What We Say in the Dark
Vienna 1939
Anton sat in the hardback chair, inhaling the stench of sweat and cigarette smoke. The subterranean air, thick with the smell of fear, clung to him. The concrete walls absorbed any light cast by the naked bulb hanging overhead. He gripped the table to steady himself.
As a teenager growing up in Paris, he loved to do mental puzzles with his older brother. Suppose you’re in a room with only a table, two chairs, a mirror on one wall, and a metal door with someone standing guard outside it. How do you get out? Someone should have added: Suppose you’re sweating, your hands are shaking, your heart is racing, and you need to appear calm, or you might just wind up in prison or dead.
His thoughts were interrupted by the muffled shouts of “Bitte, bitte,” followed by the clang of metal slamming.
It felt a world away from the honeymoon in Southern France he’d enjoyed with Isabelle a month earlier. While they lazed under the Mediterranean sun, Viennese Jewish businesses were being closed, Jewish homes raided, and people taken away. Jews were still allowed to leave, provided they had money.
Isabelle’s family had used all their connections to procure visas for their relatives’ escape to France. Now they needed to pay their debts to secure their own freedom. The Nazis were good at coming up with debts and unpaid bills that needed reconciliation.
Anton had volunteered to be the deliveryman. If he was successful, his wife’s family would be out of the Third Reich by the end of September. He tried not to think of the alternative.
On his initial visit to Isabelle’s relatives, he carried a satchel containing a handful of cheap souvenirs; a test to see how the security services would react. He knew he was being watched from the time he checked into his hotel and was unsurprised when he was picked up by the police. He told himself the Gestapo was trying to intimidate him—that he had nothing to fear. The words rang hollow as he was escorted to a waiting car. His palms slickened with sweat as he got into the back seat.
As the policemen drove him to the Gestapo headquarters on Morzinzplatz, he recalled what he’d said to Isabelle before departing. “Look,” he said, opening the valise. “The false bottom is undetectable; the money is secure. I’ll keep it locked in the hotel safe until it’s time to move it. I’ll make a test run with this other valise.” He had felt heroic smuggling money to save her family.
Vienna passed by the window. Although he’d never been here before, the contrasts were jarring—the incongruity of Nazi banners layered over cafés with cultured people wearing the latest Parisian fashions. It had the sophistication of Paris but had been overtaken by angry young men who were aggressive and edgy. Something was in the air—a mood, a feeling of being watched by something evil waiting to strike, waiting for someone to make a mistake.
They came to a building with Corinthian columns and caryatid atlases. The car plunged into a subterranean entrance and arrived in a musty garage. The policemen, dressed in leather jackets too warm for summer, hustled him down a dimly lit passage flanked by metal doors with small rectangular slots.
Anton felt like his head had been shoved underwater as they led him to a room at the end of the hallway. The room felt abandoned—it was poorly lit and had two scuffed chairs and a scarred table.
“Sit,” the taller of the two commanded. Anton sat in the nearest chair, taking comfort that the valise linking him to any wrongdoing was locked in the hotel safe. His confidence was nearly restored by the time the door clanged open and an unusually handsome man in uniform strode in with a manila folder and Anton’s valise.
“Monsieur Texier. My apologies for keeping you waiting,” he said in French. The man was debonair, not bluntly aggressive as was typical of the Nazis. Anton started to rise but the man motioned him down and sat across from him.
“I’m Kurt Steiner, I work with the security services. It’s warm in here. Would you like some water?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Steiner turned and shouted in German. A man poked his head in, speaking briefly with Steiner before slamming the door.
“My apologies for any inconvenience. It’s my job to keep the city safe. That includes ensuring visitors have no problems or inadvertently run afoul of the law.”
“Have I done something wrong?”
Steiner smiled. “We’ve had some issues with crime in the Jewish neighborhoods and have devoted extra resources to keep an eye on it.One of my men spotted you in the Leopoldstadt neighborhood. Naturally, he was concerned with your well-being.”
The irony was that any crimes being committed were by the Nazis. He thought better of telling the sergeant he knew he was being followed when he left the hotel. Best to let Steiner think he was the smartest man in the room.
“I didn’t have any problems.”
“That’s good to hear. May I ask what you were doing there? Were you lost?” Steiner asked, watching Anton closely.
“No, I was visiting relatives.”
“I see. What are their names?”
Anton had no doubt that Steiner already had this information. “Rochwerk,” he said, as Steiner penciled the name in the folder. “Isaac and Helen Rochwerk. They have a daughter named Leah.”
“They are Jews, yes?”
“Yes.”
“But you are not. I mean, you don’t look Jewish.”
“No, Catholic.”
“How do you know these people?”
“They are relations of my wife, Isabelle.” He cursed himself for saying her name, drawing her into this sordid game. His inquisitor nodded and continued to write. Anton flinched at the loud rapping on the door.
