Страница 95 из 127
She knew which filing cabinet in the study held the photographs. She didn't know which drawer they were in, or which folder. Would the knock on the door come before she found them? That would be the cruelest cut of all.
Here they were! She started to carry the manila folder to the fireplace, then hesitated. They might wonder why she had a fire going, or find the remnants of photos in the ashes. Lise knew she wasn't thinking too clearly. She also knew she couldn't afford to take any chances at all.
She brought the folder into the downstairs bathroom instead. She started tearing the photos into little bits and flushing them down the commode. She couldn't help seeing some of what she destroyed. Here was the raw stuff of history, disappearing one flush at a time. Part of her thought that wasn't right-there should be some record of the Germans' crimes. The rest…She was shaking and in tears by the time the job was done. Heinrich would have shownthat to little girls? The medicine was strong-too strong, she thought.
And she couldn't keep on shaking and crying. Even though this part of the job was done, she still had more to do. She went to the telephone and dialed. It rang six or seven times before a man said, "Bitte?" in a sleepy voice.
"Richard?" she said. "Richard, this is Lise Gimpel."
"What do you want? You woke me up," Richard Klein grumbled.
Woke you up? In the middle of the afternoon?Lise blinked at that. Then she remembered he was a trombone player. Musicians kept strange hours. "Richard, I need the name and number of that lawyer you used last year. You're not going to believe it, but Heinrich has the same problem you did."
"Gott im Himmel!"Klein exploded. He didn't sound sleepy any more. "Hang on. I'll get it for you." He came back on the line a minute later. "He's Klaus Menzel. Here's his phone number. Have you got something to write with?"
"Yes." Lise took down the number.
Richard said, "Good luck. Take care of yourself. Let us know what happens." Those were all things one friend could say to another without giving anything away to anyone tapping the line.
"Thanks," Lise said, and hung up. She could have made other calls: to her sister, to the Stutzmans, to Susa
Besides, they would hear soon enough, one way or the other.
She called the lawyer and set up an appointment first thing in the morning-and got his promise to try to make sure nothing drastic happened before then. She'd just hung up the phone there when someone started banging on the front door.
She didn't need three guesses to know who that was. The banging went on and on. As she walked out to get the door, she wondered if she would be able to keep that appointment after all.
Susa
"Heinrich," she muttered, and shook her head in wonder mingled with despair. When Maria Klein asked her to meet for a drink, she'd known something was wrong. Something, yes, butthat? She shook her head again.
Of them all, Heinrich Gimpel was the last one she'd expected to get caught. He was the one who never took chances, who never seemed to have the nerve to take chances. No Jew could afford to draw too much notice. But Heinrich often went out of his way to be not just solid and unexciting but downright boring. Susa
And now the Security Police had him. How hard were they leaning on him? How hardcould they lean on him? the Fuhrer had asked for information from him, after all. They had to know that. Even if he was a Jew, it should count for something…shouldn't it?
She finished her drink, got up, and poured herself another one. It all depended on how much they knew, or thought they knew. If they were sure Heinrich was what they said he was, they would go ahead and do whatever they wanted with-and to-him. The more doubts they had, the more careful they'd need to be. So it seemed to Susa
They might not care. They might decide that, once they'd used him up, he wouldn't be able to do anything to them anyhow. Who in the Reich in the past seventy years had been able to do anything to the organization Lothar Prutzma
Horst went away. Susa
The questions were stupid. Some of the answers the contestants gave were even stupider. And the way the people jumped up and down and squealed-men as well as women-made Susa
"If this is the master race, Lord help the rest of the world," Susa
Susa
And if she drank enough, maybe she'd even stop worrying. She set about finding out.
Heinrich Gimpel sat in a cell that held a cot whose frame was immovably set in the concrete of the floor, a sink, a toilet, and damn all else. Whenever he stood, he had to hang on to his trousers. They'd taken away his belt-his shoelaces, too.
Of course, the first thing they'd done when they got him here was yank down his trousers and his underpants. They'd grunted when they saw he was made the same way they were. One of them said, "Is that all you've got?" He supposed that sort of insult was meant to tear him down so he'd be easier meat when they really started questioning him. He wondered why they bothered. He was already about as frightened as he could be. He was so frightened, he reckoned it a minor miracle he had anything at all to show down there.
They hadn't beaten him-not yet, anyway. They hadn't drugged him, either. They'd just tossed him in this cell and left him alone. He didn't know what that meant. Were they working up something particularly horrible? Or were they unsure he was what they thought he was?
Think, Heinrich, dammit,he told himself. If he could change the mess he was in to any degree, it would have to be with his brains. But what were the odds hecould change it? Slim, and he knew as much. Still, he had to try.
If I were truly agoy,how would I act? He'd still be frightened. He was sure of that. If you weren't frightened after the Security Police grabbed you, you had to be crazy. But he would also be outraged. Howdared they think him a dirty Jew? The anger he generated was ersatz, but after a while it started to feel real. He wondered if actors worked themselves into their roles this way.