Opposite Sides

CHAPTER 13

  The Rising Storm

  Several years had now passed since Caroline had died. The Baldwin government had been thrown out and the new Prime Minister was Mr Ramsay MacDonald. The stock market had crashed in New York and many people’s savings had dissolved into the large black hole the money crisis had created. The world was sliding downwards into what became known as the Great depression. But before that took hold and during a few years before, Hans had immersed himself in his work, and put every spare penny he could save into an investment account for his little daughter. At the time, it was the best he could do for her.

  Things had been very tough for him during those first weeks after he had lost Caroline. The funeral was over and after that came the emptyness and realisation that she was gone forever. Hans had descended into the depths of despair and even his friends had not been able to console him in his grief. He began to drink. Too much and it made him moody. The number of empty bottles strewn around the floor said as much and his rooms were filled with an acrid smell of cigarette ash, a habit he very rarely engaged in for normally he could not stomach the smell or the taste. The beautiful dream he and Caroline had shared together was shattered: never could they share a life together and never would she be his wife. On the cold, hard stone that marked her grave, only plain, simple words told of her existence:

  Caroline Patricia Grace Born 1910 Died 1929 Loved greatly. Sadly missed.

  Forever, part of his soul would remain in England. Forever would his lost sweetheart remain with him, the memory of her going with him wherever he might be. In contrast, he had been unable to find a place in his broken heart for love of the child, for love as a parent should feel for a child. Andrea Caroline Grace she had been baptised, just as Caroline had wished and it was a beautiful christening. They were all there: Miss Turner and Jan, Anne and Gerald, Robert, Mr Scrover and several others from the office. There were also new friends that Caroline had made during her time in London but no one from the Grace family had turned up, not even Mrs Grace who had defied her husband when her daughter’s funeral was held. Hans had noticed her sitting in the back of the church, suffering a mother’s grief alone and in isolation. He had intended to speak with her but by the time the service was over, Mrs Grace was nowhere to be seen.

  Anne insisted that Jan be allowed to carry the baby in to church as both she and Anne had agreed to be godmothers. Hans wanted to know whose idea that was but neither Anne nor Jan were willing to say.

  When the christening was over, Hans could not bear to cuddle the baby. He turned away from the small innocent life that he had help create. He could not bear to look at the the baby that had lived while Caroline had died.

  The child’s grandparents had nothing to do with their little grandaughter. Hans had come to realise that Mrs Grace would not defy her husband’s orders, even though he was certain she could come to love the child in time. But Hans and Caroline had not married and outside knoweldge of such a child would have resulted in seditious gossip and brought disgrace to their family. Besides, Hans had no jurisdiction over what should happen to the baby and it looked very much as if the state would now seize her and put her up for adoption or place her in one of the miserable state-run orphanages.

  Hans brooded and could not bear to face the reality of the situation. Anne had applied to look after the child while the authorities decided what should happen. She had been informed that the baby’s fate would need to be decided before she was three months old. Hans realised his position regarding little Andrea was hopeless; he may be her biological parent but he had no jurisdiction in the eyes of the law.

  Past memories welled up inside him and he relived the pain and anguish he had felt when he had lost his parents:

  ‘Vaterland! O Vaterland! (Fatherland! O Fatherland!)

  O machtig ist der Trieb des Vaterlands! (How powerful is the urge of the fatherland!)

  The call was growing stronger.

  Die fremde, falsche Welt ist nicht fur dich.’ (The harsh, false world is not for thee.)

  Death was his companion day and worse by night. The strained face of his father, that last look on a weary face, the staring eyes that only looked forwards to the only life he knew on the Western Front. The final time Papi looked upon his children and cried. He could hear the anguished voice of his own mother when the news of Papi’s death reached them via the skinny telegram boy and now he longed for the protection of his own childhood.

  He felt the pull of the place where he remembered his own happy childhood: the echoing cry of the eagle that soared across the Alps, the gurgling of the Salzach as it cradled icy flows under Mozart Bridge and the sweet smell of dark frothy beer overflowing mugs that decorated the outdoor tables during those warm, balmy evenings of summer. He yearned to relive those memories and the thoughts of them chewed deeply into his heart. Besides, he could do nothing for Andrea. Her predicament made him feel helpless and the hopelessness of the situation was pulling him into the darkness of dispair. He yearned for the embracing security and comfort he had once known and at the point when his emotions seemed to be consuming him, he resigned his job, vacated his apartment and left London with only a few pounds in his pocket.

  Hans thought about Gerald’s suggestion. At the time it did not make sense but now, things were different. He had nothing to hold him back any more. His world had collapsed. The savings he thought he had been safely putting aside in a good interest-bearing account had gone. Andrea’s inheritance, he liked to call it, and if he could have left the capital alone for fifteen years or so, it would provide his daughter with enough money to give her a good start in life. It had been a good plan and now it had come to nothing. The financial world had failed him and all his plans were collapsing into a huge empty void.

  Look, why don’t you pop back to Germany and Austria for a while, old chap? It’ll give you a new lease on life and you can always come back when you’ve sorted yourself out. We will hold the fort while you’re away.

  It sounded like good advice now, advice that nedded to be taken straight away. However, to walk away from all obligations he had towards the child was still something he was finding very difficult to do but the new thoughts of seeing his brothers and aunt and uncle again kept him from falling into the precipice of no return.

