5 Berlin 1938
Martin found himself sitting at the same small wrought-iron table he’d shared with Beck earlier for lunch, looking out at the busy, well-lit street in front of him. It was just past 6:00 o’clock in the evening. The sky was dark and overcast—there were clouds that had moved in—although the temperature was still mild for the season. He watched heavy trucks rumbling down the wide thoroughfares, as people scrambled to get out of the way of trolleys, as well as the small autos creeping through the crowds at a snail’s pace. He’d just noticed that the streetlights had come on some time before, and he looked up at the little halos of light punctuating the darkness.
He was smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee, his legs crossed and his hat on the table, his overcoat lying on the chair next to him. The fingers of his right hand played through Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 1 in F minor. It was the piece he’d spent the last two hours working on—working it over and over again on the piano in his home studio. It was the Beethoven piano sonata he enjoyed playing most above all others; the piece he’d be playing two days from now, in Frankfurt.
There was an energy in the air that he couldn’t describe; an apprehension in the crowded streets that hadn’t been there earlier, when he’d met with Beck for lunch. He noticed there were more Brownshirts marching through the streets, for one thing. He’d never seen them in such large numbers before—not here at least. Not in Berlin. They marched in columns of four abreast, hundreds at a time, singing the Horst-Wessel song at the top of their lungs, their marched steps keeping time with the tune. He hated the song and everything it stood for. He knew the words just as much as anyone, and he knew the tune—he’d played it on more than one occasion—but that didn’t meant he’d enjoyed playing it.
Dieter appeared and Martin found himself smiling up at the beautiful man with the mismatched eyes. And that was it, wasn’t it, he realized? Dieter was undoubtedly the most beautiful man Martin had ever met. He sat down in front of him, reaching for Martin’s hand, clasping it tight as he looked him in the eyes, smiling.
“I didn’t think you’d show up,” he said, and lifting Martin’s hand to his lips, kissed it softly.
“Why did you do that?” Martin asked, slowly pulling his hand away.
“Did I shock you?” Dieter laughed. “Tell me I did.”
“Probably not as much as whoever’s watching me,” Martin said, looking over his shoulder. He remembered Beck telling him Von Kornitz was a card carrying member of the Party and knew he wasn’t a man to pass up an opportunity to gain the upper hand. As the position was still open with Strauss, Martin was almost certain Von Kornitz would ask his friends in the Party to watch him.
“What makes you think anyone’s watching you?” Dieter asked.
“Everyone’s watching everyone. It’s what’s wrong with this country,” he said, and Dieter looked away, watching the Brownshirts marching down the street.
“I’m sure there’s more than just that wrong with the country,” he laughed, his gazed fixed on another parade of Brownshirts marching through the streets “Is there a rally tonight? I hadn’t heard.”
“They hold those in Nuremberg,” Martin said.
“Have you ever been to one?”
“Of course. A man in my position can’t afford not to.”
“In your position? And what position is that?”
“Have you never been to one?” Martin asked, changing the subject.
“No. I want you to know I don’t disagree with what they say, and I don’t object to their methods,” Dieter laughed, sitting back and catching the waiter’s attention. “Are you hungry? Have you dined?”
Martin shook his head.
“And what does that mean?” Dieter asked, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders, mocking him. “Does that mean you’re not hungry, or that you haven’t eaten?”
“Both,” Martin said.
“Would you like to leave then? I know a place we can go where the wine flows like honey, and the waiters are sublime.”
“Sublime?” Martin smiled, finishing the last of his coffee and picking up his hat. “I’m curious as to why you would say that,” he asked, fixing the shape of his hat before putting it on.
“Trust me,” Dieter smiled. “You’ll understand when you see them. But first, I have to go to my apartment and get changed out of these clothes. You don’t mind do you? It hardly serves my purpose to take you out on the town in my work clothes, does it?”
“Why would you think I’d mind?”
“I thought, well, with you thinking you’re being followed, and then whoever it is sees you going into a strange man’s apartment? Well, I didn’t know what to think, hearing that.”
“Strange man? Allow me to introduce myself. Martin Jakob.”
“Dieter Jewer.”
“And where do you live, Dieter? I have an auto.”
“Do you?”
“An Opel.”
“Well, of course. And why not?” he added, sounding coy without even trying.
Martin stood up, slipping his overcoat on and dropping money on the table. He stood silent for a moment, watching the Brownshirts as they marched down the centre of the street, disrupting traffic and pushing people out of the way.
“Are you coming?” Dieter asked, standing on the sidewalk. He looked as more Brownshirts rounded the corner of the street, and smiled at Martin. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the mean men,” he laughed.
“Juden!”
It was sudden. The scream echoed into the long night; it echoed through the buildings around them, and it seemed—just for that moment—as if the entire street had fallen silent. While it only lasted a moment—the broken heartbeat of a wasted moment, Martin thought—it was enough for everyone to see the man standing at the entrance of an alley, pointing. Martin watched in horror as a dozen Brownshirts pounded up the street in pursuit. The man was urging them on, telling them to hurry because they were getting away.
“Come on!” Dieter yelled.
“What? Where?” Martin yelled in disbelief when Dieter pointed toward the alley.
“They’ve got a couple of Jews. Let’s go watch.”
“I’m not going to go watch!”
“Why not?”
“Are you serious?” Martin said. “What’s to prevent them from killing you?”
“You don’t have to go, but I am. I might not be very political, but who doesn’t like a little Jew-bashing?”
“You’re mad!”
“Mad. Foolish. Young. What difference does it make?” he asked, walking backwards and shrugging. “They’re Jews! They’re to blame for our troubles, just as much as the French and British,” he said, turning around and setting off at a run across the wide street.
“To blame for what?” Martin called out after him, but Dieter was already across the street. Martin stood still, watching Dieter’s shadow stretching across the cobblestones until he finally decided to follow, and set off at a brisk pace.
He refused to run.
When he approached the alley, he could hear voices—distinct screams and obscenities—and even as every nerve in his body was telling him not to follow, he found himself hugging the far wall and hanging onto the shadows as if they were stencilled-on scaffolds that criss-crossed the walls and buildings around him. There was another smaller alley ahead of him, and he looked down the length of it as he approached. The voices were fading and he knew he had to follow in spite of telling himself he was being a fool.
He was soon enveloped in the darkness—the click of the metal tabs on his heels striking out a discernible chord, softened into melody by the loud beating of his heart. He was quick to realize the voices had played tricks on him; there was no one ahead. He could hear the sound of breaking glass in the distance though, and more shouting as he approached the next street.
As he neared the end of the alley he looked around the corner, being careful to stay in the shadows. He could see the Brownshirts in the distance, and thought he saw Dieter standing among them, lost in the shadows. With his vest undone and his hair hanging in his face, he was kicking someone laying bundled up on the cobblestones in a puddle. As the water splashed it caught the reflection of the streetlights above them.
THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE