by Richard Wake
It was all I could think about as I ordered a final cognac from the bartender and walked it back to my compartment, the microfilm subtly nagging every time my right foot landed.
FEBRUARY 1938
31
My welcome home lunch with Johanna turned into a forgettable schnitzel followed by a long, lovely afternoon spent entirely within the confines of the bed that she had begun to refer to as "our rickety oasis." That it hadn't broken yet was a testament to good old-fashioned Austrian craftsmanship, or luck.
After I walked her home, I stopped in at Café Louvre to see if Leon was there, and maybe to catch up on the news. As I approached, I saw Old McGee—I think he was from the Chicago Tribune—running across the street from the telegraph office into the café. Now, Old McGee was probably 60 and must have weighed 250 pounds. As a matter of course, he did not run. He did not do anything quickly, for that matter, except shove schinkenbrot sandwiches—ham, rye, butter, gherkins, the whole mess—down his gullet for his gabelfrühstück. All of which meant that there was news, it seemed.
Inside, in the corner of the room where the foreign correspondents always congregated around the United Press man's stammtisch, there was a pandemonium in full roar. There were probably a dozen of them—London, Prague, Budapest, Paris, New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Baltimore, Washington; I'd been introduced to most of them at one time or another by Leon—and there was this insistent shouting among them, nobody seeming to listen but everybody hearing everything.
When there was big news, they all worked together on the stories. Leon explained how it was different for the locals, who all sold their newspapers on the streets and lived and died by their exclusives. The foreign correspondents really did not compete in the same way for breaking news. Yes, if one of them had a big exclusive interview with a government official, everybody bought the guy a drink the next day to congratulate him (and then shit on him and the story as soon as he left the café). But for day-to-day breaking news, they worked as one, pooling their information. It just made sense to them, especially given that most of them, while based in Vienna, were responsible for news throughout the region. If there was a political assassination in Bucharest, they had to write. If a bank failed in Budapest, they had to write. And if they happened to have taken their wife to the mountains for the weekend when said assassination or bank failure occurred, there would be someone to cover for them. Their bosses would have been aghast at the coziness of the arrangement, but their bosses were thousands of miles away.
I was seated at a small table on the edge of the swirl—most customers wanted to be nowhere near the noise, so there were plenty of choices. I asked the waiter what the news was. He screwed up his face and said, "Schuschnigg is in Berchtesgaden to meet with Herr Hitler. Menu?"
I ordered a drink and eavesdropped, which wasn't hard. The news of the trip was a complete shock, and the secrecy itself had become the story for many of the correspondents. They loved secrecy. It excited them in ways that women no longer did.
From what they knew, Schuschnigg had taken the overnight train. Only a couple of embassies had been told—England, France, maybe a couple more.
The Baltimore Sun read loudly from one morning paper, I couldn't see which. "'There will be a Cabinet Council meeting today to deal with important matters.' Important matters, my ass. They knew he wasn't going to be here. Why the smoke screen?"
It was the question they were all asking, in a dozen different ways. Nobody knew anything until about 4 p.m., when the final edition of several afternoon papers hit the streets with the news of the meeting, nothing more. The government press office confirmed the bare bones soon after. Then the Austrian reporters were called in for a meeting with the commissioner for propaganda, Colonel Walter Adam—whose full name had been changed by the Philadelphia Record for the purposes of that evening's discussions to "that fucking snake, Walter Adam." The St. Louis Post-Dispatch went with "that lying sack of shit." I had never heard that one before, but I quite liked it.
The foreign correspondents got a summary of that briefing: It was a long-planned meeting at Hitler's invitation, and Italy and Hungary were aware of it, and it was meant as a way of strengthening the existing ties between the two countries, and the ultimate communiqué that was issued would emphasize the need for continued Austrian independence.
