I looked at the names on the apartments we passed: Finkelstein, Rosenblatt, Mandelbaum.
“Is Karin Jewish?” I asked.
Sabine, who was ahead of me on the stairs, turned her head halfway but kept climbing. “I don’t think so, but I’ve never thought about it. I don’t remember her ever talking about religion.”
“Sure looks like a Jewish building to me.”
Sabine stopped and turned around completely. “Look, Karl, what difference does it make? I don’t know what Hitler and your Nazis have put into your head, but whatever she is, Karin is my friend.”
“Right.”
“Karl . . .”
“Look, I can leave. You’re the one who dragged me here in the first place.”
Sabine reached out with both hands and took hold of my face, drawing it forward and gently kissing me. “I don’t want to fight. I want you to come, you know that. Let’s forget politics. Please?”
Still sulking, I nodded. “Your friends, not mine,” I couldn’t help adding.
“Oh, Karl, just stop it.”
We had reached Karin’s apartment. Sabine knocked, and the door was flung open. I caught a whiff of enticing perfume and a glimpse of a tall, slender woman, dark hair swept up in a bun, as she embraced Sabine. She pulled back, allowing me to see her broad smile and warm dark eyes. “So this is the mysterious Karl,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m so glad you could come.”
Petra offered a short greeting as she paced around the huge living room, admiring everything in it. “These chairs with the wicker backs and wonderful curved forms, what are they?”
“Thonets. My mother ordered them from Vienna.”
“And that painting of the beer garden? The one with those smudged colors.”
“That’s by Max Liebermann.”
Sabine laughed. “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid, and I never realized those chairs had a special name. I certainly had no idea who painted the beer garden. I knew that everything in Karin’s place was fancy, but that’s all. Leave it to Petra to come here for the first time and identify everything.”
“I’m a nurse, after all,” Petra reminded her. “I work with things that are clearly labeled.”
“So am I, but you’re the one who’s always organized.”
I had sunk deep into a couch, cradling a beer. Karin had laid out a spread of food on the coffee table—our sausages along with several others, herrings, pickles and salads. “Help yourselves,” she urged us. “We’ll have something warm later.”
“This was supposed to be simple,” Sabine protested. “An evening where we all pitched in.”
Karin smiled and brought out another dish, some kind of vegetable mix that I didn’t recognize. “But you did pitch in. I just added a few things.”
“Right. Just a few.”
Most of the others were drinking white wine. I had declined, not quite knowing how I was supposed to hold the ornate glasses. Beer seemed safer, since it was served in glass mugs—fancier than I had ever seen, but at least a familiar shape.
I was sitting between Andreas, Karin’s boyfriend, and Petra’s friend Klaus. They were both finishing their medical studies and working as interns.
“I agree with Schumacher: He’s a dangerous influence on parents,” Andreas was saying to Klaus.
“Who are you talking about?” Karin asked.
“Daniel Schreber from Leipzig.”
“Oh, him. Herr Discipline. He had crazy ideas.”
“Yes, him,” Andreas continued. “But his crazy ideas, as you call them, are what most German parents believe in: Don’t coddle children, never hug them or stroke them. Just discipline them so you command complete obedience. Do you know that Schreber fired a nanny who offered a slice of a pear she was eating to one of his children? Children aren’t supposed to ask for a piece of food when adults are eating, no matter how hungry they are.”
“It’s just like you train a dog not to beg at the table,” Klaus added.
“Not exactly,” I ventured. “You discipline dogs, but you pet and reward them for good behavior.”
Sabine looked pleased, and Andreas nodded. “You’re right. Schreber forgot that part when talking about children, which is why German children grow up to be so aggressive. They never get any rewards, just punishment. That’s what Schumacher says, anyway.”
Karin turned toward me. “Schumacher is the doctor Andreas works for—he’s always complaining about him.”
“He isn’t bad, really, even if he’s chasing his nurses while I do the work,” Andreas said. “But it’d be nice to both do the work and make the money.”
