THE MADNESS LOCKER

by EDDIE RUSSELL

  If he still dared to persist in his activities, he would be picked up in the middle of the night and hauled into the Gestapo Headquarters, where this time there would be no interrogation. Instead it would be a period of relentless torture in which he would be subjected to beatings, freezing-cold baths, electric prods and worse. If he managed to survive, there would be no former life or job to go back to. He would be separated from his family and surroundings and sent to serve in a camp.

  This he knew. One of the signatories on his petition, not fortunate enough to have Helmut’s connections, lost his tenure, was forced out of his home, separated from his family and then, after enduring interrogation and torture at the infamous headquarters, was dispatched to a camp called Sachsenhausen. He managed to smuggle out the story of his ordeal, which surreptitiously reached Helmut’s hands. Word had further reached Helmut that Professor Max Rosenberg, who had once occupied the prestigious chair of music at the university and who had dared to include Jewish composers such as Mahler, Schoenberg and Mendelssohn in his curriculum, had been subjected to the final ignominy following his incarceration. With no home or family to go back to, he was spotted, a broken and dispirited man, wandering the streets of Berlin begging, mumbling like an idiot to himself.

  To watch this once very proud man reduced to such circumstances left previous colleagues wondering if death would have been a kinder indictment than this.

  No doubt that was the message that the Gestapo was sending out in the most blatant fashion, and the reason their colleague had not been killed but allowed to return to Berlin: to wander the streets as a constant reminder to his erstwhile colleagues should they contemplate dissension.

  Helmut remained seated patiently for almost five minutes after his guest left, then wandered unhurriedly over to the open door, pretended to look out and then finally shut it.

  He then waited another five minutes before returning to the window and drawing the blinds back, and stood there pretending to stare out absently into the street. Much as he forced his demeanour to appear nonchalant, the truth was that the entire time that the Kriminalkommissar had been there, Helmut had had to strain to hear what he was saying over the constant pounding of blood in his ears, convinced that at any moment the Kriminalkommissar would jump out of his chair and demand to search the house. At which point Helmut’s life would end, and those of his family and single fugitive. His certain ordeal and fate did not matter to him. But he did not wish for his daughter Anna and wife Magda to be subjected to the torture and eventual death that would surely follow as the punishment meted out to traitors of the Reich. As for the fugitive, well, she would be summarily executed on the spot. As he might be. And that would be the kindest punishment under the circumstances.

  So he waited, making sure that the Kriminalkommissar had not found his attitude much too affronting, and on reflection decided to come back for another conversation. Maybe next time he would ask Helmut to accompany him to the infamous headquarters to deflate some of his hubris.

  When he was absolutely certain that no one was coming, he climbed to the second-floor landing. Again, he waited, listening for any cars pulling up outside the house. Satisfied that he was being overly paranoid due to the recent visit, he walked to the middle of the landing and pulled over a chair. Climbing on it he reached up to the ceiling and prodded a tile loose removing it carefully and set it on the floor. Above where the tile had been was a metal ring clamped to a panel. He pulled on the ring, which released a ladder that telescoped down to the landing. With the ladder in place he proceeded to climb each rung carefully until his head rose over the ceiling and into the roof of the house.

  Peering through the dusty darkness of the attic, he could just make out his daughter Anna and her best friend Ruth Lipschutz crouched in the corner. Oblivious to the dangers that had been below them only minutes before, they were whispering and giggling to each other as though their camaraderie in the attic was as normal as a secret tree house they shared. Helmut could not help rejoicing at the sight, and at the minds of teens who so easily adapted to new circumstances.

  Satisfied that all was well he descended back to the landing, pushed the ladder back in place, replaced the tile and wandered back down to the dining room. Inevitably, he thought to himself, this all-too-cosy set-up would have to come to an end. Either the Gestapo would figure out their mistake, which with each passing month became less likely, or more likely Magda would break down and blurt out some idiocy to one of her friends, despite her realisation that the consequence to Helmut and their daughter, not to mention her brother Martin, would be fatal, even though Martin was in no way directly implicated in this.

  Far better, though hope dimmed with every failed attempt, would be if someone finally put the mad corporal out of his misery and Germany returned to some semblance of normalcy.

  BELLEVUE HILL,

  EASTERN SUBURBS, SYDNEY

  AUTUMN 1986

  It now became awkwardly embarrassing. She would have to listen for his door opening and closing, wait a few minutes and then go out about her chores. Better than coming across Sam in the hallway and having to... what? She wasn’t quite sure. She had suspicions, and in all probability good ones. And Sam, well, he was not quite candid about filling in the inexplicable gaps and anomalies. Instead he glossed over them with self-righteous indignation.

  On the other hand, no hands that ever meddled in World War II, even peripherally, were clean. Ruth knew enough Jewish people, both Germans and non, who had actively cooperated with both the Gestapo and the SS. True enough that they did it in the interest of self-preservation. But if one absolved their disgraceful collaboration on those grounds, why not the non-Jews?

  Instead of looking from the perspective of Jewish and non-Jewish, the line had to be drawn along the act of murder: those that committed it and those that didn’t. And it had to be active participation. It could not include those whose deeds led to the death of others, otherwise the net would spread far too wide and no one could ever be absolved.

