The Sleepwalkers (30 page)

From what they could calculate, at least 850 men, women, and even children had undergone medical experiments at Sachsenhausen. Not a single one survived. Each of their deaths had been recorded. “Succumbed to typhus.” “Succumbed to radiation burns.” An invoice found in a desk drawer indicated that two further transports of seventy asylum inmates each were expected the following week.

Fritz was all for plastering it across the front pages and calling it what it was: the greatest crime in German history. “In twenty-four hours we’ll have the whole Nazi Party collapsing in disgrace,” he insisted. “ ‘850 Tortured and Killed!’ ” But Willi couldn’t do that. As a precondition for using the Potsdam garrison von Schleicher had made Willi promise that all evidence of SS medical crimes would go directly to him.

Friday afternoon he and Fritz personally delivered a ten-page report and one full box of evidence to the Reichs Chancellery.
After perusing the pages and seeing the contents of several jars, von Schleicher turned green.

“It’s utterly inconceivable. Beyond human imagination.”

“Obviously not,” Willi said.

“Take it all to von Hindenburg,” Fritz demanded. “Get him to sign a presidental decree. Outlaw the Nazis!”

Von Schleicher had to prop himself on the desk. “I can’t. Von Papen’s so poisoned the Old Man against me I’m not allowed near the Presidential Palace just now. No, in that regard I am handcuffed.”

Handcuffed? Willi’s stomach dropped. Von Schleicher?

“Surely something of this magnitude—”

“Listen to me, both of you.” The chancellor’s face turned rigid as a death mask. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this wretched office, it’s that politics is timing. I want everything you have brought to me here. Do you understand? Leave nothing behind. When the moment is right, I assure you . . . the ax will fall.”

“Who knows”—Fritz tried to summon some optimism as they exited the chancellery—“maybe the man actually knows what he’s doing this time. Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”

But Willi had lost his appetite.

Later that night Fritz was on the phone pestering Willi of all things about a woman.

“Remember, Willi . . . the one I said was perfect for you? Well, you won’t believe it. I ran straight into her on the Ku-damm just now. She’s coming tomorrow night as my guest to the Press Ball. You’ve got to come, too. Promise? You do have white tie and tails?”

Willi had about as much desire to go to the Press Ball as to the dentist, but the next evening he dutifully pulled on long formal socks and snapped them into calf garters. It was bitter out, he saw from the window as he stepped into his striped silk trousers. The wind was banging the electric streetcar wires madly
together. Now that he’d overcome pneumonia, shut down Sachsenhausen, and got all the evidence to the Reichs Chancellery, what he really needed was a little sleep, he decided, slipping into the patent leather loafers with bows. He missed his boys. Paula, too. Grabbing the ridiculous shirt with the huge French cuffs from the closet, he cursed himself for having agreed to this.

The Press Ball was no ordinary fête but the absolute apex of Berlin’s social season. At the banquet halls of the Zoological Gardens the champagne was overflowing. Cinchilla stoles and egret feathers tickled his nose as he squeezed past society ladies and movie queens, ministers of state, members of parliament. Anyone whose face Willi’d ever seen in the papers—including heads of the Ringverein, the city’s notorious crime rings—was furiously drinking and gossiping.

Eventually he reached the tiers of reserved boxes where Fritz was to meet him with this superwoman. There was one box for the Mosse Press. Another for Bertelsmann. Numerous boxes for the foreign legations. Why was that large one in the middle empty, where the chancellor ought to be? Directly next to it was the Ullstein box, the five famous brothers all around one table with their jewelry-laden wives. Joining them were Erich Maria Remarque, author of
All Quiet on the Western Front,
and
très
elegant Vicki Baum, of
Grand Hotel
fame. Other tables were full of editors, columnists, photographers. Where was Fritz? Willi finally spotted him standing with a tall blonde, whose low-cut gown revealed a singularly muscular physique.

“A putsch to overthrow von Hindenburg?” Fritz’s words were already slurring, his dueling scar bright scarlet. “Thassss too funny. I’ve known von Schleicher yearz dearie. Sly as a fox but trussss me . . . hasn’t got the . . . why, Willi!” He threw an arm around him.

The tall blonde, Willi recognized at once, was Leni Riefenstahl—star of the popular Alpine-climbing films and notorious gal-about-town. She was who Fritz thought would be perfect for him?

“You know Leni, of course.”

