The Roses Underneath (43 page)

“Yes, she—”

“And you are the sole caretaker for her, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not true. She lives with her aunt, a Frau Wolf. In the Adolfsallee,” Schenk volunteered.

The
Ami
ignored him and turned to the panel. “I suggest we look into her case further, but as the sole caretaker of a small child we cannot remand her into custody without creating even more work for ourselves. However, I recommend that Frau Klein be officially removed from her position at the Collecting Point and be prohibited from taking any work with the Occupation Forces, pending further investigation into her case.”

The middle one did not waste a second to advance this idea. “Agreed. Frau Klein, you are no longer employed at the Collecting Point, effective immediately. Your status is pending and you are forbidden to leave the city of Wiesbaden. You may go now, but expect to hear from us in the next few days. You might prepare yourself and your daughter for a return journey to Thuringia.”

The panel stood, gathered their papers, and made their way to the door, followed by Phillips. Schenk lingered until the others had filed out of the room and shot a quick glance at the MP as he approached Anna.

“I told you to watch yourself, you stupid girl,” he said. “Not even your
Ami
can help you now. Where is he anyway? He’s in as much hot water as you are.”

Anna regarded him with a cool look that belied her fear. “Don’t worry about me, Herr Heinrich. No matter what, I will be
okay
, I promise you.” She pushed past him and walked out the door.

Anna lay on the bed, listening to Amalia playing with Lulu on the floor. Madeleine lay next to Anna in a restless sleep, her breathing shallow. Anna turned over the damp compress on the woman’s forehead to keep her cool. Anna had not slept for a second night, her subconscious mind working on something that she didn’t yet comprehend. A revelation was buried deep, where she could not access it. It churned under every thought and action like something waiting for the outlet to erupt. The unease from the events of the past few days sat with Anna but she ignored it, putting it in a corner of her mind like a troublesome child. Only the anger at Emil kept boiling over.
If he had lied to her, why? Was he really working with Schenk? If the idea was to get rid of her, he had certainly done a good job of letting her hang herself. Anna still had not told Amalia about Emil’s attack on Frieda. She hadn’t told anyone about anything that had happened. The girl seemed content to distract herself. She had gotten very good at not asking questions.

Anna dipped into her mind’s vortex and pulled out a thought. Up came the name Gerhard Heinrich.
Konrad Schenk’s real name. She rolled over, reached into her bag, and pulled out the list she had taken from the file room. Sitting up and crossing her legs, she flattened the page onto the bed. Her finger ran down the list of known gallery owners and found what she was looking for. There he was, Gerhart Heinrich, as a gallery owner in Mainz, marked deceased, just as Schenk had said. But there was something else that she could not remember about him. Something Emil had said that seemed to want to attach itself to the name, but just she couldn’t catch it.

She stood and pulled the drapes closed to keep the light from Madeleine’s face, then pulled on her shoes. “Maus you stay here. I’ll only be gone a little while,” Anna said, patting Amalia on the head. “If you need anything, go and tell Frau Hermann, don’t bother Auntie, all right?”

“Yes, Mama,” Amalia said, distracted.

Anna slung her bag over her shoulder and rode the bicycle to the Albrechstrasse as quickly as she could. It took only a few minutes to get there; her urge to confront Emil about the story he had fed her kept her moving against some invisible deadline. By the time she arrived at the end of the warren of corridors, she was sweating and out of
breath. The visitor line was long and the close quarters made her feel sick to her stomach. She would ask Emil directly if he was lying, if he had set her up all along. She also suspected it was Emil who knew where the missing camera and its film with the photos of the art had gone. Why steal the painting if he knew there were photos? Without the photo, the story was impossible to prove. He must have taken the camera from Cooper’s office in order to make his story work. Anna raged silently as she waited.

When she finally got to the small window at the front, the American sitting behind the desk looked at her papers. Despite his earnest demeanor, he was very young, his cheeks betraying the remnants of baby fat.

He looked up. “You are here to see who?”

“Emil Schilling,” Anna said. “I was here yesterday. I should be on his list.”

The guard held up her papers. “Just a minute, ma’am.” He walked to the back of the office and conferred with another
Ami
, this one of higher rank. After a lengthy exchange, the second man nodded, took her papers and walked back to the window.

“You’re Anna Klein?” he asked.

Anna nodded.

“Come with me, please,” he said, and unlocked the door next to the window. He ushered her through to a small office and closed the door behind them.

“Please, have a seat.” The
Ami
pulled out a chair for her, then sat down across the desk. He was older and had a kind face. His black hair was greased back and his large ears stood out from his head. When he spoke, his voice was soft—like a kindly priest or doctor sent to reassure her. Anna’s thoughts had already gotten away from her but she didn’t dare follow them.

“Are you Emil Schilling’s next of kin? Are you his family?” he asked.

Anna shook her head. “No. I am just a friend.

“Well, Frau Klein, I am only supposed to talk to his family, but we haven’t been able to find anyone aside from his sister, who is too incapacitated. Since you are here I will tell you.” He folded his hands on the desk and waited several seconds before continuing. “I am very sorry to tell you this. Emil Schilling was found dead in his cell this morning.”

Anna felt the air go very still. Her skin prickled. She blinked at the American.

“Excuse me?”

“He took his own life. I am very sorry.”

Anna shook her head. “I don’t understand. It’s not—”

“He hanged himself with his own shirt. It was…torn into strips and then, well, never mind.” He said. “I am very sorry to have to give you this news.”

Anna nodded. She didn’t know what to do or say.

