The Eye of the Abyss - [Franz Schmidt 01] Page 4

  He did. She’d engraved it on his mind. Unpublished works released by the composer’s widow had resulted in an unsavoury controversy. He studied the patrician face. In other company he might have allowed himself a shrug. These six unpublished cantatas by Bach had come down in the family, been sedulously protected from the world by Frau Schmidt and her forebears. The composer hadn’t seen fit to publish, yet for some reason had not wanted them destroyed: therefore a sacred duty remained in perpetuity. Another ‘article of faith’.

  He drank his schnapps. A picture of his father came to him: departing each morning for the consulting rooms and the operating table, kissing his wife goodbye. A dry kiss; a momentary intersection of their variant orbits; his father’s Junkers line had been the antithesis of his mother’s cultured heritage. Had a brief incandescent passion enticed her into the marriage?

  ‘Well, mother, I must be home to dinner.’

  He put down his empty glass, and went to kiss her.

  ‘My love to your family.’

  He stood poised, handsome head tilted, spectacles glinting, waiting for a connection, as if tonight was a night for a breakthrough.

  She said, ‘I will reserve my opinion on Herr Wertheim’s new endeavour.’

  And that, Schmidt knew, was that. In the hall, pulling on his gloves, he glanced at the door to his father’s study. In this room books about the Teutonic Order, and his family’s history, crowded the shelves. A solitary, studious child, it was where he’d begun a lifelong journey. Holidays, weekends, he’d immersed himself in the old records. Even now, it thrilled him to think of his descent from a knight of the Order. He reminded himself that there was a book he wished to consult. Next time.

  Speechless, Frau Bertha showed him out past the composer’s bust.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said as he went through the door.

  These late-autumn evenings Schmidt didn’t have time with Trudi. Kissing the small sleeping head on the pillow, a feeling of omniscience came over him. But it was like a false dawn. He could see nothing of the future — and didn’t want his forebodings in this room. Back on track, he whispered, in his head: ‘Sunday’s the time when our worlds overlap. Do you wait for Sunday as I do, my little one?’

  At the dinner table, Helga listened to his brief report on the Thursday visit. He gave her an edited version of the takeover of the Nazi Party’s business, his introduction to Herr Dietrich. They’d not spoken on the subject since the night he’d broken the news; they’d both chosen to keep quiet. Face cradled in hand, she watched him finish.

  He hadn’t mentioned Wagner’s revelations about Fräulein Dressler; the less said there the better. Suddenly he was alert to her tension.

  He said, ‘So there you have it.’

  He knew she understood that he hadn’t made up his mind about the Nazis; was watching it all. Nor had she, though her concern was more pragmatic. He’d decided that the incident of the eye had been an aberration. But the Party’s arrival in Wertheims had brought it all back into close range.

  She spoke softly: ‘Franz, Wertheims couldn’t stand aside forever. Sooner or later they’d have been pulled in. Herr Wertheim has stepped towards the future, to sail with the tide, rather than be swept away with it. Isn’t this the way you all talk? If Wertheims weren’t to do it, another bank would snap it up.’

  Schmidt considered her earnest reasonableness, her metaphor. She smoothed her hair back, tried to smile. What she wished to say was: I think I know what you’ll decide. But for God’s sake don’t be too idealistic. Don’t rock the boat. If you must put on armour, let it be only for defence. Don’t bring us into danger.

  She said, ‘Dearest Franz, be careful, be on guard. Take nothing on trust. Especially this Dietrich.’ She touched the back of his hand. ’If anyone has a right to doubts, you have.’

  He said, ’It’s my nature and profession to be a doubter.’

  She nodded abruptly, hardly hearing him, reliving that horror. Why had he done it? Had the quixotic, futile act been the impulse of a second? Or — and a coldness closed around her heart — had it been a compulsive response grounded in him by his family heritage, his obsessive studies of the history of the Teutonic Order? Would he ever open up to her about his work on it?

