Levi's War

by Julie Thomas

  ‘Hauptmann Werner Schneider, sir.’

  Joseph Goebbels looked up from the book he was reading. The tall man stood beside Goebbels’ secretary, his cap under his arm. Goebbels sighed and extended his arm. ‘Heil Hitler.’

  The young man reciprocated, clicking his heels together. ‘Heil Hitler. It is an honour to meet you, Reich Minister.’

  Goebbels had a narrow face with sharp features, large dark eyes and a high forehead. His lips were thin and seemed set in a perpetual snarl, as if he rarely smiled. On his right arm, above his elbow, he wore a black band with the swastika in a white circle. He studied the Hauptmann.

  ‘Brunhilde tells me you play the piano, is this true?’ he asked lazily. It was the resonant voice Levi had heard on public radios and on propaganda films in the years leading up to his flight to England. He was swamped by the sudden memory of the book-burning his father had taken him to in May 1933. They’d been close enough to see Goebbels standing behind the microphone on a podium draped with a Nazi flag. The burning of books had distressed his father deeply, and when the Reich Minister had started to rant about the trash and filth of the Jewish literati, Benjamin had taken his family home. Levi remembered his parents scoffing at the little pervert with the club foot and jug ears who seemed to be in charge of what the people of Germany believed. What would they say if they could see their eldest son now, he wondered?

  ‘Yes, Reich Minister.’

  ‘Good. We have social evenings, you can play for us sometimes. And you speak some foreign languages?’

  ‘Yes, Reich Minister — English, French and some Italian.’

  ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Goebbels frowned at him, and Levi thought he sensed a whiff of suspicion.

  ‘I am musical and I have an ear for languages. My parents paid for me to have lessons, as extra learning, when I was at school. I was going to go to university and study languages, but I joined the Luftwaffe instead. I wanted to defend my country.’

  Goebbels nodded and waved a hand towards the door. ‘Very good. Brunhilde will show you to your desk.’

  It was a dismissal and Levi was grateful for it.

  His desk was in a small office all of his own. This surprised him; he had not expected such privacy. The relief that he’d have his own place to retreat to made him feel guilty — this was not what he was here to do. If he was to overhear conversations he would need to find excuses to mingle with the others in the department.

  On his desk was a stack of newspapers that he recognised immediately. English dailies.

  ‘Read these and translate anything that is significant into German,’ Brunhilde told him.

  He sat down in the chair behind the desk. The secretary scowled at him.

  ‘Don’t get too comfortable, if we get short of pilots you will find yourself back over the skies of the enemy.’

  With that she turned and left, shutting the door behind her. Levi pulled the first paper from the pile. It was only six days old. The Times. It felt like a familiar friend, and he smiled as he started to read. So far, so good.

  Levi lived in a studio apartment on the top floor of a large complex in Mitte, the centre of the city. He was surrounded by other officers. They ate together in a hall on the ground floor. It was one of the few opportunities he had to read the men around him. His training had taught him to be alert to any signs of discontent, a stray word or expression that could indicate a person who shared his hidden sympathies. But he learned quickly that the men were guarded and hard to read.

  He had handed his ration book into the kitchen, as instructed, on his first day. According to the book he was allowed a pound of meat a day, but he knew that some of that went to barter for products from the occupied countries — cheese, fresh eggs and chocolate. The food on his plate was from a typically German diet, dark rye bread, potatoes, pork, sauerkraut, spaetzle, soup, rice or tinned fish. Dinner was accompanied by a small stein of beer. His training had finished what life in the internment camp had begun, helping him to ignore the kosher rules he’d grown up with, but it still felt strange. Any behaviour that looked even vaguely Jewish was dangerous, and he found it hard now to remember passages from the Torah that had been deeply engrained in his consciousness.

  He glanced around at the other heads bent over their plates, engrossed in their food, and said a silent prayer to his G-d.

  ‘Forgive me for these transgressions, they are done in the quest of a higher goal, as my forefathers have done in the ancient of days,’ he prayed and then attacked the food with gusto.