“To my shame I’m afraid I don’t,” Willi lied, shocked at his friend’s absurd choice.

“But I know you.” The muscular actress offered a vigorous handshake. “The great
Kinderfresser
catcher. The pictures in the papers did you an injustice.” Her azure eyes examined him as if through various lenses. “Come to my studio sometime. Let me photograph you. I’ll bring out your heroic qualities.”

“Leni, I’d no idea you’d so many talents,” Fritz proclaimed. “Photography now!”

“Just learning, Fritzi. But I’ve a pretty good eye.”

She handed Willi a card. “Please,” she insisted. “I’m experimenting with some fabulous new camera angles I’d love to try out on you.”

I’ll bet, Willi thought, stunned this could have been the woman Fritz had been prattling about for months. Willi was futher amazed when Riefenstahl blew a kiss and walked away. “You mean she isn’t—”

“Her?” Fritz nearly fell over laughing. “Jesus, Willi. I’d just as soon fix you up with Goebbels. No, the woman I had in mind is—” His eyes widened, his dueling scar stretching with evident delight. “Well . . . she’s coming right now.”

Willi turned. He swore he recognized a pair of chestnut eyes approaching. A slender figure in a pale rose gown with a sweeping velvet train. That long, beautiful curve to the neck. Now he understood what Fritz meant when he’d said some cad wanted to pounce on her. “For Christ’s sakes.” Willi turned to him furiously.

“Don’t be thickheaded, you fool. Just because she’s your dead wife’s sister—”

“This time you’ve really gone overboard, Fritz,” Willi growled under his breath. But the swell of happiness as she neared was irrepressible. When she reached them, Willi managed to act surprised. “Ava, for goodness’ sakes. What are you doing in Berlin?”

“I could ask the same of you.” Her eyes darkened. Willi could
see by the look she cast Fritz she was just as stunned by this setup as he. And still fuming over Willi’s running away from the hospital in Paris. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better anyway, Willi.” She flung the train of her dress to one side.

Sensing this wasn’t unfolding as intended, Fritz held up a finger as if to rectify the situation, when all at once the entire ballroom seemed to quiver with an electric shock. Some positively sensational news was jolting through the crowd. It took but an instant to hit them. Willi felt as if an anvil had smacked his head. “Have you heard? Von Schleicher and his entire cabinet are kaput! Forced to resign!”

But that couldn’t be; he had to steady himself. Von Schleicher out? It was catastrophic. What about our evidence?

“Don’t panic.” Fritz’s whole face darkened. “We’ll go the the chancellery first thing in morning.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“Well then, Monday!”

Willi didn’t think he could last that long. The music kept playing. The couples kept dancing. But this was really too much. He had no capacity left for pretense. The bottom was dropping out. Ava seemed to sense it, too.
After von Schleicher, who?
her eyes asked.

“Come on.” Willi grabbed her by the waist. “Let’s get out of here.” They made a beeline for the coatroom. It was mobbed. Half the place were leaving. “What the hell are you doing in Berlin anyway?” he whispered tensely as they waited on line. “I told you not to come.”

“Oh, you did now. So I’m taking orders from you?” Her eyes flared. “You also told us to sell the house and business.”

“Shhh!”

He started up again when they got outside. “Your father should have come.”

“He did.” She clutched her collar against the wind. “And I came, too, so he wouldn’t be alone. You’ve no right to critize me. I’m not the one who snuck out of a hospital with double—”

“I couldn’t help it, Ava. There were things to do. Crucial things.”

“Oh, yes. With you there are always things. Work’s more important than life, isn’t it? Never mind your health. Your family!”

Willi could barely hear her. All he could grasp was that von Schleicher was out and those boxes of evidence were in his office. The wind whipped wildly as a taxi pulled up. Ava climbed in, giving him an exasperated look. He longed suddenly to take her in his arms. Enfold her. Kiss her. But she slammed the door, leaving him there in the ice-cold night.

First thing Monday, Willi and Fritz met in front of the Reichs Chancellery. Police were all along Wilhelm Strasse, crowds already overflowing the sidewalks. Behind those walls everyone knew the fate of Germany was being decided by Hindenburg and a handful of high-hats. “What do you mean I can’t get in?” Fritz said, astonished, to the guard at the gate. “Franjo. You’ve seen me here every week for years.”

“I am sorry, Herr Fritz. It is not my decision. Your name is no longer on the press list.”

