Conspiracy of Blood and Smoke (17 page)

“That can’t be,” Gretchen said as a picture rose in her mind: having tea in the back garden of Göring’s fine villa in the Obermenzing suburb when she was a little girl. His wife, Karin, lying in a lawn chair, sickly, yet still lovely. Göring smoothing her hair back from her fine-boned face, his tone gentle as he asked if she needed a blanket or another cup of tea. He had loved her with a devotion Gretchen hadn’t seen in many other men. “He wouldn’t cheat on Frau Göring when she was alive, and I can’t imagine
him cheating on this woman in Weimar. Unless he’s changed completely since I knew him.”

Friedrich jumped to his feet and walked the room. Beside Gretchen, Birgit dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“I don’t understand,” Friedrich burst out. “If Göring was seeing Fräulein Junge, why kill her? Why go to the trouble of sending someone else to shoot her in the street from a car that could be tied to him?”

“Hitler likes his subordinates to be upstanding family men.” Gretchen fumbled for reasons. “Perhaps Göring had Fräulein Junge murdered to maintain his reputation.”

“Then strangle her in an alley!” Friedrich shouted. “Dump her body in a canal! Don’t shoot her in the head in full view of her friends!”

He kicked a chair across the room. It crashed into the wall and fell onto its side. Gretchen couldn’t move. She had seen that kind of rage before—from both her brother and Hitler. She knew how unpredictable it could be.

But Friedrich braced his hand on the wall and hung his head. “I beg your pardon,” he said at last. “Fräulein Junge was under my protection, and I failed her. I keep thinking of her, bleeding to death in the street like an animal.” He rubbed his eyes, clearly exhausted.

His words pushed a button in Gretchen’s brain. He was right; the murderers had disposed of Fräulein Junge as though she were no more than a dog. But they’d killed her clumsily, driving to the scene in Göring’s personal automobile and shooting her in front of dozens of witnesses.

That didn’t speak of callousness, but desperation.

“Göring must have wanted her eliminated immediately,” Gretchen said. “So he sent a man to kill her where he knew she would be at that hour of the night. If he was afraid of their relationship being exposed, he would have had her killed discreetly. But he needed her dead right away. Which means she must have known something,” Gretchen realized. “And he wanted her silenced before she could tell anyone.”

Friedrich raised his head, his dark eyes locking on hers. “I think you’re right.” His tone was so deceptively soft that the hairs on the back of Gretchen’s neck rose. “Let’s get Göring into our territory and find out for certain. Our Ring’s annual ball is in four nights’ time. That spoiled, overgrown child won’t be able to resist an invitation, especially since he must know that the top members of the police force always come. We’ll ply him with drink until he’s ready to tell us anything.” Friedrich’s grin was quick and angry. “Let’s see how he likes being on our turf, for a change.”

THE NEXT THREE DAYS SETTLED INTO A STRANGE
new rhythm. During the day,
Ringverein
men drifted in and out of the hideout like shadows, dropping off payments and loot to one of the fellows who hung about the parlor, tallying numbers in a ledger or playing dice if there was nothing to do. Gretchen realized that no one seemed to live at the hideout. It was a place for them to store the Ring’s earnings and stolen goods or congregate for meetings. Every night, a different man took turns sleeping in one of the bedrooms, presumably to watch over the Ring’s money and her and Daniel.

The men themselves were quiet and polite. They all had nicknames—Bloody Hans, Muscles Gebhard—and they dressed in cheap pinstripe suits and bowler hats, like down-at-the-heel clerks, or in black sweaters, trousers, and hobnailed boots, like street toughs.

Despite her frustration at having to wait so long before the gangsters’ ball, especially with the Enabling Act looming on the horizon, Gretchen found herself fascinated by the
Ringverein
men, for they were so unlike what she had expected. The ones who worked as bouncers, bartenders, and porters at the establishments under the Ring’s protection seemed proud to have respectable jobs, boasting to her that they earned steady wages.

Some of the men who worked as thieves and safecrackers asked her to demonstrate her lock-picking skills, and once she’d broken into the parlor, they’d burst into a round of applause, saying it was a pity she wasn’t a man and could join them properly. Daniel had watched from the sofa, his eyebrow raised, looking as though he was struggling not to laugh.

Gretchen had smiled, but the wooden floors she walked on felt like shifting sand. These criminals stole and ran insurance scams and kept their gazes on her face, not her body. They talked about blackmail schemes and discussed the funeral expenses and pension plan for a fallen comrade’s widow and children. This Berlin was a city of smoked glass, where every reflection seemed distorted. The kindest people she’d met were criminals and prostitutes. Nothing made sense anymore.

She didn’t have much time to puzzle it over, though, for she was kept busy running to the bakery for poppy-seed cakes or rye bread, or to the delicatessen down the street for liverwurst and salami. Friedrich liked the kitchen to be well stocked, she was told, for any of his men who might stop by and be hungry.

