Nuremberg

by William F. Buckley, Jr.

  “Of course.”

  *

  The next morning, Sebastian picked up his phone. It was Harry. “They’re going to start with Doenitz in fifteen, twenty minutes. I bet he’s sorry he surrendered last May.”

  “They want to string him up?”

  “Yep. But that kind of thing is harder to do — wouldn’t you guess? — to military officers? Take Keitel. He is like Doenitz — a professional military man. He was commissioned in the German field artillery before the first war...But I’m not calling you about Keitel. At 0800 I had a session with the doctor. I’m in the third stage, which means I got infected way back in England. Tin infectious myself, and have to be...extra cautious on the social front for six weeks minimum. Till I test negative.”

  “Harry. What about Teresa? Does she need a blood test?”

  “I was pretty specific with the doctor on that point. But he was reassuring when I told him that I always used rubbers with her. Not a hard decision. Teresa didn’t want any pregnancy.”

  “So what do I tell her now?”

  “I can’t...move back there, just can’t, Sebby. Not any time in the foreseeable future.”

  “I understand.”

  “I got another five days here before Sergeant Chatterley repossesses his apartment. I’ll have to look around. Look around for sure-enough bachelor’s quarters. On what to tell Teresa? Tell her I got emergency leave. My mother in Wisconsin is sick, I wangled my way onto one of the army transports going home. They got an apprentice to do my work. He and the German are looking after the courtroom audio.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sebby?”

  “I’m listening, Harry.”

  “I’m sad and lonely. Will you have dinner with me and go to the movie? It’s Orson Welles, Tomorrow Is Forever . We haven’t been to a movie since your twentieth birthday.”

  “Sure I will. Meet at the Grand? Like old times?”

  “The Grand, 1800.”

  *

  It was late when the movie ended and then — as expected — the couple of beers. After that, on the street, no bus was running. Sebastian set out on foot, hugging his overcoat to him, hoping to see an army car drift by. It was close to midnight.

  He turned the lock in the door at Musikerstrasse and hung up his coat. The door to the cellar apartment was open slightly. He saw no light in the door crack. He walked quietly up the staircase and brushed his teeth in the bathroom. Undressed, he walked into his room and turned on the reading lamp, but even Thurber was not for tonight. He closed the book, turned off the light, and fell quickly to sleep. He was awakened by her kiss, and the movement of her bare breasts on his chest. She told him it was always he she truly loved, and made him believe it.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  March 1946

  At the end of the prosecution case there would be a week’s leave for most of the Palace personnel, before the defense began to hold sway. That was predicted for early in March, and indeed the prosecution rested on March 6.

  Sebastian had been kept busy translating, alongside another linguist — a German civilian — a fresh trove of documents unearthed by the Russians in Breslau, Poland, near the Czech frontier. There they found five years of dispatches “by everyone to everyone,” as Sebastian described them to Teresa. Carver was interested primarily in the evidence yielded against Hans Frank, though if Adolf Eichmann or Heinrich Himmler had been sitting in court, those dispatches, Carver remarked, “would have clinched the noose ever tighter around their necks.” Sebastian, awash with the evidence, permitted himself, over coffee in the officers’ mess, to ask Captain Carver, “What do you people need on Frank that you haven’t already got?”

  “I see your point. We have a ton of stuff. But if anything’s sitting there, we want to know about it. And Frank’s defense attorney has put it to us to get everything about his client we have in hand or is accessible. I can’t believe there’s exonerative stuff lying around, though everybody has what one might call good days. Hans Frank almost surely did. He apostatized from the Catholic Church — you must have come across that — when he joined Hitler. Now he’s rejoining the Church, I’m told. That will challenge Saint Peter.”

  “Am I supposed to translate for the benefit of Frank’s defense counsel?”

  Carver laughed. “No. Alfred Seidl can read German all by himself. But anything he gets to read, I want to know about. So, Sebby, you have two alternatives. Translate that dunghill, or teach me German so I can read it myself.”

