Winter Men

by Jesper Bugge Kold

  The twins were twelve years old now. Sophia was part of the Young Girls’ League, the younger sister, so to speak, of the League of German Girls, and Maximilian wore the uniform of the German Young People. Loyalty to Hitler, community before the individual, and physical strength were the central tenets in the upbringing of the fatherland’s children. Karl had once described the youth organizations to Gerhard as Nazi factories, but membership was compulsory, and so he had resigned himself to receiving lectures on the führer and the greatness of the Third Reich from his children at dinnertime. It was as though they had been brainwashed. Thank god the Hitler Youth hadn’t had the same effect on August and Hilde, who still seemed capable of thinking for themselves.

  Karl suddenly recalled a story that Hilde had shared a year ago when she was in the League of German Girls, a girls-only branch of the Hitler Youth that had been compulsory since 1936. He vividly recalled her sitting at the dinner table in her white blouse, dark-blue wool dress that fell to the middle of her shins, and black cotton scarf held together by a woven leather knot on her chest. It was a Saturday, and she’d just returned from a social evening with the other girls in her group. A seventeen-year-old girl had announced that she was expecting, and all the girls had squealed and cheered. She had reached the ultimate goal toward which they’d been taught to strive: motherhood. Hilde had been shaken by the girls’ reactions, and he remembered her observation that night at the table: “The only thing league girls fear worse than death is being unable to bear children.” She’d barely been able to contain her sarcasm, which could just as easily have come from Ingrid’s lips. Ingrid hadn’t wanted Hilde to be part of the league, but Karl had insisted. “If everyone has to participate, then she has to do her duty,” he’d said, and Hilde had been happy to be involved. He hoped the same would be true for August in the Hitler Youth; he hoped it would put some hair on his son’s chest and toughen him up. He could use that.

  August waved at him from the little skiff. Karl suspected that his many forays on the lake were, in reality, a way for him to be left in peace, to be alone. The lake was August’s “office.”

  August had begun to remind him more and more of Gerhard. Both were withdrawn, and both were more comfortable alone. Karl sometimes got the sense that he didn’t know either of them.

  Gerhard had seemed unhappy at the party. In fact Karl couldn’t recall when he’d last seen his brother smile. And this whole interlude with the Gestapo had only made things worse. Seeing Gerhard suffer like that was difficult. Karl would go pay a visit to the Gestapo sometime soon. There must be something he could do. If nothing else, he could bribe the detective superintendent.

  Hamburg, Germany, June 6, 1939

  Gerhard sat at his writing desk in a gloomy frame of mind. Another one, he thought, tamping out his cigarette in the ashtray. Yet another lost soul pulling on a uniform and giving up what he did best. What a waste. He’d had great expectations for Rudiger Riemer, but he’d just walked out of his office for the last time. Riemer could have gone far. He was driven by the same curiosity to understand numbers as Gerhard himself had been at his age. He sighed loudly. Soon, only members of the Hitler Youth would remain in his classroom as they were the only ones granted stipends anymore. Gerhard had begun to feel that lecturing to half-empty halls was pointless.

  The telephone rang insistently. The call was from a Miss Reinfeld, a secretary, inviting him to dine with a Walter von Amrath that evening at Restaurant Savigny. Anyone with even a modicum of interest in literature knew who Walter von Amrath was. He was a professor of literature at Friedrich-Wilhelm University in Berlin who’d written two acclaimed books, The Great Literary Works of the Nineteenth Century and The Muse of the German Poets—both of which were admired in literary circles—and he was greatly respected for his research.

  Gerhard hung up the telephone with equal measures of curiosity and pride. Though he and Dr. von Amrath didn’t share the same field of study, the professor nevertheless wished to meet him. When Gerhard had asked his secretary whether others would be attending, she’d said no. Von Amrath had, in other words, explicitly asked to meet with him. A distinguished literary scholar had requested his presence, and his alone, at Restaurant Savigny. He couldn’t help but wonder what the reason for this unexpected call might be, but he eventually gave up.

