by Ben Stevens
The implications of all of this were exceedingly grim – Heinemann was used to working odd evenings, but not every evening and certainly never until midnight. He had, after all, to have some time in which to complete the lengthy assignments Rath was continually setting the music class.
Now it appeared that to be able to do all of this he’d be lucky to get to bed before four in the morning, only to be up a few short hours later to go to university. He understood that the Commissioner was trying to break him, and wondered why he had to choose such an underhand method to do so.
‘Secondly,’ continued Sasse, ‘I am a very busy man, and cannot waste my time seeing the likes of you. Therefore, every fortnight you will report to the Mischling Headquarters, which is not far from that theatre you’ve performed in. This is the address.’
As Sasse handed him a slip of paper from on top of his desk, Heinemann said, ‘Yes, Herr Commissioner.’
Sasse gave a curt nod and the man who was stood by the door walked
over.
He waited in silence for the Commissioner to speak.
‘Show him out. He can find his own way back to his hovel.’
Within minutes Heinemann was stood in the street, the door of the large château banging shut behind him. Without a moment’s hesitation he began to walk quickly away, fearful that Sasse might yet change his mind and send someone to bring him back.
13
The following months passed for Heinemann in a grey haze of exhaustion, with only the outbreak of war in September briefly distracting him from his own troubles.
Strangely, the rough treatment he’d experienced on several occasions within the university had by now ceased entirely. For the rumour concerning him having been picked-up and then released by the Gestapo quickly circulated amongst the students, consequently affording him an odd, almost semi-heroic status.
Shortly after Commissioner Sasse had informed Heinemann of the longer hours he would be working at Mette Construction, Claus Hartz had called his factory foreman into his office for a private meeting. He’d revealed the instructions he’d been given by the Gestapo man: the half-Jew was to be worked incessantly and not given any peace at all; he was in effect to be broken.
Hartz and Wermer had instantly realised each other’s thoughts concerning this matter, though it would have been dangerous to discuss Sasse’s order out loud – one was never quite certain whether or not there was a concealed microphone in the vicinity – and so they’d refrained from doing so.
Privately, both men despised this repression of groups of people solely because of their race or political beliefs. They feared and hated the Nazi Party for the way they’d gagged freedom of speech, a word out of place almost guaranteeing a visit to Gestapo headquarters for an ‘interview’. The economic recovery and the military might which the Socialists had facilitated within Germany – these had been paid for at a price that made a man scared to fart lest it should get him into trouble.
Via only the shared look in their eyes an agreement had passed between Hartz and Wermer – Erich Heinemann would be left alone. Lip-service would be paid to the fat Commissioner’s instructions and nothing more.
The young violinist himself discovered that only within the factory did he feel safe, cloistered within its reassuring monotony and boredom. Its banging machinery, its silent workers, its foreman who smelt of soap and said ‘bloody’ near incessantly – these were things he came to appreciate almost with delight.
After his seven-hour shift had finished he would walk the short distance back to the house and begin the homework set by Rath. During these early hours he existed as though in a dream, writing on a pad of paper and referring to the few textbooks in his possession. His pencil was splintered at the top from his continual gnawing, a grey smudge from the wet lead staining the area between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
During this dream he did not think about Marie von Hahn or the double-headed nightmare that went under the name of Sasse. The work required his complete concentration – Rath marked aggressively and any mistakes, no matter how minor, had to be rectified in the student’s own time. And Heinemann did not have any time.
The tutor himself noticed the glass-like sheen covering the teenager’s eyes in the classroom, noticed his head frequently drooping with fatigue – but he could not afford to give Heinemann any special dispensation. That was what they – the shadowy, indefinable they of which Sasse was only a minute part – were waiting for.
The awful depression was felt by Rath anew, the feeling of utter helplessness in the face of the Nazi nightmare, and alone in his flat in the evenings he again considered suicide as being his only means of escape.
14
As winter at last turned to spring, Heinemann came to view the fortnightly reports he was obliged to make at the Mischling Headquarters almost with pleasure. True to Commissioner Sasse’s words, this attractive timbered building was situated close to the Aalto Theatre.
A thin, waspish man who appeared to be in his late fifties attended to him. Outside of his small office were two secretaries – but there were no cigarettes placed between blood-red lips here. They were instead motherly-looking women who methodically worked their way through the paperwork piled high on their desks.
Having been treated with rude silence by them the first time he’d visited the Headquarters, Heinemann had not attempted to talk to them again. He knew that he’d only to knock on the office door for a reedy voice to wail, ‘Come in, I say!’
Under a different regime Puttkamer would most likely have been nothing other than a wholly anonymous civil servant; but his bumbling and preoccupied character had been given a far more sinister role by the Nazis.
For it was his duty to make reports on those who were of half-Jewish extraction, ensuring that their employment was beneficial to the Socialists and that they were not breaking any of the anti-Jewish Nuremberg Laws. Until recently Mischlings had been allowed into the army, but a directive coming directly from Hitler had put paid to that.
