Winter Men

by Jesper Bugge Kold

  “Gerhard Strangl?” The voice was deep.

  Gerhard hesitated. “Who’s asking?”

  “Ulrich Grabel and Siegfried Schauer, Gestapo. We would like to ask you a few routine questions.”

  He’d heard about the Gestapo’s routine questions. The Gestapo was the ideological police, and one thing was certain: when their people knocked on your door, it wasn’t to bring you good news. Gerhard slowly opened the door; outside stood two men in the Gestapo’s unofficial uniform—fedoras and trench coats.

  “Please come with us to headquarters. We won’t take up too much of your time; it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes,” said the taller of the two men.

  “What’s this all about?” Gerhard glanced down at himself but saw no visible sign of the quivering sensation he felt in his entire body.

  “As I said, routine questions. We need to clarify a few minor details and you can help us,” said the policeman amiably.

  He invited them inside, and they waited patiently in the little entranceway while he dressed and ran a comb through his blond hair. A black Mercedes was parked down on the street. He’d heard stories about people being picked up by the Gestapo and then thrashed behind drawn curtains before being tossed out at some random spot in the city. He was glad there did not appear to be any curtains in the car. And yet his mouth was dry, and he continued to quiver within as he climbed into the backseat.

  The drive took less than five minutes. On the way the two Gestapo men chatted casually with the driver about traffic and the weather, while Gerhard did everything in his power to hide the fear growing inside him. He’d ridden past the huge yellow building on Stadthausbrücke—the Gestapo’s headquarters—many times, always hoping that he’d never see the inside of it.

  As the car pulled up to the main entrance, Gerhard thought that this must be the first step in the Gestapo’s scare tactics. An enormous coat of arms embellished with swords that jutted out like fangs hung threateningly above a tall archway, reminding him of a mouth ready to devour its prey.

  A uniformed guard opened the door for the small group. In the hall they turned left and entered a lobby so vast and high ceilinged that the echo of their footsteps vanished into nothingness. He was ushered to a teak bench, where Grabel and Schauer bade him good-bye. He followed them with his eyes as they departed. Suddenly he was alone in the gigantic room; he felt like an insect that might, at any moment, be crushed underfoot.

  He tried to appear calm, but his nervous quivering had now become a rumbling volcano inside him. The questions, like lava, forced themselves upward. What did the Gestapo want with him? Was this a mistake? Do they think I’m someone else? I haven’t done anything—or have I? I’m too cowardly to do anything that would irritate the Gestapo. Everyone had heard stories of the Gestapo’s brutality. He chewed at his lip, shifting again in his seat.

  He’d been waiting for close to an hour when a door at the other end of the hall opened. A short man in a blue suit walked resolutely toward him and stopped before the bench. He pursed his lips. “I’m Detective Superintendent Kögl. Come with me, please.”

  The way the detective superintendent rolled his r’s indicated to Gerhard that he was from southern Germany.

  Apart from a large oak desk, all of the furniture in the detective superintendent’s office was made of dark wood. Behind the desk was a large window, but the curtains kept out the light.

  “Do you smoke?”

  Gerhard accepted the cigarette with a slightly trembling hand, hoping that it would bring a measure of calm to the chaos raging in his head. The man on the other side of the desk appeared to be around fifty years old. Most of his hair was gone, and there wasn’t quite enough left to cover his crown—though he’d certainly made a valiant effort at doing so that very morning. His jowls hung loosely on either side of his cheerless mouth, and his pointy chin jutted out belligerently, like a fencer on the attack.

  “Your name?” His voice was flat.

  “Gerhard Strangl.” Gerhard removed his glasses and cleaned them, a nervous habit. It was as though he thought he could think more clearly by blurring his vision.

  “Your profession?” the Gestapo man asked, though he certainly already knew the answer.

