Chapter 13:
Markenburg:
Christmas 1933
Conscience is the inner voice that warns us
that someone may be looking.
H. L. Mencken (1880-1956)
Albert had hoped for a satisfying conclusion to the exhilaration of 1933, and as Christmas approached he would not be disappointed. He had finally exchanged letters with his mother, who had given him the address of Gunther’s shipping line in Hamburg. Gunther had responded to a letter he’d received from Albert when his ship had docked in Hull, England. After calling at London’s West India Docks, he was due to arrive in Bremen on December 19th, and he would be spending his Christmas in Markenburg.
Albert’s popularity in Hitler’s new elite Leibstandarte, his penchant for volunteering for extra duties, his prowess as a drill sergeant and his steady attendance on all available courses, from racial education to weapons practice, had all stood him in good stead. He had requested five days compassionate leave at Christmas on the somewhat dubious basis of doubts about his father’s health, plus the fact that he hadn’t been home for several months. When permission came, he was delighted and thwarted in equal measure. His leave would only last from Saturday December 23rd, with his return to barracks in Berlin no later than 1700 hours on Tuesday 26th. Yet it was all he needed. It was imperative for all the family, even for a brief time, to be together. Not knowing their thoughts and attitudes about the way things were developing had left him feeling unsettled. His duties at the Reich Chancellery in Berlin alongside his fellow tall, striking knights errant brought him into regular, if fleeting contact with important visitors. Although his membership of the Leibstandarte provided him with a level of safe confidence in his role with the new regime which the majority of civilians could only dream of, he was ever vigilant when it came to the growing web of competing state security networks which were spreading across Germany like an intricate spider’s web. He knew by his oath alone that as an SS man his duty was to protect Hitler and ask no questions. Yet part of the the residue of his family life prior to 1929 in Markenburg, courtesy of the tutelage the late Professor Steiglitz, had been an enquiring mind and a desire to analyse situations, to understand. Thus he had reached the conclusion that the overall administrative nature of his beloved Third Reich was not as simple or logical as it could be. It seemed to Albert, who listened to whatever hints and rumours he could access, that the Führer was happy to stand back and let the most powerful, albeit faithful, conspirators in his national retinue fight it out among themselves for the true positions of power. A good example of this had even become obvious in the SS itself. The SS were represented overall in Berlin by the ambitious Gruppenführer Kurt Daluege. To Albert, it was odd that, according to gossip, Daluege was much closer to Göring than he was to Himmler. Many had suggested that Daluege’s hidden agenda might be to take over as the new leader of the SS. In the brief time the NSDAP had been running the country, the stresses and strains of the intrigue between Himmler, based down in Bavaria, and Göring, with his Prussian Police, had become the subject of a whispering campaign hidden behind a wall of fear. Göring’s choice for the first head of the Gestapo, which was now established at its new Berlin address at 8 Prinz Albrechtstrasse, was a young lawyer named Rudolf Diels. Although not a party member, he was willing to take on Göring’s instructions to disregard the restrictions of state law. One of Göring’s utterances had easily set the tone for the terror which would eventually multiply tenfold; “I have no obligation to abide by the law. My job is simply to annihilate and exterminate – nothing more.” The SS, although even at this early stage, no strangers organised cruelty, considered itself more dedicated, meticulous and sophisticated when compared to Göring’s blustering crudity. A further problem was his utilisation of the primitive, unchecked brutality of the SA. Göring had sent large groups of these brown-shirted thugs on a rampage throughout Berlin and surrounding areas. On the slightest whiff of a rumour they had dragged people off the streets or from their homes and incarcerated these hapless victims in several makeshift detention centres around the city where they were mercilessly tortured. The behaviour of the SA had little to do with organised state security. To those who knew about it, it was simply a sadistic riot by a gang of near-Neanderthals. Gestapo boss Rudolf Diels, his legal training still fresh in his mind, had yet to concede to Göring’s total abandonment of any state law. He sent his men out to track down the torturers. Even the compassion-free Gestapo operatives were surprised when they discovered the starved, bloodied victims incarcerated in their dungeons on beds of filthy straw. The SA had become an enormous, blood-devouring beast. Under the terms of the Treaty of Versailles, the German Army was unable to grow to more than 100,000 men. With over two million men, compared to the German Army’s restricted size, the SA’s leader, Ernst Röhm, had already thrown caution to the wind by letting it be known that he saw the brown shirts as Germany’s new armed force. His expressed desire was that they should absorb the regular army and thus become the new Reichswehr, but the well-disciplined officer class of the army seethed over this prospect in quiet rage, whilst both Hitler and Himmler had more agreeable long-term plans of their own. As bully-boy street fighters the SA had served their purpose in subjugating the Nazi’s opponents through sheer, visceral terror. Yet for the highly disciplined, well-trained black corps of the SS, their respected physicality enhanced by their thorough racial and political education, the brown shirts were becoming nothing more or less than an over-large, unruly and embarrassing street gang.
Unknown to Albert and his men, in much higher government echelons, hidden well behind the political scenery, both Hitler and Himmler had been made aware of the real economic threat posed to the new Reich by Röhm and the SA. The Nazi’s use of the term ‘socialist’ in their title faded into insignificance when compared to the SA’s avowed socialist intentions. Mired though the brown shirts were by the same rabid anti-Semitism as the rest of the Nazi hierarchy, they never the less had plans for the country based more on the soviet model than Hitler’s. The Führer’s financial backers were not, in the main, firms of purely German origin, and many did not represent German family businesses. Except for Thyssen and Kirdoff, they were mostly German multi-national firms such as A.E.G. and I.G. Farben. These international companies had been built up by American loans in the 1920s and early 1930s, and their substantial American financial participation meant that they had American directors. Without the continuing support of this broad cartel of foreign investors in the Nazi party, Hitler’s plans for the re-building of Germany could well stall. Thus, with the looming threat of unbridled socialism posed by the SA to this hard-fought financial equilibrium, a widening gulf had opened up between the brown shirts, the army, SS and the new government. Yet the concerns of a young SS man in 1933 were often on a more prosaic level.