Puttkamer’s notes were typed-up by probably the only two women in Germany who could read his appalling handwriting, while they in turn did their best not to notice either what they were typing or the people who came to visit.
One fine morning Heinemann stood inside the office, feeling remarkably peaceful as he stared out of the large window behind the desk at the River Spree.
‘Erich Heinemann, hey?’ said Puttkamer, playing for time as he searched for his notes in a battered filing cabinet. ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’
Seating himself at the desk, he made an occasional and illegible scribble on a tattered piece of paper as Heinemann replied:
‘I’m still attending Humboldt University, and I have the job in the evenings and on Saturday at Mette Construction, close to where I live.’
‘And what does Mette Construction construct, I say?’
Now that the war had started there was no longer a shred of mystery concerning the factory’s purpose.
‘Tank parts, Herr Puttkamer.’
‘So you’re working hard and being productive, hey?’
‘Yes, Herr Puttkamer.’
‘And what are you studying at Humboldt University?’
The questions were exactly the same on every visit, and so as before Heinemann answered:
‘Music.’
‘Music? What do you play, I say?’
‘The violin.’
‘Used to myself. Long time ago.’
For a long moment this strange man’s eyes burned with his memories… then with a brusque shake of his thin head he returned to business. It was an unfailing routine.
‘Well, just be sure that you keep out of trouble, young Heinemann. I’ve nothing to say about you this time.’
‘Thank you, Herr Puttkamer.’
‘Yes. Dismissed.’
From there Heinemann would take the tram to Humboldt University, to attend a class that barely acknowledged his late presence.
Aside from Muehlebach, who hated him, and Marie, who loved him, an unspoken admiration now existed among the music class for the violinist – for his obvious and exceptional talent; for his resilience against the attentions of the Gestapo and the other, more militant students of this corrupted seat of learning.
And when not entirely consumed by his own torment, Enrich Rath wondered just when the violinist would be snatched clean out of society, as he was certain would happen sooner rather than later...
15
The good-humoured spring had lately turned to summer. Erich Heinemann lay on his bed on a Sunday morning, taking advantage of this chance to rest and recover his energy before he left for work in a few hours’ time.
Puttkamer had informed him a month before that he had to attend Mette Construction from two p.m. until five on the Sabbath, which had not really come as a surprise – it had in fact been a huge oversight on Sasse’s behalf to allow him a work-free Sunday.
With his arms folded behind his head, Heinemann stared at a damp patch on the ceiling. Given time it had become slightly similar to how North America appeared on an atlas – and so the damp patch in the shabby room allowed his mind to drift, his thoughts leaving Berlin in the year 1940.
For a while he indulged himself with wild dreams of spectacular musical success and a love so intense, so incredible, that it coloured even the darkest of days. Somehow, he thought, he had to escape the grinding present – and more than this he had to escape it with Marie von Hahn.
They needed to get to America, he decided – that country far removed from the wartime madness afflicting both Germany and Europe as a whole.
Something hit his window with a soft tap and he immediately sat up. It came again – a small stone or something similar. Standing up, he walked over to the dirty window and looked out.
There, in the cobbled street below, stood Marie von Hahn.
His surprise turned quickly to anger – an anger fuelled by him having been forbidden by Sasse to see this young woman. Just what did she want? She did not seem to understand the possibly disastrous implications of her visit.
Moving quickly away from the window without her seeing him – she’d been looking up and down the street as though scared that she’d been followed – Heinemann put on trousers and shirt and left the room. It was important that he get her inside as quickly as was possible; the Party’s eyes and ears were everywhere, and this little visit could well earn him another (this time one-way) trip to Gestapo headquarters if it was discovered…
Despite the serious nature of her visit, Marie could not help but feel amused by his appearance as he opened the front door. The shock of straight black hair had not been carefully brushed back as was usual; it instead lay flat on his head, covering his ears and nearly his eyes.
Hurriedly tucking his creased white shirt into his faded brown trousers, he asked, ‘Marie, what are you doing here?’
‘I took a guess at which window was yours; the others have curtains, you see – you told me once that yours didn’t,’ she declared.
Heinemann nodded; he too remembered nearly every word they’d spoken that afternoon in the Tiergarten.
‘Anyway,’ said Marie, ‘can I come in? There’s something you should see.’
Only now did Heinemann take notice of the rolled-up newspaper in her hand, and as she followed him inside Marie raised her eyebrows at the dirty floorboards and peeling wallpaper of the large hallway.
They walked upstairs and then past the other rooms along the landing. They entered Heinemann’s room, and due to there being no other furniture they both sat on the bed.
‘So what’s the matter?’ he asked curtly.
In response Marie handed him the newspaper. Opening it, his heart sank as he saw that it was a copy of Der Stuermer, the virulently anti-Semitic and pro-Nazi paper published by one of Adolf Hitler’s favourites, Julius Streicher.
