Winter Men Page 4

  When he finally stepped forward, she raised her cheek to accept his kiss, her gaze still fixed on the indeterminate distance. He kissed her softly, then left the room to review the mail. One letter’s formal appearance caught his attention. He unfolded it slowly and read it in astonishment. The last rays of daylight fell through the window onto the swastika at the top of the page, as if the paper was illuminated from behind. He shook his head and tucked the letter in his pocket.

  In the living room he sat down at the shiny black Steinway. He ran his hand gently across the lid before lifting it. The full-throated sound of the first key strike always surprised him, and he enjoyed seeing the hammers work against the strings as they produced the softest notes, as if to justify the human sense of hearing. It was like stepping into another world, one in which time, place, past, and future fell away, leaving only the present.

  “Could you please change your clothes, dear? Our guests will be arriving soon.”

  Ingrid’s voice brought him back to reality.

  “It’s just my brother,” he said.

  “No, Heinz is coming, too.”

  His sense of serenity dissolved. How he wished he could have postponed the moment when Hilde had met that young policeman. She was nineteen years old now, and they’d been seeing each other for six months. Although Karl had grown accustomed to the young man, he still wasn’t enthusiastic about him. His cheeks were red as apples and stuck to either side of his face like two halves of a tennis ball, giving him a childlike appearance. Both Hilde and Ingrid seemed to find him charming, but Karl thought he resembled an oversized schoolboy with his clear blue eyes and short, combed-back dirty-blond hair.

  And he called his daughter Hildegard. Karl was always startled to hear her full name. Everyone had called her Hilde since she was an infant. He doubted that Heinz was the right man for her, but if Hilde liked him, well, then Karl would just have to accept it.

  Karl went upstairs. Hilde was the most positive person he knew, and there was no question that she had inherited that quality from him. She had the same blue eyes, the same long, straight nose that would make a Roman envious, and a mouth that always seemed ready to smile. They had the same outlook and the same approach to life. August had gotten his mother’s withdrawn and brooding nature, as had Sophia. Maximilian was an odd mixture of them both but resembled his grandfather most of all.

  After washing up in the bathroom, he put on a clean undershirt and removed a slender bottle of Farina from the shelf. “Kölner Wasser” had become “eau de cologne” because it sold better—though the Germans were hardly Francophiles. He wondered whether Hitler would change its name back to cologne water.

  He opened his wardrobe to find an appropriate suit. Instead he pulled out his officer’s uniform and stood before the mirror holding it against his body. On the collar of the gray-green uniform jacket were the officer’s epaulets with their insignias that indicated he was a lieutenant. The light-gray background behind the insignias identified him as a reserve officer—or weekend warrior, as his brother teased him. An eagle was embroidered into the fabric above the left breast pocket. At the end of 1937 he’d applied for admission into the reserves and entered with his rank from the First World War as an officer cadet. By October 1938 he’d reached the rank of lieutenant. He’d had the uniform customized, which was visible on the pants’ tailoring. He regarded the little tag on the neck with pride: Strangl Clothing Factory. Though the factory filled his days, he still felt like a soldier. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

  Karl hung his uniform back in the closet and selected a pinstriped suit, a single-breasted affair from Burberry in London. He came down the broad stairwell to the hall just as Karin let Gerhard in.

  “I see you still swear by your bicycle,” Karl said, shaking his brother’s hand. “Why don’t you get yourself a car instead of freezing? I can help you get a good price.”

  “No, thanks. I like to ride my bike,” Gerhard said as he handed his scarf and coat to Karin, who waited awkwardly nearby. The servant girl took the coat and disappeared into the cloakroom.

  “Good god, come inside and get something to warm you up.”

  In the living room he poured two glasses of sherry and handed one to Gerhard. They watched Hilde and Heinz chatting in the sunroom.

  “They’re happy together,” Gerhard said, nodding toward the young couple.

  “Yes.” A moment passed before Karl continued. “Yes, they are.”

