“Yes,” I told him. “And hope.” I almost added “and pray,” but Verena beat me to it.
He nodded again and asked if there was anything else he should know. When we told him no, he gave us both a tearstained hug and left the room.
That was this morning, and I’ve been thinking about little else all day. One thing I know for certain—at this particular moment in time, Walter’s need is greater than Comrade Stalin’s.
Monday, September 26
Walter went off to school this morning without any fuss but without much sign of life in his eyes. He came back this evening in much the same state, which is probably the best we can hope for. I know how hard accepting such loss is for even the strongest adult, let alone a twelve-year-old child who’s already lost a father and brother and might soon lose his grandfather.
Dr. Offner came again and left the same prognosis. Andreas is wheezing a lot and eating little, and I don’t like the color of his skin. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that it was the news of Anna’s transfer that turned the cold into something that may prove lethal.
As if we didn’t have enough to concern us, there was a much-heralded speech from Hitler on the wireless tonight. I imagine he had a big audience—most Germans want to know what’s in store, whether it’s peace or war. He was speaking at the Sportpalast in Berlin in front of the usual baying crowd, but our household—like, I suspect, millions of others—mostly listened in anxious silence.
He started off as usual, listing his many contributions to European peace—the pact with Poland, the naval treaty with Britain, the renunciation of Alsace-Lorraine. There was just this one last problem, and once it was resolved, he’d be done. And resolve it he would! It was really quite simple—all he asked was that the British and French should apply their own principle of self-determination. Czechoslovakia was founded on “a single lie.” There was no such thing as a Czechoslovak. It was the Czechs who ran this mongrel state, cruelly lording it over the Slovaks, Magyars, Poles, and Sudeten Germans.
Even the Czechs knew their rule was intolerable and, at British and French behest, had agreed to transfer those territories inhabited by Sudeten Germans. But now the Czechs were objecting to an immediate German occupation. What did they imagine a transfer entailed?
Written down like this, it all sounds so reasonable; when the words were being spoken, shouted, sometimes screamed, it was quite another matter. I’ve known a lot of political figures but never another one whose self-control seemed so fragile. There was excitement in his voice from the start, and as the speech wore on, he sounded increasingly manic; by the end he was close to hysteria.
Seconds after he finished speaking, the familiar voice of Goebbels was heard, shouting, “Nineteen eighteen will not be repeated!”
There was a bang, as if someone had hit something, and then Hitler’s voice screeching, “Yes!” like a man possessed.
That “yes!” was probably audible on the moon, not to mention in Prague, where it will be taken as a declaration of war. As Hitler said earlier in the speech: “The time has come when one must mince matters no longer.”
What does this mean for me and my mission? Two things, I think—one good, one bad. If war breaks out and we attack Belgium and Holland, I’ll be cut off from my controllers for an indefinite period. And Erich might well be released straight into war work of one kind or another, in which case he won’t be coming home to look after Walter.
Tuesday, September 27
Everyone’s waiting. There hasn’t been a word in the press about an actual ultimatum, but every person I talked to today was convinced that one has been given and that Hitler is awaiting the reply. One thing we do know at work: the trains have been waiting to roll for several days, and if something doesn’t happen soon, the whole network will begin to seize up.
According to the wireless Hitler and Roosevelt have been exchanging telegrams, though the contents have not been divulged. I doubt the messages have been congratulatory—arrogance seems the only thing the two men have in common. And if FDR is lecturing Hitler on a leader’s moral duty to preserve the peace, he’s wasting his breath.
We also learned that the British have launched a new ocean liner named after their current queen. According to Walter it’s not only the biggest liner ever built; it’s also the biggest ship. Which reminded me of something someone said of the Roman Empire—that as the buildings grew bigger, the spirit eroded. The world will certainly breathe a sigh of relief if the British betray the Czechs, but Britain’s reputation will still be in tatters.
Here in Germany, war might be imminent, but the Jews have not been forgotten. Today it was announced that Jewish lawyers will not be permitted to practice from November 30. This in itself was no surprise, but I found myself hoping that the Nazi obsession with Jews, if not sufficiently distracting in itself, does represent a wider denial of rationality that may in the end cost them dear.
Here in the house, Andreas has shown no sign of recovery, but neither has he taken an obvious turn for the worse.
Wednesday, September 28
And still we wait. The government keeps up its usual blustering, but neither war nor peace is announced. The British and French are silent, the Czechs apparently waiting like everyone else for some sort of decision. The mood at work today was one of resignation—most people now believe it’s a matter of when, not if. But nobody’s pleased; the difference between now and 1914 could hardly be more marked.
I remember those days in August 1914 all too well: the crazy joy and camaraderie, the sense of destiny, the pure excitement. When I look back now, we seem like fools, but there were excuses. There hadn’t been a major war in nearly half a century, and no one knew—not even the professionals, as it turned out—how the latest weapons had changed things. But that’s not the case these days—anyone over forty has either first- or secondhand experience of what modern war is like, and most over twenty will have read or seen cinematic accounts of what men endured in the trenches. There’s no glory in literally losing your head to a long-range shell. No glory in firing it either. Most adults know this, and according to Walter most of his fellow Jungvolk do too, despite all the regime’s efforts.
