Prisoner of Night and Fog (38 page)

A fresh circle of blood blossomed through his plain brown shirt. As she watched, the circle widened on the right side of his chest. Either he had never stopped bleeding or he was bleeding again.

“Gretchen,” he said. Saying her name tugged at his facial cut; the puckered skin seemed to stretch and fresh drops of blood appeared at the laceration’s edges. Tiny, crystalline specks fell from the cut. For a dazed instant, she thought they were diamonds, and then she realized they were glass. He must have been thrown through the windshield.

“Gretchen,” he said again, and swayed. Automatically, she reached out to steady him. Even through his clothes, she felt heat pumping off his body. He was dangerously hot. “I knew you would want to find the Jew,” he said, spraying blood with each word. “And where else would a reporter like him be tonight but here, to write about the next fight between us and the Communists?”

Blood had turned his teeth red. He must be bleeding deep inside. When he spoke, the cut across his face tugged again, showering more glass specks. “I’ll redeem myself for your sin by delivering you to Röhm. He’s already here for you.”

Panic flooded her heart. Over Reinhard’s hunched shoulder, she saw Röhm through the spinning bodies. Although a clump of men fought between them, she recognized his large, flat face. A short, jagged cut wrinkled the smooth skin of his neck; blood had run down from it and dried, leaving behind a dozen little lines. He hadn’t even stopped to bandage or clean the wound.

She whirled and tried to push her way through the warring bodies, getting away. An arm jabbed her side, and she caught a fist in the face, but she kept shoving against the others, attempting to carve a path for herself.

“No,” Reinhard said, and she saw he was right beside her, stumbling, half bent over. He grabbed her wrist, but she pulled herself away and found herself facing a man’s massive chest. There were bloody flecks across the khaki-colored shirt—
God, no
—and she raised her gaze to meet Röhm’s.

He said nothing. Something pressed against her breast. She looked down, even though she could guess what it was. A pistol. Its barrel felt cold through her blouse. She didn’t dare move. “Herr Röhm,” Reinhard said behind her, “you see, I’ve brought her to you.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Röhm cocked the trigger. Gretchen let out a tiny choking gasp and flung herself away, into the swirling mass of bodies, and even as she moved, she saw Röhm’s arm swing to the right, toward her brother, and then she fell into a bunch of fighting men. Behind her, she heard a sound like a firecracker exploding.

Someone slid against her, his shoulder hitting hers, then his hand brushing her leg, and she turned to see Reinhard crumple noiselessly to the ground. He landed on his side and didn’t move again. A second bloody circle seeped through his shirt; somehow that blood looked alive while he did not.

His face seemed relaxed, all the tension and anger finally gone. Even through the blood and glass and bruises, Gretchen could see how handsome he had been: the perfectly formed bones, the long sweep of jaw, the narrow nose, all of the features that Hitler had praised as Aryan.

A scream burst from her throat. She fell to her knees, as though she had been cut down, and reached for him. Beneath her fingers, his cheek felt sticky with blood and warm, but his eyes were glazed over. What she had half-wanted, and hated herself for wanting for so long, had finally happened: He was gone. But not just out of Munich and out of her life. Gone forever. She made a noise deep in her throat, and couldn’t say a word.

Then she heard how silent the square had become. She tore her gaze from her brother’s face. Dozens—no,
hundreds
—of men had turned in her direction. Some still clutched their opponents’ arms, their hands frozen in mid-punch. Others had released their enemies, and their arms were hanging limply at their sides. Torchlight flickered over their faces. Some had gone slack from shock; others were tight from fear, still others hard from anger. They were all watching Röhm.

The instant seemed to stretch out. Gretchen jumped up, her eyes fastening on Röhm’s hand as he raised the pistol again; she rocked onto the balls of her feet as Röhm rotated his arm in a wide arc toward her, torchlight gleaming off the weapon’s barrel, and her legs tensed as she sprang toward the nearest group of men—

“He has a gun!” someone shouted.

