Prisoner of Night and Fog (34 page)

Sweat beaded this man’s upper lip as he said, “The bad publicity will be devastating.”

“Can’t be helped,” The older man growled. He pointed at the baby-faced man. “Do it.” The fellow bent over the telephone and dialed. “Listen, you’re to tell the press it was an accident, not a suicide.”

Gretchen froze.
Suicide? No
. They couldn’t be talking about . . . Her mind wouldn’t complete the thought.

The baby-faced man exclaimed into the telephone, “What! You didn’t! You’re awfully quick off the mark. It’s only been twenty minutes since I last rang you!” He ran a hand through his hair, his forehead furrowed in concentration as he listened. “No, it isn’t your fault, naturally not. Good-bye.”

He hung up and groaned. “We’re too late. The Braunes Haus has already released a statement to the press. What a disaster.”

Gretchen gripped the door frame so hard her fingers went numb.
No
. They couldn’t be talking about Geli.

The old man sighed. “All right, let’s think. After Hitler and Hoffmann left last night, Geli succumbed to her growing fears regarding her future as a professional singer. She committed suicide last night.”

Geli was dead.

Gretchen cried out before she could stop herself.

All four swung around to stare at her.

“What the devil is she doing here?” Hess surged to his feet.

She staggered backward.
Impossible
. Geli would never kill herself. Not laughing, sweet, merry Geli. She had been too alive to seek death.

“Fräulein Müller, come here,” Hess extended his hand toward her.

She spun away from him and raced through the sprawling apartment to the long corridor where Hitler’s and Geli’s bedrooms sat side by side. She wouldn’t believe it. Not until she had seen for herself.

Geli’s door had been broken down. The door frame’s hinges hung drunkenly, and wooden splinters lined the gaping hole. Gretchen skidded to a stop in the doorway and stared.

In the room, Geli lay facedown on the floor. Blood had pooled beneath her chest and spread out on either side of her body. It had faded to the color of rust. She must have been dead for hours. One arm stretched across the carpet, as if reaching for the gun lying on the sofa.

Gretchen knew that gun so well—it was the Walther 6.35 that Hitler kept on a shelf in his bedroom. Nausea hit her like a strong wave, and she had to brace herself on the door frame so she didn’t sink to her knees.

She snatched a quick impression of the room. It was as she remembered: the dainty vanity table crowded with pots of powder and bottles of scent; the prettily made bed; Hitler’s landscape painting on the wall; the framed photograph of Muck on the desk. Today, there was a sheet of paper on the table. If she squinted, she could make out the final sentence.
When I come to Vienna—I hope very soon—we’ll drive together to Semmering an
 . . . The sentence stopped in the middle of a word. Not a suicide note.

Hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her back.

“You mustn’t see this, Fräulein Müller. It’s too upsetting for a young girl—”

She ripped herself out of the man’s grasp. It was Hess. His deep-set eyes seemed hooded beneath his thick brows.

“What happened to her?” she cried.

“Fräulein Raubal was distraught,” he said in his slow, deep voice. “Or perhaps she was playing with the Führer’s gun and it went off.”

Geli would
never
hurt herself. Gretchen felt her insides turn to water. Unless she had been driven to it. Even then, Gretchen knew who must be responsible.

Hess took her arm, guiding her along the corridor. Gretchen moved like a sleepwalker. Each thought seemed to travel miles before surfacing in her brain. If only she could break through this haze and think. . . .

“It’s such a terrible tragedy,” Hess said. “The Führer’s grieved beyond measure. I telephoned him myself at the hotel in Nuremberg only minutes ago. I have never heard him scream like that. He’s in such a state that we all fear he may do himself a mischief.”

Gretchen stumbled. Geli lay dead on the floor, and Hess was worried about
Hitler’s
well-being. Because
he
was the only one who counted.

The older man appeared at the end of the corridor. “Herr Hess, you must leave. The police should be here any minute. Herr Schwarz shall remain. He’s a city councilman,” he added as Hess opened his mouth, probably to protest. “It’s best for the Party if a prominent citizen can deal with the inspectors before Herr Hitler returns.”

“Very well. But I should prefer to remain for the Führer’s sake.”

“You can best serve him by leaving.” The man stared at Gretchen while Hess strode away.