To SS-Unterscharführer Albert Reisemann, the most feared figure in all this intrigue was not some brown shirted leader, but Himmler’s protégé, the head of the state security) wing of the SS, the Sicherheitdienst(SD), the merciless 30 year old SS-Brigadeführer Reinhard Heydrich. Tall, icy and aloof, this was a man of extremes. At one end a musical virtuoso and devoted family man, at the other, an un-tamed womaniser who liked nothing better than a drunken night on the town rounded off with illicit sex. His rise to infamy in the SS had been rapid. In April 1931, he had been a promising naval officer, yet his unprincipled, unbridled lust, which included broken marriage promises and the impregnation of a major industrialist’s daughter, had ruined a potential career. The Navy’s chief, Admiral Raeder, had sentenced Heydrich to ‘dismissal for impropriety.’ The Nazi Party were more forgiving, and welcomed him with open arms. Himmler soon spotted Heydrich’s impressive talent for gathering information and intelligence. By the end of 1933 Heydrich’s sinister tentacles insinuated themselves into every corner of public and private life. No critic of the new state, no matter how mundane, would escape his comprehensive national index card system. When on guard duty at the Chancellery, Albert would feel a genuine chill as Heydrich passed through the doors, always wondering – does this cold, conspiring maestro really know our intimate secrets, who we are, what we do, what we think? The chances were he did. This was, after all, the man who had placed the Reisemann family in that file on Sepp Dietrich’s desk. So it was crucial to know who was who, and there were other regular arrivals at the Chancellery, men of grim countenance, thin-lipped and impenetrable, their black or brown uniforms always preceded by an almost tangible wave of apprehension.
The loud, obese and often crude Herman Göring was, for Albert, easier to decipher than the others. Albert knew that Göring, as the man in charge of Germany’s police, still remained as a thorn in Himmler’s side. Then there was the malevolent looking Dr. Josef Goebbels, all darting dark eyes and devil grin, his club foot adding to his skinny eldritch persona by giving him a peculiar gait which made Albert think of some wounded creature in a fairy tale emerging from a dark forest. Often, when Albert was drilling his platoon, lofty, square shouldered and straight backed, fit young and healthy in their immaculate black uniforms, polished helmets, white belts and gloves, the same thought would satisfy him. These godlike warriors of the Leibstandarte were simply the embodiment of a racial vision. The physical attributes of Hitler, Himmler, Göring and Goebbels were far removed from the standards of the SS. Fat Göring, the almost Asiatic Himmler, the wiry, crippled Goebbels, these men had dreamt a Wagnerian dream of bold Teutonic manhood and fought to make it a reality. To be a part of their aspirations filled Albert with pride. He consoled himself with the conclusion that perhaps it took a leadership gallery of such bold and determined satyrs to change humankind. Grotesque as many of them were, they were a world removed from the high-collared, haughty, frock-coated politicians who had gone before. The corpse of their Weimar Republic and all its self-defeating liberality was already rotting in the grave.
Albert’s faith remained in Himmler; he felt instinctively that the steady manoeuvring and scheming of the Reichsführer-SS would, before long, allow him to supersede Göring. But it was Himmler’s northern SS counterpart, Gruppenführer Kurt Deluege, whose treatment of Reinhard Heydrich, who had been sent on a mission to Berlin by Himmler, which caused confusion among parts of the SS rank and file. Heydrich’s covert task was to assess Daluege’s cosy relationship with Göring, and to remind him that Himmler was still the overall national master of the SS. Göring detested Himmler, and when Heydrich arrived in Berlin, Gestapo Chief Rudolf Diels instructed Göring’s Police to confront the fearsome SD chief. Diels had anticipated that there could well be trouble between Himmler’s southern SS and the Berlin version. Diels was enjoying his job as Gestapo head and had no intention of letting Himmler’s spiteful suspicions ruin either his life or Daluege’s. After furious exchanges, the Berlin administrators sent Heydrich packing back to Munich with the message for Himmler that he should mind his own business. It had been a bad mistake on the part of Diels, Daluege and Göring. Hitler and Himmler needed to bring Göring into line, to stem some of his wilder independent behaviour, and to get him to pay more attention to his Führer, who was, after all, the Chancellor of the Third Reich.
No-one crossed the vindictive Heydrich and got away with it. Being manhandled by Göring’s Berlin Police and humiliated by Diels set him onto a path of festering hatred. By September 1933, by spreading false SD ‘intelligence’ that there was a communist plot to eliminate Göring, and adding to this that the SD were somewhat amazed that the Berlin Gestapo knew nothing about his, Heydrich, through Göring, managed to have Diels removed from his post to be demoted to Assistant Director of the Berlin Police. Göring, relieved and grateful for the SD’s potential ‘life-saving’ intelligence work, which was, in reality, a carefully manufactured fiction, began to listen more to Hitler, and at least pay slightly more attention to Himmler.
Albert knew from the earnest pleas in his mother’s letter that all she desired was a peaceful festive season wherein nothing would arise to upset Viktor. Her main condition was that Albert should not wear his SS uniform during his visit. Naturally, if Uncle Karl was to pay a visit, the chances were that maintaining a serene equilibrium would be out of her control. Elena had planned well, however; she had contacted Karl to ask if he might be visiting for Christmas, and was relieved when he wrote back to say that his railway duties In Munich and Nuremburg would keep him away right through until January 2nd. Albert, knowing that Gunther would be home, felt it would be a chance to get the measure of his family’s reactions to everything that had happened, not only in his life but in Germany at large.
