by Susan Firman
CHAPTER 15
The Meeting
As Poland was in the process of being swallowed up, Britain declared war on Germany. Before the European countries followed Britain, the Führer ordered his generals to take Luxembourg, Belgium, the Netherlands and finally, in May 1940, France. The French army was defeated. The remnants of the British Forces were squashed onto the beaches at Dunkirk. Herr Hitler was sure Britain would now sue for peace. After all, they had been continually stating that they did not want a return to the position of 1914.
All wireless broadcasts were now under the complete control of Herr Goebbels, the Minister for Propaganda. The radio continued to broadcast news of Britain’s weakened position along with the anticipation of her announcement of peace. That was until the National Socialists secretly listened in on the BBC short-wave broadcast which rallied all the citizens within the Empire to rise up together and take up the fight for freedom and survival.
That same afternoon, not far from the northern Polish town of Bobolice. a field radio was turned on. Several men were sitting around a rough make-shift table trying to listen to a whining and spluttering wireless set that had been brought into the bunk-house room. Fighting on the Eastern Front had quietened down and the men had time to listen to Dr Goebbles speaking about Britain’s defiant stance.
“Those English must be mad!” exclaimed the Unterfeldwebel when he stomped into the room, shedding clumps of field dirt from his army boots. He saluted and handed over the latest despatch to his commanding officer.
“What gives you that idea, Kurt? One of the others asked tucking his cigarette case back into his top pocket.”
“The English don’t want peace!” Kurt replied forcefully. “How do they think they can fight against the might of the Third Reich? Their weapons are no pinch for ours. Their men don’t have the drive nor staying power our men have.” Kurt watched as the Obergefreiter lit a cigarette and after one puff began a fit of coughing. Finally, when his lungs had quietened down, he was able to speak again. “Do you not agreewith that, Herr Leutnant?”
Leutnant Resmel shrugged his shoulders and waved the invading smoke away with the back of his hand. He pressed his ear closer to the whistling wireless on the small table before him. He was secretly thinking of the men holed up on a French beach. Did their England seem as far away as France had, the last time he had stood on English soil and looked over the sea? When he and Gerald had sat on the hillside discussing the possibility of crossing the Channel, the water had looked so peaceful. Did it look that way now to those soldiers stuck on the beach? The Channel no longer had a seaside beach and lazy waves to paddle in but was now a hostile barrier, unfriendly and dangerous. Had the English Government been too over-confident sending an army to France? And yet, at the same time, he knew that they were not a people inclined to rush in rashly. The lion had only roared: his bite might prove to be worse.
Hans thought of his friends and relations across that water divide. Opposite coasts. They were on the opposite side now. It was just the same when his parents were young. Again, the family found themselves in the same stupid position and it was happening just the same as before. Friends would be forced to kill friends, cousins to kill cousins and brothers . . . would they have to die also before the fighting was over? It was madness to go to war again. He could never think of it being exciting, like Renard.
It was unnerving the way Jan and himself were finally on good terms with each other and just as they had become friends, their friendship had been rent apart and just as he had discovered Miss Turner could easily have become his aunt, a wall had been forced between them. It hurt him even more when he thought of Andrea, for no sooner had his daughter become old enough to recognise him as father, their relationship was forced to end. And those who had done this to them were his real enemy, not the people who had been his friends and family! But they are his enemy! His own daughter was now officially his enemy! It had taken just one short broadcast; a few words between governments to separate them. For how long? Until hostilities ceased. How long would that be? Crazy, crazy . . . nothing made sense any more! Then, it occurred to him, that if everything did go to plan and the army did reach England as Herr Goebbels had foretold, he would be able to see Andrea again . . . and Jan.
Hans thought of his two brothers. Renard, the fanatic, who had jumped at the suggestion to serve his Führer and Reich and who had volunteered, even before 1935, when conscription began. Where was Renard now? Probably getting some young granadier to polish his jack-boots, proving he was an excellent example of the Führer’s new ‘Mensch.’ Renard had always been one for adventure. Joining the Nazi Party was an adventure for him but the trouble with Renard was that once he had become a fully-fledged member, he wanted everyone else to see things his way. He had joined the Kriegsmarine with the ambition to serve on a new submarine that would join the wolf-packs on their hunts somewhere out in the Atlantic Sea.
