A Night of Long Knives (Hannah Vogel) Read online

  “There are no children that young at the Hanselbauer. We cleared the place for the SA. Chief of Staff Röhm is taking a cure.”

  “May I leave my suitcase here?” I could move faster, although I hated to be parted from it, even for a moment.

  She shrugged. I tucked the suitcase into the corner next to the warm stove.

  I thanked her and hastened out of the kitchen and down the hall. Most doors in the hallway stood open, rooms empty. The brown-shirted SA men who had not been summarily executed huddled in a mass in the laundry room, guarded by black-uniformed SS officers. None were the men who had kidnapped us. All too young.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the grizzled SS officer in charge. “Has anyone seen a small boy?”

  “We have found no children.” His voice was cultured and smooth. He pointed his pistol at the group of SA soldiers, standing in various states of dress next to piles of unwashed sheets. “Have any of you seen a small boy?”

  They shook their heads dejectedly.

  “I hope you find him,” said the old officer. “The hotel is a dangerous place for a boy today.”

  I thanked him, glancing at the despondent boys he held at gunpoint. A dangerous place indeed.

  With mounting dread I returned to the lobby. In the dining room Röhm sat at a corner table with a cup of coffee. Two men loomed near him, guns drawn. Röhm stared into empty air, so lost and childlike that, for a brief instant, I pitied him. Then I remembered all that he was responsible for and the pity faded. I started toward his table. He must tell me where Anton was.

  An SS officer with a straggle of white blond hairs on his upper lip, probably his first moustache, put his hand on my arm. “No one is allowed in there, Fräulein. Hitler’s orders.”

  I pulled away, speechless.

  I hurried back toward the kitchen, past the sunny breakfast room. On the tables white sheets covered half a dozen bodies. No one stood guard over them. I stepped through the archway.

  Steeling myself, I lifted the first sheet with trembling fingers. Santer had kidnapped his last child. I rushed from body to body. The bodies looked too big to belong to Anton, but I checked each anyway. The final sheet concealed Jannings. Only Röhm and Mouse knew where Anton might be. But where was Mouse?

  I stole back into the kitchen. The waitress slumped on a round stool in the corner, weeping into a napkin.

  “Trade clothes with me,” I said.

  She stared at me with wide uncomprehending eyes. I had no time to explain. Instead, I reached into my suitcase and extracted twenty Swiss francs. “Give me your dress, and your apron. Then leave the hotel.”

  Her gaze locked on the money. That penetrated her fear.

  “Before they start doing what soldiers do,” I told her, although the group seemed far too focused and disciplined to break down into rape.

  She twitched on her stool. “What soldiers do.”

  “Take the money.”

  She set the money on the table. I turned my back to her. As she undid my buttons, I regretted that it was not Boris taking off this dress, as I had imagined in the shop in Rio de Janiero. She stripped off her own, and we exchanged.

  As I slipped her dress over my head I smelled her perfume. Violets.

  Round in all the feminine places, her flesh bulged as I buttoned the back for her. Her dress hung on me like a sack.

  “Good luck.” She pocketed the money. “I hope that you find your boy.”

  “Thank you.”

  I turned toward the door. She stood motionless.

  “What do I do?” she asked, fear plain in her voice.

  I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Walk out the front door. As soon as you are out of sight, hide behind the trees and head for the first house that belongs to someone you can trust. Stay there.”

  She nodded and embraced me, trembling. I bit my lip against the pain in my rib. “You can do this. Think of tomorrow, or of yesterday, just not today. And keep walking.”

  When the kitchen door swung closed behind her, I realized that Boris would never see that dress.

  Enough of that. I wrapped a kerchief around my too-short hair, tied on a clean white apron, and grabbed the coffeepot.

  As I had hoped, the guard at the entrance to the dining room let me pass unquestioned with the coffeepot and apron. For the National Socialists it is always about the uniform.

  I walked as quickly as I dared to Röhm’s table.

  “More coffee?”

  He shook his head without glancing up.

  “Where is Anton?”

