Conspiracy of Blood and Smoke (28 page)

“I’ve been foolish,” she said. The words tasted like soot in her mouth. “But I can hardly be expected to know better, can I, without my papa to guide me? And surely you understand how love can transcend boundaries?”

He made an annoyed sound in his throat. “I married an American, not a Jew, and I need hardly remind you that I’m half American myself.” He sighed and scrubbed his ham-sized hands over his face. “Forget your Jew,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing you can do for him now. Leave this place and do something worthwhile with your life that would make your father proud. You’ve made mistakes, but I can’t see the point of punishing a child like you for poor decisions when you haven’t finished growing up yet.”

She barely heard his advice, seizing onto his earlier words instead. “What do you mean, there’s nothing I can do for him now? What do you know?”

Sighing, he let his hands fall from his face. His grave expression was so unlike him that he was almost unrecognizable. Something icy trickled inside Gretchen’s mind. And she knew suddenly, desperately, that she didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

“No,” she said, but Hanfstaengl bent down so he could look into her eyes.

“I hate to have to tell you this,” he said.

A dull buzzing sounded in Gretchen’s ears. She shrank from Hanfstaengl, willing him not to say the words, because saying them would make them real, but he kept talking.

“I just spoke to Minister Göring on the telephone,” he said gently. “Gretl, you must brace yourself.”

“No!” she started to scream but Hanfstaengl cut her off.

“He’s gone, Gretchen. Daniel Cohen was shot to death this morning.”

TIME SEEMED TO STOP. FOR A LONG MOMENT,
Gretchen stared at Hanfstaengl, unable to understand what he had just said. She noticed tiny details about his appearance that she hadn’t seen before: a dark patch of stubble on his jaw that he had missed with his razor, strands of silver interwoven with his brown hair, the wrinkles between his eyebrows. Part of her mind understood what she was doing: she was latching onto insignificant trivialities because they were easier to comprehend than what she had been told.

Finally she found her voice. “You’re lying.” Her voice came out in a shaky whisper.

“It’s the truth.” Hanfstaengl’s eyes met hers, unblinking. “Minister Göring said the boy was a troublemaker and a criminal, and it was in Germany’s best interests to have him executed immediately.”

His words hit Gretchen like a pail of water.
Dead
. She wouldn’t believe it. Daniel was alive and he was fine and she would find him. Fury surged through her, and she flung herself at Hanfstaengl, pummeling his chest with her fists.

“I don’t believe you!” she shouted. “You’re a liar!”

He grabbed her wrists, holding her in place. “Don’t be a fool! Do you want everyone in the street to look at us?” Still holding her by the wrists, he pulled her into an alley where the shadows were so thick that she could only see his outline and the whites of his eyes gleaming in the darkness. He released her, breathing hard.

“He’s dead, Gretl.” His tone was no longer gentle, but flat. “Need I remind you that Cohen was a wanted murderer? Minister Göring may have acted harshly, but he did what was necessary to protect our city. As far as I’m concerned, he did you a favor. Now you can get out of Berlin and settle someplace safe. Build yourself a proper life with the right sort of companions.”

She barely heard him. “You must have made a mistake—maybe you misunderstood Minister Göring or he was making a joke.” With each word, her voice rose higher and higher until she was practically screaming.

Hanfstaengl gripped her shoulders and shook her. “
Listen to me
. Minister Göring was very clear. He said the Jew Cohen was found last night. As a dangerous killer and a political subversive, his very existence threatens Germany’s stability. Ordinarily, Göring would have turned Cohen over to the police, but we’re living in dangerous times. We have to fight our enemies with every ounce of our strength. I might not have made the same decision that Göring did, but I understand his
reasoning. He did what had to be done.”

Gretchen saw the weary sorrow in Hanfstaengl’s face. His eyes never left hers; he didn’t look away or fiddle with his coat buttons or hum under his breath, any of the things he did when he was nervous. He was telling the truth. He believed every word he said. Daniel truly was dead.

She couldn’t speak. She gazed at her hands and her skirt; they seemed to belong to someone else. Tears filled her eyes, blurring the cobblestones until she saw them through a sheen of water.

