Conspiracy of Blood and Smoke (27 page)

Calm, calm
. She rested her forehead on the glass and took three deep breaths, focusing on the sensation of air filling her chest. She moved back from the window, letting the curtains fall into place.

What could she possibly do? There was no one she could go to for help; the
Ringverein
men were scrambling to save themselves and reassemble their organization, and the police force was under Göring’s jurisdiction and had been invaded by his men. She didn’t dare go to the Cohens’ house—her heart twisted at the thought of them. They had no idea what had happened to their son; they might never know. She couldn’t go to them for help, for now that the National Socialists knew for certain that Daniel had returned to Berlin, they might have the house under surveillance, expecting that his allies could drop by. She couldn’t telephone the Cohens either or telegram the Whitestones, since there were no longer any secure lines of communication throughout Germany.
Except for Delmer and his pessimistic offer, she was alone.

“I have to help him,” she said aloud.

“You mean,
we
have to,” Birgit said.

Gretchen started. She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she had forgotten that Birgit was there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Birgit watched her, white-faced but determined.

“You don’t need to,” Gretchen said quickly. “Going after Daniel will be dangerous—”

“I know.” Birgit’s eyes burned into Gretchen’s. “Those men killed Friedrich and Monika. They shot them without a second thought. We both know what will happen to Daniel if we don’t get him out.”

A wave of gratitude washed over Gretchen, swamping her so that she couldn’t speak for a minute. “Thank you,” she said at last. “I have no idea where to begin.”

“Well, we can’t do anything tonight. Herr Delmer will have news tomorrow, and we can figure things out from there.”

Gretchen nodded woodenly. She knew that Daniel would live through the night. The SA would torture him, but they’d be too eager to learn the information he knew to kill him immediately. Daniel could withstand tremendous pain, thanks to the months he’d spent coping with his arm injury. He knew how to build a wall within his mind, isolating it from his body.

Stay strong, Daniel
, she thought, wishing he could somehow magically hear her.
Hold on
.

Because no matter what, she was coming for him.

MORNING DAWNED GRAY AND COLD. TWO DAYS
until the Reichstag session when the Enabling Act was up for a vote, Gretchen thought automatically. She rolled onto her side, seeking the warmth of Daniel’s body. Her hand skimmed his arm, and she frowned. Something was wrong. She didn’t feel his puckered scar through his pajama sleeve, but the harsh scratchiness of wool.

She bolted upright. Even as she saw Birgit, still asleep, wearing one of Gretchen’s sweaters over yesterday’s frock, the knowledge crashed down on her like a wave: Daniel was gone.

She had to put her hands over her mouth so she didn’t cry out.
Don’t fall apart
, she ordered herself. Daniel deserved more than her tears.

Quickly, she slipped from bed and dressed in a black skirt and red sweater set. After she’d washed in cold water in the basin,
she combed her hair and brushed rouge over her cheeks. In the mirror, she almost looked normal; only the tightness around her eyes betrayed her tension. Satisfied, she turned away. It was important that she appear ordinary, so nobody would give her a second look.

Although she longed to do something,
anything
, she sat in a chair while Birgit got up. When Birgit returned from the lavatory, white dust surrounded her nostrils. Gretchen said nothing. A part of her longed for the escape of cocaine, too, but Daniel needed her to keep her wits.

In silence, she and Birgit waited for Herr Delmer to show up. From the street, she heard the bells of the Church of St. Nicholas ringing the hour. Eight o’clock. Maybe somewhere in Berlin, Daniel was waking up to a new day, too. Or he’d been kept awake all night by his captors as they whipped him—

Stop
, she begged herself, pushing the images of a bloodied Daniel out of her head before she screamed. He was alive and she would get him out. She couldn’t let herself think anything else.

It was half past nine before the lodging house proprietor knocked on their door, mumbling that they had a gentleman caller downstairs. Delmer; it had to be—no one else knew they were here. Gretchen and Birgit snatched up their coats and pocketbooks and rushed to the front hall. Delmer stood in a corner, his downcast expression telling Gretchen immediately how his errand had gone. She tried to ignore the ache of disappointment. Wallowing wouldn’t do Daniel any good.

“I’m sorry,” Delmer said. “My friend said there’s nothing the British Embassy can do since Herr Cohen’s a German citizen. I’ll do my best to investigate more, but I’m not optimistic about our chances.”

She had expected this answer, but hearing it still hurt. Somehow she managed to thank him and watch him leave without crying. Then she and Birgit nodded grimly at each other. They had stayed up for hours last night, figuring out a plan. Their first step may have ended in failure, but the second could still work.

