Prisoner of Night and Fog (6 page)

The shouts of
Sieg Heil
filled the air as Hitler strode down the center aisle, his face set in tight lines, his arms swinging purposefully. Tonight he wore the blue serge suit he was so proud of, and a sheen of perspiration already coated his forehead.

Like the others, Gretchen had turned to watch Hitler approach. The audience members raised their arms in the National Socialist salute, united in their identical pose.

But there was someone, standing near the back, who was not saluting or applauding. In the dim light, she could barely see him—a tall figure, arms folded over a broad chest. When he moved, the pale lamplight washing him with gold, she nearly gasped aloud. It was the boy from the park.

He was watching her. When their eyes met, he doffed his hat. For the first time, she saw the dark fall of his hair, the chestnut-brown strands gilded by the lamplight.

Unable to stop herself, she nudged Geli, “Do you know that boy? The one standing near the back with his arms crossed?”

Geli looked and then laughed, the sound drowned by another wave of applause as Hitler reached the platform. Her brown bobbed hair brushed Gretchen’s cheek as she leaned closer to whisper. “Handsome fellow, isn’t he? That’s Daniel Cohen, my dear. The newest reporter at the Poison Kitchen. And a Jew.”

The Poison Kitchen
. Gretchen had heard of it, of course: the local Socialist newspaper called the
Munich Post
, one of a dwindling numbers of publications opposed to the Party. Uncle Dolf called the reporters a bunch of charlatans who cooked up vicious lies about him, and he had christened them with their nickname. In Uncle Dolf’s opinion, calling someone a poisoner was the worst insult possible, for that meant he was a race defiler, a polluter of blood.

. She had liked the boy’s eyes; she had thought they were beautiful. And the sharp planes of his face, and his deep, quick voice.

A sudden commotion shattered her thoughts. At the back of the hall, a group of brownshirts had surrounded an elderly man. He looked as weathered and frail as a twig, but he was putting up a good fight, kicking and hitting at his assailants. The crowd laughed and jeered as the SA fellows struggled to restrain the old man. One of the them lost his balance, staggering backward into a heavyset man in SA brown.

Even from the back, Gretchen recognized his wide, squat figure. Strong and muscular once, perhaps, but now rapidly melting into fat. It was SA-Stabschef Ernst Röhm, the head of the SA and Reinhard’s superior.

Röhm pushed the boy away, shouting angrily. He whirled on Reinhard, who stood apart, expressionless. Jabbing his finger at Reinhard’s face, he shouted something.

Then Reinhard stepped forward into the mass of flailing bodies, shoving his comrades aside until he reached the old man. The fellow shrank back, his hands coming up in surrender, but Reinhard ignored the conciliatory gesture. He whipped an arm around the old man’s waist, hefting him as easily as a sack of grain, and carried him outside, the man screaming for help all the way.

She wouldn’t have thought anything of it, for audience members were frequently dragged away by the brownshirts, but she caught sight of Cohen running toward the exit, too. Looking terrified.

After the speech ended, Uncle Dolf walked out as the music was still playing, his usual trick to avoid the mobs of followers. While the others stood about in little clumps, discussing Hitler’s proposals about creating more jobs through road- and housing-construction projects, Gretchen said her good-nights to Geli and her chaperone and then hurried her way through the crowd into the warm, starlit evening.

Hitler’s red Mercedes sat at the curb, its engine running. His chauffeur was opening the back door for him as she raced toward them, calling his name.

Uncle Dolf turned. He looked tired, his skin pale and paper-thin. Sweat had darkened the hair at his temples, turning the brown strands to black. “Ah, Gretl. Shouldn’t you be home, helping your mama like a good girl?”

“Please, Uncle Dolf.” Her chest felt tight from running so hard. “Something awful has happened. Mama says I can’t return to school.”

“Is that all?” He chuckled. “Why, I would imagine most girls your age would be eager to leave school behind and settle on a fine young man instead.” He patted her cheek. “But I suppose you wish to continue in your schooling, my good little future doctor. Why does your mama propose leaving your studies?”

“Herr Hitler,” the chauffeur said quietly, “the audience should be leaving any moment.”

Hitler grunted. “Always, they want to hunt me down after a speech and haggle over every point. He waggled a finger. “Don’t give anyone a chance to challenge your ideas!”

