Chapter 15:
Berlin – Munich
June 1934: Kolibri
The best government is a benevolent tyranny
tempered by an occasional assassination
Voltaire (1694-1778)
Adolf Hitler sometimes felt particularly benevolent on his birthday. Thus it was on April 20th that he had finally decided to reward his ‘true Heinrich’ by giving Reichsführer-SS Himmler a present of his own; the much-coveted full control over the Gestapo. By June Himmler had cast his sinister shadow across his new domain and with Heydrich had moved the organisation up a gear to a new and more terrifying level of efficiency.
In Berlin’s Lichterfelde Barracks on the night of Thursday June 28th, there was much frenzied activity. Boots were being polished, uniforms checked, new arms and equipment had arrived. There was to be a special inspection and briefing of the Leibstandarte by Dietrich himself early in the morning of Friday June 29th. There had been some strange gossip circulating among the ranks. Albert Reisemann and his platoon were well aware that it was best not to give voice to any rumours, but close comrades did meet in secluded corners to exchange whatever new morsels of news came their way.
On June 25, General Werner von Fritsch placed the Reichswehr on the highest alert. Something big was going on. Another story unfolded two days later, on June 27th. The Leibstandarte’s commander, Sepp Dietrich, had asked the army for transport plus a special issue of arms for his men to enable them to carry out a secret, important mission ordered by the Führer. The Chancellery guards had witnessed lots of activity between Himmler, Dietrich, the Führer and SS ranks above Obersturmführer (Lieutenant). As well as the army presence, there had been a steady stream of senior black SS uniforms in and out of the Chancellery for over a week. The rumours were that it was all something to do with the growing threat posed to the army by the SA.
During the previous week, Albert had been out for an off-duty beer with his friend from Koblenz, SS-Rottenführer (Corporal) Heinz Hafner, in a bar on Leipziger Strasse. There they had run into a large contingent of drunken SA men, singing a song meant to intimidate the German army; it’s chorus ‘Soon the brown will swallow up the grey’ spoke volumes about Ernst Röhm’s dream. It seemed a disturbing possibility; Röhm’s millions of SA brown shirts absorbing the field grey ranks of the regular army to form his own massive new revolutionary force. He had felt confident enough to make his views public, declaring that if people thought that his SA had served its purpose, now that Hitler and the party were in power, then they were mistaken. The SA, he announced, were ‘here to stay’. To the ultra-conservative, aristocratic officers of the Reichswehr this was a nightmare scenario, and they had made their position clear to Hitler. Now that Germany had pulled out of the League of Nations, Hitler had every intention of re-armament in defiance of the Treaty of Versailles. Grateful though the Führer was to faithful old fighting comrades such as Röhm, his plans for a greater Reich meant a properly trained, organised and efficient military machine. The bloated, rowdy berr-swilling SA did not fit the bill, and were getting out of hand. Only two weeks earlier, at a conference in Venice, Mussolini had stated unequivocally that the brown shirts were damaging Hitler's ‘good reputation around the world’ and had berated the Führer for tolerating the hooliganism, rampant homosexuality and violence of the SA.
The warm June morning sun had barely kissed the dawn as the specially selected detachments of the Leibstandarte stood in immaculate rigid lines at attention on the barracks parade ground, faced by Dietrich and his adjutant. The adjutant handed Dietrich a prepared statement, but as ever, the unorthodox commander simply scanned the typed document before launching into his own interpretation.
“Men of the Leibstandarte. What I am about to reveal is secret, and you will regard it as such on pain of death. When you took your oath you swore to protect the Führer. Today, not only is he under threat, but the whole new organisation of the Reich – the government, the army and much more are being challenged. The time to test your commitment has arrived. Reichsführer-SS Himmler and his deputy, Reinhard Heydrich, chief of the SS Security Service, have uncovered a plot. Evidence has emerged that the Sturmabteilung, led by Ernst Röhm, is in league with the French, who have paid him 12 million marks to overthrow our Führer. This dastardly move is intended to unseat our government and dissolve its power. A list of people both inside and outside the SA who are party to this treachery has been drawn up. Several SS units will remain here in Berlin to either arrest or eradicate traitors here in the capital. Other branches of the SS throughout the Reich are being similarly briefed. Two companies of the Leibstandarte – you, gentlemen – will leave for Munich later today. The source of this foul stench of disloyalty and deceit is Bavaria. You must prepare yourselves for some highly unpleasant tasks. Forget the SA of the past. They have become our enemy, a threat to us, the SS, to the Army, and Germany. To kill a poisonous snake, we must cut off its head. Remember that sympathy is weakness. What we are dealing with is a shitty bunch of loud-mouthed, beer-swilling sodomites and queers. Such moral turpitude is a cancer and only the sharp knife of the SS can remove it. You must be hard and unflinching. Remove the word ‘compassion’ from your vocabulary. Obey your orders, keep your mouths shut. Any man speaking of this to anyone beyond the SS today or later will have me to answer to. Collect your kit now and await transport!”