  “Okay, sir. But that’s not going to prevent me from taking the March leave...just reassure me on that. Okay?”

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Yes, to Munich and to Innsbruck. I’m looking for remote relatives. And I’d like to hear the Munich Symphony.”

  “Where are they going to play after our bombing? In the park?”

  “The Residenztheater is functioning again, I found out. The concertmaster at the theater was my great-grandfather.”

  “Not Jewish, I hope.”

  “No. From a couple of things I heard from my grandmother, I’d guess he was a little anti-Semitic himself.”

  “That would have been useful when Herr Hitler moved down.”

  “There were Jews in the Munich Symphony, and my grandmother said he would have protected them to his death.”

  “That’s about what it would have taken, to save those Bavarian Jews.”

  “His wife was dead. But he was nearly eighty when the Nazis moved in.”

  “So who’re you going to try to track down?”

  “My great-uncle. But he’s not in Munich anymore. The family’s from Innsbruck. My Oma — that’s grandmother in German — ”

  “Thanks. Now I know six words of German.”

  “ — she got word her brother has gone back to Innsbruck. I’ve got an address.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a musician. A conductor.”

  “What does he conduct in Innsbruck?”

  “I don’t know. But I promise to tell you when I find out. I just wanted to be sure I’d be...free to go next week.”

  “Okay. But take some work with you. You can translate on the train, can’t you?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. Say, Captain. One day I want to know why you executed Private Slovik.”

  Carver smiled. He liked the young lieutenant. “We’ll have dinner after you get back. I’ll tell you about it.”

  *

  It had been almost exactly one year since the venerable Residenztheater suffered the bomb that had smashed the rear end of the theater. They were making do with a temporary structure, but one which served to keep out the cold, and to shelter musicians who, since December, had resumed regular performances.

  Flush with a few American dollars, Sebastian set out on his planned tour of the city, relying on a prewar guidebook picked up in the thieves’ market. He walked to the old clock tower, still standing, and tried to imagine what the grand avenue must have looked like before the bombs came. And over there was the beer hall, intact, where Adolf Hitler, age thirty-four, had initiated the famous putsch that landed him in jail. Jail where? He turned the page in the guidebook. The jail, a monument of sorts in the prewar guide, was actually outside Munich, in the small town of Landsberg. It was in the Landsberg prison that Hitler had written Mein Kampf . The hoary old question pressed on his mind: How many people would now be alive if Hitler had been kept in jail ? — instead of being released after nine months.

  Sebastian made his way back to the busy Berghof Hotel. It was half full, mostly with bustling Germans, one or two of whom he overheard discussing reconstruction projects. There was an American there, seated at a table, cigarette in hand, a glass of wine to one side and a folder of papers in front of him. He sported, oddly enough — such facial decoration had gone out of style — a Hitler mustache. Sebastian sat down at the next table. The man with the folder noticed his curiosity and introduced himself. He was the director of an American television team of three in New York. T
hey were in Germany doing a documentary based on Hitler’s early life. “We’ll spend a lot of time in Vienna,” he told Sebastian, who asked if the team planned to go to Nuremberg.

  “Haven’t decided. There’s been so much footage on Nuremberg in the last six months. People in America are getting kind of bored with the war crimes scene. Nothing ever seems to happen.”

  “I see what you mean,” Sebastian said.

  He went by himself to the Residenztheater and heard a symphony by Mozart, then the violin concerto of Mendelssohn, and, after the intermission, some Mahler. He walked after the performance to a café next door and saw, hanging on the wall, photographs of artists. Beer in hand, he surveyed them in descending chronological order, beginning with the conductor he had just heard perform. He was excited at the prospect of looking into the face of the Munich Symphony conductor at the turn of the century, whom his great-grandfather would have served as concert-master. He didn’t know the name but did notice the picture of the conductor who had performed on the centennial eve, one Alois Steiner. He would mention that name when next he wrote to Oma.

