Chapter 13 Audrey

BERLIN, GERMANY | DECEMBER 1938

Herr Müller,” Audrey said again, stepping in front of Ilse and raising her hands. She stared down the dark barrel of the pistol and felt as though she might vomit. All she could do now was tell him the truth. Or a version of it. “Sir, you need to understand—”

“What’s happened to Vogt?” he demanded. “Is he dead?”

“He—he tried to violate me,” Audrey said. “He came home when I was in the bath. He forced his way into my room. He was about to…” Müller’s gun was still raised, but he was frowning now. “You must believe me, sir. He would have succeeded, but—”

Ilse spoke from behind her. “I killed him, sir.”

“Ilse!” Audrey hissed.

“It was me. I’m sorry. I hit him with a lamp. I didn’t mean to kill him though. I only meant to get him off her. I didn’t think beyond that. He had her pinned, you see. On the bed.”

Tears ran down Ilse’s stricken face. She was trembling.

“He tried to violate you, Fräulein?” Müller asked.

“Yes.” Audrey looked directly into his eyes, hoping that their conversation about Vogt in the kitchen might count for something, might be a notch in this disaster that she could convince him to hang his belief on.

After a breathless moment, Müller lowered his gun. “You called her Ilse,” he said.

Audrey’s mind raced to create an excuse for Ilse’s presence. “Yes. She’s a friend of mine. I know I should have asked you first, but she’s just staying the night. She—”

“Ilse Kaplan,” Müller said.

Audrey sputtered. “How do you know—”

“Because your name was on the registry for this household,” Müller said sharply to Ilse. “You”—he glared at Audrey—“told us she was dead.”

In one wild moment, Audrey eyed the gun at Müller’s side, wondered if she could wrest it from him. But no. This was it. They were done for. “Please.” She clenched her fists so hard the nails dug into her skin. “Please just let—”

“I assume you’ve been where… in the attic?” he asked Ilse, who nodded. Müller shook his head. “I don’t care that she’s here,” he said, after a pause.

The women stared, speechless.

“But I do need to understand who the hell you are, Audrey James.”

Blood was thudding so hard in Audrey’s ears she could hardly hear him. She was nobody. And he didn’t care about Ilse. He didn’t seem upset that his comrade was dead. What was going on?

“First, we need to deal with this.” Müller twitched his head at Vogt’s lifeless form. “What were you planning to do with him? Where were you going?”

Audrey shifted. “We were going to put his body out on the sidewalk. Make it look like he was attacked on his way home. A brawl, you know. He stinks of liquor.”

Müller cocked an eyebrow. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“What?”

“We have to get rid of him,” Müller said, an impatient snap to his voice. “Unless you want to leave him here in the hallway to rot.”

Audrey cringed. “No.”

“Right, then grab his feet.”

Audrey thought she must wake up from this bizarre dream at any moment, but did as Müller instructed.

“You there.” He gestured to Ilse. “Why don’t you go pour us each something strong?”

Ilse’s dark eyes darted from Müller to Audrey.

“I’ll be right back,” Audrey said.

They shared a meaningful look. Was this Müller’s way of separating them? But he was armed, and they were not. There was no need to divide them. He could shoot them where they stood, if he was so inclined, and receive congratulations for it the next morning. But he hadn’t, and she was desperate to understand why.

Müller led the way down the stairs, Vogt’s torso heaved onto his back and shoulders. Audrey staggered awkwardly behind, holding Vogt’s feet. Ilse followed in their wake, a grotesque processional of pallbearers. By the time they reached the front door, Audrey was in a cold sweat.

Müller poked his head outside, paused, then proceeded onto the dark stoop. Audrey assumed the coast must be clear. It was late, and the side street was normally quiet. Snow was still falling as they dumped Vogt’s body on the pavement several feet away from the flagstone path up to the house. They looked around once more to check whether they had been noticed, then scurried back inside. Audrey bolted the door behind them, wondering whether she was locking the threat inside or out.

