Darkness into Light Box Set

by Michael Dean

  His tone and manner were as odd as his clothes:

  ‘A maximum of 1.1 million tons of coal is deliverable. You are not getting a hundredweight of slack more out of my people.’ He then muttered ‘Bloodsuckers’ just audibly and sat down.

  Rathenau saw instantly that what appeared on the surface a reasonable negotiating stance from Stinnes, was no such thing; having just lost a world war, she was widely held to be culpable of, Germany did not have a negotiating position.

  He quietly repeated that the German government, by whom he had been appointed, would deliver the full two million tons of coal a month in reparations in return for the concession over Upper Silesia he had already won.

  Then, faced with the threat to his triumphant breaking of Versailles being snatched from him, he quietly added ‘I am speaking for the German government. Herr Stinnes is here to represent the coal interest. At the moment, he fears a workers’ Bolshevik inspired takeover in the Ruhr. Believe me, fellow delegates, when Herr Stinnes says Germany, he means coal’.

  The aphorism had Stinnes purple in the face. He lost control, lost sight of the point and attacked the delegates.

  Jumping to his feet again he said ‘Anybody who has not succumbed to the incurable disease of victory,’ he glared at the victors, ‘knows that your so-called “decisions” are nothing of the sort.’

  Stinnes’ threats then became wilder and wilder. He openly threatened serious political and social unrest and anti-Jewish agitation in the Ruhr.

  ‘Stinnes,’ Rathenau murmured, ‘you should not say such things.’

  Stinnes glared at him, then stared goggle eyed at the men packed round the table, silently disapproving. He pointed dramatically, arm and finger fully extended, at Rathenau. ‘Are you going to listen to this fremdrassige Seele, (alien soul) or are you going to listen to me?’

  Rathenau went pale but said nothing.

  ‘Don’t you know that Rathenau and Loucher are planning their own private electricity consortium? Eh?’ Stinnes raved on. ‘And he accuses me of acting out of self-interest.’

  Rathenau allowed himself a quiet smile at that. It was obvious not one man round the table believed Stinnes. And rightly so. What he had said was another example of the Circle of Hate’s tactic of spreading blatant lies. But this time, just for once, the lies were not believed.

  The silence around the table, with not one delegate looking him in the eye, appeared to goad Stinnes even further. He had sat down, but sprang to his feet again.

  ‘Let me make clear to you that we in the Ruhr welcome French troops, at least white French troops, to protect us from the threat of a Bolshevik takeover, which they have already tried in Munich. But, and you had better believe me on this, if France uses black troops in the Ruhr, they will face the righteous rage of every white man and will never see a single piece of coal.’

  Stinnes was ignored. The German delegation, minus Stinnes, were invited to tea with the French Prime Minister, Millerand, who called Germany ‘a necessary and useful member of the European family.’ A Coal Protocol was agreed, with delivery of two million tons of coal per month – Rathenau’s position. Germany was given control of the coal-producing areas, as Rathenau had requested. In order to get the coal mined, the Allies lent Germany 360 million gold Marks to buy food for her undernourished miners. All further outstanding issues were to be discussed at a full conference of all nations. Germany was to be invited.

  Rathenau was offered the post of Minister for Reconstruction by a grateful Joseph Wirth However, a ministerial appointment would mean giving up all his work for AEG. Mathilde again begged Walther not to accept a public office, not for AEG but because of the danger to him. Walther’s response was unique to the man: He painted what was surely his masterpiece, a magnificent portrait of her, three-quarter profile, in the brilliant blues, yellows and greens he favoured. He captured all her underlying dignity and majesty, the still grandeur beneath the churning surface neuroses Then he accepted the ministerial post.

  Rathenau’s first speech to the Reichstag as a minister established him as a statesman. ‘I have entered a Cabinet of Fulfilment,’ he said. ‘We must discover some means of linking ourselves up with the world again. For this wound in the body of Europe persists, and not until it has closed shall we have peace on earth again.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The servant, the one and only servant, Josef Prozeller, had been stealing from Walther for some time. Walther travelled widely on AEG business and was a magpie collector of gewgaws and trifles. He would scoop up paintings, ornaments, antiques, rugs and carpets, local bric-a-brac. Everything.

