Twilight in Danzig

by Siegfried Kra

  Lucia took both of the opera singer’s hands and warmly greeted her.

  “Why does my brother always go out with women who can’t speak the language or understand?” She sighed, smiling, knowing that the handsome woman hadn’t a clue of what she’d said.

  “You guess. I give you two, my baby sister.”

  “Why don’t you settle down with a nice Jewish girl? Next you will be telling me you are going out with Americans. Last month it was a Moroccan, but I know very well she was Africano, a Schwartze.”

  “I like exotic women. Now, tell me, what is the occasion of a dinner party midweek, although that is a silly question to ask around here.” Still, it seemed wise to change the subject as it tired him to continue this sparring.

  “Tonight is Grecia’s birthday, and your little angel nephew will soon have his.”

  “How is that little devil doing these days?”

  “Not to be trusted for one second. That little devil ran off the other day and for one hour Fräulein and I searched frantically for him. He was hiding behind a rock with the little girl from next door.”

  “Good for him. Why waste all those days waiting for the sperm to flow?”

  “I knew brother Herman would approve.”

  “As soon as he is old enough I am taking him to a brothel.”

  The doorbell chimed and Lotte and Grecia made their grand entrance. Grecia, the anarchist, six feet tall, had a sharp Roman nose and dark, intelligent, penetrating eyes. His wife, Lotte, a magnificent-looking woman with the striking features of Marlene Dietrich, wore a simple dress of olive green velvet with rhinestone shoulder clips. She held her head proudly, elegantly, like a Russian princess. She was, in fact, a Romanoff, and had escaped to Danzig with Grecia. Grecia had fought in the White Army under Dochek’s command, and when Trotsky’s Red Army prevailed, they had fled in 1917. Now, in Danzig, he was employed by Burkhardt, the provincial governor appointed by the League of Nations under the Versailles Treaty.

  “Grecia, you scoundrel, I am glad you’re here to provoke us, not of course like your beautiful Lotte.” Uncle Herman’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he appraised her.

  “Where is our elegant host?” Lotte asked.

  “As usual, he is up to something. He is in conference with Max Schiller in the library. However, once he knows you’re here, Lotte, he will appear like Haley’s comet,” Lucia trilled.

  Brand appeared just at that moment, tall, powerful and graceful, dressed in a blue pin-striped suit, white shirt, and blue tie. His full head of black hair was pasted down and shimmering against his lean face. Max Schiller accompanied him. A medium-sized man with gray hair and carbon-black eyes, Max was the board chairman of the Luirgi firm. They had discovered an efficient method for converting coal into ammonia and oil, two ingredients of ammunition needed by the Germans.

  “Two industrial giants in one room can be dangerous,” Grecia said.

  “Not as dangerous as three beautiful women,” Max quickly returned.

  “Max, my good Prussian friend, it’s the men, it’s the men who make the women dangerous,” Brand slyly added. By now all the guests were holding champagne flutes in their hands, and the Prince raised his. “Our first toast, then, to the men and their dangerous women.”

  Next to Lucia was an empty chair, as the American had not arrived. Prince Brandenberg was seated on her left. The evening flowed as easily as the champagne. The main course, a traditional goose, braised with port and roasted vegetables, was sumptuous, and the dessert, a chocolate soufflé drowned in Drambuie, was a marvelous delight. Throughout the evening Lucia felt unusually gay and flirtatious. The Prince at every opportunity grasped her hand and kissed it.

  “Madam, you are as delicious as the soufflé.”

  Even if he might be mignon, Lucia thought, he is charming and sexy. She thought just then of John Barrymore and his aristocratic profile. Anyway, there are some mignons who do like women equally, she continued to herself.

  “You are such a dear friend,” she told the Prince as she touched his ringed hand, the Brandenberg crest.

  Brand sat next to Lotte, who had no objections as he playfully touched her thighs at least five times during the course of the evening. Uncle Herman, with his voracious appetite, asked for a second helping of soufflé. “Nu,” he looked at Lucia, “Where is the rest?”

  “Don’t be a pig, Herman,” Frieda whispered in broken German.

