Corridor of Darkness

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  Two men held a rabbi fast while a third pulled off his hat, phylacteries and prayer shawl and added them to the now resurgent fire. Tears streaked the rabbi’s soot-covered cheeks and ran into his beard, but he stood stoically without a struggle. A small gathering of sobbing Jewish women was forced to watch.

  Out on the grand boulevard the early morning traffic of automobiles, horse-drawn wagons and streetcars gave some semblance of normalcy at first glance. But then a milling crowd gathered to chant “Out with the Jews” as soldiers forced a dozen men onto an open-bed truck. Trams and double-deckers rumbled past. From a distance Ryan watched a youth with a crudely-painted cardboard sign around his neck run a gauntlet of pummeling and cursing boys his own age. The legend on the sign was not legible.

  Ryan pulled himself up onto the next passing streetcar. His progress on foot was too slow to reach the S-Bahn and connect to Lehrter Station on time. The tram windows, hazed from exhalations, blurred the phantom traffic outside. Occasionally the bright orange of a burning storefront tinted the misted glass. Raucous sirens, bells and blaring horns joined the metallic rumble of the tracks beneath his feet to form a discordant symphony. A mother held her hands over the ears of the frightened child who cowered against her.

  Brakes squealed as the car came to rest at the next stop. Two young Brownshirts entered from the front and surveyed the crowded tram, their cheeks reddened from the cold morning and early exertion, their spirits obviously high. A young girl seated near Ryan clutched her schoolbooks tightly to her chest and lowered her eyes as she withdrew into the far corner of her seat. She pulled down the woolen topcoat to cover her knees and slowly lowered her hand to shield the Hebrew script on the spine of her books.

  Ryan checked the watch at his wrist. He could do nothing here this morning, but later, once Erika’s proof was in State Department hands, he would have done his part. And there was a train departing for Hamburg he couldn’t miss.

  The crowd surged fitfully through the vast hall of Lehrter Station. Steamer trunks and stacked suitcases, cardboard boxes hastily bound with cord, large wooden crates—all prevented easy transit across the concourse. Frustrated porters shouted warnings as they maneuvered overloaded handcarts and trolleys toward the waiting trains. In the morning hour little sunlight pierced the leaden sky outside to brighten the tall windows, and high in the barrel-vaulted ceiling a smoky haze enveloped the rafters. A single dove, lost in the stone and steel surroundings, rested on a flagpole. The white plumage contrasted sharply with a monotonous succession of crimson flags lining the walls.

  Ryan threaded his way through the shifting throng, unusually aware of unwashed bodies and damp woolen topcoats. The overheated air felt thick. An occasional waft of coal smoke hinted at locomotives waiting on the tracks beyond the checkpoints. The hum of voices seemed unnaturally subdued, and anxiety showed on many faces, with departing parties in tears and children pressing to their parents’ legs or sobbing at the uncertainty of the moment. Only the announced departures and arrivals and the distant whistles of trainmen pierced the colorless murmur. Ryan stepped atop a heavily-loaded luggage truck to search the sea of bobbing hats and caps, upturned collars, and fur stoles.

  Erika stood as agreed under the departure board. Nearby, long lines of travelers pushed forward to buy tickets. Her long gray coat reached to her ankles, and she wore a stylish hat with veil. Gripping her gloved hand, the little boy gazed earnestly up into the surge of tall strangers. Ryan approached indirectly, watching for anyone showing interest in the young mother and child. They shook hands, casual acquaintances meeting by chance at the railway station. Leo stood to attention and dutifully reached for Ryan’s hand. The hint of a smile shone on the child's face.

  “All went well?” Ryan, shaken by the tumult on the streets, feared her response.

  Erika nodded. “Two tickets to Amsterdam, first class, and lightly packed, as agreed.” The soft-sided cloth valise sat at her feet.

  “The other matter we discussed?” Ryan fought an incessant urge to look around.

  “In my handbag.” Her voice was flat, toneless. “The camera, as well.”

  She began to remove the bag from her shoulder, but Ryan quickly shook his head. “Later, on the train.”

