A Fight in Silence

by Melanie Metzenthin

  Fritz came to collect Rudi the following evening, bursting with excitement. ‘The games were magnificent! The whole city was decked out with the flags of every country you could think of. Not just pennants but huge banners – five metres long, I’d say. For people with no stadium tickets, there were loudspeakers all over the place, broadcasting announcements direct from the inside. And then there were these things called television suites where you could go and watch it all on a television set.’

  ‘Television?’ Richard looked puzzled. He hadn’t heard this word before and imagined a room full of huge binoculars trained on the Olympic arena.

  ‘Haven’t you seen the newsreel about it?’ asked Fritz.

  Richard shook his head. ‘We haven’t been to the cinema for a while.’

  ‘It’s a wooden chest, bigger than an orange box.’ Fritz demonstrated the size with his hands and Richard couldn’t help but smile. His old friend never used to be one for gestures, but now that sign language was part of normal life in Richard’s family, Fritz was unconsciously adapting his own style. ‘At the front there’s a pane of glass called a screen. I spent so long getting the technician to explain it all to me that Dorothea got fed up waiting and Henriette started grizzling.’ Fritz chuckled as he remembered the scene. ‘When you switch it on, you see moving pictures on the screen. It’s similar to the cinema, but the difference is that these pictures are created within the box and then transmitted on to the screen. The film recordings from the Olympic Stadium were broadcast in the same way, using radio waves, so that you could be in a television suite and still see what was happening inside the arena. OK, these recordings weren’t as clear as cinema newsreel and you could often make out only shadowy figures, but I was really impressed by the technical side. Just imagine if everyone had a box like that at home – it would be better than the radio. You hear it but have the pictures as well. It would be an absolute blessing for your boy. It’s a shame nobody’s thinking of mass production yet, but it’s all too pricey at the moment.’

  ‘That’s a relief for the cinemas, I imagine,’ observed Richard.

  ‘That’s true, yes, but there’s no comparison with the big screen. Television can transmit only black-and-white pictures. The German Film Academy ought to be bringing more colour films into our cinemas.’

  ‘So did you actually see any sporting events or just enjoy the technical novelties?’

  ‘Of course we did! We saw that miracle of a runner, Jesse Owens, in the hundred-metre final and long jump. He pushed our Luz Long into second place in the long jump and Long congratulated him warmly. Near us there was a Nazi in uniform making comments about how any German national comrade should be ashamed of embracing a Negro. I couldn’t help but tell him that this was in keeping with the traditional spirit of the Olympics. Most of the crowd thought Long’s gesture was the right thing to do and cheered Owens for his achievements – the man won four gold medals, after all. I pointed this out to my neighbour and he told me it was no great surprise because Negroes are natural runners. Then he started talking about Darwin and claimed that it’s genetically determined that only the fastest Negroes escaped being eaten by lions and could then reproduce. When I asked him if his knowledge of Africa came exclusively from those Tarzan films with Johnny Weissmüller, the conversation came to an abrupt end.’ Fritz laughed and Richard joined in.

  ‘Then we saw Karl Hein’s Olympic record in the hammer. And we were there when the women’s four by one hundred relay team were in line for a new world record but lost the baton in the final and got disqualified. You should have heard the crowd – like an earthquake! But the television made such an impression on me. It’s technology that matters. However fast you can run, horses have always been faster, and since the motor car, well, any old tortoise can outpace an Olympic champion.’

  ‘Sounds as though you had fun.’

  ‘Certainly did.’ Fritz was beaming with delight. ‘And even though we’d gone to Berlin for the games, we made time to go to the Egyptian Museum as well and saw the bust of Nefertiti. But you’ll never guess who we ran into there.’ His grin broadened. ‘Maxwell Cooper, of all people, along with his wife and daughter.’

  ‘Maxwell Cooper?’ The name didn’t ring any bells with Richard.

  ‘My English colleague – the one from London I meet up with at conferences. The one who showed me the surgical procedure for sterilisation.’

  ‘Yes, I remember now.’