  “Come on, now, that’s how fathers always feel. How do you think old Friedrich felt when you stole his eldest daughter?” Gerhard gave him a friendly pat on his shoulder.

  “You’re right. Maybe I’ll learn to like him.”

  “My dear Gerhard,” Ingrid said as she came into the room and shook her brother-in-law’s hand. She was wearing a short-sleeved red shirt and matching skirt. Around her neck she wore a white silk scarf. “Dear, would you be so kind as to call the two turtle doves. We’re ready to be seated.”

  The twins, Maximilian and Sophia, were positioned at either end of the table, a measure their parents were forced to take if they wanted any peace at the dinner table. Karl had recently visited his good friend Ernst Grabner at the Blohm & Voss shipyard, and he told everyone about Germany’s new battleship, the Bismarck, that was currently under construction. Heinz told a rapt Maximilian about when German giant Max Schmeling handed American boxer Joe Louis his first defeat in New York City in 1936 and returned home a hero in the airship Hindenburg. He neglected to mention the rematch two years later, when Schmeling was defeated and then mocked for losing to a black man.

  Sophia stuck her tongue out at Maximilian, who in turn crossed his eyes. Karl cast an amused glanced at the pair.

  “I got a letter from Berlin today,” he said, pulling the envelope out of his pocket and unfolding the paper. “I’ve been invited to meet the führer.”

  “Well now, what could he possibly want with my brother?” Gerhard asked.

  “Hitler, Himmler, and Goebbels are looking for a fourth man to play bridge with.” Karl smiled impishly at Gerhard.

  “I thought that was Göring’s spot.”

  “No, he doesn’t play, drink, or go out with women.” Everyone around the table laughed except the twins and Heinz. Karl waited until everyone fell silent. “It says that I’m to be honored, along with other industry leaders, at a ceremony in the Reich Chancellery.”

  “You must be proud to have the opportunity to meet Hitler,” Heinz said with reverence.

  “Well, I don’t know about that.” Karl looked at his wife. “But it’ll be nice to take a trip to Berlin, won’t it, Ingrid?”

  “I won’t say no, and this time I’m making you go to the theater.”

  “Fine. As long as I don’t have to see one of Wagner’s operas.”

  “We’ll see,” Ingrid said with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

  Karl had been wondering how to respond ever since reading the letter. Although he wanted to decline the invitation, he knew that would only hurt the factory. He would have to consider the trip to Berlin as the cost of doing business. It annoyed him that he was being drawn into this, but maybe they just wanted to thank him for his work. He folded the paper and stuffed it back in his pocket. He looked at Heinz. Hilde’s boyfriend clearly admired the führer, but why? Karl couldn’t see what was so special about meeting Adolf Hitler.

  He watched Heinz gulp down an unseemly large swallow of red wine, his Adam’s apple bobbing as the liquid glided down his throat. He sensed that his gaze was making Heinz nervous.

  “What about you, August? What will you do when you’re done with school?” Heinz asked Karl’s elder son, who hadn’t said a word during the meal. Karl could tell that he’d asked the question only to divert Karl’s attention away from him.

  “I plan to—”

  “He’ll be a soldier like his father. Isn’t that right?” Karl broke in.

  “Yes.”

  “Good choice,” Karl said, raising his glass to toast
his son.

  “Choice is hardly the right word,” August mumbled, low enough that Karl couldn’t hear.

  August then withdrew into himself and glanced at Gerhard, who noticed how uneasy the boy looked. Like a frightened child.

  “Hitler will probably have conquered all of Europe before you’re even fully trained as a soldier. So you’ll be able to sit in Paris and drink red wine or flirt with the girls in Rome,” Gerhard said, smiling at the young man, who returned a shy smile. He knew that August was no more a soldier than he had been himself. And yet the boy pulled on his Hitler Youth uniform every day. Weinhardt was right: it was a circus act, and poor August was its casualty.

