The Sleepwalkers (18 page)

Also proposed was a “blood protection” law, to criminalize sexual relations between Germans and Jews. Only the “complete elimination of the Jewish race from Germany would lessen the Semitic threat to Germanic blood.”

These purported scientists declared, “Human history is racially determined. Race is the decisive force. Every great nation rejects gene-mixing. This is as innate in people as in animals.”

Now Willi remembered his bunny-toothed friend from Spandau, Josef, pushing his way up the gangplank that afternoon to the Great Gustave’s yacht, dressed in an all-black officer’s uniform. The first time he’d seen him at the Black Stag, under his wool coat he’d had on a doctor’s smock. Willi was sure of it.

“Herr Reichs Chancellor.” He put his hands on the desk and leaned toward the tired-looking general. “Does the SS have a medical staff?”

He left the Reichs Chancellery armed at least with some of what he needed—von Schleicher solidly behind him.

“I am this close”—the chancellor had actually shown him on a yardstick—“to destroying the Nazi Party. Thanks to the three election hurdles I forced them to leap this year, they are in debt to the tune of ninety million marks. Their electoral support is flagging. They no longer possess an aura of invincibility. And now”—he smacked the stick on his palm—“I’ve induced Party Secretary Strasser to walk, threatening to take a third of the membership with him. If we can expose this criminal ring, Willi, I am convinced it would be the final straw.”

With so many top scientists, an anonymous fraternity, and the SS possibly involved, though, both men agreed a routine investigation was out of the question. A strike at the heart was the only plausible option. The swiftest way: send in their decoy. Find this base. Then spread out a dragnet for those left at large. Unfortunately, both also agreed that the loyalty of the Berlin police force had grown too risky to rely on. Willi was stunned to learn from von Schleicher that Willi’s own boss, Kommissar Horthstaler, had joined the Nazis a month ago.

“These scum have been erecting an underground network to take over the police department the moment they seize power,” the chancellor spelled out, angrily bending the yardstick. “But you and I,” his voice rumbled ominously, “can stop them, Willi.
You and I, and men like us”—he clasped the ruler—“can be the ones who go down in history.” He whacked the desktop. “Not them.”

Willi wished he had the general’s conviction. What he did have now, though, was an army unit of the Reichs garrison in Potsdam at his disposal. And their latest secret weapon—portable radio. Three transmitter/receiving units small enough to be mounted in the back of a truck or a boat. At least it would give them a leg up in communications. What they could have done with that in the last war.

The next morning . . . another step forward.

Gunther confirmed that Dr. Oscar Schumann, Meckel’s associate at the Institute for Racial Hygiene, was the very same “Jew-damm” Schumann from the Black Stag Inn.
Unwarhscheinlich!
He’d actually seen him there last night and heard him addressed by his full name. That friendly little Spandau tavern, if not a base, was definitely a staging area for this whole dirty business.

“I recognized him right away from your description.” The kid’s white cheek quivered. “Wearing a white doctor’s coat. With Mr. Bunny Teeth at his side. Josef. Whose last name unfortunately I didn’t get. But also in a doctor’s coat. And how do you suppose the two arrived, Chief? By boat! There’s a small dock at the edge of the beer garden. I saw them tie up. They were complaining about how foul the air was at Sachsenhausen, how glad they were to be rid of it.”

Sachsenhausen, again.

If only they could locate it before New Year’s Eve.

Then Paula wouldn’t have to go.

But neither he nor Fritz nor von Schleicher’s spies, nor Ernst Roehm’s Brownshirts, nor even Kai and his gang of Red Apaches, could pinpoint this mythical place.

So on the final evening of 1932, Paula zipped into her pink movie-star gown and “freshened up” for her mission.

The knock at the door came at eight.

Fritz arrived in top hat and tails and long black cape.

“Szcz
liwego Nowego Roku!”
Paula hailed, giving him a great big hug. “Happy New Year,
Liebchen!”

In her former profession, one had to know a little of every language, she explained in her Polish accent.

There was time at least for one final toast.

“To 1933.” They all clinked glasses.

“You’ll see.” Her eyes flashed like green neon. “It’s going to work, Willi.” She planted a big kiss on his cheek. “And when I come back, I’ll start all over again. Fresh as a newborn babe. You won’t even recognize me. There are new clinics, you see, abroad mainly, that help people like me.” She ran her gloved finger along his cheek. “Naturally they’re expensive. But supposedly terribly effective. Isn’t that right?” She clutched Fritz by the arm.

“Oh, yes, of course, quite.” He patted her hand. “In fact Hermann Göring just got back from one in Sweden. Hooked on morphine for years. Now I hear he’s sober as a Lutheran minister.”

“It’s all going to work this time. I can feel it in my bones.” She clutched Willi by his lapels. “I’ll come back to you. I promise.”

