THE MADNESS LOCKER

by EDDIE RUSSELL

  Looking fleetingly over at him, she noticed that he had halfturned to stare out the window at the settling dusk. A look of wistfulness descended over his face. Ruth set down the tray and waited for him to return to the moment.

  “Oh, sorry. I was briefly reminded of another time in my life. All so long ago: the wonderful home-cooked meal; the essence of warmth; the dessert.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Only little things. You know. I love Sydney, but occasionally I yearn for the snow-strewn streets. Christmas with my parents and sister.”

  Sam came back and started to help Ruth clear the table. The earlier sense of trepidation momentarily returned to the pit in her stomach. She resolved to allay it by rationalising that even though he was definitely a Gentile; even allowing that, in the extreme, he might have been a Nazi, he could in fact have been one of those that conspired against Hitler.

  Still, the not knowing frightened her. Even if she knew the worst - precluding murder - she could resolve to deal with it in a rational way. They were both too old to mind the past, they had been neighbours for many years, Ernie had considered Sam a friend, and Ruth could even admit to herself that she found him attractive and sought his company.

  But the fear of uncertainty unsettled her. She wanted to prod him regarding his family, to get a hinge on his past so that she could open the door to it. But all at once the not knowing made her feel more secure in the knowledge that it was better not to know. Her motivation was clearly selfish: she wanted him desperately in her life, even in the subliminal belief that Ernie had sent him her way, if nothing else to stave off the oppressive loneliness and emptiness. Paradoxical thoughts swirled in her mind, bifurcating the evening: either she reverted to where she was a few days ago, with thoughts of loneliness and suicide; or she was on the cusp of a new life.

  They washed up in silence: Ruth doing the dishes and Sam drying. After the dishes were done, they took out the dessert and cups of coffee, settling in the living room in front of the television. To her dismay the one channel that offered cultural fare had plenty of it, except it was documentaries on Hitler, followed by one on Goebbels. Not what she considered light-hearted entertainment for the start of the weekend.

  “Would you like to watch a movie? Or continue to listen to music and talk?” she ventured.

  “A movie? That would be nice.”

  She picked a light-hearted romantic comedy and they settled next to each other on the couch to enjoy it.

  It was strange, she thought as she sat close by him; he almost felt like Ernie, except for the tension between them. Sexual tension? Or was it due to not knowing, and imagining that the aura of mystery surrounding him was sinister and exciting, like a character in some thriller? What if it turned out in the end that his story was quite conventional; death and destruction in World War II? Would the tension evaporate and he turn out to be another pair of comfortable slippers or a housecoat? Did she want a continuation of Ernie? Or did she want the excitement of someone new and different; perhaps with a gaping flaw or secret that he had been struggling to cover up and keep at bay with his spouse’s love, and now that that had receded, was drowning him?

  Who is saving whom? she thought to herself. Is he saving me or am I saving him? Or are we saving each other? All of an instant she understood his anger the other day. He had come in the nick of time to save her, and he did. In return he wanted to be saved by her, and instead she started asking him intrusive questions before agreeing to toss him a lifeline.

  Feeling guilty, she let her hand fall gently into his palm. This time he did not shrink away. Instead he cupped her hand, a sweet, warm sensation filling her.

  I would never admit this to anyone, she thought to herself, a Jew believing in God, but Ernie trusted him and subliminally drove him to be my companion after he died.

  She had let her superstition guide her this far. Now Ernie would have to trust her with the choices she made not to abandon his memory in creating new ones for herself with Sam, regardless of what his real identity was.

  UTRECHT

  WINTER 1944

  Much as Friedrich liked to think that he had become accustomed to the bone-aching winter chill, having grown up in Bremen, Utrecht was colder still. After leaving Bremen he disembarked the train at Hanover and, instead of heading east to Berlin, travelled south by bus, then west to Cologne. From there he continued travelling in the same direction, crossing the Dutch border at Veno, arriving first at Eindhoven and then finally north by train to reach his final destination: Utrecht. It was a circuitous route and added hours to his journey, but the further afield he travelled from his designated destination of Berlin, without being stopped, the more comfortable he became with his fledgling plan. Nonetheless, he reminded himself that he had not disposed of his uniform, which, along with his furlough papers, provided him with a safety net.

