City of Shadows

  “Oh, God,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “I’m so tired of all this. Why can’t he have a grand design for Grand Uncle Ernest or Grand Auntie Olga or Grand Cousin Dmitri or any of the other grand panjandrums? They’re Romanovs.”

  “Because Anastasia is the czar’s child and they aren’t. Because she’s a world figure now and they aren’t. Because even Hitler believes in fairy tales. And she’s prettier than Stalin.”

  “Oh, God. Howie. Oh, God.”

  “I’m just warning you, kid. I could be wrong.” He saw that he was worrying her too much. “Come on, she’ll be dandy. I can’t see a court turning down her claim if she’s got little Adolf ’s backing. It’s you who ought to get away.”

  It was his constant theme. He took hold of her hand. “Listen to me, Esther. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, maybe the day after that, Hindenburg and the rest of ’em’ll give in to Hitler’s demand for the chancellorship. The army’s backing him. So’s the conservatives; they figure that by inviting him in, they’ll control him.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “It’d make a cat laugh. Sheep opening the gate to a wolf: ‘Come on in and be nice.’ ” Gently, he kneaded her fingers. “I don’t want to scare you, kid, but it’s time to go. What’ll happen won’t be pretty. You don’t want to be around. See, I might have to go, and then what’ll you do?”

  “You’d leave?”

  “Not if I can help it, but I might get the bum’s rush. Goebbels wasn’t too pleased with me the other day, can’t think why.”

  She tried to smile. “Couldn’t be because your last piece called Hitler a jumped-up, Jew-baiting little jackanapes whose politics would cause raised eyebrows in the camp of Attila the Hun?”

  “Nah. Good line, though, huh?”

  “Good line.”

  He said, “Well, it was time I stuck my colors to the mast. The point is, I just wouldn’t feel right leaving ...friends behind.”

  “I love him, Howie,” she said.

  “Yep, that’s what I was afraid of.” He let go of her hand.

  She walked him to the door and kissed him. “Please take care.”

  “You, too.”

  To watch him drive away was bleak. If he left the country, she realized, the last shred of normality would go with him.

  However, there was something more urgent than that to consider. She closed the door, bolting it, and went upstairs. In the living room, she began walking its length, up and down, up and down.

  Schmidt had said he suspected something of the sort, and she’d ignored the possibility as too fantastic. But tonight Göring and then Howie had solidified the terrible possibility. Hitler and Anna. Anna and Hitler.

  What to do? What the hell to do? Get her away?

  She wouldn’t go.

  All right, get her to admit publicly that she’s a fake.

  She wouldn’t do that either.

  But something had to be done, had to be done.

  She’s news.

  Suppose Hitler were to take up this newsworthy grand duchess, using his infallible intuition. And what if that intuition were shown to be fallible, if someone followed the trail to Bagna Duze, to a Polish peasant, a mysterious Gypsy, and irrefutable proof that Anna was one or the other. He’d look like a fool—and Esther didn’t think Adolf Hitler would enjoy looking like a fool.

  What was it Schmidt said that the Nazis did to their embarrassments? A bullet in the back of the neck?

  Esther sat down and poured herself a brandy.

  The thing is, she thought, she’s not really a fake at all. Anna was possessed in the medieval sense, had opened her mind to the spirit of a dead grand duchess and allowed it in. Her own persona had become intolerable to her, so she’d adopted one more pleasing. A mere playactor would be more regal, more gracious, instead of remaining an obdurate pain in the ass that eventually wore down everybody’s patience. Hiring lawyers to pursue Anastasia’s inheritance through the courts was not cupidity; as grand duchess, Anna thought it to be hers by right.

  Esther thought, I cannot desert this neurotic, Jew-despising little bugger; there’s something about her—vulnerability, courage, a refusal to conform to what people expect of her, an endurance.

  She drank her brandy and poured another, deciding that tomorrow she would go to the bank and draw out most of her money, in case she could persuade Anna to use it in making a getaway.

  But if Anna wouldn’t go, if this new Caesar should adopt her, it was a Caesar that must not be mocked.

  Very well, then. Let us make sure that he is not.