  It began to rain as he turned down Mönckebergstrasse. He checked his wet summer coat in the restaurant’s coatroom, wiped the droplets of water from his glasses with a handkerchief, and smoothed down his side part. A distinguished-looking waiter with a little mustache guided him to a table, then stood nearby awaiting his order. Gerhard thumbed aimlessly through the menu, glancing up at the door several times. Only now did it occur to him that he didn’t know what Walter von Amrath looked like. A well-dressed gentleman who appeared to be around forty-five years old—the age he assumed von Amrath to be—checked his hat in the coatroom and scanned the restaurant. His eyes rested on Gerhard for a moment before moving on. His face lit up in a smile, and he sat down at a table beside a man and two women, whom he greeted amiably. Gerhard’s gaze had followed him across the restaurant, so he hadn’t realized that a man of medium height now stood before him. The man cleared his throat.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Strangl.” Von Amrath had a kind voice.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” replied Gerhard.

  The waiter pulled out a chair for the new arrival, and Gerhard studied von Amrath while the man conferred with the waiter about their order. Von Amrath spoke with his chin held high, and his cheeks and throat were flushed pink from a recent shave. His face was open and affable, and there was something reliable about his looks. He seemed like the sort of man you would confide your deepest secrets to, knowing they would be safe in his possession.

  “Let’s order the house’s finest Mosel wine,” he said, glancing quizzically at Gerhard, who nodded. The waiter jotted it down in his notebook.

  Von Amrath turned back to Gerhard. “It is said that it takes five times longer to harvest the grapes along the Mosel than those in the best French wine districts because of the steep slopes.” He formed an incline with his hand. “That’s why I prefer wine from Untermosel, out of respect for the enormous work that goes into it. If the grapes had to grow in the same conditions in France, they would never be harvested. The French are simply too lazy.”

  Gerhard smiled. It hadn’t taken long for him to get a good feeling about the man sitting opposite him. He was learned, he was articulate, and they had shared interests. But he still hadn’t the foggiest notion why they were meeting. Now he would find out.

  “Dr. von Amrath . . .”

  “Walter, call me Walter,” von Amrath said just as the waiter returned with the wine. They tasted it fastidiously.

  “Wonderful,” von Amrath said, smacking his lips. He leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied. “You’re probably wondering why I asked you here.”

  Gerhard nodded. Von Amrath explained that he’d moved to Hamburg three months ago. He wanted to be close to his mother, who had become a widow five years earlier. Now she lived in Ahrensburg, northeast of Hamburg, but was old and sick and had no one to take care of her. Gerhard recalled hearing of Walter’s sister, Birgitte von Amrath. She’d been one of the country’s most talented harpists. Not many women were allowed to play with the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, and Birgitte had been among the chosen few in the male-dominated orchestra pit. But in 1935 she had followed the example of leading figures like Fritz Lang and Rudolf Carnap and emigrated to the United States. Last he’d heard, she was playing in the New York Philharmonic.

  Von Amrath leaned back as the waiter set a plate of appetizers on the table. He scrupulously unfolded his white cloth napkin and laid it in his lap before continuing his story. He was paying a housekeeper to take care of his mother now, but he wanted to be close to her. Gerhard asked about what would become of his job at the university in Berlin, and von Amrath explained with a smile that his job wasn’t going an
ywhere, and that he had plenty to keep him busy in Hamburg.

  Before leaving Berlin, he had received several new assignments unrelated to his university work, and he would continue that work in Hamburg. Without going into further detail, he let Gerhard understand that it was especially important work. There was a pause and the two men smiled at one another, each waiting for the other to speak.

  Gerhard noticed a party pin identical to his own on von Amrath’s lapel. “National Socialist DAP” was written on the small, round emblem, with the imposing swastika dead center. In and of itself there was nothing strange about it, but he’d never imagined that a man like Walter von Amrath would publicly advertise his membership in the party. That’s why he hadn’t considered wearing his own pin this evening. As with his own party membership, it had no doubt paved von Amrath’s way to a leading position at the university. Though it was easy to overlook, it opened doors.

  “May I ask the reason for this meeting?” Gerhard asked finally.