“Damn right. As soon as Gustave’s show is over. Just make sure he chooses you to volunteer.”

“Nie rozs
mieszaj mnie.”
She kissed him, modeling her legs again. “Don’t make me laugh.”

After the door closed, Willi fell into an armchair. The wind was howling outside his window, the bells of the Kaiser Wilhelm Church slowly tolling. Picking up the phone, he got the long-distance operator and asked for Paris. Ava answered. Her voice was like a warm scarf around him. “Willi, you all right?”

“Fine. Fine. The investigation’s moving along. If all goes well, we could wrap it up, I don’t know . . . in a couple of days hopefully. How are the kids?”

“Having a ball. Mom and Dad have taken them out to see the
light festival on the Champs-Élysées. They’re so excited to stay up until midnight. Are you there all alone?”

Willi’s throat went dry. If only he were in Paris with them.

“Yes. But just as well. I could use a little time to unwind. Listen, send my love to them, Ava. And your parents. And to you . . . the happiest of all New Years.”

At midnight the bells tolled. The streets filled with firecrackers and party horns. A drunken man kept shouting out the window, “Happy 1933! Happy 1933!” Willi was not religious at all, but he felt like praying . . . Lord, please make this one better than last.

Sometime around one thirty he heard drunken laughter in the hallway. There was no mistaking Paula’s cackle. “Well, what happened?” He let them in. “Did he hypnotize you?”

“Did he ever,” Fritz cried, his dueling scar aflame. “Do you realize that in addition to Polish, our brilliant little Paula here can speak Chinese?
Ling ni how chu. Ling tang! Ling tang!”
he imitated hysterically.

“Stop.” She slapped him, gasping from laughter. “I did not.”

“Tell me what happened.” Willi sat them on the couch.

“Gustave died when he saw her legs.”

Paula hoisted the pink gown. “He called them Ideal.” She pretended to blush, then deepened her voice to imitate him. “ ‘You may wish you had these, ladies, but only one in a thousand women do.”

“ ‘The Ideal leg, like anything wonderful and perfect,’ ” Fritz picked up, “ ‘indicates a strong, vital life force.’ ”

And together they both shouted, “ ‘Passion!’ ”

“But did he give you any posthypnotic suggestions?”

“How should I know? I don’t remember a thing beyond him drooling over me.”

“Well, did he, Fritz?”

“I sat as far up front as I could. But Gustave leaned so close to
all the women, right on top of them practically . . . I just couldn’t tell.”

Willi inhaled. “Then there’s nothing to do but wait.”

“Good.” Paula clapped. “More drinks!”

“No. From here on in—coffee only.”

Willi was pouring them a second cup when the bells on the Kaiser Wilhelm Church struck two o’clock.

Paula’s eyes fluttered a moment.
“Mein Gott.”
She clasped her forehead. “I completely forgot. Cigarettes.”

Fritz looked at Willi. “Cigarettes? I’ve got plenty here.”

“No. I don’t smoke those.” She looked around for her cape. “I’ll just run down to the corner. The kiosk’ll have my brand, I’m sure.”

In her black cape and pink evening gown she drifted up Nuremburger Strasse, Willi and Fritz keeping several yards behind. The sidewalks were more crowded than at two in the afternoon. Whole parties were out, singing, laughing, throwing firecrackers. Every pub and restaurant was full. But Paula moved as if in a dream. Her gait, slow and steady, gradually picked up pace as if she started feeling late for something.

On Tauentzien, one of the Boot Girls recognized her. “Paula! For goodness’ sakes. What have you been up to,
Mädchen?”
But Paula ignored her and walked by like a blind deaf-mute. “Some nerve.” The girl scowled. “Found yourself a gentleman, huh, tart!”

Past the Kaiser Wilhelm Church, the Gloria Palast, and the Romanisches Café, she floated ghostlike through the holiday mayhem. Once she slowly peeked over her shoulder and seemed to see Fritz and Willi, but didn’t care. Arriving at the Zoo Station, she lifted her dress and hovered up the stairs. On the westbound platform she stood while trains came and went, clutching her cape and rocking gently back and forth, as if she’d fallen asleep. When one marked
SPANDAU
rattled in though, she quickly stepped on board.

It was packed. Teenagers were drinking and throwing strings of firecrackers among the passengers’ feet. The staccato explosions
made women scream as if they were being machine-gunned. One actually passed out. Paula stood like a zombie in a corner, as if she weren’t there.

At the end of the line, a dozen or so people were still on board. Fritz and Willi let her off first, in case she was being followed. They stood on the platform and watched her pink figure descend the long flight of stairs. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing. On the street she slowly walked to the corner, looked both ways, then crossed.

Directly under the Nazi flag, she disappeared into the Black Stag.