She knew nothing about Karl Juncker, even though he lived across the hall from her. ‘I never see the man,’ she said. When he thought about it, Heinz realized that he hardly ever saw Juncker either. That was suspicious in itself. What was Juncker up to anyway?
Now, as a storm trooper, Heinz had a larger responsibility, not only to the building but also to the Reich. If Karl Juncker was getting letters from America, it was up to Heinz to find out why. ‘Is he getting letters from America?’ Frau Schimmel asked. She filled Heinz’s glass. ‘My, oh my,’ she said.
All Heinz knew about Karl Juncker was that he kept to himself. He came and went on an irregular schedule. When he and Heinz met in the hall, which was not very often, Juncker walked right past without so much as a hello. He got his bicycle out of the bicycle room and rode it wherever it was that he went. Heinz had not been able to find out where that might be. Frau Schimmel said she didn’t know. Juncker came and went at irregular hours. Did he have a job? What did he do every day? Now, with this letter from the United States, Heinz had the perfect opportunity to find out a little more about who he might be.
Heinz marched up the stairs to the second floor, planted himself in front of apartment 21, and rapped sharply on the door. He was about to knock again when Willi opened the door.
‘Herr Juncker?’ said Heinz, his arms folded across his chest, the letter held in front of him.
‘Yes?’ said Willi.
‘Heil Hitler,’ said Heinz.
‘Heil Hitler,’ said Willi. Heinz tried to look into the apartment, but Willi stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m Heinz Schleiffer, the building guardian.’
‘Yes. I know who you are.’
‘This letter came for you, Herr Juncker.’ Heinz waved it back and forth in front of his chest.
‘Give it to me,’ said Willi.
‘It’s from America,’ said Heinz.
‘Why wasn’t it left in my mailbox?’ Willi said.
‘Because,’ said Heinz, but he couldn’t think of a good answer to that obvious question. And suddenly he realized that his decision to take the letter from the postwoman and deliver it himself might not have been such a good idea.
Willi was taller than Heinz, and muscular. His thick eyeglasses made his eyes look small and narrow and menacing. The fingers of his left hand stroked his chin as he studied Heinz. As he moved his hand from his chin, a small rosette in the buttonhole of his lapel became visible. Heinz had seen such rosettes before in the lapels of high Nazi officials.
‘The postwoman … she … she dropped it in the wrong mailbox,’ said Heinz. ‘I wanted to … I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
‘See that it doesn’t, Herr Schleiffer,’ said Willi. ‘There are postal regulations, you know. Heil Hitler,’ he said with a salute, stepped back into his apartment, and closed the door. Heinz stood there for another moment. He remembered to mutter Heil Hitler, but the door was already shut. Jesus, he thought. What have I done now?
Willi listened at the door to the noise of Heinz Schleiffer’s boots clattering down the stairs. He wondered: was Schleiffer intimidated, or would he make inquiries about Karl Juncker? Did Schleiffer represent a danger, a nuisance, or no threat at all?
‘What did he want?’ Lola said.
‘I think he was just snooping,’ said Willi.
‘That’s not a surprise,’ said Lola. ‘It’s only a surprise it took him this long to get here.’
‘Did he see you arrive?’ said Willi.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Frau Schimmel did though.’
Willi laughed. ‘Frau Schimmel sees everything.’
The First Report
‘SA Mann Heinz Schleiffer to see you, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter.’
Lorelei, the District Group Leader’s secretary – and his lover until the night before – gave the ‘Herr’ a sneering emphasis. Ortsgruppenleiter Gerhard Mecklinger had promised Lorelei he would divorce his wife and marry her. But now he had called off their affair, saying he just couldn’t leave Gudrun, his wife. He had called her Lorelei once too often, and she had given him an ultimatum.
Gerhard had recently been named District Group Leader, which was a big step up for him. It put him in charge of some hundred storm troopers. Gudrun reminded him that this, his big break, had come about entirely thanks to her being Heinrich Himmler’s favorite niece. So the choice was Gerhard’s: he could stay with her and rise through the ranks to higher and higher office, thanks to Uncle Heinrich. Or he could run off with that trollop Lorelei, in which case Gudrun would see to it that he wound up in Dachau.