For the Reisemann family, Christmas 1933, the first under the new National Socialist order, would feel different to all the Yuletides which had gone before. On Thursday December 21st it was bitterly cold as Gunther stepped from the train in Markenburg. There were other young men in uniform. Some soldiers, a few SA men who he did not recognise, but no-one else, other than the portly station master, Herr Prien, who was busying himself straightening out many of the swastika banners which had twisted in the stiff breeze on the station’s façade. As Gunther left the station and walked onto the long ascending track home, his heart skipped a beat as he saw a large, flat-bed truck approaching, being driven by his father. As it pulled to a halt, Viktor leapt down from the cab and embraced his son.
“The sailor, home from the sea!”
“It’s good to see you, Dad – I didn’t expect you to come down to meet me…What’s this? Proper transport? Is this the end of our horse-drawn tradition?”
“You remember the Von Scharmier hotel chain up in Koln? Well, they owed us one hell of a lot of money. They’ve lost two hotels, so I did a deal with von Scharmier – I took this wagon from him in lieu of payment. Mind you, I’ve kept the horse and the old cart. One never knows.” Viktor threw Gunther’s kitbag onto the truck and they climbed on board. Viktor beamed, puffing furiously on his pipe as they rumbled steadily up the hill.
“It’s so good to see you, son. Your mother and I miss you so much. I bet you’ll have plenty to tell us about the big wide world, eh?”
“Yes. Did you know I’d been promoted to quartermaster?”
“What does that involve, then?”
“I steer the ship, look after the gangways in port, and look after visitors to the captain. And I’m studying navigation – the company says I could take some exams in the next two years and if I pass, I could maybe get a berth as third mate.”
Viktor laughed.
“So – what does the second and number one mate do?”
“The same thing – navigation, cargo handling – if I was third mate I’d only be three steps away from Captain, although you need a few years’ service under your stern to be a skipper.”
Viktor laughed again. Gunther was happy; it was good to hear his father in such a light hearted mood.
“My word, listen at you – ‘under your stern’– I’d been on the river for 20 years and never once talked like a pirate!”
Drawing closer to the house they were quiet for a few moments. As they came to a halt Viktor turned to Gunther.
“You know, your mother and I were hurt when you didn’t come home in July.”
“Well, you know why that was. I only had three days ashore.”
“So, you went to Paris. How’s Ruth Thielemann getting along?”
“She’s doing well. High marks in all her tests and exams. We write to each other all the time. I only wish I could see her more.”
Viktor clambered down from the cart and retrieved Gunther’s bag.
“Well, son, it’s nice that you write, but I can’t see it lasting. You, half way around the world, her in Paris, surrounded by brainy young men. It’ll only be a matter of time before –” Gunther interrupted;
“Before what? I love that girl, Dad. She loves me. I know– I know from the depth of feeling in our letters. I trust her.”
“And does she trust you?”
“In what way?”
Viktor shook his head.
“Oh, come on, lad, come on! A fine lad like you, in his prime, cruising the coast of South America and god knows where – the world’s full of pretty girls.”
They clambered from the truck and walked up the path to the house.
“Well, dad, I hope you and mother had the same trust I share with Ruth.”
Elena’s re-union with her son was a tearful event of much joy. Over glasses of wine, Gunther presented his mother with some fine Nottingham lace which he’d bought in England, and a box of superb Havana cigars for his father. After an enjoyable lunch, the talk inevitably moved to Markenburg, and to Albert’s return.
“Has Ruth told you about her father?” asked Elena.
“No much,” replied Gunther.
“That poor man. He’s been through hell since the Nazis came to power. Most of the Jews in town are planning to leave or have already emigrated. The Rabbi’s windows have been broken twice, and no-one in town, neither Kessler the glazier, or Gruber the builder, would repair them. He complained to the Burgomeister and he ignored him, and told him to go to the police station, but Sergeant Hohne has joined the party and now holds a rank in the SA, so all the Rabbi got there was a string of filthy insults. Your father went down and repaired his windows for him. The poor chap can’t even go to the wrecked little synagogue any longer on Saturdays – if anyone does, those old schoolmates of yours – Hausser and that Ruckerl boy, are there with the other SA bullies, taunting the old Rabbi and throwing mud and stones. I don’t know what’s got into them all.”
This news was depressing for Gunther. He lowered his head.
“Oh, my God. Better not mention any of this to Albert – he’s totally committed to Hitler and the Nazis. You know, Dad, mending a Jew’s windows could be a really dangerous mistake.”
Viktor refilled his wine glass.
“Don’t talk rubbish. Being human is a mistake in this new Reich – but I’m not scared of those nasty little bastards. I’ll say one thing for the old Rabbi – unlike the rest of his flock, he’s got no intention of going anywhere. He says he bought his house in Markenburg fair and square, he chose to live here, he serves his community, minds his own business and he’s never broken any laws. If a man can’t live in peace with those credentials, then something’s wrong. You know, son, I only wish that Albert had gone to sea too, at least he’d be away from all these foul influences.”
“It’s not much better in the Merchant Service, dad. We already have three committed party members on the ship – and the company insists on having a portrait of Hitler in the officer’s mess. I just have to keep my head down, study for my mate’s ticket, and avoid any mention of politics.”
In an attempt to break the mood, Elena clapped her hands and broke into a smile.
