Prisoner of Night and Fog

by Anne Blankman

  Best of all, Uncle Dolf had remained their beloved family friend. Sometimes, when he was in one of his nostalgic moods, he talked about sturdy, dependable old Müller. How his trusted lieutenant had known that he, Hitler, was destined for great things, and had laid down his life so Hitler could accomplish them.

  There could be no trade. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m a reporter,” he said. “I came to you because this is a critical time for the Nazi Party—”

  “National Socialist,” she corrected automatically. She hated the way some people said “Nazi” so casually, as though they didn’t even realize it was Bavarian slang for “country bumpkin.”

  “Of course you do.” He smiled slightly, then turned serious. “Fräulein Müller, Hitler’s campaigning for the presidency as we speak. His party is poised to become the most powerful political force in the country. And it mustn’t happen.”

  “Mustn’t happen?” Irritation inched into her voice, although she tried to hold it back. Had this boy made up a story about Papa, luring her to this meeting, so he could pour out his political beliefs, knowing she was one of Hitler’s favorites and might repeat his concerns to the Führer? Uncle Dolf had warned her about such interlopers.

  Now, more than ever, the Party had to guard itself against its enemies. In the last elections, the National Socialists had increased their presence in the Reichstag from twelve to one hundred seven deputies, and they were quickly becoming the most popular party in the country. They had, as Uncle Dolf often said, reached the tipping point in their political movement.

  “The National Socialist Party is the best thing that could ever happen to Germany!” Gretchen said. “Herr Hitler is committed to reducing unemployment and creating more jobs.”

  The boy’s gaze moved over her face, and she shifted uncomfortably. There was an unblinking fierceness in his gaze. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had looked at her so intently.

  “I see you truly believe that,” he said at last. “But why wouldn’t you? You’ve lived in Hitler’s shadow for as long as you can remember.”

  She brushed his words aside. “Why did you send me a letter?”

  “Nothing matters more than exposing a lie.” He moved closer, the pine needles sighing under his feet. “And because you’re Klaus Müller’s daughter. I thought that you, more than anyone else, would want to know what happened to him.”

  Confusion blanked her mind. “I already know. He died protecting Herr Hitler.”

  “He was murdered.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course he was. The state policemen shot him and let him bleed to death in the street.”

  What a waste of time. She started to push past him, but he grabbed her arm. His fingers felt hot against her bare skin.

  “I’m sorry, Fräulein Müller, but they didn’t.” The boy’s dark eyes locked on hers. “A National Socialist comrade killed him. And I aim to find out who.”

  The trees tilted and blurred, skinny black trunks and green-leaved branches swirling together like a child’s experiment with finger paints. From far away, she felt the boy’s hand slide from her arm, then his fingers gripping both of her shoulders, steadying her.

  A cruel joke. That’s all it was. Finally, she found her voice. “You’re wrong.”

  In the greenish-black light, she saw the grim set of the boy’s mouth. It wasn’t a joke. While Gretchen, stunned into silence, stared at him, his hands fell to his sides, but her shoulders still burned from his touch.

  “I have proof,” he said quietly. “I’ll get to the truth behind your father’s death, and once I do, everyone else in Munich will know it, too.”

  He tipped his hat. “If you decide to do right by your father’s memory, you can find me at the Golden Phoenix nightclub tomorrow night.”

  He strode away, a tall figure rapidly darkening with distance until he was part of the shadows descending on the park.

  Ludicrous lies, an attempt by an overly ambitious reporter to dig up dirt on Uncle Dolf, that must be it. She gripped the knife harder. Her fingers dug into the carved wooden handle, the almost painful sensation grounding her in this moment. Her family’s special relationship with Hitler meant they were targets, too.

  Uncle Dolf had warned she must constantly be on her guard against the Party’s myriad enemies. He had said his opponents were flung across every corner of the city, barely discernible, like a spiderweb—until you tossed water on the gossamer net and there your opponents were, glistening like diamonds, brilliantly bright and unmistakable.