Yes, Renard would like that, thought Hans. He would love being one of the elite.
Then, there was Axel . . . so different; the other side of the coin: a sensitive young man who was repulsed by any idea of war. He had already confided in Hans that, while at university, he had met with a group of young students who had distributed anti-Nazi pamphlets but that his connection with them had not been long standing. Hans warned his younger brother to be extremely careful with all the friends he chose to have and to trust no-one, not even one who proffessed to being his best friend. The Nazi organisation was out to round up and destroy all those who did not fit in with their idea of what a good German should be or those they thought might oppose them. So far Axel had been lucky. He had been able to keep his head down and now that he was able to work for their uncle, he would be protected as he was classified as being in one of the reserved occupations. But even so, now that war had been declared, Hans feared for his younger brother. Would he be watched? Would he remain safe? Hans had heard rumours that foreign workers were being brought in so that those men in the factories could be drafted and turned into fighting men. So far Axel’s number had not been drawn and he could remain apart from the stresses and pressures of life in service. Hans had no wish to see his quiet, mild brother be dragged into bloody fighting.
Just before Hans had received his orders for Bobolice, he had discussed his fear for his younger brother with Uncle Karl but he did not indicate that Axel had been involved with anti-Nazi sentiments. It was important for all the family to keep Axel away from such influences if their own lives would not be endangered. He was most relieved when Uncle Karl announced that he would make certain that Axel was employed by him and he gave his nephew a most impressive title and a smart uniform that would have made any general envious as he rubber stamped Axel for one of the most important positions in the business. Karl Klön could not do without his newly appointed business official and, so far, the authorities seemed to be satisfied.
Following the fall of France, on July 22nd, 1940, Leutnant Resmel received instructions to take the train back to Berlin. In a locked case, chained to his wrist, he was ordered to deliver some important military papers directly to the Führer’s headquarters. The thought of that made him extremely nervous. There was a slight possibility that he could meet the Führer in person. All of the personnel in the Chancellory had been selected and hand-picked by the Führer or Dr Goebbels and even being introduced to any of them was deemed a great honour in the military circles. Hans was told that a new uniform would be provided, for nothing less than perfection was permitted. He already knew that he must polish his boots until they reflected his face like a mirror and knew that a loud click of the heels and a perfect salute was part of the order. He would be judged on the execution of such expectations.
The huge, high doors were swung wide open. At the far end, a long way across an expanse of highly polished marble flooring, was one large mahogany table. The seated figure appeared so small one could have been mistaken that he was only a metre tall. Statue-like, the man waited for the Leutnant to appro
ach the desk, a haze of strong-smelling tobacco smoke drifted like early morning mist above his table. Hans stopped three metres in front of the table. He clicked his heels, then raised his right arm.
“Heil Hitler!”
The diminutive figure at the far end of the room rose from his seat; not small at all. He was a tall man, almost one metre ninety with a thick covering of grey curly hair that had been strangely shaved, close around his ears so that it looked as though he were wearing a toupé. He reached for his hat and returned the salute.
“Heil Hitler!” he replied and then sat.
Leutnant Resmel unlocked the clasp and handed over the attaché case containing the documents. He stood to attention, and waited.
“Thank you, Leutnant.”
Oberst Herschel nodded and leaned forward. He picked up his smoking pipe and sucked on its brown end as he extracted the papers with the precision of a surgeon. The vastness of the table top kept a good distance between the two men yet Hans was now close enough to review the man sitting on the other side. He was considerably older than most of the men who buzzed in and out of the offices at the Chancellory. Hans noted the way Oberst Herschel could not easily reach the things in front. He appeared stiff and awkward, almost too old to be regarded as a serving soldier.