  Röhm looked at me, hard blue eyes unfocused. For the first time since I met him, he seemed unsure of himself.

  “It’s over,” he said. “Haven’t you heard them shooting the boys?”

  “I can get Anton away from this.”

  “It was Himmler. You saw his SS men arrest me. He poured poison in Hitler’s ear.”

  “Anton.” I longed to slap him, but knew that would attract too much attention. Pity, as I owed him one. “Let me save him.”

  He shook his head, and intelligence returned to his eyes. “You kidnapped him and kept him from me. He is safer where he is.”

  I gestured toward the breakfast room with the coffeepot. He must have seen them bring bodies in there. “Do you think that anyone you know is safe where they are, now?”

  Before he answered, four guards stormed across the room.

  “Time to go.” They hoisted him to his feet. He shook off their arms and marched out the door, as calm as if he were leading them on a parade ground.

  I stumbled out of the dining room alone, blinded by tears. How could I find Anton? Anyone close to Röhm was in horrible danger, and that included us.

  I tripped, and the coffeepot crashed on the broad pine planks. Hot coffee seared my ankles.

  “Elsa!” roared the concierge.

  I dropped to my knees to hide my face and picked up shards.

  A leg encased in black SS trousers and a boot stopped in front of me. “Let me help you, Fräulein.”

  A blond head popped into view, and strong fingers picked up pieces with me. He had the ingrained politeness of a good German boy, yet minutes ago he might well have been shooting another good German boy.

  When I stole a quick glance at his face, I dropped the corners of my soiled apron and pieces of the coffeepot clattered to the floor. “Wilhelm?” I gasped.

  “Hannah?” He scowled. “Why are you in Germany?”

  I had neither seen nor heard from him since he helped Anton and me escape, although I had known Wilhelm since he was a boy. His infatuation with my brother had led to hours spent in my shabby kitchen in Berlin, spinning fantasies of what they would become in their grown-up lives. My brother became a celebrated cabaret singer, but was murdered in his early twenties. And Wilhelm had grown into a Nazi, by the looks of his uniform one of the most extreme Nazis, a member of the SS. Above his black uniform collar his pale face had thinned from a boy’s face to a man’s.

  “Röhm took Anton. I must find him.” I wondered if I could trust him, but at this point I had nothing to lose. I jerked my hand back to keep another man’s shiny SS boot from treading on it. The shard I had been about to pick up crunched, but he did not look down.

  “Can’t you keep track of one little boy?” His long fingers gathered pieces of porcelain and dumped them into my apron, warm hands lingering on mine.

  “Have you seen him?” I squeezed his hands gratefully.

  He shook his head. In a low voice he said, “I checked the rooms. To make sure that no one was hiding. If he’d been here, I would have found him.”

  Yet he had not found me. If Anton fled quickly and quietly, Wilhelm might have missed him, too. We both gathered the broken pieces while men tramped past us, boots heavy on the wooden floor.

  “I thought you were through with the Nazis.” I struggled to keep an accusatory tone out of my voice.

  “I was through with the SA. The discipline of the SS suits me better.”

 
; I bit back a retort. “What will happen to Röhm?”

  He checked around the room. Everyone appeared too busy to notice our conversation. “Firing squad, I imagine.” He smiled. “Finally.”

  He had reason to hate Röhm, but I still did not like his look of smug satisfaction. Before he joined the Nazis, he had been a gentle boy.

  “Just Röhm?”

  “There is a long list of names. The Reich List of Unwanted Persons.” His voice was matter of fact, as if he did not realize or care that each name belonged to a person with family and friends. “They are to be killed. Röhm’s name is on the top.”

  “Why Röhm?” The broken pieces were all in my apron, but we remained kneeling.

  “He planned a putsch.” He dusted his pale hands. “He planned to use the SA to start a second revolution.”

  “I see.” I did not see. Nothing I had heard indicated that Röhm was disloyal to Hitler, although remembering his tone when he said the Corporal would do as he was told, perhaps I had been wrong. “Where will they execute him?”

  Wilhelm paused until a flaxen-haired SS man passed us by.

