Prisoner of Night and Fog (15 page)

She placed Daniel Cohen’s letter in her bag, too. She wrapped Striped Peterl’s body in an ancient woolen sweater she had outgrown, and laid him on top.

Her banged-up fingers protested when she drew the curtain aside. The first stars had winked into life. The hour was earlier than she would have liked, but if she waited, she would lose her nerve. It had to be now.

As she crept down the stairs, each wooden creak jolted her heart. What if Reinhard heard, and came out, and . . . She couldn’t finish the thought. She couldn’t imagine what else he could possibly do to her.

The steps groaned. Someone was coming up. She shrank against the wall, trying to hear over the sound of her hammering heart. A light footfall. Not Reinhard.

Whitestone rounded the curving staircase, reaching the landing where she waited. His spectacles gleamed in the darkness. Behind his glasses, his eyes grew wide.

He said something in English she didn’t understand before switching to German. “My God, you’ve been badly hurt.” He shook his head, looking furious. “Your brother. Curse my reticence! I should have warned you. Are you all right—”

“I must go,” she said, and rushed past him. Down the steps as fast as she could, her already aching legs screaming with every step. From the parlor, the old ladies called to her, but she ignored them and went straight to the empty kitchen. She snatched her mother’s soup ladle from a drawer and fetched her father’s ancient bicycle from the back steps, wheeling it through the front hallway to the street outside.

Balancing the bundle on her lap, she bicycled across the broad avenue into the Englischer Garten. At this late hour, the place was nearly empty.

As she cycled along the twisting path, she passed the occasional couple, kissing in the shadows, and a solitary man, wending his way home after a long day’s work. In the distance, voices chattered from the beer garden around the Chinese Tower, and far off, streetcars clanged. But she felt alone, as though a protective invisible bubble separated her from everyone and everything else.

Soon she reached a cluster of trees near the Monopteros Temple. She wheeled the bicycle off the path and stopped under a towering chestnut. It had been her father’s favorite tree. When she was quite small, they sometimes picnicked here on Sunday afternoons. Once they had eaten, her father would stretch himself out on the grass and she would rest her head on his chest and feel very special because he would tell her stories, memories of his childhood in Dachau and proposing to her mother, and moving to Munich to find his fortune, and his kindly parents who had died during the great influenza outbreak of 1919.

Other fathers didn’t share those stories with their daughters; they told them to their sons. But Papa rarely talked to Reinhard, instead circling him warily, like a man confronting a wild animal, striking out whenever Reinhard’s peculiar behavior unsettled his own precarious grip on his temper. Such as the time Reinhard pushed a neighborhood girl down the front steps because he wanted to see if she would cry. Or the time Reinhard used a magnifying glass to burn ants crawling across a sidewalk, because he wanted to time how long it took them to die.

Those days, Papa didn’t bother using his belt, as he usually did; he beat Reinhard with his fists, crying the whole time until, finally, he sagged against the wall, muttering to Mama, “Liesel, something’s broken inside this boy, and not even my discipline can fix him.” And all the while, Reinhard watched them—curled in the corner, his arms clutched around his bruised body, his eyes dry, his face cold.

Gretchen started to dig the heels of her hands into her eyes, to scrub the image away, but the shooting pain in her left eye socket stopped her. She focused on her task. Living from instant to instant would keep her sane.

The soup ladle made a decent shovel, and soon she had a large enough hole for Striped Peterl. Gently, she lowered him into the ground. The thought of his body decomposing, becoming one with the rich earth, steadied her. She had given him a good resting place, beneath the sky he had loved watching from her bedroom window. She patted the earth back into place, trying not listen to the soft dirt raining down on his body, covering him forever. Finished, she stared down at the mound of dirt and grass.

Tears sparked her eyes. No, she mustn’t stop; she mustn’t think or she would be paralyzed. She brushed off the ladle, dropped it back into the bag, and eased her weeping body onto the bicycle. There was only one person she could go to now, the man who had always loved her and who had promised to protect the Müller family after Papa died.

She turned southeast, in the direction of the Prinzregentenstrasse. Uncle Dolf would still be awake.

