by A. B. Decker
“Herr Eigenmann, Mr Silverstone, or whoever you are, you need to understand there are limits. Boundaries you cross at your own risk. Now, I have many friends in very influential places. And they can make life very uncomfortable for people who cross those boundaries. Of course, I don’t like to bother them with trivialities and prefer to handle my problems without such assistance.”
“I had no idea until now that I was one of your problems,” Frank interjected.
“You interfere in my life. You’re a pest,” his host insisted. “Are you a Jew?”
It was a rhetorical question. Not looking for an answer. But it stirred signs of vexation on Breitner’s face. He visibly winced as he spoke the words. And grew increasingly agitated.
“Why is it so many of you congregate in this city ever since your Mr Herzl brought his Zionists here?” The grimace in his expression grew into a menacing sneer.
“Vermin like you need to be taught a lesson once in a while. But have no fear,” he added ominously. “You are already well acquainted with some of my humbler friends – and you will find they are excellent teachers.”
After a pause clearly intended to leave Frank enough time for those last words to be digested, Breitner rose from his chair.
“For the first part of the instruction, however, I intend to take personal responsibility. Come with me,” he continued. The twisted menace underlying his host’s surface magnanimity sent a chill through Frank that had his heart pounding as he obediently complied.
“I don’t know what you’ve been told about me,” Breitner said as he guided Frank out of the lounge. “Nor do I wish to know. Second-hand information is of no interest. It’s as worthless as it is no doubt false. So, for the first part of your instruction, allow me to give you the benefit of some first-hand information about me. It will serve as a sign of my generosity, which I hope will sustain you through the second part. If it does not, that would be a pity, because I do feel it’s important you know how generous I can be if you stay on the right side of me.”
With the barely concealed threat of these words, he ushered Frank into a dining room prepared for a sumptuous feast. The walls were hung with countless paintings and drawings of erotic scenes and orgies that matched the lavish bacchanalian flavour of the food and wine set out on the table.
“I trust you had no plans for lunch today,” he said, with a self-satisfied smile as he pulled out a chair for Frank, took a corkscrew in his hand and twisted it into a bottle of red wine. “Chateau Margaux 1926. An excellent year,” he said as he poured two glasses and slid one along the table to Frank. “I think you’ll find it quite agreeable.”
“This of course is only half the pleasure,” he added. “To get the best out of a good lunch, it is essential to have the right company.”
Breitner moved over to a door at the far end of the room and eased it slightly ajar.
“Helga. Maria. Lunch is about to be served. Would you care to join us?”
His invitation had the tone of a command. And the force of his words was plain from the instantaneous appearance in the doorway of two young women. They displayed an uncanny ingenuity for seeming both overdressed and underdressed at one and the same time.
“Girls,” Breitner announced, “I’d like you to meet Herr Eigenmann from Berlin or Mr Silverstone from Baltimore Maryland. We haven’t yet made up our minds. But I have no doubt a little lunch and your charming company will help the memory cells.”
The girls promptly seized on this chance to exhibit the other main feature of their collective personality and fell into a mildly hysterical giggle. Much to his own shame, Frank found it quite endearing. Maria – dark-haired, dark-eyed, the slightly more voluptuous of the two, with inviting curves and a provocative landscape of flesh rising over the low neck of her white satin dress – was the first to speak.
“Pleased to meet you,” was all she said, betraying a twinkle of amusement in her expression as they shook hands.
Helga – red-haired, green-eyed, less curvaceous and less garrulous by nature than her friend, but every bit as sensuous with the sulphurous hint of an active volcano at rest – simply offered Frank her hand and a look that left him with an oddly disquieting thrill of expectation.
