All books by Jewish authors were removed from the public schools. The only music tolerated was by Wagner, Bach, and Mozart. Mendelssohn and Mahler were prohibited, having been born Jews. Any business owned by Jews was confiscated; Jewish bank officers were fired; Jewish stores were boycotted, posted with a yellow Star of David to identify them as places to be avoided. Brownshirts roamed the streets like hungry wolf packs, provoking, attacking, humiliating. Few Jews were left in Danzig, perhaps some five hundred. The other eight thousand had fled to any place that would take them. The doors of the United States were closed now. How easy it was even for the idolized Roosevelt to shut his eyes and ears and hope that everything would somehow return to normal? Hitler proposed that the Jews all find a homeland in Madagascar. There was no way to get to the moon in 1938.
The Kruger family was one of the few permitted to remain unmolested in Danzig as Baltic Kohlen was simply too important to the Third Reich. The Krugers, and Hitler’s mother’s physicians, and hundreds of other Jews deemed essential, stayed on in Germany, their blood less important than the German need for them. These were “cleaner” Jews! Lunacy triumphant.
Three years after Bill Harrington’s death, the Prince was now an officer in the SS, a ReichFührer. In this capacity he was holding a reception for Goebbels and Ribbentrop at the exclusive men’s business club in Danzig. Although the club was totally restricted by this time, Brand was a notable exception and occasionally permitted to lunch there with the Prince, Max Schiller, and Paul Richter of the Danzig Police.
Metchnik refused to set foot in the club. Brand was invited to attend the reception, but the Prince warned Brand not to come. “Accept the invitation,” he told his friend, “then send word that there was a crisis that needed your presence.”
One day before the scheduled event, the Prince met with Jan Goldberg, the owner of Café des Artistes, where Bill had lunched with Lucia in the early days. Jan’s eyes were still intense, his face more drawn than it used to be. “I know Hess is your old friend,” Jan told him, “but you should have invited him also. We will never get this chance again. Anyway, after the dessert is served, three waiters will arrive with champagne. You are to slip into the bathroom and wait there until your butler comes to get you. He will escort you out, and away.”
Hess had given the Prince an alternative: “Either you join the Führer, or you give up all your titles and your holdings, and leave Germany forever, in one piece. More I cannot do for you, I’m sorry.”
Being on the Reichstag staff, the Prince thought as a reasonable man, that in his own way he could do something to scotch the madness that was rising like a monster from hell. He even agreed to help Goldberg and his small group of patriots who were planning to assassinate the Nazi leadership and to establish a new government.
A long line of Mercedes and BMWs gathered before the Men’s Club as SS soldiers dressed in their intimidating black uniforms emerged with Joseph Goebbels, Minister of Propaganda, a thin, tiny man with rat eyes, and with the tall stately Von Ribbentrop, the Foreign Minister. Goebbels and Ribbentrop were dressed in dazzling white uniforms. They entered the club in high spirits. The Prince greeted them with an affable smile.
As they were lunching and toasting the Führer, Goebbels whispered to the Prince, “I thought you invited the special Jew,” he said.
“He telephoned and said that he had a crisis with one of the barges.”
“Good, he doesn’t belong here. What was the crisis anyway? Did some of the herrings rot?” He guffawed at his own joke. “You know, by the way, how pleased we are that you are so close to the Jew. I hear he lives very well, that thanks to his barges he leads a life of refined tastes. Soon, very soon, we will send him and his family away to a vacation in a far-off resort where he won’t enjoy his luxuries.” Goebbels gave the Prince a devilish grin, exposing his crooked teeth.
The dessert was served and the Prince excused himself from the table, as planned. He waited in the bathroom for the sound of gunfire, his heart pounding. Ten minutes later, the door suddenly opened and Goebbels walked in.
“You looked pale at the table, Prince. How are you?”
“I am fine,” the Prince said, fighting to keep his tone even and wondering what had happened. “Just too much rich food for so early in the day, my dear friend. Come, we are all waiting to toast you.”
The following morning the Judenblatt, the only Jewish daily newspaper the Nazis still tolerated, for reasons never really understood, announced in bold type that Jan Goldberg and five other men had been shot dead after a conspiracy was uncovered to kill the Prince and the special visitors from Berlin.
