Gretchen raised her chin. She’d been beaten before, when Reinhard had discovered that she’d snooped in his room. Nothing these men could do to her would compare to how she’d felt that night, her eye swollen shut, her lips split, her knees and hands scraped from being flung to the floor. I’m not afraid, she told herself for the thousandth time.
Daniel’s eyes flashed onto Gretchen’s. “You’re safe,” he said softly. “These are Ringverein men.”
She stared at him in confusion. Wrestling clubs? What on earth did athletic organizations have to do with anything?
Friedrich pitched his half-finished cigar into the snow, where it sizzled out. Together, he, the driver, and Daniel walked to the car. Gretchen watched them go, her mind spinning.
The Mercedes trundled across the bridge and back into the slums, leaving her alone with these three stone-faced men. They grabbed her arms and marched her over the bridge and down into the narrow, empty streets. The windows in the shabby brick tenements were dark, and none of the chimneys spiraled smoke into the sky. Several houses down, a cellar door opened and closed, letting out a blare of jazz music. A bar, perhaps. The avenue was silent except for the skittering of a dog’s toenails on the pavement. The beast slunk past, thin and mangy.
Where were they taking her? Was Daniel all right? He’d said they were safe with these fellows, but why would he think that?
The men brought her to a street corner. The sign read ZWINGLISTRASSE, but it meant nothing to her. A single streetlamp cast a pale glow over the surroundings: endless crumbling tenement buildings, no cars, a few Communist banners pasted in apartment windows. Where was she?
A Mercedes glided to a stop beside them. Friedrich got out, then Daniel. Relief exploded in Gretchen’s chest. She had to force herself not to run to him.
“According to this boy,” Friedrich said to his comrades, “he and his girl wish to solve our Fräulein Junge’s murder.”
They murmured, obviously surprised, but Friedrich silenced them with a flick of his gloved hand. “The boy has satisfied my curiosity for the moment. Put them upstairs.”
“But then they’ll know where we keep our hideout!” a man objected.
Friedrich looked annoyed. “Don’t question my authority! Take them upstairs immediately.” He stuck a new cigar in his mouth and studied Gretchen through the haze of smoke. “We’ll begin the test tomorrow.”
Gretchen didn’t dare ask what he meant. Silently, she followed the men into a brick building. They guided her and Daniel through a lobby and up a stairwell, twisting around until they reached the fourth floor and there were no more stairs to climb. She had expected a corridor lined with doors, like in an ordinary apartment building, but there was only one door. Presumably this hideout took up the entire story.
They led her and Daniel through a rabbit’s warren of small rooms, dark and empty except for tables and chairs. They pushed them into another room. Gretchen glimpsed white plaster walls before the door slammed shut and a key rasped in the lock. She and Daniel were alone.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, peering into her face.
“I had to tell this Friedrich fellow the truth,” he said. “As long as he understands we want to solve the murder of one of his employees, we’re safe. I had to give him our real names. He’ll have his men look into our backgrounds, and Gisela Schröder and Leopold Schmidt have no pasts. I’m sorry,” he added when she shrank back, her heart in her throat. “I know you’d prefer that we remain anonymous. But Ringverein men despise the National Socialists. You don’t have to worry about them betraying us.”
“What do these men want with us?” she whispered, afraid they might be listening on the other side of the door. “Why do you call them Ringverein?”
“Ringverein are what they’re called, but not what they are.” Daniel ran his hands over the walls and shook his head. “These are rock solid.”
She joined him. Her damp blouse still stuck to her back, but the pain had dulled to a steady ache. The plaster walls were smooth, unadorned by decorations or pictures, and the floor was linoleum crusted with dirt. A room off a kitchen, perhaps, since wisps of heat pushed through a wall, possibly from a stove. Moonlight filtered through the single barred window, stretching lines of white across the room.
“The Ringvereine are shrouded in secrecy.” Daniel shook the bars in the window. “But I know a little. They started about forty years ago, when the Berlin underworld began to organize itself into clubs that were originally set up like workers’ unions. The first was dedicated to its members’ physical fitness through wrestling, so the name has stuck all these years.”