The role of Helga and Maria was, as Breitner put it, to provide the “right company” for their lunch. So Frank was not anticipating any contribution to the conversation from this company. And he received none. Conversation in fact proved a misnomer, monopolised as it was by the host. As to be expected from a Willi Breitner, he talked incessantly about himself with a nauseating and entirely unconvincing smugness. He gave Frank the impression of trying to conceal some deep sense of inadequacy by painting a picture of rampant virility and a towering career of achievement. He even claimed acquaintance with his Führer during his teenage years, talked with a chilling nostalgia of his days at school in the Upper Austrian steel town of Steyr – of how he and Adolf would often come out of school at lunchtime on a Saturday, head straight over the bridge to the town square and spend the rest of the afternoon in cafes or bars, drinking the cares of the week away; and as the evening wore on, how they would sometimes take a boat out into the gentle current of the Enns and spend the remaining hours of night-time on the river in communion with nature, a supply of bread and dripping, and a bottle of apricot brandy. It was not uncommon, he said, for one or both of them to be found next morning littering the riverbank or the side of a road leading into town.
It was impossible to say how much truth there was in the stories, but the picture of adolescent depravity that Breitner painted matched the image Frank had of the country’s saviour and leader. It was still a complete mystery to him how an entire nation of people, from gardeners to bankers, could give itself with such enthusiasm to a man whose political skills appeared to consist in little more than loud-mouthed lies, self-aggrandisement and bigoted scapegoating. A man who came to power on a wave of intemperate, mendacious bullying and sustained his grip on their worship by systematically isolating the scapegoats and brutally eliminating any rivals. Yet still they adored him. Willi Breitner was no exception and showed every sign of being a model disciple.
Throughout the monologue, both Helga and Maria excelled in their roles as supernumeraries. Maria would contribute appreciative laughter every so often, while Helga cast occasional glances in the direction of Frank with a seductive power that was reinforced all the more by a contrived veneer of shyness.
As lunch drew to a close and they sat over coffee, Breitner suddenly – with a crass non sequitur that suggested it was as carefully planned as the lunch itself – swung the talk away from himself and on to Frank.
“What is your connection to Zimmermann Joachim?”
Frank was initially perplexed by the question, unsure who his host was referring to. He never thought of Achim in terms of his surname. And he could not recall anyone having ever used his given name in all its fullness.
“He’s in the art business, I understand,” Breitner said. “Are you in the art business?”
“He’s an old friend. And he’s a stage designer, if that’s what you mean.”
“Really?” The trace of a leery, dismissive smile spread across Breitner’s lips as he studiously wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin, folded it up very deliberately and set it down with careful precision beside his coffee cup.
“And you have no idea what your friend has done with Lola?” he asked. His voice loitered over the words ‘no idea’ as if gazing on them in disbelief.
“Who the hell is Lola?”
Frank had never heard the name before. Certainly not among any of the circles Achim moved in.
Breitner watched Frank with an inscrutable smile on his face. And said nothing. He was enjoying the discomfort of his guest, the sight of him shifting nervously in his chair. He was sizing him up. Gauging his resistance.
“No matter,” Breitner said, when he eventually broke the anxious silence. “We can discuss it some other time.”
> He reached for the brandy, poured two glasses and passed one to Frank.
“You know what I fail to understand about you people?” he continued, with an undisguised trace of meanness in his voice as he pushed the glass across the table. “It’s the way you gather like ants in this particular corner of the Earth. Do you honestly imagine that the arm of the Third Reich is so short? We showed only recently just how easy it is to reach across the border and bring traitors and enemies of the people back to face justice.”
“You’re referring to the Berthold Jacob story,” Frank said, recalling the conversation with Achim some days before. Breitner beamed a self-satisfied smile in reply.
“So, what sort of person do you think I am?” Frank asked. “Quite frankly, I’ve never seen myself as the enemy of anyone.”
