Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

  The man was standing in the entryway, homburg hat in one hand, unbuttoning his overcoat with the other. “Ah, Herr Eckhardt. Thank you for seeing me.”

  The moment he spoke, Hans froze. He knew that voice. It had been four years. The man on the phone had been trying to disguise his voice, but Hans would never forget it.

  His guest smiled grimly and came forward. “So you recognize me?”

  “The voice,” he said cautiously. “A ‘friend,’ I think was the name you used that night.”

  “Gut. I have only a very short time. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

  “About what?”

  He clucked softly. “Herr Eckhardt, your suspicions are understandable, but my time is very short. And I am taking a great risk. I have something to share with you, but I need to get an urgent message to Alemann Zeidner and his family tonight.”

  Hans gasped and fell back. “I. . . . But I broke off all ties with that family when we learned that they were Jews.”

  “Listen to me!” the man hissed. “I know that you are trying to protect them. But I know all about the Zeidners.” At Hans’s look, he rushed on. “As you now know, Alemann’s source in Berlin for these past many years was a general in the army. I am—or was—that general’s aide-de-camp. When the general learned of the Night of the Long Knives, he tried to warn the Zeidners, but they were in Moscow. So he told me to call you instead. Look, what I am saying is, I know all about the Zeidners. I am not hunting them. I am trying to help them. They are in grave danger, but they have no phone, and I dare not go to their home. The risk is too high. So I ask again. Can you get a message to them tonight?”

  Hans’s head was spinning. “I. . . . No. We use a dead drop, which takes a full day before the message is picked up. Usually we meet at . . . uh . . . I’ve never been to his home.”

  “I know about his hideaway. You must trust me, Herr Eckhardt. I am here to save them.”

  If he knew about the hideaway, that made up Hans’s mind. “I don’t know where they live. We always meet at the hideaway.”

  “I do know, but there’s no way I can go there. I am leaving the country tonight. Now! I think they’re on to me. But I had to warn the Zeidners and you.”

  “Of what?”

  “In a moment. Their address is Kleinestrasse 151. That’s just two streets west of where you normally meet.” He took a quick breath, then reached in his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. As he opened it, Hans saw that it was a teletyped message. “Do you know what day it is today?” the man asked. “I mean, in history?”

  “I. . . . Oh. Ja. This is the fifteenth anniversary of the Beer Hall Putsch.”

  “And do you know about Paris?”

  “The assassination of our diplomat? Yes, I heard that he died today.”

  “Yes, which is a gift from heaven for the party leaders. For weeks now, they have talked about celebrating this anniversary with some demonstrations against the Jews. But Joseph Goebbels, ever the one to be concerned about public perception, stressed that any such action must appear to be”—he made quotation marks in the air—“‘spontaneous.’ It couldn’t be seen as something being organized by Berlin.”

  Hans saw immediately where he was going. “And now a disturbed, seventeen-year-old kid just handed them the perfect opportunity.”

  “Exactly.” He opened the paper now.

  “Would you like to sit down?” Hans offered.

  “Nein! My family is waiting in the car. I must be on my way.” He exhaled slowly. “This is a teletype message that Goebbels sent to Reinhard Heydrich, commander of the SS and the Gestapo, about an hour ago. As soon as Goebbels gives him the go-ahead, Heydrich will send this message to the commanders of all units throughout the country. They will then share it with all local police stations as well. As soon as the message is received, they will immediately begin to mobilize and select their designated targets and—”

  “Targets?” Hans cried. “What targets?”

  The man went on. “All offices and districts will have this information no later than midnight. Zero hour for launch is 0200 hours. About 0120 hours, Goebbels will send out the final confirmation giving the go signal to all units, and they will begin moving into position.”

  Hans felt like his knees were going to buckle. “And what are they planning?”

  His “friend” lifted the paper and began to read.