“That’s impossible. I write for the
Morning News
. The
Evening News.
The
Weekend Report.
I’m third cousin of the kaiser! Tell me at least if Chancellor von Schleicher is still in the building.”

“No, he is not. Nor is the general chancellor any longer. He and all his belongings have been removed.”

The word sent a sickening feeling through Willi.

They dashed by car over to Lichtenstein Allee, where Fritz knew von Schleicher had an apartment. The general’s wife greeted them at the door. “But I’m afraid he isn’t seeing anyone this morning.” She held her head with grim dignity.

“It’s all right,
Schätzchen
. Those two can come.”

Sitting in a smoking jacket before the fireplace, his silver monocle perched in one eye, von Schleicher barely bothered looking at them. “That miserable von Papen.” Flames danced from the monocle. “Couldn’t be happy until he got revenge on me for having him sacked last November.”

“Herr General . . . all those boxes of evidence we left with you.”

“Hindenburg swore he’d never give in to Hitler. But Papen thinks he can tame the beast.”

“The evidence,” Willi pressed him. “What’s become of it?”

“Do they really think they can come up with a stronger coalition than mine? Let them try! Fifty-eight days I got. Fifty-eight miserable days.”

“Please, sir—all those boxes, all those pictures and files from Sachsenhausen?”

The ex-chancellor turned to them, pulling off the monocle. “It happened so fast.” He looked a hundred years old. “In one hour I was out. Can you imagine, they made me pack myself. I hadn’t a clue what to do with your boxes so I called Eckelmann.”

“Eckelmann, the Socialist MP?”

“Socialist. So what if he is? I’ve known him thirty years. Elisabeth and I had a most congenial dinner with him at Aschinger the other night. Over cognac he explicitly said to me, “Kurt, if there’s anything I can ever do . . .” So I called him. Naturally I didn’t tell him what they contained, just that I had boxes full of vital material that needed protection. We arranged for everything to be taken by truck over to his office.”

“His office . . . at the Reichstag?”

“Yes. They have mountains of things nobody cares about.
In the storerooms. Safe as a bank down there, I assure you.” Von Schleicher blinked several times. Slowly placing the monocle back in his eye he returned his gaze to the fireplace.

Willi felt ill. They drove at once to the Reichstag, but the whole building was cordoned off. They tried calling Eckelmann at work, at home, but got no answer. There was nothing they could do. Fritz kept muttering, “Why the hell was I removed from the chancellery press list?” On the way to his office they noticed little knots of people formed around the news kiosks. Here and there cheers erupted. Fritz leaned out the window. “What’s going on?”

“We’re saved!” a teenage girl cried out. “Hitler’s in power!”

Fritz fell back in the car seat. “No wonder I’m off the press list.” He stared ahead. “We’re done for then.” He turned to Willi. “Not just us. Europe.”

Perhaps it’s a mistake, Willi thought, like when he’d first heard Vicki was dead. Why then were Jewish shops pulling down their shutters? A hundred times Hitler had promised that the day he took over, heads would roll. Who’d have thought the idiots would ever hand things to him legally, without a drop of blood?

People were grabbing up special banner-headlined editions.

“Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.” Fritz practically seized one from a street vendor. He seemed to be praying as he scanned the front page. “Hugenberg . . . finance minister. Von Papen . . . vice chancellor. Maybe they really can leash the dog.”

“You always called von Papen a frivolous mutton-head.”

By the time they reached Leipziger Strasse even black humor faded. Bands of storm troops were roaming the sidewalks.
“Today Germany—tomorrow the world!”
they were shouting, physically harassing people going in and out of Wertheim’s. There was a loud smash. One of the big show-windows shattered. “Not as bad as it looks.” Willi steered around broken glass. “It’s worse.”

On Koch Strasse the Ullstein building already had the feel of a castle under siege, employees rushing in for refuge. “I’ll find
Eckelmann, one way or another,” Fritz said as he climbed from the car. “As soon as I do, I’ll let you know.”

Willi drove straight out to Dahlem. In the bright winter light the Gottmans’ vine-covered villa stood as serene as in a painting. “Willi!” Max embraced him as he entered. “The whole country’s lost its mind. Hitler’s coming on the radio any second. Hurry. We’re listening to see if he doesn’t moderate now that he’s in office, as everyone predicts. You know, more statesmanlike, conciliatory.”