman called today to leave a message for you. She claimed to be the one who has been sending you the letters. I spoke to her myself.”
I sagged against the wood and glass side of the booth. The letter writer had escalated to calling. Anton looked at me worriedly. “A woman?”
“She said that if vom Rath dies, so will the little girl. She wants you to know that it’s your fault, as it was the day before yesterday.”
My throat was too dry to speak. It was her lipstick on the glass. She had killed Paul. She had Ruth, and she planned to kill her, too. I cleared my throat. “Why?”
“I asked her that, too. She said that you know why. You murdered someone whom she loved.”
Frau Röhm had once thought that I killed her son and had been willing to kill Anton in revenge, but what other woman could link me to Ruth, Paul, and Berlin? I discounted Maria. She might have killed me, but she would never have killed Paul. And as much as I hated her, I did not believe that she would kill Ruth either.
“What was she talking about?” He sounded more perplexed than accusatory. Even Herr Marceau did not think me a killer. Except, I was.
“I never murdered anyone,” I said. Self-defense was not murder. A fine line, but all I had to cling to. “I have no idea what she meant.”
“She certainly seemed angry at you,” he said. “She felt wronged.”
I gripped the black Bakelite receiver, trying to think. “Can you find Herr Knecht?”
“I will see.” He put the phone on the desk with a clunk. While I waited, I thought about Paul. The woman he let in the night he was murdered was someone he trusted. Someone he did not think would ever harm him. Regardless, she had chosen him because of me. Guilt over having brought Paul into the line of fire welled up in me. No matter who had killed him, it was my fault.
Cold fury overrode the guilt. His murderer had killed an innocent, and threatened to kill another. I would stop her. Or die trying.
“I’m back,” Herr Marceau said. “I could not find Herr Knecht.”
“Could you please—?” I cleared my throat again. “Could you please stay by the phone for more messages? All day, even into tonight? I hate to ask—”
“I’ll stay,” he said. “Of course.”
“I am going to try to find the little girl,” I said. “As soon as I can, I am coming home.”
“We miss you,” he said. “Be careful.”
I thanked him and broke the connection. Did Herr Marceau have a heart, or a deeper agenda? I left my hand atop the phone box.
A woman caller. Maria? Paul would certainly have let her in. But I could not picture her killing him, and certainly not taking Ruth. Did Paul entertain other women visitors late at night? Or had it been someone who looked like Maria? Or like me?
I took a deep breath. The person I could think of who looked the most like me was Fräulein Ivona. That seemed ridiculous. She was somewhere in Poland. But it was a lead to follow, and I had no others. She and Lars had been together less than a month, and I did not think that her feelings for him were deep enough to kill just to hurt him. But I could be wrong about that. I had been wrong about everything else. I turned toward the door, and Anton. I had to think. I had to set aside my anger and guilt to save Ruth.
The timing, I told myself. Start with the timing. The letters started a month ago, before Fräulein Ivona met Lars. So what had happened a month ago? Fräulein Ivona’s mother died. Perhaps, then, she had started writing me letters and sought out Lars and their meeting had not been a chance encounter in a bar, as Lars thought.
But why? Did she blame us for her mother’s death? I had never killed another woman. Had Lars? She had said that her mother had been ill. I did not see how we could be responsible for that. Perhaps her mother told her something before she died.
The other person who became agitated with me a month ago was Herr Marceau. I had only his word that there had been a woman caller. Was he trying to frighten me into leaving Berlin? But how could he know about Ruth’s disappearance? Or perhaps this woman was related to his beloved actress in Berlin.
Anton knocked against the glass. I pushed the door open and stepped into the cold afternoon.
“What happened?” he asked. “You look like a horse rode over your grave.”
“Truer than you think,” I said. “We have to get back to the lorry.”
27
I walked him there too quickly for either of us to speak. I was out of breath when we arrived. A rumpled and tired-looking Lars leaned against the bac
k of the lorry.
I filled him in on my conversation with Herr Marceau. Lars did not believe that it was Fräulein Ivona. Logic, passion, or self-deception?
“Give me another name, Lars,” I said. “One other woman who sought us both out?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “That does not mean that the name doesn’t exist. Why would Ivona go to these lengths?”
