“You’re a Bavarian!” he exclaimed, and she cursed her accent. “You’ve come a long way from home.” He guided her toward the bar and held up two fingers at the bartender. Gretchen glanced at the labels on the bottles: Clicquot, Mumm, Heidsiek, Roederer, four different types of champagne alone. She’d never seen such extravagance. “What do you think of our great city?”
This question she knew the answer to; most National Socialists followed Hitler’s lead and despised Berlin, calling it a cesspool of corruption and depravity. “It’s awful.”
Chuckling, Göring took the champagne flutes from the bartender and handed her one. “It’s not as bad as that.” His voice was light and kindly. “Berlin’s music and theaters are marvelous.”
The response startled Gretchen so much that she took a sip to give herself time to figure out what to say. How could she handle this fellow? A National Socialist who didn’t jump onto the Party bandwagon was more of a challenge than she had anticipated. Through the fog of cigarette smoke, she saw Daniel moving toward them from several feet away, and she shook her head slightly. He stepped back, his face tight, his gaze trained on her face.
“So you say you’re an admirer of mine?” Göring asked. Above his glass, his eyes met hers—they were as she remembered, a sharp bright blue, like a lake frozen solid. “I confess I’m surprised. I thought you Ringverein types weren’t interested in politics.”
She went hot all over at her blunder. What in heaven’s name could she say to him? Just then a loud voice boomed close behind her. “Minister Göring! You see I’ve left my sickbed to join you! If it hadn’t been for Chancellor Hitler and the wretched tin can he calls an airplane, I wouldn’t have succumbed to the flu in the first place! But no, he must make speeches in three separate cities in one day. Twelve hours in an airplane—pure misery!”
Gretchen stilled. No. It was impossible. The newcomer sounded exactly like Ernst Hanfstaengl, the Party’s foreign press chief, who had watched her grow up and who had been her boss at the National Socialist headquarters. But he still lived in Munich with his wife and son—didn’t he? Oh, God. Please let it not be him! There was no way he wouldn’t recognize her.
She had to get out. Now.
“Fortunately, you had excellent accommodations for your recovery.” Göring laughed. “Fräulein, may I present Herr Hanfstaengl? He has been a guest at my palace for several weeks.”
She kept her head down, letting her curls slide forward to curtain her face. “A pleasure,” she muttered. “Please, excuse me—some fresh air—”
She started to move away, but Göring’s hand clapped down on her shoulder, anchoring her in place.
“I’m gratified to make your acquaintance.” From the corner of her eye, she saw a dark blur: Hanfstaengl bending forward in an elaborate bow. “Yes, Minister Göring has been kind enough to let me stay with him until I can find proper lodgings for my family. And I’ve been grateful for his offer or else I’d be stuck in that monstrosity where Herr Hitler lives! Why, the hideous place is symbolic of everything that’s been wrong with the government since the war ended. Did you know the riots used to be so bad that they constructed a secret passage from the attic running all the way to this hotel, so that the chancellor could escape in emergencies? What a shambles our government has been! But that will all change.” He barked out a laugh. “Herr Hitler plans to have the passage walled up. He won’t need it.”
“Fascinating,” Gretchen murmured. What could she do? If she ran, they’d wonder why and might chase her. If she looked up . . .
“Shut your mouth, can’t you, Hanfstaengl?” Göring hissed. “Need I remind you where we are? Ah, there’s our host coming toward us. Behave yourself.”
Göring’s hand slipped from her shoulder. This was her chance. She slid her eyes to the left and saw Daniel pushing through the masses of people to get to her. She held up her hand, hoping he understood that he needed to stay back. Since Göring wanted him caught for murder, surely he’d acquainted himself with Daniel’s criminal file—and photograph.
“Pardon me,” she muttered and plunged into the crowd, weaving between the tightly clustered people, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.
“Wait a minute,” she heard Hanfstaengl say behind her. “There’s something familiar about that girl.”