  “‘On account of the fatal attack on Germany’s Legation Secretary in the Paris Embassy, spontaneous demonstrations against the Jews are to be expected throughout the Reich in the course of this night (Nov. 9–10). Therefore, the following directives are issued for dealing with these events: (1) Any measures taken must not create nor involve danger to German life or property. For example, synagogues and temples are to be burned—’”

  Hans shouted out. “No!”

  His visitor went right on.

  “‘—synagogues and temples are to be burned down only when there is no danger of the fire spreading to surrounding buildings. (2) Businesses and private apartments of Jews may be destroyed but not looted. (3) Foreign citizens, even if they are Jews, are not to be disturbed. (4) Local police must understand that they are not to interfere in any way with these spontaneous demonstrations unless it is to ensure the safety of innocent people caught up in them.’”

  Hans rubbed at his eyes. “It’s a license to riot.”

  “Oh, I think it’s much broader than that. ‘(5) As soon as the events of the night make it feasible for the officials concerned, they are to arrest as many Jews as can be accommodated in existing jail and prison cells. For the time being, only healthy male Jews between the ages of 16 to 60 are to be arrested. Wealthy Jews should be especially targeted. Commanding officers should immediately notify the appropriate places of incarceration, including concentration camps, so that prisoners are transferred to the place of incarceration as quickly as possible.

  “‘SIGNED: JOSEPH GOEBBELS, MINISTER OF PROPAGANDA’”

  His “friend” walked over to the fireplace, opened the mesh netting, and tossed the message on the glowing coals. As it started to smoke, then burst into flames, he spoke again: “This could turn out to be the largest government-sponsored pogrom against Jews that we’ve seen in centuries. We have hundreds of SS and Gestapo offices across Germany. And they’ll all get the directive.”

  “God help them,” Hans whispered, shocked to the core. Then he straightened. “I’ll go to the Zeidners immediately. Tell them to get to their hideaway as soon as possible.”

  “No!”

  “No?”

  “Maybe for now, but they can’t try to ride this out. The chance of the Gestapo and the Brown Shirts going from door to door, searching Jewish houses is high. Thanks to the Nuremberg Laws, they have the name, address, and personal data for nearly every Jew in the country.”

  “But that neighborhood is like a slum. No one lives in any of the houses now.”

  “So it will be the first place frightened Jews will hide,” his friend shot back.

  Hans moaned. “Of course. You’re right.”

  “They could even torch them,” his visitor said. “With that note on synagogues, you know there will be other places burned.”

  Hans suddenly wanted to throw up. An image of the Zeidners being trapped in a flaming building hit him like a hammer.

  The man reached out and grabbed Hans’s arm. “Herr Eckhardt, I know you don’t need me to tell you what to do. Alemann has told us you are very resourceful. But here are a couple of thoughts I had coming over. The Zeidners’ new documentation shows them as Catholics from Austria. They also have their identity cards that show they meet the four-generation Aryan lineage requirements. So they are not Jews. Once they get to the hideaway, make sure they burn all of their old documents. And make sure there are not even ashes left. Second, I think a two-phase extraction might be
best. Have them go to the hideaway no later than ten tonight. Who knows when the SS might come knocking on their door? And you can bet that it won’t stop at sunrise. It’s going to go on all day tomorrow. Which means there will be a lot of confusion in the streets. That’s when you get them out of the hideaway and completely out of the area. Many citizens will be in the streets to watch the ‘fun.’ Use that to your advantage. But you need to get them clear away from that Jewish neighborhood as soon as possible.”

  “Yes. My wife and I will go over and see them as soon as we’re done with supper.”

  “Gut. But take your daughters with you.”

  That took Hans aback. “Is that a good idea?”

  “Nothing is happening before midnight. The idea is to look as normal as possible.”

  “Okay. But my second daughter is not here. She’s at a private Catholic school.”

  “Then take your oldest daughter. But not the younger ones.” Then he seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Herr Eckhardt. You know what’s at stake here and what you need to do. I don’t need to counsel you. I’ll just say this. You were once a high-ranking member of the party. You know how Nazis think. Use that to your advantage. Think like a Nazi.”