  Anne had been the saving angel, or so Hans thought at the time. She told him she would look after the baby after the christening, yet it was Miss Turner who gave Hans a glimmer of hope. She suggested that it could be possible that the baby would not be placed in an orphanage if he could show that he had an attachment to the child and was prepared to support her in some way. She had told Hans that if he could send what money he could spare to help with the child-minding duties and make it plain to the authorities that he was prepared to support the child, there was a good possibility that the child could remain with Anne. It was like grasping for a straw but it might be worth trying.

  As soon as all the papers had been signed, Hans was told that Anne would be taking the baby with her to her parents’ large house in the country. Hans was told not to worry as Nanny Goodman, who had been Anne’s childhood nanny, needed something useful to do in her later years and Nanny Goodman was so pleased to have a baby to look after again that life for the elderly nanny was looking brighter again. As soon as little Andrea arrived, Nanny cooed and fussed over her and was so happy to be back in the old nursery once more. Meanwhile, Anne was happy to keep in contact with him and she often wrote and told him how the baby was progressing and asking him to make the time to visit them before he left. Now, Anne promised to keep in touch from the moment he left England in the hope that when he did return, he would have forgiven the child and forgotten all the anger he had felt towards her, for the child was innocent and was all he had left of the proof of his and Caroline’s love for each other.

  Hans spent a few wonderful months in Salzburg where he saw Heidi again. She had enjoyed her time in England and when she had returned home, she had found herse
lf a job, together with a young man to match. Heidi was now the proud mother of three little children, a pair of twin boys and a baby girl. But Hans was restless and had an urge move on. It was not that Austria had changed but it was not the place he remembered as a child and he now felt disconnected and like a stranger. It seemed that everyone except Heidi had either moved away in search of work or had become so old that they did not recognise him any more. Even Oma was not around any more so his last connection with Salzburg had been severed.

  He took the night train to Berlin and arrived at the Hauptbahnhof early in the morning. Rush hour had not yet begun so it was easy to find a seat on the tram out to his uncle’s. Reluctantly he confided to his uncle that all his investment money had gone and that he did not own even a single pound in British currency. He admitted for the first time that he was destitute, no better than those who stood staring on the street corners or gathered the cigarette stubs from the gutters. And all the while, Hans kept the secret of his child to himself, secretly dreading that one day the child would be taken and put in one of the dreadful orphanages that one reads about in the newspapers. He could only wait to hear from Anne and hope that conditions would change.

  But things were becoming far worse than anything he had imagined. Germany’s republic was suffocating under struggling and fractured politics and now that the economy was shrinking again, the government was looking as if it were close to collapsing. Everyone he spoke to said something needed to be done but as the days passed, Hans began to realise that there would be no protection for those who dared disagree or question what was happening around them. Uncertainty fuelled unrest. Discontent steered people into a mire of differing opinions as they floundered around in a sea of primeval mud. Out of its depths new parties began to emerge, new ideas and new hopes for prosperity, all struggling for supremacy before the country collapsed back into anarchy as it sank even deeper into the quadmire.

  Feelings were no better at home, either. Uncle Karl was one of the discontented. Life was not worth living when he was around. Business was difficult and Germany’s foreign markets had dried up since they had been prevented from selling their goods overseas. That was making Karl Klön’s mood sour and his fuse short. He insisted Hans had better make himself useful if he hoped to stay around and, besides, he needed someone to tout for new customers in an effort to prevent the firm from sliding into insolvency. Hans tried but it was hard and frustrating work as people just did not have much spare cash and many were not prepared to dig deeper into their barren pockets.

  Hans had not intend to be away from England so long. Weeks became months and before he realised, a couple of years had somehow slipped by. Anne and Gerald had married and had set up house in the larger of the two cottages that stood near to her parents’ house. They were so wonderful, for they had continued to be parents to Andrea even after Hans had written to say his payments would not be as large nor as frequent as before. Nanny Goodman, who looked after little Andrea, had moved in with the Brookfield-Smiths and had been kept on to look after Anne while Gerald was away on business which amounted to at least three full days in the week. As well as that, he still spent many weekend afternoons flying with a friend of the family who had been in the Royal Flying Corps so Anne did not see very much of her husband. She wrote and told Hans not to worry about a thing, for having little Andrea around was good experience for her and at the same time she could learn a little about motherhood, herself.

  When Andrea had began talking, Anne had written and told him of her own happy news. At that time Hans had seriously considered applying for adoption in the hope that the British authorities would allow him to to do so. He had written a letter to say that Andrea could be sent directly to his aunt and uncle in Germany who would be able to provide the child with a loving and stable home life but he omited to write that neither his aunt nor his uncle had any knowledge of such a child. And as the weeks passed, Hans became anxious for the reply. When it did finally arrive in the afternoon post, the response was most inconclusive. He would have to prove paternity and as the child still had close relatives in England, it was doubtful that the authorities would give permission for the child to leave the country, especially with the increasing instability in Europe and the worsening situation in Germany. Hans knew he needed to settle his own affairs before he would be able to offer Andrea a stable home so any real positive moves on his part to apply for custody had to be put on hold, for the time being, at least. He was most relieved when Gerald and Anne wrote to say they thought it was best to leave the child where she was for the time being.

