The stunned spectators stood in absolute silence, paralyzed by these monstrous events. Policemen and Brownshirts directed traffic and dozens of teenagers, now empty-handed, were escorted to their homes by their parents. The party was over. At least for now.
The Rabbis of Europe met in Evian, France, several weeks later, appealing to the world, especially to the United States, to demand an end to the torment and murder of Jews. But the pleas were unheard.
Powerful Jewish groups in America remained relatively silent, either not convinced that the unbelievable should be believed, or afraid lest they themselves become victims, even in America. Others simply feigned ignorance as they walked their quiet, peaceful streets. Germany, after all, was so far from New York City. How can one be sure of what was really happening? Thus there would be no economic sanctions, no severing of diplomatic relations, no easing of immigration quotas.
That March, Brand was sitting before the fire in his library, reading the report of the Jewish congress following months of futile discussion, when the Prince arrived.
“This is my favorite room, Brand,” the Prince said. “The old Victorian mantle, the beautiful embroidered tapestries, the velvet armchairs, the leather-covered books, the greatest words ever written, right in this marvelous room. The only things of real and lasting value in life are right here. To think these monsters burned all those great books. Someday, perhaps, there will be some justice, retribution, for every woman, man and child who has swallowed this poison.”
“It is not to be believed,” Brand said. “In the history of the world there never has been such concerted government-sponsored violence against so many innocent people. Wildgewordene Spiessburger! Little men gone wild!” Brand spat indignantly as he quoted a familiar German epithet. “This is butchery!”
Just days before, Brand was in Berlin with the Prince at a meeting of industrialists at the Adlon Hotel. They sat with Speer and Krupp, Farben, and other men of industry, and they planned who was going to change the face of the world. When they departed, they arrived on Kammerstrasse. A huge bonfire, not unlike the Kristallnacht, made the world orange. German youth, dressed in their ominous tan uniforms, with glowing faces, were throwing in mountains of books, nearly all of them by Jewish authors, among them some of the greatest works ever written. The men were shouting obscenities as they hurled the books into the fire.
Brand had been mesmerized by the incomprehensible scene. “This is what Dante’s Inferno must be like,” he said as he covered his face with his embroidered handkerchief to shield himself from the heat and ashes encircling their heads like little red devils. “Surely, these hooligans cannot know what they are doing, destroying the very soul of civilization,” he finished.
“Not so loud, otherwise you will land on that pile,” the Prince had urged at the time. “They would welcome your corpse on top of the books by Stefan Zweig and the Old Testament.”
Now the Prince approached his friend as he surveyed this beautiful library. “The time has come for you to leave,” he told Brand. He did not mince words.” Don’t you see that now? They will put you and your entire family in a concentration camp for political prisoners, and they will kill everyone. I can protect you for only so long. As you know, I am myself not in a secure position. I will try to sell all your interests and holdings and smuggle the money to Switzerland, because they won’t let you take out one mark.”
“I have some cash, although nothing big to speak of,” Brand ruminated. “It is all tied up in barges, boats, buildings, billiard tables, the company. And the football stadium I recently bought. They have imposed an 80% tax on all Jewish store owners, which includes me, of course. I started to make arrangements awhile back,” Brand continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The walls have ears, Fräulein ears.”
He raised his finger to his lips and reached behind a glass bookcase, where a safe was hidden. Brand showed the Prince the passports, visas and five first-class tickets on the Queen Mary, open tickets, for which he had paid thousands of dollars a few years before.
“And here is $100,000 cash, in American dollars,” Brand said.
“A small fraction of your fortune,” the Prince whispered. “For you, Lucia, Jonas, and Herman, of course. But for whom is the fifth ticket?”
“Do you think our family could leave without our best friend? You, dear man. Uncle Herman and I concluded that the very day Hitler was elected.”
The Prince, deeply touched, brushed his hand over temples that lately had started to gray, then said softly, “I guess I will have to start learning English.”