  She got up. Fatigue and brandy and the thought of what she had to do made her stagger slightly. She opened the door to Anna’s room, which was dark. “Anna.”

  “I am asleep.”

  “Well, wake the hell up. Hitler, Anna . . .” She shut the door behind her, felt her way to a chair, tipped its contents off it, and sat down in the total blackness. “Hitler,” she said.

  “What about Herr Hitler?”

  “This is important. I want you to listen very, very carefully. If he takes you up ...if he calls you in . . .” She was burbling, so she coughed and started again. “Anna?”

  “Yes, Esther.”

  “If Hitler should take up the cause of the grand duchess Anastasia . . . Are you listening? This is what you must do.. . .”

  She spoke for a long time into the darkness.

  THE NEXT DAY—IT was January 30—Adolf Hitler was made chancellor of Germany.

  23

  SCHMIDT HEARD the news at a working lunch in Ernst-Reuter-Platz, where, having that morning returned from Bremen, he was discussing with other inspectors and local authority officials the training of police officers.

  A page brought in a note to Herr Stirner of the mayor’s office. Stirner read it and stared at his plate for a minute before standing up. “Gentlemen, we must postpone this gathering. I have just been informed that President Hindenburg has invited Herr Hitler to become chancellor of Germany.”

  There was silence.

  An inspector from the Spandau department said, “Well, can’t we go on with the meeting? Nothing’s changed, and this is important stuff we’re discussing.”

  “Everything has changed,” Stirner said. “For one thing, I am no longer in office. Good day to you, gentlemen.”

  On his way back to the Alex, Schmidt heard wildly happy cheering outside the Kaiserhof, where Hitler had returned from his appointment with President Hindenburg.

  Sparse snow was melting as it hit the pavements. In the shopping arcades, groups of people were gathered outside the radio shops listening to the news. More groups blocked the way in places, some people shaking others’ hands in congratulation, some shaking their heads. A woman dashed up to a storm trooper and kissed him on both cheeks before rushing off again.

  What was marvelous to Schmidt was how little else had changed. People were still going about their business. The hot-chestnut seller was in his usual place, a street cleaner brushed frozen rubbish from the gutters and put it in his barrow. A woman coming out of the hair-dresser’s tied a scarf around her head and then put up an umbrella as if everything were normal.

  That was until he reached Alexanderplatz.

  “SO,” HOWIE SAID to Esther, “the loonies have finally taken over the asylum.”

  He’d come to say good-bye; he was catching the night plane. The previous night, getting out of his car to enter his hotel, he’d been roughed up in the street by a couple of storm troopers. Collier’s, frightened for one of its best correspondents, was recalling him.

  “I wouldn’t be leaving now,” he said, licking his cut lip, “only the good Dr. Goebbels has canceled my visa. Schmidt still in Bremen?”

  “He’s back—he was going straight into the office. He’ll be home tonight.”

  They were sitting in the kitchen over a cup of coffee, listening to the radio. Anna was wandering the living room, waiting for Meyer to go.

  “Only three Nazis in the cabinet, can that be so bad?” Esther sw
itched off the radio. “Howie, can it?”

  “They got the posts that matter, kid.”

  The phone rang, and they heard Anna pick it up.

  Howie jerked a thumb in her direction. “Now then, sweetie,” he said, “before I go. Is Sleeping Beauty the real princess? Aw, come on.”

  “Maybe one day, Howie, not now.”

  Anna was in the doorway. “That was Herr Hitler,” she said, carefully casual. “Well, was his equerry. I am to go see him. He sends his car for me.” She smiled at them. “You see?”

  ...

  A CROWD OF more than fifty uniformed policemen stood outside the Alex, shouting. Passersby had stopped to watch them, and more were gathering.

  Schmidt pushed through and tapped one of them on the shoulder. “What’s happened, Bollo?”

  They’d worked together, but he didn’t think Bollo recognized him; the man’s face was idiotic. “We been sacked,” he said. “They sacked us.”

  Schmidt said, “Nonsense.”

  “They won’t even let us in to report,” Bollo said. “Look.”

  Schmidt looked. Storm troopers stood outside the entrance to the Alex with rifles trained on the policemen.

  “Let me through.” He walked forward until he was opposite the guns. “What the hell are you doing?”

  One of the storm troopers passed his rifle to a colleague and took a list out of his pocket. “Name?”

  “I am Inspector Schmidt, I work here. Now, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Your warrant card.”

  “What?”

  “Show me your warrant card.”

  Schmidt showed it.

  “Very well. You may go in.”

  He went straight to Ringer’s office, but Ringer’s secretary, white-faced, told him that the chief had been summoned to Department 1A.

  Schmidt went down to the canteen and found it virtually deserted. The cooks were putting chairs on tables and wiping down the empty counters. In one corner, Tudjmann of Vice was finishing a cup of coffee.

  “What the hell’s happening to those men out there?” Schmidt asked him.

  Tudjmann shrugged. “It looks as if we’re being cleansed of dross at last.”

  “What?”

  “They’re all troublemakers,” Tudjmann said. “I’ve seen the list.”

  “Guns were being trained on policemen, Tudjmann. Policemen.”

  Tudjmann stood up. “Did you think the country could drift in the Weimar’s imbecilic way forever? We have a leader at last. Now we will see.”

  On the stairs Schmidt bumped into Willi Ritte hurrying down them.

  “Come to my office.”

  “I’m in a hell of a rush, boss. There’s to be a parade.”

  “My office, Willi.”

  Willi refused a chair when they got there; he was agitated. “There’s to be a fucking great victory parade tonight; they’re pulling out all the stops. Block the streets, line the route.”

  “What’s happening to those men outside?”

  Then Willi sat down. “Bad business. They been sacked—most of ’em pushed before they could jump. Ohliger was spokesman for the federation, so I suppose they wouldn’t want him around. And Todt’s brother’s a Red. Schott’s married to a Jewess. Things like that. Fifty-two of them. They were all on a list.”

  Lists, Schmidt thought. They’re good at lists.

  “And right away fifty-two SS came in to take their place,” Willi said.

  “On whose orders?”

  “Department 1A. Seems they’ve got authority from the new Prussian minister of the interior.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “Hermann Göring.”

  “Christ.” When he’d left Bismarck Allee this morning, the minister of the interior had been Wilhelm Groener. Three hours, he thought. They’d been planning for this so that it was all ready to slip into place. The efficiency daunted him. In three hours the world had shifted on its axis; he could feel the vibration from it through his shoes, making his legs tremble.

  “About the list, boss.” Willi’s big feet scuffed the linoleum. “They say it’s not just the uniform boys.”

  “I see.” So it wasn’t merely haste to organize a victory parade that was making Willi Ritte nervous in his office. “I’m on it, am I?”

  More feet scuffing, and then Willi looked up, pleading, “Boss, I got seven children and a wife.”

  “I know you have.” He felt a deep sadness. He got up and went around his desk to pat his old friend on the shoulder. “Give them my love.”

  “Fuck it, fuck all of it.” Willi’s hand came up for a moment to clutch at Schmidt’s. He got up and saluted. “Good-bye, sir.”

  “Good-bye, Sergeant.”

  “TODAY?” ESTHER ASKED. “Hitler’s sent for you today?”

  “Why not? He has power to see me now.”

  “When?”

  “Now. He sends his car.”

  Esther turned for help to Howie. “Today.”

  “He knew this was coming,” Meyer said. “He’s had time to make his plans—apparently Her Imperial Anna’s on them.”

  “Not a word, Howie. Promise me, not until I see what it means for her. If you love me, not a word.”

  “Okay,” Howie said. “But take your camera.”

  “I will.”

  “You do not come, Esther,” Anna said. “I do not take a Jew to see Herr Hitler. I am the grand duchess.”

  “I don’t care. I’m coming.”

  “Listen, Your Highness,” Howie said, “grand duchesses don’t turn up alone, they take ladies-in-waiting along. Looks kinda poor, a Russian princess going by herself.”

  “What you know? You’re a newspaperman.”