  It became a routine, sleeping on the narrow single bed, showering, and dressing in the hated uniform, eating breakfast and discussing the war with his fellow officers, and then walking to the propaganda ministry. His day was full of reading English newspapers. It kept him in touch with what was happening in his adopted country, and it helped him to believe that there would be an end to the madness that had engulfed his homeland.

  He felt guilty about how easily he’d followed the command of his trainers and taken up smoking. Most of the other officers smoked cigarettes, and it was a convenient way of striking up a conversation. Without even trying he’d begun to enjoy the habit, although at the back of his mind he could sense his parents’ disapproval.

  In the last days of his training they had addressed him only as ‘Werner’, and he knew that any hesitation in answering to that name could cost him his life. But would he ever think like Werner? He could live this life, sleep, eat and talk this life, but somewhere deep inside he rejected Hauptmann Werner Schneider. He was Levi Horowitz and he was a Jew. That knowledge would keep him sane.

  Three weeks later, Levi was told his presence would be required that evening at the home of Count and Countess von Engel, Nazi party stalwarts who lived in the southern outskirts of Berlin, in Wannsee. A staff car would call for him at 6 pm promptly. He made sure his uniform was pressed, everything that could shine was gleaming, and he could see his face in his shoes.

  His anticipation and nerves grew as the car chewed up the miles to the villa. He went over the well-rehearsed plan in his head. This was where Werner, the loyal Hauptmann, and Levi, the Jewish classical pianist, finally came together. His thoughts raced and he counted slowly to ten, breathing in and breathing out methodically.

  ‘Be with me,’ he prayed, ‘keep my fingers nimble and my ears and eyes open to anything that will help to end this hell.’

  They arrived at a substantial home, lit with golden light, on snow-covered lawn that cascaded gently down to a reed bank around a deep lake. Graceful swans paddled in unison across the ruffled water. Tall trees shuddered and shook in the wind, making a significant amount of noise. He thanked the driver and knocked on the servants’ entrance door, stamping his feet while he waited for it to be answered.

  The salon reminded him of the music room in his family home. At one end was a large Steinway grand piano and at the other was a marble fireplace, with a dancing orange blaze throwing out fierce heat. The walls were covered in silk paper, decorated in gold and green peacocks. There were several chairs and three sofas grouped in conversational circles around long coffee tables. It was obvious that the music was to be background entertainment rather than a recital. That was a relief to Levi. He hadn’t played the piano since his training regime, and it would be good to get back to it without being the centre of attention.

  Countess von Engel approached him as he was examining the keys. ‘It was tuned just last week,’ she said.

  He turned and saluted her. ‘Heil Hitler, Countess.’

  She waved a hand in his direction. ‘Yes, yes. Everyone will gather here after supper for coffee and pastries. What can you play for us, Hauptmann?’

  Levi hesitated. ‘What would you like, Countess? Chopin, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Liszt, Debussy, Brahms . . . and I can play jazz.’

  The countess smiled at him. She allowed genuine warmth into her expression, which perhaps explained the character lines developing around her eyes and mouth.

/>   ‘I think some of our guests would object to jazz. The Führer calls it alien music,’ she said. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. ‘Although, between you and me, Hauptmann, I have no doubt it is played in some of the cabarets, clubs and bars that many of our guests frequent. As far as the classical composers . . . well, you know you can’t play Mendelssohn, he was a Jew. Did you know Mozart had a Jewish librettist and of course, Handel used Old Testament texts for his Oratorios?’

  He could feel himself returning her smile. She had the most wonderful cornflower-blue eyes and they twinkled in fun as she ran her elegant hand over the top of the piano. The rings on her fingers glistened in the candlelight.

  ‘Wagner would be fine. Do you know the Horst Wessel song?’

  He frowned and shook his head. ‘No, Countess. I’m sorry, I don’t.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness, it is absolutely awful! It’s all about a young Nazi lad murdered by a thuggish gang of communists. I ask you, what kind of subject is that for music?’

  He couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I’ll try and stick to the German composers and if anyone objects to a piece I can stop playing it.’

