"Where are they, these people?"
"Dead, mein Führer."
"Just as well." Hitler scrutinized Miriam as if she were a piece of fruit and he a prospective customer making sure there were no bruises. "With your grace and beauty, you could be a wonderful tool for the Reich. I have been assured that you believe in our cause and reject that Jew's philosophies."
He turned to Erich. "Pity she is so dark, although they tell me that can be easily remedied these days--"
A drum roll announced the presentation of Hitler's birthday gift, a globe whose uneven surface outlined the world's topography. Erich was grateful for the interruption; he could feel the heat of Miriam's wrath rising from her like steam from a radiator. He held onto the hope that the distraction would remove the Führer's attention from her, but no sooner had the orchestra resumed playing than Hitler returned to the same topic.
"We must let the newspeople ascertain that she was adopted. Exposed to Jewish blood, but not possessed of any. I will make the necessary arrangements."
"Thank you, mein Führer, but we have already applied to the Reichs Department for Genealogical Research to invoke the 1934 edict you yourself wrote," Erich said.
"Good!" Hitler turned to Miriam. "I will contact Leni Riefenstahl and make sure she puts you in her next propaganda film."
There was only one way he was going to get Miriam to do this, Erich knew. Again he would have to use Solomon's safety as a bargaining tool. He would even offer to try again to "find" Sol. Good thing he had mailed that letter to Amsterdam, effectively stopping the flood of correspondence to Miriam. It had been tiresome intercepting everything, and even more tiresome having to change the telephone number at the old place. It was better now that they had moved to the estate; even if Sol forgave her, he would not attempt to contact Miriam there.
"What a pity she is not expecting a child." Hitler's voice had become shrill. Excited. People around them looked up and listened. "You are a Nazirite, the true Biblical figurehead of commitment."
The man was beginning to ramble, something he did frequently. His five-minute audiences were notorious for lasting hours; people left them exhausted and confused.
"Even the Christian God, you know, though spineless, ordained our triumphs." Hitler laughed, pleased with himself. "Ordained," he repeated. "Like my departure from art into politics. Have I ever told you, Alois, how that came to pass?"
His voice turned soft. Dreamy. "I was in a hospital, having been overcome by mustard-gas fumes on a train. While recovering from my ordeal, I heard voices, Alois. They told me what to do."
Mustard fumes! Voices! The man's as crazy as Solomon, Erich thought.
Another drum roll saved him from further speculation.
"It is time for the entertainment." Goebbels stood up to make the announcement. "Let us proceed outdoors."
"I must talk to you," Miriam whispered.
"Later."
"Now!"
"Talk, then." Erich dawdled behind the others, who were hurrying into the garden. He knew what had been planned. He had seen it all before, had taken part in a similar ceremony usually reserved for Midsummer Night.
"You must promise me something," Miriam said urgently. "I cannot make such a film!"
"Miriam." He was pleading with her. "How can I promise you that? You heard what he said."
"Who is he--God? I can't! I won't!"
"Think of Solomon if you will not think of me," Erich said.
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a statement of fact."
"What will happen if I refuse to do this thing? Will you let them take your friend from your Führer's precious camp and hang your friend in public?"
Erich searched for a lie by omission to pacify her, if only for the moment. Lies by omission were easier, less likely to ricochet.
"I must see for myself that Sol is all right," she said.
"We have been over this a thousand times." He spoke as patiently as he could. "You cannot go to Solomon. The danger to both of you is worse now."
"You mean danger to you," she said flatly.
"You're no fool, Miriam. The Führer's attention is on you--"
"There you are, Herr Rittmeister," Goebbels said. For once Erich was grateful for the Gauleiter's appearance on the scene. "I wish to speak to you for a minute."
"Certainly, Herr Minister."
The two men moved ahead of Miriam as they walked toward the lawns at the back of the Schloss Gehrhus estate.
"The Führer has told me to contact Riefenstahl regarding Miriam." Goebbels' voice remained icy. "I will, of course, do his bidding, but--"
"But what?" Erich sensed he was not going to like what was coming; he would have to watch his back more closely than ever.