She started to move forward just as a hand fastened on her wrist and whipped her around. Motionless, Hanfstaengl stared down at her, a towering figure almost six and a half feet tall. He looked the same: a long face with a lantern jaw, wiry hair falling over his forehead, wide shoulders. Several feet behind him, Gretchen glimpsed Göring, who had already turned away to chat with someone else.
Hanfstaengl raised a trembling hand to push back the hair hanging in his eyes, as though he needed to see better. “My God,” he said.
He had recognized her.
22
GRETCHEN COULDN’T LOOK AWAY FROM HANFSTAENGL’S face. “Please,” she whispered while all around them guests laughed and danced and drank. He wouldn’t betray her, would he? Not after all the years they’d known each other. He’d watched her grow up.
Hanfstaengl’s hand gripped her shoulder; his fingers felt hot through her dress’s strap. His face had settled into a grim expression she’d never seen before. “You stupid child,” he snapped. “What sort of game do you think you’re playing? Surely you must know what will happen to you if Herr Hitler knows you’re in Berlin.”
“Please,” she said again, “Herr Hanfstaengl, if you ever cared for me at all, don’t tell anyone I’m here.”
He glared down at her. “Of course I won’t; I don’t want you to die, you lovesick fool. I suppose you came to Berlin for your Jew.” Before she could figure out how to reply, he grabbed her hands and pulled her onto the dance floor so roughly that she stumbled and fell against him. He smelled of cologne and hair cream. “Did you know he’s wanted for murder?” he growled into her ear, yanking her into his arms and clapping a hand on her waist. “That’s the repellent creature you’ve destroyed your life for. Now dance. Laugh. Act as though you’re having a good time.”
“He didn’t do it,” she started to say, but Hanfstaengl flicked a hand dismissively, silencing her. A band had woven around her chest, drawing tighter until she could scarcely breathe. Automatically, she began to move in Hanfstaengl’s arms. Through her gown, his fingers dug into her waist. She still carried her pocketbook, and they had to clutch it awkwardly between their clasped hands.
As they whirled across the dance floor, the other guests blurred into an endless series of colors: black, gold, red, lavender, blue, silver, green. Somewhere among them she caught Göring and Friedrich, chatting, their postures relaxed, and a few feet from them, Daniel, looking pale and intent. She shook her head at Daniel again, hoping he would continue to stay back. Hanfstaengl might care enough about her to let her go, but he would have no compunction about turning Daniel in to the police.
As she and Hanfstaengl danced, her mind worked furiously. He had mentioned Daniel being wanted for murder. It was possible he knew more. And this might be her only chance to find out. She looked up at Hanfstaengl and forced a smile. “Surely you realize that’s nonsense about Herr Cohen. He isn’t stupid enough to kill anyone, especially Minister Göring’s mistress.”
The shot had hit home; she saw the muscles along his jaw tighten. “How do you know that?” As usual, he didn’t wait for an answer, but plowed on. “She was no mistress. Only a plaything to take his mind off his loneliness. He hasn’t been the same since his wife died. And don’t you dare insinuate that Göring had anything to do with the girl’s death,” he warned, pulling her closer into his arms, his schnapps-scented breath washing over her face. “On the last day of her life, he only saw her for a few minutes. Lord knows why he bothered. No doubt she was pestering him for attention again. Göring’s innocent—he didn’t have a spare instant to shoot the girl.”
Hanfstaengl twirled her around. There was something about his words that didn’t ma
ke sense, but she couldn’t snatch hold of what was bothering her. The other dancers whirled past, their steps clumsy from drink. Nearby, a man slipped and fell to the floor, laughing so hard that he couldn’t get up. Other men hauled him upright by the armpits, saying it was time he switched to coffee—and she realized. Time. That was what was wrong with Hanfstaengl’s story. Why would Göring have spent any time, even a few minutes, with Fräulein Junge on what must have been an extremely busy day for him, when he was dealing with the aftermath of the Reichstag fire? Whatever the reason for their meeting, it must have been urgent.