  ‘Anyway, there we were, standing in front of Nefertiti, and we couldn’t believe our eyes. It was so funny. Everyone else was still at the stadium, so we had the place pretty much to ourselves. All the Coopers are mad on Ancient Egypt – they learned hieroglyphics even as children. Maxwell’s brother is curator at the British Museum in London and, last time I was there, he showed me some of the rooms where they do restoration work that aren’t usually open to the public. As a side interest, Maxwell researches causes of death in mummies. It’s fascinating. Dorothea was a bit bored by it all as she doesn’t speak much English and Maxwell and his wife speak no German at all, but that didn’t stop Helen giving our little Henriette a hug and telling me to bring Dorothea and the little one with me next time I’m in London for a conference. But nothing will come of that for a while, not now Dorothea’s pregnant again.’

  ‘You’re having another baby?’ Richard was surprised and delighted.

  ‘We certainly are. The baby’s due end of January, early February.’

  ‘Just like before. At least I know when the mating season is for you two.’

  ‘Very funny!’ Fritz laughed and gave him a playful punch.

  On 8 February 1937 Fritz and Dorothea became parents to a healthy boy they named Harald, known by everyone as Harri.

  Three days later Richard was at his desk reviewing an expert statement when the phone rang.

  ‘Hellmer here.’

  ‘This is Matthias Olderog. Are you alone?’ He sounded hunted.

  ‘Yes.’ Olderog’s tone unsettled Richard. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I wanted to warn you. Alfred Schär was arrested yesterday. There’s been a countrywide operation against the ISK.’

  Richard swallowed hard. ‘What’s he accused of?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was summoned for questioning at the Gestapo headquarters at Stadthausbrücke and then taken straight into custody.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No, I just wanted to inform you. If you get a summons from the Gestapo, just say you know Alfred only in his role as a deaf-mute teacher.’

  Richard felt his hands go cold. There’d been rumours of torture in Gestapo prisons, but that had always seemed so far removed from himself and his own life. And yet now here was someone he viewed as a friend in the clutches of the Gestapo. At the same time he realised it wasn’t just Schär he was worried about. What would happen if he was summoned too? If he was arrested? What would happen to Paula and the children?

  ‘Am I on their list?’ He struggled to keep his voice steady. ‘How much danger is there?’

  At the other end of the line Olderog’s breathing was uneven. ‘Klaus and I won’t say a word. I can’t imagine that Alfred will give anything away and you’re not a member of the ISK in any case. But I’m very worried about Alfred. The Gestapo are known for their brutality.’

  ‘So is there nothing we can do?’

  ‘Nothing, other than sit tight and wait until the danger has passed. I have to go now.’

  Once Olderog had hung up, Richard rang to inform Paula.

  She said nothing for a long time and he was afraid they’d lost the connection.

  Eventually, she spoke. ‘Don’t worry. You’ve done nothing illegal. You’ve just done your job. And I don’t believe Alfred Schär would name you. You’re not important in this. Stay calm and wait.’

  Over the next couple of days Richard gave a start every time the phone rang, but there was no call from the Gestapo and his life continued as normal.

  On the third da
y after Schär’s arrest, Olderog rang again. ‘I’ve got bad news.’

  His voice was subdued and Richard felt his stomach tense. Had Schär given him away? Were the Gestapo after him? Was Olderog warning him to disappear? And if he was, how could he, when he had a wife and children?

  What Olderog said next shocked him out of his panic.

  ‘Alfred is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Richard couldn’t take it in. ‘How . . . how can he be dead?’

  ‘They say he hanged himself in custody.’ Olderog’s voice cracked. ‘But I don’t believe that. My fear is that they’ve overdone the interrogation and are covering it up as suicide.’

  Richard took some deep breaths.

  Dead . . . Alfred Schär was dead.

  However often he repeated this to himself, his mind just couldn’t take it in.

  ‘But he was determined to the last and didn’t betray anyone.’ Olderog’s voice trembled with emotion. ‘That should be some consolation to us.’

  Didn’t betray anyone . . . dead . . . determined . . . Richard couldn’t concentrate.