  Sometimes these would be given as gifts on his return, sometimes he kept them at the country place at Freienwalde or at the Grunewald villa. The giving process was random, reflecting the degree of interest Walther had for objects in themselves and objects as possessions.

  The smaller objects started to disappear first; inlaid snuff boxes, thimbles, a ram’s horn. With time, the thefts became more brazen; curios, a couple of exquisite Hilliard miniatures, a pair of matching silver candlesticks.

  Advice from Walther’s acquaintances was various. It came mainly from his extensive group of correspondents by letter. Some advocated a formal but private warning; others argued for dismissal without references. Lilli Deutsch, in a letter, said ‘Let him keep the wretched stuff, Walther. You have far too much clutter. He’s doing you a favour.’

  Then Prozeller swiped the Rodin statuette of Minerva, the one kept in the dining-room at the Grunewald town house. It was worth a king’s ransom.

  Rathenau was ashen in the face at this stage in his life. He regarded sleep, at least a decent night’s sleep, as a permanent impossibility. He thought of the rest of his life as a fragment.

  Who could blame him? He maintained that he did not read the near-constant and invariably ad hominem press attacks, but he did. Up to a point he had to, to stay abreast of events. Threats to his well-being were never-ending - through the post, by telephone and on occasion to his face.

  These threats were coming closer: unsavoury individuals were quite often seen in the Grunewald. Windows at Freienwalde, which was often left empty, were smashed more and more frequently. There had also been two instances of window-smashing at the Grunewald villa, too, one during the day the other at night.

  Josef Prozeller , according to Walther, had been a source of support through all this – all of it of course rigorously played down by Walther. That was the reason Walther was so reluctant to chastise the servant for the thefts. He had always been a lonely man; he needed Prozeller.

  But there was another dimension: Since the incident of the baker’s boy who had found his way to Walther’s bed, Prozeller ’s blackmail had shifted from implicit to brazen. The thefts were a salary-rise paid in kind, understood as such by both parties.

  There was then an incident which made it clear to Walther how much he needed Prozeller: it occurred late on a summer’s evening. Walther, despairing of sleep, had retired early with the collected works of Oscar Wilde, as lying on his back reading afforded him as much relaxation as he ever managed.

  He was re-reading the plays - in English - when he heard a distant inchoate noise, rather like the rolling and crashing of the sea. It was coming from the Grunewald parkland; his bedroom being at the back of the villa. After lying there in a state of some bewilderment for a while, the inchoate noise started to form his own name.

  Not surprisingly, he wondered if he had after all fallen asleep and this was a nightmare. For a moment or so he feared for his sanity, but fought off such doubts as cowardice. Then he made out the couplet which shaped the basso rumble:

  Knallt ab den Walther Rathenau Smash up Walther Rathenau

  Die gottverfluchte Judensau The cursed-of-God Jew sow.

  Walther dropped the collected works of Oscar Wilde on the floor of his bedroom as the words of the chant took shape, then meaning. He struggled out of bed in his purple pyjamas, seized his yellow silk dressing gown from it
s hook on the back of the door and swaddled himself protectively in it. He went out onto the landing in his bare feet, hesitated a moment then went downstairs.

  He was pleased to see Josef, who was still up, dressed in his day uniform of black jacket, grey trousers and slightly grubby white shirt with wing collar. Together, wordlessly, they went into the parlour, then looked out the window without turning on the light.

  The mob comprised at least twenty men. They gave the impression of a rabble; milling and chanting, some obviously drunk; rather than an organised movement or protest. Some small stones hit the window, but there were no rocks outside in the parkland and the group apparently had no missiles with them, showing every sign of acting spontaneously – perhaps coming together after some tavern or other had closed.

  ‘I’ll go out to them,’ Prozeller said, quite calmly.

  ‘Are you mad? They’ll kill you.’