  “Wonderful meal, Ingrid,” Gerhard said as he wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  “I’m glad you value my talent at putting my servants to work.” She smiled. “I can also boast that I did not make the dessert.” She knew Gerhard appreciated her sense of humor.

  “Uncle.” Maximilian seemed alarmed by the strength in his own voice, which cracked in a falsetto. His voice had only recently begun to betray him. “Can you tell us your Hitler joke again?”

  “Now’s not the time,” Gerhard answered evasively.

  “Please, Uncle,” the twins shouted in unison.

  Gerhard glanced at Karl, who shrugged.

  “All right, then.” He eyed the two expectant children. “What does the perfect Aryan look like?” He glanced around the table. “He’s blond like Hitler, tall like Goebbels, and skinny and fit like Göring.”

  Maximilian howled with laughter, even though Gerhard had told the joke many times.

  Sophia said sourly to her uncle, “I don’t get it.”

  “Hitler thinks we should all be tall and muscular Aryans with blue eyes and blond hair, but Hitler has dark hair, Goebbels is a small man with a clubfoot, and Göring is fat.”

  “That’s not funny at all.” It was clear that Sophia still didn’t understand. She sat back, sulking in her seat, and rested her head in her hands, both elbows planted on the table. The room went quiet.

  “In school they say the Jews deserve it,” Sophia said to break the silence.

  “Let’s not discuss that now,” Ingrid said.

  “I’m curious. Aren’t you a policeman, Heinz?” Gerhard asked, knowing full well that he was.

  The young man nodded.

  “Then maybe you can answer a question that’s been spinning around in my head all day. Why didn’t the police intervene yesterday, when the Jews were attacked?”

  “It would have been impossible to control such an unruly mob. Everyone was out on the streets, and they were angry. The German people are sick of the Jews,” Heinz said, making sure not to look directly at Gerhard as he spoke.

  “The people weren’t behind it. It was the SS and SA,” Gerhard said.

  “Is that what you think?” Heinz asked. “It was a spontaneous rebellion. It’s in the police report.”

  “You can say many things about the Germans, but if there’s one thing they are not, it’s spontaneous. It all seemed too planned. If you ask me, it’s the Reichstag fire all over again.”

  “They’re tired of the Jews and their endless fraud and deception. The people have spoken, and can you blame them?” Heinz said sternly, more loudly than he’d intended.

  Gerhard raised his voice. “Have you ever seen a Jew treat anyone poorly? Has anyone at this table?” He glanced at the others. “No, it’s propaganda, a pure fabrication, something the Nazis made up. The Jews are no worse than the rest of us. That’s just what Hitler wants us to believe.”

  “That’s a very dangerous position to express,” Heinz said, though his demeanor suggested that he immediately regretted his remark.

  “Are you threatening me?” Gerhard leaned over the table.

  Karl rose. “Why don’t we drop it and give thanks for an incredible meal?”

  “I’m sorry. Thank you for inviting me here tonight.” Heinz gave Ingrid an ingratiating smile as he pulled the chair out for Hilde.

  Gerhard remained seated after the others had left the table and tried to reproduce the conversation in his head. Did Heinz really believe what he was saying? Or was he covering up the truth? Gerhard couldn’t figure him out. Something was going on behind his smile and his blue eyes—he was certain of it—and even though he hadn’t said as much directly, Gerhard detected a clear warning in his words.

  He looked in on August, who’d grudgingly begun playing a game of dominoes with Sophia at the round mahogany table in the living room. His blond hair was carefully parted and combed from left to right, and like his blue eyes, it lacked luster. Combined with his mournful mouth, his face occasionally appeared glum. When he looked at the boy, Gerhard saw himself. He too had been introverted and shy at age fifteen. Soon August would turn sixteen; in two years he would finish high school, and then he would undoubtedly continue on to the university. Unless, that is, he joined the army.