  “Listen, kid, I’ve interviewed Hitler more times than you’ve put on panties. I’ve interviewed royalty, for Chrissake. I know things about En-gland’s Prince of Wales and a certain American divorcée that’d curl your hair, and I tell you no blueblood goes visiting without an attendant. Take it from Uncle Howie. In fact, how’d you like to take Uncle Howie along?”

  Anna sat down. “You come, I don’t go.”

  “Okay, okay. He wouldn’t be pleased to see me anyhow.”

  Esther tried phoning Schmidt at the Alex, eventually slamming down the phone. “An idiot on the switchboard keeps saying that he doesn’t work there.”

  Anna allowed them to dress her. Esther did her hair while Howie polished her best pair of shoes and displayed unexpected knowledge of ladies’ couture. “No, not the dress, the suit. She doesn’t want to look cute, she wants to look businesslike. No, no, kid, not that hat. Try this one. And she’ll need gloves—she got any gloves?” Anna’s nails were bitten to the quick. “Here, these’ll match.”

  “I wear my mink. The Duke of Leuchtenberg gave it me.”

  “Yep, it’ll impress Adolf.”

  Esther, brushing the coat down, had a searing moment of doubt. “I shouldn’t be letting her do this.”

  They both turned on her.

  “I go,” Anna said.

  And Howie said, “You kidding me? You don’t turn down the chancellor of Germany on his first day. Sweetheart, this is a story.”

  It was. And, with luck, a picture; her nose was twitching for it. She gave in to the inevitable and resumed brushing.

  The car, a shining, swastika-pennanted Daimler, was at the door while Esther was attempting once more to phone Schmidt at the Alex. Eventually she gave up. “That idiot’s still saying he doesn’t work there. Should I take the plate camera? For a portrait?”

  “No,” Howie said, “look too much like a setup. You’re hot stuff with the Leica. Take that.”

  She was still stuffing film into her pockets as a black-uniformed corporal of the Schutzstaffel, Hitler’s personal bodyguard, opened the Daimler’s door for them. While he went around to the driver’s seat, Anna muttered, “I do not introduce you. I just say my lady-in-waiting.”

  “Anything, anything.” Shutter speeds, depth, exposure—oh, hell, sh
ould have brought flashbulbs, no, must be natural light. I’ll get him on a balcony or something with her, he’s always on a bloody balcony. Shaking hands with her? Kissing her hand? Yes, please, please. And then a portrait, a close-up, the eyes.

  Howie, standing on the pavement, saw them off with an elaborate bow.

  “Where are we going?” Anna asked the driver.

  “Kaiserhof.” The SS obviously didn’t believe in courtesy, but then neither did Berlin cabdrivers.

  “The Kaiserhof.” Anna settled back comfortably; she loved good hotels.

  “ALL OFFICERS TO report to the canteen,” Frau Pritt said. The swastika brooch was back on her lapel.

  The canteen was comfortless; its kitchens were closed and empty, its counters bare. Men gathered in groups, speculating, spreading rumor, drifting like wraiths.

  After an hour somebody said, “The hell with this,” and a posse broke into the kitchen cupboards and made black coffee for the rest. There was no milk.

  One or two tried to return to their offices and start work but were sent back again. “Good day for crime,” somebody said, and raised a nervous laugh.

  Ringer came in, and there was a move toward him. “Any news, sir? What’s happening?”

  Ringer didn’t answer. He went and sat at a table, staring into space. He was given a cup of coffee, and after that nobody went near him.

  At four o’clock a storm trooper came in with a list and pinned it on the notice board: “The following personnel are hereby dismissed from the service and are required to leave the building by 1730 hours. By order of Hermann Göring, Prussian Minister of the Interior.” Ringer’s name was at the top of the list, Schmidt’s about halfway down.

  THE KAISERHOF HAD been Hitler’s Berlin campaign headquarters for some time now—ruining, as far as the avant-garde was concerned, a congenial watering hole. It was still a hotel, and other, less discriminating clients were gathering for tea in the lounge, its plush furniture and even the smartly dressed women being made to look fussy by the sharp, black lines of SS officers scattered around the room. Cheers and laughter came from the American Bar where more SS were celebrating, and champagne corks popped in staccato salvos.