The governess was standing directly outside the room, trying to make out the low conversation through the thick oak doors. Finally, frustrated in her efforts, she knocked on the door.
“I am sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I’ve come to speak for the staff – Cook, the gardener and the chauffeurs, and myself.
“Herr Kruger, we do not agree with everything Hitler is doing. We remain loyal to you and your family, but if you feel you’d rather not have any Germans in your home, we will understand and, of course, leave.”
“Fräulein, you are part of our family, and we would not dream of your leaving us. We have had wonderful years together, and we have hopes that things will soon get better, for all of us.”
She curtsied innocently, although bending her body slightly to reveal the swell of her breasts above the low-cut blouse.
She looked particularly lovely this afternoon, her long blond hair catching the firelight, like silk in sunshine. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, dangerously convincing. She smiled to herself as she felt her magical charm had not failed her.
“You are a lucky man, Brand,” the Prince said after she departed. “To have such loyalty these days is most uncommon. And then, also, Paul Richter can be counted on as a friend.”
“Money buys honey,” Brand said, “except the governess. She remains her own person, loyal to that madman, but not to us. I have never trusted the Nazi bitch.”
Brand, fearing he had been stupidly indiscreet, suddenly threw open the library door. Now satisfied that Fräulein Marlow was gone, he continued.
“She works for the Gestapo, as does Bruno.” He had resolved to keep enemies close and friends not too far. That was why he had not let her go. The day could come when she might prove useful.
Brand removed a brown folder from behind one of the original Guttenberg bibles he owned.
“My will, for safekeeping, just in case, and here are the 100,000 dollars, no counterfeits. And the visas, passports, vaccination certifications, and affidavits; otherwise, they won’t let us enter the land of the free and the home of the brave. And, here are the open-ended tickets on the Queen Mary. She sails every two weeks.”
“Metchnik left for South America, Grecia and Lotte left for New York, and we,” the Prince laughed, “when do we go? I have not only to learn English, but to get myself some cowboy clothing too. Can you imagine? Prince Tom Mix!”
“I need just a little more time,” Brand said, his face tightening, his jaw frozen. “Besides, it may still blow over. The madman may change his mind and realize that without the Jews he will never make it. No power in the world has survived for long without Jewish brains and know-how.”
“That is nonsense,” the Prince said. “You better not wait until the fall. Rudolf Hess told me that Hitler is going to march in a few months. He wants Europe. He has Austria, the Sudenten; now he will take Danzig, Poland, England, and the rest of Europe. America will not enter the war. The Bund does good propaganda there. Besides, the isolationists are thriving. How safe they feel, surrounded by two mighty oceans.”
“Don’t be so sure my friend. There are many Jews in America who have more power than you think. I cannot believe they will stand by and allow that little prick to ruin the world.”
Lucia spent most of her time now in the house, except to go to the Friedenau market where she could still get fresh fruit, cranberries, dill, and cucumbers; and from there it was o
nly a short walk to the old Hangergasse where the few remaining Jewish vendors sold meat and bread. Every day she read the Judenblatt. It listed, uncensored, the names of Jewish families who had left Danzig, the businesses which were closed, and those who were sent to concentration camps. The newspaper even reported any violence that occurred. The news was then sent to America for the American Jews and the world to read.
At the end of June 1939, the family left for Sopot, which was still blooming with tourists. The casino was opened, but all of their old friends were gone. The old fashionable Jewish establishments of the long pier were boarded up, although the concert hall flourished, packed each night with visitors listening to music written only by “acceptable” German composers, skillfully conducted as ever by Wilhelm Furtwängler.
Sopot was also crowded with Nazis parading in white uniforms, and with the less elite in Brownshirts. Uncle Herman made Lucia’s life bearable. They went to the casino whenever he came to visit, accompanied by his new girlfriend. He allowed her to play blackjack as long as she wished, and if she lost, Herman placed fresh rolls of gulden in front of her. Brand hired 24-hour guards to patrol the house, and Astor never left their side. Lucia felt abandoned, like a lost child, and became depressed and angry because they still had not left the country. And, of course, it was far too dangerous to see her family in Warsaw. She hadn’t seen them in months, another heartache. On the positive side, the governess had been forced to remain in Danzig. Lucia could no longer stand the sight of her.
