Prisoner of Night and Fog Page 2

  She started. How did this stranger know her name? And what did he mean, comparing her to Reinhard and Kurt? “Who are you?”

  He took a step closer. He wore the plain dark suit and white shirt of an office worker. His eyes seemed so dark, they might have been black. Beneath the slash of his brows, they watched her carefully. Through the shadows, she could barely trace the long sweep of his jawline and the lean shape of his face—a beautiful fine-boned face, but so fierce she instinctively took a step back.

  His teeth shone white when he opened his mouth. “You’ve surprised me, Fräulein Müller. Not an easy feat, I promise you.”

  “Who the devil—”

  Heels clicking on cobblestones interrupted them. Eva hurried toward her, holding her hat on with one hand and clutching her pocketbook in the other. “Gretchen! What in merciful heavens has been going on? Why did you leave me in the car all alone for so long?”

  Gretchen hesitated. “Wait a moment.” She turned back to the stranger. But the shadows where he had stood only seconds ago were empty.

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  2

  WHAT A WRETCHED EVENING.” EVA TUCKED Gretchen’s arm under hers, propelling them toward the Carleton Tea Room. “For a moment, I truly thought Kurt was going to hit that man. Thank goodness he managed to swerve away in time.”

  Swerve away. Gretchen cast her mind back. The automobile had jerked to the left, then to the right, before lurching to a sudden halt. Kurt had aimed the car toward the Jew, then lost his nerve and yanked the wheel in the opposite direction. That was the true reason the car had fishtailed and stopped. Not because of the wet cobblestones. A sudden chill sank into her bones, even though the August evening was warm.

  Gretchen said nothing as Eva chattered on. There was no reason to frighten her friend about something they couldn’t change. “I do think those boys were frightfully rude,” Eva said, “going on without us! And after all the trouble I went to, curling my hair and pressing my best blouse! I know Reinhard’s your brother, but he can be so beastly sometimes.”

  Gretchen shuddered. Eva had no idea how right she was.

  With an effort, she pulled herself back into the conversation. “Eva, I’m sorry, but Reinhard said we can’t go to the café with them. He’s upset with me.”

  Eva stopped walking. “Well, I like that! Who the devil does he think he is?”

  That was what Gretchen had wondered so many times about Reinhard. What did he see, when he looked in the glass? Or did he not look at all?

  “And I was so anticipating spending time with Herr Hitler.” Eva sighed.

  Gretchen understood: Uncle Dolf was a rising star in a political party that had limped along on the fringes for years and was finally starting to surge in popularity. Sharing his table meant curious gazes from other diners, and Eva adored attention. After all, missing Hitler himself wasn’t that much of a disappointment—Eva worked as a camera apprentice for Heinrich Hoffmann, Hitler’s favorite photographer, so she often saw Hitler when he dropped by the shop.

  “I’m sorry,” Gretchen said.

  Eva’s silvery laugh rang out as clearly as a bell. In the thirteen years they had been friends, Gretchen had never known Eva to be angry for long. “Foolish boys. Well, our absence is their loss. Why don’t you come back to my apartment? I’ve a new stack of film magazines, and a Karl May book I want you to borrow. The bits with the cowboys and Indians are simply thrilling! Only . . .”

  The pause pulled between them. Eva bit her lip. “Only you must promise not to mention Herr Hitler to my father,” she said in a rush. “I didn’t tell Papa we were supposed to see him tonight.”

  Gretchen nodded. She knew too well how deeply Herr Braun disapproved of Uncle Dolf, and how he tolerated her and Eva’s friendship only because they were girls, and therefore they weren’t expected to think about politics. These days, when she went by Eva’s apartment, she tried to avoid Herr Braun, knowing if he saw her, he would start grousing about the Austrian upstart politician and saying a young lady like her had no business gallivanting about with a fellow old enough to be her father. As though Uncle Dolf saw her as anything except an honorary niece of sorts, the adored child of the man who had died for him.

