Winter, p.39
Winter, page 39
‘Tell me about Harry. What’s been wrong?’
‘It all started with the Fischers. Last year, after the second presidential election, and Hitler’s big share of the vote, Richard Fischer decided they should sell up.’
‘And leave Germany?’
‘Yes, and go to Paris.’
‘But their home . . . and everything . . .’
‘Yes, Foxy couldn’t bear the thought of it. He’s eighty-two, nearly as old as Dad. He was determined to stay put.’
‘But why go?’
‘The regime,’ said Veronica. Lately it had become a way of explaining every horrible thing that happened.
‘But the Fischers are Roman Catholics. They were Catholics even before old Foxy was born.’
‘But the Nazis don’t think like that. If your ancestors were Jews, you are a Jew.’
‘What happened?’
‘They didn’t go. Richard was arrested in August. “Fuchs” almost died of worry, and Harry went rushing around to everyone he knows.’
‘What was Richard charged with?’
‘No one could find out. They say he was interrogated for four days.’
‘But he got out?’
‘He signed all his Fischer holdings over to the Nazis.’
‘That must have been worth millions.’
‘The Nazis seized Wertheims department store, too. Jewish property is being appropriated everywhere.’
‘But Richard is safe?’
‘I don’t know. He was arrested again in September. They say he’ll be charged with changing Reichsmarks into Swiss francs. It may be all trumped up. They do that sometimes: just invent some offence and let you try to prove you are innocent.’
‘So what’s happening now?’
‘Poor Fuchs is with relatives in the country, and Richard has disappeared. The police won’t say if they’re holding him or not. He might have gone abroad. He has cousins in England.’
‘Couldn’t Pauli find out anything?’
‘No. Göring runs the police here in Prussia. Himmler – who Pauli works for – is in charge of Bavaria. Peter went along to Police Headquarters in Alexanderplatz and said he wanted to act as a lawyer for Richard Fischer and demanded to see him, but he got nowhere. I was worried that Peter might get into trouble, too.’
‘Thank God Lottie has kept her U.S. passport. What about little Helena? Has she got a German passport?’
‘She’s only seven years old, Glenn, so we don’t have to worry about her for a little while.’
‘These people are maniacs,’ said Glenn.
‘A lot of people support the Nazis,’ said Veronica. ‘At least they tell me they do.’ She became flustered in the face of such unbridled criticism of the new regime. The Nazis were not like other political parties who’d come to power. The Nazis were vindictive, spiteful and very, very violent. Even in Berlin, these most outspoken of all Germans had quickly learned to curb their tongues. Nowadays only visitors like Glenn, and a few foolhardy opponents of the Nazis, voiced their innermost thoughts.
‘I can understand why Harry got sick.’
‘He was so frustrated, Glenn. Before, he’s always been able to go to the right people, or get lawyers, or find out the facts. But the Nazis thrive on secrecy. He became ill, and the doctor told him that if he didn’t have a complete rest he wouldn’t be responsible for his health.’
‘But now he’s back at work?’
‘Hauser drives him to the office at about ten-thirty. He has a look around, and then he comes home about three. But it’s making too much work for Peter.’
‘But the companies are all run by directors. Isn’t it time Peter took a holiday? You told me he hasn’t been away for years.’
‘Poor Peter. He so hates working for the company. In the old days Harry had complete control, but now the directors have their own ideas about everything. Even though Peter tries to make sure that Harry’s wishes are approved, sometimes Harry and Peter disagree. Peter is so much happier playing the piano. But in September Goebbels’s Propaganda Ministry set up a “Chamber of Culture”, with departments to control the theatre, the radio, the press, films and so on. Peter, being married to a Jew and associated with Brecht – and the other Marxists, who have run away to America – will probably find it difficult to continue his work in show business.’ Veronica sighed. ‘Young Hennig has been doing so well with his piano recitals, and many people thought Peter much more talented. I wish you’d speak with him, Glenn. See if you could persuade them both to take a vacation – just a vacation – back home. It would do wonders for him. Sometimes I think he’s forgotten that he’s half American.’
