Winter Men

by Jesper Bugge Kold

  Karl thought of Heinz. His future son-in-law had been envious of their trip to Berlin during Adolf Hitler’s birthday celebration. Heinz always talked about the führer the way a little boy talks about his father—with awe, submission, and reverence. Karl had seen Hilde looking unhappy one day, but she refused to confide in Karl. Ingrid told him later that Heinz had volunteered with the SS. He possessed an almost childlike enthusiasm for national socialism; just like so many others, he’d told Karl that one couldn’t reject it until one gave it a chance. That was how people in Germany thought, and so they were sucked in. Karl tried very hard to understand Heinz. He was from the small city of Wehrden and had experienced nothing but his hometown, the police academy in Fürstenberg, and Hamburg, so he took everything at face value. Which was inaccurate, Karl knew. Heinz was the type who got swept along with the tide, but wasn’t that true of everyone in Germany these days? Wasn’t that why the Nazis had come to power in the first place? In a certain sense, Karl had to admit—though he was loath to do so—that they were right: national socialism had to be experienced. Besides, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the enormous military arsenal on display in the parade. Never-ending columns of soldiers, paratroopers, motorized divisions, cavalry, tanks, and cannons rolled down the avenue, and the tanks’ thunderous caterpillar tracks made the ground tremble. The Luftwaffe’s planes were in the air all day, and the masses cheered every time a Messerschmitt, Stuka, Heinkel, or Dornier whipped across the sky.

  The rhythmic clop of jackboots had a hypnotic effect, and when applause erupted, it was as if all of Berlin was clapping in unison, accompanied by the beat of marching drums and brass and wood instruments. Karl had difficulty imagining Germany ever losing a war—no country could withstand this army and this people. England and France must be quaking in their boots watching this well-oiled war machine, this triumph of military industry, this deathblow to the Treaty of Versailles.

  Karl couldn’t help but feel a certain fascination; while he saw very plainly the grandeur of the spectacle, something deep within him rejected it. A man behind them, a tall man with a long, thin face who appeared to be about the same age as Karl, whistled and eagerly pumped both fists in the air at the parade. When Karl turned to casually study the throng, he noticed the man’s eyes radiating joy as the führer’s motorcade passed with Hitler standing beside his chauffeur in the Mercedes convertible. Those eyes displayed the same wholehearted elation he recalled from when his children were born. Karl recognized the unconditional surrender to an emotion. But he couldn’t bring himself to submit to national socialism—not voluntarily, in any case.

  They finally walked back to their hotel, Karl guiding Ingrid through dense crowds, past buildings decorated with endless bunting. She continued clutching her hat as if she were afraid to lose it.

  “I can’t take any more,” Ingrid said tiredly, throwing herself onto the bed. She’d dropped the yellow hat on the chair and kicked off her shoes. “Much can be said about Hitler, but he sure knows how to throw a party.” She grinned.

  “I’m glad we don’t live in Berlin,” Karl said as he laid his jacket over the back of a chair and rolled up his sleeves. With a practiced movement, he loosened his tie. “The people here seem spellbound.”

  He pulled his silver case out of his jacket pocket and removed two cigarettes. He lit both and handed one to Ingrid. She patted the bed with one hand, gesturing for him to lie down beside her. He arranged his shoes at the foot of the bed, lay down, and took a deep drag on his cigarette.

  Hamburg, Germany, April 22, 1939

  “What did you say his name was?”

  “Theodore Weinhardt.”

  “Theodore Weinhardt.” Kögl jotted this down in his notebook while rhythmically pronouncing the letters in the name, like a schoolteacher trying to imprint the first rules of orthography in his pupils.

  There was a knock on the door, and the secretary entered. The detective superintendent glanced at her hungrily through his round steel glasses, then turned back to Gerhard.

  “Good.” He made one of his familiar pauses. “Now that Miss Kehl is here, you’ll have to repeat what you just told me, so we can get it into the report.”