Panic swamped her chest. What was this stranger going to do to her? As she backed away, his hand shot out and fastened on her wrist. “I’ll say this only once, so listen well. Herr Hitler and Herr Hoffmann left yesterday evening on their campaign trip. Afterward, Fräulein Raubal went into her room. She must have shot herself sometime during the night. This morning, the servants were concerned when she didn’t appear for breakfast, and they broke into her locked room. Do you understand?”

She understood nothing. She tried to pull away from him, but his grip remained firm.

“Let go of me!”

A doorbell jangled. “The police,” he muttered. “Come.”

She wouldn’t go anywhere with him. She tore her arm free and raced headlong down the corridor.

Another man stepped out from the entryway. She was going too fast to stop herself, and she collided with him. She heard the air push out of his chest in a sudden gasp. In the dim light, his spectacles had turned into blank discs, concealing his eyes from her. The fourth man from the parlor. She remembered him now, from countless dull evenings at Café Heck. Franz Xaver Schwarz, the Party treasurer. She could count on no help from him.

“Ah, Herr Schwarz,” the older man said behind her. “Take the young lady to Frau Reichert’s room. I don’t think we can depend on her discretion, so there’s no need to alert the police to her presence.”

“Very good.” The slender man glanced at her. Perspiration wet his high, pale forehead. “Please, Fräulein Müller, your presence could prove difficult to explain to the police. We must avoid any potential embarrassment for the Führer.”

Was it safer to break free and find the policemen or follow the men’s instructions? She thought of the fellow she had bribed so easily at the central station, and remembered Hitler laughing, saying the Party had little to fear from the police as many officers were becoming loyal National Socialists. There was no guarantee she could trust the officers entering the apartment.

Quietly, she followed Schwarz through the parlor. From the front hall, she heard a man talking to Frau Reichert, saying he and his partner had arrived to investigate the young lady’s death.

Gretchen and Schwarz reached the far end of the apartment. Maybe she should go to the police. Perhaps they were honest men. She started to turn, but Schwarz grabbed her arm and shoved her into a small room. The door slammed shut. She heard the scrape of a key in the lock, then the whisper of fading footsteps.

She sat on a chair and took several deep, steadying breaths. Then she glanced around the small, plain room. No telephone. No way to get word to Daniel. Even if she shouted, the policemen might not hear her because the apartment was so large. And Hitler’s men or servants might be standing nearby, keeping watch. Listening for her. She was trapped.

A memory swam into her mind. Sitting in the parlor, clutching a teacup in bruised hands, trying to see through a blackened eye. Geli’s casual words:
Henny and I felt like characters out of a Western film
.

Awareness shot through her. Geli and Henny Hoffman had been receiving weapons training at a shooting range outside Munich. Geli had shot Walthers before. She knew how to take them apart, clean them, and fire them properly.

Gretchen stilled. How could Geli have accidentally shot herself? It seemed impossible. . . .

A creaking floorboard pulled her into the present. The door opened. Frau Reichert peered inside.

“Are you all right, Fräulein Müller?” she asked. “Would you like luncheon? The cook is preparing sausage.”

Gretchen’s stomach revolted at the thought of food. Something must have shown in her face, for Frau Reichert stepped into the room and closed the door. “It is a terrible thing, Fräulein Raubal’s death,” she said quickly. “The investigation should soon be over, and you may return home. I hope you’ll be comfortable in my room for the time being.”

Then she was gone, the door snicking shut. Gretchen heard the tumblers click. She was locked in again.

One. Then two o’clock. Finally a quarter to three. She must have paced the room a hundred times by now. The door opened again. Schwarz stepped inside.

His quiet eyes blinked behind his spectacles. “The detectives have left,” he said. “They will return around three thirty to interview the Führer, who should have arrived by then. You’re free to leave, Fräulein Müller. And thank you for staying quiet. Your concealment could have proven difficult to explain to the police.”

She didn’t bother replying. There was nothing safe to say.

Schwarz ushered her into the corridor. All around them, the apartment breathed, silent and still. This was all wrong. There should have been people weeping in the parlor, servants preparing food for mourners, policemen searching Geli’s bedroom for clues. The apartment should have been busy as a train station at rush hour. Instead, it was a grave.