‘Married to Lottie, I’d say that would be difficult.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, you’re right. Darling Lottie.’
‘And Pauli? We haven’t talked of Pauli.’
‘Pauli. What can I tell you about him. He’s still the same: he’ll never change. The baby of the family. Marriage has worked wonders for him. Thank goodness he has Inge to look after him.’
‘But he lives in Munich?’
‘Next year they’ll be back in Berlin. With the Nazis in power, all the Munich offices will be coming up to Berlin.’
‘But you said that Göring runs the police in Berlin.’
‘Yes, dear, but that’s all changing. By next summer, Pauli’s department will be coordinating political-police offices all over Germany, and he’ll be working in Berlin. They’ve even asked me to look out for an apartment for them. It will be so lovely having them back here.’
‘Next week I will be going to Friedrichshafen. The Graf Zeppelin is having a complete mechanical overhaul, from Spitze to stern. On the way to Bodensee I had a mind to stop over.’
‘Yes, do go and see him. Pauli would love that, Glenn. He’s very fond of you. He’s a real Rensselaer, and I’ve often thought you understand him better than anyone.’
‘I like him, sis, I really like him.’ Glenn looked round the room. All the old Biedermeier furniture had gone, in favour of modern pieces. Modern woven fabrics on low angular chairs, chromium and mirror everywhere, and a white carpet that he was constantly frightened of spilling coffee or ash upon. He guessed it was Harry’s idea. Harald Winter prided himself upon his taste in modern art. It made the room lighter, of course, but for him this wasn’t Berlin, this was more like some flashy new ‘roadhouse’ on the New Jersey turnpike.
‘If only they could have a child. I pray for them. It would transform Inge, and wouldn’t Pauli be the most wonderful father any child could ever wish for?’
Glenn nodded and got up from his chair. Yes, that was true enough. Pauli, with his tricks and his jokes and his infectious laughter, would make any child happy. Glenn wished he’d spent more time with his two nephews. Now it was too late. Now they were men with their own lives to lead: they could have little use for an uncle, no matter how well meaning he might be. Sometimes he’d thought of bringing his wife here for a holiday, but not now. He didn’t like what was going on in Germany.
He looked out of the window to see the crowded street below. It was almost Christmas and, except for the paths swept along the pavements and the roadways, there was snow everywhere. The shoppers looked happy enough, warm, well dressed and busy. In the shopwindow across the street was an elaborate nativity scene, complete with a model donkey that nodded. The only jarring note was a bored-looking brownshirt on the corner outside Schachtmeister’s Konditorei holding a big sign that said ‘The true German does not buy from a Jew’.
But Berlin did not belong to Hitler. Berliners had seen too many fakes and charlatans to be fooled easily. And Hitler’s promises about restoring agricultural land to the peasants cut no ice with those factory workers who had so recently escaped the worse slavery of unmechanized farm labour. Nor did the Nazi talk of nationalizing factories appeal to Berliners, who could see here in the city the dismal result of enterprises run by bureaucrats. And if Berlin was ready to succumb to the fanciful promises of politicians, it would be to those of the left, for Berlin was ‘Red Berlin’ and always had been.
‘It’s good to be back in Berlin, sis,’ said Glenn.
1934
‘Gesundheit!’
Pauli had this filthy influenza. Inge said it was his fault for not wrapping up well, but anyway he couldn’t shake it off. He’d been running a temperature for two days and he should have been in bed, and would have been except that Lothar Koch had made such a fuss. In any case, the last place he should have been at 4.30 a.m. on Saturday, June 30, 1934 was standing in front of the passenger buildings on the silent, empty and icy-cold Oberwiesenfeld, the airport for Munich.
The breath of the two men condensed on the night air. ‘He left Bonn at two a.m.,’ said Lothar Koch. Behind the airport buildings a line of big cars were parked. The drivers had been sleeping. But now they’d been wakened and were wiping condensation from the glasswork and running the engines to have them warm and ready.