  Gerhard shifted nervously in his seat and began. He explained how he and Weinhardt had often met at the harbor, and how they’d discussed the situation in the country. He told them that Weinhardt lived in Altona, and that every afternoon he walked along St. Pauli Piers. He told them that the old man was especially sarcastic when he talked about Hitler, Goebbels, Göring, and Himmler, whom he referred to as national socialism’s useless breeding stallions. But Kögl must’ve been aware of that already. He was, after all, the one who’d sent Weinhardt to test Gerhard in the first place. Just like he’d sent Cullman. Like a puppeteer, Kögl stood behind the scenes directing and conducting.

  “Do you hear what I’m saying, Mr. Strangl?”

  Gerhard snapped to attention and met Kögl’s squinting eyes.

  “Do you hear what I’m saying, Mr. Strangl?” the detective superintendent said again, raising his eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry, I . . .”

  “I understand. The first time’s not easy, but let me assure you that Weinhardt and his ilk have earned their punishment.” The Gestapo officer smiled warmly. “Go home and take a nice warm bath. Tomorrow you’ll return to the university, and our little matter will be forgotten.” Kögl offered his hand. Gerhard knew that if he accepted it, it would exonerate Kögl from all the days Gerhard had spent in the basement under these offices. He shook the detective superintendent’s hand.

  “You’ll continue your work for us as before, but soon you’ll have more interesting assignments. I promise you,” Kögl said, closing the door behind Gerhard.

  It had been eight days since Gerhard had last seen the light of day, apart from the sliver traveling across the floor of his cell, and now the sun scorched his eyes like the bonfires on St. John’s Day. The guard at the entrance nodded pleasantly to him as he began making his way down the street. Usually, Gerhard hardly ever noticed his own breathing, but like a diver who’d believed he would never see the surface again, he gasped for breath. He sat down at a small café table at Bomhoff’s Bakery and ordered a slice of marble cake and a cup of coffee. With unaccustomed deliberation, he savored every morsel in the same way a man condemned to death enjoys his final meal. Afterward he bought a pack of Eckstein cigarettes and headed down to the harbor. The day was still young, and he had no plans other than to empty his pack.

  From a distance the cupola-topped clock tower near St. Pauli Piers resembled a wizard sporting a mint-green hat. Just as Gerhard reached the harbor, the ball dropped on the Zeitballturm, which stood at the entrance to Speicherstadt and its endless warehouses filled with tobacco, spices, tea, coffee, silks, and blankets. The buildings towered over both sides of the narrow Zoll Canal like tall bluffs. The ball fell every twelve hours to enable seamen to set their chronometers; without the exact time, it was impossible to estimate the degree of longitude and thereby the ship’s exact location on the sea. He’d wondered what the rasping croak of the ball meant for many years, until Weinhardt explained the connection to him one day. He snorted at the thought of the old man.

  A dense, smoky mist hung over the petroleum harbor’s many fueling terminals, and the whaleboat Walter Rau was drifting slowly past. He walked westward past the old Elbtunnel. At the fish market, where the fishmongers barked loudly behind their booths, peddling fresh fish, chickens, geese, bread, cheese, and vegetables, he turned north. In St. Pauli he found a movie theater and watched a stagecoach try to escape from Geronimo. He stayed on for The Wizard of Oz, which featured the clock tower at St. Pauli Piers. By the time he exited the theater, the evening sun was shimmering like a red ball, and he decided to head home.

  Clear the street for the brown battalions

  Clear the street for the stormtroopers

  Millions are already turning to the swastika for hope . . .

  The words fro
m the “Horst Wessel Song” were coming from a tavern, sung by a drunken men’s choir. That damn song, he thought. As he passed the tavern, he imagined what it might look like inside. He pictured a large wood-paneled pub with giant, sturdy-handled beer mugs set on long tables in which many had inscribed their initials. On the benches around the tables sat short-haired men, their arms around each other’s shoulders, bawling along with the song. Cigarettes had left black splotches on the tabletops, while a dense cloud of cigarette smoke hung below the ceiling. He could almost smell the odor wafting off the place. Two drinking buddies in SS uniforms stumbled toward him, holding each other up. He tugged his hat farther down his forehead and crossed the street.

  “Hello, friend.”

  Gerhard stiffened.

  “Yeah, you in the gray coat.”

  He turned and looked at the two SS men. One was flushed and clearly being held up by the other. If he started to run, they wouldn’t be able to follow him. They were too drunk for that. But what if they were armed?