Herschel concluded the papers were in order and looked up.
“Your papers!”
Hans obediently took out his cards from his top pocket and handed them over. The man glanced through them, all the while taking small audible sucks on the end of his pipe. He nodded, satisfactorily, to himself; nodded again and handed them back. “Erwin Hans Resmel. Mmm. Leutnant Resmel.” Herschel removed the pipe and laid it back on its stand. “Where were you born?”
“Freilassing Herr Oberst.”
“Freilassing? I do not know that place.”
“In Bavaria, Herr Oberst. Not far from Salzburg.”
“Ach, Salzburg. Interesting,” murmured Herschel with interest. “Related to the Resmels there, I presume?”
“Yes, my parents and my grandparents were from there.”
“Then, I believe I do know of your father. A professional diplomat and soldier? I do believe he was assigned to the Kaiser’s palaces in Berlin for a few years.”
“That is correct, Herr Oberst.”
Oberst Herschel nodded.
“You may drop the Oberst and just call me Herr Herschel,” he said dryly.
“Yes, Herr Oberst Herschel.”
Hans did not want to appear out of order. The man at the desk had a higher rank so he remained at attention. Herschel looked up.
“Forget the formalities, Leutnant Resmel. You can stand at ease.” Hans noted the way Herschel’s features screwed sideways into an unusual smirk. “Interesting. Most interesting,” Herschel kept muttering. He leaned back in his chair so far Hans wondered whether it would tip over. But it didn’t. “Interesting to meet with the son.”
“Son?”
“Your father did serve near Bethune? Early seventeen?”
“Yes, Herr Herschel.” Hans was perplexed. It puzzled him as to how Herschel had obtained such accurate information but then he realised his own department was in a similar business. Higher authorities had ways and methods of knowing everything, about everything and everybody and the files in this building must be very extensive, Hans thought as he only half-listened to what Herschel was saying. He found that he was beginning to lose the drift of the conversation, especially as the Oberst mumbled to himself again and then just sitting there, grinning and nodding over several silent minutes.
“Your father . . . I may presume to address you as Erwin, Leutnant?” Hans did not reply and Herschel did not expect such. He sucked in his cheeks, then continued. “Your father was my commanding officer,” Herschel explained. “We were both on the front together. Did you know that?” Hans did not answer again. There was no point. Besides, who was he to contradict this old soldier? Hans was only a boy at the time and he knew very little of that war. The other continued, “We were on a night attack when we were pinned down by enemy fire. That was the night I ended up with this confounded back of mine.” The old soldier massaged the stiff muscles either side of his backbone. “The shelling was terrific that night. Hell on earth for us, it was. When it stopped found that we were surrounded by Tommies. Most of our immediate group had been killed but eight of us survived in that trench. We were trapped just like rats. The enemy had infiltrated our defences and there was nowhere to go. We could have fought. We were willing to die for our Emperor but so many bodies, blood and mud. We were half starving and exhausted. Your father was a brave man, Resmel. Tried to give us hope when there was none. We would have eaten our own bullets had they been eatable.”
“It must have been terrible, Herr Oberst Herschel.”
Herschel’s eyes clouded over, first with remembrance and then turning to anger, revenge and full of hate. He picked up his pipe and banged it upside down but it smoked no longer so he put it back.
“Some bugger shot your father. A sniper. We had surrendered. It was murder. Anyone could see we had surrendered. It was murder. I saw it!”
“We were never told. It only said killed in action. That was all.”
“Killed in action!” Herschel spat the words out with disdain. “No. He was walking forward and was demanding treatment for those who had been badly wounded. No-one seemed to be listening. Didn’t want to. Don’t think they knew what he was getting at. There was all this shouting. Guns in hands. All the fear of the enemy as we looked him in the eye. Then, your father reached for a note pad. Out of his top pocket. A shot rang out and he fell. One of those bastards had pulled the trigger. Just like that!”