“Better to keep the snake in sight,” Brand had pleaded. But on this issue, Lucia prevailed.
Never having done any housework, she took quickly that summer to cleaning and polishing the furniture, making the beds in the morning, and even cooking breakfast. The work was good for her anxiety. The cook, an elderly spinster from Poland, taught her how to make roasts and chocolate pudding for Jonas and white borscht and nalesniki, the fruit crepes Brand loved, for when he came each weekend. Anything to keep Lucia from the constant fretting and waiting. She had a small suitcase packed with underclothing, a makeup kit, and a book of poems by Pushkin, in case she was suddenly taken to the concentration camp.
She wandered through the quiet house like a woman obsessed, constantly securing the bolts on the windows, checking the locks on the closed doors, and rearranging old books. There was little to occupy her. During the day Lucia sat on the velvet cushion by the bay window of her bedroom, where she could see the beach and watch and hear the mighty sea rolling. At night, it was the soothing sound of the waves lapping the shores that finally lulled her to sleep. Her life, she mused, felt like the waves, reaching the shore, just touching it, but never arriving. Waiting, waiting for that truculent storm that she could smell in her nostrils and her soul, no less well than any sailor on the high seas.
Every morning, discreetly, a young English teacher came to the house to give Lucia and Jonas lessons in reading and conversation. Brand had arranged for these lessons and they were her great symbol of hope, evidence, at last, that soon they would be leaving. The young man was tall, thin, and earnest, and he wore a well-groomed mustache. They sat in the garden on the large porch swing, learning sentences like, “What time is it now?” and “I feel O.K.”
Jonas liked the sound of “O.K.” so much that he soon incorporated it into his everyday speech. After the lessons were over, Jonas was driven to the schooner where he and the Captain made daily trips, sometimes going to Tiel Gurato, a peaceful village by the sea where time seemed to have stood still, except for an occasional reminder of the Third Reich, whose gunboats patrolled the area. The Captain knew most of the sailors on them by their first name and was always careful to slip them a bottle of brandy when they were invited to come aboard.
Lucia now looked forward to the daily visits of the English teacher and the smell of his English cigarettes and English cologne. At first she wore simple house dresses when he arrived. One morning after a few weeks, she wore a blue bathing suit covered by a white silk kimono, and had carefully arranged the soft dark waves around her lovely face. The slow steady motion of the porch swing and the timid stare of the young teacher made her feel alive again. Brand had not touched her in months.
After Jonas left for the schooner, they sat and drank coffee, ate warm rolls and butter, and discussed Chekhov’s Cherry Orchard.
“It was Flaubert who said that an unfulfilled woman has it written on her face. You, Frau Kruger, read like an open book,” the tutor ventured.
At first she felt offended by the young man’s audacity and wanted him to leave, never to return. She looked in the mirror, searching for the tell-tale lines on her face that the teacher evidently found so readily. She remained silent, too weak to protest the obvious truth. She did find one small wrinkle near the corner of her eye.
It was after midnight and Lucia felt restless following a dream in which she and her English teacher were lying on a pile of books, undressed, caressing each other.
A beautiful full moon shone into her bedroom this late July night, and in her languid state she looked out towards the beach, which was covered by a soft haze. She spotted the English teacher wearing white pants and an open shirt, strolling slowly by the edge of the water, his eyes focused, frozen on her window. In her nightgown, she quietly opened the front door, motioning the guard to allow the teacher in. Astor was at her side in seconds, but once he recognized the young man, he withdrew. “You are walking so late,” she said, her throat dry, her heart pounding.
“I like walking in the moonlight and reciting poetry. Tonight it is so sultry I could not sleep. The moon has magical mysterious effects, does it not? It does more than make the tide come in.”