“That’s enough! I’ve asked Albert when he gets here not to start any of his propaganda, and Uncle Karl is busy over the holidays on the railway, so can we not mention the Jews, the brown shirts or Hitler for the next few days? Christmas is a time of love and peace, and that’s the way I want it to be.”
Despite the bitter cold, after dinner Gunther accompanied his father out on the veranda, where they sat in their overcoats, sampling the Cuban cigars. It was a particularly bright winter night. The stars shone down, pinpoints of bright white crystal light, and the twinkling array of Markenburg’s promenade streetlights were reflected in the rolling Mosel. As the full moon rose over the river, Gunther gazed down at the jetty where he had first spied Ruth. He was surprised to see a large flock of swans gathering, as a figure in a long black coat walked to the end of the jetty.
“One of these nights,” mused Viktor, “that poor bugger is going to get himself pushed in.”
The figure began casting morsels from a bag and even at their distant, lofty elevation, Gunther and his father could hear the distant squawks and cackle of the swans and ducks.
“Who is that, then?” asked Gunther, straining his eyes in the moonlight.
Viktor inhaled deeply then, sighing, blew out a cloud of aromatic smoke.
“That’s Ruth’s father…”
Albert arrived in Markenburg late in the Saturday afternoon. Gunther had decided to keep things as normal as possible, and collect him on the cart from the station. In those first minutes together, once the brotherly hugs and jokes had subsided, the inevitable question arose from Albert.
“What about the Jewess?”
“Oh, here we go! She has a name,“ said Gunther, pointedly.
“Oh, so it’s still that bad, eh? So, what about Ruth… the Jewess?”
“She’s as beautiful as ever, and a long way from your hatred.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Are you interrogating me, or what? July. Three glorious days in Paris.”
“Best place for her, I suppose. The French are a bunch of mongrels – Jews fit in well there.”
“Yes,” said, “because that’s where the best people of Europe go – the inventive people, the clever people, people who love, not those who hate.”
Albert made a derisive snigger.
“How’s her father doing?”
“As if you don’t know – surely you’ve had some kind of bulletin from those stupid SA mates of yours?”
“They’re not mates. They’re not even important to us.”
“Us?” said Gunther, “Who’s this ‘us’ you’re referring to? The Reisemanns?”
“No. The Reich.”
“How many more categories of Germans can you fit on your blacklist? I thought you lot owed everything to the brown shirts?” Albert stared ahead and remained silent.
“Do you remember,” said Gunther, “all those hours we spent with Professor Steiglitz? Remember when he used to talk about different races and religions? He said that it was a tragedy that throughout history the Jews had been denied their share in governing the world, because they were the most able and tenacious race that ever lived.”
“Well,” sneered Albert, “they got their chance in Germany and showed us just how tenacious they were. They screwed us, took all the best jobs, supported the Bolsheviks and some of them even tried to marry Germans. So, it’s time they left.”
“If you want to know,” continued Gunther, “Rabbi Thielemann has had a hard time of it, but he’s got no intention of leaving. And what the SA did to Herschel Blum and the Rabbi was nothing short of evil.”
“They have to be sent a message!” spat Albert.
“And is that the message of Christmas, Albert? Is this what we’re all together as a family for over the next three days - peace and good will to all men but not Jews? Was that what the most famous Jew in history said – Jesus Christ?”
“Christ wasn’t a Jew. He was an Aryan.”
Gunther laughed.
“Oh, brother! For heaven’s sake! Where do you getthis crap from?”
“My education. There’s more than uniforms, marching and parading in the SS. We study racial history. We have very talented tutors, too. And if Dr. Goebbels says Jesus was an Aryan, then that’s good enough for me.”
Gunther sighed.
“Oh, I can see this is pointless. I don’t expect you to discuss this kind of thing when we get home. It’s Christmas.”
“Well, the Rabbi should follow his daughter’s lead and get out. They all should. They’ve made an almighty mess of our country and we’re having to clean it up. The sooner they clear off to some Jew land or other, then the better it’ll be for all of us.”
“Well,” said Gunther, “at least our family can hold their heads up. We still have a few decent values left – there’s precious little decency in Markenburg since your Führer wangled his way into power.”
“What ‘decent values’ are we talking about?”
“Our father, for example. The only man in the area willing to help the Rabbi out when the SA smashed his windows – not once, but twice.” Albert leant rapidly over, grabbed the reins and brought the cart to a halt.
“He did what!?”
“You heard,” replied Gunther, flatly.
“Does he realise the danger he’s putting us all in by helping Jews like that? For God’s sake, Gunther! Things are going to tighten up a lot more for the Yids and if Dad insists on stunts like that … Christ almighty! If it gets to our security office my career’s on the line. I’ll have to have words with him. He’s living in some kind of fool’s paradise – and so are you!” Gunther slapped the reins on the horse and the cart moved on.
“No, Albert, no. I can see it’s pointless me pretending that my big brother, who always protected me, who I looked up to, has gone. If you start all this with father you’ll only make things worse, and you’ll really upset mother. Thankfully Uncle Karl isn’t here for Christmas, so let’s just pretend to be what we used to be – the good old Reisemanns, free thinkers, compassionate pillars of the community, hardworking human beings, all together around the Christmas tree, safe in our own home away from all the spite and hatred you’re carrying around.”
“You’ll soon come around, Gunther. And so will father. If you’d seen what I’ve seen, if you knew what I know, you’d all realise that the world’s about to change. That’s why I swore an oath to the Führer. To make Germany a better place for my family. It’ll be painful at first, but mark my words – give it five years and you’ll know I was right.”
