Sins of the Fathers, page 12
“France has an alliance to protect Czechoslovakia,” Foreign Minister Neurath said. “England will rally to France. We will face another world war.”
“On the contrary,” Hitler said, “if allies do not have the courage of their convictions, alliances mean nothing. The point to consider is that our rearmament is nearly completed, while the rest of the world only begins to rearm. Until now, time has been our friend. It will soon be our enemy. We must not wait until the others catch up!”
Blomberg knew better than to argue with Hitler. He turned to Gӧring. “Hermann, if your economic programs delivered half of what you claimed they would, there would be no need to contemplate a course that jeopardizes our country’s future.”
Gӧring turned red. His eyes bulged. While I never cared for the man, I didn’t want him to have a stroke. I slid a glass of water across the table to him.
The generals bickered for hours, while Hitler remained stone-faced. His blue eyes darted from one to another without reacting to what was being said.
Finally, after he had enough, Hitler put the coda on the meeting.
“Mein Herren. Let me put your minds at ease. As long as Mussolini lives, we have nothing to worry about from Italy. As for Czechoslovakia,” he explained, “England is the key. As long as the British remain neutral, we can attack without interference. France will never go it alone.”
*
Back in his office, Hitler plopped onto a couch and wiped sweat dripping down the sides of his face. I sat opposite him.
“Give me your assessment, Friedrich? How did it go?”
I was numb from what had just happened. How best to answer?
“Raeder and Hermann supported you. They were never in doubt. But did you really think the war minister, the foreign minister, and army chief would welcome the invasion of two countries at the risk of a full-fledged war?”
Hitler sneered. “What do they know? I’ve proven them wrong before. The so-called ‘victors’ have lost their will to fight.”
I swallowed hard to keep down the bitter taste of rising bile.
“Wolf?”
“You used to call me that all the time, years ago. It reminds me when everything was simpler, when we knew what we had to do to gain power.” Hitler’s eyes seemed to gaze into the past.
“You have that power now. Why jeopardize everything by risking war?”
Hitler’s gaze turned to a glare directed at me without answering. Then he pushed off the couch and circled to his desk. He made a show of fumbling through a stack of papers, his eyes fixed on nothing. He lifted one paper and brought it close, pretending to read it.
His message was clear: Germany was on a path to war.
Chapter 17
I stood in front of my house, key in hand, staring at the door. I remembered leaving Hitler and the Chancellery building but how I reached home was a haze. I kept trying . . . but the key didn’t want to work.
The door cracked open.
“I thought I heard you.” Carla’s smile vanished when she saw my face. She reached for my hand. “What’s wrong, Friedrich? Are you ill?”
I brushed past her and headed for the bar. I poured a generous amount of my favorite scotch—Auchentoshan Single Malt— downed it, and poured another. Auchentoshan was meant to be sipped. Not guzzled. I didn’t care.
Carla approached gingerly. “If you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong, at least ask how my trip to Munich was?”
I downed the second glass of scotch before glancing at her. Expressionless.
She folded her arms over her chest. “My brother is the same. As always. I can’t tell if he recognizes me. No matter. It makes me feel better to see him.”
I refilled the glass.
“I promised my parents I would never abandon him. I love him.”
With the glass in one hand and the bottle of scotch in the other, I headed for the kitchen, stopped, and turned. “Sorry. I am not going to be very good company tonight.”
“Oh! I hadn’t noticed.” Carla wheeled around and stomped off.
*
I planted myself on a kitchen chair and didn’t move until I had sucked down the last drop of Auchentoshan. While I sat there, I thought of nothing and everything. My overwhelming thought was that Hitler was prepared to start a war. Possibly another Great War. Even in my inebriated state, I realized it wasn’t about Lebensraum or food or for any other reason he conjured up to explain the invasion of our neighbors. In Hitler’s mind, conquering Europe would enshrine him in history. Austria and Czechoslovakia were the first steps.
Then my mind drifted to 1918 when I woke up in Charité Hospital after being in a coma for a week. The pain. The broken bones. The morphine stupor. The war had cost me everything, including my memory. I reflected about my days in the Freikorps, the fighting in the Berlin streets, retaking the Bavarian government from the Reds, the Beer Hall Putsch. I fought for a cause I believed worthy at the time. No longer. My old friend Wolf was about to open the gates of hell . . . and take everyone through them.
I tipped my glass back. It was bone dry. Same for the bottle. I stumbled to the cabinet and grabbed my last fifth of scotch. I plopped back on my chair and poured two fingers. I swirled the liquid. Ripples of amber lapped over the edge and onto the table. I emptied the glass.
How did it come to this?
Still holding my glass, I pushed back from the table and tried to stand, but my legs gave way. I tumbled to the floor, smashing my head against the wall, the glass shattering. A jagged piece sliced deep into my palm.
I felt nothing. I lay bleeding.
Sometime later, I awoke.
On the floor.
Screaming.
Congealed blood all around.
A familiar coppery, sickening smell. I was on my side, legs tucked up.
Cowering.
Bombs exploding.
Nostrils singed with smoke.
I called out. “Retreat! Retreat! French on the right.”