  She patted him on the arm. ‘Good boy, have a little practice and we’ll see you later.’

  They filed in with glasses in hand, conversation tinkling like wind chimes. The women wore simple gowns in silks and velvets, while most of the men were in military or Nazi uniform. The countess came over to the piano.

  ‘And here we are, young Hauptmann. What will you start with?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps a little Chopin?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  She clapped her hands loudly until the crowd of around twenty-five stopped talking and turned towards her.

  ‘There is coffee on the sideboard and a selection of pastries, German-made I assure you, nothing French about them. And this is Hauptmann Werner Schneider from the propaganda ministry. Thank you, Joseph, for lending him to us.’

  She gestured to Goebbels, who gave an uncomfortable nod in return.

  ‘He comes highly recommended, so spare an ear for his playing,’ she added.

  Levi launched his right hand into the opening notes of the Minute Waltz. His fingers flew over the keys and the melody spilled out. It felt so good to be playing for an audience again! The piano had a wonderful rich tone and the crowd stood watching, hypnotised by the speed and the sound, until he finished one minute and forty seconds later. Spontaneous applause rang out around the room. He stood up and gave a small embarrassed bow, then sat down again.

  Next was Beethoven’s Für Elise, another well-known piece, then into the Moonlight Sonata first movement and Mozart’s Turkish March. The countess stood off to one side and watched her guests mesmerised faces with a sense of triumph. It wasn’t easy to find a new musical sensation with so many men being drafted into the armed forces or leaving the city for exile overseas, and this discovery would bring pleasure to the military elite and reflect well on both the count and herself. Her husband appeared at her elbow and whispered in her ear.

  ‘We must get him to play for the Führer. Adolf will be delighted by him,’ he said.

  She nodded and put her finger to her lips. ‘Shhh, I don’t want to miss a note.’

  When he came to end of the Turkish March a woman stepped out of her group and raised her coffee cup.

  ‘Superb. Could I make a request?’ She asked.

  Levi smiled at her. ‘Certainly, if I know it, it would be my pleasure.’

  ‘Franz Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody Number Two.’

  Levi raised his eyebrows. ‘I can see you want to test me. Let me see if I can remember it. I have to confess it is a long time since I’ve attempted this piece.’

  But it was like riding a bicycle down the tree-lined street of his childhood. In an instant he was lost in the low, powerful notes, followed by the intricate runs for the next seven minutes. As he hit the last chord a huge roar of applause filled the room. Again he stood up and gave a self-conscious bow. The countess approached the piano.

  ‘You are far too good for background music, Hauptmann. You will be the talk of Berlin by tomorrow morning.’

  He couldn’t help his stricken look. ‘Oh, I hope not, Countess. I’m not very good at being the centre of attention.’

  She laughed. ‘Well you should be less talented then —’

  ‘Countess, please introduce me to your new discovery.’

  The speaker was a short man in military uniform, wearing the rank of Reichsführer, with rimless glasses, cold eyes and a small moustache. The countess stepped back to allow him to come closer. In person he looked more sinister than the photos Levi had been shown by his trainers.

  ‘Reichsführer Himmler, this is Hauptmann Werner Schneider. And Hauptmann Schneider, this is the brilliant Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler. He is the head of the SS and is the genius behind the Aryanisation of Poland.’

  Himmler gave a small nod in her direction.

  Levi thrust his right arm in the air. ‘Heil Hitler, Reichsführer,’ he said. He was acting on pure instinct. It was for moments such as these that his coaching had prepared him, he realised. An icy wave spread through his gut, something between nausea and the desire to rip the man’s throat out.

  Himmler returned the salute.

  ‘Heil Hitler, Hauptmann. Your playing is exquisite. I shall be telling the Führer about you tomorrow and you can expect a summons.’

  Levi used every ounce of self-control to give Himmler a small smile. ‘The honour would be great, Reichsführer.’

  Himmler nodded in satisfaction. ‘A word of advice, practise your Wagner. The Führer loves his Wagner.’

