Free The Eye of the Abyss by Marshall Browne Page A

roulette? He released one of his tight smiles. He’d been a judge until 1933.
    The policeman’s credentials were good. An honest, reasonable,
humane man. Fifteen years – they’d no cause for complaint of him. However, was that record about to be debased? For example, had he done a deal with his masters to get his girl out? Was their network the quid pro quo?
    Rubinstein said, ‘What is it, specifically, that you wish from us?’
    Dressler blinked quickly at the end of the delicately balanced silence. ‘Mein Herr, my daughter has a plan to leave which, if it eventuates, should be safe. I fear it may not eventuate. If it does not, time will be a crucial factor. I wish to find another way. Some Jewish people are getting out.’ He meshed his giant fingers together. I request your assistance.’
    He took a deep breath, breathed in their fear, and let it go in a sigh. All he could do was be himself.Why should they help? The risks were too great.
    Rubinstein absorbed the man’s honesty, and pain, his constrained breathing. His own breathing seemed quick and refined in comparison. He said, ‘Thirty per cent of our people in this city have left Germany Most under conditions which were difficult, though far easier than today.’ He shrugged. ‘Last month, the Government demanded the surrender of all Jewish passports. Two ways exist, which might be acceptable to you in terms of the risk. We can forget the others. Firstly, certain Nazi officials are prepared to arrange exit papers for a price. A very high price.Very few can pay it.’ He looked at Dressler.
    â€˜Secondly, false papers can be prepared – these are expensive – but the expense is more manageable. However, the danger is much greater. Day by day, the authorities become more vigilant. To be detected is … one chance in five.’
    The rickety chair had creaked under Dressler’s weight, though he had not moved his body.
    â€˜Would you arrange an introduction? For the real papers.’
    Rubinstein nodded slowly. ‘Nothing is safe or sure in these dealings. I would recommend them only as a last resort.’

    Back outside, Herr Dressler surveyed the gloom. The slit-like street had two low-powered lights at either end; between was a black gulch. Fortunately, the Gestapo were short-handed in this city. He knew their exact number. Informers were the worry.
    He began to retrace his steps, hands plunged into his pockets. Tears were in his eyes, he realised. He felt gratitude towards these men, admiration. They were traders used to sizing up persons, taking risks; nonetheless, this was a deadly game. Today, whom could anyone trust? He couldn’t trust his colleagues, they observed each other with embarrassment. The orders coming down from Himmler’s office were accepted with feigned indifference.
    He recalled an incident. Two years ago after a Party rally, SA thugs had suddenly identified a dark man, chased and cornered him; kicked him to a bloody pulp. A citizen had remonstrated. Amazed at this temerity, the Nazis had turned on him, one had speared him in the face with the eagle-head of his flagstaff. The man had staggered back, his eye hanging on his cheekbone. Like a flock of pigeons taking off, the crowd had scattered. Standing with uniformed colleagues, Dressler had witnessed it. Almost in a drill movement, they’d looked away. He’d felt sick to his stomach, dishonoured, and had stepped forward to summon medical assistance. The dark man was gurgling in his death throes. The other had gone off to hospital following his futile act belonging to another age, or the Great War. Dressler had understood that kind of heroic, reflex act; that it owed little to logic, or the way the world was. It was just the way certain men were. Like these he’d just met.
    He let it go, and padded on through the darkness. Shadowy human forms slipped past him in the murk. Optical illusions? His brain