Müller strode into the sitting room and flopped into one of the wing chairs. Ilse was standing awkwardly by the sideboard, a drink in each hand. Audrey went to her, and they waited for Müller to speak.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing to the divan. “I’m not going to hurt you. Have I not proved that? All is not as it seems in this house. You have some explaining to do. As do I.”

Audrey and Ilse exchanged a glance, then Ilse handed Müller a glass, from which he drank immediately, and the other to Audrey, who merely held it in her hand. It smelled like Schwartzhog liqueur. Ilse didn’t drink alcohol. They both took a seat on the divan, where they had so often sat before, and waited. Müller spoke first.

“Tell me again how he was killed,” he said.

Audrey met his eyes across the coffee table. “He was attacking me. I tried to fight him off, but I couldn’t. I even took the letter opener from the telephone room up to my bedroom. You know. Just in case. After what you said. But I couldn’t get to it. Ilse came down from the attic and hit him with the brass lamp from the dresser.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Ilse said again.

She was having difficulty making eye contact with Müller, and Audrey could hardly blame her. This was the first time she had seen him. He was still in his uniform from the office, the swastika and eagle badge encircling his arm like a pack of wolves. His shoes shone, reflecting the gold flames from the fire. He was a Nazi. Living in her home, sitting next to a Christmas tree. Yet he did not care that Ilse was a Jew.

“I regret that I was not here,” Müller said. “I have tried to arrive home before him, or with him, to ensure…” He took another swig of his drink. He drank fast, as though eager to be rid of it. “I am sorry, Fräulein.”

Audrey didn’t know what to say.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “How long have you both been hiding here?”

Ilse squeezed Audrey’s knee, signalling to her to speak for them. Audrey explained what had happened at Hertie’s. “Then you arrived the next day.”

“And who are you, Fräulein James? What are you doing here?” he asked.

Audrey told him how she grew up in the house across the street, about her studies at the konservatorium. “I was planning on returning to England after my graduation.”

“But you aren’t?” Müller asked.

“Well, no,” Audrey said. “I need to stay with Ilse now. Her passport is invalid.” She caught the anger creeping into her voice, tamped it. “She can’t come with me. So I’m staying here.”

“And I need to wait for my mother and brother to return,” Ilse said.

Müller glanced at her but said nothing.

Audrey was a flutter of nerves. “We still don’t understand. Why do you not care about Vogt? About Ilse being here?”

Müller rose suddenly and refilled his glass at the sideboard before returning to his chair. He surveyed them both, then pulled off his hat and raked a hand through his hair. “I am part of a resistance cell in Berlin. So was Vogt. We are working against Hitler from inside the secret service and military ranks.”

The silence that descended on the room was so dense, Audrey felt as though her ears had been filled with cotton padding. Ilse clutched her elbow, and Audrey was reminded of the time she’d stood up to the bullies down the street, when the third had approached from behind. Somehow, this too felt like a trick. A Nazi resister?

“You do not believe me,” Müller said.

Audrey’s mind was reeling. “So… these poker games you’ve been having here—”

“Strategy meetings, yes. Very astute, Fräulein,” Müller said with half a smile.

“All those men are in it?”

“Ludwig, Vogt, and Claus all work for the military or SS in some capacity. I’ve known Aldous for years, since our school days, and he is particularly useful to us as a forger and middleman. He has some contacts in the other cells.” Müller tilted his head at Audrey. “I thought you suspected us, you know. I thought you were spying. You had Claus and Ludwig quite concerned for a while there. That’s why I didn’t want to hire you in the first place. The last thing we needed was an unknown pair of eyes on us.”

Audrey scoffed. “I thought you lot suspected me of not being… exactly what I told you.”

“And you aren’t, are you?”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” she pressed. “That night in the kitchen?”

“What night in the kitchen?” Ilse asked.

Müller relayed the conversation that had transpired when he caught Audrey creeping down to check the post. Oddly, he seemed to be rather enjoying this exchange.