Daniel had chores, too: cleaning the bar in the mornings before it opened, mopping the floors or unloading casks of beer. The work must have felt endless, as he had to do everything
one-handed, but when she asked him about it, he merely shrugged, looking exhausted.

At night, they went to a bar in the central part of the city, close to the National Socialist Party’s elegant new Berlin headquarters on the Vossstrasse. Lots of Party men went there for a drink, and Friedrich thought Gretchen and Daniel might pick up gossip about the SA men who’d taken Fräulein Junge’s lockbox from the rooming house. He sent a couple of his newest recruits to accompany them, explaining that the National Socialists might recognize his more experienced men—after all, the
Schweigen
Ring and the Party had been bitter enemies for over a decade.

Gretchen hated going to the bar. Every minute she sat on a stool, sipping a beer and chatting up the SA fellows leaning over their drinks, she feared might be her last free one, even though on a rational level she knew that it was highly unlikely any of these men would know her face. When she’d been Hitler’s pet, she’d been well known among his followers in her hometown, but the Berlin and Munich National Socialists had always revolved on separate axes. Still she couldn’t stop the knots from tying in her stomach or her eyes from straying to the front door, half expecting to see Hitler there. Foolish, she knew, for as chancellor he probably didn’t have the time or inclination for evenings at bars, especially since he didn’t like to drink alcohol.

They learned nothing from the barroom fellows except idle chatter: Chancellor Hitler had declared that the Reichstag fire was a Communist conspiracy and was giving daily speeches, warning of the international “red menace”; the Party had shut down the Karl Liebknecht House, Berlin’s Communist headquarters, and flown swastika flags from the building. A few
boasted to Daniel about what they’d done on the night of the fire: they’d been ordered to arrest Communist Party members, dragging hundreds of men from their homes and driving them to SA barracks to beat them. Daniel had grinned and clapped them on the back, saying he wished he could have seen it, but later, he’d sat in the little bedroom with Gretchen, holding his head in his hands, saying that the thought of all those innocent men kidnapped from their beds made him sick.

Gretchen wished she knew how to comfort him. Once she would have wrapped her arms around him, but now she sat at his side, murmuring platitudes. Soon enough, if they were lucky, they would establish his innocence or get out of the country. Either way, they would probably leave each other’s lives, so Daniel could find a new home where he could be happy. As for her, she didn’t see how she could ever be happy again. With or without him, her future yawned wide like an empty hole. So she found herself uncertain what to say or how to help him.

Time was moving too fast; only six days remained until the Reichstag convened to vote on the Enabling Act. Even now, Göring and his subordinates might be manufacturing evidence against Daniel and bribing witnesses to testify. People who would claim that they’d seen Daniel step out of the gray Mercedes and shoot Fräulein Junge in the head. The men who could have proven that Daniel had been in Munich at the time of the murder were probably in jail or had gone into hiding to evade arrest.

If he was caught, it would be easy to convict him. Göring had always been an ambitious man, and arranging Daniel’s arrest, trial, and execution would be quite a feather in his cap. In her nightmares, Gretchen could see Daniel walking toward
the guillotine, his face pale and resolute. Resting his neck on the wooden bar while the executioner stood beside him. Then the sickening whistle of the blade as it flew down.

The gangsters’ ball couldn’t arrive quickly enough to suit Gretchen. Friedrich had said that she and Daniel could attend, agreeing that since Göring hadn’t seen Gretchen in years he likely wouldn’t recognize her. There weren’t any other National Socialists who would come. Whatever information Friedrich pried out of Göring, she prayed it would help them track down definitive proof of Daniel’s innocence. Something that Herr Delmer could publish in his English newspaper and use to push Hitler out of the Chancellery. But they had to get the evidence soon. Before Hitler’s control seeped into every aspect of the government and police departments. Before the trap swung shut.

The night before the ball was the Ring’s weekly meeting. Gretchen and Daniel were in their bedroom, waiting for it to be over so they could try out a different National Socialist–frequented bar. Although they sat inches apart on the edge of the bed, Gretchen felt as far from him as if they were in different rooms. If only he would give her one of his old careless grins, or she knew the right words to say to shorten this distance between them.

Through the door, she heard the rumble of Friedrich’s voice.

“Light Fingers Matthias was seen drunk in public. Three marks’ fine. Matthias, that’s the last time, or I’ll have to take your membership pin, do you understand?” He plowed on without waiting for a response. “How’s the insurance scam coming along—what’s the meaning of this interruption?”

“I beg your pardon,” gasped a girl’s voice. Gretchen sat up,
startled. It was Birgit. “But Frau Fleischer wanted me to tell you straightaway—she knows who took Monika’s lockbox. His photograph was in a newspaper. He was shown with Chancellor Hitler.”