  The food queues gone; six million unemployed found jobs, the economy surging. New hope, faith in the future humming in the air. Millions were taking it in with their breathing, their morning milk. But personal freedom had vanished like the sun sinking behind a mountain. It was all a gigantic lie. He stood up abruptly.

  She looked at him urgently, and said in a low voice, ’Franz, you will put your family before everything?’

  He looked at her with deep concern. ‘Helga, you and Trudi are in the forefront of my thoughts. Always.’

  She thought: Oh God! Nothing could be trusted.

  ~ * ~

  6

  D

  ABBING AT HIS eye, Schmidt walked through the early morning mist to the bank. In his head, his birthplace was playing a sad adagio. The streets were thick with the melancholy of autumn. He thought: Witnesses to the Great War, the Inflation, the Depression, the Weimar Republic — and Nazi parades.

  On the dot of 11.00 am, Dietrich strode into his room, and claimed his position on the desk-edge. The hard blue eyes scrutinised Schmidt’s face as if searching for shaving nicks or blemishes.

  ‘Everything in order, Schmidt?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Director.’

  ‘Good. I’m reading your weekly report. I’m one of those individuals who even reads between the lines. Keep that in mind.’

  The tempo in the bank had lifted. Each day donations to the Party flooded in, and each day the bank invested the funds. Fascinated, Schmidt was being given an insider’s view of the financial underbelly of the NSDAP.

  Dietrich produced his cigarette case, and offered it. They lit up, and regarded each other, like opponents at the start of a chess match. The auditor was acclimatising to these stimulating moments. Also to the scent of the lotion which the Nazi apparently rubbed on his skin daily.

  Dietrich’s face creased into a frown. ‘I’m putting together facts about your bank. But you, Schmidt, never talk to me, except to answer questions.’

  Schmidt considered this. What was it leading up to?

  ‘Your questions always ably cover our business, sir. I’m a person of few words.’

  ‘Except on paper, eh? You’ve nearly drowned me in memoranda.’

  That was true. Schmidt had bombarded him with briefings on the bank’s auditing procedures. He wished to keep him at arm’s length, while he got to grips with the Party’s business.

  Dietrich grinned. ‘Never mind. Another matter. You and I have an onerous duty. The Party understands that, wishes to reward special efforts. This is what we’ll do: Five hundred marks a month for myself, three hundred for yourself. Pay it out of the Number Four cash account the first of each month. Give me mine in an envelope. Take yours in cash, also. Special expenses, just record that. Your colleagues don’t need to know any details. Got that straight?’

  He spoke with a negligent air, swinging his dangling leg back and forth. Schmidt had heard surreptitious reports about Party corruption. But this kind of nonchalant, small-scale pilfering!

  ‘Naturally, Herr Director, you’ll provide the authority in writing?’The auditor knew that would never happen.

  The Nazi frowned. ‘Unnecessary, Schmidt. My oral instruction’s enough. The same arrangement was in place in Berlin.’

  Schmidt laid his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘With respect, Wertheims has its own regulations.’

  Dietrich drummed his finger on the desk in an irritated tattoo. ‘Get that look off your face. We Party officials are modern in our outlook — and decisive! When red tape needs to be cut we know how to cut it. I speak, that’s your authority. You need to broaden your horizons, open your mind, my friend. It’ll assist you professionally.’

  Wagner’s words almost exactly. Schmidt analysed the desktop as though i
t were a recalcitrant trial-balance. What look? And what an amazing speech. Was Dietrich putting his honesty to some bizarre test? No, he decided. This Nazi was in dead earnest. He cleared his throat, not from nerves, but to make his enunciation absolutely precise.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t accept a payment myself. For Wertheims it would be highly irregular.’ He’d not looked up.

  The Nazi gazed at him — as though at a new vista which had suddenly appeared. ‘I suggest you give it further thought. The Party doesn’t flaunt its generosity, nor is it accustomed to ungraceful responses. All right! Never mind. One more matter.’ He hoisted himself off the desk, fixed Schmidt with another intense stare. ‘I presume you’re familiar with the Nuremberg Laws?’

