The smaller man with jet black hair and wild-looking eyes stood up and greeted Bill.
“This is Rudolf Hess, a crazed intellectual from Berlin who wants to change the world,” the Prince said in French. “We are all friends from Berlin along with his architect friend, Albert Speer. I spent several years with him in Heidelberg.”
The Prince placed a small bottle on the table.
“Anyone? Here, Bill, have you ever tried this stuff? Everyone in Germany who is anybody uses it, or you can have a pipe of opium.”
“I think I will stick to the beer,” Bill said, embarrassed.
The Prince turned to his old friend. “Don’t worry, Rudi, you can talk freely in front of my friend. He already knows why we are here.”
Hess’ face reddened with anger and he told the Prince in German, “You are a fool! Why did you bring that boy here?”
“He hardly understands any German,” the Prince said.
“I told you before I am not interested in your madness. You are German, and you love your country, or so you told me hundreds of times. If we lose the next elections coming up, Germany will go communist and, my dear Prince, you will have the Bolsheviks living in your home. I just want to get your support because Hitler is a genius, and he hates fags, but he will leave you and me alone if we support him. I have some plans laid out for you for some demonstrations in the town square next week, before the election. I want you on the viewing stand with me cheering or just to say a few words.”
“My friend here from Berlin,” the Prince said again in French to Bill, “is pleased you have come to visit us, and he thinks if all Americans are so handsome, he wishes to visit your country soon.”
“He isn’t a Jew, is he?” asked Hess crossly. “Is he, Prince? You cross all lines when it comes to love.”
“It’s not like that,” the Prince answered as Hess dumb-foundedly looked on. Turning back to Bill he urged, “Now you will try the great German sauerbraten, or a frankfurter like you have in New York, and the best beer in the world.”
By the end of the evening Bill Harrington was drowned in beer and a cute German maid was sitting on his lap, running her hand between his legs while Hess and the Prince disappeared to an upstairs room.
Then the maid took Bill by the hand and led him to a room upstairs, too. The young girl giggled and pulled her dress down. Bill collapsed on the narrow bed, closed his eyes and felt her warm naked body on top of him. She fumbled with his pants then he felt the wonderful sensation of her mouth on his penis, which, however, would not harden. Frightened, he thought about his first girlfriend back home, a local pharmacist’s daughter, who left him, frustrated each time they lay together on a blanket he would spread out on the hill overlooking the Allegheny River. And there had been Jean, whom he’d taken out a few times when he was at the University and had liked very much. The girls back home had looked at him questioningly, much the way this young woman was now. Would she mock and ridicule him for his failures, too, and still demand his money?
He wanted to cry. But then the maid gripped his hips and flipped him over. She climbed on top of his naked backside, slid her hands beneath him to massage his testicles and then gently flicked her tongue into his anus as she simulated a pumping motion with him beneath her.
Seconds later he burst his semen into her hands, and fell asleep.
Chapter Three
OF ALL THE PRESENTS THAT Jonas cherished most dearly, Astor excepted, was a wonderful crystal radio. Now, sitting on the floor of his playroom, he placed the silver prongs in his small ears and, listening to the martial music, he marched his Prussian tin soldiers to the stirring sounds. The French soldiers, sitting on feathered horses, were lined up in an attack formation. Today, Jonas decided the battle would be won by the Prussian cavalry. One by one the boy pushed the French soldiers to the ground while advancing his Prussian army to victory. Suddenly there was silence. The music stopped and Jonas adjusted the prongs in his ears and shook the crystal radio. He then heard screeching, the frantic sound of a man making a speech, constantly interrupted by cheers and wild shouting – “Heil Hitler” – swelling into a crescendo of what seemed like thousands of voices joined together.
Jonas laughed, thrilled by the excitement of it all. He repeated the salute he had heard, his lips mimicking the shouts. Fräulein Marlow was standing by the rolling doors of the playroom, observing the boy giggling with delight. She walked towards him.