And now, with this mess on his mind, here came that asshole Schleiffer once again. Every district had its troublemakers, but Schleiffer was in a class by himself. Every week he showed up to report an imaginary traitor. Gerhard had dutifully reported the first infractions to his higher-ups, but soon heard back from them in no uncertain terms that what he was reporting was nonsense, the suspicions of a deranged mind. For instance, jumping onto a moving streetcar was a little dangerous, but it was not treason. A Reichsmark and fifteen pfennigs was a little high for a sausage and a hard roll, but it was not a betrayal of the Fatherland or an insult to the Führer. Schleiffer had even reported a homeless beggar, as though her asking for a handout were an act of sabotage. It was up to the Ortsgruppenleiter, they said, to decide what was a legitimate complaint and what wasn’t and to put a stop to this nonsense.
‘Shall I show Herr Schleiffer in, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter?’ said Lorelei.
‘Tell him I’m busy,’ said Mecklinger and began shuffling the papers that lay on the desk in front of him.
‘He says he has an important matter to report,’ said Lorelei. A smile crept across her pretty red mouth. She clearly enjoyed delivering this unpleasant news. Mecklinger decided in that moment this couldn’t go on; he was going to have to fire her.
‘Shall I show him in?’ she said again. Without waiting for an answer, Lorelei said, ‘This way, Herr Schleiffer.’
‘Close the door, Fräulein,’ said the Ortsgruppenleiter as Lorelei left the room. She slammed the door so hard that the glass rattled.
Heinz stood at attention, gazing at the huge portrait of Hitler behind Ortsgruppenleiter Mecklinger. He saluted. ‘Heil Hitler!’ he shouted.
‘Heil Hitler, Schleiffer. What is it this time?’
‘The Ortsgruppenleiter is well?’
‘Yes, Schleiffer, very well, thank you. What is it? As you can see, I’m very busy.’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter. But something very important has occurred, and I think it is essential that you know.’
‘All right. Tell me,’ said Mecklinger.
‘Aren’t you going to write it down, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter?’
Mecklinger picked up his pen. ‘Tell me, Schleiffer.’
‘I’m here to report a Herr Karl Juncker, residing in apartment twenty-one in my building, Tullemannstraße fifty-four. Herr Juncker received a letter from the United States a few days ago. And then, yesterday, he received a package from England.’
‘A package?’
‘A book, I think.’
Gerhard Mecklinger stopped writing and lay down his pen. ‘Could you get straight to the point, Schleiffer? I’m a busy man.’ He tapped the stacks of paper on his desk. ‘What exactly is the important thing that you wish to report?’
‘Herr Ortsgruppenleiter?’
‘Wait. Are you seriously telling me that you are reporting someone for receiving mail from abroad?’
‘Herr Ortsgruppenleiter, I don’t think I need to remind you of the Führer’s dire warnings against foreign elements at work trying hard to undermine Germany’s economy and our well-being. There are English and American agents in our beloved Fatherland at this very moment seeking …’
‘And you believe, Schleiffer, that this …’ he looked at the name he had written … ‘Karl Juncker is one such dangerous
character, because he receives mail from abroad?’
‘Why not?’ Schleiffer said. He was not to be deterred. ‘The evidence is circumstantial, I realize that. But I am certain, if I could get into his apartment, I would find evidence to prove my case.’
‘You do not have a case, Schleiffer, and you are certainly not authorized to get into his apartment. You are not the Gestapo. Do you understand me? There is no case. You are wasting my time, Schleiffer, with your endless fantasies of wrongdoing.’
‘Really? Well, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter, what if I told you this Karl Juncker is pretending to be a high Party official? Would you think my suspicions were a fantasy then?’
Schleiffer had decided to play his trump card, and in fact Mecklinger was momentarily taken aback. ‘What are you talking about? Was he in uniform or what?’
‘When I encountered him, he was wearing an official Party decoration.’