Together, they slipped outside, scanning the buildings for a restaurant or a tearoom. They found a café a block over. Inside, it smelled of coffee and sausage. Gretchen’s head felt light from hunger, but she ignored the small tables and headed to the public telephone hanging on the wall by the lavatories in the rear. Birgit stood next to her, lighting a cigarette.

Before Gretchen dialed, she glanced around the room: a half-dozen tables were occupied, but everybody was concentrating on their food and talking with their companions. With sweating hands, she lifted the receiver. When the operator asked how to direct her call, she had to clear her throat before she could say police headquarters.

A brisk-sounding man’s voice sounded in her ear, informing her that she had been connected with the criminal police division. “I need to speak to Superintendent Gennat,” she said, turning away from the diners and speaking quietly. “It’s urgent.”

“Name?”

Thank God she’d anticipated the question! “Tell him we met through a mutual acquaintance—Friedrich. He’ll understand.” She hoped.

“One moment.”

She listened to the whistling and clicking sounds of the call being rerouted. “This is Gennat,” a familiar gruff voice boomed down the telephone wires. “I know who you are, and I can guess why you’ve called.”

“I’m not sure how much I can say—should we meet?” Gretchen asked.

“This line’s secure, if that’s what you’re worried about. I got the news first thing this morning. Friedrich Walter is in the morgue and his death has been listed as justifiable homicide. According to the paperwork, he tried to attack the police and SA officers who were conducting a raid on a bar under his protection.” He spit out the words as though they tasted foul.

Gretchen’s cheeks burned with shame. In her fear over Daniel’s fate, she’d forgotten about Friedrich. “That’s not all that happened last night. My”—she hesitated, not daring to say Daniel’s name over the line, despite Gennat’s reassurances that it was safe—“my young man was captured by the SA. Is there anything you can do for him?” She held her breath.

“He’s been arrested?” Gennat sounded furious. She heard papers rustling. “I’ve had no notification that he was picked up and by all rights, I certainly should have since he’s wanted by my homicide division.” He hissed out a breath. “It was the SA that took him? You’re certain?”

The image of the brown-uniformed men, surrounding Daniel and hitting him, rose in her mind. Shakily, she said, “I’m certain.”

Gennat cursed. “I’ll do everything in my power to track him down and have him transferred to my jurisdiction. That’s the best I can do for you. I can’t understand it,” he burst out in frustration. “The different police departments have always worked so well together, but ever since Minister Göring started adding his own men to our force, I feel as though people are throwing roadblocks in my path. Apprehending a murder suspect without
alerting me is inexcusable. Ring me in a day or so and I should have more to tell you.”

“Very well. Thank you.” Slowly, Gretchen replaced the receiver. She was shaking so hard that she had to grind her teeth together so they wouldn’t chatter. Transferring Daniel from the SA to the criminal police would only be exchanging a quick death for a gradual one. Göring would make sure that Daniel was tried and found guilty of Fräulein Junge’s murder; within months, he would be guillotined.

She’d been so certain that Gennat would help but now she realized that, as Daniel had already been captured, there was nothing Gennat could do except lay claim to him. If he tried to arrange for Daniel’s release, Göring and his men would accuse him of corruption, and possibly have him removed from his post. The best she could hope for from Gennat was information about Daniel’s location, but that might not come soon enough. Her heart twisted. Daniel could be dead before Gennat found him.

“People are staring,” Birgit murmured in her ear. “Let’s sit down and have something to eat. You look ready to collapse.”

Dazed, Gretchen let Birgit guide her to a table and order for both of them. In silence, they waited for the food to arrive. Gretchen stared so hard at the red and white checks on the tablecloth that they blurred together. What was happening to Daniel right now? How badly was he hurt?

When the waitress set their bowls of pea and ham soup down, Gretchen’s stomach churned. How she could she possibly eat when Daniel must be going hungry?

Birgit shoved a spoon into her hand. “Eat,” she said firmly. “You’re no good to him if you faint from hunger.”

Reluctantly, Gretchen dipped her spoon into the bowl. The broth warmed her and when it was gone, she had to admit that she felt a little better. In low murmurs, she explained to Birgit what Gennat had said.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any more ideas,” Birgit said, looking miserable. “Is there
anyone
else we could ask for help? Someone who might know where Daniel’s being held?”

Gretchen hesitated. There was one person—Herr Hanfstaengl. He hadn’t turned her in when he’d seen her at the gangsters’ ball. As a houseguest at Minister Göring’s palace, he might be privy to top-secret information. Doubtless, he’d be furious if he saw her again, though, for at the ball he’d warned her to leave Berlin, and she knew he would hate that she’d disregarded his orders. Maybe he would even be angry enough to hand her over to Göring’s men.

