Hamburg, Germany, June 12, 1939
“Perhaps we can agree on a price.” Karl put his checkbook on the table and gazed questioningly at the two men. “What would you like?”
He wasn’t able to catch any of what they were saying as they conferred softly between themselves. He couldn’t imagine a sum that he wouldn’t be willing to pay to wrest Gerhard free of the Gestapo, so he felt quite confident. He glanced around the very ordinary office and waited patiently for the men to agree on a figure. He’d already forgotten the tall man’s name. Karl wasn’t familiar with SS ranks, but given the three stars on the man’s collar, he assumed that his rank corresponded to that of Hauptmann, or captain. He didn’t respond when Karl flashed him a forced smile, so Karl shifted his attention to the smaller man, who had to be Kögl. The man with the comb-over didn’t look as dangerous as Gerhard had described him. Karl noticed that the detective superintendent had unusually small ears, and was impressed that they managed to keep his glasses in place. On the wall he spotted a brass cross inlaid with silver, which suggested that Kögl had apparently been a brave soldier. Karl turned back to the detective superintendent, who promptly cleared his throat.
“We want you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Karl stared in confusion at Kögl, who looked back rigidly.
“Our price is you,” the detective superintendent repeated.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
The tall man explained, “It’s quite simple. If you voluntarily join the SS, the Gestapo will release your brother.”
“Join the SS?” Only a moment ago he’d felt that he had everything under control, but now he had no idea where the conversation was going. What could he give them that they didn’t already have? He turned from Kögl to the SS officer and back to Kögl again. Both men seemed to be enjoying the situation. When he’d entered this office a short while ago, he’d felt brazenly certain that he could bribe these two men, but now they’d flipped everything on its head.
“Correct. Join the SS,” said Erich Lorenz in his deep voice before adding, “As an honorary member, of course.”
“That’s out of the question.”
“Consider your brother,” Lorenz said.
Karl had no idea what membership would entail. No, actually, he did: a horrible argument with Gerhard. He wouldn’t want Karl to sacrifice so much for him. But Karl knew his brother would do the same for him, so Gerhard would have to understand. No, he couldn’t even consider the proposition. But it wasn’t as though all the SS members he knew had horns growing out of their heads. They were just regular people. Ernst Grabner was in the SS, though he was more focused on blood and honor than Karl. The SS weren’t real soldiers. They were more of a brotherhood, with secret handshakes and that sort of thing. It amazed him that Ernst was even involved with such an organization. He bit his lower lip.
“Let me see if I understand you correctly. If I become an honorary member of the SS, my brother will no longer have to work for the Gestapo?” Karl said following a lengthy pause.
“Correct,” Lorenz replied.
“And what does honorary membership entail?”
“Nothing. But we would be greatly appreciative if you wore your uniform on official occasions.”
His eyes roamed to Kögl. What did the detective superintendent get out of all this anyway? He lost an informant but would be on good terms with the SS. But he already seemed to be on good terms with them.
“What does the SS get out of it?” Karl asked.
“Prestige. You’re an industrious businessman, one of the city’s elite, and you will be a good representative for us,” Lorenz said in a friendly tone. “Your colleague—or perhaps it would be better to say your competitor—Hugo Boss supports the SS, and his business has only benefitted as a result.”
Karl was irritated that Lorenz used such a cheap ploy, but this was about his brother. Lorenz removed a sheet of paper from his attaché case and placed it before Karl, who looked at Lorenz, surprised. Had they planned this from the start? He could hardly believe it. Or did Lorenz carry these documents around with him should he ever meet some lost soul?
“So let me sign the damn thing,” Karl said peevishly, but he paused right before signing the paper. “I want it in writing that Gerhard no longer works for the Gestapo.”
“You’ll get that,” Lorenz replied quickly.
“And I want to know who ratted on Gerhard.” He glanced up at Lorenz, who turned to Kögl.
“That would be a family matter,” the detective superintendent said.
“A family matter?”
“Don’t give it another thought. Just sign.”
His hand cramped as he squeezed the pen. Now only his arthritis could stop him from becoming part of the SS.
Outside, Karl stood on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to light his cigarette. Though the day was windless and summery, his attempts were futile and he gave up. He climbed into the backseat of the waiting car and felt the heat at once. The leather seats were scorching hot, and he saw dark splotches under the armpits of Albert’s shirt. After finally lighting his cigarette, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead with it.
Lorenz came out of the building and scanned the area with a look of satisfaction on his face, the way a king regards his kingdom. He started down the street, his steps so long and measured that his protégé—a subordinate in the SS—struggled to keep pace. Karl watched them until they were out of sight.
He saw the concern on Albert’s face in the rearview mirror. “Mr. Strangl.” The chauffeur turned his head to study him. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“It’s much worse than that,” Karl said very softly. “I’ve just joined the SS.”
“You’re joking,” Albert said, chuckling.
“I wish I were.”