  He would want to know about this strange conversation. She hesitated. Something about the boy held her back. The kindness in his voice, perhaps.

  A sudden, sharp pain sliced through her thoughts. The knife had slipped. Thin lines of blood ran between her fingers. In the twilight, they looked black. She wound a handkerchief around the stinging pain. Then she stepped out from the trees and started walking.

  Even in the deepening shadows, the boardinghouse appeared tired and dingy, like an aging theater actress who looked old and faded beneath the thick layers of makeup. Soot streaked the stone in places, last week’s rainfall dotted the windows, and the cheap smells of lung soup and horse meat wafted through the open door.

  In the front hall, Gretchen snatched up the communal telephone’s earpiece. She dialed the apartment house at 93 Hohenzollernstrasse, turning toward the wall and hunching her shoulders, as though she could curl into herself and become invisible. Her heart slowed in relief when someone answered the building’s communal telephone and promised to fetch Eva.

  As she waited, her eyes traced the garish red-and-purple flowered wallpaper. Across the hall, the ladies gossiped in the parlor. Supper was over; she hadn’t shown up to help Mama with the cooking and cleaning. What would her mother say? Gretchen swallowed hard. Nothing her mother could come up with would be worse than what the boy had said.

  “Hello!” Eva’s crystalline voice echoed down the telephone wires. “Thank heavens you rang! I’ve been stuck here, reading film magazines, because naturally my father won’t let me go out, and I’ve been trying not to think about cream pie—”

  “Eva,” Gretchen broke in, “something strange has happened.” Out of habit, she glanced around the empty hall, although she knew she was alone. “Can I come by the shop tomorrow? I must talk to you.”

  “Are you all right?” Eva asked. “Gretchen, you sound . . . I don’t know . . . as if you can’t breathe.”

  “No, I’m not all right.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “There’s a man—a boy, really—and he’s told me a horrible story about my father—”

  She stopped as a light, feathery shuffle sounded from the staircase. One of the boarders was coming down. “I must go.”

  She dropped the earpiece onto its handle and went into the kitchen. Her mother stood at the sink, scrubbing dishes. Even the tight set of her shoulders looked annoyed as she snapped, “Why weren’t you here to help with the boarders’ supper?”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I lost track of time.”

  “We’re losing more than that.” Her mother shoved a dripping plate into her hands. “It’s the bills, Gretl. I can’t pay them.”

  Although the building owners paid for electricity and coal, all residents were charged for rent and food. Gretchen’s family paid a reduced amount, and Mama received small payments for her work as the boardinghouse manager, but her salary barely covered their housing and meal costs. Extras such as clothing had to be budgeted for carefully.

  “Can we ask Uncle Dolf for a loan?”

  Her mother plunged her hands into the sudsy water. “The Party is perpetually low on funds, at least that’s what they say. Besides, we’re in the same hole every month, just sinking deeper.” She pushed another plate at her, and Gretchen realized she hadn’t dried the first one yet. “You need to get a job. A real job, Gretl.” Mama didn’t look at her. “You’ll have to give up your schooling.”

  “What?” She
couldn’t have heard correctly. Not her education, the single rope she held to climb out of the dark hole of drudgery Mama expected her to live in. Not her dreams of becoming a doctor. Not when she had only a few months left before graduation. She was so close.

  Slowly, Gretchen set the still-wet dish onto the stack on the counter. The sound of china plates clinking together seemed loud in the quiet kitchen.

  “You heard me.” Mama pulled the plug, and water gurgled down the drain. “We can begin looking for a suitable position in the morning. There won’t be many available, but I’m sure Herr Hitler will put in a good word for you somewhere.”

  Gretchen felt as though she had stepped into a freezing lake. “Please, Mama, I must go back. I’m in my last year of Gymnasium.”

  “I know, and you wish to be a doctor and heal everyone and do all sorts of splendid things.” Her mother sounded annoyed as she scrubbed the counter. “But it’s impossible. You’d best go upstairs and press your white blouse to wear tomorrow when you go looking for work. No one will hire a slovenly girl.”

