The Eye of the Abyss by Marshall Browne Page A

slogan. The wind hurled back the odour of sweat, the hard-edged words.
    Helga had tightened her grip on his upper arm. Now they walked in the other direction. That salute? Could it be that his photograph was posted at every SA branch office as a person for special treatment? Impossible. Already the incident would be submerged in their files. More likely an edict had gone out: Salute obviously Nordic citizens!
    â€˜Forget them,’ Helga said, ‘let’s hurry home and look in on Trudi.’
    The Brownshirts had finished off her birthday. In his jaw, the toothache flared up.
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    Fräulein Dressler and her father walked through the windy
night to her flat, the guarded conversation they’d had over the meal in their minds. Dressler’s head was lowered on his massive chest, huge hands buried in his coat pockets. Beside her erect carriage and precise steps he went with a swaying motion, transferring his weight from side to side. His breathing was laborious. His daughter, a tall, well-made woman, didn’t reach his shoulder.
    It had come. Senior Detective Dressler told himself that the change at the bank had been just one of the potential catalysts to her situation. Day by day, patrolling his patch, he’d observed the government closing in on Jews, dissidents. It’d been a nagging fear in his mind. Now it was out in the open. To be dealt with.
    They reached the shabby building where she’d lived for five years. Entering the foyer she thought:What a carefree time that seems now. This morning the Nazi director had come to the door of the anteroom and stared at her. She felt sick with fear as she relived it. Her father remained on the steps. Massively immobile, he gazed at doorways one by one.
    â€˜Papa, will you have wine?’
    â€˜No thank you, Lilli. Perhaps coffee?’ He was still wheezing from the walk. Once inside, he removed his overcoat and sat down, uncomfortably wedging himself into her largest armchair. She took his coat, saying, ‘What a weight! It must be giving piles to waitresses all over town.’ Nervously, she laughed her throaty laugh.
    â€˜I’ve had it since the war,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t usually eat at restaurants.’ A stool at a zinc bar, with a plate of the day, his coat hung up by himself, was his normal routine.
    His large blue eyes had gone first to the silver-framed photograph of his late wife. How his daughter resembled her. The features, eyes, hair. Even the same languorous movements. More the pity. No, he couldn’t say that. He’d not been here for six months. She was playing it safe. Some of the distinctive
family silver was no longer on display.
    She brought in a tray with coffee and his favourite biscuits, then sat down and watched him sip the coffee.
    â€˜Herr Wertheim’s known that important fact from the first. He’s always treated me with great consideration. I was a particular favourite of his in the past, not in the present. But we won’t go into that. It’s the way of the world, papa.’
    He knew what she was telling him.Years ago, he’d suspected the relationship they’d had.
    â€˜He’ll do what he can, should it become necessary.’
    Dressler studied the rug. He remembered the day his wife had chosen it. He didn’t wish to frighten his daughter, but it was already necessary. This new Nazi director staring at her with his hard suspicion had made that clear.
    He said, ‘Herr Wertheim can’t be totally relied on. In the end, his interests, those of the bank, may be placed first.’ He spoke in his usual dolorous tone, tinged now with deep affection. He looked into her intelligent eyes. ‘That’s the way of these matters.’
    She thought: Yes. The bank’s been a haven these past ten years. But she must forget that now. Not to do so would be a paralysing self-deception. Everything was changing. And these days, there was something new about