Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  CORRIDOR OF DARKNESS

  A NOVEL OF NAZI GERMANY

  Patrick W. O’Bryon

  Brantôme Press

  NAPA, CALIFORNIA

  Copyright © 2013 by Patrick W. O’Bryon.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at editor@brantomepress.com.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design by G. S. Prendergast

  Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Author Photo by Ashley Urke Photography

  Corridor of Darkness/Patrick W. O’Bryon. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-9910782-1-9

  Do not close your eyes to the fact

  that we are entering a corridor of

  deepening and darkening danger.

  ―Winston Churchill, May 1935

  PROLOGUE

  Marburg on the Lahn, Germany

  29 October 1934

  In the narrow passage between the inn and the brothel three men in dark clothing huddled in the shadows. The mouth of the alley opened to the upper market place, now mostly deserted. A young couple crossed the square, closely entwined, heading back to a warm apartment. A man with hat brim pulled low looked furtively right and left before entering the whorehouse.

  “There goes one lucky son-of-a-bitch,” said Peter Brenner. “Wouldn’t mind getting laid myself right now.”

  “Just concentrate on what’s coming to that bastard Frenchman; that’ll get you hard enough.” Horst von Kredow glanced up to the second-story window of the inn where their target celebrated the new semester with a few of his closest fraternity brothers. “I want that asshole ground to pulp.”

  “More meat for your sausage grinder, Horst?” Darkness hid the grin on the narrow face of Klaus Pabst. “Don’t worry, once we finish with him tonight he won’t lift a saber again.”

  Horst unconsciously placed a fingertip to the bandage on his cheek.

  Wisps of fog drifted up from the streets below, diffusing the yellow cast of the street lamps. The clock face on the city hall was now barely visible. Across the square Saint George bled an ever-dying dragon into a gurgling fountain. The worn cobbles reeked of urine, stale beer, and dog shit smeared by passers-by in the course of the day just ending.

  Their target had entered the inn almost two hours before. The raucous gathering of comrades continued undiminished. One window high above the alley stood ajar, releasing tobacco smoke, celebratory toasts, and drinking songs to the cool night air.

  The waiting men had foresworn both distinctive fraternity colors and brown-shirted SA uniforms. Heavy wool overcoats warded off the chill, and wide-brimmed hats shielded their eyes and identities. The long wait itself was of little concern. They thrived on punishing those who lacked proper respect for their new Germany. The men now smoked in silence, the glowing tips of their cigarettes flitting about in the blackness of the alley. Horst drew cautiously on the harsh-smelling Roth-Händle, wary of overtaxing his damaged facial muscles with such a simple act.

  From time to time other sounds reached them, male and female voices, barely perceptible beyond the closed windows of the bordello to their back. The night air shifted cautiously in the autumn chill. Acrid coal and wood smoke invaded the alleyway, hinting at the winter to come. At last they heard boots pounding down the wooden stairs, and the celebrants emerged from the inn to head home to bed.

  Now only a scatter of friendly banter disturbed the quiet of the square. Taking leave of his last companion, their prey ambled down past city hall toward the old university building. An occasional misstep, ever so slight, betrayed the quantity of beer consumed that evening. His stalkers moved onto the main square and followed from thirty meters back. At one point their quarry, quietly humming a drinking song, braced one arm against a building and released a vaporous stream onto the paving stones. Then, with an audible sigh of relief, he descended the cobbled street toward the river bridge.

  They knew where he would be most vulnerable. The gothic windows of the university church glimmered softly above the small square where grain once traded. At its end an arched passage pierced an ancient wall, beyond which a stone staircase dropped to street level. The corridor glowed dully under the iron lamps affixed to either side of the wall.

  Their attack was swift. A crude hempen bag dropped roughly over the victim’s head, and one assailant twisted it tightly around the drunken man’s neck while the others restrained him. Strong arms whipped him around toward Horst, who slammed his fists relentlessly into the victim’s abdomen and face. The well-aimed blows met no real resistance, for the student, his senses dulled by alcohol, quickly gave up his fight. Now on the pavement, he endured brutal kicks from all sides. His arms shielded his hooded head, leaving the attackers to concentrate on his unprotected back. There was little sound, just the repeated thud of heavy boots meeting flesh and the self-satisfied grunts of the attackers.

  Once the man no longer moved, a dark mass on the stones beneath the arch, the attackers dragged him across the landing. They scanned the street below for late wanderers or a police patrol before launching him down the steps, and the body slid to rest, belly down, arms splayed to the side, blood darkening the coarse hood.

  The men laughed as they stepped around him, descending the stairway. “Well, Jungs, a beer to celebrate?” Horst asked.

  Once at street level they turned toward the Zentral-Hotel some blocks away, where a reserved table in the tavern awaited their arrival. A small flag displayed the colors of their Corps, alerting those not belonging to Horst’s immediate inner circle to keep their distance. The low-hanging ceiling and dark wooden beams were pimpled with amber tar, witness to years of heavy-smoking patrons. Behind the bar the proprietor rinsed glasses to strains of martial music, his radio barely noticed over the students’ singing and laughter.