She invited him inside the house. Brand was still in town, not due back before the weekend. Her nightgown was pink, diaphanous with moonlight from the window behind her. Her softness revealed, she felt warm, desirable, feminine. She thought she could hear the pounding of the young man’s heart through his half-opened shirt. They sat in the living room, drinking Armagnac. The air was heavy, humid.
He said, “I have walked here every night, hoping to see you. I have sensed how afraid and lonely you are. And so I have been reluctant to tell you that I must return to England. It is just too dangerous to stay here. I will be leaving in a few days.”
Lucia’s face changed, as if a cloud covered the full moon. He touched her thigh through the silk gown and she sighed softly, resignedly, and placed her arms around him, a pink flush on her cheeks. She felt his torso stiffen, as if the thrill of anticipation was coursing through his entire body.
“No,” she whispered, dropping her arms, “please leave. I just can’t. I am sorry.”
The next day she sat by her window peering out into the Baltic Sea. Lucia had always loved it for its biting honesty, for its predictable tides and dark depths. Last night had been the end of something that never started. She didn’t know if she felt worse because she had misled the young teacher or because he was leaving her behind.
On Friday morning two weeks later Brand was at the Baltic Kohlen office, finishing his paperwork. The Nazi officials came, as they did each morning, to look at the financial records. When they had gone, he phoned Max Schiller, transmitting an urgent message the officials had left with him, one of such importance that it had Albert Speer’s signature and stamp. The barges would henceforth be armed with firearms and accompanied by gunboats. They would transport their precious cargo of coal and lumber directly to Bremerhaven and to Peenemunde, the rocket base being completed at a feverish pace. In other words, his personal services were no longer required.
The general manager of the company, Fritz Werfel, came into Brand’s office. His head bowed, he spoke humbly, haltingly, perhaps even apologetically.
“We members of the staff want to thank you for being such a kind and considerate employer. We know that these are hard times for you and we want you to have this little present from all of us.”
Bowing again, he presented Brand with a large scu
lptured piece of coal bearing the simple inscription, “Baltic Kohlen.” Brand was so moved by the gesture and by the significance of the moment that he rose from his large leather swivel chair and embraced him.
“We have survived other crises,” Brand said, “and all this will seem to have been just another test if we all stick together.”
“You and your family will always have our loyalty.”
When Brand left his office, he stopped and gazed at the magnificent building. It was centuries old, four stories high, with tall narrow windows, and surrounded by its own cobblestone square. A statue of a brave Danziger, holding a mighty spear, stood at the entrance, in memory of the twelfth-century defense against an invasion by the Teutonic Knights. He had the oddest feeling that he would never, ever see this building again, this marvel of architecture and finance where twenty years earlier his Baltic Kohlen Company was born. With his broad business interests and many investments, there seemed little reason to feel so uneasy at this particular moment, but Brand couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was in store for him. Yet, despite the premonition, he felt fatalistic – nothing he could do would change the inexorable events that were unfolding.
He took a last long look at the golden plaque on the building façade – “Baltic Kohlen” – and then, heavy-hearted and weary, he climbed into the gleaming Duesenberg parked in front. He drove through the Danzig old town, with its beautiful ancient streets, and then through the city’s many neighborhoods, seeing everywhere old and reliable friends: the statue of Schopenhauer, the museum of old ships, the revered university, his newly acquired football stadium, the marvelous Hanseatic buildings with their magnificent stone balconies sculptured with wild animals. He was seeing all of them as if it were for the first time and for the last time. He drove deliberately to the Danzig shipyards and stopped to gaze at his line of barges packed with coal. Baltic Kohlen, the pride and flagship of his fleet, sat low in the water, although its name, appearing in large gold letters on the bow, remained visible. Men dressed in black, his men, were silently securing the bulkheads and getting ready to depart. The tugboats were blowing smoke from their stacks and making sounds like belching animals as they prepared to leave the port. Brand gave out a silent sigh and drove on.
Twilight in Danzig Page 18