Hans was stunned. If he could believe what he had just heard, it came as a bitter blow. He did not know how he should react in Herschel’s presence. A man like him and with his connections, could prove to be dangerous if one reacted in an unexpected way that cast doubt on his story. Hans decided to remain silent and hope not to betray his thoughts. Herschel face smiled but the staring eyes looked back into that distant trench.
“Don’t trust the buggers, Erwin. Never trust them! And always look after your back.”
He shook his head and struggled with his stiff back to get out of his chair. As he walked around the long edge of the table, Hans noted the man used a stick and walked with a limp.
Herschel patted Hans on his shoulder in a familiar way.
“Sorry, to have told you like that. But now you know. Your father was a good soldier. Always thought of his men first. Not like some of the officers we have round here. They’d not only let the common soldier down but would sell their own grandmother for Reichsmarks if it meant saving their own skin. Trust in no-one.” Oberst Herschel sifted quickly through a pile of folders that had been piled up on the table. He pulled one out and turned around on his cane. “Your dossier. From what I’ve read, you are your father’s son. Respectful in duty. That pleases me. I think you will be a perfect candidate for SS Sturmbannführer Ott’s consideration. It may be to your advantage to be introduced.”
“But he’s an SS officer. What would I have to do with him?” Hans thought it strange that only a minute ago Herschel was warning him to be vigilant and now, well, he wanted him to meet with a man from the Secret Police.
Herschel did not answer Hans’s question. Instead, he produced a small card and handed it over. “That’s where to go. You can easily reach the building from the U-Bahn.” He pointed to the card. “At that time: 10 hundred hours. Be on time. Sturmbannführer Ott expects punctuality.”
He raised himself up with some difficulty and gave a military salute which, in turn, gave a clear indication to Hans that the meeting was terminated.
Hans returned the salute with precision and then left. He wondered if Renard had anything to do with his meeting with Ott but decided, probably not as his brother was too far away. He was somewhere Mid-Atlantic in a U-boat hunting for British ships. His job was to sink the ships before t
hey could replenish the Mother Country with food and ammunition.
No, Dr Goebbles told them, Britain could never win with such odds stacked against her, and she would be strangled her into submission as ship after ship was sent to the depths of the Atlantic. All the might of the German armed forces, with their excellent-trained and well-equipped troops, would soon be marching all across Europe. This was to be Germany’s finest hour.
Hans had enough time time left to pay a quick visit to his uncle and aunt. On his way, he bought a newspaper not far from the corner of Friederichstrasse. The headlines blazoned over the front page talked of a defiant Britain. Hans began reading the article as he waited for a tram. It was full of stories telling about the Luftwaffe attacks over London.
Britain had constantly disregarded the Führer’s continued offers of peace and now it was time for the British to see how foolish they had been to ignore such offers . . .
He heard the whine of the tram come nearer and the clang just prior to winding its engine down as it came closer the stop. As usual, it was crowded. There was a mixture of people on board: some in uniforms, a few in town coats and black hats, most likely bankers or those in reserved occupations, elderly people too old to have been sent to the front or drafted into the forces. He noticed a number of young mothers who were still standing in the isle, their gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the bars on the backs of seats together with one or two shy children who were valiantly hanging on to their mother’s coat hems for safety.
Hans validated his ticket and elbowed a path part way down the compacted isle. There was already a mixture of uniforms: mainly army but some from the Kriegmarine. Just as the tram was about to move off, several men who had not been enlisted, stood and proffered their seat to those mothers with the youngest children. The tram lurched forward and gathered speed like a gallopping horse, forcing Hans to make a grab for the back of a seat before he lost his balance. He noticed that the baby-faced young man in the smart SS uniform who had been standing beside him was now sitting. Someone had given up their seat for him. That was the way things were now. He rolled the newspaper and stuffed it into his deep coat pocket. Twenty minutes to reach the stop nearest Uncle Karl.
“That Propaganda Minister has been on the radio for hours.” Uncle Karl sounded disgruntled. “Damn them for interrupting the football finals. I will never know the result now.”
“Sorry about that,” Hans mumbled.