Gretchen’s and Daniel’s eyes met.
This is it
, he mouthed, and she nodded, her heart racing. At last, they had something tangible to go on.

“Who is he?” Friedrich’s tone was cold.

“The paper didn’t mention his name.” Birgit sounded apologetic. “It showed a picture of Hitler making a speech. This fellow was one of the SA men surrounding the podium.”

Daniel dashed from the room into the parlor, Gretchen following close behind. The room was so full of black-clad men, leaning against the walls or sitting on chairs crammed together, that there was no space for her or Daniel to walk. They stood in the doorway, squinting to see through the wall of cigarette smoke. Friedrich swung around to look at them.

“These meetings are private affairs,” he growled, but Daniel shook his head.

“I know how to find out the man’s name.” He glanced at Birgit, who was twisting her hands together anxiously. “What newspaper was it? And what did the SA fellow look like?”

“Berliner Tageblatt
.
”
Birgit bit her lip, thinking. “Tall. He was wearing an SA uniform, of course. And he was standing on the ground directly below Hitler on the stage, if that helps.”

“Give me a minute.” Daniel ran into the corridor. Gretchen heard the clicking sound of the telephone earpiece being picked up. Daniel’s voice floated back into the silent parlor, where everybody seemed to be holding their breaths. “Herr Delmer? It’s
Cohen. Listen, did you see today’s
BT
edition? Good. Who’s the tall SA fellow right below Hitler in the photograph? . . . You’re certain? . . . All right, thanks, I owe you a favor. Yes, again.”

He slammed the earpiece down and raced back into the room. “He’s Helmut Weiss, one of Hitler’s new bodyguards. My friend said that Hitler’s delivering a speech at the Sportpalast tonight and Weiss is sure to be there. If I leave right now, I should be able to get there early enough to talk to him and nip out before Hitler comes in. Hitler always likes to keep the crowd waiting for a few minutes. That’s all the time I should need.”

“How the devil do you propose tricking one of Hitler’s bodyguards into telling you anything?” Friedrich surged to his feet, his chair scraping over the floorboards. “You’ve got guts, I’ll grant you that, but you’re not a miracle worker.”

“I won’t need a miracle.” Daniel’s eyes were dark and determined. Gretchen’s heart sank at the sight—he was resolved to do this incredibly dangerous thing. “When I was a reporter in Munich, I talked to dozens of Party men. I know how to get information out of them.
Trust me
,” he added when Friedrich said nothing.

“Very well.” Friedrich sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Herr Cohen. Birgit, you’ll go with him, so you can show him which fellow Weiss is. I’m afraid my recruits already have an assignment to break into a watch repair shop tonight, and the rest of us are far too recognizable to show up at a Party speech.”

Gretchen’s heart thundered in her chest. There was no way she wanted Daniel going without her. But she could still feel the heat of Hitler’s hands as he lifted hers to his lips to kiss. In her mind, she heard the deep cadence of his voice, the words slow at first, then speeding up until they rushed forward like a freight
train and she’d had to hold on for dear life.
You’re a child, my sunshine, and can’t understand yet the dangers that the Jews pose to our nation. They poison us from within. . . .

She looked at Daniel, who was talking quietly with Friedrich, and the pressure in her chest eased. Despite everything that had come between them, he was still her Daniel, straightforward and loyal and true. She couldn’t let him go alone, and the danger would be minimal as long as they left before Hitler arrived.

She found her voice. “I’m going, too.”

Daniel spun around to stare at her, shaking his head. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, but she said steadily, “You forget that I grew up surrounded by Party men—I know how to handle them, too. I want to help.”

Then he smiled at her, such a clear, grateful smile that she could almost pretend the uneasiness between them didn’t exist.

They took an omnibus across the river. It dropped them off on the Potsdamerstrasse and they walked down the street toward a massive white building with the black letters
BERLIN SPORTPALAST
spelled across its front. Lights blazed from its windows. The indoor stadium was set back from the road, and cars rolled along the pavement, disgorging fashionably attired Berliners, the ladies in furs, the men in camel-hair coats. Others, modestly dressed in rough jackets or plain dresses, strolled in from the street.

Gretchen and Birgit walked on either side of Daniel. None of them spoke. Gretchen shoved her hands in her coat pockets, so nobody could see how badly they were shaking. Hitler might be here already, sitting in a back room, sipping mineral water
and waiting for the moment to make his grand entrance. Or he was being driven through the city, staring out the window at the buildings sliding past, reviewing his planned words in his head.

He won’t see you
, she promised herself. Daniel had been right when he’d said that Hitler liked to keep the crowds waiting for a few minutes. They’d talk to the SA man Weiss and slip out before Hitler entered. Still, her stomach was roiling.