Prisoner of Night and Fog (37 page)

Horribly, Kurt wasn’t dead. He clutched his throat, blood pumping red between his fingers. He was trying to say something, but he couldn’t get the words up his torn throat, and he fell to his knees and then sank facedown on the ground. Even in the growing darkness, Gretchen saw his blood seeping across the grass, in a widening circle of black.

Röhm wiped his blade clean on the grass. He looked regretfully at the reddish flecks on his shirt. She started to back away, and he straightened. “I wouldn’t think of running, Fräulein Müller. If you do, I’ve a pistol I won’t hesitate to use. I’d prefer to avoid the noise, though, as you can see.”

With a fleshy hand, he gestured toward Kurt’s motionless body. Gretchen fought the wave of revulsion rising within her.

Röhm tucked his knife into its sheath at his belt. “The Führer may be leaving right now for a country retreat to grieve for his beloved niece, but there are many remaining in Munich who are eager to fulfill his demands. And he was quite clear about your family’s future, when we spoke by telephone a few minutes ago. Your mother has already been persuaded to leave Munich for her parents’ home in Dachau. But you and your brother remain.”

She balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to run. Perhaps Röhm had been fast once, but the years had piled flesh and flab onto him. She could outpace him. She was sure of it.

He placed his hand on the bulge beneath his brown shirt. A bulge the shape of a pistol in a shoulder holster. “As I already mentioned, your brother had several interesting things to say when I met him at your boardinghouse. One was a cry that his Uncle Dolf could not have killed his father. Imagine the Führer’s displeasure when I repeated such a peculiar statement to him.

“The Führer said,” Röhm went on, watching her face with a malicious pleasure, “he has grown tired of the Müller family and the National Socialists will be a stronger party without their continued presence. None of us are so naive that we do not understand him.” He stopped, clearly waiting for a reply.

Her fingers tightened on her pocketbook. “No. None of us are that naive.”

“Good.” Röhm kicked Kurt’s body, checking that the boy was dead. Gretchen slipped her hand into her purse. Her fingers scrambled over the junk she habitually stored in there. Handkerchiefs, old postcards, marks, a tube of lipstick . . .

Röhm looked up. “Then we comprehend each other perfectly.”

A comb with half of its teeth missing, an empty pillbox Eva had given her because she had admired its tortoiseshell top, a pen . . . There it was! She felt the cold metal of the knife and ran a finger along its serrated edge. It was dull, but it would have to be good enough.

“You shall come with me,” Röhm said. “You’ll show me all the places where your brother might be hiding. We shall smoke him out together,” Röhm added, and then his face hardened. “What are you doing? Get your hand out of your purse!”

She gripped the knife. She had to do it. She leapt at him, bringing the bread knife down with one swift motion. She felt the knife’s teeth bite into the soft, doughy part of his neck, and his hands came up, knocking the blade away. She turned and ran as hard as she could into the darkness that had spread across the park.

42

GRETCHEN GRABBED A BICYCLE THAT SOMEONE
had tossed on the grass by the park’s entrance. From the muffled giggles coming from a clump of trees, she guessed that two lovers had hastily left it behind. It was old and rickety, but it held her weight when she swung herself on.

The Leopoldstrasse was nearly empty now. The occasional car glided past, and in the distance a streetcar clanged, but there was little traffic. She pedaled hard, her breath coming in gasps, and tried to ignore the aching exhaustion in her legs.

Soon she would be at the Odeonsplatz. Chances were, Daniel had no idea yet what had happened to Geli or that Reinhard was looking for him. Probably he was already in the square, scribbling in his spiral-bound notebook or snapping pictures with his Leica, imagining that tonight’s work entailed an ordinary newspaper assignment. With no inkling that Reinhard was hunting him down right now. She had to get to him right away.

Her legs shook so badly that the bicycle wobbled. She knew she was operating on pure adrenaline. At some point, her energy would fail, but she must push on until she found Daniel.

Abruptly, the Odeonsplatz opened up before her. She dropped the bicycle by the side of the road and stopped for an instant to get her bearings.