  In her view only the few, who were later bestowed the honour of being called heroes, could claim to have risen above self-interest and in the process saved the lives of others. The rest, and regrettably the majority, served only their immediate needs and those of their next of kin, at times even negating the latter. Such is the power of self-preservation over morality and decency.

  Ruth was no hero. And, with bitter sadness, she hated to admit to herself in her darkest moments that neither were her parents. They just died because they were cruelly killed. But being killed doesn’t turn one into a hero, no matter how cowardly the perpetrator. It just turns one into a victim.

  She couldn’t guess at Sam’s role in the war. Before Ernie died she always believed that he was a fraud and that he was shielding his true identity behind that of a Jewish victim, to camouflage his involvement in war crimes.

  But in deference to Ernie, who befriended Sam, she did not share her suspicions with anyone other than her husband, who dismissed her as being paranoid. Nonetheless, when Sam’s wife, Emma, passed away and her single friends asked whether they could be introduced to Sam now that he was a widower, she declined by saying that he was not quite ready yet. He was still in mourning.

  When Emma was alive they never went beyond the neighbourly courtesy of greeting each other in the hallway or chatting briefly outside the building when they happened to run into each other. Ruth had little doubt that Emma was Jewish by birth, but - of the one-parent only, or as she liked to jestingly call it - tangentially so. Which essentially meant that she was lapsed: neither attending Schule nor following the dietary rituals. In that regard Sam’s subtle gaffes to a Jewish person would not have raised any suspicions with Emma. She wouldn’t know any different.

  One thing was certain: neither Sam nor Emma ever came to Schule during the high holidays, even when secular Jews attended. But then again, neither did Ernie, who couldn’t be bothered sitting in a large hall reading from a dusty book, as he would dispa
ragingly put it when she asked him to accompany her. If he was going to sit in a large hall with strangers he preferred to be entertained, in which case he went to a movie with Sam instead.

  Last year when Emma had become gravely ill with emphysema, Ruth on a number of occasions stopped by with soups, pies, cakes and an offer to sit with her while Sam got some relief. While the offer was always gratefully acknowledged it was nonetheless politely declined. Ruth also doubted that the food she brought over was ever consumed. Whenever she returned to pick up the empty dishes and enquired about the contents, the reply was always the same: “It was very nice, thank you.” Even the one time when she deliberately overloaded the soup with so much salt that it would have caused anyone to gag, the answer was the same. Ruth concluded that neither Sam nor Emma ate the food, and that they were masterful liars who chose to say nothing out of politeness. She would have preferred that they be less circumspect and more forthright by simply asking that she stop bringing food around. Throwing out good food or feeding it to the neighbourhood pets did not pay her cooking much of a compliment.

  In retrospect as she considered these episodes she began to suspect that there might have been an even more sinister reason for Sam and Emma declining her offer to sit in on occasion, or accepting food that was never consumed. She was convinced now that by not encouraging her in either endeavour they had hoped that she would stop meddling in their affairs. Affairs that, in her heightened, paranoid state, she was certain did not bear scrutiny.

  Her assumption gained momentum as she thought back to Ernie’s friendship with Sam over the years. Despite their camaraderie it never followed its natural course into a couples’ friendship: the four of them getting, or going out, together. Throughout the years she accepted that flaw by resigning herself to the notion that not every one of her married friends instantly translated into a couples’ friendship; she had her own personal friends. However, given Sam and Emma’s predisposition to keep her at arm’s length she deduced that Emma either suspected or knew of Sam’s secret, and hence once an opportunity afforded Ruth the chance to intrude in their lives, albeit with the best intentions, they blocked it off, politely but firmly.

  Damn Ernie with his bonhomie and cavalier attitude in shrugging off her suspicions! May he rest in peace, but in such matters of judgement he was an idiot.

  What could she do now, a lonely widow by herself? If she dared confront Sam directly, he would surely silence her. Go to the police? What would they care about some old German masquerading as a Jew? They had enough crimes to solve without delving into what they considered ancient history.

  Then an idea struck her. Why didn’t she think of it before? Probably because she felt safe with Ernie around. But now that this ex-Nazi was hovering around trying to befriend her, she no longer felt that safe. She would befriend the cagey old imposter and get his prints, and maybe steal an old photo if she happened to be invited to his apartment. With those items in her possession she would send the photo and prints to the Simon Wiesenthal Centres in both Vienna and Los Angeles. If he was anybody of any significance he would certainly be in their archives.

  What a coup that would be! That would make up for some of that other cowardly matter that cost that girl her life. At least it would give Ruth some peace of mind that she had brought one murderer to justice. Who knows, Sam might even be directly connected to her parents’ deaths, and that of that unfortunate girl. Wouldn’t that be a coincidence?

  With a plan afoot, she waited anxiously for his door to open. She didn’t have long to wait. As soon as she heard Sam push the latch into place and turn the lock she went to her door, armed with her shopping bag and purse, and opened it. Pretending not to know that he was in the hallway, she exited her home backwards and pulled the door to. She knew that he would not just ignore her and let her go downstairs without saying something.