Hanfstaengl drew Gretchen close to him again. She leaned back in his arms, trying to smile at him in her old playful way. “Well, I haven’t been able to find Herr Cohen to ask for his side of the story. By now he’s probably in Austria.” She kept her tone light. Stay back, Daniel, she pleaded silently. “What does Minister Göring say about his last day with Fräulein Junge?”
Hanfstaengl’s face tightened with irritation. “He was terribly cut up by her death and had nothing to do with her murder. He keeps saying at least her last day was a happy one because—”
He broke off, looking startled. “What an idiot I’ve been! I need to go.” He released her and took a few steps away, then spun to look at her, his expression tinged with sadness. “You must leave Berlin at once,” he said gently. “Herr Hitler despises you, and if he knew you were back, he would stop at nothing to run you to ground. Forget your Jew. Go back to wherever you’ve been hiding all this time—if not for your sake, then for your father’s. He didn’t sacrifice his life so you could throw yours away.”
She didn’t know how to reply. As much as she longed to tell Hanfstaengl the truth about her father’s death, she knew he would never believe it and her words would only infuriate him. Before she could beg him to stay and explain more, he had left the dance floor and was heading toward Göring, who was sipping champagne. She scanned the crowds for Daniel; he still stood near Göring. When their eyes met, she jerked her head at Hanfstaengl’s retreating figure and he nodded in instant comprehension. He sidled closer to Göring, and as Gretchen watched him, she silently urged him not to let Göring catch sight of his face.
She slipped to the edge of the ballroom. Through the swirl of dancing bodies, she could see Hanfstaengl reach the bar and bend down to talk to Göring. Daniel stood a few feet away with his back to them, watching the couples waltzing past. Göring slammed his glass down on the bar. His face had gone red. He turned and pushed his way between the guests toward the entrance, Hanfstaengl on his heels. Where were they going? What had Hanfstaengl figured out?
Daniel rushed through the throngs toward her. “Hanfstaengl remembered that Fräulein Junge had gone to her parents’ house on the day she died,” he murmured in her ear. “But she’d been estranged from them for years. Göring said that he remembered picking straw out of her hair when he picked her up that afternoon. She must have been in her parents’ stables.”
“Why would they care that she went there?” Gretchen whispered. Between the dancers’ bodies, she spied an overweight man raising the conductor’s baton—it was Ernst Gennat, the chief superintendent of the homicide department. The Ringverein men had said it was customary for the highest-ranking policeman in attendance to conduct the orchestra’s last number. In a few minutes, the room would be flooded with people trying to leave. “Maybe she’d reconciled with her parents. Or—”
“Or maybe she hid something in the stables,” Daniel interrupted urgently. “Remember that Weiss said they were looking for her diary? Maybe she concealed it at her parents’.”
Gretchen’s pulse leapt. Daniel could be right. Which meant that Göring was sending his men to the Junges’ house at this very second. They had to get there first.
A taxi carried them to the Charlottenburg district. At the hotel, they had asked the clerk at the front desk for the city directory. Listings for the name Junge had filled several pages, and in desperation, Gretchen had dashed into the ballroom to find Birgit, who had told her that Monika’s father was named Ulrich and he lived somewhere on the Hardenbergstrasse. Armed with that information, locating the house number in the directory had been easy, and Gretchen and Daniel had run outside to the line of taxis idling at the curb.
A sharp rain had begun falling by the time they passed an enormous temple on the Fasanenstrasse. Gretchen had expected the shabby synagogues she was accustomed to seeing in Munich, built in backyards, sheltered from pedestrians’ eyes. Through the icy needles, she saw a stately and ornate stone building that stood right on the street. The builders’ boldness in constructing such a structure in plain view stole her breath in shock.
Then the car rolled on. Outside the window, rain washed the street black. Large houses lined the avenue. There was no trash in the gutter, no loud music, no prostitutes or drug pushers lurking on the corner, no flash of bloodred banners. She and Daniel had reached another world.
The taxi glided to a stop. Gretchen paid, grateful that Friedrich had returned the Whitestones’ money to her. She and Daniel scrambled out of the taxi.