  Gretchen opened her mouth to protest, then shut it. Talking back was not permitted. Not by any family; she didn’t have a single friend who dared to argue with her parents. The decision had been made. There could be no pleas or tears; they wouldn’t make any difference. Blindly, Gretchen walked into the hall, nearly knocking into the man peering at one of the cheaply framed prints of wildflowers.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured, catching only a momentary impression of black hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, and a flurry of apologies in muddled, schoolboy German before she threw herself out the front door and pounded down the steps, running faster and faster until she thought her lungs would burst.

  There was only one person she could go to for help, but Uncle Dolf was due to deliver a speech at the Circus Krone in less than an hour. She would have to hurry.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  6

  THE CIRCUS KRONE WAS A CAVERNOUS HALL LINED with dozens of rows of wooden benches. Gretchen paused at the entrance. Hundreds of people packed the seats: burghers in suits beside laborers in tattered jackets, housewives in flowered dresses next to society ladies in silk, even theater folks in vivid makeup rubbing shoulders with street toughs in black, everyone jumbled together without regard to class distinctions, as Hitler always instructed.

  Different classes, but the same tension tightened their shoulders and the same desperation hooded their eyes. They needed a savior to pull them out of this dark hole—the hole of inflation and high unemployment and gnawing hunger and a progression of shoddily built governments that kept collapsing. Gretchen heard the word Heiland on nearly everyone’s lips. A savior, a healer. The man they needed Hitler to be. It was no coincidence they greeted him with Heils. He had come to deliver them all.

  The podium was still empty; he hadn’t arrived yet. But she mustn’t search him out now. Disturbing him before a speech would only annoy him.

  The air was hazy with tobacco smoke drifting lazily to the high ceiling. The crowd’s voices swelled and sank like the tide, washing over her, and suddenly the chattering rose to a dull roar. “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

  That was the signal that Uncle Dolf was coming. She caught sight of his half niece in the front row. Geli Raubal had turned in her seat. Her eyes widened when they met Gretchen’s, and she waved, mouthing, Sit with me! Hurry!

  Gretchen rushed down the center aisle. Geli pulled her close, whispering, “How marvelous to see you! Now I needn’t be bored silly.” She jerked her head toward the thirtyish man sitting beside her. Gretchen recognized the florid face and icy eyes; they belonged to one of Hitler’s many adjutants, who sometimes acted as Geli’s chaperone.

  The crowd cheered again, saving Gretchen from having to reply. She often didn’t know how to respond to Geli’s saucy comments. Unlike the National Socialists who kowtowed to Hitler, Geli often teased her uncle Alf, and even accomplished the rare feat of making him laugh at himself. When Geli had moved to Munich four years ago, Gretchen had expected their age to wedge them apart—after all, Geli was six years older—but her merry, easy manner had made them friends. They often sat together at Café Heck, or shopped along the Maximilianstrasse, Gretchen watching as Geli tried on hat after hat until she giggled and said she couldn’t decide and would have to buy them all and to please send her uncle the bill.

  The crowd roared. Gretchen stood with them, peering through the crush of bodies and the swirling cigarette smoke. Along the walls and beneath the raised podium stood uniformed SA troops. Their heads swiveled as they studied the audience, their bodies were ready to spring forward to drag away hecklers.

  She spotted her brother, Reinhard, among them, a tower in brown uniform. He stood with his arms clasped behind his back, feet wide apart, poised to attack.

  Quickly she looked away from him, glad he hadn’t noticed her. Even as relief flooded her veins like blood, she felt embarrassed. She could never tell anyone how much she feared her own brother, or how Reinhard secretly punished her for a cross word or an ill-timed laugh by playing nasty tricks: her library book left on the front stoop on a rainy night although she could have sworn she’d placed it in her satchel, her best blouse balled up beneath her bed even though she had searched there five times already. There was no one else it could be, although he hadn’t confessed and she hadn’t had the nerve to confront him.