She stopped so abruptly that Schwarz ran into her. She mustn’t be afraid; Geli needed her friends now more than she ever had in life. “Tell me what the inspectors said.”

“Fräulein Müller, surely some matters are not proper for a young girl’s ears.” A faint flush tinged his cheeks. “It’s far better that you return home.”

“No, it’s far better that we honor Geli’s memory by ensuring the police are adequately investigating her death.” She watched as his narrow lips firmed. There was nothing he could say without losing face. “What did the inspectors say?”

“Not very much. There’s exceedingly little for them to do in clear cases of suicide. Clear cases, Fräulein Müller,” he repeated, still blinking owlishly behind his glasses. “The police doctor has come and gone, and he has confirmed that Fräulein Raubal died yesterday evening.”

“But how can he be so sure?”

“Rigor mortis set in several hours ago,” Schwarz said, and suddenly she felt sick, thinking of Geli’s body hardening and changing. “The single, fatal shot penetrated through her clothes to pass directly above her heart. It never exited her body, but remained lodged above her left hip, where it can be felt through the skin. Are you satisfied, Fräulein Müller?”

No
. She would never be satisfied now that Geli was dead. What else could she do? Somehow, she forced one foot forward, then the next. It seemed so wrong to leave, but she didn’t know how to help.

They had reached the parlor. Gently, Schwarz took her arm as if to guide her toward the front hall, when they heard the sound of a doorknob turning, loud in the quiet. They looked at each other.

“It’s Herr Hitler,” Schwarz said. “He’s back.”

39

SHE HEARD THE SHOUTING FIRST
.

“Where is she?”
From the front hall, Hitler’s voice seemed to fill the entire apartment. He sounded panicked. “Where is my Geli?”

“The Führer needs privacy in his grief,” Schwarz said, and he pushed Gretchen through a door just as four men charged into the parlor. She caught a glimpse of their pale faces—Hitler, Hoffmann, the chauffeur, and her brother—before she stumbled backward into the kitchen and the door slapped shut.

The servants stared at her. Frau Reichert and the butler were seated at the table, and the cook stood over the sink, peeling carrots.

“Herr Hitler has returned,” Gretchen said. Through the door, she heard his frantic cries.
Not my beautiful princess
, he was sobbing, and someone else, perhaps Hoffmann, murmured soothingly, like a mother to a sick and fretful child.

“He will need assistance.” Frau Reichert rose. “Herr Hess said the telephone disconnected before he finished delivering the message of Fräulein Raubal’s death, so Herr Hitler doesn’t know yet that she’s dead. He’ll be in a terrible state.”

Like drivers unable to look away from a bad auto accident, the other servants drifted after her, leaving the kitchen empty. This might be Gretchen’s only chance. She tucked her pocketbook under her arm and dashed to the telephone to dial the exchange for the
Munich Post
. But the door opened, and Reinhard peered in. She slammed the earpiece onto its hooked handle, her heart racing.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked.

She met his stare. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the wall. He wore his brownshirt uniform. When he shoved his hands in his pockets, a ridge of muscle undulated along his shoulders and down his arms, pushing against the plain khaki-colored fabric. She had to swallow the nausea rising in her throat.

“I left for Nuremberg last night,” Reinhard said, “to inform Uncle Dolf about the traitor in our midst.” He paused. “The blood traitor.”

That could only mean her. The Aryan who had polluted her own blood with a Jew’s, for that was how Hitler would see it.

“I told him his beloved little sunshine has dirtied herself with a Jew.” Reinhard pushed himself off the wall, sliding his hands from his pockets. “He was most displeased.”

She felt numb. “That was unwise. Don’t you realize this could destroy you, too?”

“How? I’ve proven my loyalty by turning you in, and you’ve shown that you’re a race defiler.”

“Yes, you would see it that way, but
he
won’t. He’ll view the entire family as tainted by their association with me; he’ll secretly despise all of the Müllers and—”

“No, he won’t,” Reinhard said scornfully. “Haven’t you ever heard him talk about the Jew doctor who treated his mother for cancer? He’s still grateful to the fellow, more than twenty years later. Uncle Dolf can put his feelings into separate boxes when he needs to.”