Aunt Laura came in to the room with a pile of plates.
“Hello Erwin. I did not know you were coming.” She was pleased to see her nephew again. “Pass that mat would you, Karl. You should have telegraphed or sent a note, Erwin.”
“No time, aunty.”
“Could you put out the cutlery, Karl. Need not bother about Axel. He won’t be in until later. Busy at the office. Oh, put the breadboard over there.” As Uncle Karl reached round for the dresser drawer, Aunt Laura spoke once more to Hans. “Would you like to join us? I do have spare today.”
“Thank you but no. I have a train to catch shortly and I can get a bite at the station.”
“You will need to show your food ticket. Nothing is as easy these days. There are some things that are becoming difficult to buy. Sure I can’t tempt you?”
“No, really, Tante. I will be fine.”
Aunt Laura went back into the kitchen. He could hear the banging of pots and pans.
“That man can talk!” Uncle Karl slammed each knife and fork down on to the table. “Now he says that the Führer has agreed to send bombers over to Britain. Have you heard anything about that?”
Hans took the rolled up newspaper out of his pocket and laid it on the table just in front of his uncle.
“I don’t need to tell you. Read about it. It’s all in there. If you can believe what you read.”
Uncle Karl lowered his voice and leant across the table. Even though they were the only two in the room, he spoke just above a whisper so that Hans could barely hear.
“Careful what you say, Erwin. Careless talk. Too many ears listening for any indiscretions. The stooges are everywhere and even with Renard’s connections you may not be safe. Keep your thoughts to yourself if you want to survive this war. The authorities are very touchy and as you are someone who has lived overseas, you are likely to be watched more closely. So, I say again and again: always be on your guard.”
“I have already realised that, uncle. I’ll say no more.”
The conversation ended as quickly as it had started. Uncle Karl picked up the newspaper and put it on the middle of his chair cushion.
“I will read that later.”
Aunt Laura brought in a pot of steaming food. She looked quizzically at her husband and the to Hans.
“What were you talking about just then?” She began to spoon out the contents of the pot. Uncle Karl smiled and picked up his fork.
“Nothing of interest, my dear. Erwin was just remarking how cold it has been today. He said the trams and trains were crowded today when he came in to the station. Other than that, everything is exactly as it should be.”
Uncle Karl winked at Hans. His aunt saw nothing. As the pair began to eat, Hans replaced his hat and bid them farewell. He did not know when he would be able to call in next.
The hostilities had been going on for almost a year. There had been no more letters from across the Channel so Hans had no idea how the Turner household was faring. Every day over the airwaves came reports of wave after wave of bombers crossing the Channel in the attempt to destroy the fighting capabilities of the British nation. When daytime bombing had little effect, Goering switched his bombers to making night raids and targeting London. Night after night, planes thundered out into the dark skies and headed north-west to deliver their devastating cargoes. The wireless broadcasts as well as the Berliner Zeitung constantly reported how effective the Luftwaffe’s nightly raids on Mr Churchill’s war-making factories were and how, very soon, probably by the end of the year, England would be so weakened that she would have to give in. During one of the army briefings, officers were told that an invasion could easily take place within the next few months.
However, during the night of August 23rd, the Luftwaffe missed their factory targets and dropped their bombs on a row of sleeping houses.
The following evening, a low-pitched hum announced, not the return of their own aircraft, but the arrival of the retaliation. For several successive nights, the sirens sounded in Berlin as frightened people sat in cellars or sought refuge in some of the close underground stations. All through the night, the noise of anti-aircraft fire and exploding bombs resounded across the city. The unthinkable had happened. The citizens of Berlin found they were just as vulnerable as those in London. On that first night several important buildings had been destroyed and several hundred people had lost their houses. The war had come to Germany.
After a terrifying night listening to the constant whine and renting explosions around them, Karl and Laura Klön crawled out of their cellar and tried to carry on as usual. When Uncle Karl switched on the radio, the angry voice of his Führer screamed out his message for revenge:
‘When the British drop three or four thousand kilograms of bombs in a night, we will drop three hundred or four hundred thousand kilograms. the hour will come when one of us has to break . . . and . . . it will not be National Socialist Germany!’