The news that Old McGee brought in his winded sprint from the telegraph office was the official government communiqué:
"The Austrian Chancellor, accompanied by Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs Schmidt, today visited Herr Hitler at Obersalzberg on his invitation. Herr von Ribbentrop and Herr von Papen were present. This unofficial interview resulted from a mutual desire to discuss all questions concerning Austro–German relations."
To which the Times of London replied, "McGee, you didn't need to run for that."
But what did it all mean? I knew what I thought—that Schuschnigg was bending over for the Corporal—and most of the correspondents seemed to be thinking the same thing. The problem was that nobody knew anything, so it was hard to know how to shade the story. Because of the time difference, the Americans had more time to wait for developments—or at least for the early editions of the morning papers for any hints. Some of the correspondents thought Hitler was in a weak position after he shook up the army and fired Blomberg and Fritsch, and so wasn't in a position to bully Schuschnigg about anything, but that was precisely backward to me. In my experience, cornered assholes just became bigger assholes. Hitler had no reason to make nice.
So this was all being debated when Leon walked in. He had a copy of the Telegraf, not his newspaper, in his hand. He was the only Vienna reporter in the café, the rest working their own sources.
He handed the paper to the New York Times. "It's been confiscated by the government, but I got one."
A torrent of "holy shits" rained down as they all crowded around. Government censorship was a way of life in Vienna—Schuschnigg was a dictator, too, but without the little mustache and with a tiny bit of sympathy for the Jews—but this was big.
"Why confiscate it? What do they have?"
Leon flattened the paper on a table and then pointed to about the eighth paragraph of the story, in which the reporter quotes Adam as saying the reason for the meeting was a fear that Italy and England were about to start getting cozy with each other.
The Times of London said, "Well, did he say it? Were you at the briefing?"
Leon said, "Yeah, I was there. And, yeah, he said it. But it was off the record—and nobody here quotes me or my paper on that, got it?"
They all nodded. Leon made eye contact with each of them individually before continuing.
"Adam said other stuff off the record, too. It's in the jump," he said, turning the page and pointing to the spot where the story continued. "He said Schuschnigg wanted to tell Hitler that he was being as lenient as he could with the Nazis here, but the bombings and the wrecking of Jewish businesses were becoming too big a problem to ignore."
The Baltimore Sun jumped in. "So what do your guys think? What do you think?"
Leon stopped for a second, gathering himself. "I'm not sure. But if I had to guess, Schuschnigg left with his pants around his ankles. When I hear 'Hitler's invitation,' that means 'Hitler's summons' to me. I don't know what that might mean, but can you honestly see him standing up to Hitler about anything?"
Around and around it went. Several of the correspondents left to attend the annual Press Ball, where the heurige was free, and there perhaps would be some new details to emerge. Kids the correspondents used as runners from the telegraph office brought bits of news, and copies of the first editions of the morning papers. They talked, and read, and sifted through the facts that they had and the suspicions beneath the facts, and then left in ones and twos to go across the street to type up their stories in the little cubicles set up for them in the press room. There, they would wait for any news from the ball attendees, and then send what they had by telegraph. I sat and drank w
ith Leon, talking about this and that, watching as the correspondents acknowledged him with a pat on the shoulder or a nod of thanks as they left to write. He was basking. He was so in his element.
32
Heading home, I decided to stop for one more at Max's, the definition of a dive, maybe 20 feet wide and 50 feet deep, most of the space taken up by the bar and 10 stools, with a little bit of room to walk behind the stools and a hole-in-the-floor toilet in the back. The only customer snored quietly at the last stool. Heinz, the bartender, was washing glasses and seemed genuinely happy to see a live body.
"Herr Doktor Alex," he said, mocking me with the honorific. Doctor of what? Pimpography?
Heinz got me a drink and then pointed to the newspaper on the bar and the headline about the meeting with Hitler. "Schuschnigg—what do you think?"
"Other than that he's a lying sack of shit?" I really did enjoy that phrase.
Heinz laughed but then got serious. "You travel. You talk to people. What do you think is going to happen?"