  Meanwhile, German politics were becoming more and more unstable as each succeeding government fell. More elections, more uprisings, more elections again but nothing could stop the slide. The republic staggered and swayed as though it were about to die. Von Papen became the new Chancellor but he had little support in the Reichstag. There was in fear of civil war as riots broke out daily in the streets of Berlin. How Renard managed to get into the city centre was beyond Hans as he had been told that the military police were preventing people travelling in and out of the city centre to try and control the situation but Renard found a way and each evening he would return with stories one did not really want to hear. Then, the unemployment figures exploded and the city soup kitchens tried vainly to fill the bellies of the new underprivileged as conditions returned to the dark days of the early twenties. Rife inflation indicated another collapse in the currency. Things were looking very bleak, indeed.

  Hans travelled outside the city trying to seek out new markets for his uncle. Renard was telling them about the closure of some of the small shops in the city that had been in undesirable streets. At first, Hans took little notice of what his brother was saying but the more he went out into the small towns on the city outskirts, what he noticed was beginning to impinge on his consciousness most strongly; shops, once thriving, were closed and boarded up. Slogans of hate had been scrawled over shop windows or across barred doorways in poorer areas but was now starting to make its ugly appearance in the better areas. Name-calling, stone throwing hooligans threatened all those who dared to be different and those who complained, appeared to disappear. It was safer to pretend neither to hear, nor to see.

  Axel brightened things up for a while when he invited Hans to stay with him for a few days during one of his holiday breaks. Axel had been attending lectures at one of the large vocational colleges during the day and had found work not far from Hamburg working on the night shift in a factory which was making aircraft parts. He talked to the floor manager and Hans was offered a part-time position on the assembly line for a few weeks as an important order needed to be finalised. When the job ended Hans was quite relieved. The experience had been just long enough to make him realise he did not have the skills or the stomach to work in such a noisy and hot factory environment where beads of sweat constantly trickled down his back as parts constantly arrived in front of him, and together with the constant pressure to join them together, he discovered muscles he never thought he had. The night shift seemed long as his body longed for rest but even so he found it almost impossible to sleep during the day. He looked into the bathroom mirror and a pair of tired, red pair of eyes looked back. He counted off his days and found his mind fogging as he longed to be back with his aunt and uncle.

  Back in Berlin again with a return to normality. Even uncle Karl’s constant complaining was normal but Hans could switch himself off from that by heading for the safety of his bedroom. He had it to himself as Renard had moved out. Then one evening during supper, uncle Karl could contain his frustration no longer. As aunt Laura cleared away the cheeses and wooden cheese platter, her husband first wiped his mouth and then gave a loud cough to clear his throat.

  “This damn system!” He gripped his mug in a strong grip and banged it down on the table as if he wanted to smash it into a thousand pieces. “If some thing’s not done soon, the whole country will be ruined. Bloody Bolsheviks! They will be the ruin of us!
”

  “I remember hearing that Bolsheviks were blamed for backing the Trade Unions in England, uncle. Strikes all the time.” Hans was not able to share in the anger and frustration of his uncle.

  “Here, too. Why won’t the authorities listen?” He glared at Hans as if the blame rested upon his shoulders.

  “The government,” Hans said, “ended up outlawing them in England. That told them who was boss. Why can’t our government do the same?”

  “What them in the Reichstag!” He blew down his nose like a snorting bull. “We’ve got more than Bolsheviks and Trade Unionists to contend with, Erwin, my boy!” His uncle thumped his clenched fist heavily on to the table which almost sent the mugs of beer bouncing across the table. “Many parasites are feeding off this country. Everyone wants more and more.”

  “Why don’t you ask your workers to work less hours?” Hans asked. “Surely that might save your business.”

  “Less hours, less productivity. If my business goes under, where does that leave me? Bloody starving, that’s what!”

  “You would be able find something with your experience, wouldn’t you?”

  “Be realistic, Erwin. There aren’t enough jobs to go around. Have you not seen those queues at the soup places? And who is paying, I ask you?” He shook his head, then held his hands up in exasperation. “Not those in power! It is the public, that’s who. No wonder we’re in such a bloody mess!”

  Hans was angry with himself over his own inability to find any satisfactory work. Yes, there was day work, shovelling or sweeping but that was no job for a man with his education. He needed constant employment with good long-term prospects which uncle Karl was unable to offer at present within this economic climate. He needed to replace the money for Andrea which had been lost when investment companies collapsed during the Wall Street crash and, like millions of others, he now had nothing. Hans could not understand how so much money had evaporated for his money had been real enough.

  He received an update from Jan earlier in the week describing the draconian measures brought in by Prime Minister Ramsey MacDonald in Britain to try and prevent a total collapse and Anne had written to tell him how those dreadful sailors in the Royal Navy had been the catalyst for rolling strikes and layoffs occuring throughout the country. However, when he received Jan’s long letter, she had written that it was the poorer people with their larger families who were suffering the most while the well-off buried their heads in the sand and carried on as if nothing toward was happening in the world beyond their own privilaged spheres. But what was his country’s government doing about the problem right on their own doorstep? Very little other than the soup kitchens. There was a lack of positive leadership and everyone was hurting. Hans felt there had to be a solution and it had to be implemated sooner rather than later.

  “What I meant by shorter hours,” he suggested, “is that it would allow you to employ more people.”