"In my opinion, your wife's reformation needs something more. A doctor at the Sachsenhausen camp, Schmidt by name, has some interesting ideas. She is conducting experiments..." He paused, then quickly added, "I have suggested to the Führer that Miriam take part in those experiments."
"Experiments?" Erich tried not to sound afraid, but his voice was gravelly.
"Total blood transfusions." Goebbels smiled. "Don't look so shocked. After all, if Miriam were to be transfused with Aryan blood, no one would dispute her place beside you in the New Order."
"Isn't such an operation...dangerous?"
"We must all take risks for the Fatherland, Herr Rittmeister."
Goebbels veered to the right and the conversation ended.
Drawing on deep reserves of self-discipline, Erich set his face in a smile and waited for Miriam to catch up. He would have to worry about this new issue later, he decided, as, arm around her waist, he guided her toward a group of RAD girls and students from the Adolf Hitler School. They had gathered in a circle around a blazing fire.
To one side of them stood a woman dressed in the uniform of the RAD graduates. "The young people before you have formed a magic circle around the sacred flames. They have been taught that the highest honor they can receive is to lay down their lives for the Fatherland." Her voice was deep as a man's.
"From Rhineland Hills blaze upward and ascend," she said in a chant. "Let those of you with dreams of a heroic future dedicated to our Fatherland take hands and leap over the flames to prove your love for our Führer and for our cause."
Two-by-two, holding hands and laughing, the new human beings and students of the Adolf Hitler School leapt over the flames and ran into the woods.
"Could we please leave now, Erich?" Miriam asked, when only the flames and the adults remained.
Erich looked at her face. She had her eyes shut and looked as if she were about to faint. "Let us say our farewells," he said, leading her over to the Führer.
"Yes. Good night." Hitler waved his hand arbitrarily, as if he had already forgotten both of them.
"What will happen if I refuse to make the film?" Miriam asked on the way home.
"To whom?"
"To all of us. Me, you, Solomon?"
Omission, Erich reminded himself. But because he could not find a half truth that would serve the purpose, he said nothing.
As they drove along Brahmstrasse, away from Schloss Gehrhus and toward the Rathenau estate, he kept wanting to touch her hand. When he finally did, at least for the few minutes that it took to get to their destination, she did not pull away. Usually his displays of affection were met with neutrality, if not coldness. He was grateful for even so small a concession. Neither of them spoke again until she stood in the doorway of her bedroom.
"What about Solomon and your conscience?" she asked then, as if the conversation had not been broken.
There was no answer he could give her, so he simply kissed her lightly and retired to his quarters. He was barely in bed when a knock sounded on the door downstairs. Grumbling, he climbed from bed and drew on his robe, a garment given him by a youthful whore Goebbels had brought home for a week after his trip to Lisbon. The girl's name was Toy. He could recall that much because he not heard the name
before or since, but he hardly remembered the girl herself. He did, however, love the black silk robe with its red fire-breathing dragon embroidered on the back. Most of all he loved it because it reminded him of Goebbels' anger upon discovering that Erich had bedded her. The man had threatened to chop her into dog meat for the kennels and had, in fact, given her to his guards...all twenty of them. Rumor had it she now was working the Elbe waterfront.
The knock came again, louder this time. Knotting the robe's sash, Erich descended the steps with a certain sense of urgency. Even now, after midnight, his men were putting the shepherds through obedience drills. At this hour, it could only be a trainer having problems with one of the dogs.
He glanced up at the crossed Nazi flags above the front door. The midnight sky peered in the tall front window; the mace-wielding suit of armor that stood in the corner, beside the aquarium he had recently acquired for Miriam's amusement, seemed to be waiting for him to open the door.
The knock came a third time.
"All right, all right! I'm coming!"
He opened the door a crack, then threw it wide open. A soldier stood there, a messenger. He saluted and handed Erich a sealed envelope. The letter had Hitler's personal blue seal.