Hanfstaengl patted her shoulder. “Calm yourself. I know you fancied yourself in love with Cohen, but he was a Jew and a killer and so far beneath you that I can’t believe you gave him a second look. You may be sad for a day or two, but eventually you’ll see that this was for the best. You’re free of his bad influence. I wish you could come back to us, but I’m afraid it’s too late for that. You’ll have to start over somewhere else.”

She didn’t want to start over; all she wanted was Daniel. “I don’t—” she began to say, then had to stop because her chest burned so badly that she couldn’t talk. Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “I don’t understand.” She had to speak carefully so her voice didn’t careen out of control. “Wouldn’t Minister Göring want Daniel kept alive so he could get information out of him?”

Hanfstaengl shrugged. “He said that Cohen didn’t seem to know anything.”

Tears trickled down Gretchen’s cheeks. She had been so certain that Daniel would be able to withstand torture without spilling any of his secrets. What she hadn’t realized was that he could feign ignorance so convincingly that his captors had believed him. His silence had cost him his life. And he had done
it for her. She knew it deep in her bones. He had wanted to protect her, so he hadn’t told them anything. In the end, he had died for her.

Although she tried to push the image away, it rose in her mind: Daniel, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of a jail cell, blood pooled on either side of him. His eyes glazed, his face slack. His body a shell.

She made a noise deep in her throat, but she couldn’t say a word.

“Come now,” Hanfstaengl said quietly. His hands cupped her elbows, steadying her. For an instant, she stood, swaying a little, before she stepped away from him. With shaking hands, she wiped her face. The lines of stone and mortar in the alley wall looked too clear, as though her eyesight had suddenly strengthened. She stared at the sliver of sky between the two buildings, willing the tears to stay back.

“What are they going to do with”—she could barely force the words out, but she had to know—“with Daniel’s body?”

Hanfstaengl’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I have no idea. Does it matter, at this point?”

“He should be buried by sunset. It’s important in his religion.” She realized what she was saying and hysteria bubbled in her chest, threatening to break loose in peals of wild laughter. What was she thinking—suggesting the National Socialists ought to bury Daniel in accordance with his faith, as though they cared a toss about their Jewish victims?

Besides, he’d been executed illegally. They would be eager to conceal his body. Most likely, they’d dig a grave for him in an abandoned field or forest on the outskirts of Berlin, where no
one would ever find him. She wouldn’t even have the luxury of visiting his grave.

Hanfstaengl was talking, but she didn’t hear him. She clutched her purse, so that she had something to hold onto, her fingers curling over the bulge of her revolver. If only she hadn’t run but had stayed to shoot those men instead. . . .

Knowledge blazed through her brain like a line of fire. She knew what she had to do. She could give Daniel’s death meaning. That could be her last gift to him, not her declaration of love.

She would punish the men who had murdered him.

“I beg your pardon,” she interrupted Herr Hanfstaengl. “Where was Daniel killed? I deserve to know,” she added when he hesitated, looking unsure of himself. “Give me that much at least.”

“I really shouldn’t say—”

“I want to know what his final moments were like,” Gretchen snapped. When Hanfstaengl remained silent, she stepped closer to him, trying to smooth out the anger in her face. Hanfstaengl would want her to act submissive and contrite, she knew. She’d let him think that was exactly how she felt. For Daniel’s sake, she would lie to everyone. “I promise, I’ll leave Berlin straightaway if you’ll tell me. I only want to know what sort of place he was in—and if he suffered very much.”

“It would have been a clean death,” Hanfstaengl said hastily. “Göring was a military man, and I’m certain he would have insisted on a quick kill. Your Jew wouldn’t have been in pain.”

Gretchen prayed he was right. The thought of Daniel, bloodied and bruised, enduring hours of torment before they finally shot him was more than she could stand.

“Thank you,” she said. “What about”—she paused, steadying her voice, hoping Hanfstaengl didn’t notice her eagerness—“what about the place where he was held?”

“It’s the cellar of a trade union office building,” he said. “The SA recently shut it down and took over the place.”

Berlin probably had dozens of trade unions, and it could take her days to find out which ones had been closed by the National Socialists. She needed more information, but she couldn’t let Hanfstaengl suspect what she was planning.

“Please tell me the street. Just so I can walk by and pay my respects. Then I’ll leave, I promise.”

Hanfstaengl’s eyes focused on hers with lightning intensity. “You swear it?”

