Danzig Passage

  Such thoughts made Lucy depressed. She did not smile and nod as usual when Wolf explained how he had managed to track down his culprit.

  “A friend of mine—as a matter of fact, he is that fellow who managed to find your apartment for me.” Wolf laughed. “You said it right. It pays to cultivate the Gestapo, especially if such cultivation leads to the arrest of a Gestapo traitor and a promotion for me.” He patted the champagne bottle. “And so, just to be certain, we will drop in on him tonight. Bring him a gift of our gratitude. If there are Jews in the apartment, so much the better.”

  She looked at him stupidly. “But it is nearly Christmas.”

  “So? What has that got to do with anything, my soiled dove?”

  He was right, of course. The season of the year had nothing to do with being ruthless. On the contrary, arrests had been stepped up during the holidays.

  “It just seems strange to bring him a gift, and then—”

  “We will not arrest him tonight,” Wolf said irritably. “As a matter of fact, we must hurry so we are not late for the concert. There will be time enough. He will not expect it. No, I know this fellow. He will not see the handcuffs until they are on his wrists.”

  30

  Social Call

  On this block of once-elegant flats, even the glass of the streetlamps had been broken. Boarded windows made the place look like a neighborhood of ghosts as lights glimmered out from between the cracks. The worst had been done here to the Jews of Vienna. Those who remained clung tenaciously to the remnants of their lives.

  Wolf’s black car turned the corner onto a street less marred by Kristal Nacht. Here and there was evidence of what had been, but for the most part, the buildings appeared normal and unscathed.

  It was easy to spot which home or shop was owned by a Jew. As Wolf slowed and pulled to the curb, Lucy looked with interest at the nailed-up shop window displaying a freshly painted advertisement:

  MADAME SINGER,

  CUSTOM-MADE CORSETS AND UNDERGARMENTS

  IN THE LATEST PARIS FASHIONS.

  OPEN.

  Lucy had heard of the Jewish corset maker. Even the wives of Germany party bosses bought her undergarments. Lucy made note of the address.

  To her surprise, Wolf parked at the curb in front of Madame Singer’s shop. He set the brake and took out a silver hip flask. Without explanation, he took a deep swig of the strong-smelling stuff and washed his mouth with it. He opened the door and spit into the street.

  “He must think we are a bit drunk,” he cautioned, handing Lucy the flask. “Drink.”

  She sipped tentatively and grimaced. The liquor burned her throat and brought tears to her eyes. “Terrible.”

  “American whiskey.” He snatched up the wrapped champagne. “Otto will not feel threatened by our dropping in if he thinks we have drunk enough to disregard our manners.”

  At that, he slipped out of the car and came around to open the door for Lucy. This sort of propriety had first attracted her to him. Unlike the peasant boys of her village, Wolf had seemed the very model of chivalry. She had not suspected that underneath the public Wolf a private one lurked—a Wolf who differed very much from her first impressions.

  She took his arm and he held her securely as they walked toward the entrance of the white stone apartment building across the street. His eyes turned upward to the lighted window of an apartment that looked down onto a small courtyard. Through the tan window shade, Lucy thought she saw movement, and a surge of fear coursed through her. Behind that shade Wolf believed there were Jews hiding—enemies of the Reich, Communists and Socialists, bent on the destruction of the German people. These were the types of criminals he spent his life pursuing, and now Lucy was part of the hunt.

  “Remember,” he warned as he opened the door of the lobby. “We have had a bit too much to drink. We just happened by. Smile, my fox, and the huntsman may have a reward for you tonight.”

  Lucy smiled and held tighter to Wolf’s muscled arm as they walked across the black-and-white tiled floor of the lobby to the antique elevator cage. “Are they dangerous?” she whispered.

  “Smile,” he said again and the whiskey on his breath reminded her of the charade.

  ***

  If anyone in all the world had a little sister more stupid than Marlene, Peter could not imagine it.

  He hurried to button his trousers as the knock sounded on the door a second time. His mother lay in bed with a headache. That left Marlene and Baby Willie only a twist of a doorknob from disaster.