  Neither in Germany proper, nor when he crossed over to Holland, did he have any problems in progressing from destination to destination. Despite his portent of danger at nearly every stop, he was only questioned once, at the border crossing in Veno. He had picked this remote and seldom-trafficked route in the belief that the personnel guarding it would be few and less wary. There was a single officer at the checkpoint and two Gefreiters - corporals, Hitler’s rank, he chuckled inwardly to calm himself. The Wehrmacht Leutnant in command of the checkpoint wanted to know why an SS sergeant was entering Holland. Friedrich presented his furlough papers, which were still in effect, and explained that he was visiting a German relative residing in Eindhoven. The Leutnant examined the papers closely, matching Friedrich’s card with his uniform, that of an SS-Scharführer - technically a rank lower than the Leutnant’s, but as a member of the Schutzstaffel it placed Friedrich in a higher echelon than a Wehrmacht officer - and then with “Heil Hitler”, saluted Friedrich and let him go on his way.

  As he was assisting Friedrich in re-shouldering his duffel, the Leutnant explained deferentially that the interrogation had been for his own protection: there were Dutch partisans who were inimical to the Third Reich and in particular to members of the Schutzstaffel, whom they would not hesitate to kill. Friedrich thanked him and made his way to the train station in Veno. It was now mid morning. He had been on the go for nearly twelve hours.

  By his calculation it would take him just as long to arrive at Utrecht, barring any further delays. Despite the encounter with the Leutnant, which jarred him slightly, he still felt relatively safe. He was not a wanted man. Not as yet. He had only received his orders the week before his furlough - his hunch had been right - and he wasn’t expected for a further five days; with the chaos of the retreat, maybe six. But it wouldn’t be long before his non-appearance at his assigned unit on the Eastern Front would be flagged as a desertion.

  Shortly before midnight he emerged from Utrecht Centraal Train Station and headed out to Damstraat, walking in the general direction of Universiteit Utrecht. He had studied here pre 1940, completing three of the four years required to graduate as a doctor, and taking the final year at his pre-med alma mater of Leipzig. But that was before Germany decided to invade Holland, and before he donned the dreaded uniform of the Schutzstaffel. The Universiteit would offer him temporary accommodation in its dormitory for visiting graduates. But, as with all activities in wartime, his presence would be reported and, in this place, unwelcome.

  The Wehrmacht was everywhere he looked: in train stations, on the street, in makeshift checkpoints, bars, restaurants, shops, mixing in with the locals, ostensibly integrating seamlessly with the population. But an occasional look at a local passer-by revealed the intense animosity underneath the false facade. He didn’t doubt what the Leutnant had told him back at the checkpoint in Veno: they would murder him in a second if the chance presented itself.

  He had to get out of his uniform quickly and inconspicuously before the Leutnant’s prediction came true. It would be sadly ironic if Dutch partisans killed him after having forestalled that fate by wearing the SS un
iform. The time was now ticking from both ends: Germany and the hostile Utrecht populace.

  Emma? Eventually, yes, if she or her parents still lived in the same place. She might have relocated from the two-storey house on Kromme Nieuwegracht that he had shared with her. But her parents, who were middle-aged when he met them, and whose house had been in the family for over a century, would surely still be living in theirs. Except...? He paused to consider the possibility. He looked around himself. There were a few people out at this time of night, mostly Wehrmacht personnel out drinking and consorting with the prostitutes; the occasional local making his or her way hurriedly, head bowed and their attention fixed on their feet.