  A sick feeling hollowed out her stomach. Acknowledging Herr Braun’s feelings would create a wedge between her and Eva. So she forced herself to smile as they strolled to the streetcar stop, listening to her friend chatter about how wonderful it would be if she could get away from her strict papa and become a famous actress, like Marlene Dietrich, or perhaps a world-renowned photographer, flying off to exotic locations while poor Gretchen toiled at university, studying to become a doctor. Gretchen smiled and said all the right things, and tried not to think about the mysterious stranger, or the Jew in the alley, or her voice screaming at the boys to stop.

  But when she glimpsed their reflections in a shop window—both slim and dressed in their best blouses and knee-length pleated skirts, Eva’s heart-shaped face surrounded by a cloud of dark-blond hair, her cheeks powdered and rouged so skillfully you only saw the cracks in the cosmetics if you stood close, and her own oval face, tanned and unpainted, her hair pulled back in a shining braid, like a proper National Socialist girl—she wondered at their forced happy tones. As though they were both hiding secrets. How odd. Eva had nothing to conceal from her. And she, Gretchen, had such strange fears about her brother, she wouldn’t even admit them to herself.

  In the morning, Gretchen lay among her twisted sheets, listening before she dared to move, thinking again about the mysterious stranger from outside the alley. Who was he? From the street, bottles clinked as the milkman set his wares on the front steps. Horses clip-clopped over the cobblestones, dragging carts full of vegetables and fruits, fish and bread to the Viktualienmarkt. A distant streetcar’s bell clanged, and an automobile’s motor hummed, carrying an early driver on his journey. A typical Sunday morning, outside, at least.

  Still she didn’t sit up. With every ounce of her body, she listened to the boardinghouse settling around her. Down the hall, a toilet flushed. No surprise there, since three elderly ladies with small bladders shared her floor. Someone coughed. Frau Bruckner in the next room, no doubt, who sneaked cigarettes and then splashed herself with violet scent to cover up the unladylike odor of tobacco.

  Safe, everyday sounds. Gretchen rolled onto her side. Dawn had painted her tiny box of a room pale gray. Everything looked the same: the battered old armoire in the corner, the writing table with its tidy stacks of library books and school texts, the whitewashed walls covered with cheap postcards of foreign places that she longed to visit, and the desk chair hooked under the doorknob.

  Last night, as she always did, she had barricaded herself in her room. Reinhard might have been able to force open the door, but he couldn’t have stopped the chair from crashing to the floor and waking her. Since the chair was still upright and she had slept through the night, Reinhard may have already set a booby trap for her elsewhere in the house, as punishment for questioning him in front of Kurt.

  She sighed and sat up. Sometimes, she wasn’t certain which was worse—falling for one of Reinhard’s sadistic tricks, or waiting for him to spring one. Days, perhaps weeks, might pass before he punished her for opposing him in the alley. No one possessed as much patience as her brother.

  At her feet, a small cat lay curled like a soft gray pincushion, and despite her unease, she smiled. Darling little Striped Peterl, her father’s final gift, given hours before his death. Eight years old and still petite as a kitten.

  She nuzzled his fur before getting up. Nerves prickled her skin as she washed in the basin’s cold water. Stupid. Hadn’t she already checked the room? No one was standing behind her. And she would move carefully once she reached the corridor. She would be fine.

  She dressed quickly, pulled the bedclothes back into place
, and twisted the lock. Closed doors lined the empty corridor. No dead mouse on the floor, no glue on the knob. But Reinhard wouldn’t pull the same old tricks he had pulled before. He preferred surprises.

  The windowless stairwell was dark, since Mama didn’t permit the wall sconces to be switched on until night, to save on the electric bill. Gripping the banister, Gretchen moved slowly, sliding a foot along each step until she was certain it was secure. She was three-quarters of the way down before her shoe hit something besides the stair.

  A string stretched above the step, its ends fastened to the walls with thumb tacks. Only a few stairs from the bottom, so she wouldn’t have had a long fall. Not enough to get badly hurt, but enough for a twisted ankle.