Someone shook me.
Screamed at me. “Wake up! Wake up!”
I opened my eyes.
“You’re hurt,” she said, clad in white, “let me dress your wound.”
“Anna, I remember. I remember. Our orders were to go forward. We advanced too easily. The French trenches were empty. It was a trap. They caught us in a pincer move. Word came to retreat. I started to run. A shrill whistle. The brightest light. Explosion. The last thing I remember . . . flying through the air.”
“Friedrich, wake up! You’re dreaming.”
Arms lifted me to a sitting position.
“Is the doctor coming soon?” I asked, still believing I was in the hospital.
“Friedrich, open your eyes. It’s me. Carla.”
“Carla? What are you doing here?”
Worry was etched across her face. “Who is Anna?”
“Why are you in the hospital?” I asked again.
“Friedrich. You’re home. In the kitchen. You drank a bottle of scotch. From the looks of it, more. You fell and cut yourself. Look.”
My hand was wrapped in a towel.
“I stopped the bleeding. I didn’t feel any glass shards, but you need to go to the hospital.”
I peeled the blood-soaked towel back. A gash across my palm was open but the bleeding had stopped. “Pour alcohol on it. There’s iodine upstairs. Bandage it tight. The last thing I want is to go to a hospital.”
“I’m no nurse but you need stitches,” Carla firmly said.
“Have you seen the other scars on my body? This is nothing. I’ll be okay.” Carla started to protest.
I shook my head.
“Then promise me if it starts to bleed again, you’ll go.” I nodded.
Carla made a pot of coffee before cleaning up the mess. When the last splinter of glass was scooped into a dustpan and all was in order, she eased across from me.
“Are you able to tell me what this is all about?”
“I had a bad dream.”
“I’ve been with you awhile now, Friedrich. You don’t toss, turn, mumble, or say anything when you sleep. This was different. It was like you were transported someplace. If it was a dream, it was very real. You said things that frightened me.”
“What did I say?”
“Something about the French Fourth Army on the right flank. Bombs bursting. Retreat. You mentioned Reims Cathedral. General Ludendorff. Flanders. What was all of that about?”
Pain shot through me. I winced until it passed. Then, as if it were yesterday, I said, “The Second Battle of the Marne. General Ludendorff wanted us to be a diversion so he could send the main divisions through Flanders and surprise the enemy.” I smacked the table with my damaged hand. “Ouch!”
“Why did you do that? It had to hurt!”
I managed a stupid grin. “I forgot. You don’t understand how momentous this is. I have waited years to remember something about my past. When I was a soldier.”
“How could anyone forget fighting in the war?”
I was bombarded by images of Hitler. War. Scotch. Hitting my head. Blood. Curled like a fetus. Blood’s metallic smell. Carla’s white robe.
Whatever the trigger, something had jolted me back to the Second Battle of the Marne. Dr. Forster always said it would happen this way; that a memory would show its face when I least expected it . . . or for no particular reason. Well, it just did.
I struggled to remember more.
Carla tugged on my good hand.
“Friedrich. Where are you? I am losing you. What are you thinking about?”
I studied her angelic face. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me,” she urged.
I took a deep breath knowing this was a make-or-break moment.
“I was in battle. So many terrifying images. The explosion. It all happened.”
“You were there, Friedrich. They did happen.”
Still holding her hand, I said, “That’s just it, Carla, until this moment, I had no memory of the war. The nurses and doctors who put me back together told me I had been wounded in the Second Battle of the Marne. That I had been in a division of the German Third Army. We were attacking the French Fourth.”
She covered her mouth with her free hand and spoke through the web of her fingers. “I don’t understand.”
“An enemy shell exploded near me. I had a broken arm. Broken leg. Broken ribs. Broken jaw. My face was ripped apart. Burns all over. I was in a coma for a week. They weren’t sure I would wake up. When I did, I couldn’t remember what happened. Carla, do you understand? I couldn’t remember anything!”
She stroked my cheek; inspected my face. “You were lucky. You had great care. In my photographic work, I see soldiers missing parts of their face. They wear prostheses fashioned out of tin and painted to look real. But they are never right.”
“I was at Charité Hospital. I had the best plastic surgeon in all of Europe: Dr. Jacques Joseph.”
I placed Carla’s hand to my cheek. The love in her eyes gave me strength to continue. “It took dozens of surgeries and months for my body to heal. But . . .” I touched my skull with my bandaged hand, “my memory never came back. It’s been twenty years, Carla. This dream or vision or whatever it was, was my first memory of anything that happened before I woke up in Charité Hospital. It was amazing. It means so much to me.”
I held my breath. Either Carla would rally with compassion . . . or withdraw.
“You poor man. I can’t imagine how you lived all this time, not knowing anything about your past. Wait a second!” She made a queer face. “Your recognition disc would have had your name, identification number, regimental history, and where you were from. All soldiers wore them around their necks.”
“How do you know these things?”
“Remember? I’ve been creating a twenty-year photographic retrospective of soldiers wounded in the war. It’s gaining interest, too. But that’s not the point. Is Friedrich Richard your real name?”