“Yes.” The lie slid off her tongue.

Sighing, he said, “Fine. It’s on the Lange Strasse. It’s in a poor neighborhood, so mind you keep watch on your pocketbook. Now that’s all I know, and if I talk with you much longer, I’ll be late for luncheon with Herr Hitler at the Chancellery. You know how impatient he gets.”

She nodded and he rested his hand on her cheek, in his old familiar manner. Tears pricked her eyes. He still loved her enough to touch her—even though he must believe she’d been contaminated by Daniel and the so-called Jewish virus. His hand fell away, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll never forget your kindness to me,” she said.

His smile was sad. “God keep you safe, Gretchen.”

She watched him walk out of the alley into the sunlight. He turned to the left, and then he was gone. For a long moment, she stood still, carefully blanking her mind so she could go out into
the street and not break down in tears. She would not let herself think about Daniel. Only one thought would guide her actions now.

Revenge. She would destroy the men who had killed Daniel. Thanks to Hanfstaengl, she knew where to find them.

Again, she clutched her purse, feeling the weight of her revolver. She allowed herself a small smile. She would hunt down those men and make them pay. Hitler had taught her too well for her to miss.

BIRGIT WAS WAITING FOR GRETCHEN WHEN SHE
returned to the lodging house. “Well?” she demanded, rocketing off her chair, swiping at the dust ringing her nostrils. “What did your friend say?”

Grief swamped Gretchen, and she couldn’t speak. Shaking her head, she closed the door. With the slow, automatic movements of a sleepwalker, she slipped off her coat and gloves. Then she sat on the bed, covering her face with her hands, trying to close herself into her own world.

“Daniel’s dead,” she said. With dull eyes, she stared through her fingers at the cream-colored bedspread. She wished she could surrender to the relief of tears, but she was wrung dry. “Minister Göring had him shot this morning.”

“Oh my God!” Birgit tried to embrace Gretchen, but she eased out of her friend’s arms.

“Please don’t,” Gretchen said. “I’ll be all right as long as nobody touches me.”

She couldn’t explain this sudden need to feel separate and isolated from everyone else; all she knew was that if someone showed her kindness, she would shatter. Turning away from the hurt in Birgit’s eyes, she added, “There’s nothing more we can do. You ought to go back to Frau Fleischer’s rooming house.”

“I won’t leave you alone.” Birgit sounded shaky. “How can the National Socialists hope to get away with this? With killing Monika and Friedrich and now Daniel?”

“Because the National Socialists are taking over the police.” Gretchen’s tone was so harsh she didn’t recognize it. “Our country’s disappearing in front of us, and we can’t stop it. The best thing you can do for yourself is return to your life. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“What are you going to do?”

There was no way that Gretchen would tell her the plan she’d devised. It was too dangerous, and anyone who took part in it probably wouldn’t survive. For herself, she didn’t care. She was ready to die for Daniel’s sake. Her only regret was that the Whitestones wouldn’t know what had happened to her. She wished she could spare them the agony of wondering about her fate. But this had to be done. She wouldn’t let Daniel’s death go unpunished.

She realized that Birgit was watching her, waiting for an answer. “I’m going back to England,” she said quickly to cover up the awkward silence. “Daniel would want me to be safe.” That, at least, was true. “Please, Birgit, go home.”

“I’m not sure I should go back to the rooming house.” Birgit bit her lip. “No doubt the National Socialists are keeping a close
eye on my Ring. You know how they want to stamp us out—sooner or later, they’ll strike.” She turned to Gretchen. “You’re truly returning to England?”

Gretchen got up and washed her hands in the basin on the bureau, so she could hide her face from Birgit. “Yes. It’s for the best.” She sounded breathless even to her ears.

“Maybe this could be my chance to get out of Berlin. I could go to one of the Ring’s brother groups in Dresden or Hamburg. Maybe they can get me a job as a nightclub hostess. It’d be a vast improvement over what I’ve got here. And I’ve always wanted to live by the sea.”

“Good. That’s settled then.” Gretchen pulled a few bills from her purse and stuffed them into Birgit’s hand. She wouldn’t need them anymore. “This should be enough to pay for a train ticket to Hamburg. You should leave straightaway. Don’t go back to the rooming house, if you think it might be dangerous.”