  “You love me being a pig,” he whispered into her ear.

  Lucia gently shook the Lalique bell to the right of her water goblet, which made a sweet tingling sound. Another soufflé was brought into the dining room and placed in front of Uncle Herman along with a bottle of Grand Marnier. Using a large silver spoon with the letter “L” engraved on the handle, Herman gouged out the center of the soufflé and poured the Grand Marnier into its depths. A round of applause followed as the dessert was passed from seat to seat.

  Fräulein Marlow remained quiet, languid, beautiful. She was dressed in a simple blue dress that accentuated her flawless skin, and her ashen eyes wandered towards Brand. She wanted him right at that moment. He looked so handsome tonight, his dark eyes seductive and impenetrable. She relished sitting with the family at dinner, their secret lending a provocative spice to any meal she shared with him. When she had first joined the household, she had been served separately. Then Lucia had decided that “the Fräulein needs some relaxation after being alone with that little comet all day.”

  Brand raised his glass and struck another glass with a spoon, making the crystal ring.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, and others, a toast. A toast to my son, who will be nine years old at the end of next week, and also to Grecia on her birthday, whose age is more secret than Max’s method of converting coal to oil.”

  “Bravo! Bravo!”

  “And to peace, to peace,” Grecia said, “because it is not here for long.”

  Lotte shot a sharp look towards her husband. “Please, Grecia, not tonight. It is your birthday. Just have some champagne.”

  “I must say what I have to say. Perhaps this time will not come again.”

  “Come on, Grecia, stop it,” Uncle Herman implored.

  “Wait,” Max Schiller said, “it is his birthday. He should have the right to make a speech, unless, of course, our gracious hostess objects.”

  “I quietly object, but please go on, Grecia.”

  “Germany wants Danzig back. Right now, in Berlin, the National Socialist Party may have lost seats in the last election, but still, they remain the Reichstag’s largest party. And the party, even if you choose to pretend otherwise, is headed by a very convincing man who is a real threat. Most intelligent people think Hitler is a maniac, but his following has increased. Hitler and his Brownshirt hoodlums are screaming to have Danzig returned to Germany.”

  “Why shouldn’t Danzig again become a part of Germany?” Max asked. “For five hundred years it was part of Germany.”

  “The League of Nations would never allow Germany to annex Danzig,” the Prince joined in.

  Max Schiller knew better. His industrial colleagues Farben, Bentz, and Krupp, and even some Americans were supportive of the new party with Adolf Hitler at the helm.

  Uncle Herman also believed economic chaos was about to begin. He was in the money business and was selling guldens as fast as he could get them, buying gold and American dollars instead. He had already convinced his brother-in-law to get rid of some of his guldens.

  “I, for one, care little for politics,” the Prince said, temporarily setting down his spoon. “Politics belongs to the proletariat. My politics are contained in this beautiful, luscious, soft soufflé. To be devoured, beginning with its crowning peak, until I am satiated.”

  “That sounds so sensual, dear Prince, that it makes me tingle,” Lucia said. “Or maybe it’s the champagne now reaching my head.”

  “And in fine music and beautiful women,” he continued. “Brand, where is the little music in the night? A lit
tle Mozart or Chopin to mellow Grecia, or should we prepare our ears for the ride of Valkyrie?”

  “Wagner is so coarse,” Lotte said softly.

  “Well, then,” commanded Brand, bringing the fine linen napkin to his lips for a final swipe, “if the guests desire music, then you shall have it. I have a little surprise for you all in the library. So, come, children, the entertainment is about to begin.”

  The library was magnificent. Flemish tapestries closed off the windows to protect the rare books enclosed in the glass cases from the light. Biedermeier furniture crowded the room. A large Tabriz Persian rug covered the parquet floor. A Dürer painting was hanging on the far side of the great room, and a newly acquired Kokoschka hung beside it.

  Standing in the corner of the library were four musicians. “Les Quatre Ensemble de Genz,” Max introduced. “The four musicians of Genz,” and everyone applauded.