  This ritual, with its trivial questions on formalities, continued for ten minutes. Like a cunning boxer, the detective superintendent danced around his groggy opponent, deftly avoiding those questions he most wanted answered. To Gerhard, the uncertainty was unbearable. His face flushed, and he was struck by a sudden, feverish sensation.

  “Let’s get straight to the heart of the matter.” The man paused for a few seconds to draw out the tension, and Gerhard held his breath.

  “Mr. Strangl, I understand that you have made negative statements about the party and our führer, and that is very upsetting.” He hurried to add, “Before you deny it, I should tell you that I have confirmed your subversive activities with several sources.” He paused again as he scrutinized Gerhard. “Otto Freier, Petra Schimmelmann, and Peter Stolz can all testify to this, and all three have reported you for treason.”

  Gerhard tried in vain to say something, but nothing found its way across his lips. On a few occasions, he’d said too much or mentioned things he shouldn’t have, but only in the company of people whom he trusted. And he’d never heard of Otto Freier, Petra Schimmelmann, or Peter Stolz.

  Kögl continued: “You’re probably sitting there thinking that we’re going to take you out in the courtyard and shoot you, and that is indeed a possibility. But let’s chat a little more before we decide what to do with you.”

  “I don’t understand. You have the wrong man. You must be mistaken.” Gerhard heard his voice tremble.

  “There’s no point in proclaiming your innocence. I am the one who decides whether you are innocent or not.” The detective superintendent leaned back in his chair.

  “I’ve never said anything about the party or the führer; I . . .”

  Kögl interrupted him. “There is no reason for you to raise your voice, Mr. Strangl.” The Gestapo man leaned across his desk, his hands folded, as if he were about to reveal a secret. “Imagine the Gestapo as a pack of wolves. If you keep your nose clean, they have no tracks to follow, but if you don’t, we’ll find you. And we bite.” He was clearly very satisfied with his little analogy.

  “You have committed an offense against the laws of our country, and when one does that, the hammer drops. You’ve probably heard many stories about the Gestapo. Some are true, and some are not. It’s even possible we’ve made up a number of them ourselves, but we can’t say—in any case, not to you.”

  While the detective superintendent was warming up, Gerhard sat on the edge of his seat. He should stand up and leave, because this had to be a mistake. They would figure that out soon enough. He was innocent. The heat in his head was almost unbearable now. What had he done? He’d told a harmless joke a few times, but that couldn’t possibly be the reason he was here. But were there other reasons? Although he despised Nazism and the Nazis, he’d kept his nose clean. He’d been careful to keep his views inside the four walls of his home. But now he was sitting here.

  “The wolves have found you. You are guilty. Now, we have a few options, and these are what you and I need to discuss. But first I want to ask you a few questions, and I need you to really consider them before you respond.”

  The policeman exited the room and returned a short time later with a young, flat-chested secretary who would record the minutes of their conversation. Kögl took his seat behind the large desk and planted his elbows on the surface.

  “Have you ever spoken disparagingly of the führer?”

  Gerhard slowly removed his glasses and swallowed a lump in his throat. When he put his glasses back on, Kögl’s eyes were resting impatiently on him. How does one answer in such a situation? Is there a right answer? What should I say? Yes or no? In every decision there is a right choice and a wrong choice. If he answered yes, what would they do to him? He already
knew, but wasn’t it always best to tell the truth? Kögl hadn’t taken his eyes off him. Gerhard cleared his throat, but his answer was almost inaudible.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever talked disparagingly about the party?”

  “Yes.”

  The detective superintendent and the secretary left the office. Gerhard was alone, his hands resting in his lap. They were gone a long time, and the wait seemed interminable. But he already knew what the verdict would be: a firing squad. Pimply young boys with rifles would fill his body with lead before the day was through so he wouldn’t take up space in one of the Gestapo’s prison cells.

  His hands shook as he tried fishing a cigarette out of his pack. He succeeded but dropped his lighter before he could draw a flame from it. He gave up.

