Surrounded by an imposing wall and approached through columned iron gates, the turn-of-the-century stone villa in Grunewald expressed the wealth and nobility of the clan. A circular drive brought limousines to the entry portico, where guests ascended broad steps to the foyer. A massive double staircase rose to the upper landing, the high-ceilinged rooms were framed by moldings and friezes, and Persian carpets covered rich stone and parquet flooring. It was truly as grand a home as Ryan had ever seen.
Manners were refined, but the tone surprisingly down-to-earth. Manfred von Haldheim, known to all as “The Old Major,” regaled the group with indecorous stories of his misadventures, first in the Franco-Prussian War and more recently in the trenches of the Great War. He occasionally wore his Iron Cross and other medals acquired as an officer in both the Brown and the Black Hussars. A handsome man of seventy-one, von Haldheim was delighted with the young American whose polished manners and easy smile pleased his guests.
Ryan brought a sense of humor as well as an occasional soft-shoe routine to break the monotony of political discussion and ribald stories at the weekly teas. Conversation flowed in German, French, and English, with the occasional quip in Italian or Spanish, and Ryan demonstrated a natural aptitude for languages. With the start of his university studies and further Berlitz work he was soon at ease in rudimentary German, and learning French.
The von Haldheim formal dinners were as impressive as their mansion. Dress was evening wear or military uniform for the men, gowns of damask or silk brocade for the women. The butler Erich greeted the guests with aperitifs or cocktails, and wit, flirtation and double entendre set the tone for the evening’s gathering. After drinks, the party moved into a dining room sparkling with silver, crystal and candlelight. Staff in white-on-black presented tureens of beef bouillon or rich fish soup, followed by oysters, mussels and eel, fresh from Berlin’s Koln fish market. Next came pork and veal, sausage and venison, platters mounded high with roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts, thick gravies and, finally, ornate desserts. Both sparkling and still wines flowed freely, and the meal ended with coffee or tea. At long last the men retired to the smoking salon for digestive bitters or brandy, taken with cigars from the Old Major's humidor, or cigarettes drawn from a silver case monogrammed with the family crest. Ryan preferred his new pipe and Kantorowicz Curaçao, a pale triple sec.
Later, up in his room, his stomach aching from overindulgence, he folded himself over the back of an armchair to put pressure on his abdomen and ease his suffering, and vowed that, next time, he would show more self-control. The cure worked, the oath failed.
“Care to be my guest tonight for some of our city’s notorious nightlife?” Rolf von Haldheim, scion of the family and as yet unmarried, was Ryan’s senior by a good ten years. Tall and fashionably clad, he radiated the confidence of one born to wealth and accustomed to getting his way through charm and savoir-faire. He cultivated a thin mustache and a slightly world-weary air. “And while we’re at it, shall we use given names?”
“I’d be delighted, and first names do make sense for fellow night-clubbers.”
“Excellent! So, state your preference, Ryan? Dance, music, stage entertainment?
“You’re the guide, Rolf, so surprise me.”
He did.
Club Orion was an intimate cabaret near Potsdamer Platz. Dom Pérignon waited at their reserved table, and the younger von Haldheim was obviously a well-known patron. Rolf toasted Ryan’s introduction to Berlin nightlife, a fast-paced duet sung by the tuxedo-clad emcee and a dazzling blonde. A quarter hour later Rolf excused himself to see a friend and went backstage with the solicitous head waiter.
Ryan took in a musical revue enlivened by bare-breasted dancers before the emcee leapt to the stage again, his rapid-fire Berlin patter outpacing Ryan’s German skills. Judging by the crowd’s reaction to the antics and pantomime, the presentation was salacious and riotously funny. When the five-man house band took a break, an American jazz trio from Harlem came onstage to entertain the enthusiastic crowd.
Young hostesses worked the room in high heels and very little else. A petite redhead caught his eye, her lipstick matching the bobbed hair. Some invisible textile bound her scanty costume of sequins and feathers, its secret mystifying Ryan in the dim light of the club. She slid in beside him on the curved banquette and he signaled the waiter for another flute. Pleased with the first sip of the champagne, she snuggled close and draped one leg over Ryan’s.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice competing with the raucous music, and she leaned in closer still. The perfume was inexpensive, but enticing all the same. “Your name,” he shouted, “what is your name?”