In reply, Breitner simply rose from his chair, the smile on his face now worn thin, and moved around the table to the buffet. His voice betrayed a threatening edge of irritation as he spoke:
“Come here,” was all he said. It was sufficient. Frank complied and joined him beside the large Jugendstil sideboard with its beautifully bevelled mirror. He was feeling tense with anticipation of Breitner’s next move. Close up, the features of his puffy face betrayed all the signs of dissolution Frank would expect in such a person. The lips pencil-thin. The lupine eyes a heartless stare. Frank almost had the sense that Breitner was reading his thoughts. He stepped back a little, as if to break any subliminal contact.
“I never trust people who insist they are speaking ‘quite frankly’,” Breitner declared.
Frank began to sense that Willi Breitner was getting down to business.
“Take a look in the mirror.”
Frank turned to look at the mirror and saw Breitner’s narrow lupine eyes staring back at him.
“What you see before you,” he added with unconcealed feeling as he put a heavy hand on Frank’s head and turned it to face directly into the mirror, “is one of the more wretched examples of our species.”
‘How right you are,’ thought Frank. For the focus of his attention remained on his adversary, and he affected an uncomfortable smile as he stared back into those narrow eyes.
“You claim to be frank. Yet you’re not even honest enough to admit where you stand. Or even what your true name is. You’d sooner crawl under stones and hide in shadows to survive. I don’t know whether you pretend to be a socialist, a communist, or just a sympathiser. Maybe you’re even a Jew. But we do know some of the people you mix with.”
“I don’t mix with anyone. I’m not the mixing type.”
“You mix with Zimmermann. And that’s not the kind of company I would recommend. At the same time you attempt to mix with Mademoiselle Roche. And that’s the kind of company that can get you into serious trouble.”
Breitner began to study his fingernails with a sinister attention to detail. “You see, you have choices. It’s entirely your decision. But one thing is certain: it’s a decision you must make sooner or later. I have tried in my own modest way to show you the kind of benefits you can enjoy if you decide to make the right choice,” he added with a sweeping gesture over the sumptuous half-eaten feast on the table behind them. “Maria and Helga are rather less modest. But equally compelling.”
These words were the cue for the two girls. As Willi Breitner moved back towards the door, they both rose from the table and sidled over to Frank. With a look of mischief in their smiles, they each took an arm.
“But do remember, my dear Mr Silverstone,” he added, as he reached the door, “or is it Eigenmann? Take great care to consider these benefits. And weigh them carefully against the disadvantages when you make your choice.”
These words, as calculated as the rest of the occasion, prefaced his departure. Without further comment, he left Frank with the menace of his razor-thin smile engraved on his guest’s memory. And the dubious charms of Helga and Maria. They had a duty to perform and Frank could be sure they would do it in the thoroughgoing spirit of Kraft durch Freude.
They said nothing, just smiled, as they led Frank out of the dining room and up a wide, heavily banistered staircase. Maria on his right giggled now and then as they went, while Helga held rather more tightly onto his left arm as if afraid he might run. But he was sufficiently familiar with the Breitners of the world to know that there was little point in running. And since he was not entirely averse to the pleasures these two girls could offer, he saw no good reason not to let himself be led into the sumptuous bedroom that had been set aside for the occasion. This too was decorated with erotic scenes and orgies similar to those in the dining room.
It was easy to forget the menacing words of Breitner, as he watched the two of them disrobe each other, caressing like lovers as they did so, against the backdrop of these paintings.
“Which of us would you like to try first?” Maria cajoled, as Helga quietly teased her friend’s satin lingerie down over her legs. Maria stepped out of this last remaining garment, while Helga sat back gazing up at her in admiration of her naked body.
“Perhaps he’s the greedy type,” Helga suggested. “Maybe he’d prefer to take both of us at once.”
Now, finally divested of any shyness, as if this too was simply an article of clothing, Helga revealed herself as an unabashed lady of pleasure. Frank was enthralled by the transformation, but his excitement was mingled with all the inertia of nervous indecision. He felt like a fifteen-year-old confronted with the opportunity for his first carnal experience, uncertain whether he should seize it or whether – underneath it all – she was just making fun of him. His hesitation evidently amused them.