  Adding to his need to change for expediency’s sake, he was also starting to feel the night-time cold seeping into his bones. So as not to attract any more attention than necessary he turned right off Damstraat and crossed over the bridge to Leidseweg, which ran along the canal. Few people milled about or walked along there this late. He found a damp bench and sat down to think. Emma van Bergen. Would she still want to see him, be with him? He had never returned after spending Christmas with his parents in Bremen as he promised. That was in 1937, nearly six years ago. What if she was no longer single?

  She too had been a medical student, and would certainly be a graduate researcher by now, if not department head. When he came here in 1934 he hadn’t planned on meeting and settling down with anyone; it was mainly a desire to complete his medical degree away from the virulent fanaticism that was sweeping across Germany.

  Friedrich was immediately attracted to Emma’s bubbly personality and what the French called joie de vivre that he so yearned for. She quenched his parched soul; he had always believed that his love for Emma was what solidified his rebellion against Germany. He no longer needed to carry that lugubrious yoke around his neck alone - she unburdened him.

  But events in Germany conspired against them, added to which his inflexibility proved too much to overcome. Emma’s mother was Jewish. Friedrich didn’t even consider it a hurdle. But both her parents were resolute in that she ought not to give up her life in Utrecht and move to Bremen. They accepted him as a future son-in-law, welcoming him into their home, and without transgressing into rudeness questioned him on events in Germany to gauge his own beliefs. But he revealed nothing, not because he was prevaricating, but because he simply dismissed the National Socialists as an aberration not worth discussing. They were bound to crash and burn sooner rather than later.

  But the Bergens saw his refusal to consider the new reality in Germany as delusional, with dire consequences for their daughter, and cautioned Emma in continuing the relationship, let alone making a life for herself in Germany. For her part, Emma pleaded with Friedrich to at least consider staying on in Utrecht until the upheavals simmered down and the political landscape became clear. But he refused, unwilling to accept that a party comprised of boorish thugs could rule Germany for too long. He had to witness and contribute to their demise first hand.

  In the end they reached an impasse. Early one drizzly morning he collected a few of his belongings and headed solo to Utrecht Centraal, boarding a train that would eventually bring him back home to Bremen. It was intended to be his first Christmas at home in three years. He never intimated the depth of his relationship with Emma to his parents, other than to say that he had made a very close friend. Neither wrote to the other and, by the following year, what he thought impossible came to be: Hitler invaded Poland and Europe was at war again.

  And now he was here, coming full circle to Utrecht after having been ensnared for six years in the bowels of the Third Reich in an ultimately futile attempt to forestall the inevitable. In a matter of days, or even hours, he would shed his abominable past and transgress to an irrevocable future that, should he be discovered, would cost him his life.

  A gust of wind came up the frozen canal, adding to the bitter cold. His teeth chattered and his bones ached from the sub-zero wind chill. He needed to change, and soon, otherwise he would freeze to death. He hadn’t brought along his SS overcoat - just warm civilian clothing; he hadn’t expected that he would still be wearing his uniform by this point. But where could he change? An abandoned house? Too risky. A bordello? No one would question his changing clothes there. He knelt down and reached into his duffel, pulling out his fleece-lined jacket from the SS recruitment facility, sporting its medical insignia. Slipping on the jacket, his temperature warmed. He was about to pick up the duffel and continue on his way when a faint, childlike voice startled him.

  “Dokter?”

  Instinctively he reached for his Walther. A scrawny girl of about ten stood to his right with long, straggly hair, staring at him with docile, plaintive eyes in the moonlight. She was wearing what appeared to be grubby flannel pants and a tattered jumper. Her feet were clad in a pair of scuffed, torn, unlaced shoes. A waif. He pushed the Walther back into its holster and edged closer along the bench, his look quizzical.

  She was pointing specifically to the symbol that identified him as a medic. “Dokter?”

  Looking at where her finger was pointing, he smiled. Taking hold of her hand, he noticed that her nails were chipped and dirty and her fingers frostbitten. He thought immediately to hand over his jacket. But then he would be cold and in danger.

  Instead he pointed. “Doctor, for you?”

  Pulling back her hand, she shook her head and pointed to a location adjacent to the canal on Leidsekade.