  “This group is being transported to Stadelheim Prison in Munich,” he said. Both Röhm and Hitler had been incarcerated in Stadelheim Prison after Hitler’s failed 1923 Beer Hall Putsch. Now Röhm would serve time there without his old friend.

  Wilhelm rose and extended a hand to me. I grabbed his calloused palm to pull myself up, holding my apron closed with my free hand, careful to keep my fingers away from the sharp edges of broken crockery. “Get out of Germany, Hannah. It’s not a safe place for someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” Anger showed in my voice, but I did not care.

  “A Jew-lover.”

  The words rolled around in his mouth like candy. I stared at him, shocked. Where was the young man who helped me escape with Anton only three years before? Wilhelm was queer, also a forbidden group in the Third Reich. How could he be a fervent Nazi, knowing that they loathed him and everyone like him?

  He wiped his hands on his black uniform trousers. “And a Socialist.”

  “And a German,” I reminded him. “This is as much my country as yours.” I gestured to the brownshirts being marched under guard through the lobby and out the door. “Or theirs.”

  He shook his head, blue eyes on the door, probably watching for his commanding officer.

  I stepped closer. “Is it a safe place for one with your . . . habits?”

  “My youthful indiscretions are behind me,” he said quietly. “I don’t make those kinds of mistakes anymore.”

  “That does seem to be the expedient course.” As much as I tried, sarcasm spilled into the words.

  “It is the only course. Paragraph 175 offenders are sent to the camps.”

  I gulped, thinking of Oliver, Frances, Lola, and the other men I had met at El Dorado, the queer club where my brother used to sing. Some had helped me to investigate his murder, and at least one I had trusted with my life. “Who is in the camps?”

  “Oliver,” he murmured. “Among others. Everyone else is deep underground. Some have married.”

  I wondered what my brother would have done, had he been alive. He would not have arranged a show marriage, and he would not have been able to be one iota less flamboyant. He would have been among the first rounded up. Killed because of whom he was fated to love. “Be careful,” I whispered.

  “If I find Anton,” he said, “I will bring him to your friend Bettina’s in Berlin. If I can.”

  “Thank you.” I knew what that might cost him. And I knew that he spoke the truth. He would help me if he could. The kind warrior child who had followed my brother home from school still lived inside his black SS uniform.

  “If you need me, come by the El Dorado. I’m there until four most days.”

  “El Dorado is still open?”

  “Not in the same form.” He smiled wryly. “But you will still find me there.”

  He clicked his heels together and bowed, then marched out the front door with his familiar loping stride. Would I ever see him again?

  I carried the shattered coffeepot back to the kitchen and changed out of my coffee-stained uniform into a clean dress from my suitcase. I wiped a wet rag over the coffee on my ankles and snagged a roll from the counter. Who knew when I would get another chance to eat.

  Nibbling the roll, I folded Elsa’s dress and hung it over the sink. She would need it when she came back to work. For her, tomorrow would be another ordinary day. Not for me or the men covered in sheets in the breakfast room.

  I slipped out the front door and stood on the covered porch, morning sun in my eyes, the scent of pine in my nostrils. Men swarmed into cars. The sun reflected off the brim of Hitler’s cap as he leaned forward to tap his chauffeur lightly on the shoulder with the handle of his riding crop. The chauffeur nodded and drove the open-topped Mercedes through the pillars. They crunched down the gravel driveway, others close behind.

  I scanned the cars parked in front of the hotel. At least ten black Mercedes ringed the parking lot. Any might match my stolen keys. I did not have time to check each.

  Then I spotted the largest Mercedes. It spanned two parking spaces. Chrome headlights had been polished to a high shine, the curving black hood reflected the single white cloud in the sky, and the convertible top gleamed. Long front fenders swooped back to wide running boards. The perfect place for an escort to stand to flank some notable occupant. A red flag with a swastika fluttered from a pole near one black rear fender. The staff car. It shouted out the pomp and importance of its owner. Röhm’s. Who else would have gall to use that monster?