To Gunther and Elena’s delight, Albert exercised great self-discipline throughout Yuletide. Elena went to mass on Christmas Eve whilst the two brothers and their father sat by the fire drinking schnapps. Albert and Gunther could feel a certain gulf of detachment with Viktor. He was not as cheerful as the season dictated, and his conversation was stilted and limited. Gifts were exchanged, carols were even sung, and when Albert proposed a toast ‘to the Fatherland’ there had been a short, pregnant silence around the table, but Viktor let it go. It was not until the morning of Tuesday December 26th, as Albert finished packing his suitcase before leaving, that his father’s dam of resentment burst.
“So, it’s back to Berlin for some more Jew baiting, eh, son?”
Albert looked surprised.
“No. It’s back to Berlin for guard duty at the Chancellery.”
“Well, maybe your Führer would like to send some guards to Markenburg to protect the few hapless Jews still brave enough to live here.”
Albert gritted his teeth and resisted an outburst because behind Viktor, Elena, on the verge of tears, was shaking her head.
“I don’t want to argue, dad. All I will say is this; you may not like it, or even, as I suspect, even hate it, but I’m a sergeant in the SS Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler – the Führer’s personal guard. No matter what you say, I’m committed to the betterment of my country. Your attitude, and especially your bad decision to help out the Rabbi, puts us all in danger. Whatever you do here will be reported to Munich. Not by me – I still love you all – but by others. This isn’t the old Weimar republic any more. Forget Hindenburg and the old rule of law. We’ve got new laws now, and there’s more to come.” Viktor shook his head slowly, pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat down.
“Yes, son. New laws, eh? I see that one month ago, your new government enacted the world’s most comprehensive animal protection legislation. It forbids unnecessary harm to animals, bans inhumane treatment of animals in the making of films, and outlaws the use of dogs in hunting. The compassionate Hitler has decreed that there’ll be no more docking the tails and ears of dogs without anaesthesia, the force-feeding of fowl, and the inhumane killing of farm animals. I heard Hermann Göring on the radio saying, ‘To the Germans, animals are not merely creatures in the organic sense, but creatures who lead their own lives and who are endowed with perceptive facilities, who feel pain and experience joy and prove to be faithful and attached.’ And Hitler says that hunting and horse racing are the last remnants of a feudal society.”
Albert seemed dumbfounded for a moment as he stared at his gathered family. He felt strange; these were the people who had made him. His father stared back, his mother had tears in her eyes, and Gunther stared blankly, as if he were some stranger he had never met before. Albert took a deep breath.
“Yes, well. What’s your point? Isn’t that a good example of progress?”
Viktor stood up, pushed his chair away and thumped the table as he spoke.
“The point!? The bloody point?”
He pointed angrily towards the window.
“The point, you idiot, is down there - you damned set of hypocrites! You care more for dogs and farm animals whilst you smear shit on the doors of a hard working tailor and drive him out of town! You worry about horses and hunting, whilst you break a good man’s windows, taunt him, insult him, and hunt down his congregation! The point? The bloody point? Go back to your barracks and learn some more bullying, son. It’s all you’re good for now. I tried to bring you up to be a rounded human being, but I failed. I disown you. I don’t recognise you anymore. Albert Reisemann used to be my son, but now he’s made a pact with Satan. Don’t come back here until you’ve seen sense. I wash my hands of you!”
Flushed and breathing heavily, Viktor stormed from the hose and headed for the vineyards. Gunther looked pale and sad. Elena had her hand clasped to her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks. Albert buttoned up his coat, picked up his bag, and left.
Chapter 14:
Markenburg:
June 1934
Accidents will happen in the best regulated families.
John Dos Passos (1896 – 1970)
Spring 1934 was turning into quite a summer. During May Gunther had left the Sloman shipping line in Hamburg after being offered a better berth as bosun on the new, 15,000 ton Roland Line steamer Helmut Kohler out of Bremen, which would carry both passengers and cargo on the Atlantic American routes. His navigation studies were going well, and to celebrate, with a whole month’s leave before joining his new ship, he had spent a blissful ten days in Paris with Ruth, as well as two weeks at home helping his father on the vines. Much to his mother’s distress, it seemed that Viktor’s summary banishment of Albert had taken root. They had heard nothing from their older son since the fateful departure at Christmas. Viktor had banned the mention of his name. Sad though this situation was in the extreme, everyone had become used to the fact that Albert was persona non grata.
Gunther had been shocked on one visit when Uncle Karl had been present. He realised that between his father and his uncle, there was an ever-widening a gulf of political disagreement. When Karl had praised Albert’s commitment to the SS, Viktor had proclaimed loudly “Enough! Albert Reisemann is dead! He died in an accident of history!” Elena had burst into tears, and for once, Viktor’s outburst had stunned the usually verbose Karl into silence.
Only Gunther maintained contact with his brother, sending the odd post card from around the world to the Lichterfelde SS Barracks in Berlin, yet from Albert there was no response. Gunther had hoped that by his attempt at a neutral, non-political sibling correspondence he might remind Albert of his family ties, perhaps even stir some of his former, yet now elusive humanity. Sadly, this was not to be.