  “Then it begins.”

  It was a relief to finally reach this step. “Track two, central platform, the first carriage closest to the locomotive. We’ll meet in the vestibule,” he said. A shadow of uncertainty crossed her face. “Go on now, and no looking back. It’ll work, the plan’s solid.”

  Erika straightened her shoulders, gave her son a gentle smile and had him say “auf Wiedersehen” to her friend. The boy offered a parting handshake, then dutifully took his mother’s hand and they made their way toward the departure gates. Ryan saw that she moved without her customary fluid grace, an unaccustomed stiffness to her walk. He watched the checker verify their tickets and wave them through before he followed. Agents in topcoats carefully observed every departing passenger who passed through the gates. Gestapo, clearly, with SA Brownshirts standing a few paces to the side, carbines at their shoulders.

  Ryan joined the queue behind a family of nervous travelers—father, mother, two small girls—who caught the attention of the watchers. There was an angry bruise across the man’s forehead. His long beard and the family's dress suggested Orthodox Jews, and the Gestapo immediately pulled them aside to review their papers. As Ryan waited his turn, he overheard one agent suggest loudly that Palestine would be the best destination for “this nauseating scum.”

  The wife and girls stared nervously at the tiled floor as their father handed over identification papers. The agent briefly reviewed the packet, removing an envelope which he slipped smoothly into his overcoat pocket. Jewels or marks, guessed Ryan. The agent sent the family out onto the platform with a dismissive wave. The policeman chuckled as Ryan handed over his documents. “Why we allow Yids to infect other Germanic countries is beyond me.” He glanced at Ryan’s American passport and waved him through with the comment, “Shame to have to deal with this scum, right?”

  Ryan moved toward the massive steam locomotive fronting the six-carriage train, famed for record speed runs between Berlin and Hamburg. A swastika adorned the engine’s snout, and streamlined coping gleamed in brilliant red livery with a Reichsbahn logo traced in gold. Heat from the huge boiler radiated out onto the cold platform. His watch showed only minutes to spare.

  Erika and Leo stood as planned in the vestibule. Ryan mounted the step as a porter offered a friendly greeting and unneeded support to his elbow. A trainman’s cry went out for all to board, and coach doors began to slam shut the length of the train. A piercing whistle signaled the imminent departure of FD24 for Hamburg with connections via Amsterdam for Hoek of Holland and Paris. A shrill response from down the platform acknowledged the signal. Ryan nodded encouragement to Erika as the trainman secured their door and left the vestibule.

  She steadied the boy at her legs before the cars began to shift, and with a shriek from the locomotive, the coaches creaked into motion and the train crawled from the shed.

  chapter ten

  Horst awoke disoriented, his head throbbing mercilessly. He was racked by chills, even though the radiator offered ample warmth. His lethargy suggested the mind-dulling effect of morphine, yet he had no memory of using his drug the night before. Too damned much cognac, he thought. He had also failed to set the alarm. It was close to seven, well past his usual time to rise.

  With an expletive he dragged himself from the bed, avoiding the dried vomit, and moved unsteadily into the bathroom. The tiles were ice under bare feet, and the glaring fixture above the mirror made him wince. He rinsed his mouth and slung back three aspirin tablets, ignoring the deep black circles beneath his eyes. He gave little thought to his humiliation of Erika or to the identity of her lover. All that could wait. For now he needed to shower, shave, dress, and be in the office no later than eight-thirty. No time for breakfast. He had to get the report to the typing
pool. This evening he would continue her interrogation. No worries, she would be in no condition to cheat on him today.

  Oskar held the sedan door open as Horst left the covered portico. Despite the turmoil and excitement in the streets—the cause as yet unknown to him—they made decent time into the city, reaching headquarters by twenty after the hour. His driver dropped him off at the main entrance and left immediately to return home. Horst expected no further use for him during this busy day of in-office work. From the entry hall Horst ascended the broad staircase to the first floor offices. Salutes of Heil Hitler from the steel-helmeted SS guards seemed especially enthusiastic this morning, and all of headquarters was ramped up with activity. He couldn’t recall ever seeing spirits at the Gestapa so high, with hearty congratulations coming from all sides. “What fun to see the people express their true feelings at last,” he overheard an officer say.