  Kögl returned, this time by himself. He sat down and rifled through the papers he’d carried back with him.

  Gerhard watched him. For god’s sake, he couldn’t just sit there and accept a death sentence. He had to fight back. He would challenge the Gestapo’s guilty judgment. He would exit this building today a free man. And then he would keep his mouth shut until the Nazis disappeared and everyone realized what a farce this all was.

  “I understand that you are a member of the party, and that undoubtedly puts you in a better light, but we nevertheless consider you an enemy of the state, and I’m sure you know what we do with such people. There are thousands of people like you sitting in Dachau—socialists, communists, Jews, and other scum—and it would be very easy for me to make you a number in a striped prison uniform.”

  Of course Gerhard had heard about the concentration camp just outside of Munich, which had housed since 1933 opponents of the Nazis and those whom the Nazis simply considered unworthy of freedom. And he had heard how those people were treated. He wouldn’t let that happen to him. Swallowing another lump in his throat, he looked pleadingly at the detective superintendent, who continued.

  “I would like to ask you a question, and I believe I know what your response will be. But I don’t want you to come to me later and say you weren’t given the opportunity to choose.” He eyed Gerhard inflexibly and made another of his long pauses, which Gerhard had grown tired of. The detective superintendent reminded him of a caricature of the evil police chief in a bad film in which the actor histrionically overdramatized his role.

  “We can send you to Dachau, and you’ll probably be dead within the year, or . . .” Another long pause. “Or you can work for us.”

  Gerhard was struck dumb. Work for the Nazis? That was the last thing he could imagine. But if the alternative was death?

  “We need smart people,” the detective superintendent went on, interrupting Gerhard’s rumination. “I’ve got plans for you, but in the meantime, you will be the Gestapo’s eyes and ears. We’ll have more challenging assignments for you down the road.” The detective superintendent smiled for the first time; then he continued. “Now, remember. It’s your education we need, not you personally. You should be glad you’re not a grocery clerk because you’d already be dead by now.” He paused. “So, what have you decided, Mr. Strangl?” Kögl said in an unnecessarily loud voice.

  By the time Gerhard was dropped off in front of his building an hour later, he was completely spent. He had difficulty grasping what had just happened, and his head swirled with snippets of his conversation with the detective superintendent. Gerhard replayed the interrogation again and again. It was as though it hadn’t happened to him at all, but he’d instead observed someone pretending to be him. A clever, trained actor who’d practiced Gerhard’s movements and gestures; on the big stage he had mimicked him to a tee without anyone recognizing that it wasn’t the real Gerhard Strangl—it was a facsimile.

  He sat in his recliner in a daze. How dare they touch him? Didn’t they know who his brother was? Didn’t they know that his brother manufactured uniforms for the Wehrmacht and SS? That he was a good citizen? All this time he’d thought he was safe thanks to Karl, not that he’d ever done anything that should give him reason to fear the Gestapo. But it seemed that no one was safe anymore. They didn’t care about anybody. Power was what they craved, and once they got it, they did everything they could to keep it, even if it meant trampling on people like him. Usually he was strong, but he’d fallen apart during questioning. He was disgusted with himself. It wasn’t like him, but there was something about the building—about Kögl’s office and Kögl himself—that had made him feel like a very small and inconsequential man without any free will. Normally he was not the sort of man to lie down without a fight, but Kögl had had a psychological power over him that he couldn’t explain. He had become a hapless dog. “Yes, Mr. Kögl. No, Mr. Kögl. Certainly, Mr. Kögl.” He cursed his cowardice. He had turned into a man he hardly recognized. A man who had cracked, a man stripped of the willpower he ordinarily possessed. He hated himself in that moment. Gerhard Strangl wasn’t someone who kowtowed to others. But wouldn’t everyone have done the same? Everyone feared the Gestapo, after all.