Due to his relationship with Germany’s dictator, Streicher was able to attack anyone who upset him, though many of his victims had no previous idea that they had.
‘What page?’
The day of reckoning had finally arrived: Heinemann had to ask no more than this.
‘Five.’
The article was a storming tirade against him: for how long would the Mischling be allowed to remain at one of Germany’s finest universities? Had it not already been otherwise purged of the Jewry, and quite rightly so? Just what was it that gave Erich Heinemann special dispensation?
Also incorporated within this rant was the heavy implication that Heinemann and his tutor – the noted Jew-lover Enrich Rath – had a secret friendship, the two of them all but certain to share anti-Reich views.
And finally, nightmarishly, there was Marie’s name, with the heavy insinuation that she and Heinemann had had a sexual relationship approximately a year ago, in clear defiance of the German race laws. Maybe, the report snidely concluded, their clandestine affair was still continuing...
‘Shit,’ said Heinemann softly, folding the paper in half and handing it back to Marie, who recoiled as though it carried a disease transmutable by touch.
‘I don’t want it,’ she said.
‘That makes two of us.’
Looking keenly at Marie, whose eyes had filmed over with shock and worry, Heinemann wondered just how Streicher had got his information. Had it been Sasse who’d provided the editor with a few choice titbits?
Whatever – there was nothing he could do about it now, and yet again he considered that escape was his and Marie’s only option, before he brought destruction onto the both of them.
She was sat close to him, their arms touching; he remembered the taste of her lips during that magical night in her living room. She was wearing the same scent that she had then – he could not believe that it had been well over a year since they’d first kissed…
Forcing such thoughts away, he asked, ‘Did you buy this paper?’
‘No!’ replied Marie vehemently. ‘It was put through my letter box; I think early this morning. There was nothing else with it. I don’t have any idea who might have posted it. I looked through it and…’
She let her voice fade away as she removed her flat brown shoes; noticing this, Heinemann also grew more aware of how her light-blue summer dress emphasised her voluptuous figure. He wondered if she felt the same as him; were all thoughts concerning Streicher’s poisonous article being steadily banished by an overpowering physical desire?
In answer to his mental question came her arm around his waist; she drew him towards her, first their lips and then their tongues meeting with increasing ferocity.
For a moment he resisted this warm descent into numbing bliss, realising that what was about to happen would be severely punished were it ever to be discovered. A third visit to headquarters would be his last – no more chances – and what punishment would be given to the woman?
‘Erich…’ whispered Marie.
Desire overwhelmed him; he could resist no longer...
Contented, the cellist had fallen asleep – yet Heinemann remained wide-awake as he lay beside her, the two of them naked beneath the blanket. Now that his lust had been sated he expected his cold reasoning to admonish what had just taken place, but it did not. After all, as a perfectly fit and healthy nineteen year old man he was subject to the same desires as everyone else, no matter what the Nazis did to try and prevent him from fulfilling them.
And what a world he’d discovered here in this room – a world he’d never previously known had existed! Certainly he’d never experienced it with that woman in the cloakroom of a nightclub nearly two years before.
Now he was certain that the pair of them had to escape. Switzerland first; and from there, somehow, onto America.
Frustration gripped him: this was a grand scheme all right, yet he’d not the slightest idea concerning how to make it a reality. All it actually appeared he could do was to sit tight and wait for his last bit of luck to run out…
Taking hold of Marie’s
wrist, gently so as not to awaken her, he looked at her small watch – another hour and he was due at the factory.
Then Marie opened her eyes, and looked at him for a few moments.
‘I love you,’ she said.
Heinemann nodded.
‘Me too,’ he replied.
‘But what shall we do?’ she said suddenly, for the first time appearing a little fearful.
Heinemann shook his head.
‘I don’t know, but listen: if anybody asks you about that crap in the paper, you’re to say that you know nothing about it, that it’s untrue.’
‘I realise that, Erich,’ she said with exasperation.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Look – I have to go to work soon, but I’m going to try to think of something.’
‘What?’
‘Something to get us out of Germany.’
He’d been deliberately blunt, so to ascertain her reaction – yet she seemed hardly surprised, let alone taken aback.
‘Good,’ she said simply. ‘Let’s leave as soon as we can.’
16
Two months after he’d slept with Marie, life took a turn towards the hell that would engulf Heinemann for the remainder of the war. For the child that grew inside the young woman’s womb was the proof that they’d committed an illegal act.
In sheer terror Marie tried to deny what her body was telling her, knowing only too well what the consequences of her being pregnant would be: the Nazis would find her as guilty as Heinemann in breaking their laws and punish the both of them severely.
But even in the midst of this terror, she never once thought to admonish what she and Heinemann had done. It seemed as right now as it had then, whatever the upshot of it all might be.
*