A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 16
September 29, 2008
NEWS: I’m off to LA this week for Shriekfest! Hopefully THE HUMANITARIAN will knock ‘em dead and suck their blood. Or something.
EXCERPT:I leaned backward to look at Rudolf. Thirty centimeters taller than me, and he always stood too close. He never forgave me for despising him, and I never forgave him for seducing my sixteen-year-old brother out of my home and into his decadent life. Inside of a week of meeting Rudolf, Ernst left school, moved out of the apartment, and started singing at the new El Dorado, a queer club on Motz Strasse. I barely saw him after that. Rudolf had turned him from a serious student into a chanteuse.
“He’s not a child any more,” Rudolf said. The front door swung shut behind his back. “In fact, he’s turned to defiling them himself.”
“What are you doing here, visiting Ernst?” I knew Ruldolf was not just visiting, but a lie from him might be illuminating.
“He’s not here.” Rudolf pursed his thin lips. “You look pasty in that horrible coat, Hannah. It is the color of a paper bag. And the cut is all wrong. Are you dressing out of the dustbin?”
“Where is he?” A cold weight lodged in my stomach.
“Cavorting with that Nazi boy he’s seeing no doubt.” Rudolf scanned the street.
“Nazi boy?” I stuttered.
“Someone more his own age. A luscious youth.” Rudolf hefted the box against his narrow hip. “Someone of whom you would approve.”
A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 15
September 9, 2008
NEWS: I just found out that my vampire screenplay THE HUMANITARIAN is a finalist in Shriekfest 2008: The Los Angeles Horror/Sci-Fi Film Festival!
EXCERPT:
CHAPTER 2:
A burst of humid air hit my face as two teenage boys pried open the doors of the moving train. The train had entered a tunnel, and the boys were daring each other to stick their arms into the darkness, never knowing when they would draw back a bloody stump. Their parents thought they were safe in school. I closed my eyes and did not open them until I sensed the subway car had re-entered the light.
The train stopped at Kaiserhof station. I had missed my connection at Friedrichstadt. I should have climbed out and taken a bus to Moabit for the trial, but instead I rode west toward the more expensive borough of Wilmersdorf. Eventually this subway would take me to the Zoological Gardens, only a few blocks from Ernst’s apartment building. I stayed on, unable to do anything else.
When I got out at Bahnhof Zoo, I climbed the stairs like an old woman, hesitating on every step. Fewer passengers jostled me now. I wound my way through fashionable buildings, barely sparing a glance at the neo-Gothic spires of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial church.
As I wavered in front of Ernst’s apartment building, Rudolf von Reiche burst out, tall, lean, and aristocratic in a gray three-piece suit and a shirt so white it cut my eyes. He carried a cardboard box the size of a child’s school bag and almost knocked me off the stoop. “Ah, Hannah, Queen of the Bourgeoisie,” he said in a frosty tone, tipping his gray bowler at me.
“Hello, Rudolf, Defiler of Children.”
A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 14
September 1, 2008
NEWS: Back to “A Trace of Smoke,” for those of you who are following the novel. I hope you liked the “Coffee” excerpt too. You should be able to get it at a bookstore near you by mid-October.
EXCERPT:
Outside, a gust of wind tried to rip the umbrella out of my hands, but I held on, cursing and half crying as I stumbled across cobblestones to the subway. I pushed my way down concrete stairs, against the crush of people going to work. They chattered and laughed together, gleeful in the mundane details of their lives. I wanted only to go home and be alone.
Pictures of Ernst flashed by in my head. The most painful images were from his childhood. He’d been a wonderful child and, later, a great friend. I leaned against the wall of the subway station, face turned toward the tile and sobbed, safely alone in the crowd. When I could stand and walk again, I did.
Once aboard the train I collapsed on the wooden seat and drew a deep breath. I ran my fingers over the oak slats of the bench. The wood was blonde, like Ernst’s hair. Across from me, their faces hidden behind twin newspapers, sat two men in black fedoras. One man read the Berliner Tageblatt, the other the Völkische Beobachter, that Nazi rag.
A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 13
August 18, 2008
“I apologize in advance if there’s anything inaccurate. My editor has a leaden touch.”
Kommissar Lang handed me a pen. “Come to my office and sign it.” He gestured back down the hallway, past the photograph of Ernst. If I followed him, I knew that he would regale me with tales of his arrests and later be offended that I did not write each one for the Tageblatt. I had been through that with countless police officers, and afterward they were never much use as sources.
I placed his newspaper against the wall and signed it. “I must be at the courthouse early. It is best to watch the accused come in and sit down. One learns so much.”
He nodded. “One can determine a great deal from watching someone walk.”
I handed him back the newspaper and walked out the front door, trying not to let the wobble in my knees betray me.
A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 12
August 11, 2008
I turned and marched back down the hall, willing myself not to glance at the photograph. If I did not look, perhaps it would not be true.
“Fraulein Vogel,” called Kommissar Lang. I heard him sprinting after me.
Something was amiss. Would he demand to see my papers again, papers I still did not have? I envisioned myself bolting through the front door of the police station, but instead I turned to him, ready to concoct a story of lost papers.
“You forgot my autograph,” he panted.
“I do apologize.” Relief flooded over me. “It slipped my mind. I am so late for the Becker trial.”
Kommissar Lang nodded. “The rapist who targeted schoolgirls in the park?”
“That one.” Any other day I would have asked him about his involvement in the case, but today I needed to get away before I broke down.
He thrust the paper at me.
A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 11
August 4, 2008
“You have such insight into the male mind,” Kommissar Lang said. “You and your husband must be very close.”
“She’s never been married,” Fritz said. The corners of his mouth twitched with a suppressed smile.
“Might you autograph an article for me?” Kommissar Lang clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward. “Do you have an article in today’s paper?”