  “Impossible!” Uncle slammed his wrist down hard on to the table. “I’ve already had to cut each man’s hours as it is and that does not help them, does it? There is not enough money in the business to employ more men. I can’t even pay the wages I paid out a few years ago. This depression will be the death of us and it does not help when each bloody trumped-up government says is that ‘further cuts need to be made.’ Doesn’t help, Erwin. The number of unemployed is still rising and . . . ”

  A knock on the door put a sudden halt to Uncle Karl’s words of frustration. He pulled himself reluctantly out of his wooden chair and walked over to open the door. On the other side stood Renard, his grey hat in his hand as he finished brushing the last of the rain drops off his coat. Now he was ready to come inside.

  “Good evening, Uncle.” He grinned. Renard always grinned. It sometimes annoyed Hans as his brother even grinned when he was seemingly upset or angry. “Bet you’re surprised to see me tonight!”

  Renard acknowledged Hans’ presence with a slight nod of his head. Hans thought his brother had grown into a large, strong man since he last saw him. He was easily the tallest of the brothers, a solid man with curly dark hair and brown eyes similar to his aunt’s. He could easily have been mistaken for the son his uncle and aunt never had.

  “Come in, Renard. Come in.” Uncle Karl waved his nephew into the room and then called to his wife. Aunt Laura was in the kitchen washing the dishes. She was the kind of wife who was always busy in the background preparing, cooking or cleaning. “Laura, Renard is here.”

  “Hello, Renard.” Aunt Laura wiped her soapy hands on her pinafore as she stepped into view. Middle age had started to grey her hair and thicken her waist. Hans thought that Mutti would have looked similar, had she lived. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” asked aunt Laura, the cheeks of her round face puckering into a cluster of welcoming lines.

  Renard laid his hat on the edge of the table.

  “I thought I’d call in.” He spoke directly to his aunt as he began to unbutton his coat. “I came down this way for a meeting.”

  “Can I get you something to eat?” Aunt Laura hinted that she needed to return to the kitchen.

  “No thanks,” Renard replied.

  As soon as his aunt left, Renard pulled out the nearest chair and sat down at the table. He pushed his hat to one side and leaned with his elbows on the table surface.

  “There was a new man I wanted to hear. Everyone’s been talking about him.”

  His uncle reached for another mug from the dresser behind him and placed it down on the table in front of Renard. He poured beer into Renard’s mug until the froth began to overflow the rim. He grabbed at one of the small plates on the table that still remained from the evening meal and emptied the remaining small cakes on it before pushing it over to Renard.

  “Cake?” Renard helped himself to one. His uncle continued with the subject closest to his heart. “How’s business in your area these days?”

  “Foul. Absolutely rotten. And yours?”

  “Not much better, Renard. It’s all these faction groups trying to bring the country down. I’m not sure anyone’s got the answer, though.”

  Renard looked directly at Hans for a few seconds. He had completely forgotten the presence of their uncle as he stared Hans in the face, his eyes glowing and his thick eyebrows raised in excitement. A wider than ever grin stretched across his face and as his expression became more animated, his excited voice grew louder and louder. By now Renard was breathing so heavily that he could hardly get the words out.

  “Brother, you should’ve been at the meeting. It was fantastic! Absolutely fantastic! There’s no other way to describe it! All the torches and flags and cheering! It was electric!” He swallowed the rest of his drink and began speaking with a new-found passion. “I went to hear this new man speak. Herr Hitler. Never heard such a speaker before. The crowd just went wild! Yelling! Chanting! So fantastic! ” Renard leant forward with both elbows firmly on the table and his large hands clasped together as he made the attempt to steady his nerves. He paused for a few seconds to gather his racing thoughts together before gesturing pointedly with his left index finger in his uncle’s direction. “Now there’s a man who’s got the answers, uncle. He promises to get rid of all these trouble-makers once and for all and hand jobs and businesses back to us. ‘Germany for all Germans.’ That’s what he says. Kick out all the unwanted, ungrateful lazy sods and good-for-nothings who only want to ruin us.” Renard’s eyes grew wide as he raised the tone of his voice. “You should have heard him speak! Deutschland erwacht! He’s the one to kick the backsides of those idiots who signed the Treaty that’s crippling our industries. The promises Herr Hitler made. He says that all lands taken from us will be returned. He has guaranteed us that!”

  Hans and his uncle listened to what Renard had to say. Hans was less impressed than his uncle. Renard had always been one to brag or exaggerate and to Hans there seemed to be too much boasting in what Renard had just been telling them.

  “Sounds too easy, I say. They c
ould be empty promises. Anyone can promise the moon and promises can easily be broken. Things are never that easy, especially in politics.” Hans shuffled his feet uneasily under the table. “Besides, what makes you so sure he will make it work while others have failed?”

  “Stop being such a pessimist, Hans.” Uncle Karl almost spat the words out like a machine gun. He opened another bottle of beer and refilled their mugs. “Give the man a chance, I say. If this man says he’s got the answers, and, from what Renard’s just said he seems to have a good following. Shouldn’t we at least give him a try?”

  “But will he destroy the Republic?” Hans hardly gave time for the others to answer. “How do we know that all the other main parties are behind him? Can we even trust him, this man of yours, Renard?” Since he had been in England, Hans had learnt the value of the democratic way yet he did not want to see this country sink into argumentative chaos. Renard leaned back in his chair with an air of supreme confidence and spoke excitedly to his brother.

