A Night of Long Knives (Hannah Vogel) Page 2

  The zeppelin stopped. We bobbed in place. I dropped the suitcases and rope to the hangar floor. A gray comma of rope curled on the faraway concrete.

  I hoisted him out the window. Rope burned against my palms as I slid down after. The hard floor jolted my ankles, but I snatched up the suitcases and sprinted toward the back wall. His white singlet flitted ahead of me like a moth.

  At the start of the trip, the captain had informed us that the hangar was so immense that it had its own weather patterns. Sometimes clouds and rain formed inside. Right now it was clear and too hot, the same as outside. I hefted the suitcases and sprinted, winded. The singlet stopped. He had reached the wall.

  “Come along,” I whispered. Vast emptiness swallowed my voice. I peeked over my shoulder at the rippling silver surface of the zeppelin. My gaze rose to the huge swastikas painted on the tail fins. How had this happened to my country, the land of Goethe and Schiller?

  Anton grabbed the handle of his suitcase, and we skirted the wall, heading for the back exit. The sunset outlined the front of the hangar in orange, but little light penetrated this far.

  My ragged breathing pricked my nerves. Stealth and speed were our only weapons.

  An arm encircled my neck. A hard muscle pressed against my throat. Anton cried out, but I could not see him.

  “Shut your trap,” breathed a squeaky voice in my ear. A cold blade pressed against my ribs. “I can let some air into you. We only need the boy.”

  I nodded my chin against his arm. The knife retreated, but the man held my neck fast. His sweat smelled of vinegar.

  “Put her out,” said a voice with a Swiss accent.

  The honey odor of chloroform suffused the air. I held my breath. Too late. My captor gripped me so tightly, I did not fall.

  2

  I drifted awake, slung over the back of a storm trooper who smelled as if he had not bathed since before the zeppelin left South America. To my left, Anton lay as lifeless as a rag doll in the arms of another massive storm trooper. Was Anton still breathing? I struggled into wakefulness. I could not move toward him.

  “You give him too much, Mouse?” asked the man on my right. He spoke like a man in command. He had excellent diction and a light Swiss accent, like the actor Emil Jannings.

  Mouse bent his head to Anton’s chest, and I flopped around on his shoulder. “He’s breathing good.” I recognized the squeak. The man who had held the knife to my ribs. And, from the sound of his accent, he was from Berlin. A traitorous voice from home.

  Grass crackled underfoot when we marched onto the field. The first passengers milled out of the hangar, silhouetted against the sunset. I thought I recognized Señor and Señora Santana at the front of the pack. They always rushed onto the field.

  Because explosive hydrogen filled the zeppelin, smoking was forbidden there and in the hangar. They spent the entire trip snapping chewing gum and dashing off every time we docked to grab a quick smoke. Twin matches flared and illuminated their faces. Surely they must see us. Red embers glowed at the tips of their cigarettes, and the smell of cigarette smoke wafted across the field.

  I opened my mouth to call out, but instead I floated away again.

  This time I came to in the backseat of an automobile, jammed between Mouse and the storm trooper who had carried Anton. I assumed that Jannings must be the driver but would not know unless he talked.

  Anton lay across my lap. I breathed to clear my aching head. He twitched and I squeezed his hand.

  The automobile shot forward through the twilight. We must still be near Friedrichshafen, where the zeppelin had docked. Not far from Switzerland.

  Flight was our best alternative.

  I shifted so that my shoes rested against the floor. When we jumped I would need to push against something solid. Anton tensed. The men on either side of us seemed not to notice.

  I counted a few breaths, then cautiously cracked open an eye. Dark trees flashed by the window, illuminated by the last gray light of evening. We traveled about forty kilometers an hour, so perhaps we were in a town with a tree-lined street, full of friendly houses. Did such a thing exist in Germany anymore? I must hope so. It was unlikely that this would work, but we had to escape as soon as we could.

  I grasped Anton’s hand. Be ready, I thought. One, two, three.

  I lunged to the left, swinging my elbow at Mouse’s trachea. Unfortunately, his muscle-bound shoulders surrounded his neck, so the target was small. I missed, but scrabbled for the door lever anyway, right hand clasped in Anton’s.