  “Wait!” Peter whispered harshly as he stumbled from the bathroom.

  Too late. In an instant, Marlene threw open the door and stood gaping in dumb horror at an SS officer and a woman in a red dress and a fox fur.

  Baby Willie squealed happily and crawled toward them as Karin emerged too late from the bedroom.

  “Who are you?” The officer’s words slurred slightly as he peered at Marlene and then into the flat. His smile faded. He squinted drunkenly at the number on the door. “Well, Lucy, have we got the right place?”

  The woman did not reply. She looked at the baby on the floor and then at the frightened little girl in front of her. The smile remained frozen on the woman’s face, but there was something in her eyes . . . something . . .

  Peter composed himself. He forced himself not to look at the twin lightning bolts on the collar tabs of the black uniform. Pulling up his suspenders, he nudged Marlene out of the way.

  “This is the apartment of my uncle,” he said. “Otto Wattenbarger.”

  Confidence.The terror they all felt must not be evident to this man.

  “Otto! Yes!” The officer pushed past Peter into the apartment. “Then this is the right place. I thought so, Lucy. I told you this was it.”

  The woman hesitated, looking embarrassed; then she entered as well. Peter could smell alcohol on their breath. He did not close the door but stood beside it as the officer stepped over Willie and leaned close to stare at the photograph of Otto beside the Führer.

  “Yes! Here he is! I told you this was it!” He held up the champagne bottle. “For Otto. Where is he?” He patted Peter on the shoulder, not waiting for an answer before he plunged on to another question. “And who are you?”

  Karin stepped out of the bedroom and stooped to gather Willie protectively in her arms. “I am Otto’s sister.” She extended a hand. “Karin Ruger. These are my children. Otto did not tell us to expect company.”

  “We were just in the neighborhood. Came across this bottle of champagne, a fine vintage. A little something for Christmas.” He glanced toward the woman, who was not looking at anyone. “Right, Lucy?”

  As if on cue, the woman looked at Karin as though she were surprised by something. “Yes. A gift for your brother. He managed to help us acquire our flat, you see . . . and—” Her eyes seemed to lock on Baby Willie, whose red curls framed a round and brightly joyful face. At her look, the baby tucked his chin shyly and laid his head against his mother. His thumb went to his mouth in a gesture so innocent that the woman’s look became tender and human. The expression seemed out of place in the red dress and fur and perfectly coiffed hair.

  “Well, maybe we should wait for him.” The SS officer headed for the sofa and sat down, then patted the place beside him for the woman.

  “Our manners,” the woman said. “Forgive us. Wolf . . . you have not made an introduction.” She did not move to sit beside him.

  The officer nudged back his peaked cap. “Right. I am Major Wolfgang von Fritschauer, at your service. And this is Fräulein Strasburg.”

  “Fräulein Lucy Strasburg,” the woman added with a touch of embarrassment in her voice. “We were just on our way to a concert . . . and I . . . have wanted to meet Herr Wattenbarger to thank him. Are we disturbing . . . ?”

  Of course they were disturbing everything and everyone except for the baby, who considered them with a coy interest as he slurped happily on his thumb. Karin shook herself into action. “Would you like cof
fee? My brother may be a while, he said. Business, you know.” She was already moving toward the kitchen, gathering the still-gawking Marlene up and shoving her ahead. “Come help me, Marlene.”

  Peter closed the door. They were not leaving after all, these intruders. The Fräulein sat down and crossed her legs, which poked out from a slit in the dress. Her shoes were also red. The major helped her off with her coat and tossed it over the arm of the chair. His boots were tall and perfectly shined. Peter had seen boots like that, proud and brutal boots, kicking his father, kicking other men. Peter had not imagined ever getting within range of SS footgear with a smile on his face.

  “My mother will prepare your coffee,” he said, sitting stiffly in a chair opposite the couple.

  “You speak with a Viennese accent,” the officer said pleasantly. “Otto did not tell us he had relatives here.”

  Peter shrugged. How was he supposed to reply to that? Had the officer also noticed that Karin’s accent was quite different from that of Otto, her supposed brother? “You are not from here.” Peter turned the conversation back to the officer.