Karin popped a herring into her mouth. “And you’re not chasing the nurses?”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“Better watch it,” Petra warned. “We nurses have a pretty good reporting system. That’s why Klaus is always on his best behavior. Right, Klaus?”
Klaus spread his arms in a gesture of innocence. “It never occurred to me to chase more than the one nurse I’ve got.”
Petra playfully swatted him on the head. “Sure, I believe you.”
Everyone laughed.
Andreas looked at me and then Sabine. “How about you, Karl? You seem to have done a pretty good job chasing a nurse yourself. And you’re not even in medical school.”
I sat there uncomfortably, and Karin jumped in. “It works both ways. I don’t have anything to do with medicine, either, and somehow you landed up with me.”
But Andreas wasn’t about to be deterred. “Karl, tell us what you do. I mean, when you’re not chasing nurses.”
“When I’m not chasing nurses, I’m chasing nursery school teachers.”
It was Karin’s turn to blush. “See, Andreas, you’d better watch out. You, too, Sabine.”
Sabine smiled, but she cast a questioning glance my way.
It took a moment for me to figure things out. “Hey, I didn’t know that’s what you do, Karin. Honest.”
“Tell that to Andreas,” she said, laughing again. “Let’s go to the table and get something more substantial.”
Andreas didn’t look amused, and I was relieved to see that the move to the table seemed to make him forget his question.
Dinner was a delicious Tafelspitz, a boiled beef dish that tasted better than anything I remembered eating. Having watched the others drink, I also screwed up the courage to switch to the wine and was amazed how smoothly it went down. I had hardly ever drunk wine before; all my friends drank beer, which was cheaper. Andreas kept making the rounds with the bottle, and my glass was never empty for more than a minute.
The talk had switched to the economic problems. “It’s a bit better now,” Karin said. “But my mother says she prays every Sunday for all those people she sees in the unemployment lines.”
“Better now for whom?” I asked.
“For a lot of people,” Karin replied.
“You don’t see people carting around wheelbarrows of money anymore,” Andreas added. “I assume you see that as progress.”
My head felt fuzzy, and I suddenly had a longing to lie down far away from everyone. “I guess so,” I mumbled. “At least the Jewish bankers are happy.”
There was an awkward silence, and then Karin slowly stood up. “I’ll get the cake. By the way, Karl, I guess you could call me half Jewish.”
“But you said your mother prays on Sundays.”
“She does. My father doesn’t, though. He doesn’t pray any other day of the week, either, since he’s not a practicing Jew. But he grew up in a Jewish family.”
I rubbed my neck and saw Sabine looking away. “I didn’t mean anything personal, Karin. But there are real problems in this country.”
“And the Jews are to blame? Maybe they’re just maggots, vermin, lice, as that lovely man Hitler says,” Andreas interjected, his voice rising.
“You don’t understand.”
Andreas wasn’t about to be stopped. “I don’t, do I? Who are you, anyway? A brownshirt?”
I felt their eyes on me when I didn’t reply.
Karin sat back down. “Oh my God.”
Andreas looked triumphant. “Somehow I just knew it.”
Sabine was on her feet. “We’re going, Karl.”
Karin rose, too, and started walking us to the door.
“Good old Heine, he was right—how did he put it?” Andreas smirked, pausing as he took aim. “Ah, yes, I remember: ‘When I consider Germany at night, then sleep for me takes flight.’ ”
Karin shot him an icy look, but I wasn’t sure it was directed only at him.
I was already in the outside hallway when I heard part of Sabine’s soft parting words with Karin. “ . . . sorry, really sorry . . .” And something of Karin’s long reply: “ . . . he’s confused, I understand . . . yes, we’re friends, don’t be silly . . . always will be . . . give him time . . .”
Sabine and I walked back to the tram stop and rode home in silence.