  ‘No, they won’t. They’ve got nothing against me. It’s you they want.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  Rathenau glanced out the window again. This time, belying the first impression, there was some sign of organised activity: The group appeared to be throwing small pieces of paper. Messages? Rathenau turned to speak to Josef Prozeller but he had gone out to speak with the mob. Or had he gone out to join them?

  Rathenau flopped down in one of the sizeable, uncomfortable armchairs; indeed his knees practically gave way beneath him. He waited and waited and waited. The mad idea of following the servant outside came and went. He did not dare even look out the window, for fear of provoking more vigorous attack.

  After what seemed to Walther an aeon, Prozeller returned clutching some of the pieces of paper the crowd had been waving and throwing. For the first time Rathenau recognised them as money notes from the poor debased German currency. The servant handed them over. Was there a faint trace of a smile?

  Rathenau peered at the Reichsmarks in the gloom – fifties, hundreds, five hundreds He made to turn a light on but Prozeller said ‘Don’t’ sharply. No matter, there was enough light coming in from a full moon.

  Every one of the notes had a slogan on it, a slogan against the Jews. Some of the slogans were written, but some were printed then stamped onto the back of the notes. Some notes had the couplet about Rathenau the mob had been chanting. Others bore various slogans of hatred. Jews of ‘sinister purpose’ drinking Christian blood was a frequent theme.

  Rathenau was stunned, suddenly freezing cold. ‘Why?’ he said, gazing at Prozeller wide-eyed.

  ‘They hate you,’ Prozeller said. ‘And before you say “Why?” again, they hold you responsible for the inflation.’

  ‘Whaaat?’

  But there was no further discussion of economics that night because evidently one of the mob had finally found a rock from somewhere, and it crashed through the window.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ernst von Salomon never used the Aschinger Restaurant to meet marks, as he referred to targets of any sort. The play on words with Marks – the currency – was deliberate: to von Salomon both had little value.

  The Aschinger Restaurant was simply too close to home. Too close to the little booth where he operated And of course the likes of Erwin Kern, Hermann Fischer and Hartmut Plaas dropped into the Aschinger all the time, to meet him and to meet each other. Von Salomon didn’t want them to see him working. The less they knew the better.

  When he met a mark, he choose the setting carefully. It was usually a café, but the choice of café was itself the subject of much deliberation. When he wanted something, when he want to impress the mark into giving him something or doing something, he used the Romanisches Café, opposite the Gedächtniskirche, the one that used to be called The Café des Westens.

  It was on the ground floor of an imposing building with heavy Romanesque architecture. That did half the work for him. The mark was impressed and inhibited by the time he reached von Salomon’s table – especially if he was a simple, uneducated man.

  And when the mark sat down, the clientele carried on the work for the von Salomon cause. That really amused him, because the Romanisches Café was frequented by the enemy - Jews, Social Democrats, intellectuals and every sort of artistic poseur. Exactly the types OC will clear away when Ehrhardt and Ludendorff come to power, as they did daily in von Salomon’s dreams.

  Meanwhile, he enjoyed pointing out well-known names to cow the mark. If there were no well-known names in at the time, he made them up. Sometimes, he made them up anyway, just to have a laugh, just to show who was the master here and who the slave.

  ‘Look, there’s the artist Käthe Kollwitz,’ he was fond of saying, pointing out to the mark a dark gypsy whore called Sandrine who was usually to be found offering herself at one of the tables. Mind you, she did look a little like Kollwitz – in a poor light. Sandrine bribed Herr Nietz, the doorman, to let her sit there for hours.

  Nietz was the key to operating at the Romanisches. Nietz stood at the revolving door, regulating the traffic with a superior air, dividing them into those that mattered and those that did not. That was God’s work. And we are God.

  Only those guests whom Nietz knew personally, knew by name so that he could summon them to the telephone without shouting through the restaurant, counted as recognized guests. Pay Nietz well and he plays his part, like the rest of humanity.

  Von Salomon had told this particular mark to give Nietz his name at the door; Nietz would then show him to the correct table. So the mark had lost control from the beginning. Always control a mark’s physical movements. If he is seated, get him to

  move his seat. It establishes a dominance.