  “Of course! Why not? Hindenburg will still be in charge. The only one against the idea seems to be Ludendorff.”

  Hans was confused. He remembered what Heidi had told him and how the ageing general had once supported this Herr Hitler.

  “But I thought it was that General who supported Herr Hitler in the Putch.” Hans was most emphatic.

  “He did.” Uncle Karl thrust both elbows on to the table top and changed his intense look away from Renard and to Hans. “But lately he’s decided to go against the National Socialists. Look, if it’s going to save my business and if it’s going to give jobs back to the people, it makes sense. Anyway, to me it does.”

  Hans nodded feebly yet he had to agree that something should be done, and done fairly quickly. He was one who needed to get a permanent job and quickly. He had to admit to himself that he was worried what might happen if he could not keep up regular payments for Andrea. But he did not want to divulge that to either his uncle or his brother. After all, some things were better left unspoken.

  During the next few months President Hindenburg did reluctantly ask Herr Hitler to form a new government. The new government immediately passed a law which silenced all opposition and finally it appeared as though the entire country was pulling in the same direction. It looked as though this new man and his party were going to lick Germany back into shape. But as everyone relaxed and congratulated themselves on having found a solution, Hitler sacked the ageing Chancellor and grabbed the position for himself. No-one lifted a finger to stop him. Then, in a relatively short time, before anyone could draw a breath, Chancellor Hitler had created his new Reich and had all his close supporters installed in the Reichstag. Rallies and speech-making, the like of which had never been heard before, echoed up and down the country from the Alps to the North Sea, from East Prussia to the Rhine. Hysteria grew like a giant and the new-founded nationalism extended its tentacles into every pocket of society. National socialism was preparing to spread wide its eagle wings.

  With incentives from the new government, uncle Karl’s business began to flourish again and he was able to take on more men and, for the first time in years, pay each one a good wage. He insisted Hans stay longer and make use of the education he had received by looking after the books and accounts. The firm had changed from making only domestic and hunting knives to manufacturing army knives, bayonets and munitions and as a consequence, the business had been given a most welcome boost to its finances from the National Socialist funds which enabled uncle Karl to purchase all the necessary equipment for the expansion. There was a new policy to insure all businesses, large or small, which may prove useful to the running of the new Reichs should survive and survive well. As a result, a new vitality was spreading out into all corners of the country and things were really looking up. The depressive years of the early thirties had been thoroughly pushed aside.

  One evening, Renard arrived at his uncle’s house accompanied by two very sour-looking men; both perfectly turned out in their respective dark uniforms, one more senior than the other.

  “Heil Hitler!”

  Hans had already realised that it was dangerous to criticise this new political situation, for there seemed to be ‘ears’ listening in every corner. He had already been informed that one misplaced word or one inappropriate connection could result in imprisonment. There had already been several arrests further down their street and those who were outspoken never came back and nobody dared to asked why. It was better to shut certain aspects out of one’s mind and pretend that they were not happening, like the smashing up of shop windows where Jewish families had had their businesses. It was easy and gave one a false sense of security not to notice such things but then the majority of people had been conditioned to look the other way.

  Abraham Mossberg had been known by the family for many years. He ran a drapers shop on the corner of the Hauptstrasse and Aunt Laura always went there to buy the best buttons, cottons or embroideries for her needlework. The ageing gentleman had always been so obliging in finding just the correct or most appropriate piece of material or the exact size of needle for the job. Suddenly, one afternoon the shop window had a white painted message with deliberate large letters that spread from one side to the other. Jude! Just one word but it sent a message that this shop was to be avoided.

  A month passed and the amiable Herr Mossberg was no longer there. Jude! Only one word but it changed the way aunt Laura shopped. One by one, these shopkeepers, like Herr Mossberg, were replaced and new people took over their businesses, and more and more of the new red flags with their black zig-zag hooked crosses were draped over the shop fronts, like Herr Mossberg’s shop or suspended from city buildings so that no matter where your eyes looked, there hung the reminders that this was now the New Order. The rule of National Socialism had begun.

  Hans led the men into the small back room, his uncle’s office, and where Hans did the accounting. While Hans cleared the tabletop of papers and books, Renard fetched chairs from the kitchen and then they sat squashed together around the small table. They made a strange forum, Hans and Renard in their every-day casual clothes and the pair in uniforms so meticulously cared for that not even a button or trouser crease was out of order. The lower-ranking officer was a slight built man with a flushed face and a long slender nose. The other, his senior, had broad shoulders that pushed into the seams of his jacket sleeves and gave Hans the opinion that, for all its neatness, the man was a trifle too large for his jacket and that a body once strong and muscular had become flabby and fleshy, for this was a man who sat on a soft office chair stamping documents and signing order sheets all day.

  He was a man of elephant proportions, towering over the thin man in both bulk and height. He lifted his wooden kitchen chair as if it had been made from balsa and then gently lowered himself down as if he expected it to break. He cleared his throat. His manner, when he spoke, was courteous and mild. He grinned just like Renard and that made Hans uneasy, more so when Hans observed that only his mouth reacted and this man’s eyes remained aloof and unemotional.

  “Herr Resmel. We are most sorry to have disturbed your evening. I hope you will accept this intrusion.”

  The skinny one murmured something inaudible, then nodded, watching Hans intently.