There was a feverish, nervous undercurrent in the barracks as the men collected their packs and equipment. After a quick breakfast, someone appeared with a copy of the party newspaper, the Völkischer Beobachter. It featured an article, written by the army’s liaison officer to the Nazi party, General Blomberg, passionately pledging the Reichwehr’s staunch support for Hitler. Another rumour was whispered around, that Röhm had been summarily dismissed from the German Officers' League. Heinz Hafner, standing by his locker, turned to Albert, and looked around furtively.
“It looks as if it’s all true, eh?” he said, in hushed tones. “Do you think we’ll see some action?”
“Well,” replied Albert, “whether or not Röhm is planning a coup is highly debateable. No-one particularly believes it. But the SA are a nuisance and they need to be taught a lesson. So they’re not sending us all that way to just stand guard or direct traffic. This is what we’ve trained for. We’re the Führer’s best hope. Once all this is sorted then maybe the army will show us the respect we deserve. I’d rather have the Reichswehr on our side than Röhm and his bully boyfriends.”
At 2 am Saturday 30th June Hitler and Goebbels took off from Bonn’s Hangelar Airfield on the next leg of their journey to Munich. The secret code word for the operation had been sent out – Kolibri – (humming bird), and the gloves were off. The Führer, after receiving messages from Himmler and Göring purporting to reveal the full extent of the SA’s plot, could not contain his spiralling rage and felt that he needed to be in Munich to confront his enemies in person.
For Albert Reisemann and his squad the transport to Munich came late and eventually they had to board a train southbound for Landsberg am Lech. To maintain as low a profile as possible, the two Leibstandarte units would disembark further south at the small country station of Unterdiessen, to be met by motor transport for the drive to Munich. As they rolled along winding roads with long sightlines past the lush, sun-kissed meadows and hop fields of Bavaria, Albert gazed across the passing green expanse of gently sloping countryside and forests, feeling slightly disturbed. The rural scenes had triggered a pang of conscience. It all reminded him of his happy childhood, his parents, and he wondered where Gunther might be, what he was doing. His mind was a temporary battleground where that commitment demanded by Dietrich fought with the sense of shame he had for abandoning his family. He scanned the faces of the men in the back of the truck. Yes, they were like him. Young, strong, fit, committed. No doubt some of them might be experiencing a similar dilemma. Yet when the truck pulled up at the roadside to allow everyone to relieve themselves and stretch their legs for a few precious minutes, the resulting banter and camaraderie snapped him back to his SS senses.
Back in Berlin, other detachments of the Leibstandarte were already in violent action. They had formed into several hit-and-run mobile groups which had been designated as Einsatzkommandos, (Action Commandos). At the same time that Saturday afternoon as Albert and his comrades continued their journey towards Munich, in Berlin an 18-man squad of Einsatzkommandos led by SS Hauptsturmführer (Captain) Kurt Gildisch were storming into the offices of the Transport Ministry. There they confronted the surprised leader of the police department in the Prussian ministry of internal affairs, Erich Klausner. Before Klausner could give voice to his shock and surprise, the SS Captain shot him in the back and he fell dead. Klausner’s private secretary, the Baroness Stotzingen, was dragged unceremoniously from the building to be despatched to a concentration camp. Klausner’s ‘crime’, as a member of the Catholic Action Group, had been committed two weeks earlier in a speech critical of the NSDAP. Every fateful word he’d delivered had been duly noted by Heydrich. Many old scores were being settled, not simply with the SA, but with anyone on Himmler and Heydrich’s comprehensive lists who had ever deigned to utter one word of criticism against the new regime.