Every night, starting on that warm September day in 1940, the great air attacks on London began. The RAF were so occupied trying to bring down the Luftwaffe bombers that very few enemy aircraft bothered with sending their aircraft to the Fatherland. It appeared that Göring’s tactics were succeeding.
Back at his post many kilometres east of Berlin, Hans also listened to the broadcast of the day. It was the only way one could hope to get any news of what was to friends and family at home.
Friends. Family. Hans thought of his friends across the Channel who had been dragged into the war: Robert, Gerald, Eddie and Loppy together with the rest of the
boys he had got to know. Then, there was Anne with her two young children, together with Jan and Andrea.
Andrea, thought Hans. What is she doing now? Is she as frightened of the German planes as his aunt is of the British ones?
Hans could hear the engine of several small planes fly overhead and it made him think of Gerald. The last he had heard from England a few days before war began was that Gerald had joined the RAF and was flying Hurricanes. A dangerous occupation. Was Gerald even still alive? Was what he had been hearing over the wireless even true? Was it true that the Luftwaffe was bringing England to its knees?
Well, if England did give in, he thought, I hope it will not be as smashed up as I have seen around here.
The weather was dismal. Autumn clouds hung low over most of northern Europe and, until the clouds lifted, no planes could take to the skies. That made things a lot quieter both at the airfields and in the towns. The citizens of Eastern Europe did not have to seek shelter or try to snatch sleep between falling bombs.
Hans was given a week away from duties and was able to take a train west back to Berlin. Night-clubs, theatres and restaurants were doing a marvellous trade again and people pushed and brushed past each other in the streets. It was as if the fingers of war had never touched the city. Lights illuminated the streets again. Champagne bottles popped and saucy dance halls opened their doors once more. Booming military music blasted from the loudspeakers which had been set out in Unter den Linden and large red flags gently swayed in the light evening air. The city had transformed itself into one big, exuberant carnival. No one was in fear of raids. The Führer had promised it so. It was as if the war had never begun.
Aunt Laura was like a mother hen, clucking and brooding around him until he was beginning to wish he were back with his unit. He enjoyed seeing Axel again and although his younger brother said very little about the war, Hans was of the impression that Axel did have something to hide, something he wanted kept secret, especially from Renard.
Two days later, a dispatch rider turned up at the house. He handed over an envelope with the insignia of the secret police. Hans found his hands trembling as he closed the door and walked up to his bedroom. He wanted to be alone when he opened it. He could not think why he should have received such mail.
He fumbled with the envelope but finally he withdrew out the contents. Slowly he unfolded the letter, noting that the message was short and handwritten, not typed. That meant it was not official and he relaxed and his breathing was easier.
Dear Leutnant Resmel,
SS Sturmbannführer Ott and Major Streiter request that you come to the above address this evening at 1700 hours for an informal meeting. A small matter to discuss. We would appreciate your views. We hope the outcome of this meeting will be favourable for you.
Hans noted that the letter stated: request that you come. They only requested a meeting; there was no demand. It was a good sign.
They only want to know my views, thought Hans, but even so, one still needs to be careful.
He thought it did not sound too ominous. Hans had already been told that a different branch of the military wanted to discuss the English problem with him. He had heard about some plans to invade the island nation so he wondered if these two men were interested to know more of how the English mind worked. What was making them so sure they could prevent an invasion taking place?
Hans took his small black attaché case with him. He had written out a few stastics along with some notes, just in case. It was as he had thought. That evening, after several glasses of French wine which only those who moved within the inner circles of the party were able to sample, the conversation did come to focus on the English situation.
