Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Oh,” Alemann said bitterly, “there’s a great loss to the Jewish people.”

  Hans nodded. “The law is to become effective the day following its passage, which will be September fifteenth, just two days from now.”

  Alemann had leaned forward and was massaging his temples with his fingertips. “And the second law?”

  “According to my so-called friend, the second law is called the Reich Citizenship Law. And its purpose is to define which people—meaning which bloodlines—qualify for German citizenship.”

  “So it’s come to that, has it? They shall no longer be German citizens?”

  Hans nodded grimly. “Again, according to my source, the law states that only those Germans who qualify for citizenship will enjoy the full political rights granted by the law—voting, freedom of movement, freedom of assembly. That kind of stuff. It also provides more precise definitions of those who are ‘German-blooded’ and those who are ‘half-bloods, mongrels, or mixed-race.’ He also said that the law will define differing degrees of Jewishness. One-eighth. One-fourth. Three-eighths. And so on.” Hans was disgusted. “It is unbelievable. With the stroke of a pen, it instantly disenfranchises millions of German citizens. And there will be no recourse in the courts or from the government. You can count on that.”

  “And how do they make that determination on Jewishness?” Alemann asked softly.

  “Genealogical records. They’re talking about opening up the state archives so that people can document their lineage.”

  “The archives?” Alemann’s eyes were wide. He shook his head, staring at his hands. “Madness,” he muttered. “We have descended into madness.”

  Chapter Notes

  The information shared in this chapter relies heavily on the writings of William Shirer (see Rise and Fall, 248–56, 233–34); Read’s Devil’s Disciples, 406–7; and “The Nuremberg Laws,” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nuremberg_Laws).

  September 13, 1935, 11:28 p.m.—Zeidner Home

  Richelle Zeidner carefully closed and locked the door that led to the garage. Without turning on the lights, she slipped out of her shoes, picked them up, and tiptoed over to the stairway. Careful to avoid the second step, which creaked loudly if you stepped on the middle of it, she tiptoed up the stairs and down to their bedroom. The curtains were drawn so it was pitch black inside, but she crossed the room to her dressing table and began to remove her earrings and necklace. Then, as she slipped out of her dress, she realized that it was too quiet. She stopped and listened more intently. Nothing.

  Puzzled, she moved across the room to the bathroom door, pulled it almost shut, then reached inside and flipped the light switch. When she turned, she was surprised to see that the covers on their bed had not been disturbed. Perplexed, she retrieved her bathrobe from the wardrobe and slipped back out. Stepping very lightly, she descended the stairs, turned left, and moved across the entryway to where double doors opened into the drawing room. “Alemann?”

  He was sitting in a chair with no lights on. The only illumination came from the streetlight outside their window. At her voice he quickly straightened.

  “What are you doing?” Richelle asked. “It’s almost midnight.”

  “Come in.”

  She hesitated, but then went over to join him, pulling the other chair around to face him. “I told you that you didn’t have to wait up for me.” When he still didn’t answer, she leaned in. “How long ago did Hans leave?”

  When he shrugged, she reached across and took his hand. “Alemann, what’s wrong?”

  When he finally spoke, it was so low, she had to lean in further to catch his words. “Did I ever tell you that I have three rabbis in my paternal line?”

  “I. . . .” She was gaping at him. Where had that come from? “No,” she finally said. “I know that your father and grandfather were rabbis, but. . . .”

  “My great-grandfather was a renowned expert on the Targums. His writings are still taught in the yeshivas there in Sudetenland.”

  “Tell me again what a Targum is?”

  “It’s rabbinical commentary on the Old Testament written in the first century A.D. They were supposed to help the common people better understand the Torah.” He looked up at her. “I wonder what Great-Grandfather Avraheem is thinking right now.”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Three generations of rabbis, and what happens to this one? He not only refuses to consider a rabbinical career; he abandons the faith altogether, pretending to be a Christian—first a Catholic, then a Lutheran when he changes his identity a second time. And not only that, he convinces his wife to leave the faith with him.”

  Richelle didn’t know what to say. “Alemann! You have not abandoned your faith.”

  There was no answer. She looked at his features more clearly, and the sorrow she saw there made her want to weep.

  “Then what, Richelle?” he cried. “How would you describe us? Oh yes, we light the Shabbat candles each Friday at sundown, but only in strictest secret. And that is only after we went years without even having them in the home. We celebrate Pesach each spring, but by ourselves, which is not allowed in the law of Moses. It’s like we’re playing some elaborate game. We go to mass at the cathedral on Christmas and Easter so our neighbors will think that we are at least nominal Christians, but we won’t go anywhere near a synagogue on Yom Kippur, the holiest of all days. We’re a sham, Richelle.” He looked away. “No, I am a sham. Not you. Not the girls.”

  She was wise enough to say nothing. Not yet, at least.

  “And our very best friends have no idea of who we really are. What we really are! We’re the worst kind of hypocrites. What do you think Hans and Emilee would say if we waltzed in tomorrow and said, ‘Oh, yes. Just thought you’d like to know. We’re Jewish.’”

