In The Presence Of My Enemies

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 Susanna Weiss, to a few-so few!-other people she knew. She could have, but she didn't. She had a plausible reason for calling the Kleins' house. She couldn't bring them under greater suspicion by doing so. That wasn't true of the others. She didn't want the Security Police wondering about her side of the family and her friends. Even if the worst happened to her, they could go on.

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.

Susanna Weiss sat on her couch, a glass of Glenfiddich in her hand. The news was on, but she couldn't pay attention to Horst tonight. She took a long pull at the scotch. It wasn't the first one she'd had. It wouldn't be the last one she intended to have, either. If she felt like hell in the morning-and she probably would-well, that was why God made aspirin.

"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. Susanna sometimes wondered what Lise, who was a good deal more lively, saw in him. She supposed something had to be there.

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 Susanna, anyway. They wouldn't want to tear answers out of a man who might be able to get his own back one day…would they?