Prisoner of Night and Fog (8 page)

“Please,” she whispered.

Herr Cohen stared down at her, his eyes hard, his expression unreadable. “I can’t figure you out,” he said, so quietly he might have been speaking to himself. “Every time I think I understand who you are, you seem to change.”

What he thought of her didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except for the small, circular hole in the back of Papa’s Great War tunic.

“Please,” she said again. “I swear to you, I haven’t told a soul about your letter. I only told my dearest friend that I was coming here tonight, nothing about you. One of the SA boys said they’d received orders from SA-Stabschef Röhm to throw the old man out on sight, but that’s all he knew.”

His expression didn’t soften, but he pulled her into his arms. When she started to jerk away, he said, sounding annoyed, “We’d better dance, if we want people to stop staring at us.”

Uncertainty froze her in place. But she sensed the others’ curious gazes. Reluctantly, she placed her hands on Cohen’s shoulders. Beneath her fingers, his tightly corded muscles flexed. Tense and hard, as though he were barely holding himself together. His hand fit into the curve of her waist, his fingers felt warm through her dress’s thin fabric. The orchestra slid into a slow number, and they began to waltz.

Their eyes were only inches apart. As their bodies moved together, repeating the same box step, she watched his pupils, waiting for them to enlarge and swallow the brown-and-gold irises, to turn into black pools as Uncle Dolf had promised.

But nothing happened. And the sour stink of sweat and decay she had expected, she didn’t smell. Only a light scent of soap and cologne. The fingers holding hers felt smooth and soft, not rough with tangled hair.

Could she have been wrong about him?

He twirled her around. She spun across the dance floor, the other couples blurring into a whirl of blacks and reds and greens and blues. He drew her close to him again. His hand, at the small of her back, gripped her too hard. As though he hated having to touch her.

“We can be useful to each other,” he said, his breath a warm flutter on her neck. “I tell you what I know, and you use your connections to get me the information I want.”

Nerves prickled the back of her neck. She could easily imagine Uncle Dolf’s disappointment if he learned she had worked with a Jew. Then she thought of the bullet hole in her father’s shirt, and everything else fell away. “Explain to me why Herr Dearstyne is so curious about my father’s death.”

“Dearstyne started wondering about the street shoot-out after he read his late brother’s diary,” Cohen said, his hand relaxing on her waist as they swayed back and forth. “And before I tell you anything else, I think you need to share something, too. What convinced you to search me out here tonight?”

“I remembered something. About the clothes my father was wearing when he died.” She took a deep breath, like a swimmer bracing herself before diving into icy water. “There were powder burns on the back of his shirt.”

Cohen’s eyes widened. “Then I was right! I knew it! I—” He broke off with a curse. “What’s your brother doing here?”

She twisted in his arms. Standing near the nightclub’s entrance, washed by the golden chandelier lights, stood two familiar figures. Reinhard and Eva. And it was obvious from the way their heads turned, surveying the milling crowd, that they were looking for someone. It had to be her.

Hastily, she pulled away from Cohen. “Get out of here! Go, go!”

“Why, Fräulein Müller,” he said, sounding sarcastic, “I might almost believe you care about me.”

“Just go! My brother probably outweighs you by fifty pounds. He could crush you in an instant.”

Cohen laughed. “Fräulein Müller, don’t you know it’s rude to insult a man’s ability to fight?”

The unexpected flash of humor startled her. She had thought the boy could fit into a small box of fierceness and determination and loyalty to his ideals, however misguided they were. Now she saw that he couldn’t be contained, or understood, so easily.

She watched as he cast a speculative look toward the entrance. How could he be so reckless with his own safety? Or did he think other things mattered more than his well-being? She couldn’t figure him out.

“Please, Herr Cohen.” She touched his shoulder, nudging him forward. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt. We can meet some other time.”

His head snapped back so he could stare at her. “You wish to see me again?”