The Berlin contingents remained consistently busy. Captain Gildisch would have more blood on his hands later that day. In the port of Bremerhaven, the 32 year old Lieutenant-General SA Gruppenführer Karl Ernst was boarding a liner to take him and his new wife away for their honeymoon in Madeira. Yet their newly-wed bliss ended suddenly when the SS struck, wounding his chauffeur and his bride. Beaten unconscious, later that day Ernst awoke with many other victims lined up against the wall of the Cadet School at the SS Lichterfelde Barracks in Berlin, where he was executed. In Berlin’s suburbs, the cook answered the door to the SS at the home of Germany’s former Chancellor, General Kurt von Schleicher. Pushing the domestic aside, they stormed in, identified Schleicher and immediately shot him dead. His wife, startled at the gunfire, appeared, and she too received a fatal bullet. Berlin, once the city of artistic excess and freedom, the place where cabaret and self-expression ruled, had been turned into a metropolis of state murder. An armed SS unit, on the orders of Göring, stormed the Vice-Chancellery. Without bothering to arrest him, Gestapo officers shot Vice Chancellor Franz von Papen's secretary Herbert von Bose first. Then they arrested von Papen's close associate Edgar Jung, the author of Papen's Marburg speech. The ageing President Paul von Hindenburg, still an obstacle in the path of Hitler’s ultimate path to total power, had encouraged von Papen to publicly express a growing disgust over the excesses of the Nazis. In his speech von Papen demanded the termination of Nazi terror and strongly criticised Röhm and the SA’s clamour for a ‘second revolution,’ asking for ‘a return to dignity and freedom’, stating "The government must be mindful of the old maxim 'only weaklings suffer no criticism’. Goebbels had tried to supress the speech, but when the Führer read it, he was enraged. Although von Papen escaped the wrath of the SS, they dumped Edgar Jung’s body in a roadside ditch.
Whatever perverse notions of ‘justification’ Himmler, Göring and Heydrich had for this bloody long weekend of homicide, a number of their victims were completely innocent of any perceived ‘crime’. Some, like the 72 year old lawyer Gustav von Kahr, had long given up politics for obscurity in peaceful retirement. Yet as the man who had successfully opposed Hitler’s failed 1923 Beer Hall Putsch he held a special place in the Führer’s festering gallery of revenge. In Munich von Kahr was spirited away by the SS and murdered - hacked to death with axes, his shattered body found deposited in a Dachau swamp. As a final vindictive insult, even after death, the SS forbade his family even the consolation of visible grief – the tradition of wearing mourning clothes.
Hitler’s endless vengeance raged indiscriminately on. One of his oldest associates, the man who had helped to edit Mein Kampf, a member of the ancient Spanish Hieronymite Order, Father Bernhard Stempfle, was in line for terrible retribution. His ‘crime’ was little to do with the aims of the SA. He simply knew far too much about Hitler’s somewhat scandalous love tryst with his young niece Geli Raubal, who had committed suicide. The priest’s battered body was discovered close to Munich in the Harlaching forest, three bullets in his heart and his neck broken.
Once the SS Companies had arrived in Munich, they worked long and hard in squads, driving furiously from one address to another to tick off yet another victim from Heydrich’s list. They had been joined by a detachment of SS guards from the new Dachau concentration camp. Albert found their roughness and cruel crudity somewhat alien to what he imagined to be the more urbane and superior attitude of the Leibstandarte. Yet this was to be a day of self-discovery. He was no stranger to violence. His street fighting days in Munich with the SA had caused blood to flow. But back then, the ultimate sanction - death and summary execution - had not been on the menu. Now the restrictions of any rule of law had been removed. They could kill with impunity. This dark day in what was otherwise a beautiful old city was to be the first true test of his SS oath. On the first few sorties he had witnessed death. All the hitherto glamour and pride of his Leibstandarte membership seemed to fade in and out, like the sun passing behind dark clouds. As men and women, whose background and offences were unknown to him, were dragged from their homes, their skulls and bodies battered with clubs, or even felled in a bloody hail of bullets, there were moments when he had to choke back the urge to vomit. There was something disturbingly painful about witnessing the sudden end of a life, something inwardly overpowering about the heartfelt sobs and wails of frustrated grief of the devastated children and relatives they were leaving in their bloody wake. Here there was no arrest, no interrogation, no trial, no police, no law.
Earlier in the day they had stood guard in a leafy suburb of Munich as a detachment from his squad raided the house of a man named Willi Schmid. Eventually they emerged, pushing the bloodied suspect with rifle butts into the truck which would take him off to his inevitable fate. The terrified man shouted across at Albert’s group, a desperate pleading in his voice.
“I’m the wrong man! I’m not the Schmid you are looking for! I am a musician and writer - music critic for the Munich Late News! I have nothing to do with politics!” One of the guards, once back with the squad, began laughing.
“Stupid bastard – you know what he was doing when we burst in?” Albert’s comrade, Heinz, who seemed to be enjoying the mission, smiled back.
“Playing with himself?”
“No far off, mate!” exclaimed the guard, “he was sitting there playing the bloody cello! His missus and kids were getting ready for dinner! Screaming their bloody heads off – ‘ooh, don’t take Daddy away!’ And him, fucking traitor, as cool as you like, sawing away at that big fiddle between his legs. Anyway, it sounded like a bloody funeral march – I bet it was Jew music…”
In the small enclave of Pucheim Albert’s own resilience was put to the test. As their truck entered a quiet leafy avenue, his immediate superior, SS-Hauptsturmführer Gerhardt Weber, handed Albert the clipboard holding the document bearing two names.