Albert scrutinized him. Karl knew what the chauffeur saw. Albert saw a tired, gray man, a weak-willed and apathetic man whose confidence had crumbled. He must have looked like a child sitting on his shiny leather seat. A child who had hunched down in his expensive suit to hide from the world.
Karl didn’t respond to Albert’s question about where he wished to go. He just stared straight ahead, his forehead furrowed as though he were trying to solve a difficult equation.
“Where to, Mr. Strangl?” Albert said again.
When Karl got home, he went directly to his office, where he could be left in peace, alone with his thoughts. He sat at his desk. He might have to go off to war again. He glanced at the cabinet hanging on the wall. Through the small, square glass panels he could see his medals. Though he’d earned them many years ago, he was still proud of them. Truth be told, he was prouder of his sports trophies than of the Iron Cross Second Class, which lay inside. Perhaps because they reminded him of his carefree childhood.
It had been a long time since he’d given the Iron Cross any thought, and now it languished inside a small lined box while his other medals remained visible. There was his bronze medal from 1911, the gold medal from 1912, and the silver medal from 1913. There were two gold medals from rowing and two academic achievement awards from his school days. They all looked like coins minted in antiquity. And like some proud numismatist, he displayed them in his glass case.
One particular medal had a special place in his memory. It had been 1912, a hot and windless day at the end of August. The yearly school championships were to be held at the small, dilapidated athletic stadium beside the old water tower in Stadtpark. His goal was to improve on his bronze medal from the spring and get a silver. No one could defeat Bernd Beukelmann, and no one even hoped to—including Karl. Bernd, a sinewy boy whose body was covered with freckles, was in a class by himself. His entire body worked in rhythm, each movement carefully calibrated for optimal speed, and Karl had been seven or eight feet behind Bernd at the sixty-meter dash all year long. He’d only glimpsed the boy’s freckled neck and the backs of his white knees.
But this August day would prove different.
Karl wasn’t nervous. All he was thinking was that he would shake Bernd’s hand this time, and he wondered how he might introduce the idea of training with him without sounding pushy. Before the race Bernd seemed focused, as always, and Karl studied Herbert Wankel, his closest competitor for the silver. But the pale boy who sat behind him in school was tense and dissatisfied with his shoes, and he kept taking them off and putting them back on. The entire school was sitting in the bleachers, and the mood was festive—if for no other reason than none of the pupils would have to fear old Mr. Reuben’s temper or Umberger’s whistling ruler, which left red welts and tear-filled eyes.
Karl glanced at the bleachers. He was ready.
“On your mark!”
He focused his gaze on the reddish-brown track stretching out before him.
“Get set!”
He tensed every muscle.
“Go!”
His body lunged. The start was excellent, his best ever, and his first three steps—meant to bring him near his top speed—only made him feel that he had much more to give. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Bernd Beukelmann, in the lane to his right, wasn’t ahead of him; they were neck and neck. His legs moved by themselves, as though he were running downhill, and Bernd soon disappeared behind him. When he crossed the finish line, Karl felt as though he could’ve kept running. He glanced toward the bleachers, where all the pupils stood cheering.
Disappointment radiated from Bernd as he pressed Karl’s hand and uttered a guttural congratulations. Karl was on top of the world, and so he asked Bernd if they could train together as if it was the most natural thing in the world. But that turned out to be Bernd’s final race. He wasn’t used to losing the sixty-meter dash, and now that he knew what it felt like, he didn’t want to experience it again. At least, that was what Karl reckoned later. Karl’s victory qualified him for the district championships of 1913, where he brought home a silver medal behind a long-legged boy from Bergedorf.
That same year, he won gold in rowing on his home turf, Alster Lake. Karl was a good rower, but his partner, Ulrich Ahlendorf, was a force of nature; every stroke he took was so powerful that it seemed the shell might split in two from the force of it. The other competitors claimed that Ulrich would have won with anyone as his partner, but Karl knew it wasn’t true. Unfortunately Ulrich later succumbed to polio, and his legs stopped growing. Karl used to visit the boy at home, but Ulrich began to believe all the chatter that he could’ve won the medals by himself and insisted on reminding Karl of that every time he visited. Karl didn’t bother to correct him since Ulrich could no longer win even with supernatural powers. He had stopped visiting in 1915, when the Ahlendorfs moved to southern Germany, and he never again heard from Ulrich.
Karl tried not to think about what had happened today. An honorary member of the SS. It sounded like something he should be proud of, but he wasn’t. It wasn’t the first time the SS had tried to recruit him. Ernst Grabner had once lectured him on the benefits of the SS, but he’d laughed it off, and Grabner knew him well enough to realize his efforts had failed. Now he’d signed up without any urging from his friend. Ernst would be pleased, but Karl feared Gerhard’s reaction, and he already knew what Ingrid’s would be. Why hadn’t he taken some time to think it over? What would happen to him when Hitler started the war that he so badly craved? Karl had made a promise to himself—he would go to war for his country again if he was needed. But would it be with the SS or the Wehrmacht? Would he be allowed to decide for himself? Of course he would, and of course he would choose the Wehrmacht.