  The shouts of Sieg Heil filled the air as Hitler strode down the center aisle, his face set in tight lines, his arms swinging purposefully. Tonight he wore the blue serge suit he was so proud of, and a sheen of perspiration already coated his forehead.

  Like the others, Gretchen had turned to watch Hitler approach. The audience members raised their arms in the National Socialist salute, united in their identical pose.

  But there was someone, standing near the back, who was not saluting or applauding. In the dim light, she could barely see him—a tall figure, arms folded over a broad chest. When he moved, the pale lamplight washing him with gold, she nearly gasped aloud. It was the boy from the park.

  He was watching her. When their eyes met, he doffed his hat. For the first time, she saw the dark fall of his hair, the chestnut-brown strands gilded by the lamplight.

  Unable to stop herself, she nudged Geli, “Do you know that boy? The one standing near the back with his arms crossed?”

  Geli looked and then laughed, the sound drowned by another wave of applause as Hitler reached the platform. Her brown bobbed hair brushed Gretchen’s cheek as she leaned closer to whisper. “Handsome fellow, isn’t he? That’s Daniel Cohen, my dear. The newest reporter at the Poison Kitchen. And a Jew.”

  The Poison Kitchen. Gretchen had heard of it, of course: the local Socialist newspaper called the Munich Post, one of a dwindling numbers of publications opposed to the Party. Uncle Dolf called the reporters a bunch of charlatans who cooked up vicious lies about him, and he had christened them with their nickname. In Uncle Dolf’s opinion, calling someone a poisoner was the worst insult possible, for that meant he was a race defiler, a polluter of blood.

  . She had liked the boy’s eyes; she had thought they were beautiful. And the sharp planes of his face, and his deep, quick voice.

  A sudden commotion shattered her thoughts. At the back of the hall, a group of brownshirts had surrounded an elderly man. He looked as weathered and frail as a twig, but he was putting up a good fight, kicking and hitting at his assailants. The crowd laughed and jeered as the SA fellows struggled to restrain the old man. One of the them lost his balance, staggering backward into a heavyset man in SA brown.

  Even from the back, Gretchen recognized his wide, squat figure. Strong and muscular once, perhaps, but now rapidly melting into fat. It was SA-Stabschef Ernst Röhm, the head of the SA and Reinhard’s superior.

  Röhm pushed the boy away, shouting angrily. He whirled on Reinhard, w
ho stood apart, expressionless. Jabbing his finger at Reinhard’s face, he shouted something.

  Then Reinhard stepped forward into the mass of flailing bodies, shoving his comrades aside until he reached the old man. The fellow shrank back, his hands coming up in surrender, but Reinhard ignored the conciliatory gesture. He whipped an arm around the old man’s waist, hefting him as easily as a sack of grain, and carried him outside, the man screaming for help all the way.

  She wouldn’t have thought anything of it, for audience members were frequently dragged away by the brownshirts, but she caught sight of Cohen running toward the exit, too. Looking terrified.

  After the speech ended, Uncle Dolf walked out as the music was still playing, his usual trick to avoid the mobs of followers. While the others stood about in little clumps, discussing Hitler’s proposals about creating more jobs through road- and housing-construction projects, Gretchen said her good-nights to Geli and her chaperone and then hurried her way through the crowd into the warm, starlit evening.

  Hitler’s red Mercedes sat at the curb, its engine running. His chauffeur was opening the back door for him as she raced toward them, calling his name.

  Uncle Dolf turned. He looked tired, his skin pale and paper-thin. Sweat had darkened the hair at his temples, turning the brown strands to black. “Ah, Gretl. Shouldn’t you be home, helping your mama like a good girl?”

  “Please, Uncle Dolf.” Her chest felt tight from running so hard. “Something awful has happened. Mama says I can’t return to school.”

  “Is that all?” He chuckled. “Why, I would imagine most girls your age would be eager to leave school behind and settle on a fine young man instead.” He patted her cheek. “But I suppose you wish to continue in your schooling, my good little future doctor. Why does your mama propose leaving your studies?”