  Gritting her teeth, she pried the tacks loose and stuffed the string into a skirt pocket. What if one of the older boarders had decided to come down early? A tumble down four steps could break elderly bones. It was a risk Reinhard would have taken, knowing the chances of someone other than Gretchen coming downstairs first were extremely small. She shook her head as she strode into the front parlor, dumped the tacks into a tin inside the desk—waste not, want not, her mother always said—and tossed the string into the basket where the old ladies kept their knitting.

  In the kitchen, she opened the stove hatch and raked the coals before lighting them. Once they started burning, she set the coffeepot on the range to percolate and peered into the icebox. No meat, which was hardly a surprise; she couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten sausages for breakfast. Maybe at her grandparents’ farm in Dachau, but that had to be at least two summers ago.

  These days, her stomach was so empty from hunger that only Hitler’s words could fill it again: Work and bread for all. Someday our great Fatherland shall rise again. Carried on the shoulders of her young people. He had smiled and tugged on her braid. Because of young people like me, Uncle Dolf? she had asked, and he had nodded, saying the words she had always wished her own parents would say to her. You are special.

  And she was recognizable. Perhaps that was why the stranger outside the alley had known her name. Within National Socialist circles she was called “the martyr’s daughter,” the title granted after her father had jumped in front of Hitler during a long-ago street battle, his body taking the bullets meant for their leader. But what had the stranger meant, she had surprised him? The comment made no sense.

  Heels clacked on the floorboards. Mama pushed the swinging door open. “You’re up early. Have you started the coffee yet?”

  “Yes, Mama. There isn’t much in the icebox, and the bread has mold on it.”

  Mama shrugged as she tied her apron strings. “Cut off the green part. And set the table. The nice cutlery, mind, since it’s Sunday.”

  As Gretchen assembled silverware and napkins on a tray, she watched Mama from the corner of her eye. Although her mother wore a plain striped housedress and hadn’t painted any color on her face, she was still pretty, with the delicate features of a ballerina and the swelling bust of a cabaret dancer. Long ago, Gretchen had accepted that while she had inherited her mother’s fair coloring, she had gotten her father’s figure—tall and arrow straight.

  Today, Mama’s forehead looked smooth, without any worries to wrinkle the soft skin. Maybe she would listen. Words bubbled up Gretchen’s throat. Mama, I saved a Jew last night. And I don’t know if it was the right or wrong thing to do.

  Mama shot her a sharp look. “Daydreaming again, Gretl? Cut the bread, and quickly, too! The boarders ought to be down any minute.”

  Without replying, Gretchen scraped mold off the stale loaf. She should have known better than to want to talk to her mother. Mama never listened anymore. She was too busy running the boardinghouse: fixing meals, shopping at the market, washing linens, scrubbing toilets, smoothing away petty annoyances among the old ladies. Mama believed only creeping subservience prevented the Müllers from living on the street. In the eight years since Papa had died, she had worked so hard for the family who owned the boardinghouse that she had whittled herself down into someone Gretchen no longer recognized.

  They moved about the kitchen in a routine practiced so many times, they didn’t need to speak. Coffee was poured into a carafe; cups and cutlery and napkins were carried into the dining room and set on the ancient tablecloth; a poor man’s breakfast of rice pudding with sugar and cinnamon was ladled into bowls and brought out to the waiting ladies.

  Back in the kitchen, Reinhard lounged at the round table. His pale eyes flicked over Gretchen’s legs; he was probably hoping to see her limping. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Fine,” she said quickly, hoping he would drop the subject.

  Muscles tightened along his jaw, only for an instant, before he forced a smile. “Mama, did Gretchen tell you about last night? Your daughter is quite fond of Yids, it seems.”

  She should have expected this reaction. Fail to punish her one way, make her pay in another. Might as well get it over with. The longer she tried to outwit him, the longer he would toy with her. She sank into a chair. The rice pudding already looked cold, but she wasn’t hungry now anyway.

  “No, Gretl hasn’t told me a thing.” Mama nudged Gretchen’s plate closer. “Eat up. We haven’t much time before Mass.”