  Friedrich grabbed his duffel and bid the child forward to guide him.

  Despite her impoverished and what he thought might be frail state she paced rapidly along the embankment and the street, gliding between the shadows thrown from the gabled houses across the way. Three quarters of the way up the empty street, she paused, crouched and looked in either direction. Friedrich immediately grew suspicious. Was she expecting someone? But she cocked her head for him to follow her across Leidsekade to a three-storey terrace that was engulfed in total darkness.

  Rather than walking up the stoop to the main entrance, she beckoned him to follow her down a narrow staircase on the right side of the building. When they reached the basement she entered a doorway that creaked slightly as she pushed it ajar and disappeared into a room cast in darkness. Friedrich set his foot gingerly over the threshold and felt his way into the musty odour of the interior. He could hear a woman moaning somewhere in the gloom, but he couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from.

  He was about to enter fully into the room and call out when a hand rose up out of the darkness to his right. Instantly he felt the cold barrel of a pistol against his temple.

  “You move, you die!”

  BERLIN

  WINTER 1944

  Despite the perceived danger that Ruth’s presence posed, Helmut chose not to summon Martin to the house, but wait until he stopped by to visit his niece and sister. They happened to be out shopping or socialising, Helmut wasn’t sure which, when Martin came by. He offered to leave and come back at another time, but Helmut insisted that he have a drink to take the chill off and wait. Martin, wary of Helmut’s feigned camaraderie, tentatively stepped into the vestibule, hung up his thick overcoat and cap and waited to follow Helmut to the living room.

  Helmut instead walked up the steps to the first floor and, when Martin hesitated, beckoned him to follow. As he reached the landing, Helmut pulled out a chair, climbed on it and reached up to the ceiling. He prodded a tile loose directly above his head, exposing the panel with a ring attached to it.

  “May I ask what you are doing?”

  “You will see in a moment.”

  Pulling on the ring, the hinged panel opened downwards, revealing the telescoped ladder. He dragged the ladder down until it was fully extended and then called out into the opening, “Ruth, can you come down for a moment?”

  They both waited silently for what seemed like several minutes, but in reality was no longer than a minute, before they heard a scraping sound above their heads. The sound stopped.<
br />
  “It’s all right. You can come down.” Helmut spoke up encouragingly into the recess.

  Again they waited. Another minute later a small leg clad in dull grey woollen trouser and a brown shoe appeared in the opening and reached tentatively for the top rung. When the left foot was standing firmly on the rung, the right foot tentatively followed. And then slowly, gradually, a body started to appear as the feet stepped their way down the ladder, until a girl who looked no older than fourteen or fifteen, with fair hair, a pallid face, dainty features and green eyes, stood warily in front of Helmut. Seeing him staring directly over her, she turned and came face to face with a tall man attired in a black uniform with ribbons and an Iron Cross affixed to his collar. Two silver insignias that resembled thunderbolts were splayed across each collar. His face seemed fearsome; not angry, but decidedly hostile. He remained silent, his lips pursed in a disapproving scowl.

  Ruth turned to look up at Helmut. “Is this the Gestapo? Do I have to go now?” Her voice was neither quavering nor frightened, simply accepting of an inevitable fate that had been long in coming.

  “No. This is not the Gestapo. This is Anna’s uncle, Martin. Magda’s brother.” Helmut pulled Ruth close against him, placing his hands protectively over her shoulders.

  Martin turned angrily on his heels and literally marched across the landing and stomped down the stairs. For a split second Helmut feared that he would bolt out the front door and alert the Gestapo. But instead he barged into the living room. Helmut could hear bottles clanging and then the sound of liquor being poured into a glass.

  The risk had paid off. He relaxed and told Ruth that she could go into Anna’s room and wait. He was going to talk with Anna’s uncle. At first she hesitated; she never went into Anna’s room without Anna being there. But Helmut nudged her gently towards the door and nodded approvingly. Once she was inside he shut the door and went downstairs to join Martin.