But it’s not just the horrors of war that make my fellow Germans reluctant warriors. Few are actually pacifists, but most want a decent reason to risk their own or their children’s lives, and the Czech treatment of the Sudeten Germans falls somewhat short in that regard. They’ll fight if they have to, but not with any enthusiasm.
Thinking about my fellow Germans today, I decided that they’re a people who’ve lost confidence in themselves and their choices. They embraced war in 1914 and went down to defeat and economic ruin. They turned to the Nazis to put things right, and I suspect that many now regret doing so, partly because Hitler and his cronies make them ashamed to be German, mostly because of where it all seems to be leading.
Friday, September 30
We are saved, at least for the moment. Agreement has been reached at an international conference in Munich, and the threat of war has been lifted. This has been Chamberlain’s third visit to Germany in as many weeks, and it looks at first sight as if the English saying “Third time lucky” reflects his efforts. The Czechs have been sold down the river, but that was a price everyone else thought worth paying. They are spared a violent incursion, the rest of us a European war.
It was all smiles at work as we started the job of putting the Reichsbahn back on a peacetime footing. All those old enough to fight themselves, all those with sons, brothers, husbands, or fathers in the same situation, could hardly keep their toes from tapping, so great was the sudden relief. I wasn’t immune myself. Despite what my Comintern contact Dieter thinks, wars between nations are bloody and pointless, and I felt as pleased as the next man that one had been avoided.
Which is not to say that I think the reprieve will last. If Hitler knows that sooner or later
the German economy must have a war, he should also be aware that adding the Sudetenland to the Reich will not provide much of a military or economic boost. What it will do, by stripping the Czechs of their mountain defense lines, is make it that much easier to seize the real prize—the Škoda armaments industry in western Bohemia. Easier militarily, that is, but still hard politically, because the lack of Germans in that part of Czechoslovakia means Hitler won’t be able to use self-determination as an excuse.
But that potential crisis is, I hope, some way off. At home I found the same relieved faces I’d seen at work and an extra cause for celebration—Andreas was better. Had he been buoyed by the news, or was that just coincidence? According to Verena the doctor was surprised by the old man’s recovery, but I am not. Andreas has a will of iron, and he knows his grandsons have never needed him more.
Walter was pleased, but thoughtful as well. “This is better for Mama, isn’t it?” he asked me after supper. I said I thought it was, though in truth I’m not at all sure it will make any difference.
The mood on the wireless was suitably self-congratulatory—another three million Germans have come home to the Reich, all thanks to our peace-loving Führer. Listening, I felt the sense of relief start to fade. According to Monday’s Sportpalast speech, the Sudetenland had been his last territorial claim, but what of the Germans living in Poland, Danzig, and Memel? How long will they have to wait for their homecoming?
It’s probably only a matter of time, but why waste the time that we have? As I sit by my open window, I can hear more than the usual Friday night revelry—it may just be a reprieve, but people are making the most of the moment. Live for the day, I tell myself, but when you’ve devoted your life to the future, that’s not something that comes naturally.
Sunday, October 2
I took Walter and Marco to the cinema again; our Sunday afternoon entertainments are fast becoming a ritual—something to hang on to among the buffetings of personal and political fate. It was a comedy this time—not a very good one, but the audience greeted each comic situation with semi-hysterical howls of laughter. The tension of the last few weeks has taken a toll.
Marco laughed more than Walter did, which didn’t surprise me. Marco hasn’t suffered the emotional blows that Walter has, and his temperament is much more happy-go-lucky. I’m sure he’s well aware of the disadvantages of being black in Nazi Germany, but he seems to see them as something to overcome if and when he can. A practical challenge rather than an existential one.
And he may be right. Marco’s fate does seem, for the moment at least, beyond his control. So why worry about it?
Walter worried before his brother and mother were taken away, and now he worries a great deal more. Since he got the news of Anna’s transfer a week ago, he’s been living very much inside himself, and it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking and feeling. Verena says he cried himself to sleep for the first couple of nights but hasn’t since. And even though he’s holding the outside world at bay, he’s managing to function within it, which is probably the best we can expect for quite a while.
Jakob arrived back from Hamburg soon after supper, having spent another enjoyable weekend with his son and pregnant daughter-in-law. What has caused the improvement in family relations is far from clear—Jakob himself seems mystified—but I hope it continues. On our way to the Social Club, Jakob was wondering out loud about moving to Hamburg once the child is born—he says it’s due in February. “They’re family,” he said apologetically, as if I might take umbrage at being abandoned.
The post-Munich mood at the club was probably typical. Everyone’s relieved, but only the dimmest are optimistic. Time has been gained, nothing more.
Tuesday, October 4
I was going to write that things are getting back to normal, but the personal situations in this house are such that the word hardly seems appropriate. Things are calmer at least, less fraught than they were a week ago. There haven’t been any fresh incidents at school, or none of which Verena and I are aware. I’m sure the boys are being careful, but I suspect that Herr Huelse has also been active in their defense.