“Jonas, what are you laughing at so much? Is there something funny coming over the crystal?” She ran her hand across the curve of his face as she crouched down. Jonas pushed her long blond hair aside and gave his governess the plugs of the crystal fingers to listen for herself. He waited for her to giggle; instead, he saw the lines around her eyes tighten, her mouth purse.
She had heard Hitler speak before, but never with such force, never with such inspiration. Now he was speaking directly to her, the underdog, a subaltern to that filthy rich and impure race, the Juden, those Jews. True, her boss was also her lover, a Jew no less, but sexual desire goes beyond politics. But this will all soon change! She nodded her head in agreement, which Jonas took as a sign that she found the speaker funny, but she did not laugh. The face looked harder than ever. Perhaps grownups don’t laugh at the same things children find funny, he reasoned. Five minutes later, when the speech was over, she removed the plugs from her ear, returning them to the child.
“Yes, that was very nice, Jonas. If you hear that funny man again, promise you will call me.”
“Yes, Fräulein.” He was happy he was able to please her. She was so strict, and he was always in at least a little trouble.
At the far end of his playroom were two large French doors that opened onto a stone balcony. Although the parapet was too high for Jonas to reach, there were two circular openings on each side of the concrete wall that made it possible for him to see beautiful Stefan Park and the wide roadway below. Now he played captain of a great sailing ship, stood at rigid attention, saluted, and looked out at the distant horizon, his open sea. Uncle Herman had bought him a white sailor suit from Copenhagen that he wore on occasion. The best time to play captain on his magical balcony was when he was wearing his suit.
He opened the French doors and went outside with Astor, who sniffed the cold January air. “Yo ho! Yo ho!” Jonas shouted. “Here comes the captain.”
He was startled by what he thought was an echo, but he realized it was the beating of drums and the sounds of marching. It was against the Fräulein’s rules to climb into the turret, but how could he resist seeing where the sound of the drums was coming from? His head hung through the opening, a small cherub straining his eyes. In the far distance he could make out a column of men that looked like an army of slowly moving ants.
“They are coming, Astor, to attack the ship. Prepare the ship for battle. Raise the flags!” he yelled. Just as he had seen in the pirate cartoon with the Katzenjammer Kids, which he watched on Saturday with Uncle Herman at the movie palace.
The ants grew larger. They were much closer now. Suddenly they wore uniforms, short pants and arm bands, and carried small drums tied around their necks, beating them in time to their marching. In the center of the parade there were tall boys proudly holding aloft a huge photograph of a man with slick black hair and a small mustache.
“Links, links (left, left), recht, recht (right, right)!” they chanted, and then they sang the song he had heard over the crystal set, the “Horst Wessel,” the Nazi anthem. Minutes later, the procession was gone, except for the receding sound of the drama.
Jonas climbed quickly out of the turret and rushed to the special closet in his playroom, the spacious one where his larger toys were kept, and found his drum. He ran to his bedroom and slipped on his lederhosen, and spread a large white handkerchief on the floor, drawing on it a crisscross sign in red crayon so that it looked like what the marching boys wore. Folding it, he tied it around his arm, the crisscross showing. Now he was ready, dressed just like the b
oys he had seen.
With the drum suspended from his neck, he marched down the long, winding stairs. “Links, links, recht, recht!” His right arm was raised in the erect salute. “Dumm, derumm, dumm, dumm,” he whispered to himself. The only thing missing was the knife the boys carried on the side of their leather pants, encased in a leather pouch. Uncle Herman will bring me one if I ask, Jonas thought. Uncle Herman gives me anything I want, not like the mean Fräulein.
In the spacious library, surrounded by stacks of rare books, Brand Kruger and Metchnik sat at a large Louis XVI desk, discussing their plans for future coal shipments. Both men were dressed in dark suits and had serious expressions on their faces.
“I went to Gdynia last week,” Brand said. “You know, where all the swampland is. The Poles have already filled it in and the docks will be finished by the fall.”
“That means we can send our barges up the Vistula to the port all year around,” Metchnik said, “because they will be enclosed in the peninsula and the waters won’t freeze. This is the best deal in your life, and the most dangerous. I don’t know how long they will let the Jews work.”