Erich felt his blood run cold. Trembling, he slit open the envelope with his finger. What if Goebbels had talked Hitler into demanding that Miriam have the transfusion? What would he do? Hide her, promise again to send her away? What a waste that would be! Instead of using her talents, the Reich would lose out again. That seemed to be the leitmotiv of the Reich: abuse talent, beat out the brains of people who had so much to give, drive others into exile. If only Hitler, or that fat imbecile Göring, would wise up. The Führer had said in Erich's presence that the Jews and Gypsies would ultimately serve the state.
But as what? Fuel?
As long as Goebbels keeps seeing to it that I'm excluded from all important discussions with the Führer, he thought angrily, I will never know the answer.
"The Führer feels you're too emotionally tied to the situation," Goebbels had explained on one of his many returns to the mansion that had been his private brothel. "He's afraid you could not examine the issue with enough dispassion. But you can be sure we will keep your ideas concerning re-education of the Jews at the forefront of our discussions."
The soldier cleared his throat. Erich opened the envelope and focused on the paper with its official letterhead. He laughed. A promotion to major! Immediate, and at the Führer's personal behest.
It all was too good to be true. His moving from being in charge of security at the estate to running the place...that goddamn Otto Hempel out of his hair, transferred to helping run the detention camp outside Oranienburg...and now this!
"Happy birthday to you," he said. Paper in one hand and envelope in the other, he danced around the foyer. "Hoch soll er leben_--"
As if they had heard him, the dogs began to bark.
"Do you hear them? My dogs?" he asked the soldier. "It seems the Führer has finally understood that they could be a major force in a blitzkrieg operation. Think of it! A canine commando unit, trained to infiltrate and neutralize enemy advance units!"
The young man stared at him with a dazed expression. Erich smiled pleasantly at him. "It's late, soldier. Go home to bed."
The soldier saluted and half-ran toward his motorcycle, as if anxious to get away from this strange man who danced around hallways in a silk kimono.
Not ready to go back upstairs, Erich went outside. Though it was not yet May, an early warm spell had fooled the chestnut trees into blossoming. The scent was sweet, like a woman perfumed to please her man. If only Miriam...
He discarded the thought.
They had lived together at the estate for well over a year, and not once had she indicated even the slightest softening in her attitude toward him. Small wonder he could become erect with her only when he gave himself over to his anger...to baser instincts, he forced himself to admit. How had the Führer worded the edict? When it came to Jewish women, "the soldiers' baser instincts are not to be denied." It disgusted him. Potent only when he imagined himself raping her--what kind of lovemaking was that, even if he thought for a moment she was truly his? Was there no circumventing the reality of whom she belonged to, at least while Solomon was alive?
Nothing but a poor substitute for a sparrow such as Solomon Freund. What a price to pay for the love of one woman! He had no such problems with the rental ladies he brought to the apartment to service his needs, so, clearly, the fault lay with Miriam. Her bedroom seemed almost an arena for trial by combat, one he could win only by trampling down the sanctity of his beliefs like so much clover. The pride he felt in denying himself the God-given right as her husband, of taking her as often and as thoroughly as he pleased, brought him some satisfaction, but nothing, he was certain, to equal what he would feel when she eventually came to him of her own free will.
Some night she would be his. Completely. Without his having to degrade her in his mind while he took her. And without thought of what she or Solomon could gain by it. Then he would show her the lovemaking of which he was capable! Had not his capacity for multiple orgasms earned him the name Javelin Man among Frau Goebbels' socialite friends? Meanwhile, he would keep Miriam guessing, wondering why he was sleeping apart from her. For most women, rejection was an aphrodisiac. Why not for her?
Determined to continue in his current mode, he hurried toward the kennels. At least his dogs gave him what he needed--unqualified love and respect.
He wondered if dogs had a conscience, and then laughed at the absurdity of questioning a dog's morality. Such a thing could not possibly exist within their framework. They would not care if one of their fellows was in a place like Sachsenhausen, or even if their master were a human cur like Otto Hempel. What might it feel like to be truly amoral, to live only for obedience and food, for sleep and the praise of your master?
