Prisoner of Night and Fog (5 page)

An unfair trade. His side would contain lies, and hers, memories no outsider could understand. Papa’s death protected her family. If he had died during the Great War, or from influenza, his widow and children would have been quickly forgotten. Bundled off to Mama’s parents’ farm in Dachau, perhaps, to live in creeping poverty.

Instead, they were protected. An old Party comrade had found Mama the boardinghouse manager position. Another had paid for Gretchen’s piano lessons. At Christmas, she and Reinhard received dozens of boxes of chocolates, and when she was a child, she had gotten a china doll whose eyes opened and closed, and Reinhard had gotten a set of charcoal pencils and a sketch pad with exquisitely thin paper. After Party speeches, society ladies kissed her cheeks, and when she sat beside Hitler at his regular’s table at Café Heck, SA men clasped her hand in gratitude.

Best of all, Uncle Dolf had remained their beloved family friend. Sometimes, when he was in one of his nostalgic moods, he talked about sturdy, dependable old Müller. How his trusted lieutenant had known that he, Hitler, was destined for great things, and had laid down his life so Hitler could accomplish them.

There could be no trade. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m a reporter,” he said. “I came to you because this is a critical time for the Nazi Party—”

“National Socialist,” she corrected automatically. She hated the way some people said “Nazi” so casually, as though they didn’t even realize it was Bavarian slang for “country bumpkin.”

“Of course you do.” He smiled slightly, then turned serious. “Fräulein Müller, Hitler’s campaigning for the presidency as we speak. His party is poised to become the most powerful political force in the country. And it mustn’t happen.”

“Mustn’t happen?” Irritation inched into her voice, although she tried to hold it back. Had this boy made up a story about Papa, luring her to this meeting, so he could pour out his political beliefs, knowing she was one of Hitler’s favorites and might repeat his concerns to the Führer? Uncle Dolf had warned her about such interlopers.

Now, more than ever, the Party had to guard itself against its enemies. In the last elections, the National Socialists had increased their presence in the Reichstag from twelve to one hundred seven deputies, and they were quickly becoming the most popular party in the country. They had, as Uncle Dolf often said, reached the tipping point in their political movement.

“The National Socialist Party is the best thing that could ever happen to Germany!” Gretchen said. “Herr Hitler is committed to reducing unemployment and creating more jobs.”

The boy’s gaze moved over her face, and she shifted uncomfortably. There was an unblinking fierceness in his gaze. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had looked at her so intently.

“I see you truly believe that,” he said at last. “But why wouldn’t you? You’ve lived in Hitler’s shadow for as long as you can remember.”

She brushed his words aside. “Why did you send me a letter?”

“Nothing matters more than exposing a lie.” He moved closer, the pine needles sighing under his feet. “And because you’re Klaus Müller’s daughter. I thought that you, more than anyone else, would want to know what happened to him.”

Confusion blanked her mind. “I already know. He died protecting Herr Hitler.”

“He was murdered.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course he was. The state policemen shot him and let him bleed to death in the street.”

What a waste of time. She started to push past him, but he grabbed her arm. His fingers felt hot against her bare skin.

“I’m sorry, Fräulein Müller, but they didn’t.” The boy’s dark eyes locked on hers. “A National Socialist comrade killed him. And I aim to find out who.”

The trees tilted and blurred, skinny black trunks and green-leaved branches swirling together like a child’s experiment with finger paints. From far away, she felt the boy’s hand slide from her arm, then his fingers gripping both of her shoulders, steadying her.

A cruel joke. That’s all it was. Finally, she found her voice. “You’re wrong.”

In the greenish-black light, she saw the grim set of the boy’s mouth. It wasn’t a joke. While Gretchen, stunned into silence, stared at him, his hands fell to his sides, but her shoulders still burned from his touch.

“I have proof,” he said quietly. “I’ll get to the truth behind your father’s death, and once I do, everyone else in Munich will know it, too.”

He tipped his hat. “If you decide to do right by your father’s memory, you can find me at the Golden Phoenix nightclub tomorrow night.”

He strode away, a tall figure rapidly darkening with distance until he was part of the shadows descending on the park.