“Yes. I—” The words stuck in her throat. “I need your help. And you said you need mine. We can work together.”

He nodded, his expression wary, as though he wasn’t sure if he believed her. “A Jew and a National Socialist, joining forces. I never thought I’d see it. Very well. I accept your proposal. I shall contact you soon. Watch for my message.”

“Yes, but
go
!”

To her relief, he turned away. He had barely taken two steps into the whirling mass of dancing bodies when Reinhard reached her.

“Who was that?” he demanded.

“Nobody.” She twined her fingers together so her brother wouldn’t notice that they were shaking. “Nobody,” she repeated, and Reinhard watched her with his blank eyes, a muscle twitching in his jaw, before turning and heading toward the bar for a drink.

9

“HOW COULD YOU BETRAY ME?” GRETCHEN SAID
to Eva as they walked into the powder room. Her friend wore a short beaded dress with a dropped waist, and she’d curled her hair into tiny ringlets. She looked like the American flappers in the film magazines she loved to read.

“What?”
Eva sounded scandalized. “Gretchen, I would never—”

“Wait.” Gretchen glanced under the wooden stalls—no feet—and peered into the adjacent lounge, where a couple of fraying upholstered chairs sat—empty. The mirror reflected the room back to them, a mix of wood and gilt that should have looked rich but seemed tired in the harsh lighting. The patterned paper had begun to strip from the wall; the sink basins were chipped, the wooden stalls splintered. It looked like everything else in Munich, beautiful once but slowly decaying. Only Hitler could reverse this gradual rot, he had promised so many times.

“You told Reinhard where I would be tonight,” she said. “I didn’t mention it to anyone but you.”

“He rang me up, looking for you. I didn’t realize it was a secret—”

“I should have thought it was obvious! You knew I was sneaking out to come here—”

“Yes, but this was your
brother
telephoning me! I would hardly expect you to hide things from him.”

Gretchen rested her head against the mirror. The glass felt smooth and cool. Eva didn’t understand. She never would, for how could she possibly comprehend the fear that welled within Gretchen whenever her brother came near? The way Reinhard treated her was her most shameful secret.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

“That’s all right.” Eva touched Gretchen’s shoulder. “You never told me why you wanted to come here. Is it a boy?”

“Yes. In a way.” Although she yearned to tell Eva everything, she said nothing more, fearing that someone might come in and overhear. Or that Reinhard, waiting in the dance hall, would grow impatient and demand to know why they had taken so long.

Eva leaned close to the mirror, smoothing the rouge on her cheeks with her fingertips. “I suppose we girls must have our secrets.” Her high giggle sounded unnatural, and Gretchen frowned, thinking how different Eva sometimes seemed since coming home from the convent school two years ago—concealing her face beneath layers of cosmetics and wanting to bleach her hair, as though she yearned to turn into someone else. Eva added, “What a darling frock. Wherever did you get it?”

The black dress sparkled back at Gretchen in the glass. “From Geli Raubal. You know how she likes to hand off clothes she’s grown tired of.”

“Oh,” Eva said flatly. “Her.”

Gretchen watched Eva redden her lips. She had never understood why Eva disliked Geli. The two girls hadn’t even met—Geli revolved within Hitler’s elite inner circle, while Eva was merely a tiny fixture on the outer rungs of the Party, since she knew Hitler only through casual conversations at the photography shop. Once, Gretchen had suggested introducing the girls, but Eva had refused, muttering that they were probably too different to get along.

When Eva was done, they went down the curving corridor toward the dance hall. With each step, the music swelled louder and louder, and Gretchen had to bring her lips to Eva’s ear to be heard.

“Just out of curiosity . . . How did Reinhard act when you said that I’d come here?”

“Oh, you know Reinhard.” Eva giggled. “He said we ought to meet you and have some fun ourselves. He wasn’t angry,” she reassured Gretchen. “He never is.”