‘What decoration?’ Mecklinger had picked up his pen again.
‘A red rosette, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter.’
‘A red rosette?’ He laid the pen down again. ‘Was this a decoration that you recognized, Schleiffer?’
‘No, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter. But …’
‘And how do you know this is a Party decoration and not a military decoration or, for that matter, a civilian decoration? There are countless rosettes of every color, Schleiffer, red, black, white, blue, violet …’
‘I assumed, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter …’
Mecklinger paused for a moment and thought. He rubbed his chin and nodded, as though he had reached a decision. ‘You’re right, Schleiffer … yes, I think you’re right. Yes. We’re going to look into it.’
‘You will?’ This was a sudden and surprising change. For the first time ever, one of Heinz Schleiffer’s reports was being taken seriously. It would go up the chain of command and would be acted upon. ‘You mean, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter, that it will be … investigated?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Mecklinger. It had finally dawned on him – he wondered why it had taken him so long – that the way to get rid of Schleiffer was to pretend to take his bizarre fantasies seriously, and to promise an investigation. True, there was always the chance that it might encourage him, that he might show up even more often with even more ridiculous charges. But, by the same token, maybe it would slow him down, make him more circumspect about which ‘reports’ he filed. Anyway, at the very least, it would get him out of the office for now.
‘We will do a thorough investigation, Schleiffer.’
‘And you will let me know how it turns out?’ said Schleiffer, suddenly filled with pride and hope.
‘Oh no, I’m afraid not, Schleiffer. No, no. You realize, this has to be investigated in secret and dealt with in secret, too. Any findings will be kept secret as well.’ Mecklinger lowered his voice. ‘You can see, Herr Schleiffer, that because there are foreign elements involved, in fact everywhere, as you say’ – he gestured to the left and right – ‘investigations of this sort are particularly sensitive. Which is why, Schleiffer, you must not speak of this matter to anyone.’
Mecklinger stood up and saluted. ‘Thank you, Schleiffer, for coming forward with this information. Heil Hitler!’
Schleiffer was startled by the abrupt ending of their meeting, but he recovered quickly, snapped to attention, and saluted. ‘Jawohl, Herr Ortsgruppenleiter! Heil Hitler!’ Schleiffer spun on his heels and left the office.
Mecklinger took the piece of paper where he had written Karl Juncker’s name and address. He looked at it for a moment before he crumpled it into a tight little ball and threw it into the trash. He smiled. He was pleased to have finally figured out how to deal with the Schleiffers of the world. He wondered whether in fact he might adapt the same technique – ‘the Schleiffer method’ he would call it – to other, more personal circumstances. He could pretend, for instance, to comply with Gudrun’s demands and yet still have his way with Lorelei. ‘Maybe. Just maybe it would work. But I’ll have to be careful. Really careful. Gudrun must remain Gudrun and Lorelei must remain Lorelei.’
The Gestapo
Reinhard Pabst was a fourth-year university student when he became disillusioned with academic life. German literature had been his course of study. But Lessing, Goethe, Schiller, Heine, the heroes of his chosen field, seemed to him to be essentially celebrating self-indulgence. Professor Schultheiß had proved this in his course and in his writings. Their ‘Enlightenment’ had only led the world into bitter conflict and secular confusion, and eventually brought about the cultural degeneracy and spiritual wasteland that was Weimar Germany. What ultimate purpose could studying these degenerate writers have besides the glorification of the self and the denigration of man and God?
This, Reinhard’s first epiphany, a ‘spiritual revelation,’ came about as he was reading a biography of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, the warrior who had become a Christian saint. Reinhard thought that the way to happiness might lie for him through abandoning his own troubling earthly longings and pursuits, laying his discontent and unhappiness aside, and substituting God-filled dreams and meditations, visions of holiness, of Christ and Biblical Truth. And, in fact, he discovered that when he tried to think better thoughts, his anguish left him, and he did momentarily feel better.