  The man who’d shouted at Gerhard did his best to appear sober. “You have a cigarette?”

  “I do.”

  The man accepted the Eckstein Gerhard offered him. “Thank you. You wouldn’t happen to have another? Wouldn’t want the first one to get lonely.” He smiled broadly, revealing a handsome set of teeth that would make any actor envious. His friend spluttered with laughter and nearly lost his balance.

  Gerhard breathed more easily once he’d turned his back on the two drunks. He glanced back. The one with the great set of teeth tried in vain to light his cigarette, while his buddy began throwing up on a poster for a variety show that was plastered to the wall of a house. Gerhard’s nerves were frayed. He couldn’t take it anymore. All he wanted was to get home.

  He closed his door and methodically locked it. There was no food, so he found the little grinder in the cupboard and ground up some coffee beans. A cup of coffee and a few dry cookies would have to suffice for a meal. He needed a compass for his thoughts, which were spinning every which way. It was as if they too had been locked up, because they were now pushing to get out. In spite of the other thoughts’ persistent attempts, one particular thought kept emerging on top: Why?

  He put the kettle on the stove and lit one of the gas burners. He sat at the table. Tears welled up in his eyes, and his jaw muscles tightened. He balled his hands into fists and sat rocking his head back and forth. Why had he been forced to get mixed up in all this? Why couldn’t he just be left in peace? That was all he wanted. He’d been naïve to trust strangers at a time when no one could be trusted. The hiss of the kettle became a shrill whistle, and he cursed himself. His cowardice, his goddamn cowardice.

  Had he shouted? His outburst startled him. Usually he was in control of his emotions. One didn’t display such emotions publicly, and there was no reason to do so inside the four walls of one’s home, either.

  There was a knock on his door.

  “Mr. Strangl, is something wrong?” Another knock. “Mr. Strangl?”

  He recognized the sharp, obdurate voice. He stood and went to the door, but didn’t open it.

  “No, Mrs. Zimmermann, nothing’s wrong.” His voice quivered.

  “But I heard a noise in your apartment.”

  He knew that she would remain where she was until she got an answer that fit with the story that she’d already begun composing in her head. “All is well.” All but my life, he thought.

  “But I heard a noise. We haven’t seen you for days, and then suddenly this commotion,” she continued.

  He threw open the door. “What concern is it of yours anyway, what happens in my apartment?”

  “As the super’s wife—”

  “You aren’t the super’s wife. Herbert isn’t the super anymore, so stay out of it.”

  He slammed the door with such force that the door frame nearly gave way. He heard her talking to herself on her way down the stairs. Still in shock over his outburst, he undressed and began to clean himself feverishly at the kitchen sink. He scrubbed and scoured his body with the hard brush until his skin burned. If he put enough force into it, he might be able to wash away the experiences of this past week, as if they were a stain that could be removed. Water splashed onto the kitchen floor. All he could think to do was get himself clean, put on his newly washed pajamas, and crawl under the fresh linen sheets—and then, of course, apologize to Mrs. Zimmermann.

  Hamburg, Germany, June 4, 1939

  He was back in his office again. Actually, it was misleading to call it an office because he didn’t do much work in here. But he couldn’t call it his sanctuary or his refuge. He came here often, claiming he had a lot to do, because this was where he could find peace and quiet. Peace and quiet from his family, peace and quiet from his life. In this room his thoughts could wander, and he could be a different Karl from the one who ran the Strangl Clothing Factory. He felt like an imposter, one who’d deceived his family and cheated his way to wealth, and now sat in his big house—in his room with the misleading name—waiting to be found out.

  Of course he could never have refused to take over the factory. His father’s illness had forced his hand. Although he reasoned that he didn’t owe his father anything, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to turn him down. He often asked himself what was wrong with him. He had been offered a tremendous opportunity at a time when people in Germany were going hungry and dressed in rags—and still he wished that it had never been offered to him. An illogical hope had caused him to believe that his father would survive him, so that taking over the company would never come up for discussion. He’d never grown accustomed to the title and never felt like the chairman. While Gerhard had forged his own path through life with mathematics, Karl had effectively become Reinhardt. He’d become the man he couldn’t say no to, the man he’d never had the courage to admit he hated.