“Sturmbannführer Ott, the more the English are hit, the stronger they become. They are well organised. They pull together, not because their politicians force them to do so but because of a willingness the people have to co-operate and get the job done.” Hans could not help noticing the SS insignia on Ott’s collar. It signalled his authority but not his understanding of the situation. “I was there during their great strike and during the time it was on, people from all walks of life, women as well as men, became the train and tram drivers, conductors, deliverers of goods or whatever else was needed to keep the country on its feet. That strike could have crippled the country, yet it didn’t. The government almost wiped out the trade unionists. But it couldn’t. And why? Because the people pulled together for what they saw as the good of their country. They stuck to principles.”
Hans could see that both men were more than interested. He wondered whether he had said too much. He did not want to reveal the truth about his feelings. But, the Sturmbannführer seemed satisfied and gave no hint that he thought otherwise.
“Yes, yes. That may well have been the answer there. We have the Führer’s principles to lead us,” commented Ott. He poured himself another glass of wine and indicated to the other two men to do likewise. Hans declined. He needed to keep his head clear. Streiter held out his empty glass. Ott obliged. He carried on. “We have oneness: one Reich, one People, one Führer . . . what better oneness can one expect to have? And our Führer is adored by everyone. Not like that fat pig Churchill who’s taken over.”
Streiter wiped his nose with his handkerchief and continued to watched Hans most closely. He had been instructed to watch out for any pro-British sympathies.
“The English have a parliament in which they debate any issues. There are ministers who not only advise but make decisions. It’s not just Mr Churchill telling the population what they should do.”
“There I must disagree with you.” Ott put his glass down on the table. He swallowed his last mouthful. “You have only to listen to that loud-mouth Churchill talking. He’s always calling them to arms, always trying to lead them away from common sense. He’s a dangerous man, that one. Even the Führer says that man is dangerous. Get rid of Churchill and the English will give in. They’ll buckle under when they have a taste of what our Luftwaffe can dish out.”
“I beg to differ. Are you interested in knowing why I think you are incorrect?” Hans knew that he was on dangerous ground and with a sentry on the door, the meeting had the trappings of being very official. Hans realised that men had been known to disappear when they had voiced any opposition to such men in the black uniform of the secret police.
“Of course!” Ott pulled back his lips and showed his teeth. It was more of a snarl than a smile. “We’d appreciate your views, Herr Leutnant and they will not cross these walls, I can assure you. Feel free.”
Hans swallowed hard. He felt his mouth spit dry up and his throat become as parched as if he had been in the desert.
“If they feel threatened,” he began. “Then, like the she-wolf, England will defend her cubs, come what may, Sturmbannführer Ott. I’ve found the English to be very much like ourselves: we have the same tenacity.”
Ott snorted a laugh. It was full of sarcasm.
“Then, Leutnant Resmel, they’ll become a most formidable foe. Quite a challenge for the superior forces of the Reich!” The Sturmbannführer sneered in triumph. “We hope you are not siding with the English, Herr Leutnant.”
“It is only an idea for your consideration, Sturmbannführer.”
“Possibly. We demand your loyalty. Your Führer and country must be paramount!”
At that point, the conversation ended. A waiter arrived and quietly removed the empty glasses as if by making any noise, it would have been “off with his head.” A few minutes later, he returned with fresh glasses and a second bottle.
“Thank you, Konrad.” Ott filled his glass again and handed the bottle to Streiter. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Leutnant. Beautiful wine. Straight from the vineyards of France.” He laughed. “One of the perks of occupation. Prost, meine Herren!”
“Prost!”
Streiter drained his glass like a beer-drinker. His manner appeared more relaxed than Ott’s. He offered the others a cigaretto from the s
ilver box he had withdrawn from the top pocket of his jacket uniform.
“Thank you for the offer, Major, but no thank you. Not this time.” Hans was as polite as he could be.
Major Streiter laughed off the comment and replaced the container. As he buttoned his pocket flap, he indicated that they all move over to softer armchairs to continue their conversation. They had come to the second item on their agenda.
The Major indicated with his finger that Sturmbannführer Ott had the floor.
“You’re not married, I believe, Leutnant? No pretty wife to warm your bed when you return from the front?”