The commitment between Gunther and Ruth Thielemann was unshakeable and complete. Over a bottle of wine at a café close to the Eiffel Tower, Gunther had taken the bold step of proposing marriage. Yet Ruth’s acceptance, albeit an immense spiritual uplift, was conditional. They would wait for at least five years until she qualified as a Doctor at the Sorbonne, and that Gunther would achieve his aim of becoming a merchant navy officer. Yet despite the joy in this development, many serious problems remained. Ruth refused to return to Nazi Germany, whilst Gunther had his mind set on emigration to America. Now fluent in French, Ruth was happy with the thought of eventual French citizenship. Never the less, her distress at her father’s deteriorating situation back in Markenburg, and the old man’s shock at the revelation of their marriage plans and his renewed opposition had cast a pall of sadness and irresolution over their relationship. In the face of all this, Gunther attempted to remain buoyant. He was happy to be German, but happier still when he was abroad. He knew that the kind of world Albert wanted was not the kind of Germany to accommodate his dreams and desires. He felt sorry for his parents, now stranded in a social landscape which seemed alien, and worried over them constantly. During each visit home to Markenburg he had visited Rabbi Thielemann, and felt slightly ashamed that he chose to do so after dark, in the hope that the locals would not see him. Although the Rabbi seemed immovable in his opposition to Ruth’s engagement, he always welcomed Gunther into his house and a steady dialogue had developed between them. With each meeting Gunther learned more about Judaism and his increasing respect for the Rabbi’s magnanimity was tempered only by the old man’s implacable, pessimistic opposition. Gunther’s attitude, his understanding of the world around him had expanded since leaving his home town. He spent his off-watch hours at sea reading and studying, and during the night watches on the bridge enjoyed wide-ranging conversations with his officers. This accumulated experience had prepared him for his nocturnal meetings with the Rabbi, although the result did not raise his hopes in any way. His latest encounter had begun amicably enough, with the Rabbi pouring wine.
“You are a persistent young man, Gunther.”
“At this stage, persistence is all I have to offer, sir.”
“You know how lucky you are?”
“In what way?”
“To begin with, you have seen my daughter several times over recent months. I’m stranded here and she has taken my advice not to come back to Markenburg. I long to see her face, to talk with her. All I have is her letters. And you are luckier than both me and Ruth – the ultimate, tall, blonde Aryan, a pillar of Teutonic manhood. Your place in this society is assured. Ours is under threat.”
“Have you thought of leaving?” asked Gunther, “maybe join Ruth in France, or go somewhere where you may feel safe?”
The Rabbi shook his head and seemed vaguely angry.
“This is my house. Germany is my country. I chose to live in Markenburg. It was a peaceful place once, where we felt safe. What happens if I leave? Half the Jews have already gone. Unlike your Father Heinzel, with his repetitious Catechism and Latin masses, I am expected to be a teacher. A Rabbi keeps his people constantly aware of their heritage, of the Talmud, the Torah, of our relationship with God. I’m supposed to be a brave man, a man of wisdom to whom they can turn in times of trouble. So, what if I leave, eh? The Nazis will make sure I get a pittance for my house, the Synagogue is already on its last legs, and my function in life, my education, are all chaff on the wind. So you want me to hand over the keys to my life to Hitler? I refuse. I’m a German. I have every right to stay here.”
“History moves on, Mr. Thielemann. Professor Steiglitz once told us that tyranny can’t endure forever. Things will change.”
“Ah, perhaps you have accrued some wisdom on your voyages. However, there are certain situations immune even to wisdom.”
“I suppose you mean Ruth and I?”
“That, and other things. For your hearts to become one you will have to break mine. I am not a Christian, Gunther; I cannot turn the other cheek.”
“For that matter, nor am I. But you are a man of God who understands love and humanity. I’m trying to appeal to your sense of compassion.”
“Hah! A dash of wisdom and a touch of maturity. You’re more than the lad you were a year ago.”
“I should hope so. People kept telling me to ‘grow up’, so I’m doing my best. And that’s what I will do for Ruth.”
The Rabbi sighed and looked downcast.
“Unlike your brother, you’re a good man.”
“I think deep down, he is still. He’s simply deluded.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’d say the same about Goebbels and Hitler. They’re ‘good men’ on a difficult mission. The nation loves them. They’ve got two million souls back into employment. But I know all about that black legion Albert has joined. You see, Gunther, there are two realities in Hitler’s Germany. There’s your brother’s reality, and my reality. There is no space between the two for hopeful dreaming. Do you get much news from home when you are out there on the ocean?”
“Oh, sometimes we hear radio broadcasts, but not too often. And some of the crew have German newspapers sent to them in foreign ports.”
“But not you?”
“No. I know what’s happening because of the party members on board. They seem to be the Reich’s travelling mouthpieces.”
“Well, Gunther, I’ll take bets that even they can’t keep up with everything. Every working member of my family, from Dresden to Stuttgart – and it’s a big family – have lost their posts. I was a surgeon for 35 years. I worked long and hard and saved up to buy this house and provide Ruth with the funds she needs. My brothers and cousins are doctors, lawyers, academics. My late wife Miriam and I waited a long time before we had Ruth. She came late; I wanted to feel sure that we were secure, and that I could fulfil my Rabbinical studies and carry on securely into old age. But the curse of Apion has returned. A colleague in Bavaria has written to me enclosing an article in some filthy Nazi gutter sheet about Jews and their ritual murder of children. Do I look like a child murderer?”
Gunther grimaced.
“No. Of course not … who’s Apion?”
“It is such a pity that old Professor Steiglitz didn’t live longer. He was a good man. He could have taught you so much more. Apion … ah, that’s a long time ago. He was the first seriously organised anti-Semite. An Egyptian who lived in Alexandria at the time of the Roman emperor Tiberius – 42 years before the birth of Christ. He came up with his dirty propaganda that once each year, the Jews would kidnap a Greek child, fatten him up and then sacrifice him in the forest. Of course, this has been embroidered upon over the centuries – now they say we use a child’s blood to make bread for Passover. But Apion was the villain who started it all. Even the Russians in my lifetime produced a forged document called the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, which suggests that we Jews, when we’re not sacrificing children, are busy forming a master plan to rule the world. Hah! Some hope, eh? They won’t let us rule our own world, let alone any other. Do you see the problems you might face if you continue this relationship with my daughter? Have you ever read some of the nasty tales in the Nazi paper, the Volkischer Beobachter? Every step of progress we have made over the past century has been eradicated. We are doomed.”