  “Quite a Jew lover, this one.” Smiling, Reinhard jerked his chin toward Gretchen. “Wouldn’t let me teach a subhuman a lesson he needed to learn.”

  Gretchen stared at the floor, memorizing the grain in the wooden boards. Something had lodged itself in her chest like a stone, hard and heavy, pressing down. Sometimes, she thought she could stand anything but her mother’s quiet disapproval. Which was all she seemed to get.

  “What happened?” Mama’s voice sounded as clear as a mountain stream. And as cold.

  Curse Reinhard and his smug smile! “Mama, you know how Uncle Dolf says the Party needs to be a respectable organization, if he’s to be taken seriously as a politician. Street beatings hurt his reputation. I—I was trying to help,” she faltered under her mother’s quiet, measuring gaze.

  For a moment, Mama turned her gold wedding band round and round on her finger, studying it. At last she said, “You must do as Herr Hitler wishes, Reinhard.” She gathered the breakfast dishes with shaking hands. “He knows what is best. No more fights, if that is what he says. After what happened to your papa, I’m sure Herr Hitler wishes to be very careful with his supporters.”

  Gretchen swallowed her disappointment. How like Mama, saying something without any meaning. Both she and Reinhard had memorized the story of Papa’s great sacrifice, they had heard it so many times. How the National Socialists had attempted to seize control of Munich back in 1923. How they had marched directly into a waiting cordon of state police troopers, and Papa had flung himself in front of Hitler when the bullets started. How Uncle Dolf had been imprisoned for high treason. How the Party had nearly ripped itself apart, and only Uncle Dolf’s leadership had pulled it back together.

  As she got up, Reinhard brushed past her. “Are you certain that was the only reason, little sister?”

  She said nothing. But she heard the laugh in his whisper—he guessed the truth. Her original intention had been to prevent an illegal street beating that might reflect poorly on the Party. Once she had seen the Jew lying on the ground, helpless . . . She had seen a person. Not a monster.

  She gathered the dirty dishes in the dining room and went to the back steps, where she scraped the leftovers into the slop bucket. Summer sunlight sprinkled across the courtyard. Somewhere, someone had opened a window, letting classical music from the wireless spill across the warm breeze.

  In the backs of the buildings opposite, flags hung from a handful of windows: the yellow hammer and sickle against the red background of the Communists, the dark green of the Social Democrats, the black eagle against the blazing yellow of the Bavarian People’s Party, the bloodred rectangle and white circle surrounding the black swastika of the National Socialists. Politics was everywhere these days, it s
eemed. Automatically, she touched the gold charm on her necklace; the Hakenkreuz, the hooked cross, had been last year’s birthday present from Uncle Dolf.

  Would he think she had betrayed him, and everything the Party represented, when she had protected the Jew? How could she go on, if the one adult whom she trusted without reservation, the man who had grown into her second father, no longer thought her worthy?

  Flies buzzed around the bucket, attracted by the nasty mix of day-old horse meat and rice pudding going bad in the heat. She felt sick.

  She knew the answer. Without Hitler’s friendship, she could go on. But she might not want to.

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

  3

  GRETCHEN STEPPED INTO THE KITCHEN’S welcome coolness. After church, she had spent the afternoon hanging wet sheets on laundry lines strung across the courtyard and beating carpets on the back steps. As she poured herself a glass of water, she caught a low murmur that she instantly recognized. Uncle Dolf. No one else had such a lovely voice, dark and warm and rich, like melted chocolate. The sound pulled her into the front hall.

  “I don’t want children,” he was saying, “and I think it would be irresponsible to marry when I can’t devote enough time to a wife.”

  “The right woman would understand. Your dedication to the Party must supersede all else.” Mama sounded giggly and girlish.

  Gretchen put a hand to her overheated face. She must look a fright.

  “Is that little Gretl’s footsteps I hear?” Hitler asked. “Come in, my sunshine!”

  He had called her by that pet name since she was a small child. Just hearing the phrase lifted her heart.

  Hitler rose and kissed the backs of her hands. Beaming, he stepped back and surveyed her. Somehow, he always remained reassuringly the same.