  Mouse grabbed my arms and tossed me back against the seat. For good measure, he slammed his elbow into my left side. My breath whooshed out. The man on the right yanked Anton across the seat.

  Jannings’s hands stayed relaxed on the steering wheel. “Keep her quiet, but don’t—”

  Mouse grabbed the back of my head and slammed my face into the front seat. My nose struck the wooden top. Blood dripped onto the black leather upholstery.

  Anton struggled in the other man’s arms. He boxed Anton’s ear.

  Mouse yanked me upright. Springs squeaked in protest. I struggled to inhale. Blood ran from my nose.

  “Mind her face, you stupid bastard,” said Jannings. “We’re not to damage it.”

  Mouse grimaced, obviously used to causing pain, but unused to keeping faces pristine while doing it.

  He drew his palm across the blood from my nose and wiped it on the automobile seat, leaving a dark streak on the leather. My eyes watered.

  “It ain’t broken.” He released me and I slumped against the seat.

  Air returned to my lungs in painful, shuddering breaths. Each one sent a dagger of fire down my side, but my body craved oxygen.

  Anton bit his assailant on the thumb. He grabbed Anton by the scruff of the neck and squeezed. I could not speak to tell Anton to let go, that they would hurt him. Mouse wrenched Anton off the other man’s hand. Beads of scarlet blood dotted his thumb. With an ease born of long practice, Mouse twisted Anton’s arms behind his back. He yelped.

  “Easy on the little one,” said Jannings. “He’s not to be harmed.”

  “He bites.” Mouse did not let go of his arms.

  “He’s a child,” said Jannings. “Should I hold him while you drive? We could switch, if you’re not up to the task.”

  Mouse swore under his breath, and Anton swore back at him. I looked at him, shocked. I had not heard such language from him in years. But he remembered everything, even the vocabulary of his early years being raised by a prostitute.

  I gritted my teeth and drew in a long breath. “Where,” I gasped, “are you taking us?”

  “Where we’re told,” said Jannings. “And no harm will come to you unless you fight us.”

  “We will comply. Release the boy.”

  “Do it,” Jannings said.

  Mouse let go of Anton’s arms. Anton rubbed his wrists and glared.

  “Respect your Uncle Mouse.”

  “You’re not my uncle.” Anton looked ready to attack. “I don’t have any uncles.”

  I studied Anton. His emphasis on the word uncle gave me pause. Before I took him in, an uncle in his world was a pimp. Was Mouse a pimp? Did Anton recognize him? I held his hands to calm him down.

  “Winnetou stalks the deer.” I hoped that he would know what I meant. Winnetou knew that stalking meant waiting for your moment, quietly. Anton nodded and some tension drained out of his shoulders.

  I turned toward Jannings. “We are Adelheid and Anton Zinsli. Swiss citizens. I demand to be brought to our embassy.” I said it more because it was what a Swiss citizen would say than because I expected results.

  “I’m sure it will get sorted out.” Jannings’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Fräulein Hannah Vogel.”

  Anton gasped, and I cursed inwardly. “I have no idea to whom you are referring.”

  “You will,” Jannings answered. “In good time.”

  Anton fumed next to me. Bruises bloomed on the pale skin o
f his arms. I fought down a rush of blind rage at Mouse. He would pay for hurting Anton.

  After the anger subsided and my nose stopped bleeding, I had time to become afraid.

  We drove north and east, probably toward Munich. But Röhm should be in Berlin. Or Venice. I thought of the pictures of Hitler and Mussolini in the newspaper. Röhm absent from them. Since we left Germany in 1931 he had stood on Hitler’s right in almost every photograph I had seen. His absence was unexpected. I hated the unexpected.

  “He’ll be glad it went off so well,” said Anton’s assailant. I named him Santer, after the villain in the Winnetou books. His breath reeked so strongly of beer that I smelled it even through the metallic scent of blood in my nose.

  “It’s not over yet.” Mouse ran a scarred hand through his greasy blond hair, revealing gray streaks at his temples. His pale blue eyes had more cunning than I expected.

  “Will be soon.” Santer flexed his fist. “They won’t give us any more trouble.”