Since it seems unlikely that Anna will return anytime soon, Verena has given up the other room she rents and fully moved in. She had her doubts about doing so—mostly because she feared that Walter would make the same connection—but Andreas and I persuaded her. Walter no longer has a room of his own and no doubt sometimes misses the privacy, but having Marco around all the time does take his mind off his troubles.
The burden was also lightened somewhat this evening. Another Dude arrested and sentenced with Erich—a boy named Werner—arrived back in Hamm today and this evening came to the house with a verbal message. Erich is not only well but also “fitter than he’s ever been,” and looking forward to being home in a couple of months. Werner was distressed to hear that Erich’s mother had been arrested and glad that Erich didn’t know—“He talks about her a lot.”
And might well go after Ruchay, I thought. Or do something equally rash.
Andreas was cheered by the news that Erich was well and that the boy has done nothing silly to delay his release. Sometimes it feels as if the old man is just hanging on until his older grandson comes back to look after the younger. I know he likes me, but he’s not convinced that I’ll always be here to step into the breach. He suspects I have other, undisclosed loyalties, and in that of course he’s right.
He doesn’t know how strong those loyalties are, and these days neither do I. Since receiving Moscow’s orders ten days ago, I have done absolutely nothing to carry them out. I haven’t made a firm decision to either ignore or defy them, but my chosen three remain in ignorance of the putative cell, and the Working Group—which meets tomorrow—still includes Dariusz Müller. I also seem to have dropped the ball when it comes to proving that Giesemann is an informer.
All of which can be put right. Dieter’s orders were clear, but I am the man on the spot, and if something comes up that persuades me that activation should wait, then my superiors in Moscow will allow me a few weeks’ grace. I am an experienced rep, and any doubts concerning my political loyalty will probably not extend to my competence in the field. But of course they won’t wait forever—if I wish to remain a Comintern agent, I must get things moving before too long.
And I think I do. For one thing, I find it hard to envisage a different life. For another, I’m still a believer, at least in the foulness of the enemy. I can’t imagine a higher calling than putting spokes in Hitler’s wheels.
That, after all, is why I am here. And it’s what I intend to do when Erich or Anna comes home.
Wednesday, October 5
We were worked off our feet at the office today. A derailment early this morning between Gelsenkirchen and Wanne caused serious disruption across the Ruhr, and by noon the ripples were reaching up and down the Rhine. Rumor has it that a broken rail was responsible, which would come as no surprise—the money the government’s spending on arms is not being spent on the railways, something Hitler might come to regret if he finds his conquering armies can’t be supplied.
The weather has also turned: on my way to this evening’s Working Group meeting, I had my hands firmly wedged in my pockets for the first time this year. I would have sooner stayed home, but duty called, and I actually enjoyed the walk. Provincial German towns after dark look much the same as each other, and I found myself reliving similar walks through the town where I grew up. Friends I’d long forgotten came to mind, a girl I’d dearly wanted to kiss but never had.
The meeting at Heinrich’s apartment was well attended—of the regulars, only my bugbear Giesemann was missing. The relief that most Germans felt at the avoidance of war is still palpable, and even these comrades—who know in their hearts it will be only temporary—seemed lulled into thinking that time is on our side. The lion’s share of the evening was given over to the latest management directives on increasing produ
ctivity, which needless to say involve either more hours, less pay, or both. Several tactical responses were suggested, all of them worthy of further consideration—as discussions go, it was a good one.
I did more watching than speaking. I studied these men and this woman, all so relieved that they weren’t now at war with England and France. Would they be any more willing to take up arms against Hitler? Their hearts would doubtless be more engaged, their chances of survival that much less.
I also watched how they were with Dariusz Müller, and there was no mistaking the fact that they trust him. Most of them have known him longer than I have, and the notion that he’s managed to fool them all simply beggars belief. And if anyone in the group is a natural leader, it’s him.
I found myself thinking ahead, rehearsing what I would say to them: That they would have to source their own weapons and explosives, but that money would be provided. That what I was really offering was a sense of purpose and an end to isolation, the chance to be true to themselves and part of something much bigger than Hamm or Germany and, last but not least, access to the party’s escape routes if and when the shit hit the fan.
And how did they react to my imaginary speech? With grim faces but also a glint in the eyes. Those are the faces I’ve seen in the past, and I expect to see them again. For better or for worse.
Looking at Müller, I thought about Moscow’s order to exclude him, the order I intend to ignore. When the time comes, I can tell my superiors that I believe their concerns are unjustified, that he’s by far the best man to lead the group. But what will I say to Müller himself? All I can do is repeat what Dieter told me and leave Müller to work out how he can bring himself back into favor.
And then there is Giesemann, absent this evening but unforgotten. My instincts still say that he’s an informer, but the other members of the group show no sign of thinking so, and I haven’t found any real evidence. I need to be certain one way or the other before I take the risk of approaching anyone.
Diary of a Dead Man on Leave Page 21