“Why would anyone?” I put my hands on my hips. I could think of no other suspect, and neither could he.
“What about Ruth’s father?” He ran his fingers through his mussed hair, and I felt sorry for him. He was exhausted, he had done nothing but work to get us all to safety, and he could not have known about Fräulein Ivona either.
I told him of my encounter with Stauffer, the only other lead we had.
“What is Fräulein Ivona’s last name? Did you know?” She had presented herself to me as Fräulein Ivona, so I had assumed that was her surname, but now I knew it was her given one.
“Of course I know! It was Fischer,” he snapped. “Ivona Fischer.”
Fischer was one of the most common surnames in Germany. “Did you ever see her passport or identity papers?”
“I was sleeping with her,” he barked. “Not interrogating her.”
“More’s the pity.” I bristled at his tone. “So you have no proof that her name was, in fact, Fischer?”
“I did see a student identification card,” he said. “There was no picture. But everything that she told me fit in with the file my colleague checked for me. Ivona Fischer is not your culprit, no matter how jealous you may be.”
“This has nothing to do with your philandering.” I stepped closer to him. “I am trying—”
“Arguing won’t solve anything.” Anton took my arm and pulled me back a step.
“How about,” Lars said coldly, “I visit the Berlin address from her file? I have it in my notebook. Perhaps she is even there. If not, will childhood photographs convince you that she is who she says and that she has no connection to this affair?”
He opened his old notebook. I watched him flip past the list of suspects, remembering the names of those who had died because of me: Hahn, Bauer, and two unnamed Gestapo agents in the warehouse, plus the two by the side of the road. I wished that I had never met any of them.
We drove to the address without speaking. Anton pressed himself against the door and stared out the window, probably wishing he did not have to be in the cab of the lorry either.
Lars stopped the lorry and wrenched up the parking brake with such force that I worried he might yank it out entirely. He stomped up the drive of a well-kept house.
“Please stay here,” I told Anton.
“I have no wish to follow you.” He took out his platypus and began to shape it.
I hurried after Lars.
He rang the bell. A young woman with long dark hair tucked into a bun answered the door. A black cat twined around her ankles.
“Yes?” she said in a high-pitched, almost childish voice.
“We wish to speak to Ivona Fischer,” Lars said.
“That’s me,” she said.
Lars took a quick step back.
“Do you work for the department of road building?” I asked.
“I do,” she said. “Is something wrong? I only work part-time. I was told not to come in today.”
Lars was unable to take his eyes off her.
“Nothing wrong,” I told her. “I just wanted to confirm that you made your donation to the Winter Relief Fund.”
“But I did!” She shifted nervously from foot to foot. “I can give again.”
“Not necessary. Thank you.” I took Lars’s arm and walked him back down the path to the lorry.
I had seldom seen him so shaken.
“We need to find another telephone booth,” I said. “I know someone who might be able to find out Fräulein Ivona’s last name.”
He nodded. He seemed to have lost the power of speech.
I found a telephone box on a busy shopping street. Anton insisted that I leave the door open so that he could hear. Lars crowded next to him.
While the operator worked on the connection, I wondered if the man I was trying to reach had changed his number. Much might have changed since he gave it to me in the Olympic Village two years ago. The phone rang through.
Now I could only hope that he was home for lunch.
“Lehmann,” said a deep voice. I almost cried with relief.
I thought how to play it. He might not recognize my voice, so I used a variation of my brother’s name. “This is Ernestine. I am in town for a few hours and—”
“Wondered if I had spare time over lunch? So you called me at my home?” Wilhelm asked. “Naughty girl.”
I hoped that Anton could not hear what he had just said. “How about we meet outside the restaurant where I had lemonade last time and then…”
A short pause, then Wilhelm said, “The one with your favorite cowboy?”
He had guessed correctly. “You know how I feel about cowboys.”
He chuckled. “Give me half an hour. I need to get a hat.”
I rang off.
“I am meeting an old friend,” I said to Lars. “He might help us.”
“Who?” Anton asked.
“Wilhelm Lehmann,” Lars said. He had met Wilhelm as part of my brother’s murder investigation. And he had heard both sides of my conversation.