That was almost true. Which was strange, Gretchen knew after observing the three Braun sisters together. Siblings were
supposed
to grate on one another’s nerves. The continual rubbing together of their lives, the daily irritations of sharing homes and parents, should have ensured that she and Reinhard sometimes squabbled. But they never fought.

She followed Eva into the dance hall, the music washing over them like the sea. And as she watched Eva, grinning as she swept by in Reinhard’s arms, she could almost pretend she was happy.

The boardinghouse’s front door was locked at half past nine every night. Residents were given a key and told not to switch on the lights if they got home late, to save on the electric bill. But not Gretchen or Reinhard, and Gretchen suspected that this was their mother’s way of ensuring they stayed in their rooms all night.

The tactic certainly hadn’t stopped Reinhard. For years, Gretchen had heard him scaling the neighbor’s back wall and jumping into the courtyard, sometimes with a muffled curse if he landed on a broken bit of flagstone. Although Mama fastened the back door, the mechanism was old and unreliable, and some patient twisting was enough to jiggle the lock out of place. Or so Reinhard had boasted. Gretchen had never tried it.

She stood now in the neighbor’s back garden, studying the stone wall. Not terribly high. She tossed her pocketbook and high-heeled shoes over, listening as they landed with soft thumps. She leapt as hard as she could. Her fingers grasped the ledge and she pulled herself up.

Below, the courtyard was a narrow black rectangle in the darkness. The flagstones looked farther away than she had anticipated. But she couldn’t lower herself down; the walnut trees clustered against the wall, impeding any attempt to get down that way. She would have to jump.

She flung herself into open air. Something shifted in the darkness below her. A man’s head, turning to look at her, the whites of his eyes shining—

She swallowed a scream. When she landed, air rushed out of her lungs. Gasping, she scrabbled upright as the shape separated from the shadows and came toward her. Its fuzzy lines sharpened, becoming the hulking figure she knew so well. Reinhard.

He was laughing. “You should have seen your face!”

Her hands clenched, ready to shove at him. But she didn’t. There was no beating Reinhard at his games; she had learned that rule long ago. So she picked up her shoes and pocketbook and walked to the back steps, Reinhard loping along beside her.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked. “It took you longer to get home than I expected.”

His words sent a shiver along her spine. “You’re spying on me,” she gasped.

Reinhard laughed in his easy, careless way. “This city can be a rough place at night. What sort of brother would I be, if I wasn’t watching out for my little sister?”

It was true Munich could be dangerous, as street fights often erupted between political parties. But Reinhard had never expressed concern for her safety before. He suspected something. That was why he had smiled and refused, when Gretchen and Eva asked if he wanted to take a streetcar back with them. Somehow, he had gotten here first. So he could wait for her. To time how long it took her to return, to determine if she had gone elsewhere first. To see if she returned alone.

Shaking, Gretchen fiddled with the doorknob. If Reinhard guessed she had met with a Jew tonight . . . She could not imagine what he would do to her.

The door creaked open. Reinhard ushered her in with a flourish. “After you, Sister.”

She hated having to walk in front of him. She darted inside, pressing her back against the wall as he lumbered into the unlit kitchen.

Her brother’s footsteps thudded as he crossed the room, and then he knelt to open the icebox. He made a face. “There’s never anything decent to eat.” He reached for an apple from the fruit bowl and polished it on his shirt. “I heard you’re starting at the Braunes Haus tomorrow.”

Gretchen nodded. The Braunes Haus, or Brown House, was the new National Socialist Party headquarters, and where Hanfstaengl maintained his office. “I’ll be helping in the foreign press department.”

As Reinhard chewed, she saw the large muscles in his neck moving, forcing the bits of apple down. Somehow, the sight made her sick.

“Good.” His teeth shone white as he grinned. “Working is better for girls than studying anyway. Besides, you wouldn’t want to show up me by getting more schooling than me, would you?”