  Horst pounded his beer mug on the table to get the room’s attention, then raised his voice to override the clamor. He took care not to strain his healing face. “To hell with all foreigners and stinking Jews!” He raised his stein, “Prost!”

  Klaus and Peter joined in, and the toast echoed at nearby tables. “Prost!”

  A Nazi anthem announced on the radio led the bartender to turn up the volume. Chairs and benches scraped on wooden planks as the drinkers rose with right arms raised to bellow the lyrics:

  The flag held high, the ranks firmly closed, Storm Troops march forth with calmly assured step…

  Before the drinkers regained their seats, Horst von Kredow proposed a new salute, recently introduced at the Party Congress in Nuremberg: Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer!

  The tavern resounded with the full-throated response: Ein Deutschland!

  DEUTSCHLAND ERWACHE!

  Germany, Awaken!

  1929 - 1934

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ryan Leonard Lemmon smiled as he left the opulent lobby of the Woolworth Building to enter the bustling foot traffic on Broadway. The year was 1929, New York City was riding an irrepressible stock market with powerful men of finance at the reins, and the young Midwesterner was well on his way to becoming a citizen of this great metropolis. He alread
y visualized a future office high atop one of Manhattan's imposing new skyscrapers, but in the coming year he would study finance in Berlin, for Irving Trust Company had encouraged him to accept the prestigious fellowship he had won. His departmental director predicted that the experience would make Ryan a greater asset to the International Division, and the bank had provided a Berlitz course in Business German to make the most of his opportunity.

  Now Ryan headed to the noisy, uptown 42 Club on West 49th to join his brother Edward and Harvard School of Business friend Gene Lawton. He spotted them at a corner table and negotiated a path past other drinkers. There was no sign of Prohibition in the crowded speakeasy where the three gathered to celebrate Ryan’s imminent departure for Europe.

  Ed was the first to raise his glass. “To great times in Germany, my brother!”

  “And I’ll toast both my globetrotting friend and our beautiful Germany!” added Gene.

  The glasses drained, Ed reached across the table for the bottle. “Not bad hooch. Is it really Jameson’s?”

  “As close as we’ll find this side of the pond,” Gene said, admiring an artfully-forged label. “You boys sure picked a top-notch joint. I’ll bet this is where the Revenue boys unwind after busting up our fair city’s bootleggers.”

  “Speaking of Feds, here’s to your new position at German and Austrian Affairs, Ed.” The State Department had recently recruited his older brother, and Ryan was sincerely proud. “With your talents and your new father-in-law’s clout, you’ll knock ‘em dead in Washington.”

  “Well dammit, baby brother, I’m still jealous as hell. Shouldn’t I be the first to live abroad?”

  “Don’t worry, Ed. You’re destined for some lofty Foreign Service post while I’m still plodding along down in the trenches.”

  The Lemmon brothers were accustomed to both competition and success. A spirited icon of eastern Kansas society, their mother had demanded of them proficiency in scholastics, athletics and the arts, and their father, a respected dental surgeon, taught them to win respect with erudition and relaxed charm. Both brothers put their training to good use. Now in his early twenties and at the top of his game, Ryan stood ready to fulfill his overseas dream.

  The previous summer he and Gene Lawton had escorted a group of Wellesley co-eds on a grand tour of Europe. It was Gene’s second summer as a travel guide, while novice Ryan took responsibility for transportation, baggage, and seeing the girls gathered each morning for the next leg of the journey.

  The experience had been an eye-opener for the Kansas native: horseback rides in Ireland, Alpine bicycle tours, mountaintop skiing at Chamonix, champagne-laced Parisian revues, and dancing into the morning hours in Roman clubs. For dashing Ryan, the tour had also provided a wealth of romantic opportunities. The three-month whirl from country to country, capital to capital, from museum to cathedral to art gallery, all had left him determined to make Europe his own.

  “What a great time to live in Germany—the dollar’s strong, the mark weak—and best of all, Berlin is wide-open,” Gene said. “And knowing your success with the fairer sex, I look forward to hearing all about your new conquests over there.” He paused to down another shot. “In intimate detail, of course.”

  “Gentlemen, I’ll share my four-step secret for success with women.” Ryan counted off on his fingers. “First, show genuine affection. Then, make a pleasurable inspection. And—very important—come up with a worthy erection.”

  Edward grinned. “I believe you said four steps?”

  Ryan lifted a fourth finger. “Circumspection, my friends, always circumspection…so don’t expect any ‘kiss and tell’ from me.”

  “Well, in that case...” Edward held his glass high, “here’s to great untold adventures!” Ryan responded with his broadest smile and signaled for a second bottle, the first still half full.

  The next morning the three friends gathered in Ryan’s narrow stateroom aboard the Redstar Line’s SS Pennland, outbound for Antwerp. When the signal came to go ashore, Ed and Gene emptied a final glass of champagne, wished the traveler bon voyage, and descended the gangway to join all the other well-wishers on the Manhattan pier. Ryan waved good-bye through a cascade of colorful streamers before joining many other passengers at the starboard railing for the best view of the Statue of Liberty as the Pennland headed seaward. Under farewell blasts from the ship’s whistles, the mooring lines dropped and tugboats maneuvered the massive liner out into the Hudson.