  He extended his hand. “I have to go. Good luck to you, and give my best to Alemann.”

  Hans gripped it firmly. “The Zeidners and my family owe you a huge debt.”

  He waved that aside. “Perhaps someday we may meet again and have a beer as we reminisce over this night.” He hesitated, then said, “Alemann is a good man. Best professor I ever had. Tell him auf Wiedersehen for me and my wife. This will be the last you hear from me.”

  “Then good luck to you. Auf Wiedersehen. God speed.”

  But he was already headed for the door.

  7:25 p.m.—Kleinestrasse, Old Town District

  “Hold it.” Hans knelt down and pretended to tie his shoe while he turned his head slowly and scanned the street ahead of him. “Do you see anyone?” he whispered.

  Both Lisa and Emilee shook their heads. “Just that older couple that passed on the other side a minute ago. They’re still going.”

  “I see them.” He stood again and moved forward, putting his arm through Emilee’s. “I think Alemann’s house is that one across the street, with the yellow shutters.”

  “The light’s on in the living room,” Lisa noted.

  “That’s good,” Hans said. “Just what we need is to have them be out somewhere, like to the cinema or something. Lisa, when we get inside, if that is the living room, I want you and Leyna and Erika to sit there as you talk. Leave the curtains open. Let people see you laughing and having a good time together. Very normal.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  He reached out and touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lisa. You should be home getting all prepared for Benji’s arrival. And here we are playing cloak and dagger games.”

  “His train isn’t due in until after nine tomorrow night. I hope this will all be over by then.”

  “It has to be,” Emilee said with great fervency.

  8:14 p.m.—Zeidner Home

  Richelle clung to Emilee for a long time. Finally, she kissed Emilee on the cheek. “Thank you, our dear, dear friends. How can we ever repay you?”

  Emilee smiled. “Tell the Westlands to make up some more beds in the bunkhouse. We’ll only be about a month behind you.”

  Hans edged over closer to Alemann as Lisa said goodbye to Erika and Leyna. “We need to talk about tomorrow. Can I come back to the hideaway later tonight?”

  “How much later?”

  “Well, I don’t want to bump into our neighborhood SS officer, so around ten?”

  “I’ll meet you at the back porch.”

  He turned to face Alemann directly. “Can I make a friendly suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Before you leave tonight, shave your beard off.”

  That rocked him back. “Why? This isn’t a Hasidic beard.”

  “I know that. But beards in general are more popular with Jews than not. And this is a Jewish neighborhood. What if you went to a mustache? That’s a very German thing right now.”

  “I. . . .”

  Alemann turned as Richelle and Emilee joined them. Richelle was nodding, obviously having heard. “Hans is right.” She smiled teasingly. “How about something thick and bushy. Oh, or better, how about a handlebar mustache? You know, one of those they wax and twirl into long points. Very proper.”

  Alemann was not amused. Hans had a different idea. “No. One like what our glorious leader wears. You know, that little patch of black hair on his upper lip.”

  “A Hitler mustache?” Alemann recoiled in horror. “Never!”

  Hans gave him a thin, tight smile. “Alemann, at this point, don’t ever say never.” Then, reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a cheap necklace with a cross dangling from it. “Richelle, you’re not going to like this either, but you need to wear this tomorrow.”

  She stared at it for several seconds, then without a word held out her hand.

  Hans gave it to her, then reached for the second paper bag he had brought. Before he took out what was in it, he sighed. “This next is more painful. It will deeply offend you, but. . . .”

  “But what?” Alemann asked.

  “Tomorrow we may be stopped by either the SS or the Gestapo, or both. They’ll be checking papers, looking for Jews. So our purpose is to deflect any suspicions they may have about you being Jewish, even before those suspicions start to pop up. The clothes. The cross. The mustache. They’re all deflectors. My mother had another idea, and I think it is brilliant.”

