The pads of my fingers were still lightly resting on the keys and they started moving as if someone had inhabited my body, and the melody played from my soul. The song my mother and I always danced to when I was a boy was what my fingers chose to command the keyboard play. My eyes closed, and I imagined her and I dancing …
“The Dipsey-Doodle” came out, and I hummed and then sang. I imagined my mother. It transported me and I was dancing with my mother. I was a boy again, and she was patiently leading me—showing me how to move to the music and to feel it inside of me. Teaching me to let the music lead me.
I was awoken from my lovely trance by a very loud, slow clap. I opened my eyes and my fingers paused mid-note, lingering on the keys as the music abruptly exited the room.
My Uncle had clapped the music away and was continuing to clap louder and louder—as he smiled wider and wider and his eyes became so wide that I was suddenly very frightened of him. He then stopped clapping and extracted a cigarette from a silver case that he had pulled out of his pocket; he proceeded to light a match and puff the cigarette to life. His demeanor became more subdued as if slightly tamed by the nicotine. He was leaning on a pillar within reach of me sitting on the piano bench.
He could tell his strange display of false admiration unsettled me.
He said, “You really are a talented musician. A beautiful voice and you have the ability to make the piano come alive. There is only one problem really with your talent. It isn’t the talent at all really—it is the content of what you are playing and the implication that has on what is going through your mind.”
He abruptly stopped talking and grabbed my wrist with great force and bashed my hand down hard onto the keyboard. It hurt a little and frightened me as an ugly sound was born into the room.
He raised his voice, “That is a better sound than what you played. It is more abstract. It is a sound at least not of niggers and Jews. The kikes are bad enough here in Germany, nephew. I am trying to teach you something so you need to look at me before I get angry and slap you upside your addled, American head. Yes, that is right—look me right in the eyes—directly.”
His grip on my wrist began to hurt as it became tighter and was on the bone. I twisted, but he had a vice grip on me like a set of handcuffs; the more you moved, the tighter the grip became.
“I want you to understand that I know this is not your fault. You are American and you have been influenced by that country which everyone knows is controlled entirely by Jews. Jews aren’t human and neither are their nigger cousins. You are Aryan and you will learn to use this talent of yours to play music made by Aryans. I will ensure it because you are talented but by God you will not embarrass me by playing this monkey music … not my nephew.”
He let go of my wrist and smiled gently. But a gentle smile from him looked like a sarcastic smirk.
“Do we understand each other?”
“I am not to play American swing music anymore.”
“Correct answer, though I would call it animal music, nephew. And your hair is too long. You look either homeless or like a fucking Jew with a haircut like that. Like you are emulating them. You will cut it off—tomorrow morning—do you understand me?”
I could tell it would be extremely unwise to question him.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Oh no, now I have frightened you. My apologies, Charlie. Really, I am sorry. I want you to be upstanding, I know that none of this is your fault—not at all. Please call me Uncle—I much prefer it and think it more respectful, actually.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
He butted out the cigarette by crushing it out on the floor with his heel after a last drag. He then spoke, simultaneously exhaling, “And those clothes have to go, too. I will have one of my men supply you with new clothes tomorrow. Those British teenage rags will not do. The British think us barbarians, but that is because they are weak. They allow their youth to dress like homosexuals as you are dressed now. The music you played is more pernicious than your dress, as it tricks you, that is what Americans do, they trick you into thinking you are free when you are being controlled by Jews.”
Switching subjects abruptly, he said, “I have state business to attend to. I will have a man show you to your room and in two hours I expect you to be downstairs in the dining hall, adjacent to this room. In a suit I have provided for you—hanging in your room. Your aunt sent your sizes to me, upon my request, so not to worry on the fit. I don’t care what you do with that zoot suit you are currently wearing. You aren’t a monkey and you will not dress like one now that you have entered civilization. I will see you shortly, nephew.”
Oddly, he came up to me and tussled my hair, before he left, like I was a little boy. I think he meant it to show some form of awkward affection.
Chapter 4
Winter, 1939, Regensburg
ERICH
I had just woken up on a bright winter’s day. I always did the same thing every day upon arousing from my bed. I had coffee brought to me, along with a newspaper, and would sit, not reading it, half-awake on the balcony. The newspaper was just a prop that I used to seem alert.
A man in my position always must be alert. Being awake is not sufficient, because people take advantage of men when they are not able to think, when their minds are slow. My mind was always fast, speeding like a car toward a fast turn on a cliff. There would be carnage if I didn’t make the turn exactly as needed. As the road demanded I take it.
As usual for me, I sat in my uniform trousers and an undershirt. I depended on the cold air combined with the coffee’s caffeine to make me conscious. It took a good fifteen minutes to half wake up aided by the chill wind and the hot beverage cupped in my hand that morning, as it did every morning. However, as I averaged three hours sleep a night—it took a little more than caffeine to become able to function. I sometimes thought I would not make the turn and that I would careen off the edge—but I always somehow managed. As the head of the ghetto—as an obergruppenführer, I had to be able, more than most men, to attend to my essential duties.