  A roaring fire warmed the space as the quartet struck their instruments, playing Mozart and Hindemith. Fräulein, accustomed to these evenings, sat peaceably on the armrest of a Directoire blue velvet couch with her long lovely legs crossed in front of Brand. By his brief glance, she knew he would visit her this night.

  She knew those eyes; they belonged to little Jonas as well as to Brand. She flushed with excitement, and hoped Lucia Kruger was too preoccupied to see the hunger in her husband’s eyes.

  During the concert, a tall handsome young man stole into the room and quietly sat down next to Lucia. He wore a blue tie, shabby gray pants, and a heavy tweed jacket. After the applause had died down, Lucia, her beautiful face animated against the firelight, said, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is William Harrington, from Columbus, Ohio. He is an architecture student at the university.”

  “I am pleased to meet you all,” he said in halting German. Uncle Herman staggered over to him. “I speak a little English. Nobody else can.”

  The American smiled.

  “Not so. I speak English, too,” Grecia announced. Everyone applauded and howled.

  “Where did you learn English, sir?” Bill asked.

  “Grecia Greenspun is my name, and I learned English from Americans in Russia. The expeditionary American force came to help the White Army, and I was their guide.”

  Uncle Herman added in Polish, “Another one of Woodrow Wilson’s idiocies. Hundreds of American soldiers died there in the brutal cold, and then Trotsky won Russia.”

  Lucia whispered to Herman, nodding at her young new friend, “You know, we are the first Jews he ever met.”

  “I don’t believe it. There are so many Jews in America.”

  “Not many in Columbus, Ohio. He told me so. They are all in New York. He is much older than he looks. Isn’t he beautiful?”

  Lucia went through the formality of introducing each one in the room. “This is Prince Brandenberg, Bill.” Fräulein Marlow was the only one who noticed the look in the Prince’s eyes. It was arousal; there was no mistake. The Prince straightened his body, clicked his heels, and bowed slightly.

  Lucia said, “Bill speaks French, so we can all talk to him.”

  “Maybe Bill wants to learn German,” the Prince said. “Would you like to learn German?”

  “I would like that very much, and I will teach you English,” Bill smiled politely.

  Fräulein Marlow wondered how an American would behave in bed. He was tall and strong-looking; it would be an adventure to have an American push into her, just once. She would have to see if she could manage a tryst.

  As the little group settled around Bill, who became the center of their conversation, Brand moved close to Max Schiller.

  “Let’s finish our talk in the billiard room, Max. They won’t miss us. Leave your glass here. I have a special brandy for us.”

  On the other side of the library, two rolling doors opened to a carved inlaid paneled room with cushioned velvet sidings. The billiard table was handcrafted by British carpenters who copied the style of Mariot, dating back to 1450, from the Chateau de Blois in France. On the fireplace mantel were trophies Brand had won in tennis, pool, and bowling.

  “Take off your jacket, Max. A little billiards while we talk?”

  He served the industrialist brandy in a Baccarat snifter. “Napoleon, 1893. I found two bottles.”

  “This brandy is superb,” Max said, sipping on the enticing aromatic drink.

  “Farben is extending its dye plant,” he said, coming to the point now.” It is no secret. Our past conversion process will only work if we have coal. We need oil to put German industry on its feet. You can supply us with the shipping and divert the coal you have been sending to England to us. We will pay you more, of course.”

  Max Schiller, an elegant Prussian aristocrat, was a second cousin of Bleichroder. The entire business world knew of Gerson von Bleichroder, with whom Bismarck had consulted on all his financial dealings. Few knew that Bleichroder or that his cousin, Max Schiller, were Jews.

  Brand pressed his case.

  “With Gdynia, the new port being built by the Poles, we will be able to float our barges during the wintertime. The new port is situated in a peninsula and never freezes. Ships can enter in the heart of the North Sea winter.”

  Schiller leaned toward Brand. “We must cast our lot with the Germans, my friend. They are the future. The League of Nations is tired. Its members are old men. It was a noble idea of Wilson’s, but it will soon be totally ineffective. Danzig will be in the hands of the Fatherland, where it belongs. You are a businessman, Brand. Business is always above politics. Governments change; ideals are a luxury for the philosophers. Guns and butter make a country run. No matter who runs the show, there will always be the rich and the less fortunate. Europe has thousands of years of history. The governments change like the weather, but the businessmen endure.”