  “That’s all right. I wasn’t doing anything important,” Hans answered. He thought it much safer to agree with such characters. Any hint of rebuff or resistance on his part might have brought dire consequences.

  “We’ve come on a mission.” The first one carefully wiped away some spit from the corner of his wide elastic, grinning mouth. “Business, yes, business. And an opportunity for you.” Hans nodded as the man crunched up his eyes and sought confirmation that Hans was interested. Having satisfied himself that this was so, he continued in a more serious tone. “Our great leader has taken charge of the country and in the name of the Third Reich, we have come to make you an offer.”

  Hans was cautiously puzzled. His eyes moved from the fat man
over to Renard. Immediately the senior officer picked up on Hans’ hesitation.

  “Yes, your good brother here has informed us that you had lived in England. You worked for a well-recognised firm there.”

  “That was some years back. Before the Wall Street collapse.”

  “Never-the-less, you would have given you connections. I am informed that your knowledge of the English language is now most excellent.” Hans wondered where this conversation was leading, yet he gave no hint of his unease. The voice persisted furthering the cause. “We need someone, such as yourself, to serve the Fatherland.”

  “In what way?” Hans was not certain he would like their answer.

  “To go to London,” the thin man answered without hesitation, focussing on Hans like a bird of prey. Hans’ eyebrows shot upwards. This seemed too good to be true.

  “You will be there over several short periods.” The fat man took out a handkerchief and after clearing his throat, dabbed around his mouth again.”

  “For what purpose, may I ask?”

  “Information.”

  “You mean spying? Is that what you want me to do?”

  Hans was unsure of that question’s reception but neither of the men blinked an eyelid. The fat man indicated with his finger that the other speak.

  “No. Not at all.” The thin man lifted his eyebrows high into the frown lines on his forehead. His hair was noticeably thinner on top. “We have our own people for that.” He suddenly leaned so heavily on the table with his elbows that Hans thought the whole thing would topple over. “We just need you to make several visits . . . connected with the diplomatic office, shall we say. We do have several people there already, who will put our case to the British Government, should the need arise. We just need you to monitor the feelings of the English public. Chancellor Hitler is most interested in holding talks with their Mr Chamberlain. We’d like a little background information first, that is all. We’re only interested in finding out what the man on the street thinks about the situation in Europe.”

  “And, if you don’t like what I report?”

  Hans was feeling quite uneasy about the venture. He had already heard undertonal mumblings that life could be very precarious should one go against such men. He had no desire to question any of his friends in England and considered them to be part of his private life and he wanted to keep it that way.

  The thin man sensed Hans’ concerns and flicked his hand in the air as if shooing away a pesky fly.

  “No problem. We just want to know what the politicians and the people think of the Czech problem. We need to know their thoughts on what our Government will be offering as a solution. We need to know whether they are genuine, or not. Herr Hitler likes to know the truth. He cannot invite diplomatic ties if he does not know their thoughts with regard to the Fatherland.” The man cleared his throat and leaned back away from the table.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at all political.” Hans wiped away the beads of sweat he could feel building up on his forehead. He was hoping the men would swallow his comment.

  “That is also of no consequence!” The fat man cleared his throat with a gargle that seemed to come from deep down in his chest as though he had spent a life-time smoking.

  “Think of yourself like a journalist. A reporter of sorts. We know you had connections along those lines. Did you not work in Fleet Street?”

  “Well, yes, but that was some time ago and I didn’t . . .”

  The men were not interested in excuses. Hans felt as if his eyes bored through his clothing as the man looked for any clue to what Hans was thinking. Hans could feel the skin under his shirt pricking as he became hot and itchy.

  “Why the hesitation, Herr Resmel?”

  Hans looked to his brother but Renard sat like a statue, mute and unresponsive.

  “I’m not sure,” Hans began rubbing the top of his little finger. It still sounded very much like spying to him.

  “Of course, you would be paid and we will see you’re well rewarded.” The thin man’s forehead furrowed deeply as he now looked down his nose at Hans.

  “Think of the money you’d get, Hans,” Renard quipped. He glanced at the fat man, and added, “Solve your problems. Besides, you’ve always maintained you’d like to get back there. And you’d be doing a huge favour for your country.”

  The fat man leaned in Hans’ direction and grinned. It was more of a sly grin than one of friendship or warmth. He held out a piece of folded paper and waved it in the air directly in front of Hans’ nose.

  “There is just one slight problem,” said Hans as he glanced at the official heading on the papers. “I’m not actually a citizen of this country. You see I was born in Salzburg. I am Austrian.”

  The fat man smirked. He shook his head and looked from Renard and back to Hans.

  “Oh, Mr Resmel, that is where we beg to differ. You see, since your brother Renard here has joined the Party, we have done our homework, so as to say. Your birth was actually recorded in one of our Bavarian offices. Your mother was staying in Freilassing at the time and you were born there.”

  “But on my passport, it says I was born in Salzburg.”

  “And so some records do show that. But we have found different documents which prove otherwise.”

  A bombshell went off in Hans’ head. He looked for help from his older brother but Renard just shrugged his shoulders and commented,

  “A surprise, brother. I never knew that until I saw the evidence. As for me, it would have made little difference where I was born. I had decided to join up, anyway.”

  “Join up?” asked Hans, looking from the men to his brother.

  “The Party,” Renard answered. “Germany’s destiny is in our hands.”