  ‘I simply can’t believe it – it’s a tragedy.’ He wanted to say something but nothing felt right. ‘My thanks to you, Herr Olderog. Do you know how Alfred’s wife is?’

  ‘No. I’m avoiding contact with her at the moment in case she’s being watched by the Gestapo, and you should do likewise. Just live your life as before, Dr Hellmer. That’s the best thing to do.’ With that, he rang off.

  Live life as before? What did Olderog envisage? And yet alongside his horror, Richard sensed something else making its presence felt and was ashamed of it: relief. Schär had not given him away, and now he was dead there was no fear of betrayal. When the full scope of this thought sank in, he wondered whether Schär had hanged himself as final proof that he was loyal and had not betrayed comrades. Richard secretly hoped this was the case, because he wanted to remember Schär as a man who had taken his life to protect others, not as a man beaten to death by the Gestapo.

  Chapter 29

  A few months after Schär’s death, Richard was confident in his belief that any danger of his being in the Gestapo’s sights had been banished once and for all. He had followed Olderog’s advice and tried not to draw attention to himself, even though he still got calls from people wanting medical certificates. It was risky, but he turned no one away. He understood their desperation too well and Paula was right behind him. Around the same time his colleague, Krüger, joined the NSDAP and regularly deputised for the lead consultant. Richard wasn’t too bothered as Krüger rarely came to the secure unit and the number of times he deputised as either senior or lead consultant could be counted on one hand.

  But then one morning in September Paula phoned Richard at work. She sounded agitated. ‘You’ve got a letter here from the Hamburg police headquarters at Stadthausbrücke.’

  Richard froze. That was the Gestapo headquarters. ‘Open it and read it out, would you?’

  He heard her opening the envelope.

  Dear Dr Hellmer, she read. You are hereby required to attend the police headquarters at Stadthausbrücke 8, Department II, Room 12, for questioning on Monday 27 September 1937 at 11 a.m. sharp.

  It concluded with ‘Heil Hitler’ and the name of the Hauptkommissar, Chief Inspector Gustav Liedecke.

  Richard’s throat tightened. Department II meant the political police. Had someone linked him to Schär?

  ‘You’ve nothing to blame yourself for.’ Paula did her best to calm him. ‘You’ve nothing to feel guilty about.’

  ‘I know.’ But his mind was racing. What if someone had talked? Mentioned him in relation to favourable expert statements or denounced him in some other way? All of a sudden he found himself thinking enviously of Leonie and her father’s wise decision to move to Switzerland. She wrote to Paula on a regular basis. Did the Gestapo know about the letters? That his wife was in contact with Jews who had left the country? But that wasn’t against the law. The fear that had gripped him after Schär’s arrest came back now with a vengeance. Schär had been summoned like this and never came back. That had been his second summons, though, and he had been a known member of the ISK. His first summons had just been a warning. Perhaps it would be the same for him.

  On the morning of 27 September, he bade his family a longer goodbye than usual, trying to imprint their expressions, their faces, their movements, everything about them, into his memory in case he never saw them again.

  The police headquarters was an imposing three-storey, eighteenth-century baroque building that from the outside gave no hint of the dark secrets within. As Richard made his way through the entrance hall, he considered how best to conduct himself. Anything the Gestapo thought they knew about him could only have come from informants. Perhaps it was time to dispense with his old aversion to the so-called German greeting and take the wind out of the Hauptkommissar’s sails at the outset.

  Room twelve was on the first floor. He looked at his watch. Seven minutes to eleven. Should he wait or knock straight away? He took three deep breaths and knocked.

  ‘Come in.’

  Richard opened the door, raised his right arm and said, ‘Heil Hitler. My name is Dr Hellmer. You wanted to see me?’

  The official was sitting behind an enormous oak desk, but when Richard hailed him so promptly with the German greeting, he felt obliged to get to his feet and return the gesture. Richard noticed that there was an open newspaper beneath some files on the desk, as if the other man had tried hurriedly to hide it when he’d knocked.

  ‘You’re rather early,’ observed the Kommissar.