For Daniel’s sake, she was willing to take that chance.

Alone, Gretchen followed Birgit’s directions to the nearest S-Bahn stop and took a train across the city. At the café, they’d argued about Gretchen’s plan—Birgit had wanted to accompany her to see Hanfstaengl, but Gretchen had been adamant that it was too dangerous. Her years of friendship with Hanfstaengl might keep her safe, but he had no connections to Birgit. If he realized that she was part of the
Schweigen
Ring or was trying to help Daniel, he might feel compelled to turn her in.

She got off at the stop for the Wilhelmstrasse. The long avenue was lined with plain white government buildings. In the middle of a Tuesday morning, the pavement was clogged with civil servants and burghers, hurrying to and from meetings, and
the street teemed with the usual motley assortment of vehicles: streetcars, pale yellow omnibuses, private automobiles, bicycles.

To her left loomed the Chancellery, Hitler’s new home. Her gaze was drawn to it as relentlessly as a magnet, even though she didn’t want to see it.

The Chancellery was a massive block of stone set back from the street. As Gretchen passed it, she couldn’t help looking at its dozens of windows, flashing gold from the winter sunlight, and wondered if Hitler was standing at one of them now, peering at the street below and mentally writing the speech he would give when the Reichstag convened the day after tomorrow.

Or perhaps he was chatting with his usual favored companions, his adjutants and bodyguards, indulging in one of his pet topics and telling them the exact dimensions of each room in the Chancellery. She could remember him doing the same with her family when he’d moved into his posh apartment in Munich; for weeks afterward, he’d delighted in telling her how tall and wide his splendid parlor was, and she’d pretended that she didn’t already know the measurements since he took such pleasure in discussing them.

Her heart started pounding. They were so close again. Had he already been told that Daniel had been captured? Had he smiled when his adjutants brought him the news, or had he become incensed, railing against reporters like Daniel who criticized him in the papers until he’d slumped, exhausted, in a chair and rested his head in his hands, as she’d seen him do on the occasions when he’d let his temper get the best of him? She knew that no matter what he ordered done to Daniel, his conscience would not utter even a whisper.

She rushed past the Chancellery. Each sound jolted her heart—the snapping of swastika banners in the breeze, a car backfiring a block away, the click of her heels on the pavement. Ordinary noises. Not the rich timbre of Hitler’s voice, shouting for her to stop. He wouldn’t find her. He
wouldn’t
.

A building of pale stone rose on her left; she almost stopped before recognizing it as the presidential palace from a photograph in her old history textbook. She pushed on until she saw Minister Göring’s home up ahead, instantly identifiable from another picture in her schoolbook. As Reichstag Speaker, Göring lived in an official residence, a gloomy box of a building with a mansard roof. From across the street, she watched the house and waited. Sooner or later, Hanfstaengl would have to arrive or leave.

Minutes stretched on. She hopped from foot to foot to warm her numbed toes. A group of men in suits sauntered past, a couple of them sliding curious glances at her. She ignored them.

Eleven o’clock came and went, and it was nearly half past twelve when the palace’s front door opened and someone jogged down the steps. Even from this distance, she recognized the man’s awkward gait, as though his oversized limbs were being jerked about by invisible strings. It was Hanfstaengl. And he was alone.

He reached the street and headed south, his shoulders hunched under his belted trench coat. She watched the traffic, gauging the distance between the automobiles, taxis, and streetcars before she darted between them. When she got to the opposite side, she saw that Hanfstaengl was a few yards ahead and she ran to catch up to him.

“Herr Hanfstaengl,” she said breathlessly, “please, I need your help.”

He whirled around. “Gretchen! What the devil are you still
doing here?” His hand gripped her wrist and he yanked her into the shadows between two buildings. “Have you lost your mind? Do you want to end up in prison? You need to get out of Berlin!”

“I can’t leave.” Tears thickened her throat. “Herr Cohen has been captured by Minister Göring’s men. I have to help him. Maybe you can find out where they’re keeping him—”

“Listen to yourself!” Hanfstaengl snapped. “You’re giving up your life for the sake of a Jew!”

She looked at him: his long face contorted in a scowl, his lips pursed in anger. It was no use fighting with him; there was nothing she could say that he would agree with. Alfred’s advice came back to her—psychology could be her best form of protection. She hated the thought of manipulating Hanfstaengl into doing what she wanted, but it couldn’t be helped. Nothing mattered more than rescuing Daniel.