Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  She and Leo would face a traumatic change in France. She knew a little French, perhaps enough to get by. Ryan had people who would help them find a new life in the French capital. He warned her things there could also be difficult for Jews, but not nearly as bad as under the Nazis. Yet Horst’s proposal proved that Hitler intended to make all Europe part of his Third Reich. No place would be safe any longer. Perhaps Ryan could help them find a way to get to America, or even South America. She remembered that very few countries showed interest in finding Germany’s Jews a home outside the Reich.

  Money was not a problem, at least for a while. Her handbag hid valuable von Horst jewelry, wedding gifts from his mother shortly before she died. She had been a cold, distant woman, but generous with Erika at the end. Perhaps it was pity for her daughter-in-law that Erika had witnessed in the dying woman’s eyes. After all, she must have known her own son for what he was. And the stack of bank notes from his desk reserve might ease the transition, as long as she was not arrested crossing the border with German currency, a violation severely punished. Ryan said Reichsmark held little value outside the Reich, but it was currency all the same. She chided herself for the foolishness of that thought. If detained at the border, she and Leo would never face charges. They would both die. Horst would see to that.

  Perhaps the aspirin did indeed make the pain easier to bear; there was no way to know for certain. She had never been beaten with a belt before, never known the rawness from such a violent sexual assault. She knew some parents routinely strapped their children, and she was quietly thankful that hers had never resorted to physical violence. Perhaps she had been spared because she was an obedient child, unlike many of her friends who rebelled against the strict rules imposed by their parents, these same friends who now enthusiastically obeyed and worshipped the Nazi godhead.

  The hours dragged on, the sky beyond the window black as her husband’s uniform. She believed she heard an owl in the garden. She couldn’t find a position which allowed sleep, but thought it just as well, for she feared missing the rendezvous with Ryan. Midnight was long past, the morning of their freedom still to come. The ornate clock on the opposite wall ticked incessantly, marking the hours and quarter hours with a soft thump. Leo so liked the reassuring cadence of his clock that the year before she had wrapped a small piece of felt around the hammer of the clockwork to soften the tolling. Now she waited anxiously for each muted strike of a new hour.

  At four a.m. Erika left the boy’s room. She moved quietly past the door to the study and stopped outside Horst’s bedroom. Barely perceptible, his sonorous breathing was interrupted only occasionally by a muffled snort. From the study she phoned for a taxi and, keeping her voice as low as she dared, requested the cab wait outside the mansion’s main gate at five a.m. She feared alerting Frieda or Oskar. She and Ryan had estimated less than half an hour for her and Leo to get to Lehrter station in the early morning traffic. She allowed some leeway. They couldn’t afford to be late.

  Getting a taxi dispatched at any hour to their upscale neighborhood never presented a problem. Most of the neighbors were also influential Nazis or barons of business and industry. The wealthy Jewish families had long since left the country, many leasing their splendid homes to powerful foreigners at ridiculously low rents. She had seen one neighbor standing before her residence surrounded by luggage and steamer trunks, awaiting transport to the station. Now she was one of those “running Jews” herself. For her it was to be only a small suitcase and a teddy bear for her son.

  Back in Leo’s room she reviewed the plan in her mind, looking for possible slip-ups that could put them all at risk. She felt much better knowing that Ryan would be there every step of the way, for saving her small family would be so much easier with his aid. It had been a relief to learn that he had a ready answer to that dilemma. How stupid to have let him go and chosen Horst.

  At four-thirty Erika gently stroked the damp curls on his forehead until Leo awoke. He sat up and greeted her with a sleepy smile, and she switched on his bedside lamp. “Hurry up, little man, we’re off on an adventure, and your grandparents are anxious to see you again.”

  “Is everything all right, Mutti? You look sad.”

  “Everything’s just fine, Leo. We’re just taking a little train trip, that’s all.”

  Though still drowsy, he threw his arms around her neck and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Mutti, let’s go!”