—
The first time I heard of the book, his book, was from Emil Maurice on my next visit to prison. The driver complained that his boss was forcing him to take dictation of his autobiography and manifesto, which he would call Mein Kampf. “Once he gets going, there’s no stopping. You can’t imagine the number of times my hand cramps up. Thank God for Hess, though. He’s so eager to be the chosen one that he’ll take dictation until he drops, which means I have to do this only some of the time.” Emil winked. “The rest of the time when the boss is in his cell, we’re all free to do whatever we want. He gives a lot fewer speeches now that he’s working on the book. And he can’t be bothered with the politics outside. Can’t think of a better occupation for him.”
Emil was right. Hitler seemed less and less interested in hearing about how the party was doing, even when it got around the government ban by joining with other right-wing parties and winning several Reichstag seats in the May elections. Among the winners was Gregor Strasser, who was playing an increasingly important leadership role while Hitler remained in prison. When I delivered a letter from Gregor, Hitler didn’t bother sending a reply.
“I’m not sure why Hitler behaves this way,” I wrote Otto.
Otto’s reply was terse: “Hitler doesn’t like anything he doesn’t control completely. But he’ll have to learn to live with the fact that Gregor and the others are leaders, too.”
As Emil had pointed out, the other prisoners looked relieved to be on their own, more relaxed than on my early visits. They still met Hitler for meals, but his appearances were briefer.
One evening before I was about to leave, Emil and I looked on in astonishment as a group of prisoners, their faces smeared with black dust of some sort and their bodies wrapped in bedsheets, rushed by. Several of them waved brooms in the air and loudly hooted and yelped.
Emil gave me a puzzled look—and then broke into a broad grin. “I think I know what’s going on. Follow me.”
We ran after the group, which was heading directly for cell seven. Bursting in without knocking, they left the door open behind them. I caught a glimpse of a startled Hitler, who was standing in front of the small table where Hess was writing.
“Hear ye, hear ye,” one of the invaders proclaimed, pointing a poker at Hitler. “Now you will stand trial for all your foul deeds. Get ready to hear the charges of the court.”
The writing of Mein Kampf would have to wait, but Hitler didn’t seem to mind. His initial scowl gave way to a look of amusement. “May the court be merciful with its humble subject,” he pleaded mockingly.
“ ‘Mercy’ is not in our vocabulary,” one of the men solemnly intoned. “We mean to judge, and to judge severely.”
“What is the charge against the accused?” asked another.
“Treason, treason most foul.”
“Treason against what?”
“Against the glorious Versailles government, whose accomplishments are beyond dispute: humiliation of the German people, ruination of its economy, the elevation of Jews and foreigners as its masters.”
“Horror, horror,” the first judge replied. “How could the accused dare to raise a hand against so noble a government? How does the accused plead?”
Hitler hung his head. “Guilty, most guilty, your honor.”
“And what is the verdict of the court?”
“Guilty, most guilty,” all the men draped in sheets chanted in unison.
“Then it is up to me, the chief judge, to hand down the verdict.” The man paused ostentatiously. “After careful deliberation, I sentence you, Adolf Hitler: Your punishment for your heinous crime shall be to travel all around this country, Germany, by automobile. You must not—and cannot—cross any borders. Instead you have to wallow in this country’s wretchedness that you dared to oppose. So rules this high court.”
“I humbly accept the verdict, although it is harsh beyond measure.”
“Harsh it is, but harsh it must be.”
Then, with more whoops and yells, the men in blackface ran out of the room, leaving Hitler smiling and shaking his head as he signaled Hess that it was time to get back to work.
Emil tapped me on the shoulder, and we stepped away from the door before Hess closed it.
“The men must be getting a bit bored with all this time on their hands,” Emil said as we walked toward the gate.
“Looks like it,” I said listlessly. I was thinking about the prospect of another awkward evening with Sabine.
Emil stopped and looked at me directly. “What’s wrong?”
“No, nothing. It was funny, really.”
“Got a girl?” he asked.
“Yes, sort of.”