Ludicrous lies, an attempt by an overly ambitious reporter to dig up dirt on Uncle Dolf, that must be it. She gripped the knife harder. Her fingers dug into the carved wooden handle, the almost painful sensation grounding her in this moment. Her family’s special relationship with Hitler meant they were targets, too.

Uncle Dolf had warned she must constantly be on her guard against the Party’s myriad enemies. He had said his opponents were flung across every corner of the city, barely discernible, like a spiderweb—until you tossed water on the gossamer net and there your opponents were, glistening like diamonds, brilliantly bright and unmistakable.

He would want to know about this strange conversation. She hesitated. Something about the boy held her back. The kindness in his voice, perhaps.

A sudden, sharp pain sliced through her thoughts. The knife had slipped. Thin lines of blood ran between her fingers. In the twilight, they looked black. She wound a handkerchief around the stinging pain. Then she stepped out from the trees and started walking.

Even in the deepening shadows, the boardinghouse appeared tired and dingy, like an aging theater actress who looked old and faded beneath the thick layers of makeup. Soot streaked the stone in places, last week’s rainfall dotted the windows, and the cheap smells of lung soup and horse meat wafted through the open door.

In the front hall, Gretchen snatched up the communal telephone’s earpiece. She dialed the apartment house at 93 Hohenzollernstrasse, turning toward the wall and hunching her shoulders, as though she could curl into herself and become invisible. Her heart slowed in relief when someone answered the building’s communal telephone and promised to fetch Eva.

As she waited, her eyes traced the garish red-and-purple flowered wallpaper. Across the hall, the ladies gossiped in the parlor. Supper was over; she hadn’t shown up to help Mama with the cooking and cleaning. What would her mother say? Gretchen swallowed hard. Nothing her mother could come up with would be worse than what the boy had said.

“Hello!” Eva’s crystalline voice echoed down the telephone wires. “Thank heavens you rang! I’ve been stuck here, reading film magazines, because naturally my father won’t let me go out, and I’ve been trying not to think about cream pie—”

“Eva,” Gretchen broke in, “something strange has happened.” Out of habit, she glanced around the empty hall, although she knew she was alone. “Can I come by the shop tomorrow? I must talk to you.”

“Are you all right?” Eva asked. “Gretchen, you sound . . . I don’t know . . . as if you can’t breathe.”

“No, I’m not all right.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “There’s a man—a boy, really—and he’s told me a horrible story about my father—”

She stopped as a light, feathery shuffle sounded from the staircase. One of the boarders was coming down. “I must go.”

She dropped the earpiece onto its handle and went into the kitchen. Her mother stood at the sink, scrubbing dishes. Even the tight set of her shoulders looked annoyed as she snapped, “Why weren’t you here to help with the boarders’ supper?”

“I’m sorry, Mama. I lost track of time.”

“We’re losing more than that.” Her mother shoved a dripping plate into her hands. “It’s the bills, Gretl. I can’t pay them.”

Although the building owners paid for electricity and coal, all residents were charged for rent and food. Gretchen’s family paid a reduced amount, and Mama received small payments for her work as the boardinghouse manager, but her salary barely covered their housing and meal costs. Extras such as clothing had to be budgeted for carefully.

“Can we ask Uncle Dolf for a loan?”

Her mother plunged her hands into the sudsy water. “The Party is perpetually low on funds, at least that’s what they say. Besides, we’re in the same hole every month, just sinking deeper.” She pushed another plate at her, and Gretchen realized she hadn’t dried the first one yet. “You need to get a job. A real job, Gretl.” Mama didn’t look at her. “You’ll have to give up your schooling.”

“What?”
She couldn’t have heard correctly. Not her education, the single rope she held to climb out of the dark hole of drudgery Mama expected her to live in. Not her dreams of becoming a doctor. Not when she had only a few months left before graduation. She was so close.

Slowly, Gretchen set the still-wet dish onto the stack on the counter. The sound of china plates clinking together seemed loud in the quiet kitchen.

“You heard me.” Mama pulled the plug, and water gurgled down the drain. “We can begin looking for a suitable position in the morning. There won’t be many available, but I’m sure Herr Hitler will put in a good word for you somewhere.”

Gretchen felt as though she had stepped into a freezing lake. “Please, Mama, I must go back. I’m in my last year of
Gymnasium
.”