  With that he turned on his heel and walked away.

  ‘He’s a strange man,’ the countess murmured almost under her breath, ‘but immensely powerful. He believes in homoeopathy and herbs. He told me all women should eat raw garlic. Between you and I, my husband suspects he’s a complete crackpot, but you should cultivate his patronage.’

  Levi wanted to shudder, but instead he smiled. ‘Thank you, Countess, your patronage is all I desire.’

  A slight blush rose in her very fair cheeks. ‘Why Hauptmann Schneider, I do believe you might be flirting with me.’

  Levi bent his head. ‘Guilty as charged. I’m afraid I shall have to hide my true purpose.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Berlin

  Christmas 1940

  Levi played at two gatherings at the von Engels’ home before Christmas, but the Führer was nowhere to be seen. He did his day job as diligently as he could, and waited for people to trust him enough to speak their true feelings about the war. However there was a pervading sense of paranoia, mistrust and fear, which was, in itself, something he knew would interest his spy masters.

  The von Engels invited him to spend Christmas with them. He arrived by staff car in time for the Christmas Eve tradition of dressing the enormous pine tree with ribbons, wooden ornaments and candles. Then the family and their invited house guests sat around the magnificent fire in the salon, drinking mulled wine and eating spiced cookies, and exchanged gifts. He’d taken Reich Minister Goebbels’ advice and bought a small bottle of French perfume for the countess, a copy of Mein Kampf bound in leather for the count, and a whole wheel of cheese from the black market for the kitchen. His presents met with much delight, and he received a pair of wool-lined leather gloves and a bottle of Cognac in return.

  The food amazed him. Christmas breakfast was a selection of cold meat and salmon, cheese, fruit, boiled eggs and bread rolls. He wanted to ask if there really was a war on, but held his tongue. The Lutheran church service was a minefield, but he followed the people around him and stood, knelt and repeated the phrases in the book when they did. They stopped on the way home for a snowball fight, then he played the piano and they all joined in, singing carols and favourite songs. Silently he thanked the foresight of his trainer who had taught him some Christian carols, just in case. It was the small details like that which cou
ld have blown his cover.

  At lunch he was seated next to SS-Hauptsturmführer Erik von Engel, a nephew of Count von Engel. Erik held the corresponding rank to Levi’s cover, but was in the Waffen-SS and worked in the office of Himmler. He was four months older than Levi, six foot, muscular, blond and blue-eyed, a poster boy for the German Volk. In spite of himself Levi quite liked the man. He had a quick wit and a ready smile.

  Over glasses of wine, a plate of roast goose, bread dumplings, red cabbage, fried potatoes and an apple-and-sausage stuffing that Levi could have eaten until he popped, the two men talked about their families. Erik’s father was Count Engel’s younger brother and lived on a farm on the outskirts of Munich. He’d been highly commended in World War One and had served in the North Atlantic from 1939 to January 1941, when he’d been injured in a firefight between his destroyer and a British freighter and had come home to recuperate. Levi could tell that Erik was proud of his work in the SS, but knew better than to discuss it at such an occasion. He made a mental note that this was the kind of friend ‘Werner’ would have. But not the kind of friend a Jew like Levi would have, so how far was he willing to go to fit into this new world? As he watched the charismatic, handsome young man holding forth about the victories of the Third Reich and the joys of life in Berlin, Levi felt as if this was an important decision. Erik’s job was thoroughly repulsive, but the man himself, something about him, meant Werner simply couldn’t look away.

  On a bitterly cold day Saturday in early January, Levi felt confident enough in his assumed role to take a tram ride to the Brandenburg Gate. Between each column hung long red flags with white circles and black swastikas in their centres. On either side of the structure stood red towers, festooned with more flags. Levi looked at them for several minutes. He was suddenly engulfed by memories of family visits to the square and summer picnics in the Tiergarten. He could see his twin siblings on their roller skates trying not to bump into other people, and Simon, forever waiting for the promised trip to the luthier’s shop off the Friedrichstrasse, and behaving like a sullen teenager.