  “They would be surprised, of course,” Richelle said softly, “but I think they would go right on being our friends. Furthermore, I think they would be offended to know you thought otherwise.”

  “And do you think they would let their daughters continue to play with our daughters?”

  She sighed. “Alemann, what’s happened? What brought this on? Did Hans say something to offend you?”

  There was a quick shake of his head. Then, after another long silence, he began to talk.

  Alemann Zeidner had a remarkable mind and a high ability to recall detail, so he recited what Hans had told him about the coming Nuremberg Laws almost verbatim. When he finally stopped, he peered at Richelle in the semidarkness and saw that she had gone a deathly pale. He stood, reached down and pulled her up to stand beside him, and walked her over to the sofa, where they sat down together. He put his arm around her as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “This changes everything,” he finally said.

  She stiffened. “How so?”

  There was no answer. She reared back. “Are you saying. . . .” She couldn’t finish.

  Alemann snorted in disgust. “I don’t know what I’m saying, Richelle. All I know is that I have never been more deeply ashamed of myself than I am right now, and that’s saying a lot, for I have been terribly ashamed of what I have done for years now.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know!” he cried. “Don’t you think I’ve thought about what it would mean to you and the girls if we. . . .” And now it was him who couldn’t say it.

  “If we told people the truth?” The very saying of it made Richelle’s stomach twist into knots, like she had just stepped up to the edge of a very high precipice.

  Alemann nodded. Then immediately he shook his head. “Not ‘we,’ Richelle. Me,” he whispered. “You are a convert to Judaism, but you’re not Jewish.”

  “And that’s what you think of me? After all these years? You think I converted just to please you and your family?” She started to get up, but he quickly pulled he
r back down.

  “I’m sorry, Richelle. Of course not. You’re more faithful than I am.”

  “Besides,” she said slowly, “you said that the new law defines me as Jewish if I am married to a Jew, no matter what my bloodlines are, right? Same with our girls. They’re Jewish whether they choose to be or not. So what? Are you going to write me out a bill of divorcement? Disown our children, thinking that will keep them safe?”

  He dropped his head into his hands, covering his face. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Richelle. I’m still in shock. I should be able to just brush it off. I say to myself, ‘No worries, Alemann. You’ve covered your tracks well. Even if they check the genealogical records, as I’m sure they will, the man who helped us change our identities gave us valid family records going back four generations. Five for our girls. Our lines now connect to real people in the Catholic parish records that are over a hundred years old.’”

  “So if they check us out, then—”

  “No, Richelle. When they check us out. Hans’s source says that the government is gearing up to examine the genealogical records of every adult citizen going back at least four generations. And we can do that. We have nothing to fear. We shall pass that scrutiny with flying colors. That’s why it cost us a small fortune.”

  “Then what?” she cried. “What are you saying?” When he didn’t respond, she went on, “Alemann, you did it for us. You didn’t do it because you wanted to reject your faith.”

  “Oh, really? Tell that to my father and Grandfather Jakov, and Great-Grandfather Avraheem. Tell that to the thousands of Jews who died during the Crusades and the other pogroms throughout history.”

  Richelle said nothing. She could see he was much too distraught to be reasoned with.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he asked when he saw that she wasn’t going to respond. She nodded. “When we Jews tell people that we are God’s chosen people, often they ask us, ‘Chosen for what?’ And what do we always say?”

  “Chosen for suffering.”

  “Ja! And that is the story of our people for the last three thousand years. Persecution. Hatred. Conquest. Captivity. Assyria. Babylon. The Persians. The Greeks. The Romans. How many generations have verified the reality of that answer? A hundred? Two hundred? They had families too. They had wives and daughters.” Suddenly, he got to his feet and went into his office. He unlocked a file cabinet, opened the second drawer, and found a file. He came back in and sat down beside Richelle.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “It is a document I received about two years ago from my confidential source in Berlin.”

  “What kind of document?”

  In answer, he opened the file and removed a typewritten sheet. His eyes scanned it quickly, then he looked up. “Do you remember what was happening two and a half years ago?”

  She thought for a moment. “So spring of 1933? Of course. Hitler was made chancellor. A short time later we had the Reichstag fire, and he used that to consolidate all power to himself. We became a Nazi dictatorship.”

  “Ja, ja,” Alemann said, waving that off. “And then what?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re looking for. He started passing all kinds of other laws and programs . . .”

  “Yes!” he cried. “Such as the Enabling Act. On the sixth of April, 1933, the Office of Press and Propaganda proclaimed a national day of—” He raised one hand drew quotation marks in the air with his fingers–‘Action Against the Un-German Spirit.’”

  “Which led to the book burnings, right? How can I ever forget that awful night?”

  “That’s not all that call to action led to. This was kept out of the press and off the radio, so very few people even know about this, but the storm troopers in Berlin were unleashed on the Jewish population. Why? Because who better represents an ‘un-German spirit’ than Jews?” He raised the paper. “I won’t read all of this. It’s too gruesome. But here is a confidential report of what followed. This was what my friend in Berlin sent to me a few weeks later.”