But this teasing interlude was brought to an ugly close when the bedroom door crashed open. The scene that greeted two of Breitner’s gorillas when they crashed into the room brought an instant flicker of mirth to their faces that chilled Frank with their menace. A menace that was in stark contrast to the amusement he saw on the faces of both Helga and Maria, whose nervous giggles distantly echoed the ominous chuckles of Breitner’s bullies.
“What do you make of this, Horst?” said the bigger one, throwing his words across the room as if he were tossing fish heads to a hungry cat. Frank fancied he could almost smell the fish on his hands.
“What I make of it? Well, I wouldn’t care to say, Wolfgang. But since you ask, I’d say he doesn’t much like our girls.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like girls at all,” said the one called Wolfgang. His eyes lit up at this suggestion. And the insinuation brought more nervous giggles from Helga and Maria.
All at once Frank felt an arm around his shoulders.
“Is that right?”
It was the one called Horst. His leery smile could not have been closer to Frank’s face. A faint hint of tooth decay filtered through on the warm breath. It made him want to heave. And his whole body tensed at the prospect of what was to come.
“Over here girls,” said Horst, keeping his arm firmly round Frank’s shoulders. Helga and Maria picked up their giggles from the bed where they had been sitting and moved eagerly in his direction. They were enjoying the sport. Horst removed his arm from Frank’s shoulder and stepped aside.
“He’s all yours, girls. Let’s see what he makes of you.”
With giggling deliberation, they set about disrobing Frank, layer by layer, down to the vulnerable quick of utter nakedness. Under any other circumstances he would have found the experience intensely exciting. But the hospitality of Breitner and his friends had successfully instilled a withering fear into his body. And it showed. Helga took his flaccid apology in her hands, stroked it and coaxed it. But it was unmoved. He heard Maria snigger. Then her friend cupped it in her hands, put her mouth to it, teased it with her tongue. And all the while Frank felt like an uncooperative patient waiting with embarrassment for the doctor’s examination to end.
“Looks like I was right girls,” said Wolfgang. There was a disturbing relish in his voice. “What do you reckon, Horst? You think we might stand a better cha
nce?”
“It’s worth a try,” replied Horst, who at last appeared to show a genuine interest in his charge, as he gripped Frank’s shoulders in a tight embrace. It was an interest that filled Frank with trepidation and disgust. And the demonstrative display that Horst made of his eagerness was met with the audible approval of both Wolfgang and the girls. Maria’s squeals of delight were quite distinctive as Horst pushed Frank face down onto the bed and used his knees to force his legs as wide apart as they would go.
“Take a look at this, girls.” The lust in Horst’s voice turned Frank’s stomach, but he was pinned down and utterly helpless. “Clean and fresh as a daisy in spring.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Traces of Maria’s giggle still lingered in her question. “You’re not going to stick that in it, are you?”
Horst gave out a chilling laugh. Frank sensed both curiosity and disbelief in Maria’s question.
The disbelief part of her reaction struck a chord in his swelling, swirling desperation, which had him fondly imagine that at least there was someone who was on his side – a pathetic straw in view of the vast flooding tide of humiliation that swept over him. He felt rough fingers run their own excited curiosity along his perineum.
Frank looked up to see Maria still standing over them. The expression of amusement had given way to nervousness, but her eyes continued to betray a lively curiosity in what was being done with him. The incredulity in her voice that he had clung to was nothing as compared with his own. He was on the brink of vomiting. His heart raced out of control. He sensed his entire body moisten with sweat as Horst came down on him, breathing his tooth decay over Frank’s shoulder, as he brought the hard, hot flesh of his prick creeping up from beneath. Frank tensed.
“Shit!” Horst suddenly relaxed his designs on Frank and eased back. The sense of reprieve was immense. And premature. “It’s too early in the day for deflowering such a tight little cunt. Let’s make the virgin do his share of the work.”