“I can’t believe that, sir. I know your people have been persecuted, and I know Ruth shares your fears, but the world is watching Germany. Hitler is making enough progress satisfying his own kind without pointless persecution. Surely all this doom and gloom will pass once the country’s life improves.”
The Rabbi topped up their wine glasses and looked long and hard at Gunther.
“Then why did you choose to visit me at night, in the darkness, when you could have come this morning, or this afternoon?”
Gunther knew the answer, but was ashamed to speak. The Rabbi leaned towards him.
“Have you heard of Saint Jerome?”
Gunther thought for a moment.
“Yes. I remember something about him from religious instruction at school. I think my mother – she knows all these things – said he was the patron saint of librarians.”
“Very good. I see there’s been more education in the Reisemann family than others in Markenburg. So, you see, you have something in common with St. Jerome.”
“Really? What?”
“He was taught Hebrew by the great Jewish sage, Bar Hanina, who had to tell Jerome to visit him at night – so that no one might see him consorting with a dirty, hated Jew.”
“And you think that’s the way I regard you?”
“No, but a nocturnal meeting such as this does put me in mind of Jerome.”
“Sir,” said Gunther, with a slight edge of anger and frustration, “I’m here at night because it seems the most practical thing to do. There are brown shirted idiots in the beer hall just down the street from here who could cause much trouble for both of us – and for my family – if they knew about my visit.”
The Rabbi sighed again and sat back in his chair.
“Ah … and this is the ‘doom and gloom’ you think will ‘pass over’? Even after Bar Hanina had guided Jerome through the Hebrew language and provided him with a deep understanding of the Talmud, the patron saint of librarians described us as ‘hordes of wretches, not worthy of pity, their very exterior and clothing betraying the wrath of God.’ A grateful pupil, eh? I think not.”
“That’s not fair, Rabbi,” said Gunther. “I’m a very grateful pupil.”
They sat in silence for a while punctuated only by the dull ticking of an ornately carved Austrian clock above the fireplace. It was past 10 and Gunther knew that his parents would be wondering where he was. The Rabbi finished his wine and sat forward in his chair, looking intently at Gunther, who was wondering where the conversation might go next.
“Are you a young man I can trust, Gunther Reisemann?”
Gunther found the question slightly annoying.
“In what way?”
“In what way?” asked the Rabbi, raising his eyebrows, “are there different levels in trust, different ways in trust? If I trusted you with my daughter, which level of trust would you apply?”
Gunther was confused.
“Professor Steiglitz once said as soon as you trust yourself, then you’ll know how to live.”
The Rabbi shook his head. “Ah, that’s old Goethe speaking. If you think you can trust yourself, do you think I can trust you?”
“You can trust me for everything, always, but you can’t trust me to stop loving Ruth.”
“I don’t want to stop you loving her, lad! I just don’t want you to marryher!”
“So test me – what am I to be trusted with?”
The Rabbi stood up and walked across the oak-panelled room to where a large book case stood from floor to ceiling.
“Come with me.”
Intrigued, Gunther followed the Rabbi, who took out a large volume from the middle shelves, plunged his hand into the resulting cavity, and the massive bookcase began to move from the wall like a huge gate on hidden hinges. Behind it was a heavy wooden door. Like most of the houses in Markenburg, the Rabbi’s dated from medieval times when wars and violent local disputes inspired builders and householders to construct elaborate secret sanctuaries for family protection. The Rabbi took a large key from his pocket and opened the door. He reached inside and switched on the electric light. He turned to Gunther and beckoned.
“Come. Follow me.”
The stone staircase seemed to go down a good five or six metres, and at the bottom, opened out into a large, well-lit chamber about nine by nine metres, beneath a varnished and heavily beamed wooden ceiling. Yet it was what lined the walls which took Gunther’s breath away. A series of framed paintings, vibrant in their colour, fascinating in their subject matter, caused him to stand drop-jawed as the Rabbi stood by, smiling.
“Did you know, Gunther, that the Emperor Justinian passed a law prohibiting Jews to make a will or leave an inheritance?”
Gunther shook his head, but remained silent, staring at the paintings.
“We said to hell with Justinian. My father left me his library and his surgical tools. This will be Ruth’s inheritance. My love of art.”
Gunther was still in awe.
“Are these by famous painters? Some of them seem a bit, well …”
“Avant garde?” asked the Rabbi, smiling. “Yes – here we have a Modigliani, painted in Paris in 1912. That over there is a Max Weber, and that riot of colour next to it is by Marc Chagall. I bought that in Berlin – he died as recently as 1923. Then there’s my favourites over there – the Max Liebermanns.”
“What’s the subject – is that a self-portrait? He looks like a grand gentleman.”
“No, it wasn’t a self-portrait. But that isa grand gentleman. That’s my father. Although my father was 12 years older than Liebermann, they were good friends and saw each other regularly when they worked in Munich. Liebermann painted him in 1885, when my father was at the Charité Universitätsmedizin in Berlin. During the Franco-Prussian War they served together as medics with the Order of St. John near Metz.”
Gunther stepped forward to closely examine one of the smallest paintings, a beautifully framed, sunny riverside scene about 18 inches square featuring a girl in a white dress feeding swans.
“That’s Ruth’s favourite,” said the Rabbi. “Another Liebermann. He gave it to my father as a gift. Very traditional in some ways. It has no title, but Ruth loved it as a child. She called it ‘feeding time’ Are you familiar with any of these artists?”