  “Think rationally. There must be a reasonable explanation. This is all just a mistake. There’s no other way to explain it. Everything will be resolved soon,” he said softly to himself. Though it wasn’t even ten in the morning, he poured some schnapps in a wine glass. After three gulps, he refilled his glass. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The strong tobacco made him cough. Before long his coughing turned to nausea, and he dashed to the bathroom, where the schnapps came back up; he retched until his stomach was empty. If only he could empty his head the same way, he thought. He collapsed on the bathroom floor in despair, and there he remained.

  Hamburg, Germany, November 18, 1938

  “Why are you telling me this only now?” Karl asked, stepping past Gerhard into his apartment without so much as a hello. Moving too quickly, his brother missed the coat hook, but he didn’t even notice the smacking sound his coat made as the wet material hit the dark, lacquered wooden floor.

  “I thought . . . I hoped that it was all just a mistake,” Gerhard said as he followed Karl into the living room.

  Karl turned to Gerhard, who remained indecisively in the doorway.

  “But you should have—”

  “I know,” Gerhard said, looking down.

  “Goddamn it, Gerhard. What have you gotten yourself into?” Karl dropped into the chesterfield. He obviously didn’t expect an answer to his question. “Even if the Gestapo did make a mistake, they’ll hardly admit such a thing.” He pulled a silver case from the inner pocket of his coat and put a cigarette between his lips. It juddered up and down as he spoke. “Tell me everything. Start at the beginning.”

  Gerhard told Karl about the interrogation, from the time Grabel and Schauer knocked on his door until the detective superintendent made his surprising offer. He told him about the false accusations made against him by three people he’d never heard of. He told him about the assignment the Gestapo had given him at the university, as an informant, and about his growing desperation.

  Karl shook his head. “Why didn’t you lie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gerhard went to the window and glanced down at the street. Wasn’t that what he’d learned: It’s always best to tell the truth? His mother had stamped that principle into both of her sons. That’s why he never lied, and why he considered lies the weapon of the weak. If you couldn’t trust the truth, what could you trust?

  An Opel Blitz, its truck bed laden with coke, stopped at the entrance to the building across the street. A man in a hat leaped from the cab and began dragging heavy canvas sacks down the steps. The white letters on the truck’s door were nearly covered in black dust, so Gerhard figured that it had brought its load directly from the harbor. “The poor man’s fuel,” that was what people called coke. Although Gerhard wasn’t poor, he burned coke just like everyone else on the street because it was cheap. His upstairs neighbor Hannah appeared from behind the truck, tugging her children Jakob and Rachel along by their hands. They cross
ed the street and entered the building. Gerhard rubbed his forehead, then turned to Karl.

  “Can you pull some strings? You’ve got so many connections. What about Ernst Grabner?”

  “SS and Gestapo are very different things. Ernst can’t do anything about it.”

  Gerhard looked down at the floor and said softly, “I can’t work for the Gestapo. I can’t.”

  “I wish I could help you, but . . .” Karl didn’t finish his sentence, as if he didn’t want to put his own inadequacy into words. He’d always held a protective hand over Gerhard, and even though they were adults now, his desire to protect him had never waned. Karl recalled how he’d saved Gerhard from pranks like the wet pants trick—and worse—whenever Horst Prohl and the other boys decided that the bespectacled bookworm would be the day’s victim. Gerhard was, once again, surrounded by the bigger boys, but this time Karl could do nothing. He looked at his brother, who seemed so weak standing there with his glasses in his hand, like someone who’d just received the news that he had only two weeks to live. But maybe that’s how Gerhard felt. He was being forced to work, against his will, for one of the country’s most feared organizations.

  “For Christ’s sake, Karl. We’re the good guys. I’m not a damn informant, so what am I doing among these fiends?” Gerhard buried his face in his hands.

  “We’ve got to keep a clear head, Gerhard. Keep a low profile. You hear me?” Karl stood, gently removed Gerhard’s hands from his face, and looked him in the eye. “Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.” Gerhard slowly put on his glasses, then straightened up.