  “Prussia. Northern Germany.”

  The fellow looked Prussian, Peter thought, hating him politely. The military bearing, close-cropped blond hair beneath the peaked cap, ice blue eyes peering with arrogant amusement from beneath the visor, straight Greek nose—all like the statue of a god come to life. Peter pulled himself into a straighter posture and nodded.

  The woman spoke with the low accent of Bavaria, but she seemed the female counterpart to this Prussian Adonis. Smooth chiseled marble in a red dress, she was perfect as long as she did not open her mouth to speak.

  But she did speak. Her broad peasant accent was not so lofty as that of the officer. “You did not tell us your name,” she urged. That look appeared in her eyes again—human, almost pained.

  She was more difficult to hate, but Peter managed. He knew what she was, sitting there in her red dress showing her perfect legs. The officer did not keep company with such a woman for her intellect. An ignorant Bavarian peasant, so low that the only way she could raise herself was to hold on to the coattails of the devil. An insane urge ran through his mind. He wanted to ask her if the apartment Uncle Otto had found for her was in a Seventh District brothel. The thought made him pale.

  “You have a name?” she asked kindly, and Peter knew that she was not drunk like the officer.

  “Peter,” he replied, trying to avoid staring at her legs. It was hard to concentrate. She was looking right at him, the way his geography teacher had looked kindly at him when he got the answer right.

  “Peter! Well, I have a brother at home named Peter also. And you look about the same age. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen,” Peter lied. He did not want to give her any more information. Why did she ask such cheerful questions? He was afraid she would ask him about school, and then what would he say?

  “Do you go to school, Peter?”

  Yes, he had gone to school until they had invaded Austria. Now schools were closed to him and Marlene, to all Jewish children. How he longed for school! “Yes. The new Hitler Jugend school in our district has just opened. I will go there after the holiday break.”

  She seemed surprised at his answer. “Oh,” she said, and he felt confident that he had fooled her.

  “You Austrian children are quite behind the children of Germany,” the officer remarked, eyeing him critically. Did that perfect Greek nose smell a Jew nearby?

  “Uncle Otto says it will not take me long to catch up. Who knows, maybe I will also be an SS major one day.” The game gave Peter a dangerous thrill.

  The officer’s expression became momentarily thoughtful. “Such a thing would please your uncle, I am sure.”

  “My brother Peter is also in the Hitler Youth,” the woman blurted out. “I have an older brother as well, in the Pottsdam garrison. Everyone is in the military, now days, ja?”

  At her interruption the officer became instantly surly. He looked away as if her friendly attempt at conversation disgusted him. His look made Peter pity her.

  “The Wehrmacht for some. But the SS for me,” Peter said. “It is the motto, you know. ‘Meine Ehre heisst Treue. My honor is loyalty!’” Peter repeated the motto enthusiastically. He raised his arm. “Heil Hitler!” he said, as if it were “Amen” to a prayer.

  “Heil Hitler,” repeated the officer with a sneer fixed on his face. He no longer looked drunk. “Your uncle has taught you well. No doubt we will have to catch up to you in the Hitler Jugend.” He stood suddenly, leaving the bottle of champagne lying on the couch.

  Karin, looking worn, brought the tray of coffee into the room. Marlene followed meekly behind, carrying Willie and not looking at anybody.

  “You are leaving,” Karin said. It was not a question. Peter hoped the unwelcome guests did not hear the relief he knew was inherent in the comment.

  “Yes. We are late. Nearly late for the concert.” The officer did not seem drunk at all now. Every movement was clipped and preoccupied. “Come, Lucy.” He snapped his fingers as if the woman were a dog to follow after him. She rose, looked at the baby, and then at Karin and the coffee cups on the tray. “Your son is a very bright boy. I am sure he will do well in the Hitler Youth.”

  Karin smiled with genuine relief. “I do hope so. Thank you for coming. Come again when you can stay longer. I will tell Otto you waited for him.”