“What do you mean ‘sort of’?”
“It hasn’t been going too well,” I admitted. “She’s not very happy with the way I’ve behaved recently. Actually, she’s really angry.”
Emil grinned and told me to wait. He was back in a couple of minutes with a huge bouquet of roses, which he held out to me. “Here. It works every time, believe me. I’ve perfected this method. Every girl I’ve been with has had plenty of reasons to be angry with me.”
I hesitated. “You sure? I mean, where did you get them?” As the words came out, I knew the answer.
“Where do you think? The boss gets so many deliveries we don’t know what to do with them.” He thrust them into my hands. “Take them. It’s for a good cause.”
“Thanks, Emil. Maybe this will help.”
He punched me lightly on the shoulder. “It’s guaranteed.”
As I turned to leave, he said, “Oh, I’ll need you back here on Tuesday morning. I’ve got—or the boss has—a little assignment for you.”
“What kind?”
“You’ll see.” He smiled. “It won’t be difficult—or painful.”
Chapter Seven
It was shortly after I arrived here that I ran into that Jew Bruno. He was in on lesser charges than mine. I don’t remember the details, but I think he was involved in some kind of swindle, cheating his customers. Not surprising for a Jew, not surprising at all. What did surprise and anger me was the nerve he had. He congratulated me. “You did a wonderful thing for my people,” he told me, holding out his hand. Of course I didn’t shake it. I felt like hitting him, and he must have read my expression, because he immediately backed off. Can you imagine him saying that? Can you imagine believing that the reason I did what I did was to help the Jews? Bruno was clearly unbalanced, and I’m not referring to the way he limped. I’m glad he steered clear of me after that, at least for a long while.
After Sabine’s grandmother died and Sabine took down the curtain that had divided the apartment, it felt larger, almost spacious, even if it was still a dingy small room. But when we began quarreling, the space once again felt claustrophobically tight, with nowhere for us to retreat from each other. In between the tears and the recriminations, I tried to explain a few of my beliefs. It wasn’t easy.
I suppose it didn’t help that I was constantly resentful. I resented the condescensi
on of someone like Andreas, who was so smug in his ways just because he was in medical school and, I bet, came from a rich family. And who had so little respect for his country that he dug out that shameful line of Heine. I had found Karin attractive and less stuck up than I expected, until she had reacted so personally to what I said about Jewish bankers. All of them had taken on such superior airs, as if I’d done something truly shocking. You’d have thought I had suddenly pulled my trousers down, turned my back to them and bent over. When all I did was mention something that everyone knew to be true.
I didn’t want to dwell on the subject with Sabine because she didn’t understand politics. She saw everything in personal terms, and since Karin was half Jewish, she was ready to take offense at any discussion of Jews. I told her that I’d never said all Jews were guilty. And I reminded her that I had told Karin I had nothing against her personally. I had no reason to blame Karin for anything.
But that didn’t mean other Jews weren’t guilty. I knew enough about those other Jews. Yes, the bankers. And the landlords, the politicians and the liars who wrote for the socialist press. Let’s face it: Why shouldn’t they have been held to account for what they were doing to Germany? Who wrote the Weimar constitution? Someone called Hugo Preuss, a law professor from the University of Berlin. A Jew. You didn’t have to dig very hard to see what was happening. It was all spelled out in our newspapers and pamphlets.
One moment Sabine would say she couldn’t stand me for saying these things, and in another she’d admit she was confused, uncertain what to think. She certainly didn’t understand my political convictions and didn’t want to. She knew only that she hated the way they drove wedges between people. She hated hate, she said.
“Why should I have to make a choice between you and Karin?” she asked.
“Do you love Karin better than me?”
“You’re missing my point entirely.”
I came back from Landsberg with the huge bouquet of roses. Emil was right: It was better than any medicine. She was amazed at first; I had never done this before. Then she was suspicious. I had told her after earlier visits about the flood of gifts Hitler received, including flowers.
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