Everything started happening at once. The men unfroze and started running, scrambling to get away, shoving others out of the way in their haste to escape. The air filled with shouts and cries. Gretchen ran as hard as she could. There were so many people in such a small space, they all squeezed against one another as they struggled to flee. Men’s bodies pressed into hers, propelling her forward, their arms and legs knocking into her as she ran, but she didn’t even register the pain. Somewhere, behind her, she heard Röhm’s voice through the men’s cries, screaming her name, but she didn’t look back.

The men pushed and pulled against her, and it took all of her strength to remain upright. She tried to run, but so did everyone else, and they stumbled and fell into one another like blind people. The air was so heavy with screams she couldn’t hear her own breathing.

She tripped over a man’s foot and almost fell, but someone else’s arms pulled her up, and she stumbled forward, trying to regain her balance, but the men behind her were pushing so hard that she couldn’t.

“Gretchen Müller!” Röhm shouted. “Someone, stop her!”

Nobody grabbed her. No one was paying attention to her; they were all too eager to get away. She staggered on, tripping and swaying, and had nearly fallen headlong again when fingers fastened around her wrist and jerked up so hard that her shoulder nearly popped out of place. She had to bite her lips so she wouldn’t scream from the sudden, sharp pain.

“Sorry,” said a voice in her ear. “But you mustn’t fall or you’ll be trampled.”

She knew the voice and turned to see Daniel stumbling beside her, his face white and blood-streaked and his eyes dark and feverish with pain. He looked badly hurt. She cried out his name and grabbed his hand. Sweat nearly slid their fingers apart, but she held on as hard as she could.

They reached the edge of the square. The pressure from hundreds of straining bodies pushed them into the street that was rapidly filling with Communists and brownshirts, and Gretchen and Daniel popped like wine corks into the suddenly loosened air. They ran a few yards down the street, and then Daniel stopped. He bent at the waist, breathing hard and cradling his left arm tight against his chest.

“Go.” He gritted the words out between lips turning white. “I’m slowing you down.
Go
, Gretchen!”

She would never leave him. Instead of replying, she scanned the street. The Theatinerstrasse reminded her of a scene from Dante’s
Inferno
, the glimmering torchlight transforming the running men into shadows made of red and black. More and more men spilled into the street, the Communists and brownshirts still punching and kicking. Howls of pain sliced through the night. In the distance, police whistles tweeted, a silver sound that seemed pitifully weak against the hordes of men streaming into the street.

“The police are coming,” she said. She and Daniel shared a look making further words unnecessary—the police’s presence was no guarantee that help had arrived.

“We must get out of the city,” he said.

“Can you make it to the train station—”

“Yes,” he cut in. “Come on.”

Gretchen snatched up Daniel’s good hand, and together they half-walked, half-stumbled through the darkness toward the train station. At this late hour, the shops were closed, their fronts concealed by metal grilles, their awnings rolled up. Along the apartments in the upper stories, faces appeared at the windows, their expressions worried.

Gretchen and Daniel followed the narrow, twisting streets. They would take a few steps along one avenue before darting down a side street, zigzagging as frequently as they could to confuse anyone who might be following them. But the screams and running feet were fading away, softening like the night all around them. They were almost there.

Gretchen looked at Daniel. They had slowed to a walk, and each step seemed to require tremendous effort from him. The cords stuck out in his neck, tight as ropes. He walked with a shuffling gait, his injured arm dangling at his side. It hung at such an unnatural angle, she knew it must be broken, or seriously damaged. A thin sheen of sweat gleamed on his skin, and his fingers were so wet, they slipped from hers. The National Socialists must have beaten him with the truncheons she’d seen them carrying.

Daniel stopped to lean against a building. Fatigue had put dark smudges beneath his eyes. She doubted he could go on much longer, and her heart twisted. He had wanted so badly to become a reporter in Munich, and now his friendship with her had ripped that dream away.

“We can probably never come back to Munich,” she said, willing her voice to stay steady. He looked at her, blinking hard to force his eyes to focus, but they kept blurring. She knew he should be in a hospital, but surrendering to a doctor’s care would be only a temporary reprieve before the NSDAP found him and murdered him. If he wanted to live, he would have to keep running.

With his good hand, he gestured toward his broken, battered body and almost smiled. “I know.”