The Odeonsplatz was massive. Lining its western edges was the Theatinerkirche, an enormous Baroque church. In the gathering blue darkness, its pale yellow stone walls looked white, and its two towers were small shadows in the night sky. Directly ahead stood the Feldherrnhalle, an immense stone hall with three arches. A staircase at the central arch led to the entrance, which was flanked by two stone statues.

Tonight the square was filled with men, endless lines of dark figures parading around its center. They kept shouting something she couldn’t quite make out—something about Lenin and Marx—and some carried flaming torches, the light flickering across their faces. Most of them were scarcely older than she: university students, probably, in their late teens and early twenties. They wore the standard black shirts and red bow ties of the Communists and they looked both excited and defiant.

And then she saw why.

Brownshirts lined the square. A couple of hundred men, perhaps, standing motionless, arms folded across their chests in the prescribed position, ready to strike at any instant. All of them stood motionless, as if waiting for an order.

The Communists started chanting louder. Now she heard the words. “Death to National Socialism! Long live Lenin!”

Again her gaze traveled over the hundreds of men choking the square. But there were so many. . . . How could she ever find Daniel?

She must. She had to.

She skirted the square’s periphery, scanning the Communists as they swung by. Perhaps he had concealed himself among them, for he could never hope to hide in the uniformed SA ranks. Even if they didn’t recognize him as one of the reporters who attended Hitler’s speeches, his ordinary suit would give him away.

On and on she crept, keeping behind the line of SA men. She raised one hand, half-covering her face, hoping no one looked at her. They might know her as Hitler’s pet or Reinhard’s little sister, and perhaps they had already been told that Röhm was looking for her. She had picked the most dangerous place in the city to be tonight.

Far ahead, a figure hurried up the stairs of the Feldherrnhalle. A man on the landing extended his hand, urging the newcomer on. As Gretchen looked again, she recognized the line of the figure’s shoulders and the tilt of his head.
Daniel
.

She broke into a run, keeping her hand raised to her face. Through her fingers, she saw the brownshirts, their gaze trained on the Communists circling the square. Menace hung in the air, as obvious as smoke. All it would take was one match and the Odeonsplatz would be afire.

She reached the Feldherrnhalle steps. Daniel stood on the landing, a notebook tucked under his arm, a camera strap slung over his shoulder, talking urgently to an older man. Reflected torchlight flashed off the man’s round spectacles.
Fritz Gerlich
.

Somehow she managed not to scream Daniel’s name, yet as she raced up the steps, he turned toward her. She knew the exact instant he saw her, for it was as if his face came alive again; all the fear fled, leaving his features relaxed and softer, his lips saying her name.

They ran to each other. It took all of her self-control not to throw herself into his arms, but they couldn’t waste a second. He clasped her hand, saying, “You’re all right! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. There’s a rumor going around that Fräulein Raubal is hurt or dead, and I didn’t know what had happened to you—”

“There’s no time to explain. We have to get out of here—” she started to say as Herr Gerlich rushed to them.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Herr Cohen,” Gerlich said. “I heard from one of my sources that Röhm’s looking for the Müller brother and sister. I don’t see how you can escape from this square alive.”

“I’m not leaving without Gretchen.” Daniel squeezed her hand.

Fear had transformed Gerlich’s usually calm, round face into a frozen mask. “Perhaps if you leave separately you’ll attract less attention—”

“No,” Daniel cut in. “We escape together.”

The shouts had grown louder and the brownshirts were shifting their weight from foot to foot and muttering to one another. They looked restless and ready to fight.

One of the men glanced around the square, his gaze stopping when it reached her. Gretchen felt the flicker of recognition in his eyes like a punch. He knew who she was. Although they were too far apart for her to hear what he said, she saw him grab his companion’s sleeve and his lips form her name. The other man looked at her and nodded, then turned to the fellow next to him and spoke rapidly. Comprehension shot along the brownshirts like a line of fire. Another moment and all two hundred men would know exactly where she was.

There was no place to go. The flight of steps led directly into the square and hundreds of waiting brownshirts.

Gerlich frowned at the marching men. “What a mess. Reminds me of the putsch all over again.”