I shook my head. “At Charité I was known as Patient X. After my wounds healed, Dr. Joseph had me transferred to Pasewalk Hospital. A psychiatrist there tried to help me.”
“But he couldn’t. Right?”
“Nothing worked. Not only did I lose my history, but I also lost what family I might have had. Friends, too.”
“I feel terrible for you. It must have been awful being so alone like that.”
“Except for the soldier I befriended in the bed next to mine.”
“Are you still in contact?”
I managed a fractured smile. “The funny thing is, Carla, you know him. It was Adolf Hitler.”
“The Führer? That explains . . .”
“Let me finish. We went our separate ways when the war ended. Germany was in ruins. Fighting everywhere. Soup kitchens. Bread lines. Then—the reason is not important why—we reunited in Munich. Hitler had become a polished, inspirational speaker by then. He gave people hope that better days would come. It was easy to attach my star to his.”
“They were better days.” Carla lowered her eyes and repeated sotto voce, “Then.”
“You’re right. The better days have turned into times of terror. And then yesterday. The meeting was scheduled to talk about shortages of materials and how to get more steel to build ships. Instead, Hitler crossed the line. He announced we would soon invade Austria and Czechoslovakia.”
“Whatever for? They are not our enemies,” she said.
“He’s not sane, Carla.”
“Crazy people do not run countries, Friedrich.”
“If that were only true,” I said. “He rationalized invading those two countries for their land and food. He expects one million Austrians and two million Czechs to die in the process, which would leave more food for Germans.”
“Friedrich. There is no way Hitler meant that!” said Carla. “Who talks that way?”
“There’s more. After invading these countries Hitler wants his military leaders to create twelve new army divisions from these two countries.”
Her eyes crinkled trying to make sense of what this implied.
“Don’t you get it?” My voice pitched higher. “If we already conquered Austria and Czechoslovakia, why would we need more soldiers?”
“We wouldn’t . . .” Carla hesitated, “. . . unless . . . unless he is planning something else.”
“Yes!” I cried out. “An even greater war! Hitler wants to rule the European continent. That means an incalculable number of deaths because our weapons are more destructive than twenty-plus years ago. Then there are the Balkans.”
“Don’t tell me. Is there no end?”
“Not before Germany takes over the southern Balkans. He has no regards for the Slavs or the Russians. Hitler sees those people as subhuman races. He intends to make them slaves.”
“Friedrich, you’re scaring me.”
I huffed. “You should be scared. The world should be scared.”
“Shh. You’re shouting. I’m right here.”
I needed to catch my breath.
“You said the generals were at that meeting; didn’t they try to convince him otherwise?” Carla asked.
“Oh, they tried. While they understand the concept of Lebensraum, the need for more living space, they told Hitler the timing wasn’t right. That England and France were too powerful. But that’s not what they really meant. They were making up excuses. The last thing military men want is war.”
“Couldn’t they have been more forceful?”
“Blomberg did have a fight with Gӧring. I admit I enjoyed when they went at it. But tragically, Carla, Hitler will do what he pleases.”
Carla grew quiet. She started to say something and stopped.
“My hand and head both hurt. Would you mind getting me a Bayer, please?”
After I took the aspirin, Carla said, “Here’s what troubles me. Given all that you’ve said, why do you stay with Hitler? Nothing is holding us here. We can take my brother and move to another country.” Then she added, “You do understand I can’t leave him behind?”
“Of course, I do. As for leaving Hitler and Germany, I tried the night of the Reichstag Fire. Hitler hadn’t been in office thirty days. I saw his obsession with power. How determined he was to get rid of the Jews. I wanted no part of it.”
“Why didn’t you leave? What kept you here?”
“The loving answer is that I needed to meet you.” She grew flush. “The real answer has to do with Bernhard Weiss.”
“Isn’t he the one Goebbels made fun of in cartoons?”
“The same. The night of the Reichstag Fire, the order went out for Weiss’s arrest. I grabbed him and helped him cross the border into Prague.”
“You saved a Jew?”
“Does that surprise you?”
She slid her chair closer. “I would expect nothing less. But if you were so against Hitler, and already in Prague, what made you come back?”
“Weiss and I feared the same bleak future for Germany. We understood that news from Germany would be censored. He asked me to return to Berlin to record events as they unfolded. But more than that, he realized that I more than anyone else would be in a position to blunt what was coming.”
Her eyes widened and her lips parted, absorbing what Weiss asked of me. “That was brazen, to ask an Obergruppenführer to assume such a role.”
“I suppose he saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. Over time, I have stopped thugs from beating up an old Jew. Saved Kitty’s niece from being sterilized. Made headway easing oppressive laws on Jewish civil servants. They were isolated events that only helped a few. But after yesterday? The magnitude of it! I feel helpless. I can’t see how to stop Hitler from plunging us into war.”
“Then shoot him!” shrieked Carla. “You are with him almost every day. Kill the snake before it strikes.”
I grabbed my head. The aspirin helped the pain in my hand, but not the pounding in my brain.
I looked up at her. “No matter how terrible he’s become, he’s always supported me. Trusted me. I can’t.”