“They won’t bother me. They need me too much,” Brand replied.
“Dron, dum, dum.”
“What the devil is that?” Metchnik asked.
“That is your little angel, Jonas,” Brand said. “He wants to come in.”
“Let him in, Brand. We need a break!” Metchnik pulled the heavy rolling door open as both men began to politely applaud, and in came Jonas, head straight, eyes front, right arm upraised, marching across the length of the library, chanting unintelligibly.
At first they saw only the boy with his brown hair combed to one side and the drum suspended from his neck, Astor yelping behind. He was a welcome relief from their complicated business matters. Jonas often brought a smile to the grown-ups because he used their language without quite knowing what the words meant, and he had an innate ability to imitate people who struck his fancy.
They stopped applauding and Brand rose to his feet when they saw the child stretch out his left arm, displaying his Nazi armband.
Fräulein, hearing all the commotion, hurried down to the library and stopped short. Her eyes widened in amazement, as if she were witnessing a birth, a miracle.
“Jonas, stop that at once! What are you doing?” Brand yelled, ripping off the armband. Jonas’ face twisted with astonishment and tears immediately rolled down his cheeks as Astor jumped on Brand, barking at him. “Where did you learn this from? God in heaven!” Brand continued. “Don’t you ever wear that again or march like that.”
“I saw the boys in the street marching like that, Boy Scouts on parade. I’d like to be one, Father.”
“They are not Boy Scouts!”
Metchnik looked upon the ugly scene with great sadness.
“Not so hard on the boy,” he whispered.
“You belong to the Boy Scouts already,” Brand said, more softly now, “The Maccabee Club,” he said, referring to a gymnastic program at the synagogue for Jewish children. “Don’t you march with them every Sunday at the gym?”
“It is not the same thing. We have to exercise and wear white shorts, and I don’t like climbing on the wooden horses and the ropes. Besides, Gerhardt always pushes me down on the mat. I hate him. I wish he was dead.”
Fräulein, without first knocking on the heavy library doors, quickly entered, placed her arms around Jonas’ small shoulders, and escorted him out. Unseen by the others, her lips were curled in a sly smile.
The next week, on Sunday, Jonas refused to go to his weekly Maccabee Club.
“If not the gym, would you like to play Schlagball, or perhaps go to the park?” Fräulein asked him. “I did promise your parents to take you to the gym today,” Fräulein said to Jonas, who remained preoccupied with his soldiers.
The boy said nothing and just shook his head.
“Well, then, we can’t waste a whole day with you moping around. I guess I will have to surprise you with something wonderful.”
“What? Tell me, Fräulein, please!” a suddenly very alert Jonas pleaded.
“I am going to dress you in your nice Sunday outfit, and then we will take the trolley car to the old city. Not today, but one day soon. We’ll take a little walk down Long Street, past the tall mysterious Marin Church where the dungeons are, and go to the Crane Gate, where all the wheat is stored as it comes off the boats by the water. We’ll watch the swans and the boats.”
“But what is the surprise, Fräulein?”
“You will see. You have to learn to be patient. It is much better to wait around for something good, my little man, than to get it all at once.”
It was much colder than usual, even for the middle of January. A cutting wind blew from the North Sea; the clouds were gray as dirty cotton balls. They had to walk for ten minutes to the end of a wide street to meet the trolley car. Passing by the elegant estates, Fräulein pointed to the largest one, the one owned by the Prince. It was enclosed by a very old, tall iron gate, the family crest mounted above its entrance. The Prince enjoyed displaying the colorful banner with the family crest from the upper stone balcony when he was in residence. The banner was up, whipping in the wind, smoke was rising from the chimney, and Fräulein caught a glimpse of Bill Harrington through the large, wide library window standing by the stone fireplace. She surmised he was there for the Prince’s daily English lesson.