  “Ruth!” He almost shouted with glee.

  Pretending to be startled, she jumped slightly and turned a half-circle to face him. “Sam. Going out shopping?”

  “Yes. Well, no. I was going out for a walk. But if you don’t mind, I will accompany you to the shop.” Debonair as ever, as if the previous encounter had never happened.

  “Why not?” Taking a firm hold of her purse and bag, she proceeded to walk down the hallway, letting Sam sidle up closely and follow her to the lift. He hastily pressed the button and they stood awkwardly, facing their reflections in the shiny steel door.

  “Listen, Ruth, I did not mean to have an unpleasant encounter with you. I came because I was concerned. And, well, I don’t have the best—”

  The lift arrived, interrupting Sam, and they walked in. Mrs Beck, the obstreperous neighbour from Number 16 upstairs, was standing stoically in the car as if she had died and been transformed into a block of ice.

  They both greeted her in unison with a cheerful “Good morning”, to which she almost imperceptibly nudged the edges of her mouth into a rictus. Despite their warm greeting, she was not to be dissuaded from her cantankerousness.

  “What animal is leaving these unpleasant deposits in front of the building?” Her voice, throaty and creaky at the same time, a combination of cigarettes and age, bellowed from behind them. “The other day I almost stepped into it on my way to the Opera House. I would have missed the first act on account of a turd.”

  The lift arrived on the ground floor almost at the same time as Mrs Beck finished her tirade. Eager to distance themselves quickly from her, in the event that there was more to say on the subject, Ruth and Sam walked briskly to the foyer door and emerged onto the steps leading to the pavement, both laughing quite audibly as the door shut behind them.

  “I was dreading that she might ask me to clean up the mess,” Sam uttered, still chuckling.

  More laughter.

  “I don’t know what I would have said. Maybe, ‘Mrs Beck, you will need to wait for Act II. There’s quite a bit of mess.’”

  They continued laughing as they made their way to the shop. Neither brought up the subject of their previous awkward conversation that had ended on a somewhat peevish note.

  They were now standing in front of the delicatessen.

  “Listen, I am going to walk down to the newsagent and get the paper. Perhaps you would like to join me for a bit of refreshment and maybe some patisserie at Marco’s? When you are finished with your shopping, of course.”

  Ruth wasn’t much surprised at the invitation. She knew that something along that line was coming; she just didn’t know how soon. What did surprise and confuse her at the same time was her reaction to the casual invitation. She suddenly felt relaxed in Sam’s company, and her previous convictions now appeared the product of a feverish brain beset by anxiety and abruptly relieved by the comedic encounter with Mrs Beck. She was almost ashamed of the thoughts that she had allowed to take root in her head, to the point of setting out a plan to act on them. Thank God she didn’t, was all that she could think.

  Maybe Ernie, God bless him, had been right after all. And maybe she needed to air out her suspicions to Sam’s face, as she had yesterday - was it yesterday? - to get them out in the open and then just let them go.

  Even if she was right, and she was beginning to doubt that she was, he was probably no more than a lowly bureaucrat gobbled up by the ruthless machinery of a mad dictator. And maybe her act of contrition, for that cowardly act all those years ago, was to reach out and befriend someone who perhaps had just as good a reason as she to lose sleep.

  “Yes, why not? That would be very nice. I will see you at Marco’s in half an hour.”

  Ever the gentleman, Sam bowed his pleasure at her acceptance and then, with a stiff and precise gait, made his way to the newsagent.

  A lowly official, maybe, Ruth thought with some bemusement, but an ex-Nazi just the same. And if not an ex-Nazi, then definitely an anti-Semite. They all walk like that.

  Well, maybe an ex-anti-Semite, she thought, less critically - he was, after all, Ernie’s friend.

 
; BERLIN

  SUMMER 1943

  Despite an ever-increasing sense of foreboding, the summer ended without any further incident. There were no more visits from the Gestapo, cordial or otherwise. Anna continued to attend school and bring back homework and books to keep Ruth up to date. Even Magda, who would normally be considered the weak link in this chain of secrecy, managed to keep her link unbroken. She kept hosting parties; going out on shopping sprees; often lunching with her friends. Maintaining an outward appearance of frivolity, despite the immense burden that Ruth’s presence placed on her otherwise carefree personality, remaining steadfast in keeping the secret. Even if it was for the self-serving reason that revealing Ruth’s presence would put everything Magda held dear at certain risk.

  Neither did she convey her obvious annoyance at this unwanted imposition to Helmut, except on the one day when the milk had run low. They were having their regular family breakfast before Helmut walked Anna to school and Magda set about planning her mundane day of lunch, shopping and parties. Helmut was at the table with Anna, going over a classroom assignment that was due, when Magda turned angrily towards them.

  “There is hardly any milk. Every few days we run out.”

  “Well, we all drink it, so it is going to run out. I can go out and get some if you need it right now.” Helmut attempted to mollify her obvious frustration and head off any simmering confrontation.

  “It would not be a problem if it was just the three of us.” With that, Magda slammed the fridge door and sat down at the table in a huff.