Prisoner of Night and Fog (20 page)

The Jews were an enemy of convenience. Uncle Dolf had practically admitted it when he wrote that a great leader could manipulate his people into focusing on one group as a single opponent. The Jews were an easy target, a means to power; that was all.

Hitler was a liar.

And she was a fool.

She leaned out the window and looked at the street spread out below her. When she was younger, her father had said Isarvorstadt was dangerous. Dirty people and a dirty place, he told her. She had understood the reasoning—the Jews were supposed to be as filthy as rats, and the district was a swampy, low-lying area to the west of the Isar River.

But it was beautiful now.

The river gleamed like a silver ribbon. The higgledy-piggledy houses stood crammed together; figures moved behind the windows, and children skipped rope on the pavement. Somewhere, classical music spilled into the afternoon through an open window, and the smells of cabbage stew carried on the breeze.

Ordinary and simple and not frightening at all, and she was a part of it.

And Hitler wanted all the Jews in Isarvorstadt—all the Jews in Germany—to disappear.

Below, a little boy and his father walked hand in hand, and down the avenue mothers gathered on a building’s front steps, watching a group of small girls playing with a dog. All of them, gone, swept away by the night and the fog, as if they had never been, like the child in the poem.

Her heart ached so badly she didn’t know if she could bear it. For so long, she had believed in Hitler’s lies, seeing shadows where there should have been light.

Not anymore. Not ever again.

Her fingers were steady as she scribbled a quick note of thanks to Daniel, leaving it on the kitchen table. Fear twisted knots in her stomach. She knew what she had to do. Two nights ago, when Reinhard had thrown her to the floor, the danger had been unexpected. Now she would knowingly walk back into it.

But there was nothing else she could do. No other options if she wanted to learn at last the truth of her father’s death. And stop living surrounded by lies.

She was halfway across the downstairs foyer when Daniel and his cousins came through the front door, their faces flushed with late summer heat. Ruth was saying, “I don’t care if she’s had a change of heart, Daniel. She isn’t staying in our apartment any longer and that’s final.”

“That’s right. I won’t be.” Gretchen tried to sound nonchalant as her fingers curled tight on her bicycle’s handlebars. “But I wish to thank all of you for your hospitality.”

She looked at Daniel. The swelling in her left eye had gone down a little. The puffy eyelids had separated slightly, and she saw a whole Daniel with her good eye and a sliver of him with the other. The effect was dizzying, and she had to place a bandaged hand on the wall for balance. She felt his dark eyes trace her hand’s shape, then travel along her trembling arm, up to her face. His concerned expression said she hadn’t fooled him; he knew how weak she still felt.

“I’ve read a good part of the book,” she told him, gripping the handlebars again and trying to appear sure-footed, “and I understand much more now. Thank you.”

“Gretchen.” He covered her hands with his. Somehow the sight of his smooth, tanned fingers against her white gauze wrappings pulled a lump into her throat. She had wanted to hate those hands once.

“You needn’t leave because of Ruth,” Daniel said. Warmth pushed through his fingers and her wrappings, into her skin.
Infection
, a tiny part of her brain whispered, but she threw the old thought away.

She looked up, into Daniel’s face, studying its sharp planes, committing each of its features to memory. Even with one eye swollen and partially closed, she saw him clearly today. Not a monster. But a boy, blood and muscle and bone, real and breathing before her, watching her with those sharp, intelligent eyes that saw so much.

She liked him. The knowledge paused her heart for a beat, then sped its rate so quickly she swore she could feel the blood coursing through her veins. She cared for him. Ambitious, confident, fierce, clever Daniel.

And she smiled. Even though the motion pulled at her cracked, aching lips.

“Thank you,” she said to Daniel.
Thank you, thank you, thank you
.

“You mustn’t go,” he said, clearly oblivious to the explosions inside her heart. “Ruth will come around,” he went on, ignoring Ruth’s mutinous whisper that she wouldn’t. “Gretchen, you haven’t anyplace to go. Please, you mustn’t leave. It isn’t safe for you out there.”