Jonas’ life had changed drastically. His large playroom was converted into a classroom. There was a school desk and a large blackboard. At his parents’ insistence, the old Rabbi continued to give him religious instruction and he attended the Jewish school from five to eight each evening. He had no choice. But Jonas was grateful to be able to continue some of his education which he supplemented with the large volumes of original editions in his family’s library. He spent hours climbing on the movable ladder, removing from the shelves more and more books by the great writers of the past to read, especially at night. His governess spied on him as he sat by the long mahogany table with an opened book in front of him underneath the Tiffany lamp. When Jonas went to bed after he bid his parents goodnight, he locked the door of his bedroom. During the day he tried to take little notice of the Fräulein, who made every effort to provoke him, and he succeeded. In fact, he barely spoke to her, feeling ashamed and remorseful at having ever allowed himself to become emotionally and physically enticed by her.
Stefan’s Park, across from his balcony, was converted into training grounds: barbed wire, trenches, tents, young men in brown marching, and target practice – the quotidian scene in 1938. Jonas recognized with some guilt and revulsion many of the young faces, and he was in constant fear that one of them would call him by name. How, after all, could he explain that to his parents? Every time Jonas left the house he expected some of the boys to engage him in conversation. He lived with this terrible secret, dreading imminent exposure and shame. He may have buried the relics of the Nazi regime in the sand, but he could not ever erase the sounds and images of his own participation.
Jonas was in the library waiting for the Rabbi to arrive. Astor sat waiting at the trolley stop. As soon as the Rabbi climbed down from the tram, Astor jumped on him, licking his beard, and then escorted the old gentleman back to the house, the young Brown-shirts looking on, wary of the large dog. Brand had offered the Rabbi the use of the chauffeured limousine, which he refused. Lucia served the Rabbi tea in a tall glass with a slice of lemon floating on top with a lump of sugar, which slowly dissolved in the mouth. There were also open-faced sandwiches of deviled eggs and smoked salmon. Astor stood by watching, waiting for the crumbs to fall from the old man’s white beard.
First they read from the Torah, and then the Rabbi lectured Jonas on topics about Jewish history and the role the Jews had played in Danzig.
“The Jews of Danzig originally came from Lithuania, early in the tenth century, and they established a most important community. It was they who built one of the synagogues still standing today, the Central Synagogue.
“The Prince was a descendant of the Black Knight, one of the Teutonic Knights. Although they were against the Jews, they allowed them to form guilds, and the Jews prospered, as did Danzig. But in 1600 they were expelled until 100 years later, when the Swedes invaded Danzig and the Jews were allowed to return, with the provision that they not worship publicly.
“Now, three hundred years later, it is the same story. Once again we are persecuted, but we will prevail now, as we always have. Your father thinks it will be better soon, and that is why he desires to stay. Perhaps, with God’s help, your father will be right. Whenever we are free again, it will be because of our education, tradition, and family life; because we are the chosen people of the Great Book, the Torah, guardians of the mo
ral and ethical values that helped shape the world.”
After the Rabbi finished his lecture, Lucia gave him a handsome amount of money for his tutoring, Astor escorted him back to the trolley car and Jonas had to leave for school.
Jonas hated going to school at night. All his friends were gone, except for Gerhardt, whose family still refused to let him associate with Jonas. Having no friends, he spent most of his time reading and being alone. He read The Odyssey by Homer and felt as Odysseus did at being drawn in by the Sirens. Fräulein Marlow felt Jonas’ resentment when he looked at her with angry eyes.
It was early November, 1938. Jonas took his satchel with his books, put on his leather jacket, and waited outside with Astor for the chauffeur who would take him to school. He reflected deeply on what the Rabbi had said and, with his next birthday just weeks away, wished with all his heart that his father would also leave Danzig. While he waited, he watched the Brownshirts strolling with their parents across the street. They carried shopping bags stuffed with newspapers and rags, and when they saw Jonas they started to laugh, sticking out their tongues, shouting, “Eenie minee mouse, a Jew is nothing but a filthy louse.”