“Please, Uncle Dolf, I just need a moment.” Desperation tightened her voice into something she barely recognized. “Mama says we can’t afford it. She says I need to find a job, but there is so little work, and I want so much to be a doctor, and I’m certain there’s something you can do—”

“Hanfstaengl,” Uncle Dolf interrupted, “weren’t you complaining the other day that your office isn’t adequately staffed?”

For the first time, Gretchen noticed the tall man lounging against the lamppost a few feet away. Ernst Hanfstaengl was the NSDAP foreign press chief, a bear of a man with an immense lantern jaw and wiry dark hair. “I’ve done more than complain about it, Herr Hitler; I’ve practically shouted it from the rooftops. And I’ve been shut up in a tiny office where nobody can ever find me—”

“Yes, yes, we really must improve your situation, Hanfstaengl,” Hitler said hastily. “Fräulein Müller shall be your new assistant. She can help your secretary, whenever you get around to hiring one. She’ll start the day after tomorrow, which should afford you enough time to find her a desk.”

Gretchen wanted to object. Hadn’t he understood when she said she didn’t want a job but to continue her schooling? Still, she said nothing. No one refused a favor from Hitler.

Hanfstaengl shot a resigned glance at Gretchen. “I don’t suppose you have any secretarial experience, do you?”

“Well, I help my mother at the boardinghouse—”

“In other words, no.” He rolled his eyes.

“Hanfstaengl,” Hitler snapped, “surely hiring the daughter of one of our fallen comrades isn’t too much to ask?”

Hanfstaengl swallowed a sigh, his massive shoulders practically shaking from the effort. “Of course not.”

“Her father made the ultimate sacrifice for the good of the Party.” Hitler’s voice grew louder. Behind them, Gretchen heard the clatter of footsteps; the crowds were leaving the Circus Krone. “If it had not been for Klaus Müller and his daring act, I would not be here. But Providence had other plans for me.”

“Herr Hitler,” the chauffeur said, “we really must be going!”

“Yes, yes.” Uncle Dolf kissed Gretchen’s hands. “Don’t look so downhearted, my child; it is all arranged.”

But
hovered on her lips though she didn’t dare say it.

Hitler and Hanfstaengl got into the Mercedes. As the car drove away, she watched its taillights turn into ruby-red pinpricks.

He hadn’t understood. That was all. Once she had a chance to explain the problem to him properly, he would talk to Mama. He would find a way for her to continue her schooling. Hadn’t he arranged for Geli to begin medical studies at the university, and when she tired of them, found a music instructor so she could begin a singing career? Surely he could do the same for her.

The tramp of footsteps cut into her thoughts. Marching toward her was a group of young men, dressed identically in black shirts and red bow ties. Her legs locked her in place.
Communists
. Of the dozens of warring political parties that had sprung up in Munich after the Great War, this group was the only one she feared. Uncle Dolf called Communism a plague sweeping down from the Russian steppes and infecting so many European countries, an ideology formed solely to promote Jewish interests and destroy all non-Jewish nations.

And they were carrying truncheons.

“We heard an ugly rumor that there was a Nazi gathering tonight,” one of them called. He looked her up and down. “I see the ugly part was wrong.”

Frantically, she scanned the narrow street. Nobody else up ahead. Behind, audience members slowly meandered out of the Circus Krone, chattering with one another. They were a few yards away. Not close enough if the Communists decided she was worth attacking. She’d heard of girls involved in street fights between National Socialists and Communists; one girl had even died in Berlin last year. There was nowhere to run.

“You’re mistaken.” She willed her voice not to shake. “I’m walking home, that’s all.”

“A likely story.” One of the men nudged another. “Look at her necklace.”

The
Hakenkreuz
! Her fingers closed over the charm. She’d forgotten she was wearing it. She might as well string a placard around her neck, proclaiming she was one of Hitler’s favorites.

“You don’t want to hurt a girl,” she said.

“No,” the same man said. “But I’m happy to take you as a hostage.”

And he leapt at her.

7

FOR A HORRIBLE INSTANT, THE MAN WAS
suspended in midair. Gretchen watched him coming toward her, his body lowering, lowering—

Then a dark blur knocked the man sideways. The two grappled on the pavement, swearing at each other. She heard the sickening sound of fists meeting flesh. The dark blur scrambled to his feet, glancing at her. It was Kurt. A cut under his eye dripped blood.