“I’m going back to the boardinghouse. I
must
go,” she said when he tried to protest. “It’s the only way, don’t you see? I’ve thought it over and I’m fairly certain I’ll be safe. The only people I told about what Reinhard did to me aren’t likely to repeat it to anyone else. Uncle Dolf certainly won’t mention it, since he prefers to ignore anything unpleasant, and Mama won’t want anyone to know. Reinhard shan’t have any idea I’ve tattled on him. He’ll either be kind to me or ignore me for a few days.”

“Your brother’s dangerous—”

“I know.” Fear sharpened her tongue. “But I
must
risk it. If I ever want to discover the truth about my father, then I have to go back.”

He looked down. Even though he stood motionless, she sensed a battle warring inside him. Ruth and Aaron stood nearby, silent.

“Yes,” Daniel said finally. “But I hate the thought of you returning to that place—I refuse to call it your home.”

He understood. He couldn’t call the boardinghouse her home either. She’d been right about Daniel; he saw
through
things that other people never even noticed.

“I’ll be fine.”

“When can I see you again?” His eyes scraped over her face, and she nearly shivered under the penetrating gaze. For the first time in her life, she knew she had met someone from whom she could hide nothing.

“I don’t know. It isn’t wise for us to meet in public. But I’ll telephone you at the newspaper office as soon as I can.”

“Gretchen.” He raised his hand, as if he might touch her face, but she saw Ruth’s disapproving expression and stepped back.

“I’ll telephone you,” she said again and hurried outside, into a street turned orange and gold by the setting sun. Daniel caught up to her before she had wheeled the bicycle off the curb.

“Be safe,” he said.

“I will,” she promised, even though she knew she should promise him nothing.

Now he did touch her face—a feather-light pressure as he laid his hand on her cheek. Everything within her yearned to turn her face into his hand, touch her lips to his palm. But she didn’t dare.

He stepped back. “Stay alive.”

A few days ago, she would have laughed at the words, chiding him for sounding so melodramatic. Today, she knew better. “You, too.” Before she could think herself out of it, she hopped astride the bicycle and started pedaling back into the prison of her life.

23

IN THE KITCHEN, MAMA LEANED OVER THE SUDS
-filled sink, scrubbing dishes, her unpinned hair curtaining her face. The soft sound of her sobs echoed throughout the small room, and Gretchen paused, her hand on the doorknob, her brain reeling.

Mama never cried. Not since Papa’s death, and even those had been angry tears, spilled while she cursed him for his foolish incompetence in allowing himself to get shot. She certainly had never wept over Gretchen.

When she stepped into the room, Mama’s head snapped up. Her blue eyes were rimmed with red. Blotches discolored her fair skin. “Gretl,” she gasped, and rushed forward, flinging her damp arms around Gretchen.

For a moment, Gretchen stood stiffly in the embrace, unmoving. Tears burned her eyes, but her blackened eyelid couldn’t blink them away. With the heel of her hand, she swiped under her eyes, hoping her mother hadn’t noticed. For so long, she had yearned for an embrace from Mama, or praise for her good school marks, or approval about her future goals—any sort of attention. Now she didn’t even want Mama to touch her.

Finally, her mother seemed to notice and stepped back, her arms falling awkwardly to her sides.

“Have you eaten?” Mama asked. “We had chops for supper. I’ve saved you one.”

She moved toward the icebox, stopping when Gretchen said, “No, I can’t eat anything that requires so much chewing.”

“Oh. Of course.” Her mother flushed. “Perhaps soup. That should go down easily. Why don’t you sit while I fix it?”

“No, thank you. I would rather lie down.” She felt almost painfully polite with her mother. “Good night.”

“I know your accident was very upsetting.” Mama’s eyes were riveted on Gretchen’s battered face. “You’ll see, with time, everything will seem better.” Her voice held a pleading note.

An
accident
. Naturally that was the story Mama would tell. Exhaustion weighed so heavily on Gretchen’s aching body, she couldn’t even summon the energy for anger. She headed for the front hall.

“I’ll bring soup to your room,” Mama called after her. “Get some rest, darling.”

“Yes, Mama.”

There was a copy of
Mein Kampf
in the communal bookcase. She had expected to find the usual cluster of ladies knitting in the parlor, but two men sat on the ancient chintz sofa instead, their forms turned to flame by the setting sun streaming through the window. Her heart froze for an instant, then started pounding so hard she could scarcely hear them talking. It was her brother and Ernst Röhm.