  This man learned well from his cousin, Brand thought.

  “You will have your coal,” he said in a strong, confident voice. A handshake was all that was necessary to bind the deal.

  When they returned to the library, Uncle Herman was sitting at the piano surrounded by the guests. They were singing old Russian and German folk songs. Lucia was singing happily, surrounded by the Prince on one side and the young American towering over her on the other, her light soprano no match of course for Frieda’s who sat politely by and listened. “Are all Americans so tall?” Lucia whispered coquettishly to her new friend.

  “Only those from Columbus, Ohio,” he laughed, making himself appear more endearing to her.

  “How do you like Danzig?”

  “It is one of the most ancient, elegant, charming cities I have ever seen, and after tonight I never want to leave.”

  Uncle Herman overheard the tail end of the conversation, gave his sister a knowing look and squeezed Frieda’s hand. He had picked Frieda up on Motz Street in Berlin, at a nightclub called El Dorado. The club was known throughout Berlin for its famous clientele. Prostitutes, transvestites, and cocaine dealers mingled with Europe’s cafe society. Each table had its own telephone for making rendezvous. Cocaine was sniffed as freely as champagne was poured.

  Max Schiller was dozing in a chair, the real work of the evening concluded, while Uncle Herman sang his last song of the night. “Berliners are singing this inflation song,” he said, and with a high-pitched, slurred voice, he began:

  “Broke, broke, the whole world is broke. And how about selling Granny’s house to buy booze? And if America had their way, ‘Yes we have no bananas.’ Everyone sing together,” Herman yelled.

  “Yes, we have no bananas, and my parrot won’t eat no hardboiled eggs.”

  Jonas, awakened by the loud singing, crawled out of bed with Astor at his side. He lay on the floor like one of his toy soldiers at the top of the staircase. He liked seeing everyone so happy and pretty looking. He saw the Prince place a small gold engraved card in Bill’s hand. “English learning. Yes?”

  Jonas watched wide-eyed. A secret message, a code to the American! He imagined the entire scenario: The C
rane Gate, where the wheat was stored for shipment, was to be destroyed at ten in the morning by an invading fleet from Norway. The American agreed to carry out the plans of the Prince. Jonas thought he must inform his friend Gerhardt to try to stop the battle.

  “Oh, yes,” Bill said. The Prince bowed and clicked his heels. Jonas raised himself up from his prone position and imitated the Prince, clicking his heels and bowing his head. Lucia saw the movement at the top of the stairs.

  “Jonas! Get into bed immediately,” Lucia called.

  “Only after he bids his uncle good night.” In seconds Jonas was at the bottom of the stairs as he slid down the banister into Uncle Herman’s arms.

  “Now, where did you learn that from, Fräulein?”

  “From an American movie.”

  Uncle Herman hugged his sister. “Time for us to go, my dear. The blonde is getting impatient to go to bed.”

  Lucia burst out laughing, finding her brother both deplorable and adorable.

  “Herman, you are a disgrace to our family. If mother and father knew about your behavior, they would disown you. I love you, anyway.”

  Chapter Two

  PRINCE BRANDENBERG WALKED across the sprawling lawn towards the stony mansion built by his ancestors two hundred years earlier. Most of his family had died; others were living in Paris and Switzerland. He was the last to remain in the family home. His elderly, aristocratic-looking butler greeted him at the door.

  “Did the Prince enjoy the evening with the Krugers?”

  “Yes, Otto. I expect a young American to be calling in a few days, a Bill Harrington.”

  “That is good, sir. You need some new friends.”

  “Is Emile home yet?”

  “No, sir. He’s gone out for a nightcap, he said. If I might say so, sir, Emile has been carousing around a little too much. He is seen on the boulevard each night, and we don’t know what he will bring back. Perhaps it is time for Emile to return to France.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Did anyone call?”

  “Just Rudolf Hess from Berlin. He said he must talk to you, and I quote, ‘before a big change occurs.’”