“I know, and you wish to be a doctor and heal everyone and do all sorts of splendid things.” Her mother sounded annoyed as she scrubbed the counter. “But it’s impossible. You’d best go upstairs and press your white blouse to wear tomorrow when you go looking for work. No one will hire a slovenly girl.”

Gretchen opened her mouth to protest, then shut it. Talking back was not permitted. Not by any family; she didn’t have a single friend who dared to argue with her parents. The decision had been made. There could be no pleas or tears; they wouldn’t make any difference. Blindly, Gretchen walked into the hall, nearly knocking into the man peering at one of the cheaply framed prints of wildflowers.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, catching only a momentary impression of black hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, and a flurry of apologies in muddled, schoolboy German before she threw herself out the front door and pounded down the steps, running faster and faster until she thought her lungs would burst.

There was only one person she could go to for help, but Uncle Dolf was due to deliver a speech at the Circus Krone in less than an hour. She would have to hurry.

6

THE CIRCUS KRONE WAS A CAVERNOUS HALL LINED
with dozens of rows of wooden benches. Gretchen paused at the entrance. Hundreds of people packed the seats: burghers in suits beside laborers in tattered jackets, housewives in flowered dresses next to society ladies in silk, even theater folks in vivid makeup rubbing shoulders with street toughs in black, everyone jumbled together without regard to class distinctions, as Hitler always instructed.

Different classes, but the same tension tightened their shoulders and the same desperation hooded their eyes. They needed a savior to pull them out of this dark hole—the hole of inflation and high unemployment and gnawing hunger and a progression of shoddily built governments that kept collapsing. Gretchen heard the word
Heiland
on nearly everyone’s lips. A savior, a healer. The man they needed Hitler to be. It was no coincidence they greeted him with
Heil
s. He had come to deliver them all.

The podium was still empty; he hadn’t arrived yet. But she mustn’t search him out now. Disturbing him before a speech would only annoy him.

The air was hazy with tobacco smoke drifting lazily to the high ceiling. The crowd’s voices swelled and sank like the tide, washing over her, and suddenly the chattering rose to a dull roar.
“Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

That was the signal that Uncle Dolf was coming. She caught sight of his half niece in the front row. Geli Raubal had turned in her seat. Her eyes widened when they met Gretchen’s, and she waved, mouthing,
Sit with me! Hurry!

Gretchen rushed down the center aisle. Geli pulled her close, whispering, “How marvelous to see you! Now I needn’t be bored silly.” She jerked her head toward the thirtyish man sitting beside her. Gretchen recognized the florid face and icy eyes; they belonged to one of Hitler’s many adjutants, who sometimes acted as Geli’s chaperone.

The crowd cheered again, saving Gretchen from having to reply. She often didn’t know how to respond to Geli’s saucy comments. Unlike the National Socialists who kowtowed to Hitler, Geli often teased her uncle Alf, and even accomplished the rare feat of making him laugh at himself. When Geli had moved to Munich four years ago, Gretchen had expected their age to wedge them apart—after all, Geli was six years older—but her merry, easy manner had made them friends. They often sat together at Café Heck, or shopped along the Maximilianstrasse, Gretchen watching as Geli tried on hat after hat until she giggled and said she couldn’t decide and would have to buy them all and to please send her uncle the bill.

The crowd roared. Gretchen stood with them, peering through the crush of bodies and the swirling cigarette smoke. Along the walls and beneath the raised podium stood uniformed SA troops. Their heads swiveled as they studied the audience, their bodies were ready to spring forward to drag away hecklers.

She spotted her brother, Reinhard, among them, a tower in brown uniform. He stood with his arms clasped behind his back, feet wide apart, poised to attack.

Quickly she looked away from him, glad he hadn’t noticed her. Even as relief flooded her veins like blood, she felt embarrassed. She could never tell anyone how much she feared her own brother, or how Reinhard secretly punished her for a cross word or an ill-timed laugh by playing nasty tricks: her library book left on the front stoop on a rainy night although she could have sworn she’d placed it in her satchel, her best blouse balled up beneath her bed even though she had searched there five times already. There was no one else it could be, although he hadn’t confessed and she hadn’t had the nerve to confront him.