Three teenage boys suddenly deserted their parents, ran across the street to Jonas, and started spitting into his face. One of them carried pepper in his handkerchief and threw it at Jonas’ eyes. He was blinded momentarily, his eyes tearing and smarting. The boys and their parents found the scene amusing. Jonas took off his leather knapsack and began to swing it like a sling at their heads just as he once had at Gerhardt. But now here was a real enemy. He suddenly thought of David and Goliath and somehow gathered the courage and strength with which to overcome his abject terror. The boys, in turn, surrounded him like animals, rabid dogs waiting for the kill.
“Kill the Jew!” He heard those familiar words and in a rage, thrust his fist into a face, making it bleed. They threw him to the ground. Astor attacked the three teens, savagely. The parents now stopped laughing and came running to gather up their sons, but not before Astor took a measure of revenge, inflicting large and bleeding gashes on several boys’ arms and legs.
“Get them, Astor! Kill them! Kill the Nazis!”
The teenage boys and their parents ran; it was their turn to feel terror. If Jonas had not yelled for Astor to return, he would have pursued the vermin to the ends of the earth.
Although at that moment Jonas felt little pain from the thrashing, there was a deeper pain born of bitterness and rage. “Good boy, Astor! You taught them a lesson!”
He walked slowly back to the house, Astor following behind. If his father and the captain had not given him some basic instruction in self-defense following that terrible incident in Sopot, he would surely have been seriously hurt, to say the least.
“If ever you are attacked by the hoodlums,” they had said, “find a wall to lean against so they can’t attack you from behind. Kick them in the balls, and go for the eyes.” There was no wall, but he had done well.
At the indoor Stadt tennis courts, Brand was in the middle of the second set with the chief of police, Paul Richter, when he learned that Jonas had been in a fight on the street.
Paul had been a friend for many years. Each Christmas and Easter, Brand sent over presents for his family and special bonuses for his extra diligence in keeping the barges and the Baltic Kohlen offices from being vandalized. The police inspector was an elegant Prussian, descended from a long line of police. His grandfather had saved one of the Hapsburgs from being assassinated in Sopot in 1902.
Much to Paul’s dismay, his entire police force was gradually taken over by the Nazis, and he was forced to join the party or lose his job.
“Get a bodyguard for Jonas,” he told Brand as they hustled swiftly from the tennis palladium. “Quickly get to the families and make them an offer; otherwise, we will be forced to kill Astor. They will demand it.”
Brand, that very next afternoon, went to the homes of the three boys, paid for all the medical bills and gave each parent a few thousand guldens as well as one year’s supply of coal for their furnaces; with winter coming, a gesture not without real value. Each boy also received a thousand guldens. Brand knew his friend was right; that if he did not swiftly compensate these savages, Astor would indeed be put to death by the police.
In one of the homes Brand saw dozens of shopping bags stuffed with newspapers, exactly as Jonas had described it to him, and as he drove he saw dozens of youths on the street with their parents, many of them young children, each carrying bags the same way, as if they were going to a party. He stopped at the Prince’s home, next door.
“What is going on?” he asked. “The whole town is gone crazy. All the children are collecting newspapers and stuffing them into bags.”
“Perhaps it is a new craze,” the Prince shrugged it off. “Young people, what can I say? And so, my friend, tonight I will come to your home and I will bring the daily paper – and some Polish ham and herring in a brown bag.”
It was the first formal dinner party that Lucia had given since Bill died. No one, frankly had had the appetite for it. But tonight they were celebrating. It was Lucia and Brand’s eighteenth wedding anniversary. In the Jewish tradition, eighteen was an important number. It stood for luck. Brand had insisted they mark the occasion.
Still, it was a sedate evening. The world begged for a sedate evening, although Lucia insisted that everyone be in formal wear. It was their usual set. Uncle Herman was accompanied by a voluptuous new girlfriend, a secretary who worked at Gestapo headquarters. The Prince came alone, as he always did now. Still he was dressed to perfection and Lucia seated him to her left, just like old times. Tonight she wore a white gown with a splendid diamond necklace around her fine neck, an anniversary present from Brand. They drank champagne from beautiful Baccarat stemware. The governess, sitting next to Jonas, drank too. Jonas was quiet, even solemn. His face was swollen, covered with black and blue marks; his arms and body ached like a boxer’s days after a fight.