“Call me Lexi,” she said, crimson lips pressed to his ear. He caught a trace of Eastern Europe, Roumanian perhaps. She took another sip of bubbly, her leg still straddling his as it marked time to the music, and he hardened in response.
An abrupt ring from the tabletop phone interrupted those thoughts, and Lexi beat him to the receiver with a “Ja, sofort.” She set it back in the cradle. “I go now,” she pointed to the stage, “but stay and we see more of each other later, okay?” No sooner was her glass drained than she was gone, only to appear moments later onstage, freed of the scanty costume and luminous in a backlit vignette. He found her “more” most pleasing.
Ryan knew the table phones were not just to summon show girls for a performance. A patron could contact any guest in the club, for small cards displayed the room’s layout and the assigned number for each table. Many of the women patrons were young and attractive, some expensively dressed in furs, jewels and long gloves, and alcohol flowed freely during the spectacle. Some had male companions, others huddled and laughed with girlfriends, a few sat alone. Ryan considered trying his luck with an unattended blonde, but Lexi’s invitation remained fresh in his mind.
He had drained two more flutes before Rolf returned to the table and suggested leaving for another club. “It grows boring here, my American friend. Perhaps we should try something a bit more daring?”
“That’s hard to imagine, Rolf, but this evening’s in your hands, as agreed, so lead on!”
Wind and pelting rain buffeted the taxi as it pulled onto a narrow side street close to Alexanderplatz. Club Adam greeted guests with a large neon apple in red and green, and beneath a flapping sidewalk canopy a studded double door was manned by two imposing doormen. Attired in little more than leather Speedos and bandoliers, they appeared immune to the frigid night air.
Rolf and Ryan carved a path through the din of loud music and the haze of smoke to a table on the far side of the raised dance floor. All about them, drunken groupings indulged in sexual play, a motley mix of same- and opposite-sex partners. Both patron and entertainer alike did give new dimension to the concept of “daring.” Rolf laughed at Ryan’s obvious bemusement but said nothing, waiting for his new friend to come to terms with Club Adam’s idiosyncrasies. Nothing the American had witnessed in New York burlesque houses came close, and the refined allure of the Folies Bergère in Paris seemed very distant.
A performer in stiletto heels moved about rhythmically under the spotlight, her partner an impressive rubber dildo, and to either side athletic males danced accompaniment with leather-sheathed penises bobbing merrily to the beat of the music. The woman was striking, an Amazon clad only in luminous gilt from head to toe and bearing no trace of hair. Pendant earrings matched a delicate chain hanging off her hips, its baubles swinging from side to side as she moved.
The dancer squatted low, facing the rowdy guests closest to the stage, and gradually took possession of the dildo to the delight of her immediate audience. With hands-free abandon she manipulated its rise and fall in time with the music, and those closest to the stage found her performance uproariously funny. As the band reached its crescendo, she drew forth the plaything with one great flourish, swung it in a wide arc, and swatted the nearest guest across his pomaded scalp. His colleagues drew back in drunken delight as the stricken ma
n ran a hand over his hair, then regarded first his dampened palm, next the laughing dancer, and finally his ruined beer.
“Well, Ryan, what do you think? Is our Berlin to your liking?” Rolf reached over and squeezed Ryan’s thigh, leaving his hand in place.
“Honestly, Rolf, my tastes run more toward that little Lexi at Club Orion.” Ryan gently placed Rolf’s hand back on the table. “No offence, but to each his own, right?”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, my friend.” Rolf’s English was flawless. “You’ll soon learn many of us here are very set in our ways, and new ideas can frighten us. But God knows, our old way of doing things has certainly gone to hell.” He patted Ryan’s shoulder reassuringly. “Quite a few of us however are more open to life in all its diversity, so we do seek fresh inspiration for our tired German souls.”