He joined the Jesuit novitiate and began a month-long retreat in silence and isolation that took him through Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises. Through this series of spiritual practices – prayer, meditation, contemplation – he sought, like other Jesuits before him, ‘to conquer myself and to regulate my life in such a way that no decision is made under the influence of any inordinate attachment.’ The trouble was his ‘inordinate attachments’ would not leave him. During that period of extreme aloneness, he slept little and was visited by strong and disturbing visions and voices.
Next, Reinhard engaged in a series of what was called apostolic experiments, spending time in a Jesuit ministry, serving the war injured, the sick, the needy and the forgotten. He ministered in shelters and soup kitchens, among the poor and downtrodden, wherever he was needed. After two years Reinhard took the vows of perpetual poverty, chastity and obedience. He promised to commit his life ‘to serve God, the Church, and those to whom I am missioned for the greater glory of God.’ He embarked on a study in theology and philosophy – reading Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas – while continuing his apostolic service.
It was during this philosophical study – he had strayed for some reason to the dark philosophers, Schopenhauer, Hobbes, Nietzsche – that he had his second epiphany, even more violent than the first. It came about as he sat in a tenement room by the bed of a prostitute suffering from tuberculosis. He read to her comforting words from the Bible about heaven and reunion with God, about the sufferings of Jesus. She didn’t want his comfort or his God, for that matter. ‘Go away. Who are you anyway?’
‘I’m Brother Reinhard. Reinhard Pabst,’ he said. He thought she was asking his name.
‘Pabst? Pabst?’ She laughed, because Pabst is German for pope. ‘Pope Reinhard! Your Christian charity is crap. Go away, your Holiness.’
‘Please,’ said Reinhard. ‘I only want to help you find comfort.’
‘That’s shit,’ she said. ‘You hypocritical Pope. You just want to make yourself feel righteous. Rot in hell.’
She turned to face the wall. Reinhard took her arm and tried to turn her back his way. She pulled her arm away abruptly. ‘Stop it,’ she said. He tugged at her arm again, and she turned toward him in a fury. ‘Listen, Pope, hands off! I’ve been fucked by priests before. I was eight the first time. Are you going to fuck me too?’ Then she laughed again until her laughter turned into coughing.
Despite the woman’s wretched condition, or maybe because of it, Reinhard felt a violent anger welling up inside. What an idiot he was; what had he even been pretending to be with this charitable crap? In this violent and corrupt world, prayer and contemplation were worse than useless exercises. They were stupid, self-indulgent, narcissistic
frivolities. Reinhard tore back the blanket, tore off the woman’s tattered gown and forced himself between her legs. He clawed at her breasts, grunting and thrashing about like a wild beast, until he had stopped her laughter.
Doing violence to this defeated woman and at the same time doing violence to his own oaths of devotion to God and Jesus liberated Reinhard from his weak, ineffectual, tormented self. It felt good. This was power. Destruction was power. And through destruction lay the path to liberation and fulfillment. What a fool he had been! Good and evil were a false duality, ridiculous abstractions that had nothing to do with real existence. They were intellectual constructs designed to mask the total chaos, to somehow make the world seem orderly. Love was just another expression of fear and submission. Violence was the only true response in this chaotic world. Chaos could only be made orderly by brute force. The only true duality was power and powerlessness. It was fuck or be fucked, defeat or be defeated, kill or be killed.
Reinhard had just experienced an exhilaration unlike any he had ever experienced before. And so it was not surprising that he eventually sought to repeat the experience. When the irrepressible desire overcame him, he would attack another woman, and have the exhilaration all over again. True, the woman with the umbrella, that had gone awry. But there was always the risk that something would go wrong. However, the risk, the audacity, was part of the thrill.
There was nothing in Reinhard’s upbringing that could have predicted his violent eruption of mind and spirit. He was the son of decent Catholics – his father was a government bureaucrat, his mother ran a small nursery school out of their home. Reinhard, an only child, had been a sweet boy, shy, a little bit fearful. He was not stupid, but neither was he gifted or bold. He was a mediocre student, confused and adrift. He had vague dreams, but he was not moved to do anything, was not moved by anything or anyone. He had been weak all his life. Pathetic really. Until now.
The Constant Man Page 5