Gretchen pressed her ear to the wall, listening for any indication that there was someone else in the apartment. From far off, footsteps tramped back and forth. At least one man had remained to guard them. “The Berlin underworld? You mean organized crime?”
“Yes. Before I finished Gymnasium, I used to visit the Berliner Zeitung am Mittag’s office, begging for a job.” He turned away from the window, half smiling at her. “Not that they were interested in hiring a student. But I did pick up information from the crime reporters—you’re shaking,” he interrupted himself.
Quickly, he strode across the room. “You should get out of these wet clothes.” He started unbuttoning her blouse with his good hand. For an instant, Gretchen stood still. The sensation of his fingers through the thin fabric of her shirt was feather-light. Never before had he dared to touch her so intimately. Not even when they were traveling together to England, staying in run-down hotels, lying in the sheets and kissing each other breathless.
Now, everywhere he touched, her skin turned to flame. She sucked in a shaky breath. The sound seemed to startle Daniel, for he stepped away, his hands falling to his sides. He cleared his throat.
“I beg your pardon.” His voice was stiff.
“It’s all right, I mean, I wasn’t expecting—” Gretchen stammered. Her face felt hot. Before she could figure out what to say next, Daniel turned his back to her and slid off his coat. He held it out to her without looking.
“Here, you can wear this once you’ve taken off your things. It should keep you warm.”
“Thanks.” This new awkwardness between them felt so foreign. Maybe this morning, before she’d learned how unhappy he had been, they could have laughed about his boldness. Now she didn’t know what to say to him. Judging by the rigid line of his shoulders, he felt as uncomfortable as she did.
Flushing, she peeled off the blouse and skirt, then the stockings, slip, and brassiere. She laid the sodden clothes on a chair by the window and grabbed the coat from Daniel’s outstretched hand. It still held the heat from his body. She put it on gratefully, letting its warmth wrap around her. She fumbled for something to say to cut the silence.
“How do you know these men are part of a Ringverein? Did Friedrich tell you in the car?”
“He didn’t have to.” Daniel sank onto a mattress lying in the corner. Gretchen sat down beside him. The makeshift bed was covered with a couple of thick, musty blankets. “It was the diamond rings in the photograph that clued me in,” he continued. His voice was now matter-of-fact, his face hidden by the darkness. She couldn’t guess how he felt about unbuttoning her blouse. Did he regret it? Her cheeks burned.
“Ringverein men get rewards for their years of service,” Daniel said. “Gold signet rings, diamond rings, gold watch fobs, that sort of thing. Only men can be members, so Frau Fleischer is probably a widow who wears her late husband’s ring.”
Gretchen remembered the diamond had been set in a thick band, like a man’s ring.
“How can we trust these men?” She cast a nervous look at the door. “We’re locked in and entirely at their mercy.”
“We’re far safer with them than with the National Socialists. These Ringvereine live by a strict code of honor. They’re rarely violent and they don’t kill, as a rule. They won’t permit murderers or sexual criminals to join them. And they protect their members as thoug
h they’re part of the same family. If we can convince Iron Fist Friedrich that we truly want to solve the murder of one of his prostitutes, I believe he’ll move heaven and earth to help us.”
“Then why did you become so frightened, back in Frau Fleischer’s office?”
“I panicked.” He sounded embarrassed. “I’ve never met a Ringverein man before. I don’t think there are any in Munich, or I’m sure I would have come across them when I was working at the Post. I’d rather not get us mixed up with the criminal underworld, but it’s too late now. And they could be powerful allies for us. After all, we have the same enemy.”
That Gretchen understood. For years, she’d heard Hitler promise his supporters that he would crack down on crime if he was elected. Since the end of the Great War, crime rates had skyrocketed, and voters had welcomed his pledges. The criminal underworld is a Jewish-Communist conspiracy, he used to thunder during speeches. Criminality is hereditary and stamped into these men’s subversive natures. They are subhumans.