“Well, Rolf, perhaps a return to Club Orion? It may be old hat to you, but I’d like to seek some fresh inspiration with a certain red-headed hostess.”
October 1929 arrived on a changing wind, and European papers reported with ill-disguised glee the financial ruin that had befallen “rich Americans.” Wall Street had panicked at the collapse of the stock market, America’s financial world was in free fall, and relatives in America would no longer lord it over their poor German relations. The arrogant “Kings of Finance” were finally getting their come-uppance.
Few anticipated the catastrophic consequences already spreading worldwide, but Ryan’s background in economics and finance made him cautious. His stipend seemed secure, but he began to count his marks daily, recording expenditures to the Pfennig in his diary and holding to a tight budget. Rampant inflation became his constant concern, and the prospect of a long-term career anywhere near shell-shocked Wall Street faded quickly. After much deliberation, Ryan decided to make Europe his home for the foreseeable future.
Academia and its guaranteed, albeit modest income now held more promise than did banking in a world of economic turmoil. It was a difficult decision, but one with which he finally came to terms. He applied for a fellowship at the venerable university town of Marburg on the Lahn, and in the following spring semester he would pursue a doctorate in European history. His fixed stipend would be renewable annually for the duration of his studies.
In a matter of months Schadenfreude over America’s economic woes had rapidly turned to dismay across Germany. Unemployment lines were growing longer, factories were laying off workers, and many doors were shutting altogether as markets for German exports dried up. The country already had huge numbers of impoverished citizens in the aftermath of a disastrous war, and the rural countryside was especially hard hit. Now the Weimar Republic suffered from high interest rates, inflation, heavy debts and foreign competition.
Panhandlers and matchbox vendors appeared on street corners, soup lines queued before National Socialist storefronts, and the rambling shacks of the unemployed sprang up in parks and unused urban lots. Gangs of violent youths made Ryan’s customary evening strolls treacherous even along the main boulevards, and he took to daytime explorations of the city. The financial challenges were not lost on the well-to-do aristocrats at the von Haldheim teas.
“Germany will never last, you know,” noted Helmut Graf von Landau-Bresewitz, one of the bluebloods tracing family name and seat back to the twelfth century. “Mark my words,” said the count, “we’ll never overcome these debts, and the Versailles powers have drained all our resources and stolen our most productive land. Next they’ll absorb us piecemeal, region by region, then take us for what little we’re still worth.
“A bit melodramatic, don’t you think, Helmut?” The Old Major offered a wry smile. Their families had been linked by wealth, marriage and mutual benefit for generations.
“To the victors go the spoils,” von Landau-Bresewitz responded in perfect English. “I’d do the same thing in their place. Face facts, my dear friends, the opportunity for a strong, unified Deutschland is past.” He acknowledged nods of concurrence from several attendees and took a sip of his brandy. “It’s agreed then, our dear country is well beyond saving, nicht wahr?”
The Old Major offered his own solution: “Personally, I say we make Germany an American protectorate; think Canada’s relationship to Great Britain. The Americans will invest here again once they’re back on their feet, our debts will be covered by their enlightened self-interest, and—if a few of them are as pleasant as our young Herr Lemmon here—we could do a lot worse.” He smiled at Ryan.
“You know, I’ve spent some time already in the poorer districts of the city,” Ryan said, addressing the increasingly-inebriated von Landau-Bresewitz. “This National Socialist movement is taking on quite a life of its own. Don’t the Nazis favor the same strong leadership you want for Germany?”
Ryan was no stranger to the brown-shirted Storm Troopers, often youths with no job prospects, thrilled by the freedom to bully and harass in the name of "awakening" Germany. Brief attempts to outlaw the Brownshirt uniform were openly challenged in the city, and random violence and street demonstrations had become everyday events. Committed Nazis told him that only a racially pure Fatherland and a strong, fearless leader could resurrect the glory that had once been Germany’s.