For an instant, they stood on the pavement, listening. Nothing. Only the patter of rain, washing away the thin layer of snow, and the purr of the taxi’s engine as it drove off. If Göring had sent his underlings to the Junges’ house, they hadn’t arrived yet.
“Let’s go.” Daniel nodded at the narrow driveway next to the Junges’ house. Gretchen crept after him into the darkness, wincing when loose gravel crunched under her shoes. Rain trickled down her bare arms. She shivered. She’d forgotten her wrap in the ballroom, and Daniel had left his hat and walking stick.
They sneaked past the house. Trees, black outlines in the night, dotted the backyard. The yard sloped down to two bulky shapes, presumably the garage and the stables. Gretchen thought she heard the whicker of horses.
They cut across the yard, breaking into a run. The snow- and rain-soaked grass was slippery under Gretchen’s heeled shoes. She nearly fell, grabbing Daniel’s arm for balance. He hissed in pain, and she let go instantly.
“Your arm! I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Daniel pointed to a shiny padlock hanging from the stable door. “Think you can pick that?”
As she bent to examine it, tires screeched from the street. Car doors slammed and boots thudded across the pavement. Gretchen’s heart clenched. Göring’s men had arrived.
Daniel cursed. “There’s no time.” He whipped off his scarf and wound it around his hand. “Stand back,” he ordered, then punched through the window next to the door. The glass broke with a faint tinkle.
Several jagged shards remained, but Daniel brushed them off. He wriggled through the opening and dropped from sight.
Gretchen looked over her shoulder. Streetlamps backlit the men rushing down the drive, but she recognized their SA caps. Had they seen her?
Fear made her move quickly. She seized the bottom of the window frame and hauled herself up. The opening was narrow, but she managed to squeeze through and fell to the floor below. She threw out her arms to catch herself, landing so hard that her hands smarted.
She scrambled to her feet. A row of stalls stretched along one wall; on the other Gretchen saw hooks laden with harnesses. The horses shifted in the stalls, straw rustling under their hooves. The smell of manure, mixed with oats, assailed her nose.
“Daniel!” she said as loudly as she dared. “They’re coming!”
He was staring at the stalls. An engraved plaque had been nailed to each of them. CHESTNUT, SUNSHINE. These must be the horses’ names. MAVERICK, LOVER.
“Lover!” Daniel whispered. “This is where she hid the diary, it must be!”
They raced to the stall gate. The horse reared up on its hind legs, whinnying. It kicked its front legs and Gretchen pulled Daniel away. “We can’t go in there! He’ll trample you!”
The stable doors banged back and forth. The men must be pulling on the padlock chain.
“It’s too late!” G
retchen hissed. “We have to go!”
Daniel didn’t seem to hear. He leapt up and grabbed at Lover’s plaque. It came loose from its wooden post with a scream of nails. Something small and dark was stuck beneath the plaque. It had been pierced through by a nail. Daniel wrenched it free and threw the plaque to the floor, where it landed with a metallic clang.
“The window’s been broken!” a man shouted from outside. “Somebody’s already in there!”
Gretchen and Daniel flung themselves at the back door. It swayed but didn’t give under their combined weight. Probably it was padlocked from the exterior.
“Take this.” Daniel thrust the object into her hand—a small cardboard box, she saw now—and he shoved his hand, still wrapped in the scarf, through the window. The glass shattered. Tiny crystalline flecks hit Gretchen’s shoulders.
“Someone’s trying to get out the back!” one of the men yelled.
Daniel boosted her into the opening. Pieces of glass pricked her dress, but she kept pulling her body through. Below, the wet ground gleamed palely with snow and rain and ahead loomed a tall brick wall. She heaved herself out the window.
She landed on her knees. In an instant, she was up and pushing the box into her dress’s bodice, so she could have her hands free. She sprang as hard as she could at the wall. Her fingers grasped the top, the rough brick scratching her palms. Gritting her teeth, she held on and pulled herself up.
She heard Daniel jumping into the grass behind her. Behind her, men shouted, their voices and footsteps growing louder as they rounded the stables. Gretchen peered into the darkness beyond the brick wall and flung herself off the ledge.
23