The Prince raised his glass and toasted to Jonas. “The first to resist and fight back, but not the last. He is our Joe Louis defeating Max Schmelling.”
Everyone applauded. Lucia sprang up from her seat and planted a loving tender kiss on her son’s bruised and blushing cheeks. The Prince was on his fifth glass of champagne, and only later regretted making his sympathies so obvious to the governess and the secretary.
From behind her champagne flute, Fräulein Marlow sighed and thought about how many times she had sat at the Krugers’ table as she did tonight. She was not without nostalgia for those absent like the young, unlucky American, the mignon, and for those now grown, seemingly beyond her reach and allure. The governess failed to seduce Jonas into the Hitler Youth, but she did beguile and seduce him. Passion is hardly selective. In spite of Jonas’ resentment, the governess had lured him, trapped him, imprisoned him. She had taken him from childhood to adolescence and into the exciting and exotic world of carnal love to meet her own needs: a fury at Brand for no longer desiring her and at his wife, who had won.
So why then was she still there? Surely the boy, soon turning seventeen, no longer needed a governess. Yet they refused to let her go. And what about her? She told herself that she was still there to help the Führer, to be his eyes and ears in this Jewish house. In reality, she had found more joy in initiating her sweet boy – pure and good and without shame, who had trusted and loved her -- than she did with her bullfaced Bruno, also still here, his swastika armband tucked inside his chauffeur’s uniform. Yes, they both had jobs to do, and so they stayed.
“Tonight,” Bruno had told her earlier, “the reign of terror for the Jews of the world will begin. Their days are numbered.” She sipped her champagne and watched Jonas. What a tall handsome devil he is going to be one day, she thought. Who was addicted to whom?
A few blocks away from the Kruger home stood an ancient synagogue. It was a small house of worship where the old Rabbi, who taught Jonas, was in his study with some of his ad
vanced students, studying the complexities of the Talmud.
Deeply immersed in their studies, they did not hear anything amiss until the unlocked door was suddenly burst open by a group of young teenagers in those familiar brown uniforms. They grabbed the old Rabbi by his beard, pulling him like a goat up to the altar of the sanctuary. The two Talmudic students were also bearded, and they wore the traditional black silk garb and long ringlets suspended from the sides of their heads. The teenagers, screeching like hyenas, pulled them by the ringlets, as other young boys crammed into the synagogue, carrying their stuffed brown bags. They threw the old man to the ground, tore the holy Torah from the ark, and ripped off their golden crowns. The bearded students screamed in horror and frustration as the blond-haired hoodlums tied their hands to the altar railing before urinating on the Holy Scriptures. The Rabbi lifted his head to the sky, begging for God to intervene in this moment of terror just as one of the wolves kicked him hard in the head, knocking him to the ground where he lay unconscious. The newspapers in the bags were lit, and in minutes the synagogue was on fire, the Rabbi and the students powerless to save themselves from the inferno.
All over Danzig and Germany, the same grotesque scene was taking place. Jewish stores and businesses were shattered, glass strewn everywhere. Thousands were attacked. Hundreds died. Hitler called this night Kristallnacht, the night of shattered glass. It was a night of shattered hopes and lives, the true beginning of the beginning.
Brand and the other guests smelled smoke even through the closed windows of the cool November night. When they ran out into the street, their nostrils were assaulted by the sickly sweet smell of seared flesh and they saw that the sky was aglow; it was as if the entire city of Danzig were burning. They followed the path of the glow, as did dozens of others from this elegant neighborhood. The glow led to the synagogue. Astor ran ahead as Jonas yelled, “The Rabbi is inside!” The shepherd dashed into the burning old building that was now like a sacrificial tribal bonfire stacked with human flesh. Astor vanished through the flames. Heart-rending minutes later, his fur singed, Astor emerged, dragging the charred remains of the dead Rabbi into the street.
Twilight in Danzig Page 17