STORIES, AFTER EIGHT

THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE (the 9th installment)

First of all, I want to say I’m sorry I don’t have the video of this up for this week. I got back last weekend from Europe, and spent the week reorganizing things and just lost track of time. I’ll do a reading sometime during the next week…

THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE

Martin looked up and did a double-take. The man smiled at him, winked, and then looked at Beck, thanking him as he put the beer down in front of him. He reached down for Martin’s glass at the same time Martin did, and their hands touched for a moment. Martin pulled his hand away, the cold touch of the man’s fingers making his heart beat louder in his breast.

He looked at Beck, who seemed oblivious to the encounter, and watched the man as he walked away. There was no doubt it was the man he’d met at the recital three weeks ago. Why does he make me feel like I’ve just been caught up in a school age crush?

“The National Socialists are supposed to be a political Party,” Martin said, hoping to distract himself. “I care little for politics, and even less for theirs. And what exactly is wrong with them, you ask, as you always ask? To be plain and simple, they’re thugs. They use that thug’s mentality and keep breaking international laws. You do know we lost the War—”   

“We didn’t lose the War; it was lost for us. The Jews are the reason we lost the War, and you know it.”

“My father died in it. I’d hate to think he died in vain.”

“And how can you think he died in vain, if Germany becomes a major power, in spite of losing the war?”

“We’re not supposed to have an airforce. But we do. We’re not supposed to have an effective navy, but nobody said anything about a Merchant Marine. We’re re-taking land that once belonged to us, because the people there demand it. But do they? Really? Hitler and his National Socialists say they do. Do you think the people there had a choice? Hitler simply wants to annex Austria.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“How about the fact that Austria has never been a part of Germany?”

“And yet, the people that live there are German.”

“No, they’re not. They’re Austrians.”

“Your naïveté blinds you.”

“Blinds me? I sometimes think I’m the only one who sees,” Martin said, shaking his head slowly.

“Sees what?”

“What about the hatred? There are gangs of brown-shirted thugs who beat you if you’re a Jew; they paint slogans on shop windows. Since when was it a crime to be a Jew?”

“How can you pretend to know nothing about it? Why do you think we lost the War in the first place? It was because of the Jews!”

“And what did they do?”

“While our brave soldiers—men like your father—were fighting, and yes, dying, the Jews controlled the banks. Well, Hitler fixed that, didn’t he? They don’t control the banks anymore, do they? They owned all the big businesses. Why should they own the industries we relied on for our war surplus?”

“Who says they did?”

“You don’t know. You’re too young to remember what it was like after the war.”

“No, I’m not. You’re wrong. I was six years old when the War ended. I was eleven when Hitler was sent to jail—”

“Unjustly, sent to jail!”

“He tried to overthrow the government,” Martin reminded him. “Or have you forgetten that part?”

“They were corrupt!”

“That’s not a reason.”

“Bah! You know nothing about it.”

“I grew up with the National Socialists. They wanted me join the Hitler Youth, like everyone else my age.”

“And you refused to sign up?”

“Yes I refused to sign up. I didn’t want anything to do with the Hitler Youth. They assumed we all wanted to be there—or that our parents wanted us there because it was supposed to be what was best for us. It wasn’t what was best for me, and my mother knew it. I was studying and playing piano five hours a day. Why would anyone think I should be in the Youth? Not even you did. If you hadn’t put me on that stage when you did, things may have been different.”

Beck took a long swallow of his beer and shook his head. Martin looked at the man, waiting. He was hoping to go on a short tour through Germany with Strauss; he was looking forward to it. Beck, working more as his manager than his former teacher, told him the tour might not happen. He picked up his beer and stood up, putting his hat on.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to see if I can fix this.”

“Fix what?”

“I told you, they’re looking at other pianists.”

“Name one,” Martin challenged him.

“Hermant Von Kornitz. He also happens to be a card-carrying member of the Party.”

      *

Martin watched Dieter out of the corner of his eye, waiting until he was ready to leave before daring to say anything to the man. Dieter pretended to clear the table, even going as far as wiping it down with a rag. Martin could see the man watching him as he wiped the table, his eyes focused on him and a smile teasing his lips; he didn’t look away.

It’s almost seems as if he’s challenging me to speak first, Martin thought.

Dieter spoke instead, his voice was a low whisper. What the man was about to say wasn’t something he wanted to be overheard in public, and Martin was secretly grateful for that single act. People were being accused of all sorts of crimes against the Nation—and the National Socialists could be ruthless if they thought there was anything to be gained with an arrest. A person could easily lose everything they owned and find themselves sent to Plotzensee prison awaiting immediate trial if he was accused of a crime.

Nobody wants to be sent there.

“Why don’t you come back later?” Dieter suggested. “I get off at 6:00. I’ll show you a side of Berlin you don’t even know exists.”

“And what side is that?” Martin asked.

“Mine,” he said with a smile, and then turned to walk away.

Martin picked up his Fedora, watching the man until he lost him in the darkness of the café. He wondered what the man meant when he said that he’d show him a side of Berlin he didn’t even know existed. He looked at his watch, telling himself to go home. It was one o’clock. He could still practice for the next three hours. He knew if he wanted to win a seat on the Strauss tour, he’d have to earn it.

He left, all the while thinking that coming back would probably be the single greatest mistake of his life. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, and that’s the part that frightened him—or was that the part that excited him? Is that what it was? The man excited him in ways he didn’t understand, and a part of him wondered if it was something he should pursue. He was strangely attracted to the man, and couldn’t understand why. Was it his thin, angular face, with his mismatched eyes of blue and green? His thin, tapered chin? His hair was dark and full of curls, reminding him of the many Greek and Roman statues he’d seen in his travels.

He thought about Annaliese and the fact he wouldn’t let himself touch her. It was obvious she expected him to—perhaps she even wanted him to—the way she sometimes pushed herself against him. He would feel the swell of her breasts pressed up against his chest when he held her in his arms; and he’d been shocked the first time she pushed her tongue into his mouth. And those nights when he felt himself aroused, he’d distance himself from her—purposely. He remembered the day he told her that he wanted to wait until they were married and how she’d pushed him away in near tears.