For so long, she had believed him. But Iron Fist Friedrich hadn’t killed them, although he easily could have. He had even sounded reluctant when he’d thought he would have to beat answers out of Daniel.
“What’s this test we’re supposed to have tomorrow?” she asked.
He sighed. “I have no idea. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. We should try to get some rest.”
They slid under the blankets, Gretchen still wearing his coat. It had been so long since she had lain beside him in bed. She heard the steady exhalation of air through his nose; heard the feathers in the mattress sigh when he shifted onto his side. He was so close. If she moved her hand an inch, she would touch him. But she didn’t. Instead, she closed her eyes. Somewhere, across the Spree River and down the Wilhelmstrasse, stood the massive Chancellery building. Hitler was in there. Perhaps pacing because he was an insomniac and sometimes walked his bedroom for hours before sleep claimed him. Only a few miles separated them.
I’m not afraid, she thought through gritted teeth as her heart began to race. She curled onto her side and willed her mind to black.
17
GRETCHEN’S CLOTHES HAD DRIED DURING THE night. She changed into them while Daniel stood with his back to her, although she half wished he wouldn’t act so chivalrous and would sneak a glance at her, as he had when they’d shared hotel rooms on their way to England all those months ago. She still remembered the way her skin had prickled with awareness when she’d caught him, and how he had flashed his lopsided grin and turned away.
Daniel insisted that she keep his coat, and she was glad of its warmth as they explored their surroundings again. Part of her wondered if she should bring up the talk they’d had outside his parents’ house yesterday, but it seemed pointless to discuss whether they had a future together when they might not have a future at all.
Dawn had washed the room white. There was no furniture, save for a chair and the mattress on the floor; it was more of a prison cell than a room. Through the window, Gretchen saw brick tenements across the street. Beyond them, smoke from nearby factories spiraled into the sky. Men and women in threadbare coats streamed out of the houses, holding their children’s hands, perhaps on their way to church.
Something lay on the ground by a building’s front steps, a dark shape against the snow. Gretchen pressed her nose against the glass to see better. It was a dog and lay without moving; probably it had starved or frozen to death during the night. She doubted it would last long on the street—someone would be desperate enough to take it home and cook it. The Whitestones and their well-stocked kitchen seemed like a dream, inhabitants of a world she had thought up. She pushed them out of her head before her memories brought her to tears.
Daniel joined her at the window. “We’re in Moabit. It’s Berlin’s worst slum. It’s also a Communist stronghold, which is a point in our favor. Right now we’re surrounded by the National Socialists’ biggest enemies.”
Nerves clenched in Gretchen’s stomach. If those men trundling to church knew that she had once been one of Hitler’s favorites, what would they do to her? Automatically, she touched the swastika charm on her necklace—she’d forgotten she was wearing it. She yanked so hard on the chain, the links broke. She opened her fist to see that the charm had imprinted itself on her palm. Six little slashes that used to shape her life. How skillfully Hitler had taken the ancient sun symbol and made it his own—as he had once made her mind his, too. She shoved the broken necklace into her skirt pocket, resolving to throw it away the first opportunity she had.
The door opened and one of the men from last night entered.
“Lavatory break,” the man said, gesturing with his pistol for Gretchen to follow him.
She hesitated, reluctant to leave Daniel. But none of these men had hurt them yet, and without her revolver, she had no choice but to follow the Ringverein fellow. He marched her through a parlor jumbled with card tables and sagging sofas into a bathroom, to her relief.
In the spotted glass, she barely knew her face: pale, exhausted, framed with a tangle of unfamiliar brown hair. After she was led back to the room, and Daniel had returned from his trip to the lavatory, the man brought them a tray with hard rolls, cheese, and hot coffee. He waited while they ate in silence, then took the tray and left, locking the door behind him.
Gretchen couldn’t stay still. What was going to happen to them? What was this test Iron Fist Friedrich had mentioned? Yesterday, she would have leaned her head on Daniel’s shoulder, taking comfort from his solid presence. Today, the new distance between them felt too great. She paced back and forth, her shoes crunching on the dirty linoleum.
