White Rose Black Forest(61)

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.”

Vogel stood up and gave the salute, which Berkel returned.

Vogel left, and Berkel sat back in his seat and waited a few minutes before going to the basement. He knew exactly where her file was and went right to it. It felt light in his hand—a life’s work summed up in a few lines he’d read so many times that he didn’t actually need to look at them anymore. She’d said she was leaving. She was still here. What did she need crutches for? His other cases were going to have to wait.



January had been warmer than expected, and her car was almost freed from its bondage. John was exercising the best he was able to when Franka returned with the firewood. She kicked the slush off her shoes before shouting to him, announcing her presence. He appeared a few seconds later.

“Just a few more days, and then we’ll see how your legs are. You’re through the worst of it,” she said.

“Thanks to you,” he answered before going outside to drag the firewood in. She pulled the sled, piled up with wood, inside. He did his best to help her, but as usual, she ordered him to sit down. She sorted through the firewood, tossing the driest pieces in the basket by the fire. It was the twenty-first of January. The six weeks she’d insisted on him wearing the casts would be up in four days, and then he’d be gone, never to see her again. She’d be just one more face who’d drifted into his life, then out of it. He made his way over to her and began sorting through the second pile of wood she’d not gotten to yet. The fire was crackling orange, the evening drawing near.

“What are you going to do after I leave, Franka?”

“I’m not sure—look for a job most likely.” She continued sorting through the wood. “There’s always going to be a need for nurses, especially with a war going on.”