“Get out of here!” he shouted, and she turned and ran.

Behind her, she heard the Communists’ feet thundering on the sidewalk. Ahead, she saw Reinhard and a group of SA fellows, standing in a bunch, laughing and talking, then turning, their faces slackening in surprise when they saw her.

“Communists!” she screamed. “Help!”

They rushed past her. She kept running, but someone grabbed her arm, and she nearly snatched it back before she saw who it was.

SA chief Röhm. He had lost his cap, so she could see how his hair had been shaved so close to the scalp that his pale skin showed, a fresh-scrubbed pink like a pig’s hide. His small eyes focused on hers. Pockmarks disfigured his broad, florid face. From shrapnel, she’d heard, but she didn’t know if the injuries had occurred during the Great War or while he had lived as a mercenary soldier in Bolivia during the twenties. The deep gouges had always unsettled her, ever since she’d seen him again in April, after Hitler summoned him back to Munich to take over the SA.

“Fräulein Müller, this is no place for you.” His voice sounded as rough as pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. “Come.”

His grip was tight on her wrist as he pulled her along. Stumbling, she broke into a light jog to match his pace. Ahead, the avenue stretched out like a gray ribbon before it fell into darkness, and behind, the men’s cries and grunts started to fade.

“Don’t look so frightened, Fräulein.” Röhm stopped, his heavy chest rising and falling with labored breaths. He grinned, startling her. “Street fights are to be celebrated, not feared. That’s one of the many things the Führer and I argue about. The trouble with you is the same trouble with most Germans: Our countrymen have forgotten how to hate.” He ran a broad hand over his brown tunic, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Your brother understands.”

She recalled Reinhard’s blank eyes meeting hers across the kitchen table as he casually told their mother how much Gretchen must like Yids. She shuddered. Yes, he understood hatred. Sometimes she even wondered if he hated
her
. Or if he thought his tricks were a bizarre form of brotherly teasing—

The shrill blast of police whistles pierced the air. Röhm cursed. “I must get the men to scatter. I’ll send Kurt to ferry you home.”

“No! That’s not necessary!” But she was speaking to his back; he was already jogging back to the melee. More men ran from the direction of the Circus Krone to join the fight. Thirty or forty men now spilled across the street, punching and shouting.

A few yards away, Reinhard smashed his fist into a man’s face, watching emotionlessly as the man crumpled to the ground. Another man flung himself onto Reinhard’s back, but the added weight barely moved her brother. With one quick motion, he reached back, seizing his attacker’s arms before flipping him overhead and throwing him down to the pavement.

Gretchen couldn’t look away. He made it look so
easy
, crushing men with a few well-aimed punches. As he stepped into the golden light of a streetlamp, she saw how calm and impassive his face looked; his eyes flicked back and forth, searching for a possible threat, and his jaw clenched, but no anger tightened his expression, no fear contorted his features. And yet . . . Gretchen scanned the other men. All of them looked furious or scared, sometimes both. Reinhard was the only one who appeared untouched.

More police whistles sounded. The men broke apart, racing into the shadows. As quickly as it had begun, the fight seemed over. Gretchen released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Shaking, she turned away.

“Gretchen!” Kurt called behind her.

So Röhm hadn’t forgotten his promise to find her a chauffeur. The thought of getting back into Kurt’s car was more than she could bear. She remembered the Daimler-Benz skidding across the cobblestones, its headlamps illuminating the Jew’s face, frozen with shock, for one terrifying second before the car spun in the other direction. But there was no reason she could refuse a ride. She would have to go with him.

“A rough bunch tonight,” Kurt said as he caught up to her. “A few more minutes and we would have had the best of them. We’d better get out of here before the police arrive.”

They ran onto a side street. At this late hour, it was deserted, the lights in the office buildings extinguished. Halfway down the block, Kurt’s auto sat at the curb. As Kurt began to drive, Gretchen stared through the smeary windshield, listening to the tires rumble over the cobbles, wondering what she could possibly say to fill the silence. The old man! Cautiously, she watched Kurt from the corner of her eye. He leaned over the steering wheel, frowning, peering hard at the street.