“They’re the Studemann brothers. Both ex-SA men, a pair of right raving queerboys. They’re bedroom friends of Röhm and they’ve both had a lot of nasty things to say about the Führer. It’s pointless arresting them – they’re scum, and scum needs disposing of. Do your stuff.”
They pulled up in darkness outside a pleasant looking white house with a long balcony. Albert, Heinz and two of the Dachau men ran up the driveway. The Dachau men covered any possible rear or side exits. Albert took a deep breath, conscious of the fact he was being observed by the rest of the squad, and banged on the door with his rifle butt. They waited. Albert raised his rifle and smashed into the door again. A light went on inside the house. The door opened, and standing there was a blonde, thick set young man wearing a towelling bathrobe. Seeing the array of black uniforms he bore a look of shock and horror. Albert looked at the clipboard.
“Andreas and Joachim Studemann?”
“I’m Andreas Studemann,” replied the terrified occupant.
Heinz raised his gun and fired. The shot hit its perfect target, blowing a hole in the man’s forehead and causing blood and brains to cascade into the hallway behind him. There was movement on the stairs, as another young man, slightly built and wearing pyjamas, ran down screaming and sobbing into the hallway.
“My God! My brother! You fucking animals! What have you done?”
Albert did not hesitate. His first shot hit him in the shoulder, spinning the man around and throwing him to the floor. Albert bounded into the house, took a deep breath and aimed at the man’s heart. He stared up in abject terror. Albert found the expression extremely unnerving. He could not face the gory spectacle of another head shot. As he squeezed the trigger, like a drowning man a thousand images raced through his brain. His parents, the vineyards, Gunther, Markenburg’s summers, springs, autumns, snow, wind, ice, rain, the river. A voice – his own voice – echoed somewhere in the back of his conscience “Oh Lord, forgive me…”
He turned and followed Heinz back to the truck, where the others were whooping and cheering like fans at a football match.
As they trundled back into Munich, Albert realised that he was shaking. He knew he had done his duty. It seemed perverse that Heinz Hafner, who Albert had imagined would feel the strain of all this, was revelling in it all, chatting with the Dachau men, cracking jokes. Captain Weber looked across at Albert.
“How is it with you, Reisemann?” Albert pulled himself together.
“Fine, sir. Just fine.”
It had been a long day and night, and as Albert’s squad finally stood down from duty in the early hours of Sunday June 31st, he was relieved that their part in this vicious mission was over. He had felt as if he was at the epicentre of a hurricane of unimaginable violence, yet elsewhere in and around Munich much more had been happening, news of which would take days to filter through to the ranks.
Hitler had arrived in Munich just after 4 am on Saturday June 30th. He was accompanied by the head of his press bureau, Otto Dietrich, and Viktor Lutze, the totally obedient commander of the Hanover SA, who, as a complete lap-dog to the Führer’s whims was destined to replace Ernst Röhm. On the plane journey Hitler had worked himself into a paroxysm of anger. Eventually in Munich he was met by the local district governor and several party dignitaries and army officers. These men had already arrested Munich’s SA commanders. As SA Lieutenant General Schneidhuber was dragged before Hitler, the Führer stepped forward and ripped off the startled prisoner’s epaulettes, venomously screaming in his face
“Traitor! You will be shot!”
Schneidhuber looked at the SS pistols aimed in his direction.
“Gentlemen, I’ve no idea what all this is about, but shoot straight.”
An hour’s ride south of Munich in the pleasant spa town of Bad Wiessee, in the cosy bedrooms of the Hotel Hanslbauer by the banks of a lovely lake, the Tegernsee, the rest of the SA’s important leadership were blissfully unaware of the blizzard of terror coming their way as Hitler’s motorised column of retribution roared through the early morning mist. Röhm and his comrades had been enjoying their summer idyll, swimming naked in the glorious lake, surrounded by pretty wooden chalets which reflected in the translucent water. It was here that Germans came to imbibe the supposedly health-giving, sulphurous waters which were said to cure every ailment. They had frolicked like children, surrounded by the pastoral beauty of cool green Bavarian forests which stretched up the soaring hills, punctuated by abundant meadows. They had enjoyed the splendour of the mountains, wandered arm in arm along the promenade, and visited the nearby castle. This was the ideal Germany of their revolutionary brown shirt dreams, the place they viciously imagined they might make Jew-free, the land they hoped to run, above and beyond Hitler. It was a forlorn hope.