I was about four drinks deep, and this conversation was suddenly approaching a tricky area. If you knew you were talking to a closet Nazi, you tried to be as noncommittal as your conscience would allow. Same with staunch supporters of the government. With monarchists, you mostly told the truth but always found a way to mention the good old days. And if you knew you were talking to a closet Socialist or a Jew, you motherfucked Hitler with alacrity, albeit in sotto voce. The whole thing was complicated, and getting more tangled all the time, but getting through a conversation without somebody standing up and storming out had become a practiced skill and a sign of good breeding, kind of like knowing which fork to use for the salad.
I didn't think Heinz was Jewish, but I took a shot. What the hell—if he ended up hating me, there was another dive bar on the next block.
"We're screwed. You know it. I know it. Schuschnigg knows it. Hitler knows it. The only question is the timing."
Heinz's face fell. "You really think so?"
"I really do. The Germans are coming, if for no other reason than they need our money to pay for all of the fucking tanks they're building. Maybe Schuschnigg can make a deal where he hands over the gold in exchange for the Wehrmacht staying on the other side of the border, but really, how could that even work?"
"It would be like cutting off our balls at the whorehouse door. At that point, I mean, what's the point?"
I let that one kind of hang in the air, as vivid as it was nonsensical. Heinz went back to his sink at the other end of the bar. There wasn't a lot more to say. I always enjoyed my conversations with Heinz, because they were always about sports or women, and I was always already kind of drunk and having one more before heading home, and I barely even remembered them the next day. This one, though, I would remember. That was true even after a familiar face came through the door and sat down beside me.
"Ah, fuck," I said.
"And good evening to you, too," he said, slightly slurring. He was as drunk as I was.
"Were you following me?"
"Nah. I just figured I'd take a shot. You're a pretty predictable character, you know? So give me the microfilm, and I'll leave you alone."
"You think I have it on me?"
"Well, do you?"
I looked down at my feet. Same shoes. "Well, now that you mention it."
Tradecraft and secrecy take a back seat to expediency when there is alcohol involved, so I just took off the shoe and peeled up the leather strip. I looked over at Heinz, and he was washing glasses with his back to us. The light snorer at the end was still snoring.
I handed over the small envelope, which disappeared into my contact's pocket. He got up to leave, but I stopped him. "Sit. Have a drink. I have something to ask you. Like, I don't even know your name. What should I fucking call you?"
"How about 'Sir'?"
"How about fuck you?"
He laughed, whatever his name was. "I just saw a movie, A Day at the Races. Very funny. Call me Groucho Marx."
"So, Groucho . . ." With that, I began to lay out the story of Uncle Otto. I tried not to leave anything out, from the first phone call from the Cologne police to the chance meeting with Detective Muller in Herschel's. I tried to be as analytical as I could, given my biases and my emotional involvement. When I finished, we were quiet for a minute or two while Groucho processed everything I had said.
Finally, he spoke. "So you're thinking Gestapo, right?"
"The suicide just doesn't make enough sense. I mean, it makes a little bit of sense, but not enough. Muller obviously thinks it's the Gestapo or he wouldn't have brought it up and whispered the whole thing as if one false word could get him strung up. That's how you read it, right?"
"Yeah. I wasn't there, but the way you tell it, it makes sense. Except for one thing—why Uncle Otto? Why would the Gestapo want to kill a semi-retired guy who sells . . . what's that shit called that you sell?"
"Magnesite."
"Right, magnesite. Hell, you guys are pretty much members of the Nazi's team—"
"Wait a minute—"
"No, you fucking wait a minute. You sell them the shit that keeps the blast furnaces humming in their steel mills. They need you. I'm surprised they don't stop the train every time at Passau and board a hooker for your exclusive use on the rest of your journey. I mean, why do you think we picked you? You have as much cover and as much protection as just about any businessman who travels to Germany these days."