Reinhard didn’t look at her; she might have been a stranger passing on the street. With unsteady steps, she moved into the parlor, keeping to the shadows. The bookcase stood against the wall, directly beside the doorway.

As she bent down, her knees screamed, and she let out a tiny gasp of pain before she could stop herself. A quick glance at the sofa told her the men hadn’t noticed.

Her scraped-up hands whined as she forced them to grasp
Mein Kampf
and pull it from the shelf. Moving gingerly, like an old woman, she rose and started toward the hall.

“Ah, Fräulein Müller.” Röhm’s rough voice reached after her. “Come back, won’t you?”

Dread settled like a stone in her stomach. What could he possibly want with her? Slowly, she turned.

“
Grüss Gott
,” she said.

Röhm waggled his finger teasingly. Sunlight from the window glistened off his scalp. “Come now, Fräulein Müller,” he said, “I should have expected a proper salutation from you.” He rose and saluted.
“Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler.”
She couldn’t look at either of them. Instead, she stared at her feet, indecently bare in her falling-apart espadrilles.

“Yes, Gretchen, you ought to know better,” Reinhard said. His mocking tone forced bile into her throat. Her fingers curled into the book’s spine, the aching knuckles protesting.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Reinhard’s handsome face split into a careless grin. “Herr Röhm, I’d say I’ve caught you up on everything I did for the Party on my trip. I’d best be going, as I have a date in a few minutes.”

“Far be it from me to stand in the way of young love.” They both laughed, and Reinhard loped from the room, ruffling Gretchen’s hair as he passed.

Her muscles tensed as she willed herself not to flinch. She heard him whistling as he headed down the front hall, then banged the front door shut. How could he feel nothing at all? He had smiled at her so blankly, as though he didn’t remember what he’d done two days ago.

“Walk me out, dear child,” Röhm said.

As they stepped into the brightly illuminated front hall, he started.

“Fräulein Müller, what the devil has happened to you?” His small, hard eyes focused on her. “I couldn’t see your injuries in the parlor, but now, in this light . . . Were you in an automobile accident?”

Irritation surged through her. Anyone who had been involved in as many fights as Ernst Röhm had should recognize the telltale marks of fists.

“It was very painful.” She sidestepped the questions. “I wonder if I could ask you something, Herr Röhm.”

He inclined his head, waiting.

“There was an old man taken out of the Circus Krone during Herr Hitler’s speech the other day,” she began, wondering how best to ask without raising any suspicions.

Röhm was already shaking his head. “Stefan Dearstyne. One of the old hangers-on from the early days of struggle. He’d been skulking about the Braunes Haus, asking impertinent questions about the putsch—as if anyone cares about such ancient history! Raking up that old disaster is embarrassing for the Führer, so I had him removed from the speech. Then he did us all a favor by dying.”

He barked out a laugh and she tried to smile, but her sore lips couldn’t manage it. Röhm winced sympathetically, advising her to drink plenty of warm brandy until the pain was past; then he tipped his cap and was gone.

She headed up the stairs, thinking. Röhm couldn’t be involved in her father’s murder. That much she knew. Every account she had heard of the putsch placed him at the Reichswehr, or National Defense, headquarters. Along with his minions, he had seized control of the same place where he had once worked but by late morning state troopers had surrounded the building.

Freeing Röhm and his men had been the original reason for the march through Munich, she recalled as she stepped into her bedroom. The men who were still huddled at the Bürgerbräukeller, growing more anxious and despondent by the moment, knowing the revolution had failed, had pounced on a chance to do something.

Within minutes of the first rallying cry, they were sweeping through the city, intent on rescuing Röhm and his men from the police. A ragged parade that had been stopped in the narrow Residenzstrasse by a shower of bullets.

Bullets
. Gretchen frowned, letting the burlap sack slide off her shoulder onto the floor. Another part of the story no one knew about—who had fired the first shot? Some said an overeager state trooper, but most said the bullet came from the National Socialists’ side and had struck a policeman.

There were too many questions; she was no nearer to an answer than when she had first begun. Soon she would make a time line of those crucial sixteen hours, but now she yearned only for the sweet darkness of sleep.