“Flattery? Is that all you have to offer me right now?” she said, and walked away.
Franka didn’t quite get the warm bath she’d wanted, but the three inches of tepid water she managed to gather still felt like a luxury. The picture of the dead bodies burning on the streets of Stuttgart hung in her consciousness as she sat in the water. John would take another two or three weeks to heal, and then he’d be gone. What was there for her after he left? The thoughts of ending her life were blunted. He’d shown her that she was still useful and could still make a difference in people’s lives. But what hospital would hire her now? She was a traitor to the Reich, had spent time in jail for sedition. There seemed little place for her in Germany. She had enough money for another year or so at least, but what then? What if she couldn’t work? She had aunts and uncles in Munich and cousins spread in cities and towns throughout the country, but would they accept her? Would they treat her as the traitor that the Nazis had painted her as? She hadn’t seen most of them in years. Her cousins on her mother’s side were strangers to her now. It didn’t seem enough.
This war would end soon. Everything was going to change. The act of living longer than Hitler and his regime would be her victory. It was more than millions of others would achieve. She longed for the day when the ideals that Hans and Sophie held up were the norm once more, when they would be revered as the heroes they were and she could at least be forgiven. Living long enough to see that time, whenever it came, would be enough.
John came into her mind again. It was ridiculous, but he was the closest thing she had to a true companion left in this life. She had no one closer. There was no one that she’d revealed as much of herself to in this entire world. And soon he would be gone. She thought of America. It was heartening that someone could believe in their country as he did and still retain themselves. His loyalty was to the people of his country, not to some regime that claimed to be working on their behalf. The “patriots” she knew were twisted and ruined by perverted ideals. Patriotism to the Nazi state was an abomination, and directly contrary to everything it should have stood for. The true patriots were the ones with a healthy suspicion of the government and every motive it acted upon. The true patriots were those who didn’t let themselves be overtaken by the Nazi rhetoric, those who remembered who they were, like Hans and Sophie. Like her father. And perhaps the true patriots were the ones who would welcome the armed missionaries who were undoubtedly coming to her country.
The calendar on the wall read January 20, 1944. Daniel Berkel was hunched over his desk, where he seemed to spend the majority of his time these days. Most of his job was shuffling paper, checking sources, and investigating disputes between neighbors and former friends. Because the act of denouncing neighbors could place them under arrest and potentially land them in jail, disgruntled citizens found themselves in a position of newfound power over the people they bore grudges against. All too often people condemned by their neighbors as enemies of the state were guilty of little more than encroaching on their land, or stealing their newspaper once too often. Just a week before, he’d dealt with a case of a jealous husband who had reported the handsome man next door. The agents tortured him just enough to get to the bottom of the matter, and the neighbor confessed to beginning an affair with the man’s wife. The agents released him. There was an art to torture. If the agent went too far, the suspect would end up confessing to trying to assassinate the führer. The art was finding the right balance. Every man and woman had a breaking point. The experienced interrogator knew when to proceed and when to desist, which methods to employ and to hold back. They had beaten the handsome neighbor with rods but stopped short of hanging him up, and most certainly stopped short of attaching an electrical charge to his genitals. That was for more extreme instances, but such cases seemed to be the norm these days.
The orders from above were becoming more and more Draconian. Berkel harkened back in his mind to the days before the war started. Times were simpler then. The liberal, cosmopolitan attitudes of certain citizens, while never encouraged or accepted, could be tolerated before the war. These days there was no place for such attitudes in the Reich. The search for liberals and so-called free thinkers had become an obsession of the higher-ups. It was hard to believe that despite how many enemies of the state they’d disposed of, there were still more among the population, but somehow there were. The Gestapo was busier than ever. Archaic notions such as evidence and due process had long been dismissed. The Gestapo had absolute power over the populace, and Berkel never grew tired of the fear he could inspire in men who might not otherwise have paid him any mind.
Berkel was proud of the work he did. His only regret was seeing family so fleetingly. There simply wasn’t time enough to do his job effectively and see his sons as much as he would have liked. Several framed photos of them adorned his desk. It was a difficult sacrifice but one he made for his country. His life was dedicated to a greater cause for which they would thank him one day. His was a generation that was willing to sacrifice itself for the good of the next, and what greater gift could he bestow upon his children than a peaceful and prosperous Reich? It was the ultimate duty of any father and something that motivated him on a daily basis.
Berkel reached over for his cold cup of coffee, then set it back down as he realized he’d dropped a cigarette into it hours before. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one with matches he kept on his desk. The ashtray was full, so he used the coffee cup once more instead. The lamp on his desk pierced through the dark, shining down on stacks of papers to be pored over when time would afford. It was dark outside, but warmer than it had been. The snow was melting at last, and most of the roads were open once again. A knock sounded on his door, and he called out for the person to enter.
Armin Vogel, a Gestapo agent originally from a farm near Eschbach, appeared around the door. “Daniel, how are you?”
“Busy, Armin. I’m trying to prioritize whom to bring in next. Is a waiter who said that the war is lost more of a priority than a priest who is holding secret masses?”
“Sounds familiar.”
Vogel sat down opposite Berkel and lit up a cigarette of his own. Berkel put the papers down, glad there was an excuse for a break.
“I did have something I wanted to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“A report came across my desk you might be interested in. I remember you mentioning an old acquaintance that you ran into late last year. Franka Gerber?”
“Yes, an old girlfriend from my teenage years. What about her?”
“I had a report from Sankt Peter a few days ago. Franka Gerber was acting suspiciously there just before Christmas. She wanted crutches for her boyfriend, who’d apparently injured himself skiing.”
“Is that right?” Berkel said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. “She told me she was going back to Munich.”
“Huh. Well, she’s here. One of my men checked her papers here in town just the other day. Everything seemed normal, but I thought I’d tell you. It’s likely nothing . . .”
“But suspicion is our business.”
“Quite. I would have brought it to you sooner, but I’m as busy as you are.”
“I understand. Thank you. I know where she’ll be. I should pay her and this boyfriend of hers a visit, seeing that the roads are almost clear now. Nothing wrong with paying a visit to an old friend, is there?”
“Nothing at all.”