  The next day he was on the train to Innsbruck. It was snowing lightly. He wondered whether it had snowed in February of 1938 when Hitler traveled down this route in his special train to Vienna to celebrate the annexation of Austria.

  It had occurred to him in Nuremberg, when he got his grandmother’s letter, that it might be prudent if he simply appeared cautiously on the Innsbruck scene, rather than write ahead to his great-uncle. Possibly, if Sebastian’s arrival was heralded in a letter, Walther Leddihn would make extravagant efforts to entertain him. Another possibility was that Uncle Walther was infirm, or indigent, in which case Sebastian would adjust his visit appropriately. Better to tread cautiously.

  So when Sebastian arrived at the hotel he inspected the telephone directory in his room, after satisfying himself that it was current. He found the name he was looking for and two telephone numbers. The first number was presumably his great-uncle’s home telephone. The second appeared under Orchester . He dialed it. A hotel operator answered. “Herr Leddihn is rehearsing with the orchestra now.”

  It was midafternoon. Should he leave a message?

  Better just to appear. “Will he be there — at four o’clock?”

  The operator, with just a hint of impatience, told Sebastian she did not know how long the rehearsal today would last, but that Herr Leddihn usually went to his office after rehearsals. “The orchestra begins performing at five, for tea.”

  “His office is in the hotel?”

  “Yes, mein Herr .”

  “Thanks very much.”

  “ Bitte. ”

  The cab took him to the door of the large, gabled, Tyrolean-style hotel, blessedly unscarred by the war. A terrace on the second floor looked over the driveway and the two ornate slate columns at the entrance. Sebastian paid the taxi driver and went to the concierge, who wore a Tyrolean jacket. “Where can I find Herr Leddihn?”

  The elderly man with the white mustache looked up. “The rehearsal is finished. You would find him at the office, ground floor, #14.” He pointed out the direction. Sebastian, his heart now beating a little faster, walked across the lobby.

  *

  He had been greeted with astonishment and joy.

  He was instructed to sit in the huge parlor for tea while Herr Leddihn led the predinner music. Then they would dine together, here at the hotel. After dinner, Herr Leddihn would play again, from 2000 until 2315. “Then we will drive to your hotel and pick up your bags. Henrietta would not forgive me if she learned you were in Innsbruck and staying at a hotel! Then we will go to my house — I live alone — and you have the spare bedroom. And we can have a real visit! Maybe — does Henrietta have a telephone? — we can telephone her. Probably not,” he mused. “Long distance lines from here go through Munich, ever since — the amalgamation. Never mind.” He stood back and looked at Sebastian. “I was just twenty when your grandmother left us! Your age, approximately. But all of that later.”

  In the parlor, thirty or forty guests, some of them transients, others, Sebastian suspected, seasonal patrons of the hotel, sipped tea and ate pastry. Herr Leddihn led twelve musicians in light music, heavy on waltzes, but also with some music from America. Sebastian recognized “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” and “I Get a Kick Out of You.” The conductor and the young American officer ate well. Before the tart and ice cream were finished, Leddihn excused himself to go off and change into white tie and tails.

  In his corner of the dining room Sebastian read on in his paperback while the band played and a dozen couples danced, their spirits visibly quickened by the lift of the music. Herr Walther Leddihn, a smile on his face whenever his head was turned to the diners, picked up a violin and, moving closer to the microphone, played “Liebestraum” tearfully and then changed tempo and orchestration to do a polka with the same theme.

  His house was trim, far enough from town to permit the owner a generous lawn. He took Sebastian’s bag to his room, and conducted him into the living room, lit a fire, and brought out a bottle of sparkling white wine.

  It was after midnight when he told his story. “Even Henrietta doesn’t know the details. I just gave her the outlines. When the Nazis came down, Papa was no longer first violinist. He had retired, Mama was dead, but he was still the president of the orchestra union. We always opened — ”

  “You were playing with the orchestra, Uncle Walther?”