I looked into the palm of my hand. It was my happy pill, a magic pill. The pill that made my eyes widen with an ability to analyze, with precision, the surrounding situations. Pervitin; I popped four into my mouth—and took a swig of the now tepid coffee to send the medicine down. It was twice the dose that my doctor recommended. I didn’t take orders from doctors. Military doctors took orders from me. I was a man in full control. I had prescribed myself this dose, and it was less than the amount many of my men each took. Fifteen minutes later and I was as lucid as one could be.
I yawned a last yawn and outstretched my arms to fully extinguish any remnants of faded exhaustion. As I stood up on my deck, overlooking my ghetto—I saw a commotion to the right, at the gate where the intake of prisoners took place. It was usually quite orderly as my SS guards made sure that they made an example of anyone who didn’t stay orderly while being processed.
However, I could ascertain that the sound was coming from a woman and that the guards were doing nothing to stop her incessant and disrespectful wailing. She was bawling, whining and making a scene. I couldn’t understand why they were allowing her to act like this. A fucking Jew. Anger came upon me and I decided to go deal with this myself. I would discipline not only the offending Jew but those not controlling the situation as well.
I rushed to put on my uniform; my jacket was slightly askew and I didn’t put on my hat. Upon reaching the ground floor and walking within earshot of the milieu, I suddenly could see the woman’s features clearly. An unexpected feeling slapped me against the face. I was smitten with her.
I felt as if an arrow had been shot through my heart. I was not a man given to affection but somehow I felt something akin to that feeling. I looked at her pursed lips—the anger on her face. Her sun-kissed skin and blonde locks. She had a perfect hourglass shape that teenage and twenty-something women just didn’t have. She looked to be in her early thirties and was wearing a pear
l necklace that indicated her wealth, as if her pretentious soliloquy didn’t make that point, without the aid of such accouterments.
“I am a woman of means, you cannot treat my husband and daughter like common criminals.”
“Ma’am, you are testing our patience,” one of the guards said rather calmly, as he pushed the spectacles falling off his face back onto his nose.
“I am not going to sit back and …”
“Ma’am, your husband and daughter are Jews. They have to live in the ghetto now by law. I understand it is a law that you do not understand. But then again …”
“My husband is half-Jewish. I wouldn’t have even married him if I considered him a Jew. This is absolute insanity. He wasn’t Jewish before and now he is?”
“Half counts as Jewish,” said the soldier dispassionately.
I was watching this with fascination. I wondered if I were in love with her and her pouty lips. I liked her anger. I had never felt this way for a woman before. Her voice was like silk—even when she was raising it. It made me lust for her to yell more, to hear her passion.
Her arm stretched toward the two people she was talking about—the man and the woman. The man had dark hair and a proud face. He looked like he was from money and didn’t look Jewish. He didn’t fool me though, as I knew they could hide well in good clothing. The girl looked identical to her mother—only a teenager and not nearly as well developed. She didn’t have the ample breasts and beautiful ass her mother possessed.
I was behind a pillar and could see them, but was quite sure they couldn’t see me and wouldn’t have noticed me anyway—silently stalking them. I was close enough that I could see the woman’s gray eyes, which I glanced at as my eyes made their way down to her waist. From there my eyes flicked back up to her breasts, and I decided then that I would have her. My loins started to come to life, a confirmation of my decision, and I lightly licked my lips, imagining her naked and underneath me.
I walked confidently up to the gate from inside where I had been watching from my perch.
I went up and yelled, grinning, “Stop at once!”
The two guards at the wrought-iron gate and the intake guard all stood to attention and said, “Yes, sir.”
I asked, turning to the nidus of my lust, “Frau …?”
“Frau Eisner, you may call me Frau Eisner.”
“Frau Eisner, you have been wronged by my men, as you are not Jewish. I will give special dispensation for your daughter and husband. And I want to hear your grievance. I do, I want to help you and I will help you.”
“First, please if you will—allow me to speak to my guards in private,” I said, hiding my forked tongue.
Frau Eisner nodded.
The three guards followed me to the pillar about fifteen paces away, where I had first watched this scene.
“Ok, boys, I want that Jew husband of hers killed,” I stated in a calculated manner.
I turned to the intake guard and said, “I want you to treat him nicely in front of her—like he is a special guest. I then want you to give him to Gerhard. Tell him that he has been fucking an Aryan and that I would appreciate it if he took care of him brutally and swiftly.”
“Yes, Obergruppenführer Beck.”
“And as for the girl, I want you to hold her in the basement of my house. Take her there as gently as you can and serve her some sweets and tea. Well, what are you waiting for … go … now!”
I waited for a moment—until I saw the man and the girl pass me. I smiled at them. A smirk more than a smile really. I rarely smiled, and I gave them dirty smirks.
I walked back to the entrance—to the gate where the woman was crying and sniffling.