Audrey was still trying to absorb it all. She leaned forward on the couch, still thigh to thigh with Ilse. “But how did you come to be part of a resistance in the very heart of the Nazi regime? I hardly believe you.”

Müller nodded. “There aren’t many of us. But there are enough to try to effect some kind of change. There are a few other cells that we know of, aside from ours. I work in the Abwehr division of the SS. The counterintelligence office. My job is to locate and eliminate resistance cells just like ours.”

Audrey and Ilse studied him with a mixture of disbelief and intrigue.

“Most of the officers who resist simply feel Hitler has gone too far,” Müller continued, “become megalomaniacal in his rule. Many believe in the superiority of the German people and state, but that diplomacy is a far more reasonable method for asserting our rights in Europe. On the current path, Hitler will pull Europe into another war, and we cannot let that happen.”

Audrey thought of the millions of soldiers and civilians slaughtered, and felt her skin crawl. Everyone had said it would never happen again. The war to end war, they had called it.

Müller went on. “Others, like Vogt, just like a good fight.”

“You’re not sorry he’s dead, are you?” Audrey asked.

“No. He had the right passion for the resistance, but he was reckless, and as a man he was a piece of shit. Obviously.”

“And you? Why did you get involved?”

“Well… I agree that if we do not avert the Reich’s trajectory, if we try to annex any more land, invade another state, we will be at war again. That is a certainty.” Müller ran a hand over his cheeks, his eyes on Ilse now. His long fingers twitched his moustache before he answered.

“Also, my mother is a Jew,” he said.

Of all the reasons Müller might have given for resisting, Audrey hadn’t expected that.

“She went to England before the outbreak of the Great War. I was just a child. My father never married her,” he said. “But he cared for her. There was a load of anti-Jewish sentiment before the war, and he could see things heating up. So he sent her to live with his brother until she could get herself established on her own. My uncle is a professor of German literature at Oxford. His family has lived there for years. Longer than I have been alive, I believe. I have never met him.” He exhaled. “And he kept me here to be raised by my stepmother. I was his son and heir. My stepmother was only ever able to have one other child, my sister.”

Ilse shifted beside Audrey. “You don’t really look Jewish,” she ventured.

Müller’s face glowed in the light of the fire. “I know. I take after my father.”

“Don’t they know you’re Jewish?” Ilse asked. “The Party, I mean? Your papers—”

Müller shook his head. “My stepmother is listed on my birth certificate. My father fixed it. So there is no suspicion. And besides, who would expect a Jew to show up looking for a job in the German secret service? Much the same idea as hiding in one’s own attic whilst Nazi officers move in downstairs,” he added, inclining his head at Ilse. “Sometimes the best place to hide is the last place anyone would look.”

They were all quiet for a while, each sorting through their own thoughts.

Müller cleared his throat. “I find this a relief, truth be told, to have everything out in the open. Far less skulking around in the shadows for everyone. And now you, Fräulein Kaplan, can come down out of the attic. That can’t have been pleasant or comfortable.”

Ilse’s eyes were glassy, but she had finally found her voice. “This is my home,” she said. “I’ve been a silent prisoner in my own home. You took it over, threw parties. Put up a Christmas tree.” She gesticulated at the candlelit fir. “I’ve been grieving my family in a dark attic whilst you slept in my parents’ bed and ate at their table.”

Müller was solemn. “I am sorry,” he said. “Truly. You must believe me. I had no idea you were here. I—”

“Will you leave?” Ilse asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Will you leave, now that you know who we are? This is my home.”

Müller’s gaze flicked from Ilse to Audrey and back again. “Forgive me, but what recourse do you have for income if I leave? Who will pay to heat your home, put food on your table?” His tone was stern, but not unkind.

“Could you not access my father’s funds for us? Are they—”

“All Jewish businesses have been seized by the government,” Müller said. “Your father’s wealth is now the property of the Third Reich.”