  At the top of the landing he headed directly for the stenographic pool. The clatter of typewriters jarred his edgy nerves. Despite nausea and a pulsing headache he was determined to make the morning’s presentation a success. The SS non-com took the protocol in hand and ordered the work divided immediately over the entire available pool. “Ten copies for distribution within the hour, and anything less than perfection will disappoint the Reichsführer-SS.” Horst left to prepare himself for meeting with Heydrich. His head throbbed despite the aspirin, and he noted he was sweating profusely. The personal aide waiting outside his office received an order of warm coffee and a roll, no jam or butter. Perhaps caffeine would help.

  Klaus Pabst stood before the desk, a file tucked under his arm.

  “Didn’t I say we’d meet after my presentation?” Horst hung his coat and hat and remained standing, impatient with the interruption.

  “Sorry, Horst, this can’t wait any longer.” He moved to shut the office door before placing a single sheet from the folder in front of his superior. Horst was ready to dismiss it out of hand. He recognized the standard form used to document Aryan purity for up to five levels of ancestry. As always, his eyes scanned first for the person whose lineage was in question.

  He drew a quick breath at “Leonhardt von Kredow,” his own son. Just above stood Horst’s own name beside “Erika von Kredow, born Breitling.” He ignored his family ancestry and moved up the right side past entries for Erika’s parents, stopping at Johann Kessinger, her grandfather in East Prussia. Beside that name stood “Nadia Arens,” boldly underlined in red ink. He stared at the further notation in the same pen: “Jewess/Lithuanian/Unmarried.”

  He eased down into the chair. Only the steady ticking of the wall clock marred the silence. Seconds passed. “A joke.” Statement, not question.

  “I wish it were, Horst.”

  The clock ticked on. Horst slowly reexamined each name on the family tree, piecing together the puzzle, considering the ramifications for him and for his career. Blutschande. Racial defilement. Rassenverrat. Betrayal of race. He sensed a trembling deep in his cheek and consciously steeled himself. Mischling, 2. Grades. Betrayed by a fucking Jewish whore. “Verified?” he asked at last.

  “Beyond a doubt.” Klaus withdrew a three-page document from the file and laid it before Horst. “The interrogation record of the grandfather, a pastor. It seems the holy man dipped his wick at least once in the Lithuanian Jewess.”

  Horst read through the record, line by line, comparing how he himself might have carried out the questioning. He reached the final notation: “Dispensation of detainee: succumbed to heart attack during interrogation.” He looked up from the document. “Who else knows?”

  “Our own man in Königsberg may have made the connection, and, of course, the family members in question.”

  “And you.” Horst eyed Klaus carefully. The interrogation record was dated over a week prior. “How long have you known?”

  “Some disturbing information came in nine days ago, an inquiry out of the civil records office over there in Königsberg. I hesitated bringing it to your attention, didn’t want to distract you from your main project over some false report. Better to investigate first and quash the rumor, right?” Klaus straightened his shoulders. “Had the information proved bogus.”

  Horst raced through his options. Five years’ work on the line—power, stature, career. He seethed. He felt contaminated. Not even a German Scheissjude, he thought, but an Eastern degenerate. He closed the file and slid it back across the desk, his path determined. His enemies would not hold power over him, and he would salvage the situation. “First, I must tend to Heydrich and the protocol. But I agree this couldn’t wait a moment longer. Suppress the matter immediately.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Isolate them both, woman and child, but not here. Get me a secure place outside the city for finishing this.” He couldn’t bring himself to use names, much less refer to them as wife and son.

  “Marburg?”

  “Take care of that immediately, as well.” He looked at the clock, then stood and straightened his jacket. “I mustn’t be late.” The aide knocked at the door, breakfast tray in hand. “Later!” Horst barked, adjusting his tie. “And, Klaus?” He turned to regard his friend and subordinate. “Your discretion is appreciated, as always.”