Daniel sat on the mattress, head hanging, hands braced on his knees. He was tired and nervous; she could see it in the way his knuckles whitened. But he still gave her a smile of encouragement when their eyes met. Everything in her yearned to go to him, to press her lips to his smiling cheek. But she couldn’t bring herself to move.
The door opened again. Iron Fist Friedrich stood in the entryway, considering them sternly. Today he wore a pinstripe suit. A gold watch chain gleamed over his vest. His pale brown hair was brushed straight back from his forehead.
“It’s time to prove yourselves.” He gestured for them to leave the room, gesturing for them to leave the room. “Welcome to the hoodlums’ court.”
Friedrich led them into a room crammed with about forty men all in black, some in sweaters and trousers, others in suits, their faces obscured by swirling cigar smoke. In silence, they sat on chairs or leaned against walls, watching Gretchen and Daniel as they were escorted to the table at the head of the room.
As Gretchen stared at the sea of hardened faces, Friedrich’s words made sense: She and Daniel were being put on trial for their supposed robbery attempt last night, and the Ringverein men would be their jury.
Blindly, she reached for Daniel’s hand. He squeezed her fingers, the pressure pitifully light, and she realized she had grabbed his wounded hand. She let go.
“Honesty is prized and respected within our circle,” Friedrich said. He stood beside Gretchen. “For those who don’t know, Frau Fleischer caught these two breaking into her office. Herr Cohen insists that he and his girl were only looking for information about our Fräulein Junge’s murder. Let’s see if he was clever enough to tell the truth. Detective Chief Superintendent Gennat?” He turned to an overweight man sitting in the first row of chairs.
Detective? Gretchen’s surprise must have shown on her face, for Friedrich explained, “Superintendent Gennat is the head of the Berlin Homicide Division, and a long-standing friend. We maintain order in the streets in our territory, and in return the superintendent respects our right to conduct our business enterprises.”
Gretchen’s heart gave a hard knock against her ribs. Then there was no one they could trust completely, not even one of the top detectives in the city. She and Daniel were completely alone.
Gennat had a long, heavy face topped by a thatch of dar
k hair woven with silver. His eyes flashed over Gretchen and Daniel. “Herr Cohen is indeed wanted for Fräulein Junge’s murder,” he said in a rumbling voice. “As the two detectives in charge of the case are dedicated National Socialists, however, I don’t give much credence to their conclusions. Crime solving must be based on evidence, not politics, but sadly, owing to the current situation, I’m saddled with those two incompetent fellows. Fortunately for Herr Cohen, however, the only photograph we have of him is a couple of years old and he looks quite boyish in it. By all rights, I ought to haul him in, but his actions aren’t those of someone who’s guilty. Only an innocent man would come to Berlin to exonerate his name.
“Fräulein Müller doesn’t have a file at my department,” Gennat continued, but Gretchen shivered, knowing it didn’t matter whether or not she was wanted by the police. If Hitler found her, he would order her killed and Daniel executed. She could already feel a pistol jammed against the back of her head and see Daniel’s neck pressing into the wooden bar of the guillotine. One instant, and they would be gone.
“Daniel,” she gasped out. Before them, the men muttered to one another, discussing Gennat’s information. Daniel clasped her hand, his weakened fingers linking with hers. She held on as though his hand were a life preserver.
“Thank you, Superintendent,” Friedrich said. “I assume we can depend on your discretion?”
Gennat lumbered to his feet. “Yes. But if I find out this young lady and man are guilty, I’ll need to bring them in. For now, they’re your responsibility. I hope they’re worth the trouble.”
“I think they might be.” Friedrich’s smile was sharp. He nodded at his underlings. “Escort the superintendent out, won’t you?”
Two of them stood and ushered the detective from the room. Once the door had closed behind them, Friedrich turned to Gretchen and Daniel, his face a tense mask. Gretchen’s chest burned as she tried to draw in a breath. What was he going to do to them?