  Leo’s sudden enthusiasm surprised her, following so closely on the heels of their recent Marburg visit. There, too, the boy had sensed her distraught mood. Quiet and reserved on the long train ride back to Berlin, Leo had repeatedly asked if she were all right. But now the boy couldn’t stop talking about all the city lights they would see. It was very grownup to be up and out in the dark. She took him to the bathroom and dressed him for colder weather. Bending down to help Leo was painful, tearing at the aching muscles of her belly and the scabs already forming on her backside. She moved carefully. Out of her purse came a few squares of hazelnut chocolate, his favorite, to help with hunger until they reached the station. Erika didn’t want to risk a visit to the kitchen pantry on their way out.

  At a quarter to the hour she helped Leo with his overcoat, cap, and scarf. Erika stressed to him that they must be extraordinarily quiet and leave the lights off so as not to wake the household. The others need their sleep, you know. She pulled on her coat and scarf, adjusted her hat, and picked up the valise and handbag. His small hand in hers, they headed down the corridor and darkened staircase toward the front entrance.

  “Fräulein Loos, are you coming with us?” Leo voiced disappointment at the prospect of adding another nighttime adventurer.

  Erika was horrified to see the governess in the foyer, fully dressed and waiting for them. “What are you doing here?”

  Frieda stood and pushed the button to illuminate the hall. “I always rise at five, Frau von Kredow, to look in on the boy,” she said, her expression smug. “This morning I saw the light in his room and assumed you were planning to travel once again, so here I am to keep you company and look after the boy.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Erika found it difficult to disguise both her nervousness and contempt. “I’m fully capable of taking my son on a little getaway.”

  “No doubt. But Herr von Kredow has made it very clear you’re not to leave the house without me.” Frieda gave a knowing smile. “Are you sure you’re up for travel right now? You’ve already had such a strenuous day…and night.”

  Malice in that smile. The spying bitch must have witnessed her degradation and torture, and done nothing to intervene. Erika calmed her voice. “Very well, pack for a few days away.”

  “I can be ready very quickly, madam.” She could not hide her surprise at Erika’s ready surrender. “I’ll just fetch my bag.” She turned toward the staircase, switching on the hall lights as she went.

  “Wait here, my darling,” Erika whispered to Leo the moment the governess reached the upper landing. “And keep a close eye on our bag. I’ve forgotten one more thing to take care of.”

  “Is it Bruno?” he asked. Leo climbed onto the chair recently vacated by his governess.

  “No, your bear’s in the suitcase. You may take him out to play, just close it again when you’re done. Back in a moment.”

  Erika moved swiftly up the stairs, avoiding the few carpeted treads which creaked. The door to Horst’s bedroom was ajar, the ceiling light burning within. She approached with caution. Frieda was bent over the bed, attempting to shake Horst awake. He grunted and moaned in protest, but the drug and alcohol made his responses incoherent. The room reeked of vomit.

  For the first time since the vicious assault, Erika felt empowered and she made her move. In four quick strides, her physical distress forgotten, she reached the fireplace hearth and pulled the coal rake from its stand. Distracted by futile attempts to rouse her master, Frieda never saw the iron rod which sent her sprawling across the bed. She lay unconscious next to Hor
st. Erika retrieved the stockings which had earlier held her captive and bound the feet and wrists of the nanny. She forced the same damp gag into the woman’s mouth, tying it tightly around her head. A quick check found the ties secure. This little whore isn’t going anywhere now.

  Horst lay snoring once again. A small flow of blood crusted at the back of the nanny’s head where the rod had done its work. If the morphine kit had not been downstairs in her handbag, Erika would have sedated his household spy, as well. What a pretty picture, her thoughts filled with venom. I hope the two of you are very happy together.

  Erika hoisted the nanny under the arms. As she pulled the body off the bed she tensed at the pain. She dragged the unconscious woman down the hall and into the dressing room of her own chamber, shutting the door behind her. It would be some time before anyone searched for the missing woman, and the last place anyone would look would be Erika’s closet. Horst always left in the morning without concern for wife and child, and Oskar didn’t return from driving him until mid-morning at the earliest. By that time, if all went according to plan, Erika and Leo would be well on their way to freedom.