“I’m sorry, Rabbi, no. I know that Liebermann is famous – I have heard his name before. I know about Da Vinci and Michelangelo, but that’s about it. Are they all famous?”
“Some more than others. But they all have something in common.”
“I can’t see it. The styles are all very different.”
“Your intelligence is slipping, Gunther. They are all Jewish painters.”
“But why keep them down here? Why not in your drawing room or dining room upstairs?”
The Rabbi started making his way back to the staircase and Gunther followed.
“One doesn’t leave one’s jewellery on the sideboard, or your gold on the mantelpiece. I don’t want visitors to my house to think I’m showing off. Art is my private passion, Gunther. I’m lucky that the basement is dry, because we’re slightly above the waterline of the river here. And you could say that what is today my artistic secret will one day be Ruth’s inheritance.”
Back in the drawing room, once the Rabbi had locked the basement door and returned the hefty bookcase, he reached into a cupboard and produced a bottle of schnapps.
“It’s late, lad. Let’s have this one nightcap and then you’ll have to go.”
The Rabbi threw a fresh log on the fire and as the wood crackled, Gunther regarded him, wondering why this devout old Jew should extend what felt like such friendship to someone who seemed to threaten his family traditions so much.
“Was that the ‘trust’ you spoke about, showing me your gallery?”
The Rabbi downed his schnapps and caught his breath.
“More than that. Only you, I and Ruth know about my pictures. Do you know how old I am, Gunther?”
“I couldn’t guess.”
“I’m 73. I was 48 when we had Ruth. Her mother, Miriam, was 38. She died of tuberculosis during the war. And me, a Doctor– there was nothing, absolutely nothingI could do to save her. Ruth was Miriam’s legacy to me, and I have cared for her, nurtured her, and brought her up. She is as those paintings – a work of God. So whilst I cannot trust you with my daughter, not because you are a bad person, but for all the other reasons we have so diligently discussed, I feel that I might give you an honourable mission, as a fine, strong pure German, to ensure that whatever happens to me, and believe me, I’m already lucky to have lived this long, you will ensure those paintings are saved and preserved for Ruth.”
Gunther placed his empty glass down on the table. The combination of wine, schnapps and the nigh-on incredible visit to the basement swirled around in his head as he watched the sparks rise from the spluttering fire.
“How will I do that?”
“I’ll give you spare keys to my house and a key to the gallery. Guard them with your life. I’m going to take the paintings down and pack them carefully. If I die, or whatever else might happen to me, I want you to collect the paintings and take them somewhere safe.”
“But why bother to take them down and pack them? Surely they’re safe enough?”
“Nothing is safe, Gunther. Nothing at all. If human beings are no longer safe, what cance do a few paintings have? I thought it was safe here. Then poor Herschel Blum, the Kremmens, then they desecrated the synagogue, and broke my windows. And the only person to help out was your father. He’s a brave man.”
Gunther sounded frustrated.
“But Rabbi! Now the Nazis are in government surely they’ll have to behave like proper politicians and abide by the law? They’re in the Reichstag. The Sturmabteilung thugs were just acting up to get Hitler into power. They can’t keep brawling in the streets now they’ve got their own way. Now things are settling down and people are getting back to work, they don’t have so much to be angry about. If they do behave so badly again, then surely there’ll be criminal proceedings?”
The Rabbi smiled and shook his head.
“A cat doesn’t stop killing birds after his first. He enjoys it.”
“And I’m confused,” said Gunther, “why trust me? I’m young, not Jewish, you’re 73 and a Rabbi. I know you know my parents and you know how threatening my brother and my Uncle could be. So if you’re so worried about gentiles, flattered as I am, why put your treasures in my trust? Wouldn’t one of your own people still here in Markenburg make more sense? Why not Ruth, for instance?”
“Because they won’t be here. Not only that, as more of them keep leaving, the only ones left will probably be like me. And if my paintings get stored by another Jew in town, rest assured, they’ll probably get destroyed or stolen. Whilst I’m here, whilst I live, they’re well hidden. But when I die, and if Ruth can’t come back – then what will happen to my house? You’re an Aryan, Gunther. I hate using the term because it’s stupid and it’s Nazi. But if you need to, you’ll be able to say you bought some stuff from the old Rabbi. I’ll even give you a bill of sale. Let’s face it, those Nazi dullards wouldn’t know a Liebermann from a birthday card. And another thing - you’ll keep coming home. The Jews will be gone.”
“How can you be so pessimistic – and so sure? What if I’m away at sea? I’m hardly in Markenburg these days.”
“Then you’ll make a plan. You will do something. You’re resourceful.”
“And if I do this, can I marry Ruth?”
“What Ruth chooses to do after my death is her choice. But you must accept my condition as it stands. That is as far as I will bend on this. For you and Ruth, as a married couple, whilst I live, no. Respect my wishes whilst I live, and after that, you have my blessing. And God help you both.”
Gunther finished his schnapps, pulled on his coat and made to leave. The Rabbi followed him to the door. Outside, it was past eleven and the town was quiet. They paused on the front doorstep and shook hands. There was something in the old man’s expression Gunther overlooked before; perhaps it was doubt, anxiety, even a trace of fear. The Rabbi reached behind the door and produced a large key ring holding two keys. He glanced right and left along the narrow street.
“You will need these keys when the time comes.”
Gunther put the keys in his coat pocket.
“God be with you, Gunther. And your family. Give Ruth my love. Try to remain the good man that you are, but don’t be ashamed when the cruel wind blows to bend with it. Be a survivor, not a victim, but above all, watch, listen and bear witness.”