  For a while, von Salomon just sat there, humming the Paul Lincke song Berliner Luft to himself, watching people around him attempt to give significance to their pathetic lives. Lives can have no significance in this shit-liberal-democracy. It’s impossible. Life is reduced to a trivial scramble for money and comfort, man set against man for ignoble ends. There is no grandeur. There is no glory.

  But just as von Salomon thought that, the mark appeared, with Nietz’s hand in the small of his back, guiding him like a dance-partner guides his girl.

  Nietz was a massive fellow, broad as well as tall. The little mark, all drooping moustache and bent, skinny clerk-like body looked shrunken next to him. Von Salomon knew he had won before they even reached his table.

  ‘Herr von Salomon,’ Nietz announced the name sonorously and bowed low. ‘Here is your guest, sir.’

  Von Salomon smiled in genuine amusement. His name used but not the mark’s. He could be anybody. He remained an anonymous black dot in the line of guests awaiting their place at his table. Nietz would be paid well for this.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, cordially but firmly. ‘No, not there. Sit next to me, we can talk more confidentially that way.’

  The mark jumped like a scalded cat, then moved to the empty chair next to von Salomon, as commanded. He was sitting very close. Von Salomon’s physical presence was unsettling him. It occurred to him that the mark was schwul – as they say. A homosexual. Von Salomon was a large, powerful man and quite good-looking. Sometimes, he thought, I get bored with this job, it’s so easy.

  ‘You been here before?’ he opened, casually.

  ‘No,’ croaked the mark, eyes swivelling round, as if even this simple statement may be dangerous..

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘Oh, you’re welcome. What’s this all…?’

  They were in the glassed-in terrace next to the main rooms, facing out onto the street.

  ‘There’s Max Slevogt,’ von Salomon said, at a figure just making his way past them and in the door. There was a blurred glimpse of a slouch hat, round spectacles, red lips and a pencil moustache. ‘He usually comes in for a coffee at this time. You know him? He’s a Jew-parasite’

  Actually, it was really was Max Slevogt, which was annoying to von Salomon. He would rather have made it up, to make a fool of the mark. Start as you mean to go on.

&nb
sp; ‘Um. Yes. He’s not Jewish, though.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well…Working for...I know all the Jews. He’s not…’

  ‘He’s a parasite. He calls himself a painter but he’s painted nothing for years.

  Independently wealthy. Do I have to pull his tail out to see if he’s a Jew, every time?’ von Salomon shrugged. ‘Trust me, to all intents and purposes, he’s a Jew.’

  ‘If you say so.’ The mark fingered a menu nervously. ‘In your note…You said

  meet for lunch.’

  His manner was wheedling. His eyes were pleading. Von Salomon had said nothing about lunch, but he was delighted. First, buying the mark lunch would create a dependence, but even more importantly he had just shown what made him tick. People always do that. Always. Because they want to. Because they need to. They need to unburden themselves of themselves. All you have to do, von Salomon thought, is train yourself to listen for it, give them time and space to say it, then know how to use it for your own ends.

  ‘I usually have a Berliner Weisse here. And they do a good egg-in-the-glass. That do you?’

  The mark looked disappointed.

  ‘Have something else as well if you wish. Have whatever you want.’

  Von Salomon raised an eyebrow and the well-paid Herr Nietz was there instantly. The mark shyly indicated some items on the menu.

  ‘Two Berliner Weissen, two times eggs-in-a-glass. And after that a boulette with a couple of dumplings for my friend here. Side order of potato salad, please, Wilhelm.’

  Nietz nodded and bowed low, with the faintest flicker of a smile. Von Salomon had no idea what Nietz’s first name was. He used a different name for each mark. Sometimes, when he was getting especially bored, the names were outlandishly Germanic. He had ordered Berliner Weisse and eggs-in-a-glass from Hagen, Arminius, Charlemagne and once, in tribute to OC’s worthy but somewhat hysterical ally in the south, Adolf.