Two uniformed men entered, one carrying a pitcher with two glasses and the other carrying a valise—the valise that had been locked in the hotel safe. The valise with the money secreted in the false bottom. His chest tightened but he resisted reacting to the blatant provocation. The glimmer in Steiner’s eye told him his adversary had already gotten the response he wanted. As the valise was set on the floor, Anton watched it as if it were a bomb about to explode. Steiner poured water into the glasses and pushed one across the table. “Please, Mr. Texier.”
Anton’s hands were trembling as he raised the glass to drink.
“Mr. Texier, what is your profession?”
“I’m a student. I just graduated from the Sorbonne.”
“Really. What did you study?”
He was confused by the eagerness in Steiner’s voice. The man seemed genuinely interested in chatting with him, as if they were strangers on a train passing the time. All the while, the valise taunted him.
“Literature.”
Steiner held up a finger to emphasize the next point. “I’m going to take a guess and say that your political beliefs are probably somewhat socialist. Am I right?”
“I was the leader of the student communist collective.”
“I knew it,” Steiner replied with surprising enthusiasm. “Collective, how fascinating. The workers control the means of production and all that.” He leaned forward with an air of confidentiality. “Some of my colleagues take a dim view of communists, but not me. I don’t subscribe to their ideology, but I find them quite interesting—some are very clever.”
Steiner’s conversation and the proximity of the damning valise created a growing dissonance. Anton wanted to talk about the valise to see what Steiner knew. He was almost relieved when his interrogator finally turned to the luggage laying at their feet.
“This is your valise, correct?”
“Yes, how did you get it?”
Steiner raised his eyebrows. “I went to your hotel and asked for it. It’s interesting that you need two of the same valise.”
“I liked the style, so I bought a second one to give to my relatives.”
Anton smiled inwardly at his smooth response. He had practiced answering any questions he could imagine. Cover the real story at the bottom with a series of lies and half-truths. He set his glass down and eyed the valise. They haven’t figured it out yet.
“Why did you need my valise?”
“For safekeeping.”
“It wasn’t safe at the hotel?”
Steiner chuckled. “No, Monsieur Texier. You see, it has a rather large sum of money hidden in the bottom. I thought it would be safer here.”
Anton’s stomach cramped as he watched the house of cards he’d constructed collapse. He was left flailing for a lifeline.
“You are aware that bringing money in is illegal?”
“Yes,” he said, almost choking on the word.
A voice shouted from the hallway. Metal clanged and the shouting became louder. “Bitte, bitte,” a raspy voice pleaded. The shouting ceased and was replaced by two other voices, barely audible, talking in normal conversational tones.
“I apologize for the distraction. Where were we? Oh yes, the valise with the money. Mr. Texier, this is bad news for you and for your Jewish relatives.”
Anton groped for a response, some way out of the dark hole he’d dug but he could see no daylight. His mind raced at the thought of what lay in store for him. Steiner continued, “You have two choices. The first option is I have you arrested along with your relatives. My captain will be pleased, and I’ll have a favorable notation in my service record. You would spend some time as a guest of the Reich, and your family,” he shook his head, “let’s just say you would not want to be in their position.” Steiner pulled out a silver case and lit a cigarette. “But there is another way.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You can work for me.”
“For you?”
“Yes, back in Paris.”
“How?” Anton asked.
“I don’t have to tell you that the Third Reich and France are on a collision course. Within six months or a year, we’ll be at war with one another. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“I like to think of myself as smart as well as ambitious. If our countries go to war, it would be in Germany’s interests to have contacts who can give us information about the French government and the army.”
A chill went down Anton’s spine. “You mean act as a spy.”
“Yes. With your Sorbonne education and communist affiliations, no one would question your credentials. I imagine you could land a fine position in one of the ministries. In exchange, your relatives here would be safe, as collateral.”
“You want me to sell out my country?”
“Precisely, for the lives of your family members.”
Steiner’s face bore the smugness of a house dealer who held the good cards and had cleaned out all but one of your chips. “I’ll give you a few moments to think about it while I secure your bags.”
Steiner left with both pieces of luggage. Anton felt overtaken by panic. He stood abruptly, knocking over the chair and cursing his monumental stupidity. He’d always pictured himself as too clever to be caught by these dullards. He paced the room, holding his head in his hands and trying to think of an escape. Each possibility led to a dead end. Think, Anton, think!
Banging echoed down the hallway, and someone shouted, “Heraus, heraus.” He wanted to be back in France with his new bride, his family, and friends. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare and hear Isabelle say it was all just a dream. The fantasy evaporated with the grim reality of her being told that her husband and Viennese relatives had been carted off to jail. The thought made him face facts. Though it made him sick to his stomach, he realized he had little choice.