  A chill came over the auditor. ‘Up to a point.’

  ‘Up to a point.’ Dietrich mimicked the response. You must pay attention to such matters, Schmidt. It’s every citizen’s duty to do so.’ He paced across the room. ‘All right! Since 1935, Jews have no citizenship - they’re merely subjects. You must know that! Several subsequent decrees have put other restrictions on them. For example, and this is the pertinent point, it’s against the law for a Jew to be employed in a firm such as Wertheims. I trust it’s now coming back to you.’

  Schmidt was hearing the competent lawyer giving a briefing, and taking in the sarcastic tone. The Nazi returned to the desk, flicked his ash neatly into a tray. ‘They’re required to identify themselves. Many don’t. Suspect individuals are everywhere amongst us. The Party’s determined to track them down, bring them under the law.’ He ceased pacing, stared at the auditor, and thought: What is going on behind that bland, respectful exterior? He probed it, but no cracks. His eyes side-slipped ... ‘The Reich will draw its strength, build the future on the purity of the Nordic race. The impure don’t fit into this picture. We in the Party are trained to identify such examples.’ He peered at the auditor and suddenly grinned. ‘Lesson completed! There’s the dogma, my forgetful friend.’

  Below in the street the traffic was muttering like a sleepy congregation at prayers. Schmidt absorbed the speech and felt the chill spread in him. He knew its impending conclusion. But with his last off-hand remark the Nazi’d again surprised him. Was it possible that the man was a cynic about Party dogma? He looked up from his desk-top as the Nazi spoke again.

  ‘My dear fellow, I suspect that Fräulein Dressler may be a case in point.’ Schmidt gazed at Dietrich’s face. ‘So it’s a very delicate situation. Herr Wertheim will be horrified. Though, we’re all human. His emotions might be involved.’

  So there it was. Though Schmidt had immediately guessed that the destination of the Nazi’s remarks was Fräulein Dressler, it was still a shock to hear him speak her name. Herr Wertheim wasn’t ignorant of her situation, common sense and Wagner vouched for that. Despite his prevaricating words, the Nazi would’ve assumed the G-D knew. Was he deviously, patronisingly, planning a way out for the old banker?

  ‘You’ll go to the staff department and examine her dossier. If correct procedures are being followed her birth certificate will be there. Take down the details. I’m going to Berlin this afternoon for a few days. Report to me when I return.’

  ‘Very well, Herr Director.’

  ‘Be alert, Schmidt. Dangerous games are being played all around us.’ Dietrich nodded, turned on his heel, and took his austere thoughts out to the frigid corridor: Wertheims didn’t heat the hallways.

  Schmidt listened to the assured but curiously unbalanced footsteps (one hitting the ground harder than the other?) until they faded away, leaving him with his thoughts. What dangerous games did Dietrich have in mind? Grimly he regarded his powerlessness.

  He took out his official diary and recorded the Nazi functionary’s instructions concerning the ‘special expenses’, dated and timed it. Fräulein Dressler s image materialised in his mind’s eye. Three weeks ago she’d hardly figured in his thoughts. Now she seemed to be dominating them.

  He discovered her very much in the flesh that afternoon when he turned a corner on the first floor. She was pinned to the wall within the stubby arms of Otto Wertheim. A second before he’d overheard: ‘You’re so strong and masterful, Herr Otto.’

  Clearly, Otto had accepted the remark at face value. Schmidt drew in a breath. Otto was trying to combine aggression and charm, a feat well beyond his ability. Hastily he stepped back, and glared at the auditor. Schmidt passed by, his eye fixedly ahead, felt their eyes on his back in the sudden silence. However, he’d caught the mordant humour in the twist of her red lips.

  Out of sight he paused, considered afresh Wagner’s portrait of a passionate woman, and marvelled at sighting her like this, given the mission he was on. Otto’d been steaming with lust. A coolish location for a tryst.