He went to the bar, grabbed a bottle of port, and poured some into a long-stemmed glass. He put the bottle back and sniffed his drink. He swirled his glass in the air, spinning the fluid faster and faster until a hole formed in the liquid at the center of the glass. It fit his mood. He stood now in the middle of a maelstrom that was pulling him in every direction. What until just a few days ago he’d had complete control over was now out of his control. The liquid licked up the edge of the glass, and when some of it landed on the parquet floor, he abruptly stopped rotating the glass. He tried to mop it up with his shoe, but managed only to spread it around more. He looked at the dark stain in despair, then plunked down in one of the two recliners.
What had he been thinking? He rubbed his palms roughly against his face. What had he actually signed up for? Honorary member of the SS. He didn’t know what that meant. They had explained it to him, of course, but one could hardly trust the Gestapo or SS to tell the truth. He’d been so busy trying to save Gerhard from the Gestapo that he’d forgotten to save himself.
Hamburg, Germany, June 13, 1939
Gerhard placed a blank piece of paper in the typewriter and spun the roller. Over the course of the last few days, he’d written fifteen or twenty pages; he didn’t know the exact number, but now that he’d finally begun his book, he felt a great sense of relief. His ideas fell into categories, connections, and logical conclusions, and the words found their way onto the paper. Earlier, he’d almost given up. At times it had seemed pointless to fight his way through. More than once he’d asked himself whether it was worth the effort, whether he had other books in him, but now his thoughts flowed right onto the paper. The pleasant, rhythmic sound produced by the swing arms of the typewriter as they hammered against the black ribbon and struck the paper had a calming effect on him. He’d purchased his Continental in 1933. It was a handsome tool, with gold letters on the keys, a shiny black chassis, and tabulators that reminded him of a sliding weight scale. On each swing arm sat two letters, one lowercase and one majuscule, and a little bell gave off a tiny ping every time he reached the right margin. As with Pavlov’s dogs, his response was conditioned: when the bell rang, he raised his hand and automatically changed lines with the handle fitted for that purpose. His left hand found it without his having to even take his eyes off the paper.
The typewriter symbolized something good, a place he liked to be; when his work was going well, all his thoughts funneled through his fingers and the swing arms to become letters on the white paper, which in turn went on to become complete sentences and paragraphs. His mind felt clear and sharp as his ideas took shape across the page. He hadn’t been this energized in months. Which was why he couldn’t help but feel irritated when there was a knock on his door. He decided to ignore whoever it was until they gave up and left. He listened, hoping to hear footsteps retreating down the stairwell, but the insistent rapping against his door continued. He recognized the voice at once.
“Guess what I’ve got?” Karl said, almost before Gerhard had opened the door. Karl waved a sheet of paper as he entered.
“Oh, don’t make me guess,” Gerhard said as Karl followed him into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“I’d rather have something stronger.” Karl’s face glowed like that of an eager boy who’d just witnessed the season’s first snowfall. “Guess.”
Gerhard rummaged in one of the cupboards and finally found what he was looking for—a bottle of Tullamore D.E.W. In another cupboard he found two stout glasses, which he handed to Karl, who trailed him like a little dog into the living room.
“Come on, take a guess,” Karl said, setting the glasses on the dining table.
Gerhard filled the two glasses, then set one on the table for Karl, who was still standing. “Is it Hitler’s obituary?” he said at last.
“It’s something that’ll make you just as happy.”
“I’m in no mood for a guessing game,” Gerhard said in a tone of voice that made it clear he’d grown impatient. He sat down on a dining room chair.
“What if I told you that you no longer work for the Gestapo thanks to your big brother?”
Gerhard looked at Karl suspiciously. “What have you done?”
“I’ve pulled you out of shit creek.”
“What have you done?”
Karl pulled out a chair and sat down. “Let me tell you.” Karl went on to describe his meeting with the Gestapo, then steadied his gaze
expectantly on Gerhard. “You don’t look pleased.”
Gerhard stared unblinkingly at the table. Two or three times he moistened his lips as if to speak, but each time he opened his mouth he changed his mind.
“Coffee?” Gerhard asked again.
Karl shook his head, but Gerhard stood and went into the kitchen, and Karl heard the familiar sound of running water filling a kettle. He laid his hand on the smooth tabletop. His finger located a gouge. The width of the gouge matched that of his pinkie, and it was a good two inches long. It appeared to be a blemish in the wood or a knot that had worked itself out, and it had to be old, because it was the same color as the lacquered oak surrounding it. He ran his finger back and forth through the gouge. There was something comforting about the feel of it—something reassuring about the imperfection, he thought.
Gerhard returned to his seat opposite Karl. His breathing was heavy and labored, and it occurred to Karl that he’d never heard his brother breathe like that. Gerhard had always appeared so self-possessed; he was a master at concealing his emotions. Just then, however, Gerhard looked apprehensive. Gerhard removed his glasses, aggressively polished them, and put them back on only to repeat the motion a moment later.
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