The dawn chorus in the trees around the lake had hardly begun when at 6.30 am the SS, led by the Führer, accompanied by Josef Goebbels and Sepp Dietrich, stormed the bedrooms and began making their arrests. All the claims about Röhm and his men indulging their homosexuality, previously conveniently brushed aside by Hitler, now came to the fore as naked men were dragged from beds, whilst in a room close to Röhm’s another SA leader, Edmund Heines, was found in bed with an 18 year old stormtrooper. Both were dragged from the hotel and shot on the lawn outside. Facing a startled and puzzled Röhm, Hitler ranted and raved about his treachery, and ordered him to be taken to Munich’s Stadelheim Prison. Later, Hitler offered his old comrade a pistol with one bullet in the chamber. Yet Röhm refused to ‘do the right thing’. Under Sepp Dietrich’s command, the task of ending the SA leader’s life was left to two other SS officers.
All across the Reich similar events had been taking place. Hitler’s political rivals, some men with ideas of their own and a streak of independence, had been murdered or imprisoned. Among them was one of the Nazi party’s most prominent members, Otto Strasser, who had fallen out with the Führer and was murdered in his Berlin Gestapo cell on June 30th.
There were many rumours and rabid speculation as to how many people died in what the party called ‘The Röhm Putsch’ and the world would refer to as ‘The Night of The Long Knives.’ Figures varied from 86 to 1,000. However, with the SA beheaded and Viktor Lutze, a wilting puppet placed in charge, its fire was put out. There would be no ‘second revolution’, no threat to the Reichswehr. The main beneficiaries would by Heinrich Himmler, his SS and Gestapo, who would now reign supreme as the nation’s political police force. Himmler’s dreams were coming true. Head of the Police, Head of the SS, he could arrest anyone on any charge or even no charge at all. New concentration camps were already being built. With his faithful head of national security, Reinhard Heydrich, Himmler could now shape Germany to his Führer’s desires.
Once back in Berlin Hitler was the man of the hour, the triumphant action hero. He addressed the huge crowd, proclaiming that he had dealt with ‘the worst treachery in history’ and that all ‘undisciplined and disobedient characters, and asocial or diseased elements" would be annihilated’.
No one knew of or spared a thought for the ’wrong man’ – the unfortunate and innocent music critic of a Munich newspaper, Willi Schmid. When he had appealed to the SS that they’d made a grave blunder, he was correct. He had been mistaken for Ludwig Schmitt, an associate of Hitler’s hated enemies, the Strasser brothers. But his cello had been silenced forever. He was returned to his wife and children by the Gestapo in a sealed coffin, under firm instructions that it should not be opened. What horrors of torture had sped him to his grisly death remained unknown. As his traumatised family grieved, they were visited by an apologetic Rudolf Hess, offering Nazi sympathy and a state pension.
As the dust settled and the blood dried, Josef Goebbels was delighted with the purge because the Nazis had not only proved to the likes of a critical Mussolini that they were capable of putting their house in order, they had also demonstrated to the world that Germany meant business. The Propaganda Minister made much of the positive comment on the events made in the foreign press, and most prominently the media of that nation he and Hitler admired so much, Great Britain. One report in particular went down very well.
‘Herr Adolf Hitler, the German Chancellor, has saved his country. Swiftly and with exorable severity, he has delivered Germany from men who had become a danger to the unity of the German people and to the order of the state. With lightning rapidity he has caused them to be removed from high office, to be arrested, and put to death.
The names of the men who have been shot by his orders are already known. Hitler's love of Germany has triumphed over private friendships and fidelity to comrades who had stood shoulder to shoulder with him in the fight for Germany's future.’
Daily Mail, London, July 2nd 1934.
Albert Reisemann was relieved to return to Berlin. In some moments of retrospection the horror of his Bavarian weekend seemed to overwhelm him. But listening to talks by Himmler and Dietrich a week later on the parade ground, his spirits were raised along with a re-kindled commitment to the SS. The term ‘shoulder to shoulder’ was used a lot. There had been one startling moment when Himmler had inspected the ranks of the Leibstandarte. He had paused by Albert, and regarded him for a moment, a curious twinkle in those Asiatic eyes behind the rimless spectacles, a half smile forming on his tight little cruel mouth.
“Reisemann? The lad from Markenburg?”
Albert clicked his heels and nodded.
“You’ve come a long way from carpentry, eh?”
Albert smiled weakly. The Reichsführer continued.
“I knew you had it in you. Good man.”
Back in the barracks, as the company prepared to turn in, there was some mischievous banter about the incident. Heinz Hafner smiled at Albert from across the room.
“How comes it that Himmler stops and talks to you, then?” A circle of faces were turned Albert’s way awaiting an answer.
“Oh, we go back a long way. I met him one night years ago.”
“When?”
“In a different life,” replied Albert.
Chapter 16
Markenburg
February 1935
Good men must die,
but death cannot kill their names.