  “Of course,” von Amrath said, patting his mouth with his napkin. “I know you work for the Gestapo.” He ran his tongue across his upper front teeth to remove any remaining bits of food. “Those fellows aren’t a particularly nice bunch, so I imagine you would like to get away from them.” Before Gerhard could respond, von Amrath continued. “The younger ones are the worst. They think they can treat people like shit. The older ones at least know how to communicate without shouting and carrying on like idiots. They started out in the real police, so they’re used to that line of work.” He smiled as he uttered the words “real police.” “The younger men have no past, and without the Gestapo they have no future, either.”

  Gerhard made a questioning face to try to get him to finally declare his purpose.

  “I’ll come to the point.” Von Amrath cleared his throat. “I want to recruit you for my department.”

  “Department? But I’m a mathematician.”

  “I mean my SS department.” Gerhard’s expression turned to one of disbelief. “Allow me to introduce myself properly. SS Major Dr. Walter von Amrath.” He offered Gerhard his hand with an accommodating smile, and Gerhard took it, his mouth agape.

  “SS?” Gerhard clawed involuntarily at his chin. He picked up his glass of Mosel wine and took a long, slow swallow as he tried in vain to think of something to say that couldn’t be viewed as a criticism of the decorated doctor of literature. What the hell was a man like him doing in the SS? Gerhard had always believed that SS members came primarily from the lower classes, and now here was this well-educated man telling him he was part of it. Not only that, he was the leader of an entire department.

  “I can see that you’re shocked. But I assure you I’m not a national socialist.”

  “Then why the SS?”

  “Hmm, why SS?” Von Amrath paused to consider, though it could hardly be the first time he’d been asked that very question. “The Nazis may not be the best people, but they need assistance, and instead of sleeping in the passenger compartment, you can, like me, help drive the train. Or at the very least shovel coal.” He laughed tersely. “Democracy is a beautiful thought, but it’s utopian. Look at the Weimar Republic. If you ask me, technocracy is the way forward. Let he who is capable lead. It won’t do to put responsibility in the hands of the people; they are too emotional, and one cannot steer a country with emotions.”

  Gerhard had never thought of it that way. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He studied the literary scholar as the man sliced off a small chunk of his steak. He raised the meat to his mouth and chewed carefully, then pointed at Gerhard with his empty fork.

  “My department is in charge of transportation,” he said, and went on to explain that it was a vital department, responsible for conveying troops, materials, and supplies. He added that they would also be handling logistics—which was not a simple assignment at all. That’s why he wanted the best and only the best in his department. He’d been granted carte blanche authority to assemble his own team, and he’d immediately thought of men like Gerhard Strangl. Gerhard didn’t know if this was true, but he couldn’t help but feel a little flattered all the same. Von Amrath continued. When the war came, they would need every man, and dynamic men in particular. That’s why he wanted Gerhard. Von Amrath ended his little speech by appealing to Gerhard’s conscience, pointing out that if he chose to work for his department, he would be allowed to fulfill his war duty by doing something as innocent as transportation. He wouldn’t ever have blood on his hands.

  He gave Gerhard a kind look, and Gerhard said nothing. They ate in silence for some time. When Gerhard laid his silverware down on his plate, the waiter removed it almost before the clinking of the silverware had faded. If von Amrath worked for the SS, then it couldn’t be that bad. He was in every respect an intelligent man, Gerhard thought, so he’d probably entertained the same concerns as Gerhard himself. And Gerhard had, of course, often wished that someone would rescue him from the Gestapo’s embrace. Here was his opportunity to make a choice. The Gestapo hadn’t given him that possibility—well, they had, but given that it had been a choice between life and death, he didn’t really consider it a choice. A thought struck him.

  “But what about my work at the university?”

  “You may, like me, put that on hold for a while. If every young man must go to war, there’s nothing for you there anyway.” He smiled with his eyes. “In fact it’s quite liberating. Even though I work for the SS now, I have a lot more time to work on my next book. As will you. Are you currently working on something?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. People like us shouldn’t waste away. We need to keep busy. Sitting in some dusty office is no good when your skills are needed elsewhere.” He gestured with his hand and added, “There are many advantages to being in the SS, and besides, we’ll make sure your book is published. Consider that a mere formality.”