  One day he would sell the factory. When the time was right, it would make him a fortune, and he would visit every corner of the globe with Ingrid and the children. He’d read about the Great Wall of China, and he couldn’t believe such a thing could possibly exist unless he stood beside it. They would travel to Easter Island like Captain Cook and journey to Africa and see animals they’d never dreamed existed. When they returned from their long trip, he would find a house in the country, where they could live in peace and quiet, away from all the Nuremberg Rallies and military parades in Berlin. But the time wasn’t right. If he were alive, his father would never have accepted a sale.

  He removed a pack of cigarettes from his writing desk and opened it with his letter opener. He carefully placed his cigarettes in the silver case Ingrid had given him on their wedding day. He put the last one between his lips, then leaned toward the table lighter and lit it. The smoke stung his eyes, and it irritated him that he was still bothered by it. There was a sheet of paper on the desk that he would pick up and study with concentration if anyone were to knock on the door. It was always the same sheet. He glanced at the bar, which was set inside a globe. One had to lift the northern hemisphere to get at all the delights lined up in the southern. The little voice inside him said once again, You drink too much, Karl. Today he had to admit that it was right. His mouth was still dry after the night before, and he had no desire for a drink, at least not yet.

  He went out to the garden. The still dew-damp grass made his bare feet wet, and blades of grass stuck to them. Normally he would brush them away, but he didn’t have the energy to do that today, and his laziness defeated his sense of order. He fell into a folding chair that someone had set on the pier. Maybe one of the guests, or maybe he’d done it himself; he couldn’t remember. He polished his sunglasses with his unbuttoned shirt. August, up early as usual, had been out on the lake since dawn, and Karl couldn’t see the skiff anywhere. Up at the house, everyone was busy cleaning up after the party. He would have preferred to hold the wedding at a restaurant in the city, but Ingrid had insisted that they not spend the money on such an extravagance.

/>   It was pleasant to sit in the morning sunlight. The wedding had been beautiful, and most importantly, Hilde had been happy. And Ingrid had been happy. He’d had too much to drink. Not so much that he’d been visibly intoxicated, but enough that he was now getting his punishment. His head was heavy, and his temples throbbed. He wasn’t sure whether it was because he had a hangover or because Hilde would now be moving away. Or because of Heinz. But it was rude of him to think like that.

  Karl had always thought that Hilde would fall in love with a young, ambitious businessman or a doctor or, at the very least, someone who earned double what Heinz did. Someone who could protect her, someone about whom one could say, “He’s a good man.” No one would ever say that about Heinz. Karl had this impression confirmed when he met Hilde’s new in-laws. They were simple people. In fact they were a low-class family in their shabby Sunday best, which they probably pulled out of the closet each week so that the priest could make them feel guilty with yet another sermon on sin. They certainly weren’t sinners, just country people who feared God, change, and the big city—in that order. They’d arrived in Hamburg via train and departed the same day, so that they could return to their town that Karl had never heard of, home to their secure life among other familiar parishioners. They hadn’t offered to help or pay for any part of the luxurious celebration, leaving Karl with the entire bill. Not that it mattered, but it was the principle of the thing. They’d been so disengaged, so uninvolved. In that sense, he understood Heinz a little better now.

  Normally he loved weddings, but to him, this one had been a good-bye party. A sad farewell both to Hilde and to a time that would never return. Soon she would move to the loft apartment on Brennerstrasse that he’d procured for them, where she would share a bed with Heinz. No doubt she’d be pregnant before long.

  Would they one day hang a gold, silver, or bronze medal around Hilde’s neck? In May, they had awarded the Cross of Honor of the German Mother for the first time, an honor instituted to reward women who gave children to the Third Reich. Bronze was awarded to mothers who gave birth to four children, silver for six and seven, and gold for eight or more. The cross was white and blue with a black swastika at the center of a white background. Around the swastika was the inscription “The German Mother.” Ingrid had accepted the cross, but no one in the family ever saw it. Karl had suspected that she’d tossed it out until he found it one day in Sophia’s room hanging from the neck of a sad-looking bear with a red bow tie.