I knew this, of course. It was bad enough when I allowed my mind to wander in that direction, but I couldn't stand hearing it out loud. I wondered if everyone thought that, deep down—Leon, Henry, Johanna? The truth was, I didn't want to know. The courier work was, in a way, my silent atonement. And I was just drunk enough that I felt like shoving it back in Groucho's face. But I didn't. The whole thing had become such a chore. Just living had become exhausting.
I said, "Look, if that's all true, then Otto had the same protections that I have—even more, because he was older and more respected by the clients, and he still had a couple of the biggest clients. It just doesn't make sense."
"Unless it was a jealous husband. I mean . . ."
"Look, let me tell you about Otto. He might have been a little reckless when it came to women, but I've really thought hard about this, and there's just no way he would have gotten himself killed over a piece of ass."
"So, what then?"
I asked what I had been wanting to ask all along: "So was he working for you guys? Or the Austrians? And could the Gestapo have found out?"
Groucho stopped, slugged down his drink, shrugged on his coat.
"There's no way—and I would know. I know who our guys are, and I know who Austria's guys are, and he wasn't one of them."
"What, do you all have a little spy club where you compare notes, all with the same outfits and a secret handshake—Groucho, Chico, Harpo? Fuck you."
"I'm telling you, he wasn't working for us. I never even heard of him until we started looking at you as a possibility and checked your background. That's the truth."
With that, he turned and walked out of the bar. Maybe it was the paranoia of drink, but somehow I didn't feel as if he was telling me the whole story. Then again, it wasn't the first time I had felt that way.
33
The train ride out to the western edge of the city, to the Pfarrwiese, took about a half-hour, give or take. With each stop, the cars became more crowded, the singing louder, the clapping more insistent. SK Rapid was the working-class team from Vienna, and the Pfarrwiese was their home ground. Seeing as how the serious drinking had not yet commenced, things were relatively orderly on the train. Given that Rapid was running away with the league that year, it was all good.
The Pfarrwiese was in Hütteldorf, the section of the city where Henry grew up and where his father established himself in the mobster trade. I was meeting Henry at the stadium, where his family held season tickets. It was February in Vienna, gray and miserable, the sky spitting
just a bit of icy rain, not enough to keep you inside but an amount that would ensure an afternoon's misery. Thank God Henry's seats were on the side with the small roof overhead.
Hütteldorf was what you might imagine a working-class neighborhood to look like: crowded and clean and proud, where the kids played football in the street, in front of mothers sweeping the sidewalks, in front of six-story apartment houses, one after another after another. Late in the afternoon, they were joined by the men, many returning from the big oil and gas works. But there were a dozen major factories in the area, even after the Hütteldorfer brewery closed. It put a pinch on the local economy—and made the availability of spectators' post-game refreshments a little more complicated, seeing as how its beer garden abutted the stadium grounds—but as Henry said, "Hütteldorf takes care of Hütteldorf," and there were fewer of the obviously unemployed out there than you saw closer to the center of the city.
I met Henry at the ticket booth and headed for the covered stand. He stopped me. "First half with the people," he said, pointing toward the open side, the side with no seats and no roof.
"Really?" I said, holding out my hand to catch the falling ice.
"First half. Then you can rest your pampered ass."
The standing area at Pfarrwiese was notorious throughout Austrian football and had been for my whole time in Vienna. People were packed into the sloping terraces beyond all reason—singing, chanting, cursing, drinking to fabulous excess, and relieving themselves in place when necessary. But they weren't savages. As the guy in front of us demonstrated about two minutes after the opening whistle, a person could roll up a newspaper and piss into the funnel that they had created, sparing his neighbors any splashing before daintily dropping the sodden mess at his feet.
Henry watched and laughed. "You know, I was confirmed when I was 12, and my father taught me how to shoot a revolver when I was 14, but I didn't really feel like a man until I was 16 and he let me stand on this side of the ground. Right about here."