November 1942
He was called back to Berlin. His mother was pleased to see him. His father greeted him with a handshake as if they were associates, unrelated. He couldn’t help but notice a change, the aging. He knew that his father’s work was less about design and more about efficiency with what they had. His father would not enjoy that, patching things, working under the Reich minister of armaments. And at that point, manpower and modifications superseded the need for creativity and foresight.
Horst asked Erich about Monique, who had stayed behind in Austria. He wanted to know more about Erich’s wife than his son. Was she fitting in? Did she miss her family? Did she have employment to keep her busy? She is the type of girl who needs to keep busy; give her a job, maybe children, he said, more softly, less formally than when he was addressing his son. Horst, always busy, left their meeting quickly.
Erich made his way to an office for briefings by the senior ministry. They needed his help. They knew he had connections as well as a sixth sense. They knew he was an expert at extracting the truth, often without the need for force, because, as they had found, torture did not always work.
There were people underground undermining authority and distorting views. They had tried to find them—a group that had grown in size, but they had been unable to catch any of the ringleaders. He was sent to an address in the city. He was looking forward to this work, to working back in Berlin. He missed it, he realized, places where interrogations were civil, where he did not have to witness the painful extortions at the camp, did not have to face blood.
Erich banged on the door on the top landing. When there was no answer, he ordered the two officers accompanying him to break down the door. And when they did, they found no one there, only traces: a coffee cup that still had the remains of lipstick, an overfilled ashtray, papers and newsletters scattered across the floor. They searched cupboards, pulled out drawers, pulled apart cushions. They did not find address books, but they found piles of leaflets among the papers with anti-Nazi drawings and slogans, and inciting unrest, accusing the government of operating illegally. The leaflets were telling people to reject Nazism. There were also clippings from Western newspapers about the war, articles smuggled in by resistance members, about the campaigns, about Allied successes.
Only a couple of years earlier, Erich had started this work, and he had grown to crave it, like an addiction, the hunt. In Austria there was not enough of this. They captured people, and he questioned, but it was not really a hunt. He was a born leader and interrogator, which had earned him the title of “the pinscher,” the rat-catching dog. He was clearheaded, capable, and calm under pressure. He was already someone of importance.
“They’ve gone,” said one of the officers. “There are no clothes in the drawers.”
He knew why they had moved location. They were tipped off, and he also knew who was behind the drawings. He had seen similar caricatures before and said that he was ashamed, but she had just laughed and said she could draw what she wanted, then brushed him away like an insect.
Erich would sort out the problem himself. He would see to it.
He did not take the official car. This one was personal. People seemed to sit up straighter and avoid eye contact with Erich when he stepped on a bus to travel home, while many found it hard to look away. He was recognized at public functions, standing near the front of the delegations. He was a celebrity of sorts.
From the bus, he watched the people on the streets, aware that the personal circumstances of some had declined with the rationing of foods, and the threat of Allied air raids hovered. But still the people of Berlin remained stoic and dedicated to the Reich. Small children in nice coats skipped along the pavement and waved at the Gestapo. He was proud of this city and of his country, and of the work he did to protect their futures. He would not let Claudine seek to destroy all that he’d achieved.
He entered his parents’ house, greeted by his brothers with enthusiasm, both of them eager to follow their oldest sibling into service. The second brother was then thirteen, the youngest, nearly nine.
“Where’s Claud?”
“She is at Ovid’s house,” his mother answered, in a tone that sounded accusing rather than informative. She had known it, too. That Claudine had become more difficult. She refused to work and disappeared for days at a time. She argued with her mother about small things, about the raising of the children. But mostly she was ungrateful for the new Germany.
His mother ladled some broth into a bowl for him. He reluctantly sat to eat, but his mind was elsewhere.
His father couldn’t be there tonight, his mother explained. He was rarely home early, and when he was, he was exhausted. He was a consultant now, an important one, said his mother, though Erich already knew this. Knew that he traveled with the führer and his inner circle. Like sheep that never quite know the direction, his father quipped once, and Erich had not at the time recognized the growing resentment.
His brothers were chatty. He was not in the mood to hear about their day. He was only thinking about Claudine and containing his anger.
He didn’t finish his dinner but pushed back his chair to leave. His mother nodded. She understood that sometimes things couldn’t wait. That he must do what he had to. She respected the duty and pressure that fell on him.
It wasn’t a short walk to Ovid’s house, but he welcomed the time to think. He knocked on the door, and Ovid’s father answered. He held the door only partway open. His expressionless face was less than welcoming. He had never liked Erich.
“Is my sister here?” Erich asked, dismissing any formalities or politeness.
“You will have to wait outside.” The older man shut the door, and Erich watched his shadow disappear through the obscuring bubbled-glass panel on the top half of the door.
It was an insult to someone as highly placed as Erich. He could have easily reported the man for disrespect toward an officer, but the older man was not the target of Erich’s anger.
Claudine opened the door and stepped outside, wearing a light blouse and skirt. She wrapped her arms around herself protectively, not from the cold but from the confrontation that was about to occur, her expression belligerent. The absence of her coat meant she was not planning to talk for long.
Despite the animosity between them whenever he first saw her, he would always remember the days in the country, her fearlessness, the times she hated their separation, how she had cried when he would leave for youth camps. It was hard to believe they were once close, but he could not afford to dwell on such times. There was the job he must do.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I went to the apartment of your university friends. I know what you have been doing.”
“What is that?”
“You have been distributing pamphlets siding with anarchy. You have been drawing pictures that belittle our führer. Childish! You and your group . . . It has to stop!”
“Ovid is not involved.”
“I know that’s a lie. I would have had your friends arrested and spared you and your boyfriend, and not been here tonight, but you have forced this meeting. Even before I was given the commission to seek out the distributors of such lies, I had seen you both go to meetings at places that had been investigated before.”
“And what are you going to do about it? Tell on me?” she said with feigned bemusement. He recognized the familiar grin that was once genial, that he had once warmed to, but which now meant opposition.
“Yes. If it comes to that, I will. First, though, I will tell Father. He must be included to make decisions here.”