  “It’s what we Wachonians do.”

  Once Horst was gone Klaus ordered the aide to set the tray on the desk, then sent him off to fetch butter and jam. He sat behind his mentor’s desk and poured coffee before lifting the receiver to connect with the switchboard operator.

  Oskar received the radio call as he pulled into the drive of the von Kredow mansion. Within minutes he had searched the upper rooms. The pounding of feet on the dressing room wall drew him immediately to Frau von Kredow’s bedchamber, where he found Frieda Loos gagged, bound and furious. Once able to speak, the governess told of being knocked unconscious, and revealed that wife and child had undoubtedly left before dawn. She insisted Oskar emphasize that she had made a vigorous attempt at intervention, which was duly noted on the record spread out before Klaus.

  An aide’s calls to the two taxi dispatch offices providing service to the wealthy neighborhoods near Wannsee confirmed that a woman and small boy had been dropped at Lehrter around five-forty-five that morning. The driver remembered the mother’s rambling chatter about Holland, talk of windmills and wooden shoes. The woman had appeared uncomfortable and nervous, and had kept the one small valise on the rear seat beside her rather than in its rightful place in the trunk.

  A review of Reichsbahn departures for Amsterdam that morning focused quickly on the high-speed FD24 as the most likely candidate. Agents at Lehrter were ordered to give immediate attention to the matter. Within minutes Klaus knew that an attractive blonde with a small boy in tow had presented first-class tickets at the checkpoint and boarded the express, which departed Berlin on schedule at 6:55. Klaus relayed orders to Hamburg to have agents board the train upon arrival and take the pair into custody. Highest priority with no interrogation of detainees; immediate and personal notification of arrest. He checked the clock. The train was scheduled to arrive momentarily at the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof. Klaus leaned back. For years he had imagined proving to Horst that no other subordinate had his interests so fully at heart, that he was Horst’s one true friend, the only man worthy of sharing his greatness. That opportunity had arrived at last.

  Years before in Marburg, Klaus and Horst had both been “foxes,” initiates in the fellowship of the Wachonia fraternity. Their generation had never enjoyed pride of nation, the glory of unleashed power. Raised in the aftermath of the Great War, they had known only political and economic repression, the callous punishment of the Versailles Treaty. France controlled the industrial heart of Germany, and their nation had been robbed of its colonial wealth. Countless warring political parties made escape from the devastating economic depression impossible. Klaus and Horst quickly found themselves drawn to the promise of the National Socialist cause. Both despised weakness, and yearned for a strong leader to cut through the
selfish in-fighting and lead the country to rediscovered greatness. They shared contempt for the foreign powers that had brought their country down, and hatred of the Jews who controlled the world markets and corrupted the German race.

  Klaus had lackluster academic and social skills, but recognized in Horst von Kredow the arch-achiever, someone whose stature and demeanor stemmed from wealth and breeding, someone destined for greatness. The “von” in Horst’s name was not needed to recognize his privileged status. Klaus in contrast had spent his early years assaulting boys like Horst who thought themselves better due to heritage or riches. He and his gang of aimless boys beat up the arrogant bastards, ideally knocking out a tooth or two, a lasting impression of their conquests. But once at the university, he realized that personal greatness was forever beyond his reach without help. If the privileged were guaranteed success by birth, he would attach himself to someone destined to reach the highest echelons.

  With Horst paving the way, they assumed leadership within the student Nazi organization and began to weed out dissidents in the student body. If someone offended them, Klaus was only too ready to enforce Horst’s will. And along the way Klaus found himself drawn under the spell of this remarkable leader of men. His admiration turned to adulation, his respect to devotion.

  In 1932, a year before the Nazis gained power over the state, an outspoken member of the student council, an articulate young Jew known to attract Aryan girls, dared publicly ridicule Horst in his bid for the presidency of the council. Pabst saw an opportunity to win favored status in the eyes of von Kredow. He spent two weeks carefully observing the offending student, noting that early every Friday afternoon the Jew boarded a southbound train to Frankfurt, only to return late Sunday. In the third week Klaus made the trip, as well.