“I can’t take this.” Birgit tried to return the money, but Gretchen clasped her hands behind her back.

“I’ve got plenty to get me home,” Gretchen lied. “You’ve been a true friend to me. I’ll always be grateful to you for wanting to help Daniel.” She blinked away tears, forcing a smile. “You deserve to make a good life for yourself.”

Birgit flung her arms around Gretchen’s neck. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t have to.” Gretchen hugged her back. The contact didn’t break her, as she had feared, but felt warm and soothing. “You’d best get going.”

“I’d better get my things from the rooming house—oh, what does it matter?” Birgit laughed, although tears glittered in her
eyes. “I barely own anything, and this way I can make a fresh start.”

She put on her hat and coat, then paused at the door to look at Gretchen. “Daniel was a good person. I hope that comforts you. After Monika was murdered, it made me feel better to remember what a sweet girl she was.”

Gretchen swallowed against the emotion welling in her throat. “He
was
good. The best person I’ve ever known.”

Birgit embraced her a final time, then slipped out the door. Motionless, Gretchen listened to her heels clack down the hallway and away from her. For several minutes she sat on the bed, listening to the sounds of the building: the low hum of a jazz tune from a room upstairs, a toilet flushing, voices from the lobby downstairs. Through the window, she glimpsed the sun, a gold coin turning to white as clouds floated across it. The world was continuing to rotate, like it had after her father’s murder. It was the same, but she was different, just as she had told Daniel when she’d tried to explain how the death of a loved one tore a hole in one’s life.

But Daniel’s execution wasn’t merely a hole; it was an abyss. And she didn’t want to climb out of it.

Memories streamed through her head: dancing with Daniel in a nightclub, memorizing the way the golden chandelier light reflected in his eyes, bewildered because he had seemed so human, utterly unlike the monster she’d been taught to expect; peering through a train window with Daniel, bloodied, dirty, and exhausted, watching a tiny Swiss village appear in the valley below them; and feeling Daniel’s lips brush her cheek as they stood on a ferry deck and the white cliffs of Dover rose
above the blue-gray waters of the English Channel.
We made it
, he’d said.
I knew we could do it, as long as we were together
, she’d replied.

She sagged onto her side and sobbed. How could he be dead? He’d been the most
alive
person she’d ever known, laughing and loud and confident. It seemed impossible that he could be gone.

In her mind, she traced the curves of his face. His mouth would be silent now, his eyes dulled, the broad chest that she loved to rest her head on no longer rising and falling. One instant, one snap decision, and he was dead, just like Papa and Reinhard.

Unsteadily, she got to her feet. She needed something of his, just one small thing to hold on to. She went through his suitcase. A pair of trousers. Two white shirts, a navy suit jacket. Socks, one with a hole in the heel. A comb, a toothbrush. A spiral-bound notebook. She flipped through it, but the pages were empty. Of course. Daniel hadn’t written anything down, in case the book fell into the National Socialists’ hands. Now she wished he hadn’t been so cautious. She would give anything to see his untidy handwriting again. She loved the way he wrote her name: the messy loop of the
G
blending into the
r
. He wrote exactly as he talked: quickly, the words running into one another when he was excited.

Burying her face in his shirts, she breathed in his light, clean scent. This was all that was left of him: a couple of garments and an unfilled notebook. It wasn’t enough. Nothing here indicated that he had been a fearless reporter, a brother, a son, a friend. And the love of her life. Sobs shook her shoulders.

Finally, she sat up, mopping her face dry with his shirt. The sky had turned the hard blue of twilight. She must have lain on
the floor for an hour or two, clutching his clothes. It felt more like minutes.

She went to the window, peering down into the street painted navy and black by the descending dusk. It was too dark for her to see clearly enough to shoot accurately. She would have to wait until tomorrow to go to the old trade union building. She knew exactly what she would do: She would surprise the men there and kill them. It didn’t matter if they were the ones who had shot Daniel. They worked at this secret execution cellar, and so they were all guilty.

Her traitorous stomach growled and she frowned. How could she be hungry when Daniel was dead? She didn’t want to feel anything anymore, not even something as simple as hunger.

Ignoring the cramping in her belly, she crawled onto the bed. Holding Daniel’s shirt to her chest, she inhaled his scent and lay quietly, waiting for morning.