“What about when my mother and brother return?” Ilse demanded. “What then?”

Müller swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down beneath his clean-shaven throat. “I do not think it fair or compassionate to lead you into a thicket of false hope.” He paused. “I think it is unlikely they will return. If they do, it will certainly not be anytime soon.”

Ilse fixed him with a hard stare. “Unlikely.”

“Yes.”

“But possible?”

Müller shifted one of his glossy shoes. “Possible, yes. I suppose.”

Ilse straightened. “Fine. Then I will hold on to my hope, no matter how deluded you may find it. This is my family. And if they return, I will expect you to leave.”

Audrey marveled at her friend’s uncharacteristic assertiveness, then glanced at Müller for his reaction. But he said nothing.

Ilse rose from her seat. “I’m going to have a proper bath. It’s been weeks.”

As she made her way toward the stairs, Audrey found herself locked in an internal battle. Her loyalty told her to go with Ilse, but she was desperate to know more from Müller. Everything had changed. Audrey stayed where she was.

“Is there any way for you to find out where they’ve been taken?” she asked quietly. “Ilse’s family?”

“I can try,” Müller said. “But I make no promises. To be frank, the father might be the lucky one. A bullet to the head is far more humane than what may await the rest of the family at the camps.”

Despite the heat from the fire, a shiver snuck up Audrey’s spine. “What are the camps like? You only told me they were meant to be permanent.”

Müller shot back his last dose of liquor. “That isn’t a conversation for tonight, Fräulein,” he said, and the hollowness in his eyes frightened her nearly as much as the gun in his hand had.

“I think the hope of them returning has been all that’s kept Ilse going,” she said.

“Then we shall let her keep going.” He seemed to consider something. “You clearly care deeply for your friend.”

Audrey’s heart swelled. “Yes. She’s my family.”

Müller pulled a hand through his hair again. There was conflict in his eyes, which made sense now that she knew more about her mysterious housemate. “I think now that we have come clean with one another, we need to consider what happens next,” he said.

“I agree.” Audrey was happy to move on from the topic of her feelings for Ilse.

“In the morning, you will need to call the regular police to report Vogt’s death. You’ll need to do it before I’ve finished breakfasting and left the house.”

“Why me?”

“Because you are the least likely suspect. You’re a small woman, a dutiful housekeeper. You’re attractive and young enough to garner sympathy. Just be sure to act shocked and put on some hysterics if you can.” Müller studied her. “You fooled me for a time, Fräulein. You are well suited to the dramatics. Tell them you went out to fetch the milk and found his body on the pavement, nothing more. The fewer details, the better. Liars always say too much.”

Audrey nodded. She was still trying to grasp all that had transpired, reaching for the details like marbles scattered in all directions. She remembered the blood on the floor upstairs. It would need to be cleaned before Ilse took her room back. But they could share the bed in Audrey’s old guest room for tonight. In the morning, she’d call the police. And then what? She looked down at her glass, decided to drink it after all. She knocked it back, tasting the bitter orange, vanilla, and spice.

“You said there are other resistance groups?” she asked.

“A few. We have a distant relationship with one other group. It isn’t centralized though. Its members hail from all over Germany and Holland, whereas ours is Berlin based,” he said. “I would imagine it has its advantages, though, to be spread out. Less chance of discovery. But much more difficult to communicate without being exposed. There isn’t any kind of organization,” he continued. “It’s all very fractured, different groups advocating for different things. But the SS refers to all the cells collectively as the Red Orchestra.”

“Why the Red Orchestra?”

“The people in my office, the counterintelligence officers, suspect some of the resisters have ties to the Soviets. And they may be right. But they have no idea how deep this runs within their own ranks. It is my job to divert and distract them, to prevent them from learning the true extent and identity of the resisters here.”

Audrey felt a tingle of something at the thought of these clusters of resistance. “What’s your objective then?”

Müller met her eyes. “To kill Adolf Hitler.”