  “Heil Hitler,” Peter said again in confident farewell, and everyone repeated the words except for Willie, whose thumb returned to his mouth.

  ***

  Again and again the Wallich family replayed the encounter with the SS major and his woman. Beginning with Marlene’s stupid mistake, they progressed through the first moments of their terror at the sight of lightning bolts and the fancy dress of the beautiful woman from Bavaria. Everyone remarked at Peter’s remarkable composure as he fended off questions and fabricated a future career in the SS!

  When they came to the end of the story, they all howled with laughter. Even Marlene laughed after sulking for a while, saying she could not help opening the door.

  Hours later Otto came home, his cheeks red from the cold. He carried little gift-wrapped packages in the deep pockets of his trenchcoat. Laying them out on the coffee table, he said he should have gotten a tree, but they would not be here long enough for that, anyway.

  Then he listened to the story of the champagne bottle. He frowned and stared at the red bow tied around the neck. He asked questions about their behavior, nodding in approval at Peter’s replies.

  “They did not suspect anything, I am certain,” Peter said.

  Otto drew a deep breath and sank down on the sofa to consider what he had heard. “The day after Christmas I am driving you to Czechoslovakia myself. You will have to make your own way from Moravia to Prague, then on to Danzig. You will be out of harm’s way there.” Again he stared at the champagne bottle. “You must accompany me to Mass. If we are being watched, it will be expected that my sister and her children go with me to Christmas Mass. Yes. They may be watching.”

  Later as everyone was sleeping, Otto gently shook Peter’s shoulder and called him into his room.

  “Listen,” Otto whispered, “there is something you need to keep for me . . . and for your family.” He opened his wallet and produced a pawn ticket for the Dorotheum. He gave it to Peter, then stuffed a handful of bills into an envelope. “If something should happen to me—”

  “What do you mean?” Peter spoke too loud. Otto put a finger to his lips to silence him.

  “Just listen, will you? Maybe it won’t be necessary, but if . . . if I can’t make it home . . . this is your ticket out of the Reich.” Otto grasped his arm. “Take this to the Dorotheum. Pay off the loan.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just pay off the loan, and bring the bundle back to your mother. She will know what to do.”

  Peter’s drowsy expression changed to one of sadness as he looked down at the pawn ticket.
“I . . . hope nothing happens because of Marlene being so stupid.”

  “That’s enough,” Otto sighed with relief. “Just a precaution. Now go back to bed.”

  ***

  The holiday concert was held in the gilded hall of the Musikverein. Lucy listened to the music with a dull ache inside her. Later, at the dinner in the gold-and-white hall of the Imperial Palace, she sat between a Russian and a Frenchman who talked around her. Did anyone notice that she hardly smiled?

  The clear, bell-like voices of the Vienna Boys’ Choir brought tears to her eyes. Red and green candles decorated the tables. The great Christmas tree evoked an awed murmur from the crowd when it was unveiled. But it did not seem at all like Christmas. She had difficulty playing the role of Wolf’s carefree courtesan.

  Wolf was not pleased with her as they drove away from the brightly lit palace. “You were surly tonight!” he growled after they passed the guards and he could be himself again.

  “I learned surliness from an expert teacher.”

  He slapped her—not hard, just a startling backhand across her full red lips. “I will teach you,” he said menacingly. “I should have left you home.”

  “You needed me to help you spy.” She daubed a speck of blood from her lip and smiled. “Terrible criminals they are!”

  She had never mocked him openly before. He took her words as a challenge. “You saw what they are!”

  “Yes, I saw. A frightened woman and three children.”

  The simplistic response made Wolf laugh incredulously. “You couldn’t see that they are Jews?” he cried. “Yes, they were afraid! And I knew the minute the girl looked at me that these are Jews. Probably rich ones. I knew we had them before we even went into the apartment!”

  Lucy had also known and had pitied the little family and longed to ask them not to hate her for what was about to come upon them. It is not me! There is nothing I can do about it! I am just along for the ride! She wanted to get to know the boy named Peter who looked at her with such polite scorn. He was a Jew; she was the mistress of a Nazi. Both were prisoners.