18

HITLER LIVED IN THE PRINZREGENTENPLATZ, ONE
of Munich’s most fashionable squares, in a large gray building surrounded by tall trees. Some windows were open, their lace curtains snapping in the nighttime breeze. The house was reminiscent of sun-filled summer days, of sands bleached white and waves crashing on a quiet shore, and of pale linen dresses. It was a house, Gretchen thought as she hopped off her bicycle and wheeled it toward the foyer, for those who took things for granted.

She dragged the bicycle up the curved tile staircase to the second floor. When Hitler’s housekeeper answered the knock, she raised her eyebrows but said nothing, and Gretchen was suddenly conscious of her bruised and bloodied face, her torn dress and ragged breathing, and the battered old bicycle resting against the wall.

“Fräulein Muller,” said Frau Reichert, “good evening. Have you come to call upon Herr Hitler?”

“Yes. I—I’ve run into some trouble.” The words came out awkwardly through her swollen lips. She sounded like a drunkard. Flushing, she put a hand to her sweat-streaked hair. She could only imagine how she looked to the proper middle-aged lady.

“It appears so.” Frau Reichert moved back, gesturing for Gretchen to enter, and when she hesitated, the housekeeper added, “You needn’t worry about appearances here, Fräulein Müller. Herr Hitler is a man of the people.” “Thank you,” Gretchen said.

They walked into a large parlor filled with massive furniture, dark wood that gleamed with polish, and walls as white as eggshells. The entire room had been drained of color; the only bright spots came from Geli, lounging in red on an enormous sofa, and Uncle Dolf and Herr Hanfstaengl, in dark blue suits, sitting on matching chairs and laughing heartily over some shared joke. They must have changed for dinner after getting home from the picnic, for they wore fresh, formal clothes.

They froze when they saw her.

“Fräulein Gretchen Müller,” Frau Reichert announced, unnecessarily, and retreated, her footsteps fading into the quiet that always seemed to coat the apartment like a layer of paint, muffling every sound.

Both men rose. Uncle Dolf stretched out his hand. “Gretchen?” he said uncertainly, as though he didn’t recognize her.

His hand, reaching toward her, was enough to break her.

“Uncle Dolf,” she choked out, all her pains forgotten as she ran to him and flung her arms around his shoulders, dropping her burlap sack on the floor. “Please help me! Mama and I can’t take it any longer. We need you—”

“Tut, tut, what is all this?” He stepped backward, out of her embrace, his gaze scraping over her bloodied and blackened face before it focused on a far point on the opposite wall.

She couldn’t hold the words back any longer. “Reinhard did this.” Her jaw throbbed, but she forced herself to go on. “I made him angry, and he beat me.” She waved a hand across her face, letting the bruises speak. “My mother and I live in constant fear of him. He isn’t like other people. He—” She paused, struggling as her voice careened out of control. “He’s a monster—”

She broke off, realizing how silent the room had become. Uncle Dolf continued staring at some far-off point, his eyes never meeting hers. Hanfstaengl stared at his huge hands, braced on his knees. Geli sat on the edge of a sofa cushion, her eyes trained on Gretchen’s face, her fingers twisting a handkerchief into a rope.

Gretchen recognized Hitler’s expression—he was uncomfortable. She had embarrassed him. He had been enjoying an evening at home, laughing and telling stories with a guest and a relative, and she had shoved herself into his apartment, babbling tearfully.

Slowly, she took several deep breaths, concentrating on the whoosh of air in and out of her lungs. Uncle Dolf’s old calming trick worked; she felt far steadier. She had to maintain her self-control. If there was one thing Uncle Dolf hated, it was hysterical females.

“I apologize,” she said. “I shouldn’t have burst in like this.” She held her hands out, cupping them like bowls and moving them in tempo with her words, as Uncle Dolf had taught her to do when she wanted to sway others’ opinions. “I came to you for help, Uncle Dolf, because I can’t live with my brother any longer. He’s malicious and cruel. The smallest things make him go mad. Tonight, he strangled my cat and attacked me because I angered him. He’s found secret ways to punish me and my mother for years and then pretended to be innocent so convincingly that we thought we were losing our minds—”

Uncle Dolf interrupted. “What did you do to anger him?”

She must have misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“You did something to anger him,” Uncle Dolf said, his eyes finally focusing on hers. His eyelids had slid to half-mast, a sure signal he was grappling with a strong emotion. “What was it?”