  “Your signature on this would be much appreciated, Herr Resmel,” the fat man smooched pouting his mouth and licking his upper lip from one corner to the other. “A worthy contract for everyone.” He waved the paper back and forth in the air to try and make his point. Hans had not expected to have been pushed into such a corner.

  “I need time to think about this offer but I am not willing to follow Renard and become a party member. I am just not political, that is all. I hope this is acceptable to you.” He wasn’t sure how the two men would react but it was worth a try.

  The fat man removed a paper from his briefcase and laid it down on the table top slowly pushing it across the table so that it was directly in front of Hans. He clasped his hands together and rested his bulging arms on the top of his briefcase and waited, watching, licking his top lip as if preparing for a meal. He held up a pen and grinned, his eyes disappearing into two thin lines which made his rounded face rather like the cartoon drawings one saw regularly in any one of the newspapers.

  “We only ask for your loyalty. I will not pressure you to join the party but we do ask for your loyalty to the country.”

  The thin man who was quiet managed to squeeze a weak smile to Hans across the table.

  The fat man put the pen and paper back into his open case. There were two audible clicks as the lid was closed.

  “A little time, perhaps? Your brother may persuade you where your interests lie. So, Herr Resmel, one of us will call again tomorrow evening at eight. Heil Hitler!”

  The pair jumped to their feet and threw the expected salute. Renard did likewise. Hans stood and bowed his head in acknowledgement of their departure.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, gentlemen.”

  The next evening, only one man walked through the door; a different man in a different uniform. He was punctual, right to the minute. The dining room clock had just finished striking eight. Renard, together with Uncle Karl and Hans had spent the remainder of the previous evening discussing the offer until the early hours of the morning. Uncle Karl seemed so sure that once Hans accepted the offer, that life would become much better and Hans’ money concerns would be at an end. It was the least he could do for his uncle who had been so kind and helpful to him and for a brother who had already come
to the decision that national socialism was the answer to solving all the country’s woes. They were so organised that no stone was left unturned and their scrutinous ways were becoming expected and almost legendary.

  Hans had prepared himself to hear what else he might be told when one of the men returned. He was not sure whether he should trust either of them or whether he would be able to resist their demands. When he opened the door and saw the light grey uniform, he was relieved that a Wehrmacht officer had arrived this time.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he began. He removed his cap and hung it on the empty coat hook by the door. This man was more relaxed than either of the other two and was content to remain in the kitchen. “Shall we now be seated?”

  Renard was the first to sit, followed at once by the officer. His countenance now became more serious. He made it clear that there was business to be done this evening. His slim attaché case was placed with careful precision on the table half an arm’s length from the edge. He took out a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles from his top pocket and put them on, putting the arm first over his right ear, and then his left. Having done that, he deliberately tapped the table top with his fingers several times, a master in making those he interviewed feel uncomfortable. His words were slow and deliberate.

  “My name is Oberleutnant Pfinger. Unlike the other gentleman, I am completely under Wehrmacht orders although I am assigned to a special intelligence branch. Now, Herr Resmel, your brother, Renard, has already told us that your father was a professional soldier so we know he knew the importance of serving one’s country. We are asking that you also show your willingness to serve your Führer and your country.” He lowered his voice. “You wish to see this country become a great power again and regain it’s international respect, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes. I do.”

  “Your name has come up for service. In other words, you are under conscription orders. The Führer has given instructions for certain men to be called up to serve their country and you are now one of those. I do not have to explain the law regarding this to you. Your name is on the paper and the Führer expects unwavering loyalty and total obedience.”

  The man’s eyes opened wider as his voice got louder and louder. Hans’ insides jumped up into his throat and he was almost choked by the suddenness of it. Oberleutnant Pfinger reopened his attaché case fished out a document from his which he then leaned across and placed in the middle of the table. Hans noticed that a large black swastika covered most of the top of the page. He had not been prepared for that. He thought that he would look to the red and white flag of Austria, not to the black hooked cross that was flying over the Reichstag in Berlin.

  “Is this necessary?” Hans was uneasy about its implication. What was he letting himself in for?

  “Documentation is necessary. It states that you will be salaried by the Reich. But not only that. Think what an honour it will be for you and your family. Your brother, Renard, has informed the office that he has spoken to you and he has already advised you to accept the posting. Besides, I shouldn’t even think to hesitate if I were you. Those against the Führer put their lives at risk, especially when the secret police become involved, if you get my meaning.”

  “Was one of those other officers a secret police?”

  Pfinger nodded. His staring gaze penetrated right into Hans’ skull and Hans had the feeling the man was capable of reading his inner thoughts. Hans nodded. He made a guess at what the repercussions might be and his guess did not please him. Pfinger half stood and pushed the paper closer towards Hans.

  “We need all your particulars, Herr Resmel.” The man made sure he stressed ‘all,’ for he wanted it understood that complete obedience was expected. “Now, your father’s full name?” He paused. The clock kept ticking, a slow second by second tick as the minute hand moved off the quarter. “We already have your particulars,” Pfinger stated after a full minute had passed.

  Probably all from Renard, Hans thought. Yes, Renard would do that. Slinking up to such characters and willing to drop him into anything Renard was involved with. How he now despised his older brother.

  “Ludwig Uland Heinrich Resmel.” Hans watched as the fat man filled in the details, carefully and deliberately using the old script. The thin man continued with his questioning.