“Demagogues, that’s what those blasted Nazis are, damned demagogues, with no respect for our institutions.” Now the count was riled. “This Hitler is a ruffian of the basest order, not fit to polish our boots, much less lead us back to a united Germany.” His words elicited hearty harrumphs of agreement. “But I will grant that upstart one thing: he knows how to rouse the rabble. Mighty fine theater, if you ask me, and an Austrian private, no less. God help us, he’s actually gaining seats in the Reichstag.” The count released a cloud of cigar smoke. “We might as well go on bended knee to the Americans and beg for protection.”
“If Germany would just give the Weimar Republic a bit more time to prove itself, perhaps the American government might welcome that idea,” Ryan said. “One democracy does favor another.”
“That ship has sailed, young man. You Americans have it easy with only two real political parties to contend with. We’ve dozens, and more cropping up every day. How the hell can we get a consensus? The Nazis and I do agree on one thing: Germany’s weakness lies in weak leaders, and these infernal foreigners, these Jews, Reds, Socialists, they’re wiping out a millennium of German culture and civilization.” He turned to the attentive butler. “Pour me another.”
The Old Major spoke up: “Germany needs to honor its long tradition of authoritarian leadership, but we need a true Kaiser, a man of genuine rank and culture, not some Austrian who lathers up like a whipped horse and has the personality of a store clerk. And it’s the responsibility of all of us here in this salon to find that great man.”
And with that, the women rejoined the men and they all prepared to call it a night.
Two weeks later, Rolf von Haldheim arrived late to the weekly tea. He wore an open collar with yellow ascot, and something new gleamed on the lapel of his hound’s-tooth jacket. The finely-worked, enameled pin bore a gold-rimmed black swastika, standing proud against brilliant white, the party name circling on a crimson field. It took mere seconds for the Old Major to spot the reviled symbol.
“Get rid of that monstrosity immediately, Rolf. Your joke’s in extremely poor taste.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but this is no joke. I’ve joined the National Socialists.”
“The hell you have! No son of mine conspires with that band of thugs!” His voice dropped to a growl. “Where’s your respect for centuries of noble leadership?”
“Father, face it, times have changed. Your beloved Kaiser isn’t coming back, but our German people are,” Rolf reached out to his father’s arm, “if we give them their chance.” The Old Major jerked back, and all in attendance focused on this jagged tear in the fabric of teatime propriety. “Please, Father, just take a look around. How many here are still young enough—ambitious enough—to make this country strong again? How many
here have new ideas worthy of pulling Germany out of this sewer they’ve put us in?
“How dare you insult our friends and guests? Apologize and leave immediately! We’ll speak later when you’ve come to your senses.”
“I will apologize, but only for this disruption, Father,” he turned to Frau von Haldheim, “and to you, too, Mother, for the breach of decorum.” Rolf remained steady and controlled. “But I certainly will not apologize for speaking up for our nation and our Volk. Your old ways have failed miserably. Had you taken stronger steps to oust the Communists, the Socialists and Jews, we would be the victors now, rather than wallowing in pitiful weakness and disgrace.” He turned to von Landau-Bresewitz. “My dear Count, you speak incessantly of the irretrievable loss of Germany as a nation, and my father constantly calls for our becoming America’s vassal. Why? Simply because Wall Street holds our purse strings.” He nodded toward Ryan, their resident symbol of American finance, and his voice became firmer still. “Surrender is unacceptable for any true German, and you have all lost the will to fight.”
The elder von Haldheim’s cheeks reddened, his voice was low and menacing. “Raus, verdammt nochmal!” Get out, dammit! He held his shaking fists to his chest as if, unrestrained, they would lash out at his son.
“Yes, Father, that makes good sense—” Rolf tapped his heels together and acknowledged the shocked by-standers with a slight bow, “and again my regrets for the disruption of your esteemed tradition. But I will never apologize for Germany. Accept it yet or not, Adolph Hitler knows what’s best for us. Here you bemoan the loss of a failed Kaiser, when you should be welcoming our destined Führer.”
The Old Major pointed to the door. “Go now or be thrown out! You are no longer welcome here till you come to your senses!”
Frau von Haldheim grasped her husband’s arm, and he shook her hand away. “Manfred, let it be, don’t say something you’ll later regret.”
Corridor of Darkness Page 2