Proverbs
It had been snowing that first week in Paris and Gunther was disturbed by Ruth’s plans. He had only six days leave left, and had hoped that they would spend the time together before he made his way back to Bremen. As they sat in her apartment, Ruth was tearful as she held the letter in her hand.
“My father is so depressed. I feel he needs me. Just for one single day, something tells me I should go back.”
“But you’ve only been back three times since you’ve been at the Sorbonne. Has he actually requested that you see him?”
“No. But there’s something between the lines; a kind of despair. You’ve seen him more than I have – how was he last time?”
Gunther thought back to the previous November. Yes, the old Rabbi had appeared dispirited, yet his inner strength had still shone through. He felt as if he should ask Ruth if he could read her father’s letter, but he knew such a request was intrusive.
“We could go,” said Ruth. “There’s a train to Koln tonight. We could be in Markenburg by noon tomorrow.”
“One thing your father is always adamant about,” said Gunther, “is that you should stay out of Germany. There are more SS around – especially now that the SS have taken over from the SA – and since Hindenburg died Hitler’s the one sole power - hell bent on making his dreams come true - they’re much more of a threat than ever.”
Ruth folded the letter and stuffed it into her handbag.
“To hell with Hitler and the SS. I need to raise father’s spirits. In any case, it would give you a chance to see your parents. If you won’t come with me, then I’ll go alone. We’re not criminals. We can travel. They may have banned Jews from the Labour Front, tried to ruin our businesses, stopped us getting legal qualifications, but we’re still citizens of his damned Reich. They don’t scare me.”
“Well they certainly scare the few Jews left in Markenburg.”
Ruth fell silent, then began hastily packing a small suitcase.
“You won’t listen, will you?” said Gunther, despairingly.
It was three in the morning when the train entered Germany. The new, sinister aspects of the Third Reich came into play whilst the train was stopped on the border. The contemporary, more strident police, a seemingly more suspicious and sinister breed in comparison to their bygone, more gentlemanly Weimar counterparts, walked the carriages with the familiar call which every citizen of the Reich would eventually come to dread; “Papers, please!”
There was no pause or sceptical glare towards Gunther as his passport and documents were examined. But for Ruth Thielemann the two officers reserved a special attention. They looked from the passport to Ruth, staring at her in silence for a few moments.
“What is your business in Germany?” Ruth, her dark eyes flashing, felt a surge of outrage which she could hardly contain.
“I live there. I’m a German.” The other officer looked at the passport.
“What has been your business in France?”
“I am studying medicine at the Sorbonne in Paris.” The officer gave a crooked, cynical smile and addressed Gunther.
“Are you travelling with this woman?” Gunther looked surprised.
“Yes. She’s my fiancée.”
The other officer smirked and shook his head. They stood back in the corridor and discussed the passports in hushed tones. Ruth’s face was a mask of anger as Gunther gripped her hand hoping to supress her emotions. Eventually the passports were returned and the policemen proceeded along the train.
“Bastards!” spat Ruth, “what the hell was all that about? We’re German citizens, for God’s sake! Anyone would think we’re Bolshevik spies!” Gunther sighed.
“I know, I know … but you don’t go home often – if you did you’d notice these things. It’s not just you – simply anyone who looks –”
“Jewish?”
“I suppose so. Everyone seems to be following everyone else’s shadow these days.”
After changing trains at Koln and Koblenz, they sat dozing on the last leg of the journey to Markenburg as the sharp winter sun beamed sporadically through the carriage windows. The Mosel valley, dusted with a brilliant coating of snow, was as breathtakingly picturesque as ever. Gunther was in a semi-dream. He had hoped to spend his full leave in Paris, and although he was now less than an hour from home, he felt uncomfortable. His conscience troubled him deeply. Markenburg was indeed home, and his parents would be both surprised and delighted to see him. Yet as the train sped on, although he was nestled warmly next to this beautiful woman who he loved so much, he knew he would have felt infinitely happier had she stayed in the safety of Paris. His trips from German ports into France were already expensive miniature epics of train travel, yet worth every mile and exquisite minute spent with Ruth, but going home unexpectedly to Markenburg in the depth of winter was an emotional extra he would, on this occasion, have rather avoided.
There was a cold, cutting wind from the river blowing across the station platform as they left the train in Markenburg. As they walked along snowflakes began to flutter down. Ruth looked despairingly at the boringly repetitious swastika banners which seemed to flutter everywhere.
“God,” she hissed, “these bastards think they can turn us into ancient Rome. I suppose the next thing we’ll have is Goebbels and Hitler riding down the street in a bloody chariot!”