  He reached in the sack and pulled out what they saw was a long, flat box with a brightly colored lid. Across the top in dark black, Gothic lettering were two words: JUDEN RAUS.

  “‘Jews out’?” Alemann asked, his expression darkening. “What is this?”

  “It is a board game. Like the very popular American game called Monopoly.”

  Richelle recoiled. “I have heard of this. But why would Inga—”

  “Because it is highly offensive, Richelle,” he cut in. He turned to Alemann. “The board, which folds in the middle, has streets from various cities printed on it. You can buy a Berlin game, or a Munich game, and so on. Along each street there are numerous shops and businesses, all labeled with names that are obviously Jewish. Cohen’s Candy Shop. Levi’s Butcher Shop. Goldstein’s Green Grocer. The playing pieces are small wooden men, all of whom wear pointed, cone-shaped hats with caricatures of Jews drawn on them—large ears, big, flat noses, horrible grimaces.”

  He rushed on as he saw Alemann glowering. “The players roll dice and move their pieces accordingly. If they land on one of the shop spaces, then the player gets to go inside the shop and arrest the owner. Then they get to decide whether to send him to a concentration camp here in Germany or let him go to Palestine. The winner is determined by who deports the most Jews.”

  “That’s horrible,” Richelle whispered.

  Alemann’s face was like flint. “No. I know what you’re trying to do, Hans. But no. We will have no part of that.”

  “Listen to me, Alemann,” Hans shot right back. “We’re just six weeks from Christmas. This is a highly popular game. It’s for younger children, so tell them that you are giving it to a nephew or something. What Jew would buy such a horrific thing?” he added.

  Alemann started to shake his head, but Richelle took the game from Hans and replaced it in the sack. “Thank you, Hans. And thank Oma Inga. It is a brilliant idea.”

  Before Alemann could say more, Hans concluded. “One more thing. We will almost certainly be stopped by the Gestapo or the SS tomorrow. If you’re carrying suitcases, even small ones, they’ll want to know why. So except for Richelle’s purse, and the girls’ book bags, you leave everything else behind. Even your
briefcase.”

  “Can I take a lunch pail?” Alemann finally asked sardonically.

  Hans reached out and laid his hand on Alemann’s. “Yes, the lunch pail is a nice touch.”

  9:54 p.m.—Zeidner Hideaway

  The moment Hans put his foot on the bottom step, the back door to the deserted house swung open. “Come,” Alemann whispered. He let Hans go past him then carefully locked and shut the door. He then took Hans by the elbow. “I know that you asked that it be just me and you, but I’d like Richelle to hear the details too. Is that all right? The girls are both asleep now. And Richelle and I have something we’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Of course. It was mostly the girls I was concerned about. No need to burden them with things they don’t need to know.”

  “Gut. Richelle is waiting upstairs.”

  They didn’t speak again until they were inside the secret attic space. Richelle gave Hans a quick hug but said nothing. “Let’s sit at the table,” Alemann suggested.

  Hans nodded and spoke to Richelle as he held up a large paper bag that was filled to the rim. “Here are a few things for tomorrow. School uniforms. A couple of book bags. The—”

  Richelle was startled. “Surely you don’t want the girls to go to school tomorrow.”

  “No, but it is a school day. What we’re trying to achieve here is to have nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that draws anyone’s attention. Lisa will be coming with us tomorrow, so all three girls will be in their uniforms. Emilee says she hopes they fit. They’re from two years ago.”

  Richelle held first one up and then the other. “They’ll be fine. A little tight for Leyna maybe.”

  Hans reached in the bag again. “And Emilee sent a house dress for you as well. It should fit except that you’re taller than she is, so the skirt may be a bit short. She said you are welcome to let it out if you’d like.”

  She held it out and smiled at her husband. “A short skirt and a Hitler mustache. How rakish.”

  “That’s not funny,” Alemann growled. Then to Hans. “No comment from you, either.”