Pauli wiped his nose and didn’t answer. It was all right for Koch. He was used to outdoor duties, and he had woollen underwear to wrists and ankles and his new heavy black leather overcoat. Leather was the only thing that offered protection against this sort of cold wind, and Pauli decided to buy one from the same shop where Koch had got his. It had a removable woollen lining in a hideously vulgar plaid, not even a genuine tartan. Pauli’s Scots nanny had taught him to despise such fakes, and he had decided against buying the coat. But this morning he wouldn’t have cared what the lining was like. Anything would have been warmer than his thin raincoat.
‘Are you sure the Führer himself is aboard?’ said Pauli. He huddled in the shelter of a mobile generator, but it gave little protection against the piercing wind. ‘Why would he come so early? He’s not due in Bad Wiessee until eleven a.m.’
‘Something very special is happening. The teleprinters have been going all night,’ said Koch. ‘I was in the Brown House last night soon after Sepp Dietrich arrived with two Berlin Criminal Police officers. He’d come directly from a meeting with the Führer. He said that two companies of the Leibstandarte are coming from Berlin-Lichterfelde. Does that bring back some happy memories?’
Pauli nodded and wiped his nose again. Lichterfelde barracks. It was odd to think of the black-uniformed LAH, Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler – the Führer’s SS bodyguard – occupying the old Prussian-army cadet school. Nineteen fourteen – that was a long time ago. He’d been just a child, and the world was foolish and innocent. If only he’d known what was waiting for him.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Koch. ‘The Leibstandarte are on their way by train to Kaufering, near Landesberg am Lech. Sepp Dietrich is meeting them there with transport to take them to Bad Wiessee.’
‘I don’t see any special significance in that,’ said Pauli. ‘The Leibstandarte companies have to provide security for the Führer’s meeting with Röhm.’
‘Röhm and all SA Obergruppenführer, and Gruppenführer and inspectors. All the SA top brass will be there,’ said Koch. ‘My pal from the Kripo got a look at the Führer last night. He said he was in a really bad mood.’
Pauli nodded and sneezed into his handkerchief.
Koch added, ‘But the most significant thing of all, my friend, happened last Monday. The German Officers’ Association expelled Captain Ernst Röhm. Expelled him! Why is the army distancing itself from him? I think those bastards know something we don’t know.’
‘But which we soon will know,’ said Pauli, and wiped his nose. In this cold wind his eyes were watering, too. He felt like death. Whatever was going to happen, he fervently hoped it would happen soon, so that he could go home and go to bed.
There was the sound of a door slamming and a flash of yellow light from the building behind them. A man in blue coveralls and a leather jacket came out of a door marked ‘Weather Bureau’ and told them the plane would be landing in ten minutes. Soon afterwards all the runway lights came on, revealing a layer of mist through which the lights shone like dandelion puffballs. Then they switched on the big floodlights that illuminated the apron where the passengers disembarked.
Now a group of people came from the airport buildings and stood looking at the northwestern sky. They didn’t speak to one another. They stood like statues, still and silent. Some of the reception committee were easily recognized. They were mostly men from the Munich offices: personalities who had several closely written index cards devoted to them in Lothar’s constantly updated SD records. There were a couple of army officers, and high-ranking officers of the SA, the SS and the Nazi Party. The only ones not in uniform were two airport officials, who kept looking at their watches.
Pauli was the first person who spotted it in the streaky purple sky. It was the big three-engined Junkers that Lufthansa had refurbished specially for Hitler. It landed smoothly and taxied to where the steps had been wheeled into position. Lothar Koch and Pauli Winter kept well aside from the reception committee. Their orders would come from the office of Reichsführer-SS Himmler: that’s how important it was. Meanwhile, Koch was writing in his tiny black notebook the name of everyone present. Koch kept a note of everything; it had become almost an obsession with him.
The aircraft’s door opened, and as the first passengers emerged the reception committee formed a line, fidgeting about, like recruits on a parade ground, to be sure they were properly in position. The third man – a leather-coated figure – coming down the steep metal steps paused to look round, like an actor making his first appearance on a new stage. It was the Führer – there was no mistaking him – and even from this distance it was clear that he was agitated. After him came Josef Goebbels, lame and cautious on the steps, then Otto Dietrich, Hitler’s press chief, and then – a dispatch case clamped tight under his arm, and keeping apart from the others – came Viktor Lutze, the SA leader in Hanover.