Gunther remained silent, ever vigilant of the possibility of running into the SA, or even an SS man. Eventually, after a long, cold walk, they arrived at the Rabbi’s door. He had spotted their approach through the partly drawn curtains at his front window, and as they entered the house, the old man’s eyes filled with tears as he hugged Ruth.
“My girl, my sweet, sweet girl, oh, the Lord has brightened my day and lifted the darkness. I am so pleased to see you, so, so pleased…”
They sat by the fire and drank coffee. Ruth regaled her father with stories of her medical progress in Paris, as Gunther sat back in silence. Before long, it seemed obvious that something was troubling the old man.
“What’s bothering you, father?” asked Ruth. “Are you having trouble with the usual crowd? Has there been any further incidents?”
“Oh, insults, some people on the market and in a few shops refusing to serve me. But nothing I can’t handle. No, it is something else, something I need to do.”
“What?”
“Kershbaum the painter from Trier called by today. He got the news last night from Berlin. Max Liebermann is dead.” Ruth looked serious, but shrugged her shoulders.
“That’s extremely sad, father. He was a great artist and important to us both. But if he’s passed away, what can you do?”
“I should go to Berlin for his funeral on Monday.” Ruth’s draw dropped and she gasped.
“Berlin? Good heavens, Father! A Jew’s funeral in Berlin is not the place to be for a man of your age, and such a journey – that’s the day after tomorrow already – and how will you get there? This is ridiculous!” The Rabbi waved his hands dismissively.
“No, no, Kershbaum has sold all his paintings to an American in Luxembourg. He’s bought one of the new Mercedes-Benz 130s. He has relatives in Berlin. He’s a good old friend, a good driver, with a good car. He studied under Liebermann. He is willing to drive me there tomorrow. We can drive back after the funeral on Monday.”
“Father! Don’t be stupid. That is a long, long journey and you’ll not be safe.”
“I must pay my respects, Ruth. Liebermann was a good friend to my father. So many of us are turning into cowards. My friend Chaim Weizmann – a professor in Koln until they fired him last year, died last month in Trier. I went to his funeral yet not one of his senior associates, or any of those who owe so much to him, turned out. There were only fifteen people at his funeral, and eight of those were family. No one had the courage to walk behind his cortege on the Weidegasse. The cemetery was almost deserted. We must show courage. Weizmann was a great professor of law – but Liebermann is one of Germany’s greatest artists, a dear friend of my father, and close to our family’s heart. I’m old. Danger no longer bothers me. If I had known you were coming … but whatever, I must let Kershbaum know he can take me to Berlin.”
Ruth took her father by the shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. Her voice was stern, but not unkind.
“Two old Jews – travelling halfway across Germany – in a car? Father, that’s crazy!”
“Ah, so travelling by train would be sane? They haven’t taken our cars yet. At least in a car they can’t interfere with us.”
“Father, it’s a wonderful gesture. But who in Berlin will know a rural Rabbi from way across the country? Why can’t you simply honour Liebermann in your own heart, say kaddish for him here, light a candle, anything but risk a journey like this in the depth of winter? Berlin is crawling with SS and Gestapo!”
“There are Nazis everywhere. And there’d be no Nazis on a train? Ruth, in France you might have civilisation, but not here – so this is exactly why I should be there and sign the book of remembrance. Did you know Liebermann resigned as president of the Prussian Academy of Arts when they stopped exhibiting works by Jewish artists? It may have passed you by in Paris, my dear, but the Nazis have even banned Jews from painting all together – and we’re no longer even allowed to own cameras.”
“Father, those are all reasons why you should stay safe here. If you were going to travel anywhere, come back to France with me. It’s dangerous enough being a Jew, but you’re more than that – you’re a Rabbi – you’re supposed to be wise.”
“What good is hiding your wisdom? I’m German. I can’t live in France. We have to show these animals that we’re here, and that they can’t lock us up in our own houses. I feel proud of Liebermann - while watching the Nazi’s victory march through the Brandenburg Gate, he put all our thoughts into words when he said ‘I cannot eat as much as I would like to vomit’. And don’t forget ‘feeding time’- your favourite Liebermann picture, my darling girl – when I’m gone and you see it in the years to come, you can be proud that I was there for his funeral. So what if the Nazis see me – to hell with Hitler! Kershbaum’s brave enough to go all that way, so the man needs company.”
Gunther stayed for a while, but realised that Ruth needed time with the old man. It was late in the afternoon and dark when he began to make his way up the hill to his parent’s house. As he approached he could see the cosy, golden light of his home through the windows. Stepping onto the veranda, he was surprised by the sudden appearance of his father, carrying a pile of logs in his arms. The logs dropped to the ground and rolled in various directions as Viktor, beaming, ran towards his son and embraced him.