  Santer in the books died most painfully, I reminded myself. I fingered my side. It hurt every time I inhaled. I breathed shallowly to lessen the pain. Every so often I endured a deep breath to keep from getting dizzy.

  “How’s your side?” Mouse asked. “I don’t reckon I cracked more than one rib. Just enough to keep you quiet.”

  No accident then. He had known just what he was doing. Breaking ribs was probably his trademark.

  “Thank you for your restraint.” Sarcasm dripped from my words, and he smiled.

  “Feisty one, ain’t you?” He wound a strand of my hair, the same shade of blond as his own, around his index finger.

  I yanked my head away.

  “None of that.” Jannings watched in the rearview mirror. “The boss has his own plans for her.”

  Mouse shrugged. “Maybe after.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and winced. Anton shot Mouse a murderous look. I grabbed Anton’s arm.

  “Cracked rib,” I told him, thinking back to my nursing training during the Great War. “Nothing serious.” I did not add that it might be serious and was always painful. Instead I smiled, but he looked unconvinced.

  “Where are we going?” I asked again.

  No one bothered to answer. Mouse tipped his uniform hat over his eyes and started to snore.

  Santer reached across me. I gasped when he pressed on my rib. He thumped Mouse on the chest. Mouse snorted and turned to the side.

  Silence reigned.

  Even with the windows down, it was too hot jammed between Mouse and Santer. I hugged Anton’s small form. Under normal circumstances he never would have allowed it, but he was as frightened as I.

  We looked out the window. Dark fields streamed by. If houses existed out there, all were unlit.

  “This is Germany,” Anton whispered. “My homeland.”

  “You were born here.” I wished he had not used the word homeland.

  I ran my fingers along the bridge of my nose. It did not feel broken. “It was a different country then.” I did not try to keep anger and bitterness from my voice.

  “It’s a better country now,” Jannings said. “Stronger.”

  “Stronger does not always mean better,” I answered.

  “It does.” Jannings kept his eyes on the road. “You’d do well to remember that.”

  Santer fell asleep. I thought of attempting another escape, but the automobile traveled at least eighty kilometers per hour. Even if we landed uninjured, we had nowhere to hide. I twisted around. The round hump of the trunk was where we might end up if we tried to flee again.

  Anton sat as alert as an Indian scout, waiting for his chance. I was proud of him, but furious with myself. How could I have accepted the zeppelin assignment? Switzerland was too close to Germany.

  We approached the outskirts of a large city; Jannings slowed. House windows glowed yellow on either side of the road. Perhaps someone would hide us, or come to our defense.

  “Almost there.” Jannings handed Mouse a brown bottle. He withdrew the glass stopper. The odor of chloroform filled the car. I kicked at his hand. If the bottle broke, everyone might go down. But Mouse was too strong and had no qualms about leaning on my rib.

  Anton struggled against Santer, cursing.

  Mouse smashed a damp cloth against my throbbing nose. A sticky sweetness filled my mouth. Air shimmered, moved, and then it was dark.

  I woke stretched flat on a bed, my clothing stuck to me. How long had I been unconscious? My head pounded, my nose ached, and my side burned. Moaning, I rolled onto my injured rib. We told our patients to lie so, to let them inflate the uninjured lung fully. Now that it was my own rib, I regretted how blithely I gave that instruction to wounded soldiers almost twenty years ago, surprised none had taken me to task for dispensing such painful and probably useless information. I lay still, breathing shallowly, afraid to open my eyes. Was I in a concentration camp?

  I forced open my eyelids. Dark wainscoting clad the walls to waist height, flocked yellow wallpaper above. My suitcase rested next to a waxed, pine Biedermeier wardrobe, near the front door, as if deposited by a friendly bellhop. Heavy curtains covered the windows, blocking out all light. A green-shaded lamp shone on the night table next to my bed. Next to the table stood a solid wooden chair.

  Seated in the chair was Ernst Röhm.

  He had caught me. Despite my fear, an unexpected feeling of relief washed over me. At least my running was over.

  He wore cream-colored pajamas and a dark brown dressing gown. Ankle crossed over his knee, he read as if he were a husband at his wife’s bedside. His face was more tan than I remembered, except for a pale stripe across the top of his forehead where his uniform cap rested.

