Hitler's Angel by Kris Rusch Read Free Book Online Page B

the closet. He pauses, puts a hand over his forehead, presses against the bridge of his nose. Even then, the image will not go away. The one that he sees in his dreams. Little Wilhelm, named by an idealistic youth for his precious and misguided Kaiser. Wilhelm, whose face was so thin when he died that he looked like a skeleton already.
    She knocks, then opens the door. He stands, almost losing his balance.
    ‘Frederich?’ she says. ‘Herr Stecher?’
    He makes himself walk to the door. ‘Fritz,’ he says. ‘Since we are spending our days together.’
    She smiles, a real smile this time. She pulls a box of cigarettes from the bag she carries, and hands them to him. Then she goes into his kitchen and takes dishes from the drying rack. She arranges the sandwiches on two plates as he watches. A woman has not worked in his kitchen, not in the two decades that he has lived here.
    ‘The deli is quaint,’ she says.
    Quaint. The warmth he felt toward her recedes. Quaint. A condescending word. So that he cannot forget the political hegemony that separates them. He would never call anything American quaint.
    ‘It has stood on that corner longer than you have had a homeland,’ he says.
    ‘Well,’ she says, unconcerned by his tone, ‘it certainly seems authentic.’
    She hands him his plate. He takes it and sets it beside his chair. She takes her sandwich and sits. He goes back into the kitchen and pours himself a beer. It is early to be drinking.
    It is late to be thinking of Wilhelm.
    But he does both.
    ‘So,’ the girl says, her mouth full of food. ‘Did the housekeeper confirm Frau Reichert’s story?’
    He grips the counter, marvelling how one part of his past can save him from dwelling on another, darker, infinitely more terrifying part.

NINE
    T he housekeeper, Frau Annie Winter, did not hunch. Each movement she made had a military precision. The wary look she had had in the apartment had hardened into a craftiness that he trusted even less. She sat in the same chair Frau Reichert had, but Frau Winter used it like a battle station to counteract his every move.
    During his brief interview with her in the apartment, she had seemed distracted. Here she had a sharp focus as if the few hours that had gone by solidified events in her mind.
    Fritz did not sit when he spoke to her. Instead he stood over her, crossing his arms and standing as close as he could without touching her. Those who intimidate hated to be intimidated.
    ‘When did you go to the apartment today, Frau Winter?’ he asked.
    She looked up, met his gaze evenly. ‘Frau Reichert called me. She wanted the keys to Geli’s room.’
    ‘Why didn’t Frau Reichert have keys?’
    ‘She is responsible for no one except her mother.’
    ‘What is their position in the household?’
    ‘They are guests of Herr Hitler.’
    ‘They are family then?’
    ‘No.’ Frau Winter’s mouth was tight with disapproval. ‘Frau Reichert was his landlady before he moved to Prinzregentenplaz. She was kind to him. He is kind in return.’
    Fritz clasped his hands behind his back. The room had a chill dampness that seeped from the brick. ‘So she does nothing to help you.’
    ‘Oh, she helps. When it amuses her, ’Frau Winter said. Her tone was even, her face impassive.
    ‘You don’t like her.’
    ‘What I like or don’t like doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Geli is dead.’
    She glanced at him again, as if to make certain he caught the rebuke. He did, and thought it interesting. Witnesses usually responded in anger or fear. Frau Winter merely added to the chill. ‘Did you see the body?’
    ‘No,’ she said. ‘They already had it in the car when I arrived.’
    ‘Whose car?’
    She blinked and small frown lines appeared on her forehead. The pause was slight but, he felt, significant. ‘I do not know.’
    ‘Herr Schwarz’s car? Herr Amman’s? Herr Röhm?’
    She brought her head up sharply. Behind the chill in her eyes was something else, something darker.