  “Your mother’s?”

  “Alice Margareta Kastner.”

  “We need to confirm the names and birthplaces of your grandparents.”

  The man began reading their names off another paper. Hans recognised Renard’s handwriting. Hans nodded in agreement. He knew the names of his father’s parents very well as they had lived around Salzburg and he had known them since he was very young. His mother’s parents were less well-known and he had only known them as Oma and Opa Kastner. The thin man began reading more names out loud again only this time the names had been typed on government paper.

  “Konrad Uland Kastner born Salzburg, Austria 18. . . and Julia Emma Crawford born Surrey, England 18. . .”

  Hans felt strange now that he had heard his grandmother’s maiden name. ‘Crawford.’ He never knew that Oma Kastner had been a Crawford. He knew she had been born in England, but a Crawford? No. If he had known, he could have told those English boys he was a ‘Crawford’ when he first arrived. Then they may have accepted him quicker. A document was pushed across the table to Hans.

  “You need to sign there.” A slender well-manicured finger forcefully pointed at the line on the bottom of the page. Hans noted that it came from the Foreign Branch of the Abwehr. He thought it better not to comment.

  “Now?” he asked instead.

  The man nodded and tapped the line ready for Hans’s signature.

  “I’m not as enthusiastic as my brother about this, you realise. And if I decide not to sign?”

  “I wouldn’t even dare to contemplate that idea, Herr Resmel. Any refusal might be taken as treason against the Chancellor as well as the country. Also, I’m not sure your uncle would like his government loan to be suddenly recalled and his business liquidated.”

  Renard had said nothing all evening but the look Hans received told him he had better not hesitate any longer. Hans reluctantly took the pen from him, and signed. He was not happy about it but what choice did he have? Renard had always managed to get the better of him even when they were just boys. Hans wondered exactly how involved Renard was with any of these men in their army uniforms and high leather boots but before he could ask his brother anything, the officer produced a leather-bound volume of Mein Kampf which he held in his right hand just above the table. Above them was a picture of a girl sitting on a rustic, farm gate and behind, in a smudgy distance were mountains with snow on their peaks. It was Aunt Laura’s favourite. Hans also liked it. It reminded him of Austria and of Oma and Heidi.

  His eyes lowered to the book on the table. Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler, written during his imprisonment years. The book that was now the testament for the nation. A replacement for the Bible that had served everyone for almost two thousand years. Herr Hitler stated his Reich would last at least a thousand years.

  That is an awful long time, Hans thought. He sat watching Oberleutnant Pfinger arrange the table. The new flag with its hooked cross. And then the book.

  “You are required to take the oath,” said Pfinger.

  “I wish to point out again that I am not political.”

  “I understand. We must all swear an oath.”

  “I do this for my family. . .” Hans noticed the slight head shake of his older brother. “ . . . and for my country,” he added in the hope that this would satisfy.

  “As you wish,” Pfinger said sending Hans the message that he had no interest as to what Hans’ motives might have been. “Everybody in the payment of the Reich must take the oath. Loyalty and obedience are paramount. When you look at the flag, remember: white for Nationalism, red for Socialism and black for the purity of the Aryan race. Put your left hand on the book and swear your oath.”

&n
bsp; Hans read out the words on the card he had been given in a flat, inexpressive voice. In the back of his mind he was wondering whether he was doing the sensible thing. He loved his country yet he hardly recognised it for how rapidly change was taking place.

  “I swear by God and by this sacred oath to the Führer, Adolf Hitler, the supreme commander of the armed forces, that I shall render unconditional obedience and that as a brave soldier, I shall be willing and ready to give up my life for him. So help me God!”

  Under his breath Hans was silently cursing Renard for getting him into this situation. He was sure Renard had something to do with his conscription although he knew men had been conscripted for a year now. It was all rather like being in a boys’ club, only he felt this would prove to be far more sinister.

  Pfinger snapped to attention.

  “Heil Hitler!” he barked.

  “Heil Hitler!” Renard jumped to his feet. He was full of gusto and enthusiasm for his brother’s inauguration.

  “Heil Hitler!” Hans mimicked the sound but within his heart it was an empty echo.

  Pfinger handed him a small card. It was a military one.

  “Don’t lose it. You are now a servant of the Reich. Carry this identity card. Always. You never know when you will need to produce it. When we need you, we will contact you. You will be hearing from us. Now, I must take my leave, gentlemen.” Pfinger looked upwards. “I do believe we are in for a storm.”

  He clicked his heels but this time gave a military salute. He repacked his bag, bade both Resmels farewell, and left. The sky outside was darkening. A barrier of black clouds had begun to extinguish the stars.

  “Heil Hitler!” Was Renard’s reply. What else would one expect from him?

  Heil Hitler!

  Hans would have to get used to it. There could never be any more of the friendly Good mornings for him. From now on it would be a curt Sieg Heil or Heil Hitler. That would be the greeting he would hear. That would be the greeting he would be expected to use.

  When he saw the wide grin covering Renard’s face, Hans worried about what he had done. Renard, the Party member. Renard, the ardent National Socialist. Such men were dangerous. Even one’s own brother. What option did Hans have, but to obey? From now on, there was no more freedom to decide. His identity would be controlled. He was now a military number: Number 00342, Subsection 2B of the Abwehr.

  Mr Erwin Hans Resmel the civilian existed no more.