  “The princess awakes.” He rolled the r in his Bavarian throat.

  “Good evening, Herr Röhm.” I avoided his military title, an insult he would recognize. I dared not start this encounter from a point of weakness.

  “Chief of Staff Röhm or Minister Röhm,” he corrected, running a hand along his black hair, shaved bristle-short on the sides and a fraction longer on top.

  I thought of pointing out that, although a member of the Cabinet, he had no official department. It must rankle him to be the only Cabinet member without a portfolio, but he spoke before I had a chance to needle him.

  “You’ve been a naughty girl and caused me a great deal of trouble.” He shook his fat finger at me as at an errant child.

  “I did not publish the letters.” I wished that three years ago I had used those sexually explicit letters to destroy his career. Instead I had chosen to flee from Röhm and his scheme that required me to marry him and raise Anton as a Nazi.

  He smiled, pushing up the pink scars that ran across his cheeks and nose. “But you did not come back as you promised, did you? You left me at the altar.”

  “Poor dear.” Wincing, I hauled myself into a sitting position. I had to be cool and fearless, as my brother Ernst would have been. “Let it out, Old Bird,” he used to say. “Stop worrying about what’s proper and start thinking about what’s funny.”

  Röhm uncrossed his legs. “I wanted you in the dress my mother wore to her wedding, a kiss at the altar, and photographers to capture it. That June.”

  “You would have made a lovely June bride,” I said, “with flowers in your hair.”

  He chuckled. “Your sharp tongue is so like your brother’s.”

  Knowing it was useless, I pulled out the weak bargaining chip I had, the one I used to buy time to escape before. “The letters—”

  “Your blackmail letters don’t concern me.” He waved his pudgy hand impatiently. “You follow the news. The Munich Post published similar letters in 1932. Those charges were dismissed. At that time I commanded thousands of men. Now I command millions.”

  He stared into the middle distance. “And I have my son. Anton will prove useful to me. You . . .” He smiled. I almost flinched. “You are an unexpected conquest. I did not expect my men to take you alive. Either they are ver
y skilled, or you were deliberately careless. Perhaps you wanted me to catch you?”

  “What do you wish from me?” He wanted something or his men would have had no scruples against disfiguring my face.

  “Same as before.”

  I swallowed a wave of nausea. “If you command millions of men, surely you can find one woman to command as well.”

  “But as you well know, women do not interest me. In the absence of such . . . interest, I am forced to pretend.” He rose from his chair and approached the bed. Every hair on my arms stood on end. How had my brother loved such a man?

  His gaze traveled from my hair to my eyes before settling on my mouth. I drew back as far as the bed would allow, every inch of my back pressing against the cold headboard.

  “You see, Hannah”—his voice was low and husky—“I’m no longer young. My imagination’s not as vivid as it would need to be to marry an ordinary woman.” He sat on the edge of the bed, trapping me farther within the bed’s tight sheets. He stared into my eyes and I wondered if he noticed that they were blue or whether for him they would always be brown, like my brother’s. His hand rose and hovered over the crown of my head, as though about to stroke my hair.

  “What do you want from me?” My voice came out sharp and feminine, very different from my brother’s.

  The sound startled him. His hand froze, withdrew. Quietly, but forcefully, he whispered, “Your face. The face of your brother. The boy I loved.”

  I shuddered, knowing how dangerous Röhm could be, especially to those he loved. “No.”

  He chuckled again, then rose and returned to his chair. “You are the one for me, Hannah. Or at least your brother was. Our marriage will make the party happy. When we have another child, it will finally put to rest enough doubts that I can concentrate on my real duties.”

  “I must see Anton.”

  “It’s difficult, isn’t it?” He leaned back in his chair. “When a parent is separated from his child.”

  I ground my teeth. Even if he was Anton’s father, a fact I doubted, he had spent only days with him. He let a drug-addicted prostitute raise Anton until his existence proved politically convenient. He had not missed him out of paternal affection. He was paying me back for the kidnapping. One part of me did not blame him. The other was ready to kill him to get to my son—more mine than his anyway.