  Downstairs, she hurriedly grabbed Leo by the hand and took the valise in her other, clumsily shutting the door behind them, not bothering to lock it. Leo hugged his bear to his chest with his free arm, smiling up at his mother over the excitement of the nighttime adventure. Their cab was waiting at the gate.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In that unformed state between dream and awareness, Ryan already knew Berlin had changed. The usual din of the pre-dawn hours was familiar from his earlier years, when he had moved from the suburban tranquility of the von Haldheim mansion to a room in the heart of the city. He could expect to awaken to the clop of a brewery dray horse or the impatient honk of a passing delivery truck on the dark, cobbled street below. Cart vendors called out greetings to regular customers on their way to work, while shopkeepers exchanged pleasantries as they washed down the sidewalk in front of their stores. Heavy metal shutters clattered up to reveal shops ready for business. The familiar bell of the tram would clang on the thoroughfare beyond his narrow street.

  But now a different clamor echoed in his mind, a harried rush of running feet, a racket of falling glass and splintering wood. And Ryan sensed a bite in the air, acrid smoke. Through the gloom he saw tendrils entering the casement window and sat up abruptly, only to hit the sloping ceiling just above the bed. He shook his head clear before stumbling to the window. In the still-dim street people moved through a yellowing haze of smoke, and his eyes quickly located the roiling clouds stabbed with flame which rose from a distant rooftop. Hints of a smaller fire danced in the storefront windows below on the street, and he saw frenetic movement in the crowd racing past the hotel.

  Ryan recognized the source of the distant flames as the synagogue he had passed when looking for lodgings. The handsome temple had brought back memories of one near the university, of the resonant song of the cantor, and of the elderly street vendor, a worn strap holding his tray of matches, greeting him each evening with “all done for the day?” Ryan had brought the old man gloves to cover his red and chapped hands. Now a similar house of worship was burning, and he heard the sirens of the fire brigade.

  He dressed hastily, grabbing his hat, woolen overcoat and valise. The tiny elevator failed to arrive, and he remembered why and took the stairs, two at a time. In the lobby he dropped the room key over the raised counter, now abandoned, only to find the clerk outside surveying the chaos in the street. “What’s going on?” Ryan asked. Both stared at the wanton destruction before the hotel entrance.

  “A party for all our Jewish friends.” He turned away with a last weary glance. “Have a good trip.”

  The street lamps no longer burned and the overcast sky grew lighter. Dull amber tarnished the building fronts, and the harsh sound of shattering glass rang along the street. A gang of youths ran toward the synagogue fire, young men happily jostling each other as if on their way to a soccer match. Brownshirts marched past the hotel entry singing the Horst-Wessel-Song. Ryan stepped down onto a sidewalk covered with shards and made his way past overturned handcarts, scattered hardware and clothing, and broken display cases hauled into the street by the mob. Smoke bit at his throat and brought tears to his eyes. A smashed and forlorn cash register lay on the sidewalk, the surging crowd parting to either side as it raced to witness the major fire. A passer-by stooped to check the open cash drawer.

  As Ryan entered the nearest cross street, three taxis pushed through with horns blaring. Rigid arms extended from the cab windows to meet upraised salutes and cries of Heil Hitler from the crowd. He ducked into the entryway of a camera shop and feigned interest in the photos mounted in the barred window, but two men spotted him and called out, and Ryan pivoted on his heels and raised his right arm.

  Just then, Hitler Youth ran by, laughing and shouting racial slurs to no one in particular. Two boys pushed a handcart of paving cobbles and stopped before the street's Jewish bakery. A boisterous eins, zwei, drei, and palm-sized stones flew into the display windows. An older woman, likely the baker’s wife, crouched behind the counter as panes shattered onto the sidewalk. Some boys picked up larger shards and hurled them back through the empty window frames. The baker and his apprentice, hands still white with flour, came running from the back room, only to retreat before the flying glass. Three youths entered the ruined storefront, re-emerging with baked goods in hand which they tossed to their comrades and by-standers. Now others entered to send loaves of bread sailing out into the street. Two of the vandals finally cornered the shop apprentice, dragging him out onto the sidewalk and beating him over the back with broomsticks. He shielded himself as best he could before escaping down the street, slipping and sliding on shattered glass.