  Gerhard had feared that his next book would never be published; after all, there was no place in Germany for literature that deviated even slightly from the Nazis’ strict ideas. Although his main thesis was in no way provocative or experimental—at least not to him—the Nazis might see it differently. It was impossible to know with any certainty what they thought, and now von Amrath was promising him something close to literary amnesty. How could he turn it down?

  Von Amrath seemed to sense Gerhard’s dilemma. He filled Gerhard’s glass with more of the dry Mosel wine and tried to soothe his anxieties by describing his department as a group of decent people who would have to tip the balance on the scale if Germany was to reach the greatness the country deserved. Gerhard had heard that cliché before, but it carried more heft when it came from this man’s mouth.

  “You won’t have to begin with the privates at the bottom of the ladder. You’re much too valuable for that. For god’s sake, you are one of the country’s leading mathematicians. We’ll give you the title you deserve,” von Amrath said as he reached for the wine and then waved the bottle at the waiter. “May we have another bottle of this wonderful beverage?” The waiter went off at once for a new one. Gerhard had grown woozy but was unsure whether it was due to the wine or the conversation.

  After dinner the two men stood. Von Amrath patted his belly with satisfaction.

  “That’s another advantage—these wonderful dinners on Himmler’s tab.” He laughed but quickly altered his expression to one that inspired more confidence. He laid a hand on Gerhard’s shoulder. “It’s quite simple. Say yes and you won’t have to give the Gestapo another thought.” He smiled as he squeezed Gerhard’s hand. “Can I count on you?”

  “I need to think it over.”

  “Of course.”

  It was no longer raining when they exited the restaurant. The fresh air that always followed a summer rain made Gerhard’s head feel better. A gleaming Mercedes 500K pulled up to the restaurant, out of which climbed a man in uniform and a stylish young woman with a fox fur slung around her neck. The man offered the beautiful woman hi
s arm as they walked into the Restaurant Savigny. Von Amrath saluted the man with a “heil Hitler,” then turned to Gerhard.

  “Meeting you has been quite a pleasure, and I look forward, hopefully, to working with you in the future. Good night.”

  “Good night,” Gerhard said, and turned toward home.

  He gazed absently into the shop windows as he walked. Through a cobbler’s newly cleaned windowpane, he caught sight of his own reflection. He raised his hat a little and stared into his eyes. Gestapo or SS? He was caught between a rock and a hard place. What if he couldn’t avoid going to war? What if every German man had to fight? He was still young enough to be called up by the Wehrmacht, and he had military training. Wasn’t a transport division preferable to the front line? He let his eyes roam down the window, studying himself. He tried to imagine how he’d look in an SS uniform, but his mind refused to create such a picture. He pulled himself away from his reflection and walked on, his head bursting with questions. If he joined the SS, would it turn him into someone else? Would he no longer be the mathematician he was? He wouldn’t have time for his work at the university, but hadn’t Chancellor Schenk recently called him into his office to inform him that his lecture hours would be drastically cut next semester anyway? There were no longer enough students to justify his present course load.

  Von Amrath was a sensible man. He didn’t seem like a brainwashed Nazi, more like a pragmatist. His new job description probably has not changed him, so why should it change me? Gerhard thought. Agreeing to the job in the transport division would mean that Kögl would no longer have any control over him. It was a pleasant thought. He didn’t feel comfortable within the unpredictable Gestapo, but in von Amrath’s division he would be among likeminded men. As it unfolded in his head, it seemed like a vote between good and evil. Kögl, who’d put him in some miserable jail cell, versus von Amrath, the guardian angel who’d treated him to a meal in one of the city’s finest restaurants. He paused. Have you already forgotten all the stories about the SS? Has the Mosel wine completely erased your memory? Can you be bought for a good meal and some intelligent conversation? It’s not a choice between good and evil; it’s a choice between evil and evil. You’ve let the articulate professor blind you. Big words and eloquence don’t make the SS a desirable place to work. By the time he inserted his key in his door, he was at a loss.