I had not yet read today’s paper. “I am not certain.”
“Yesterday’s,” Fritz said. “Front page.”
“I will procure a copy.” Kommissar Lang hastened out of the room. Fritz returned to his desk without saying a word. His shoulders twitched with laughter, but he kept a serious face. It cost me, but I gave him the expected warning smile.
When I glanced down at the reports, I saw gibberish. Lines of black type ran along the paper, but my mind could not turn them into words. My hand shook as I pretended to take notes, but I hoped Fritz could not see that from his desk. I willed myself to think of nothing but numbers and stared at the second hand of my watch, silently counting each tick. When three minutes elapsed, I put the unread reports down on the counter. “You are correct, Fritz,” I said. “Not much there.”
I would find no report of a sensational murder or string of robberies for Peter Weill’s byline today. And the murder I most wanted to research I could not ask a single question about. No attention dared fall on Ernst or me. If Sarah and her son were still underway, they might be arrested. Because of her political activism, she had been denied emigration to the United States three times. But it was becoming harder for even apolitical Jews to leave Germany. If the National Socialists, the Nazis, were to gain the majority in the Reichstag, I shuddered to think what would happen. Anti-Semitic scapegoating ran deep everywhere in Europe. As disgusting as I found it, I had to admit that Hitler was far too clever at using it for his political ends. Things would get worse before they got better.
A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 10
July 28, 2008
“I am a crime reporter,” I answered, looking up. “Under the name of Peter Weill.”
“The Peter Weill?” His tone shifted. He was a fan.
“For the past several years,” I said. “I have worked closely with the police all that time.”
I pulled my press pass out of my satchel and handed it to him, then flipped open my sketchbook to a courtroom sketch published in the paper a week ago.
His face creased in a smile. “I remember that picture. Your line work is quite accomplished.” He returned my press pass, and I tucked it into my satchel.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s so rare that anyone notices. You have a discerning eye.”
Fritz suppressed a smile when the man stood up even straighter and held out his hand.
“Kommissar Lang.”
I wiped my palm on my skirt before shaking his hand. “Good to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine.” Kommissar Lang rocked back on the heels of his highly polished shoes. “Your articles have astute insight into the criminal mind. And the measures we must take in order to protect good German people from the wrong elements.”
“I try to do a good, fair job by getting my information from the source.” I glanced at the reports in his hand.
He bowed and handed them to me. “So many reporters these days speak only to victims. Or criminals.”
“They are important sources as well.” I took the reports with a hand that trembled only slightly. “One must be thorough.”
A Trace of Smoke, Excerpt 9
July 20, 2008
NEWS: I have a short story coming out in an anthology in October. More details as I receive them.
EXCERPT: Fritz turned and walked to a large oak file cabinet. As he sorted through folders I took a few steadying breaths.
“Here we go.” He pulled out a stack of papers.
I leaned against the counter and tried to look composed.
Fritz passed me the incident reports with his short, blunt fingers. “Not much, I’m afraid.”
“Hey!” called a high pitched male voice behind Fritz. “You must not give her those reports.” A small man with erect military bearing rushed over to us and snatched the papers from my hand. “Who are you?”
Fritz looked worried. “She’s Hannah Vogel, with the Berliner Tageblatt.”
“You have identification?” He stared at me with dark crow’s eyes. His thick black hair was perfectly in order, his suit meticulously pressed.
“Of course,” I said. My identification rested in Sarah’s purse in the middle of the ocean. I rummaged through my satchel, for show, grief replaced again by fear.
“I’ve known her since she was seventeen years old,” Fritz said.
The man ignored him and snapped his fingers at me. “Papers, please.”
“They must be here somewhere.” My knees threatened to collapse. I took things out of my satchel, a green notebook, a clean handkerchief, a jade colored fountain pen that Ernst bought for me after he left home.
“What do you do at the Tageblatt?” His tone sounded accusatory. He leaned closer to me. I yearned to back away, but forced myself to remain still, like someone with nothing to hide.
A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 8
June 23, 2008
NEWS: The trailer is done, except for the scoring. I’ll release it in April 2009.
EXCERPT: “Anything worth my time?” I said to Fritz, because that is what I would have said on any other day.
“A group of Nazis beat a Communist almost to death, but that’s not news.”
“Not news,” I said. “But newsworthy, even though the Tageblatt will not run it. Someone should care what the Nazis are doing.”
“We care,” Fritz said. “But the courts let them go faster than we can arrest them.”
A Trace of Smoke Excerpt 7
June 16, 2008
NEW: I will have a trailer done this week! But I won’t release it until April to generate interest in the book. And I have a new and wonderful blurb on my home page from the esteemed historical fiction writer Paul Doherty. Hooray!
EXCERPT: Like every Monday, I had come to the police station to sift through the weekend’s crime reports in search of a story for the Berliner Tageblatt, looking for a tale of horror to titillate our readers. Mondays were the best times for fresh reports. People got up to more trouble on weekends, and at the full moon. Ernst’s photograph flashed through my head. He too had got up to more trouble on the weekend. I swallowed my grief and handed Fritz back his handkerchief.
Fritz shook his head. “We found a few floaters last weekend.” He walked behind the wooden counter that separated his work area from the public area. “Mostly vagrants, I think. Probably a few from a new power struggle between criminal rings, but we’ll not prove it.”
I held my face stiff, using the polite smile I’d mastered as a child. I was grateful for the beatings, slappings, and pinchings I’d received from my parents. They had taught me to hold this face no matter what my real thoughts and feelings. Ernst had mocked me for it. Everything he thought or felt showed on his face the instant it entered his head. And now he was dead. I gulped, once more fighting for control. Fritz furrowed his brow. He suspected something was wrong, in spite of my best efforts.