His words struck a match in Gretchen’s brain. In her mind’s eye, she saw the National Socialists marching through the snow, looking uneasily at the waiting police officers.

“I know what to do,” she said, almost to herself, and then, more loudly, she said again, “I know what to do!” She spun to face Daniel. “We create a riot and flee during the chaos.”

To her relief, Daniel nodded in immediate understanding. The same basic tactic had allowed Hitler to disguise a murder and get out of the city. Perhaps it would work again.

In the square below, the brownshirts had begun moving toward the Feldherrnhalle steps. Even the Communists had noticed that they no longer interested the National Socialists, and they, too, stared up at Gretchen, Daniel, and Gerlich.

“Good-bye, Herr Gerlich.” Daniel clasped the man’s hand for an instant. “We haven’t known each other long, but I’ve learned much from you.”

“Stay alive,” Gerlich said. “I shall expect great things from you both.”

He stepped back, letting Gretchen and Daniel move forward on the landing. Below, a few hundred faces had turned to watch them. Along the square’s edges, SA men started walking toward the Feldherrnhalle, like a quickly moving brown stream.

Gretchen and Daniel gripped hands. His fingers felt slick with sweat, but his voice was steady when he said, “Here we go,” and together they walked down the Feldherrnhalle steps, directly into the waiting crowd.

43

TORCHLIGHT FLICKERED OVER THE MEN IN THE
square, turning them into reddish shadows. The SA men along the back of the square watched Gretchen and Daniel, most likely waiting for a signal to attack. But the brownshirts clustered at the Feldherrnhalle’s base weren’t paying them any attention; the whispers must not have reached them yet. It was Gretchen and Daniel’s first piece of luck and the one thing that might save their lives.

They descended into the square. The nearest Communists marched past, shouting, “Death to National Socialism!” They walked four abreast, their arms linked, their eyes darting toward the brownshirts surrounding the Odeonsplatz. The SA men said nothing, but their restless shifting and grim faces must have warned the Communists of the danger. They were itching to fight. They reminded Gretchen of an infernal machine—working so perfectly in unison they had become an automaton, each man a separate gear that clicked together with others to form a relentless army.

It had to be now. Gretchen slipped her hand from Daniel’s.

“Stick close,” he said. “If we lose each other in this crowd, we may never find each other again.”

She nodded, then let herself stumble into the closest line of brownshirts. Awkwardly, they caught her in a tangle of limbs, and she smelled warm flesh and cigarette smoke and damp linen.

Quickly, she pushed herself away. “One of them pinched me!” she shouted, throwing her voice as far as she could. “One of those loathsome boys laid his hands on me!”

“No!” some of them cried. “She fell into us—”

Their words were swallowed by the crowd’s sudden roar. She had been right—the insult to a girl’s honor was all the encouragement the men needed. The Communists’ shouts swelled against her ears like an onrushing wave. The men broke ranks and ran toward the brownshirts.

Fists met flesh with sickening crunches. Clenched hands rammed into faces and stomachs, and everywhere the air filled with cries and shouts. In an instant, the milling crowds had transformed into a mass of twisting bodies.

Someone slammed into her, knocking her away from Daniel. She tried to see him through the fighting men, but they seemed to form a wall surrounding her. Each man was intent on destroying the other; their limbs flailed as they struck at one another, their flinging arms and torsos acting like a screen, separating her and Daniel. She could see nothing but an endless whirl of moving bodies, the colors of their clothes blurring like a child’s swirling paints on paper, black, red, and brown sliding together.

Hands gripped her shoulders.
Daniel
. She spun around and found herself staring at a neck encircled by a familiar khaki collar. Her heart kicked against her ribs like a mule’s legs.
No
. He couldn’t have found her. He couldn’t have known where she would be. She let her eyes travel up to his face and nearly cried aloud.
Reinhard
.

A long gash started at Reinhard’s hairline and continued diagonally across his face, tracing a red line across his nose, ending at his jaw. Both of his eyes were black and one had swelled shut. He stood unsteadily, so hunched over that his shoulders were at different heights. Bandages covered both of his hands, but he must have torn at the wrappings, for strips of gauze fluttered from his wrists.