face looked bewildered and unhappy as he stared at Uncle Dolf’s back, and Gretchen could almost hear him saying, Adi, what have I done wrong?
She thought back to Hanfstaengl’s story of the putsch. This photo must have been snapped as the men made their way into the Bürgerbräukeller while Hanfstaengl and members of the press milled about outside. Within thirty minutes, the SA troops would storm the beer hall and Hitler would rush to the podium, waving a pistol and shouting that the national revolution had begun. In sixteen hours, Uncle Dolf and Graf would be gravely wounded, her father dead. It must have been the last photograph taken of Papa, and he looked more miserable in that moment than she had ever known him. She had thought he would feel triumphant, certain that power was almost within the Party’s grasp.
“What are you doing?” Cohen cried. “Hurry! Röhm might be here any minute!”
She dropped the clipping and hurried to the bureau beneath the window. She yanked open a drawer and pulled out three graying undershirts. Their rank smell hit her in the face like a fist. Quickly, she went through the bureau’s pitiful contents: woolen long johns with holes in both knees, a sweater with an unraveling collar, two pairs of badly darned socks, broken bootlaces, handkerchiefs so old the fabric had turned transparent—
“Nothing!” Cohen kicked a box in disgust. Do you see any other boxes, Fräulein Müller?”
As she turned to answer, she spotted something in the street. At the dinner hour, the narrow avenue writhed with people: day laborers in stained jackets, school children in checked dresses or shirtsleeves, all hurrying home for their supper, and, in the midst of them, a brown circle, moving steadily.
She froze. The men’s heads were down, their faces obscured by their caps, but their distinctive brown uniforms identified them instantly. And Röhm was unmistakable—the quick, deliberate walk and the squat, heavy frame.
“It’s Röhm,” she said. “He’s on his way.”
She couldn’t complete the thought. If Röhm found her, here, in this old Party crank’s apartment, helping a Jew—
Cohen cursed. “We can’t leave without the diary.”
Her heart swung like a hammer in her chest. The muscle in her legs tensed, ready to run. Get out, get out, get out . But she had to know more about Papa’s death.
She glanced about the room. A moth-eaten sofa whose cushions had been tossed aside; a bureau whose drawers hung open drunkenly, their contents spilled across the floor; a few shirts and trousers and socks; a counter with a white porcelain teapot . . .
She stared at it. So clean, when everything else in the apartment was dirty and dingy.
Cohen followed her gaze. In two strides, he had reached the teapot and ripped off its top. He grinned. “Well done, Fräulein Müller.” He pulled out a hammered metal box, barely bigger than his hand.
“Let’s clean up this mess,” he said, slipping the box into his pocket. “Or else they’ll know someone else was here first.”
“No, they won’t.” They must get away now . “For all they know, Dearstyne was a lousy housekeeper—let’s go!”
“Almost done.” Cohen snatched up the pile of papers and threw them into the box. Outside, Gretchen heard the low rumble of a man’s voice, still so distant she couldn’t separate the sound into words. Röhm , she thought as Cohen reached for the sofa cushions on the floor.
“Forget the cushions!” She snatched up his hand and ran, pulling on him so hard that he bumped into her. They rocketed into the hallway. Footsteps echoed from the stairwell; another moment and the SA men would be upon them.
The back stairs were their only chance. Still clutching the boy’s hand, she ran down the corridor, away from the main staircase. Together, they reached the closed door at the end of the hall, skidding to a stop. He twisted the knob, and then they were hurtling down the back stairs in the darkness. All
She thought back to Hanfstaengl’s story of the putsch. This photo must have been snapped as the men made their way into the Bürgerbräukeller while Hanfstaengl and members of the press milled about outside. Within thirty minutes, the SA troops would storm the beer hall and Hitler would rush to the podium, waving a pistol and shouting that the national revolution had begun. In sixteen hours, Uncle Dolf and Graf would be gravely wounded, her father dead. It must have been the last photograph taken of Papa, and he looked more miserable in that moment than she had ever known him. She had thought he would feel triumphant, certain that power was almost within the Party’s grasp.
“What are you doing?” Cohen cried. “Hurry! Röhm might be here any minute!”
She dropped the clipping and hurried to the bureau beneath the window. She yanked open a drawer and pulled out three graying undershirts. Their rank smell hit her in the face like a fist. Quickly, she went through the bureau’s pitiful contents: woolen long johns with holes in both knees, a sweater with an unraveling collar, two pairs of badly darned socks, broken bootlaces, handkerchiefs so old the fabric had turned transparent—
“Nothing!” Cohen kicked a box in disgust. Do you see any other boxes, Fräulein Müller?”
As she turned to answer, she spotted something in the street. At the dinner hour, the narrow avenue writhed with people: day laborers in stained jackets, school children in checked dresses or shirtsleeves, all hurrying home for their supper, and, in the midst of them, a brown circle, moving steadily.
She froze. The men’s heads were down, their faces obscured by their caps, but their distinctive brown uniforms identified them instantly. And Röhm was unmistakable—the quick, deliberate walk and the squat, heavy frame.
“It’s Röhm,” she said. “He’s on his way.”
She couldn’t complete the thought. If Röhm found her, here, in this old Party crank’s apartment, helping a Jew—
Cohen cursed. “We can’t leave without the diary.”
Her heart swung like a hammer in her chest. The muscle in her legs tensed, ready to run. Get out, get out, get out . But she had to know more about Papa’s death.
She glanced about the room. A moth-eaten sofa whose cushions had been tossed aside; a bureau whose drawers hung open drunkenly, their contents spilled across the floor; a few shirts and trousers and socks; a counter with a white porcelain teapot . . .
She stared at it. So clean, when everything else in the apartment was dirty and dingy.
Cohen followed her gaze. In two strides, he had reached the teapot and ripped off its top. He grinned. “Well done, Fräulein Müller.” He pulled out a hammered metal box, barely bigger than his hand.
“Let’s clean up this mess,” he said, slipping the box into his pocket. “Or else they’ll know someone else was here first.”
“No, they won’t.” They must get away now . “For all they know, Dearstyne was a lousy housekeeper—let’s go!”
“Almost done.” Cohen snatched up the pile of papers and threw them into the box. Outside, Gretchen heard the low rumble of a man’s voice, still so distant she couldn’t separate the sound into words. Röhm , she thought as Cohen reached for the sofa cushions on the floor.
“Forget the cushions!” She snatched up his hand and ran, pulling on him so hard that he bumped into her. They rocketed into the hallway. Footsteps echoed from the stairwell; another moment and the SA men would be upon them.
The back stairs were their only chance. Still clutching the boy’s hand, she ran down the corridor, away from the main staircase. Together, they reached the closed door at the end of the hall, skidding to a stop. He twisted the knob, and then they were hurtling down the back stairs in the darkness. All
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