  All three men cringed at the ear-numbing sound. All three were seriously hung over.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The short train ride from Antwerp to Amsterdam proved uneventful, but Ryan’s first experience with air travel—a roller-coaster hop to Berlin aboard a silver Lufthansa Junkers—left him queasy. Yet the excitement of both air flight and returning to Germany prevailed, and he arrived in high spirits, anxious to explore the German metropolis. For the first few months he would room with the von Haldheim family in a suburban villa, a door opened by his Harvard mentor, Dr. Otto Biermann, a native Prussian. The professor’s letter of introduction promised entrée to Berlin’s highest aristocratic circles, and Ryan would study finance at the famed Friedrich Wilhelm University

  Not expected by his host family until the following morning, Ryan hailed a cab at Tempelhof Airfield to bring him to the Hotel Metropol off Potsdamer Platz. Unlike Manhattan’s rampant verticality, Berlin expanded in broad horizontal planes. The boulevards reached out from the grand plazas like spokes on massive urban wheels. The drizzle of a damp September afternoon softened the buildings and neon signage, and the glistening pavement reflected a constant ebb and flow of traffic.

  After changing from traveling clothes, Ryan left the hotel in search of coffee. Berlin was vibrant, an urban world in constant motion. The flower stalls glowed in muted color beneath green and gray canopies, and newsboys shouted headlines amidst the passing parade of umbrellas. Ryan stopped in front of a tea room on a main boulevard, attracted by well-dressed patrons basking in the glow of soft lighting and pale yellow table linens. The Konditorei was brimming with suited business men, elegantly-dressed women, and starchy governesses with dutiful children, all indulging in rich desserts. From his table near the front display he watched the steady stream of passers-by until his coffee arrived, accompanied by a jelly-filled pastry which the waiter called ein Berliner. For Ryan it was a satisfying first taste of his new life in the German capital.

  Beyond his plate glass window men in fedoras plowed briskly through the crowd with briefcases under one arm. Two stylish women stepped from a dress shop and spread their umbrellas, their latest fashions mirroring the chic mannequins behind them. Poised matrons with small dogs on leash sailed along the crowded sidewalks. Everywhere shops enticed consumers with handsome merchandise and special sale prices, a lively world of business opportunity. Sarotti, Tietz, Grünfeld—a heady new vocabulary of brand names and shopping destinations.

  He had scarcely covered a city block before a smoke-filled tobacconist’s shop lured him in with its cabinetry of deep-toned wood and a wealth of pipes, cigarette holders and cigar cases beneath the glass counter. Jars of exotic tobacco blends rose to the ceiling on polished shelves. Ryan used his basic German to purchase a briar pipe with gently-curved black stem. The tobacconist also recommended a special Latakia blend from Syria, and Ryan chose an air-tight leather pouch to protect its freshness. He tamped the pipe loosely and lit up, then raised his umbrella and rejoined the crowd on the street.

  On the broad Potsdamer Platz a flood of Mercedes, Horchs, Opels and Fords fought for right-of-way, ignoring both the policeman’s whistle and the raised white glove giving pedestrians the go-ahead. Strident horns and bell-ringing bicycles encouraged Ryan to step aside, brightly-bannered trams rumbled past, and double-decker buses edged forward in fits and starts, fighting a strong tide. Once back on the sidewalk he lost himself in the roiling sea of humanity, mimicking the purposeful stride of the German citizen.

  On side streets he foun
d nightclubs already welcoming patrons in the early afternoon hours, their canopied entrances advertising exotic revues with leggy dancers. Touts forced flyers into his hand, flimsy sheets showing women in various states of undress. No German skills were needed to understand all that was on offer. And everywhere he looked, people consumed alcohol, openly and in great abundance. How parochial America seemed with its speakeasies and posted look-outs, its puritan attitude toward sex.

  The less-trafficked back streets offered far more modest wares than those of the grand boulevards. Hans Papier’s Tauben-Handlung, cages stacked five high before the entry, displayed live pigeons for consumption, breeding or racing. Heinemann's Obsthandlung overran the sidewalk with crates of oranges, red apples, and green bananas. The sausage-plump proprietor, red cap pulled low at his brow, gave a friendly greeting, so Ryan tipped his hat politely and bought an apple, slipping it into his topcoat pocket.

  Reaching the Spree River, he watched tugboats finesse heavily-laden barges upstream. Above him on an iron bridge a train shrieked and rumbled past, bringing life and livelihood into the heart of the bustling metropolis. Ryan ate his apple, gave the core to a worn dray horse, then headed back to his hotel, at home in Europe at last.

  The following morning the von Haldheims welcomed him into their home as a long-lost son. His fine room overlooked the garden, he could take meals with the family as often as he wished, and he received a standing invitation to take Saturday-afternoon tea with the remnants of the Hohenzollern aristocracy. With the former Kaiser exiled to Holland, the family patriarch assumed responsibility for keeping alive the monarchist tradition in Berlin, and regular attendees included others whose influence dated back a thousand years or more.