“And that means . . . you can either go home to Berlin or continue on with me.” She took a deep breath like a swimmer bracing herself before plunging into icy water. The only nearby sound was the purr of a car engine, and a sleek black automobile swung past, its headlights cutting across them for an instant.

“No place in Germany is safe for me anymore,” she went on. “Wherever I go, the Party will find me. I know we haven’t made any plans to leave, but I see now I must go. I have a friend in England”—her voice cracked, but she went on—“the psychoanalyst I told you about, and he’s a good man, Daniel, who sees the truth about Hitler. He said he would help me, and I’m sure he would extend the offer to you as well. Getting there will be difficult—we haven’t any money or proper identification papers with us, but I know we could find a way. You needn’t come with me. If you don’t want to, I’ll understand.”

He reached out with his good hand, cupping her chin. “Gretchen, don’t you realize by now I would give up everything to be with you?”

The sound of screeching tires ripped through the air. The car they had just seen had circled around and skidded to a stop. A man peered at them through the open window.

“It’s them!” the man shouted. “Alert Röhm and spread the word to the others! It’s the Müller girl and the Jew!”

They ran.

The central train station was a few minutes away. Gretchen glanced at Daniel, but the moment’s rest seemed to have done him good, for he kept pace beside her, running hard. They rounded a corner and the Munich
Hauptbahnhof
rose before them.

“Stop, stop!” cried a man behind them. His footsteps thudded on the pavement, and suddenly the sound multiplied and Gretchen glanced over her shoulder. Several men had joined their pursuer and more were flooding in from the pockets of darkness spread along the street. About twenty brownshirts followed them now.

The train station grew nearer, a pile of stone and glass that even from a distance seemed deserted. Perhaps during the bustle of midday they could have blended into the crowds, but there would be few people in the station now, a businessman heading to one of the neighboring towns, a family on holiday, but no commuters, no throngs of Müncheners clogging the platforms. There would be few witnesses to watch whatever the brownshirts would do to them.

Gretchen and Daniel flung themselves at the entrance. She caught a glimpse of the lobby—a flat stretch of floor spreading out in all directions to the various platforms—

“This way!” Daniel shouted, and they ran to the right. This was the city’s main train station, with lines to places like Landshut, Nuremberg, and Rosenheim. But both Nuremberg and Landshut were National Socialist strongholds. Wherever they went, there would be Party men waiting for them.

A train’s whistle blasted. Gretchen whirled, trying to locate the sound. There it was, the only train in the station, slowing to a stop two platforms away.

“Go.” Daniel nodded toward the train.

Adrenaline surged through her veins so fiercely that she felt as though all of her cells were jumping beneath her skin. The only way to reach the train was to go back the way they had come. They would head straight into the men who were rushing toward them now. The brownshirts now numbered nearly thirty and more streamed through the station’s entrance. They pounded across the lobby, calling her name, telling her to stop.

Indecision locked her in place. How could they possibly escape? There was no place to go.

Röhm stepped through the front doors. He didn’t bother to run, as though confident his men would easily retrieve her and Daniel, but he moved quickly, one hand resting on the knife at his belt.

“There’s no escape,” she cried, and Daniel tugged her around to face the train platforms.

“Yes, there is.”

And then she saw it. The only way to reach the other platform was to jump into the little well where the railway lines ran, clamber over the tracks, and then pull themselves up onto the adjacent platform.

Daniel ran across the platform and flung himself off. She raced to the edge and watched him land about four feet below. He winced, but didn’t stop to absorb the momentary pain; immediately, he started scrambling across the thick metal rails, toward the opposite side.

Gretchen dropped down after him. She landed between the rails just as a loud, metallic scream rent the air. A single halo of light appeared far off in the railway tunnel; in the space of a second, it sharpened into a headlamp. It was a train, hurtling down the track toward them.

“Gretchen!” Daniel shouted. She looked up. He had reached the opposite platform and was reaching toward her with his good arm, his face pale and shiny with sweat. “Take my hand!”

A rush of wind whooshed over her. The train was slowing, but still shooting closer, its brakes squealing. She saw the engineer’s surprised face through the window, saw him jerking on the controls, but she already knew it was no use; he wouldn’t be able to stop soon enough. There was no time to step carefully over the tracks and pull herself up onto the platform. She would have to jump.