  It was obvious that August wasn’t listening to Sophia and that his mind was elsewhere. Gerhard noticed him turning his head as though listening to something happening in another room. When Sophia finally got his attention, August’s face lit up in a smile, or what Karl called “the rare smile.” Gerhard could see Ingrid sitting in the sunroom with her back to them. An open book rested on her lap, and she was biting the bookmark absentmindedly. Before dinner, Maximilian had asked Heinz whether he wanted to see his room, and Gerhard could hear Maximilian timidly showing Heinz around upstairs. He went into his brother’s office.

  Karl closed the double doors. He poured two glasses of brandy, and they took their seats in the dark leather recliners. Among the many things imposed on the Germans in the Treaty of Versailles, the oddest was that they weren’t allowed to use the word “cognac.” So they drank brandy instead.

  “It’s not like you to get angry,” Karl said, handing Gerhard a glass. He knew that his brother had no interest in politics. He was interested in injustice and always had been. Maybe it was because he’d been teased for being smart—and different—when he was a schoolboy.

  Gerhard accepted his glass, then looked at his brother. “Don’t you see? Something’s wrong. People don’t ask questions anymore, and they take whatever’s written in the police report to be the indisputable truth. That’s just not the case,” he said, growing agitated.

  “Of course I can see that, but you should keep those opinions to yourself. It could be dangerous for you if the wrong ears heard them.”

  He stared at Karl. “People don’t have convictions anymore! The Nazis have convictions, and the Jews have to live with the consequences of those convictions. How many people do you think died last night on account of those convictions?”

  Karl refrained from answering, instead saying in a resigned voice, “They’ve dubbed it ‘Kristallnacht,’ the Night of Broken Glass. We’ve had the Night of the Long Knives and now Kristallnacht. I wonder, what will be next?”

  “I’m starting to lose all hope in democracy. I thought Hitler was just a provisional figure. I’m not saying democracy’s the right path, but . . .”

  Karl interrupted him. “Now you almost sound like a communist. Germany has never had a democratic tradition.”

  “You can call me a socialist if it stays between us,” Gerhard said drily.

  “If people heard you say that, you’d be off to Dachau with all the other socialists . . . and communists.”

  There was a brief lull in conversation. Gerhard twirled his wedding ring. He’d long wondered whether or not he should remove it, but he’d decided to leave it on. Technically he was still married, after all.

  “Have you ever even asked August what he wants to do?”

  The question surprised Karl. “Come on, it’d be good for him.”

  “August is a thinker; you’ve got to respect that.” Gerhard glanced around the office, whose walls were paneled with dark wood and lined with books. He doubted that Karl had read any of them. He looked at his brother, who seemed enormous in his recliner.
Karl was tall, nearly six feet two, with broad shoulders and a body still marked by all the training he’d done in his youth. He peered up at the display cabinet on the wall, where Karl’s track and field and rowing medals were visible through the glass.

  “A soldier can think, too, you know.”

  “Were you allowed to think when you were a soldier?” Gerhard asked. He recalled his own military training, which, for someone who liked to use his head for more than just holding his helmet in place, had provided no intellectual stimulation at all. Karl said nothing, so Gerhard continued. “He’s different. He’s not fit to be a soldier. He’s like me. And he’s only in the Hitler Youth because all the other boys in his class are.”

  “But he’s a fine athlete.”

  “Because you want him to be.”

  Karl eyed Gerhard in silence for a moment as he considered what his brother was telling him. Gerhard stood and went to the window. Outside it was dark, but the outline of the lake was visible by the light emanating from the houses around it. “How can you concentrate in here with such a view?”

  Karl grunted. If only Gerhard knew how little work he actually did here. “You think I’m a strict father?” he asked.

  “I think you’re a good and fair father, the kind of father I would’ve liked to have been. But I think you expect too much from August,” he replied, with his back to Karl.

  “I don’t agree.” Karl concentrated on his glass, which suddenly seemed more interesting than the conversation. Others might see such a comment as an invitation to continue the discussion, but Gerhard knew all too well that when Karl spoke like that, there was no reason to go on.