“I thought you would help me, Herr …”
“You can call me Erich. And yes, I did help you—did you see how gently they were taken away? I chastised my men and ordered them to take your husband and daughter to the best part of the ghetto—my mansion. They will be in very nice and adequate rooms in the basement. I cannot release them right now, on my order alone, as it is against the law, but I can look into it. I will—I will look into it tomorrow when I have a call with Reichsführer Himmler.”
Frau Eisner looked shocked. “You would do that for me? Speak with Heinrich Himmler? You are such a kind man …”
“Say nothing of it. It is nothing—I would do it for anyone. But I imagine that you may wish to be close to them—you are welcome to stay in my mansion where they will also be staying.”
“With them—in the basement?” she asked, causing me irritation, which I masked as consideration of her statement, that was really a request.
“Oh, well, no. Not in the basement, I cannot afford to call attention to the fact that I am giving them special treatment. It wouldn’t bode well for our plan to have them released.”
I started to think this was too easy; I almost became bored with her as she was naïve enough to believe my story without suspicion.
But then she questioned me and my loins moved, so much so that I wondered if she saw the lust beneath my trousers.
“So, it is our plan, is it? What is it that you are doing—why are you trying to help me?”
I didn’t think, I just said it, “Because I am going to fuck you.” I couldn’t help myself, I wanted to tear her clothes off right there.
I was very surprised that her face didn’t contort into anger as it did before with the guards. It didn’t do anything at all. Her face was static, not a poker face—it just wasn’t giving me information as to what she was thinking.
She then shocked me, and came up to my ear, tickling it with her whispered voice. Making me stand on end.
“What is your first name?”
“Erich,” I said haltingly. She had me in her spell.
She whispered, brushing her lips against my ear, pressing her breasts into my chest while her knee lightly and erotically massaged my groin, “You will take me to your house. If I am not allowed in the basement, you will let me sleep there—but not with you. I am not going to ‘fuck’ you. Do you understand? You may look at me from afar, I will keep you company for the night. But there is no sex and you will still call Mr. Himmler on my behalf.”
I stuttered, “Yes, yes. Frau … oh … yes, Frau Eisner.”
She stepped back.
“Anna, my name is Anna.”
I literally shook my head to get my senses back from her seduction and said, “Well, dear Anna, please follow me.”
I brought her to my office, though I would have preferred to take her to my bedroom.
“Please sit down, Anna, by the fire, in my chair. I will have dinner prepared for us.”
I shouted for a guard at the door and let him know that I wanted dinner made, a fine dinner; Rouladen …
“I cannot stand Rouladen, Erich.”
“Well, then, have the chef prepare a gourmet Italian dinner with red wine and several bottles of Riesling.”
“I detest Riesling, Erich,” said Anna, smiling.
The soldier looked at me for direction.
“She told you she doesn’t like Riesling—you heard the lady. Don’t stand there looking like a fucking idiot. Bring some other …” I looked at her for direction. I wanted to please her, but she gave me no indication of what she wanted.
“Bring a wide selection of wine and beer. Have red and white wine. Hefeweizen, Dunkel and Pilsener beer.”
When my guards came up to let us know that the dinner was ready, Anna started to annoy me.
She said lazily, “I don’t want to go eat, I am not even that hungry—why don’t you have them bring up the food and I will eat some—and I suppose I will have a drink from whatever selection they have.”
“Look, you are going to come down and eat with me. I have had an excellent dinner made and …”
“Oh, you are accustomed to telling people what to do. You must have forgotten—but allow me to remind you—I am German, not Jewish. You will not order me around.”
My annoyance melted. Her
slight anger attracted me as it had earlier that day.
I turned to the guard and said, “Bring up the food and drinks and we will eat over there at my desk. Pull two chairs over for us.”
As we ate the veal and drank—me a Hefeweizen beer and her a glass of red wine—we didn’t talk. The few times that I tried to bring something up about her background or mine she would look at me and give a perfunctory answer.
Then she said, “You said you wanted to fuck me earlier, is that right, did I hear you correctly.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling. I liked this conversation—where it was going.
“Well, is that how you seduce all the ladies—you tell them that you want to fuck them? Don’t you realize that the way you sleep with someone, my dear, the way you do that as a man, is you act like you don’t care if you do. You act like that and then you can fuck them.”
I didn’t know what to say but said, “I am sorry if I offended you. I think you are the most beautiful—the most enchanting, the most …” I couldn’t think of the other word I wanted to say …
“… you feel seduced by me.”
“Yes, that is what I feel. Exactly.”
“Erich, I have done nothing to seduce you—it is you who are trying to seduce me. You think me beautiful. Many men do, and I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but it is true, and I don’t sleep with them. That would make me a whore, which I am not.”
I got courage to say, “Well, you aren’t a whore, I am sure. But if you want my help—what do I get in return?”
She ignored my question. “You are fortunate that you are a handsome young man. A handsome young man in authority. I like a man in uniform. I like men that think me beautiful like you do and I don’t get that attention all the time anymore as I am married.”
Her words intoxicated me. I took a swallow of my beer, I was speechless. I wanted her to go on, I didn’t want to interrupt her.
The Darkest Hour Page 85