  The bank seemed to be awaking from a long hibernation!

  Schmidt unlocked a door and entered a room. He found the ten-year-old dossier, and read the birth certificate. It was clear-cut. Coming into the room he’d felt keyed-up but now he was calm. He removed the certificate, put it in his pocket, returned to his room, and burnt the document to ash in his metal wastepaper basket.

  ‘What fascinating developments do you report today from your end of the good ship Wertheim?’ Wagner demanded. He’d had his first mouthful of beer.

  Schmidt raised a shoulder, as if to deflect the inquiry. He inspected the café, the patronage. Five thirty pm. Outside, the streets were as black as a Rhine coal-barge’s hold. Dark at 4.30 pm. In a month it would be 4.00 pm. He’d decided to keep both of Dietrich’s instructions quiet, for the present.

  He turned to Wagner. His colleague’s unkempt hair draggled over his collar. Wertheim men wore hats to the bank, mostly homburgs, though not Wagner. ’Herr Dietrich’s gone to Berlin. He returns in a few days.’

  ‘Not fascinating, but interesting.’ The deputy foreign manager exhaled a stream of smoke. ‘Doubtless he hastens to his masters to report on our bank.’

  ‘In that sense, all seems to be going well.’

  Wagner assessed the remark. ‘Do I pick up a doubt? By any chance, has our new director already unearthed the taint of Jewishness nourished and harboured by our eccentric General-Director? ‘

  Schmidt stared at his colleague. It was hard to keep Wagner out of any picture. But tonight he was implacably resistant to the deputy manager. Depression had come down on him. And worry. His thoughts moved away from the café, from Wagner. Where was she at this moment? What was her state of mind? More to the point, what was he going to do with his particular knowledge of her peril? He felt hemmed in by much more than the early nightfall.

  Wagner shrugged, not put off. ’I see one-point-five million came in today for our esteemed client from Ruhr industrialists.’

  Schmidt came back, nodded. ‘They can afford it. Business is booming.’

  ‘And the more the Nazis push to rearm the higher the profits, eh? A nice little cycle.’ Wagner paused, glass half-raised. ‘Thank God the summer’s over! It’s an end for a while to those vile rallies. Those obscene flags. You couldn’t see the buildings for their damned swastikas.’ All summer this had infuriated him. ’It’s a wonder old Wertheim in his new manifestation isn’t after the account of that damned flag-making company!’ He drank beer. ‘I’ve been watching him for thirty years and I tell you, his brain’s jumped the points. Take it from your troublesome friend.’ Schmidt smiled despite himself. ‘Ah, my dear Franz, a smile at my expense? You don’t believe me? Listen. The G-D’s placed the bank like a high-value chip on the roulette table. From now on, he’s going to unravel like a piece of thread being pulled. And Christ, look at the succession! Otto, the bank’s pervert and ace-farter. Even more insane! The only hope is Schloss.’

  Schmidt turned aside from his colleague. Herr Wertheim mad? Tonight, Wagner was laying out his own paranoia. He’d seen nothing in his meetings with the G-D to match what the deputy manager was claiming. Though there was a change. The new art on his wall, for example. That gilded woman must be on the bo
rderline of the Fuehrer’s edicts on acceptable art. But he was inclined to think that if a little eccentricity was in play, there’d be method in it.

  Wagner leaned back, and said flatly, quietly now, ‘They’ve been watching my flat this last week. Dressed in the standard black leather coats. The clichés of fear, purveyors of doom. That’s what they’re becoming. D’you know our people call you the Doomsayer?’ Schmidt did know. He regarded his voluble colleague with fresh concern. Threats seemed to be multiplying around them, and Wagner’s face was set with strain. ‘They watch from doorways, sometimes a car. So there we are.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Heinrich, you must mend your ways. Keep your mouth shut.’ Schmidt barely spoke above a whisper.

  Wagner sucked at his cigarette, savouring the tobacco. He laughed and a nerve jumped under his eye. ’I’m afraid it’s much more than my mouth.’