The American cleared his throat. “And there’s one more thing.” He pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket and pushed it across the desk. “He left this specifically for you. Since he named you in this letter, I feel comfortable that I am not breaking protocol in telling you the news.” He stood. “I’ll leave you alone. Take your time. I am very sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

When he had closed the door, Anna sat motionless for several minutes. Maybe if she didn’t move
none of this would be real. Maybe it hadn’t really happened. If she could stop time, then she’d never have to leave the room and try to absorb what she had just learned. She could not let herself feel anything for fear of losing control.

After a long while, when she could no longer endure the questions that needled her, she pulled the letter toward her and focused her eyes on the uneven script. At the top Emil had printed the words “my last will and testament” in capital letters. Underneath were five lines written in a schoolboy’s careful hand, followed by his signature:

I have only one meaningful worldly possession: the painting of the Rhein that hangs in my apartment. It is not valuable, but it reminds me of my happiest days. The artist was my friend. She and her family are dead, so I bequeath the painting to my friend Anna Klein and her daughter Amalia, who showed me compassion and grace. I wish them a long and happy life together. I hope they remember me fondly.

When she had finished reading Emil’s words a second time, Anna laid her head on the desk, resting her cheek on top of the paper. A searing ache started inside her hands and flowed up her arms until it filled her entire body. She closed her eyes and let it submerge her. There was nothing else she could do.

Anna stepped out into the street and shaded her eyes with a hand that had only just begun to stop shaking. She stared at her feet on the ground and waited for her eyes to adjust as she gave silent thanks that at least she was out of the building. The vision of Emil refused to go away—his body swinging from the rafters, the rags of his torn up shirt around his broken neck. It was so strong and clear that it was as if she had to look past it to see where she was going. She pushed his letter into her pocket, picked up her bicycle and began pedaling hard and fast away from the jail—but the image kept pace. She could not shake it. Before she realized where she was going she turned the corner into the Gustav-Freitag-Strasse.

Anna felt as if she was being pulled on an invisible string controlled by something much larger than
herself. She was without fear or sadness or even anger as she pushed open the gate and walked around to the back of the house, then down the stairs to the basement entry. She pulled hard on the door with both hands, each tug growing stronger, as if her life depended on it. After several tries it came off the frame altogether, thanks to the wood rot from some long-ago flood. Anna went ahead into the darkness, feeling her way along the brick wall until she found the light switch and the door to the house.

Emil’s apartment was unlocked, and inside it was still as tidy as when Anna had seen it last, except now the air felt stifling and old. Not sure what she was looking for, she began pulling open drawers and wardrobe doors, rifling through clothing and papers with increasing force and speed. Something had to give her an answer, to explain Emil’s story. In the living room she lifted the sofa cushions and threw them across the room and pulled books from the shelf. She dug through the drawers of the little desk in the corner, finding only old stamps, ration books, and a few letters. Sweating now, she lay on the floor and reached a hand under the sofa, running it along the floor, groping at nothing. In the back corner, her fingers bumped over something. She stretched her arm, wedging her head under the couch, but she couldn’t reach it. She peered into the darkness and could only make out a little boxy shape. Pushing herself to her feet, she yanked the sofa away from the wall and kneeled on the seat to look over its back. In the dusty corner lay a small metal camera. She almost let out a cheer as she pulled the camera up into her lap to examine it. It was American, for sure. The Kodak 35 insignia across the top proved that.
Made in the USA
.
She turned it over and popped up the viewfinder. The crack was unmistakable. It was Cooper’s camera.

Elated, she peered though the viewfinder and pressed the shutter, but it did not respond. She turned the winding wheel with her thumb and groaned when it kept turning without hitting a stop. There was no film inside.

She hurled the camera at the wall and fell forward, holding her head in her hands. A scream forced itself from her lungs and she pushed it out with the force of the rage that finally overtook her. Of course, Schenk had the film. Emil probably gave it to him. They had all set her up. She had walked right into it. She buried her head in her hands and began to weep, not just for herself or for Cooper or for the damn Runge painting, but for having failed at this little, miserable attempt to do right. To fix this one thing that meant nothing in the bigger scheme, in the story that would be told of what happened in the war, of all the horrors that had been perpetrated. Not even this one stupid little story about a stolen painting would have a happy end. They had won. She was absolutely useless after all.

“Forget it,” Anna said out loud when she finally stood up. “I am finished. We will just go home to Kappellendorf. I am tired. I give up.”

She crossed the room to pick up the camera and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. It wasn’t until she walked past the landscape painting that hung near the door that she remembered Emil’s letter. Anna blinked at the picture. ‘
The painting of the Rhein that hangs in my apartment.’
Was this the painting Emil had left to her? The one she had noticed the day she found Amalia in the basement with Frieda? She looked around. There was no other landscape painting anywhere, only portraits and old photos. It was surely by the same artist as the one she had tried to sell to Schneider. And now Emil, who had known the artist, was gone. No Emil, no film, no way to prove anything. She stared at the painting. Not knowing what else to do, she lifted it from the wall and closed the door as she left the apartment.

In the foyer, she paused, looking up the stairs to Frieda’s apartment. Broken glass from the door above trailed down to the ground floor, probably from the ambulance drivers who carried her, or from the men who arrested Emil. Anna imagined the final scene that took place just upstairs between brother and sister: Emil drunk and enraged, stabbing his sister in the throat with a letter opener.
Frieda staggering and falling, Emil calmly going to telephone the police and confessing. She wondered how they had ended up in the living room, when the fight had begun in the basement. Had he followed her upstairs with the intent of attacking her? Had he come up for the letter opener and she followed? Anna remembered sitting on the sofa eating
Apfelstrudel
, the tour of the playroom and Frieda’s first kindnesses. Anna thought she had found a friend, someone to rely on. Instead she had walked into her own demise. She hoisted the painting under her arm. Maybe she could take it back to Kappellendorf as souvenir of her brief taste of freedom. As a reminder of what could have been.