"Kinemann," he called out as he approached the kennels. "Could I see you for a moment?"
The trainer, a pudgy corporal, was kneeling next to Aries, holding her firmly by her collar. Though the dog appeared to be calm, Erich could sense the fury that rippled beneath her fur.
"The dogs are restless tonight," the trainer said.
"Any special reason?"
Kinemann looked at Erich strangely, as if he were not quite sure if he or the dog were being addressed. "I'm not certain, Sir."
As he had been able to do since early childhood, Erich tuned in to the dog's consciousness. She growled softly, a visceral rumble like an instrument tuning up for an overture.
Erich felt his anger mount. "The motorcycle disturbed her. This one's always been extremely sensitive," he said.
Erich knew that there was not enough space, even on this large estate, for the kind of kennels he would prefer--where the comings and goings of motorcars and bikes would not disturb trainer-shepherd concentration. He had performed miracles with the dogs, glad that Hitler himself knew enough to insist that each dog respond to the command of its individual trainer and to Erich, the officer in charge. That way, order could be maintained if the trainer were killed during a military action.
But that was not enough.
Given the right place, isolated, tall trees and meadows, the right combination of love and discipline, his shepherds could be trained to do almost anything.
CHAPTER FOUR
November
Miriam glanced around Friedrich Ebert Strasse at the aftermath of Kristallnacht.
Seven months ago, she thought, moonlight shone through the glass of Schloss Gehrhus. Now all windows everywhere are shattered.
The sun shone on remnants of broken glass, still unswept after gangs of young Nazis, many of them driving cars, went on a rampage. Cars, for God's sake, she thought. They actually drove during the riot. Leaned out of motorcar windows to smash thousands of store fronts belonging to Jewish merchants and destroy hundreds of Jewish homes. Looting, robbing, killing. When would such carnage end!
How ironic that a young Polish Jew, Herschel Grynspan, had inadvertently sparked this recent night of so-called retribution. Distraught over the treatment his parents had received in Germany and intent on assassinating the German ambassador, Grynspan had murdered Ernst von Rath, a minor German official living at the Parisian consulate--only to find out, Konnie had told her, that von Rath was been under Gestapo scrutiny for opposing anti-Semitism.
According to news reports, Grynspan, under arrest in Paris, said, "Being a Jew is not a crime. I am not a dog. I have a right to live and the Jewish people have a right to exist on this earth. Wherever I have been, I have been chased like an animal."
"What a goddamn mess. About time you got here." Erich's father unlocked the door of the shop and signaled her inside. "I'll be leaving right away." He adjusted his tie and buttoned the waistcoat of his Sunday suit. "And you can tell your chauffeur this will be the last time you'll need him here. After what happened earlier this week, I've requested a security guard for the shop at night, and for Sundays."
At least the synagogue in her suburb, Grünewald, had not been desecrated, not yet. Still, with so many synagogues stoned and Berlin's main synagogue burned to the ground, she was worried about her friend, Beadle Cohen, the custodian-scholar who had taught Solomon so much about religion and about life.
"You don't need anyone else here on Sundays," she told Herr Weisser, afraid that acceptance on her part would endanger the already tenuous safe-house of the ancient sewer that ran beneath the tobacco shop and what had been the cabaret, below the furrier's next door. In the seven months that had passed since Hitler's birthday party at Schloss Gehrhus, she had provided sanctuary for an ever-increasing number of people.
Konnie was essential for her to continue such work. He was the only one she could trust to guard the shop while she guided transients through the deserted cabaret and into the sewer. After last Wednesday's terrors, there was sure to be increased demand for a place to hide until night claimed the streets.
Needing access to the sewer, she had traded on the fact that the Weissers also accorded her, their son's wife, no more status than an animal. She was right. They had jumped at her offer to be their unpaid Sunday Jew, to keep the shop open while they went to Mass and cleansed their souls. They equally readily agreed to let her stay on for the rest of the day while Friedrich played poker with the other newly affluent merchants of Friedrich Ebert Strasse, whose poker stakes also came from tills conveniently "neglected" by Jews.
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