“I—I went into his room without his permission. But—”

“Reinhard is the man of the house.” The forbidding expression smoothed itself out. Uncle Dolf sat down, straightening his suit jacket with a quick jerk of his hand. “A man must discipline his family as he sees fit.”

Discipline?
She ran a hand over her face, touching the tender bulge of her closing and blackening eye and the puffy outline of her split lips. She felt, rather than saw, Hanfstaengl guide her down onto the overstuffed couch beside Geli.

Uncle Dolf couldn’t be saying these things. Not the kindly friend who taught her about art and let her play his piano and tugged her braid. Not the beloved uncle who had visited her family the day after he was released from prison, with Christmas gifts of chocolates and tea, and who had told them, with tears in his eyes, he would never forget his dear comrade Klaus Müller’s sacrifice. He had promised he would protect them.

She folded her hands in her lap, tightly, to stop their trembling. For the first time, she noticed dots of blood on her dress, little red circles against the white. A dull roaring filled her ears. She feared she would be sick, right here, on his parlor floor.

“Unless you change your ways,” Uncle Dolf said sternly, “you’ll be an unwelcome challenge for a man, a hindrance rather than a tonic, an opponent rather than a pleasure.”

He stopped, clearly waiting for her to say something. All of her felt numb but her lips, which ached when she said, “Yes, Uncle Dolf.”

She couldn’t look at him. Instead she stared at the table, reflected lamplight glowing in the polished wood. It was such a beautiful table. In a luxurious apartment, filled with fine furniture and paintings—unusual choices for a man who professed to want nothing for his own comfort. She had never noticed before how little Uncle Dolf’s apartment seemed to mirror his stated preferences.

Narrowing her good eye, she raised her head and stared at him. He had leaned back in his chair, waving his right hand as he spoke, the image of a genial, good-natured host. Smiling like a kindly schoolmaster lecturing his students. Talking at them without waiting for their responses. Had he ever asked for her opinion? She couldn’t remember.

Beaming, Hitler nodded. “Very good, my sunshine. It’s time for you to consider marriage. Every girl ought to; if she waits too long before having children, she will become sick and hysterical. I suppose there’s a handsome, strapping fellow waiting in the wings for you?”

She shook her head. “No, there is no one.”
No one at all
.

He waggled a finger mischievously. “That shall soon change. I’ll find someone suitable for you. An SS chap, so he’s sure to be racially pure. It’s very important, to me and to the Party, for you to marry the right sort. A young fellow who’s destined to become a leader within the NSDAP. Think what a fine couple you would make, a shining example to the others of your generation! Of course, you’re young yet. But you should marry soon; every German man and woman should. Not me, of course. Germany is my great love.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but there was nothing to say.

Footsteps sounded from the corridor. Frau Reichert appeared, carrying a tray laden with drinks: mineral water for Hitler, beer for Hanfstaengl, and a pot of weak tea for Gretchen and Geli.

Once the tea had been poured, Hitler turned to Geli, inquiring about yesterday’s singing lesson, and Gretchen realized the previous conversation was over. Uncle Dolf had said all he wished to say on the subject, and they would now move on to more pleasant topics.

So she sat, holding the cup of tea and listening to the talk swirl about her like a creek’s current, and she the stone breaking the water’s flow. All of her aches started to awaken again.

The realization sank in: She wasn’t safe. She had always assumed Uncle Dolf would save her and Mama; once he knew the truth, he would punish Reinhard or send him away.

But he hadn’t. He wouldn’t.

And now Reinhard would find out she had gone to Uncle Dolf for help and been refused; he would know she had risked damaging his reputation and dirtying his name.

There was nowhere she could go, no one she could ask for protection. She was trapped.

“Singing class was deadly dull today, Uncle Alf,” Geli said. Her hand brushed against Gretchen’s knee as she reached for the sugar bowl, and she murmured, “You’re breathing quite fast. Try to calm yourself.”

Brightly, she went on. “But the pistol lesson was such a lark! Gretchen, my uncle’s arranged for Henny and me to have weapons training. We practice shooting at a rifle range just outside the city. Yesterday, Uncle Alf, they taught us how to clean Walthers. We took them completely apart and put them back together again. We felt like characters out of a Western film!”