  “And you keep it in your file cabinet?” Richelle asked, deeply shocked. “Is that wise?”

  “I keep that drawer locked, but—”

  “A lock won’t stop the Gestapo, Alemann.”

  That took him aback, then he nodded. “You’re right. That would not be good. I’ll burn it as soon as we’re done here.” And then he raised the paper higher and began to read.

  CONFIDENTIAL

  TOP SECRET. RESTRICTED ACCESS

  Report on the Action against the Un-German Spirit—April 6–30, 1933

  The forces of the Sturmabteilung, also known as the SA or the Brown Shirts, have long had a reputation for being virulently anti-Semitic and for expressing their hatred for Jews through sporadic, widespread acts of violence against Jews, their places of worship, and their private property.

  Herr Joseph Goebbels, Reich Minister of Propaganda, gave orders to Ernst Roehm, Commander of the storm troopers, to loose them on the Jewish population. They were to show no mercy. It is not known how many soldiers participated, but possibly tens of thousands. Working in groups, they rampaged through the streets, pouncing on any Jews they came across. Many were savagely beaten until the blood ran down their heads and faces and their backs and shoulders were battered and bruised. Many were knocked unconscious and left lying in the streets.

  Richelle closed her eyes and covered her mouth with her hands, but Alemann seemed not to notice and continued.

  Over the following days and weeks, the attacks intensified and spread through other towns and cities. Those brave enough to speak out against such illegal violence—Jews or non-Jews—were also singled out for this savage treatment. Troopers smashed their way into the home of a Jewish businessman and moneylender in Straubing who had won a lawsuit against a local Nazi official. The Brown Shirts dragged him from his home and drove him away in a car, then shot him dead. In Berlin, a young baker’s apprentice had also won a suit against some of the SA thugs. Now they took their revenge. They dragged him off to their barracks, where they beat him to death. When his body was found, a Nazi swastika had been painted on his chest.

  “No more, Alemann! Please! I’ve heard enough. Too much. It’s horrible!”

  “I’m sorry, Richelle. I’m sorry for putting such images in your mind. But. . . .”

  “I don’t need to know every detail to be horrified, Alemann.”

  He swung around angrily. “It is in the details that horror is created, and horror is what we must feel at some point, isn’t it?”

  When she didn’t answer, he lifted the paper. “Let me just read the last paragraphs of the report. I’ll skip over the rest of the ‘details.’ But the conclusion illustrates the breadth and depth of what is happening to our country. In our country!”

  “If you must,” Richelle said, staring at her hands, which were folded in her lap.

  With virtual control of all media outlets in the Fatherland, Goebbels was able to censor and suppress reports of the operation carried out by the SA, but he could do nothing about the foreign press. Around the world, indignation, shock, and outrage rapidly spread, especially in countries with large Jewish populations, such as England and the United States. In the U.S., the American Jewish congress began clamoring for a worldwide boycott of German goods.

  In the upper echelons of the Nazi Party, the reaction to this response was swift and bitter. Goebbels started planting articles in the foreign press accusing the Jews of exaggerating a few isolated incidents of violence into what he called “horrors propaganda.” And within the nation, Goebbels launched a massive propaganda blitz. The line he peddled was simple and effective. The actions against the Jews were defensive measures that a reluctant Germany was forced to take to protect itself from the antagonism of international Jewry.

  Posters immediately went up all over Germany. “The Jews of the world are trying to
destroy Germany!” they trumpeted. Or, “People of Deutschland, defend yourselves. Refuse to do business with our enemies the Jews!”

  When Alemann finished, he glanced at Richelle once more, then went over to the fireplace. He retrieved a match from the box on the mantel, scratched it on the stone, then touched the flame to the document. He held it for a moment to make sure it was burning well and then tossed it on the logs. He stared moodily into the flames until they died away and there was nothing but ashes left. Only then did he turn to his wife. And what he saw in her eyes shocked him deeply. But he had to finish. It had to be said.

  “If this simple ‘Action against the Un-German Spirit’ in 1933 led to what followed then,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “what will the Nuremberg Laws bring? They totally disenfranchise all Jews in the Fatherland. Allow them no personal rights. Where will it all end?”

  Richelle got slowly to her feet and walked over to him. She reached up and laid a hand on his cheek, weeping unashamedly now. “We don’t have to do anything tonight, my dearest Schatzi,” she whispered. “Come to bed and sleep. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  September 14, 1935, 4:51 a.m.

  Richelle rolled over, still half asleep, and reached out for Alemann. When she couldn’t find him, she opened her eyes and went up on one elbow. After a moment, she fell back and groaned. Not again.

  He wasn’t in the drawing room this time. She found him in his office with a pen in hand and a tablet filled with notes and figures. When she tapped on the glass, he jumped, then turned and waved her in. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly before kissing her on the cheek. “I tried to slip out without waking you.”