The Junkers cut its engines one by one, and in the silence that followed, Pauli heard Hitler tell the Reichsheer officers, ‘This is the blackest day of my life. But I shall go to Bad Wiessee and pass severe judgement. Tell that to General Adam.’
Koch eyed Pauli and smiled sardonically. Now, slowly, it was becoming clearer to them. They both knew that Lieutenant General Wilhelm Adam, commander of the Reichsheer’s 7th Division in Munich, was one of their regular sources of information about SA activities. If Röhm and his men were to be the target of some punitive action, General Adam would be only too pleased to provide the army’s help. No doubt that was where Dietrich, the LAH commander, would get his trucks.
A tall man in the long black overcoat and peaked cap of the Allgemeine SS detached himself from Hitler’s party and came over to them. ‘Which of you is the lawyer?’ he asked. He wore the headquarters cuffband, a badge that identified him as one of the adjutants that Himmler’s offices teemed with nowadays.
‘I am,’ said Pauli.
‘You’d better start now,’ he said. ‘Röhm’s Headquarters Guard might put up a roadblock. You’d better have your story ready.’
‘I have false papers,’ said Koch. Even Koch was deferential to this august personage from the Reichsführer’s office.
‘Don’t park near the Pension Hanselbauer. We don’t want them alarmed.’
‘It’s all prepared,’ said Koch. ‘I have chosen a place already.’
‘Very efficient,’ said the tall man in a voice that might or might not have been sarcastic. ‘Are you men armed?’
‘Yes,’ said Koch.
‘And you, lawyer?’ As he said it the adjutant looked away to see where Hitler’s entourage were going.
‘I have a pistol,’ said Pauli.
‘And do you know how to use it?’ asked the man. He was too young to have been in the war. It was typical of such upstarts that he wore an army sabre instead of the SS sword that regulations prescribed.
‘Yes,’ said Pauli, ‘I know how.’ Pauli did not share Koch’s awe. He added, ‘Is the Führer going to Bad Wiessee?’
The tall SS adjutant looked at him with contempt. ‘You’d better get started,’ he said and turned away to rejoin Hitler’s party, who were now getting into the cars.
‘Don’t ask questions,’ said Koch after they were on the road south. It was getting lighter every minute, and the cloudy sky changed from red to pink and curdled, like a bowl of soured cream. ‘That’s one of the basic rules.’
‘It’s a damned stupid rule.’
‘Perhaps it is,’ said Koch judiciously, ‘but it’s a rule nevertheless. If you wanted so badly to know where the Führer is going, you should have asked me.’
‘Why? Do you know where they’re all going?’
‘They’re off to the Ministry of the Interior in Munich. The Führer will give Minister Wagner a good talking to. After that they’ll come out to Bad Wiessee.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I asked one of the drivers. That schmuck you asked had no idea where they were going. That’s what made him upset when you asked.’
Pauli laughed despite his misery. He liked Koch. Koch had the right pragmatic approach; that’s why he’d falsified his age to get into the army, and that’s why he’d become a sergeant major at some ridiculously young age.
‘And forget about roadblocks,’ said Koch. ‘Röhm’s Headquarters Guard are in Munich. Does that oaf think we haven’t been watching their movements all the time?’
Bad Wiessee was a small resort near the Austrian border where the elderly came to retire and the infirm to enjoy the iodine baths. When the two men arrived in their car, the streets were empty. In the sanguine light of early morning, the still water of the lake reflected the surrounding mountains and the tall peak of the Wallberg, which was, for the few brief weeks of summer, devoid of snow.
They parked in the back alley of the little Goldenes Kreuz Gasthof. From there they could see the road while remaining virtually out of sight. Bad Wiessee is only fifty-four kilometres from Munich, but it is high in the mountains, and in the unheated car Pauli shivered with the cold.
Inge had provided them with some cold meat, bread rolls, and a small flask of hot soup. The soup would make Pauli feel better: Inge’s home-made soup always did. There was not much of it, and he shared it between the two metal picnic cups.