  ‘We Germans are like that. Always punctual. Do tell me how I can be of assistance to you, Herr Kriminalkommissar.’

  Uncertainty flickered across the official’s face. Few summoned would ever enter the room so full of self-confidence. Richard decided to carry on in the same vein. He wouldn’t see himself as the accused but as a respected doctor who took it in his stride to be questioned from time to time as an expert witness.

  ‘Do sit down,’ said Liedecke, gesturing at the chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Now, this is purely a routine matter.’

  ‘I had assumed so, Herr Kriminalkommissar. But like any decent German national comrade, I am ready at any time to stand shoulder to shoulder with the police to give advice and support. What can I do for you?’ He leaned back in his chair in a relaxed fashion, noting how irritated this seemed to make Liedecke. And the more irritated the man became, the more confident Richard felt. He took in the room, noting the obligatory Hitler portrait hanging on the wall behind the desk, with a map of Hamburg to the left of it, while a few cacti decorated the window ledge.

  ‘It’s been passed on to us that you knew Alfred Schär.’

  ‘Schär? Oh, yes, that’s right, the deaf-mute teacher. He was recommended to me as a phonetics expert. That was . . . wait a moment, let me see – February 1933, soon after the seizure of power.’

  ‘Why did you need a phonetics expert?’

  ‘It’s like this . . .’ Richard hesitated a moment. ‘I don’t know how much you know about me, so I’ll go back a little. On 9 August 1932 my wife gave birth to our twins. My daughter was born quickly and is a completely healthy little girl. For the birth, however, my son was a transverse presentation, which meant my wife’s labour lasted for hours and in the end he was helped out with forceps. Sadly, this resulted in severe injury, but the extent of it became apparent only after several months. Since then he’s been very hard of hearing and so of course we wanted to get him the best possible support so that he could learn to speak properly in spite of this tragic birth defect.’

  Liedecke cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry. I had been informed that your son was born deaf mute.’

  Richard’s heart skipped a beat but he quickly reverted to his role. ‘Really? Then you need to subject your informant to some tough questioning because he seems to have provided you with incorrect information. My son’s speech is quite intelligible. Being very
hard of hearing, he has to be able to see the face of whoever is talking to him in order to understand absolutely everything, but he is not a deaf mute.’

  Liedecke didn’t pursue this and changed the subject. ‘I have also been informed that you are a doctor at Langenhorn asylum and that you forbid your patients from using the German greeting.’

  Richard gave a start. Who had told the Gestapo about that? And why? He pulled himself together.

  ‘Herr Kriminalkommissar, I’m amazed. The German greeting is for pure-blooded German national comrades born in good health. This is why the use of the German greeting is prohibited in the Rhineland during the carnival season, because it would be robbed of its dignity if used by any drunken Tom, Dick or Harry. I assume you know about this?’ He left a dramatic pause to see what effect his words were having on Liedecke. He’d got this information from Fritz, who had in turn got the story from his cousin down in Cologne.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Now,’ said Richard, cutting across him, ‘you’ll understand how odd it would sound to me, a psychiatrist, to be greeted with “Heil Hitler” by people who have no idea of the significance of this splendid word “Heil” and its association with noble German cultural anthems but know it only in relation to the “healing” of illnesses. You can imagine how I would feel as a psychiatrist if my patients were to enter the room demanding that I heal our leader.’ He’d got so carried away by his own argument that he suddenly wondered if he’d overdone it. But a swift glance at Liedecke’s face reassured him. The man was clearly not a hard nut, more a pleasant official who was gradually letting himself be won over by Richard’s eloquent performance, reinforcing Richard’s suspicion that some evil-intentioned colleague had informed on him and the Gestapo were going into the case only as a matter of routine and had no concrete evidence against him.

  ‘If you would like me to, then I shall of course in future ask my patients to use the German greeting,’ said Richard in a more conciliatory manner. ‘That being the case, I’d like you to give me written authority that this is in line with the law and that it renders my patients equal to all national comrades born with good health. I wouldn’t want to lay myself open to attack through any perceived disregard of our German greeting. I respect the Führer far too much for that. Do you have any further questions?’