“I remember him!” Anton said. “He gave me a ride up the stairs and told me stories, and he was in that meeting. The one where…”
The one where I was shot. “Yes. Him.”
I turned to Lars. “We need to drive to Haus Vaterland. I am meeting Wilhelm out front. You and Anton must stay out of sight.”
“I don’t like leaving you alone,” Lars said.
“Wilhelm might get spooked if you are there.” He certainly would not tell me much with Lars listening.
“I want to spook him a little,” he said. “To keep you safer.”
“If you cannot bear it, follow me. But out of sight. I would be interested to know if anyone follows Wilhelm. I will stoop down and pretend to fix my shoe when you should pick me back up.”
“Spatz—”
“I would not have to do this if you could verify Fräulein Ivona’s last name.” A mean thing to say, and I regretted it. But it was true. “I am not going to let Ruth die without trying to save her.”
He held his finger under his eye, on the muscle that twitched when he was angry. “As you wish.”
He dropped me a block from Haus Vaterland. He pulled into traffic and disappeared. I trusted him to keep track of me unseen, in spite of our squabble.
I walked in a seemingly aimless fashion down the Kufürstendamm. I noticed how shops on this fashionable street took great pains to advertise their German-ness, probably to ingratiate themselves with the Nazis to protect their windows. I passed signs advertising German restaurants, a German candy store, and a German store that sold umbrellas and luggage.
I stepped into a German tobacconist’s next to Haus Vaterland to wait for Wilhelm. The scent of pipe tobacco reminded me of my father. He had usually been happy while smoking his pipe in the evening. Before he got to his third or fourth drink.
I walked between glass cases of pipes, cigarettes, and tobacco. A mural of an exotic-looking tobacco plant covered the wall behind the counter. A dapper man puffed on his pipe, a perfect advertisement for his wares.
I stopped next to a life-size wooden carving of an Indian. Brick red paint covered his face and hands, the wooden feathers on his headdress were brown tipped with white. The costume was wrong, as Anton would have pointed out.
“How may I help you, Fräulein?” the clerk asked. “Cigarettes, perhaps?”
“I do not smoke,” I said automatically.
“Filthy habit for a woman.” He stroked his long mustache.
I suppressed a smile. It was an equally filthy habit for a man. “I am looking for a pipe for my fath
er.”
The shopkeeper lifted out a tray of expensive pipes and set them on the display case. The shelves behind him showcased brightly packaged cigarettes.
I angled my body so that I could see Haus Vaterland and, hopefully soon, Wilhelm. I picked up a smooth briar pipe. My father would not have liked it. He liked the feel of a meerschaum.
As if reading my mind, the salesman stroked his finger along the foam-white surface of a meerschaum pipe. “This one is popular with our older customers.”
I pretended to study it. A horse was carved into it, and my father had liked horses. If he had been alive still, the meerschaum would have been his favorite. Clearly, the salesman knew his business.
I spotted Wilhelm’s tall blond form half a block away and waited for him to draw closer.
“I must think on it a bit,” I said. “But that horse pipe is lovely.”
“You can’t do better than that,” the shopkeeper said. “Solid craftsmanship. It’ll last a lifetime. If you have boys, perhaps one of them might use it later.”
“Indeed.” I intended to prevent Anton from smoking as long as I could. “Excuse me.”
Wilhelm looked startled when I stepped out of the tobacco store into his path, but he swept me into a hug all the same. I had quite forgotten how tall he was. As tall as my brother had been. They had been a handsome couple.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.
“Trouble,” I said.
He slipped my hand into his arm. We strolled down the street as easily and companionably as if we had done it a thousand times. Women in fashionable clothes walked by us. Very few women wore makeup or trousers, as that was discouraged by the government. It was hard to believe that the Nazis were able to find time for fashion edicts. Yet, they did.
“How are Frieda and the baby?” I looked up at him. He was a man now, although still a young man in his mid-twenties, but I remembered him as a teen, blue eyes uncertain and gawky limbs crashing into things, hoping that my brother would notice him and fall in love with him. And Ernst had, almost too late.
A City of Broken Glass (Hannah Vogel) Page 25