“My God! To what do we owe this? Has there been a shipwreck?”
In the steamy kitchen Elena was preparing fried potatoes with smoked ham, garlic and onions. Drying tears of joy from her eyes on her apron, she showered kisses on Gunther.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? We see so little of you, son. How long are you here? Oh, this is a lovely, lovely surprise!”
“I have to be back in Bremen by Tuesday next, so really I must leave on Monday. I came because Ruth needed to see her father.”
Over dinner they caught up with their news. Eventually Gunther took the risk of mentioning Albert. Viktor gripped the stem of his pipe in his teeth and stared back at Gunther. He bore an expression he had never seen from his father before; a stark, searing gaze, a mixture of emptiness and sadness, with perhaps a disturbing flash of hatred.
“He has a new father now,” said Viktor sternly, “perhaps two new fathers – Hitler and Himmler. As far as we are concerned, he has divorced himself from his true parents, but worse than that – he has separated himself from humanity. I suppose you recall the business with Röhm and the SA – the executions?” Gunther’s eyes widened.
“Yes – but what – “
“Oh, my boy!” wailed Viktor, “I thank God you’re the sailor you always wanted to be, that you spend so much time away from this blighted land. We are even only a hair’s breadth from dissociating ourselves from my own brother, Karl. Did you know that Karl was so damned proudof what he’d heard about Albert?”
“Karl – heard what?”
Viktor’s head lowered and he stared into the fireplace.
“Those black-uniformed thugs … my God, I still can’t believe it…”
“Believe what?” Viktor looked up again.
“We now live in a country where politicians no longer exist. We live in a Germany where opposition is punished by murder, sanctioned by the state. And the instruments of such satanic homicide include my wayward son. Yes, Karl tells us, his railway waistcoat bursting its buttons with pride, that Albert Reisemann, my carefully nurtured boy, has risen through the ranks. SS Hauptscharfuhrer now, Sergeant, no less. A professional assassin, sent to Munich to murder the innocent.”
The blood drained from Gunther’s face.
“But I thought they’d put down a revolt?”
“Oh, yes, they did that alright. An imaginary revolt. I have no time nor sympathy for the SA, and if I were the Lord Almighty I would sweep them off the face of the earth. But now that Hindenburg is dead, little corporal Adolf can murder and imprison and torture at will. Whatever civilised law stands in their way, the Nazis repeal it and make a new law of their own. Such laws allowed them to make your brother a murderer.”
Elena’s hands were clasped tightly together and her expression was of such sad exasperation as she breathed deeply, trying to find words.
“No, no, please, Viktor, please. He can’t be as bad as Karl suggests. They’re rumours. He’s still my boy, he’s still part of us all, he … he –”
“He’s dead!” shouted Viktor. “Rumours or no rumours, innocent people, people like us, those hard-working simple folk who in the past have had the God-granted privilege of being able to express their views of their local politician, burgomeister or councillor – now they face imprisonment and death for raising their heads above the political parapet. Gunther, your mother and I hardly dare go into town lest we might make a wrong comment or lose our temper over some social or civic problem. Everyone is spying on everyone else. We stay up here on the hill, we work, work, work, sleep, then work again. We can’t even trust Father Heinzel – he’s a bloody Hitler-lover. And my boy, what dangeryou put yourself in – do you realise how close you might be to being a victim of your own brother’s evil?”
“Viktor!” shouted Elena, “Don’t call him evil!”
“Evil is as evil does!” retorted Viktor. “What has happened to our country is like a plague. There seems to be no cure, and like any plague, it seems no-one remains immune. It is as if everyone has become Nosferatu. Only a stake through Hitler’s foul heart will cleanse us of this horror. Sad though it remains, the only way we can avoid infection is by sticking to our vines, working like deaf mutes until the pestilence blows over.” He rose from his chair, walked over to Gunther and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I know how much you love the Rabbi’s daughter. I’m pleased that you’ve chosen such a good woman to marry. But you know, son, the Rabbi is right. Unless Germany comes to its senses, such a union won’t work. They will crucify you. I’ve discussed it with the old man – I had to creep around the streets in the bloody dark, too, with my face hidden – if those bastards from the SA saw me then we’d be in trouble up here. But you might be able to maintain this relationship between your sea voyages and your trips to Paris, but for God’s sake don’t get caught with the poor girl here. The Rabbi tells me that while he lives, he forbids any idea of marriage. Respect that, son. He’s a German, but his culture and his faith dictate a different direction. If the old man passes away, and the plague is over, fair enough. But in the meantime, the word is vigilance. I am frankly amazed that she’s ignored her father and come home – and with you in tow, too. She must get back to France as soon as possible, and you must get back to sea.”
v v v v