  I hurried over and peered into the backseat. An old-fashioned ivory-colored silk wedding dress lay across the black leather. The wedding dress that had been meant for me. It looked costly. I would have to find a way to return it to Röhm’s mother. If I was correct about what was to happen, she would have lost enough already. My brother had taught me that a parent cannot determine the fate of their child, and I could not blame her for his politics.

  I ripped the wooden flagpole off the fender and tossed the Nazi banner on the dirt. Behind me someone gasped. I did not turn to see who. If they had not seen my face already, I had no intention of showing it. A foolish act, but it was too revolting to drive with a Nazi flag flapping behind me. Bad enough to be in a Nazi staff car.

  When I opened the door, the smell of leather, musky cologne, and horse sweat filled my nostrils. Gritting my teeth, I reached inside and turned the key.

  The engine roared to life. I tossed my suitcase in the front seat, wincing at the pain in my rib, and sped after Hitler, tires spewing gravel.

  The automobile accelerated, and wind from the open windows tore at my hair. I drove recklessly and was soon close enough to see the convoy. Hitler’s black staff car, twin to the one I drove, led the way. A few cars followed, then a truck with the sides covered. Where was Röhm?

  Wilhelm had said they were taking him to Stadelheim Prison. If he was correct, that meant death by firing squad. I stayed as far back as possible. Even without its red flag, the massive automobile was ridiculously obtrusive. Why had Röhm chosen such an outrageous automobile? I shook my head. Everything about him was exaggerated, why should his car be different?

  With one eye on the road, I checked the front seat. The leather shone. Every surface gleamed, not easy when it had been parked at the end of a dusty gravel road. Röhm’s chauffeur paid close attention to details. I wondered if he too was dead.

  I popped open the glove box. Inside rested a leather portfolio and a Luger. Sunlight glinted off its barrel.

  The chauffeur did think of everything. I set the pistol on the seat next to me. Things might have turned out differently if Röhm had kept it in his bedroom, instead of his glove box.

  An SA convoy heading toward the Hanselbauer Spa blocked our path. I wondered if they had come to rescue Röhm, if they had time to hear what had happened. I smiled bitterly. Perhaps they were wedding gue
sts.

  Hitler’s convoy halted. I slammed on the brakes and parked behind a screen of pines, hoping to avoid explaining to a battalion of SA men and Hitler why I stole Röhm’s staff car. I checked the clip, grateful that my soldier father trained us how to use guns. Loaded.

  I slid a pair of field glasses out of my suitcase and looped the strap over my neck. Anton had loved using them on the zeppelin. I remembered how he had propped tanned elbows on the sill of the viewing window, how his red tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he twiddled with the focusing knob. He once saw a party of vaqueros herding cattle and whooped so loudly that they looked up and waved. We waved back, both delighted. I ran my index finger along the strap. Anton would be safe to wave and whoop again. I would not let the Nazis grind him up in their machine. I would find him.

  Taking the Luger but leaving the wedding dress, I climbed out. Afraid to make a sound, I left the door ajar and crept along a carpet of pine needles. I lay on my belly behind a tree and peeked out, the glasses only centimeters from the ground. Hopefully I was impossible to spot from the road. The dust from the convoy blew over me, and I suppressed a sneeze.

  Hitler stormed out of his staff car and stalked toward the lead SA truck. Riding crop tucked under his arm, he shouted at the brown-shirted driver. I could not make out what he said, but he used his familiar angry tone. The driver quailed predictably under the abuse.

  I trained the field glasses on each automobile, but did not find Röhm’s close-cropped dark head. Had he been shot inside a truck? I found myself in the bizarre position of praying to find Röhm alive and unharmed. Only he and Mouse knew Anton’s whereabouts.

  Silence. Hitler had stopped shouting. He spun and marched back to his staff car. The SA man turned his truck around and led the way. The rest of the convoy followed. Would they end up in Stadelheim as well? These young men might be driving themselves to their own executions. Already Hitler had such power over them. I did not understand how he did it, but I could not deny that he inspired blind devotion in his followers. I shuddered to think how many other young men he might send to their deaths, or of those they might kill on the way.