  The ordinances required all Jewish businesses to display signs warning Aryans away from the shops, and now those same signs beckoned the vengeful crowds. Ryan made his way cautiously toward the synagogue, recognizing that the crowd did not care whom it victimized. An eel writhed on the pavement, abandoned by a woman running from a storefront advertising “Live Fish & Poultry” in both German and Hebrew. The looter held a squawking chicken by the neck and carried a newspaper-wrapped bundle of fish under her arm.

  A distillery store teemed with men and women, their arms filled with bottles and some lugging full crates, knocking aside other plunderers to get their prizes home intact. A Storm Trooper buttoned a slender schnapps bottle inside his uniform and took a swig from a second bottle before sending it shattering. He struck a match and set the spilled liquor afire, laughing at his own cleverness.

  Ryan passed a furrier’s demolished storefront, the mannequins in furs smeared with human excrement, the odor incredibly rank. An undernourished dog loped by with a string of sausages trailing from its mouth, taking advantage of the commotion to grab a needed meal. Two motorcycles, their sidecars filled with stones, cut a path through the shifting throng, the drivers sitting erect in civilian attire and making no attempt to hide the SS jackboots below their trouser cuffs.

  An old man with a long gray beard and skullcap stumbled out of his dry goods shop, beseeching Yahweh for help and cursing the crowd in Yiddish. He appeared excessively frail in his nightshirt and robe as he struggled with a burden of stones which he dropped at the feet of the closest revelers. “Forgive me for asking, but I believe these are yours?”

  Two louts grabbed him by the arms and dragged him into the street, his slippers scraping a path through the shards before breaking loose from his feet. The youths threw the man to the ground and repeatedly kicked him. Ryan pushed his way through the crowd with a shout of protest, but someone grabbed him from behind and forced him back from the fracas.

  “Leave it! Not your battle!” a deep voice hissed in his ear, the man’s breath sour. Ryan turned to face a neighborhood cop. “Let it be, my friend, just let it be.” The officer now shouted over the jeering crowd, all the time drawing Ryan forcibly by the arm toward the o
pposite side of the narrow street. “It’s for what they did to us in Paris, you know.” Ryan seethed but said nothing, knowing this was a battle he couldn’t win. Just meters away two other policemen stared at him and laughed at some shared joke, then turned to watch the beating of the old man but did nothing to intervene. “Just listen,” the policeman yelled. “That’s the Volk speaking, and God knows the filthy Jews deserve this…this, and plenty more.” The cop’s face showed true commitment and the certainty that all was right in his world.

  Now one ruffian took the fractured leg of a chair and struck the elder across the back. The man cried out for help, curling up on the cobbles and shielding his head with arms and hands. As more blows rained down, his protest was lost in the jeering crowd. One attacker reached for the protruding, scraggly beard and yanked it skyward. “Shall we light a candle for Chanukah?” Ryan felt impotent, empty.

  At that moment two Wehrmacht officers, hands propped on holstered side arms, forced their way forward and ordered the youths to desist. With hateful glares and protests the revelers backed off, and the remaining crowd seemed momentarily stunned by the intervention. Things fell eerily silent before most of the participants moved on to other sport. Almost immediately a young woman ran from the broken storefront to comfort the shopkeeper, still curled on the pavement with blood streaking his disheveled white hair. The yarmulke lay crushed beside him. She cradled the old man’s head in her lap, her shoulders hunched as she rocked back and forth and sobbed.

  Ryan pushed down the street toward the Ku-Damm. Firefighters directed water on the buildings to either side of the burning synagogue, but there was no attempt to extinguish the waning fire within the desecrated structure itself. The heat and smoke were palpable. Uniformed officers cautioned onlookers to stand well back from the fire crews and equipment. The stench of kerosene rose from overturned buckets and cans, and a hastily formed pyre of benches, tables, expensive cloths and Torah scrolls, all plundered from the now blackened shell of the synagogue, smoldered on the far side of the street. A few celebrants still hovered about the burning heap, a festival bonfire.