She held Jonas’ hand tightly. He was shivering, the wind cutting right through his long pants. They were both relieved when they finally mounted the red-colored trolley car and sat down on the wooden seat by the window. It snaked through the narrow streets into the old town, twisting and screeching. Fräulein had an arm around Jonas’ narrow shoulders, and this made him feel warm and secure, like rising from the bathtub and having a towel encircle his naked body. Fräulein Marlow pointed out the historical houses where once-famous Danzig citizens resided, like King Ziygmunt, the ruler of Prussia and Danzig. When the trolley arrived at Hellagasse, they got off and briskly walked down the narrow brick streets flanked by old Flemish buildings. In front of the entrance of each house were posts crowned with the heads of lions guarding charming stone balconies. Jonas liked touching posts as he trotted along, imitating a horse. Fräulein held fast to his hand, and her arm stretched taut as Jonas pulled her. She knew that if Jonas was let loose he would disappear within seconds, galloping down the curved streets and alleys. He was far into his imaginary world. He was the knight on his horse returning from another glorious battle.
They arrived at Halengasse, or Jew Street, named by the Hanseatic League when the Jews of the thirteenth century were given the right to form their own trade guilds. This was the street where Jewish shoemakers, carpenters, hatters, tanners, and tailors were allowed to run their businesses relatively un-harassed. It made Jonas laugh to pass a street with such a funny name. He pictured dozens of bearded rabbis living on this street like the Rabbi who presided over his synagogue. But he saw none. They walked on to Geisengasse Street, with its medieval buildings and a magnificent Gothic structure called the Marian Church. Just behind the street was a small square with a statue of a noble warrior in the center, which marked the spot where the Danzigers once defended themselves against the invasion of the Teutonic Knights. Fräulein pointed to one of the older Hanseatic buildings in the center of the square. It was a narrow, five-story rectangular structure with small windows lined by white frames, contiguous with other buildings of the same size.
“Do you know what that place is, Jonas?”
“Father’s office,” he answered proudly pointing to a small sign engraved in stone. The Gothic letters read Baltic Kohlen.
Another block to the right and they were at the old brown wooden grain elevator on the waterfront. The sun broke through the Baltic skies as they sat down on the brick edge of the Mottlau River to watch the fishing boats and barges. Some of the barges, carrying mounds of coal that looked like small volcanic hills, had larg
e blue letters on their sides: Baltic Kohlen Company.
“Your father’s boats,” Fräulein remarked.
“Father said he will take me on one of the barges soon and I can be the captain.”
Swarthy-looking men were leaving the schooner, their wet trousers tucked into shiny black rubber boots, carrying large, slimy, straw baskets overflowing with bass and flounder. Behind them, the concrete wall known as Long Street was bustling with people, mostly elegantly dressed ladies and their maids shopping in the quaint shops that lined the dock. The air was filled with the peaceful sounds of Danzig. Occasionally, a small gunboat passed, flying the German eagle, reminding those who cared to be reminded that peace was but a passing thing.
Jonas sat on the concrete parapet, dangling his feet, staring at the busy scene before him. He kept his eyes fixed on the gunboat, imagining that he was the captain and that he was directing the cannon fire toward the shore.
“Fire on the grain gate,” he shouted, “when I give the orders, but don’t hit any of the fishermen.”
“That is not nice, Jonas,” Fräulein Marlow corrected in a stern voice.
A tall coarse-looking man suddenly appeared from the crowd, wearing a fisherman’s cap, black leather jacket, and black pants.
“Jonas, this is my friend, Bruno,” Fräulein said.
The boy jumped up, clicked his heels, and offered his small hand to the large man. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“What a splendid gentleman,” Bruno responded. But Jonas felt repulsed by Bruno’s hard, unrefined face, and resented him deeply as he saw him touch his governess’ hand. Fräulein Marlow instinctively placed her arm around Jonas’ shoulders and drew him close to her.
“And now, my little Jonas, comes the surprise.” He felt reassured once more as he smelled her closeness to him.
“Do you remember the Boy Scouts you liked so much? Well, I am going to take you to meet them. Bruno is one of their leaders, and he is nice enough to take us with him. This will be our little secret, Jonas.”
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