  “Yes. In 1938 I had been playing violin under my father’s leadership almost ten years. We always opened the Saturday concert with the Austrian national anthem. Ironically, the music — by Haydn, of course — was also the music for the German national anthem, the ‘Deutschlandlied,’ though of course the words were different. In May, our conductor, Herr Schell, told us — I remember that it was on a Thursday, we were rehearsing Bruckner’s Fifth Symphony — that we would not be playing the anthem on Saturday. There was a stir of protest. ‘That’s the way it will have to be,’ the Musikdirektor said.

  “I reported the news to my father when I got home. He made about six telephone calls. He heard back what he wanted to hear and then called Herr Schell. He said that unless the anthem was played, the orchestra would strike.”

  “The players were unanimous on the point?’

  “My father called the principal personnel, who were unanimous except for a dissenting Jewish cellist. We could understand that. He could not afford to bring notice to himself in any movement to defy authorities doing the bidding of the Nazis. There was a true explosion when word of the players’ ultimatum got out on Friday. On Saturday, everyone — press, security, officials, patrons — was tense, waiting to see what would happen. The concertmaster, the musical coordinator, waited to hear from my father, and my father was waiting to hear from Herr Schell.”

  “And Herr Schell was waiting to hear from the Gestapo?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What did happen?”

  “They played the Austrian national anthem and the audience sang out the Austrian words.

  “That night, the Gestapo came. They began by throwing me out of the house. I waited outside, hoping I could see through the window what was happening.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, the Gestapo began by beating my father, smashing him on the head, and then kicking him while he was on the floor. I went to the locked door and banged on it.

  “The agent in charge opened it and asked if I would prefer to spend the night in Gestapo headquarters. My father called out and begged me to go away. I ran as fast as I could to our neighbor and called the newspaper. Then I called Herr Schell. The newspaper reporter didn’t want to hear about it, changed the subject, then hung up. Schell said, ‘What am I supposed to do, Walther?’ I waited outside and finally the Gestapo went off in their car. They were carrying a bag. I went back to my father. He was in terrible pain and his eyes were bruised. He told me they had carried away everything on his desk and also the large boo
k of clippings and Mamas journal, which she had kept for fifty years.

  “The next day the conductor called my father. Papa said Herr Schell was crying over the telephone when he spoke to him. A special meeting of the orchestra union had been called and Papa was no longer president. The following Saturday we did not play the national anthem. On Monday, when I was away from the house, teaching, the Gestapo came back and spent the whole morning with Papa. I don’t know what they said. They brought the papers back. Papa never fully recovered.”

  Sebastian saw that the fire was dying. Walther Leddihn caught his eye. “We must go to bed. A long day. I will make breakfast for you in the morning.”

  The next morning Leddihn called a friend, a retired musician who had a motorcar. “Stefan will pick you up at ten and take you to lunch and show you Greater Innsbruck. I would not inflict my hotel music on you again, but I will arrange for a substitute to fill in for me for the after-dinner music, and we will have dinner at my favorite restaurant. In the afternoon, Stefan will bring you back here after you have finished with the tour. You are to make yourself at home. You will want to look at the scrapbooks and at your Oma’s journals.”

  He embraced his great-nephew and went, contentedly, out the door with his music case.

  *

  Stefan took fine care of Sebastian, showing him the period churches and old estates tucked around the hill town, and the gallery and the museum. But by four in the afternoon, Sebastian was ready to get back to the house. He would do some translating for Captain Carver.

  Sitting on a couch, his papers spread out on the coffee table, he scanned a dozen documents and made notes doggedly with his little Hermes typewriter, digesting any material he thought conceivably germane, including the documentation of Hans Franks sending the household cook to a forced labor camp alter a prolonged complaint from his wife about the food. An hour later he rose to stretch his limbs and looked over at the bookcase Uncle Walther had pointed to. He opened the scrapbooks and pulled out the one likeliest to have pictures of his grandmother.