“No, Sturmbannführer.”
“That’s what I’ve been led to believe. No young lady you already have your eye on?”
“No, none, Sturmbannführer.”
“It is every good soldier’s duty to be equipped with a wife.” Hans smiled inwardly as the man’s use of ‘equipped’ as though a wife be thought of like a piece of essential equipment. The Sturmbannführer continued. “The Führer wishes all his good officers to be well looked after each time he takes leave from his duties in the field. Also, how else are we to provide the Fatherland with strong sons and daughters? It’s your duty, as an Aryan and as a soldier of the Reich. The Aryan race must be kept pure. It must be the dominant race in Europe. We must be the masters.” The Sturmbannführer smiled his cold, uninviting smile. “Herr Oberst, here, thinks it is time for you to have a wife. I agree. A soldier without a wife only fights with half a heart. The Führer wants your whole heart, Leutnant. He demands total loyalty: loyalty in the field and loyalty in the bedroom, if you get my drift.”
“I’m sure Leutnant Resmel knows exactly what you mean, Sturmbannführer,” Streiter lowered the half empty glass from his lips.
“Loyalty,” Ott repeated. “Only then will you become an honourable soldier. So, a fighting man who shows loyalty to his country needs the comfort of a good woman. A wife; that is what you need. A wife of good breeding.” He tapped the side of his nose and grinned. Next, he turned and spoke directly to Herschel. “One should be found at once.” He addressed Hans once more. “Then, you will know what it is like to be a good Aryan.”
Ott gave a catalogue of the life Hans had led so far. Hans was surprised at the information Streiter had about him. He could only think that it had come from their link with Renard but there was no knowing where the secret police got their information from. However, he was relieved to hear that neither of them knew of his love affair with Caroline or that he already had a child. Of that he was now certain. And, it was better that it remain that way.
“I have heard that your successes in the field have been most pleasing, Leutnant.” Sturmbannführer Ott beamed.
“Thank you, Sturmbannführer. I do only what is expected of my duty, that is all.”
Streiter poured himself yet another glass of the expensive French wine.
“This is excellent wine, gentlemen. Sure I cannot tempt you?” He held up the bottle. The others declined. Ott was more interested in talking.
“Several times your name has been brought to my attention.”. Ott was still smiling. “Almost as impressive as your brother, Renard. Now there’s a man who knows exactly where his loyalties lie.”
As Renard and this man Ott appear to be on first name terms, Hans thought, it is no wonder that he was taking such an interest.
The presence of this SS officer was making Hans uneasy and put him on guard. He watched the man very carefully.
Ott leaned so far back in his chair so that the front two legs were raised off the floor and at the same time waved his hand with a wild unsteady gesture to indicate that Streiter should take over.
“You may have been wondering why the Sturmbannführer is here, Leutnant.” Streiter cupped his hand over his mouth and coughed slightly into it. “Excuse me. I have been getting over a cold. The Sturmbannführer is here because he has connections with the Kohler family. Herr Kohler is well-known, a good businessman and supporter of the Führer.” He paused and took a long deep breath. “His connections with the highest officials are most exemplary.” Ott peered at Hans like a cat watching a bird whenever Streiter paused. “Ah, yes,” continued the older man after he had moved his injured leg again. “Herr Kohler has a daughter. Elisabeth. She’s a healthy and robust girl. A little older than the usual young ones on the market.”
His comment brought a smirk from the Sturmbannführer.
“An excellent specimen of womanhood, if I may say. Just the right kind of woman to provide a man of the Reich with strong, healthy sons.”
“And what happens if I don’t like her? Or, more importantly, if she does not like me?” Hans quickly added, looking first at Streiter and then at Ott. He was not very happy about such an arrangement, yet he knew to reject the offer would bring a flare of anger in his direction and these were very powerful men.
“Duty has to be paramount!” Ott weaved his head and hissed at Hans like a snake about to strike. “Follow the example of your brother, if you know what is good for you. If he were not already spoken for, he would have been only too willing to have Elisabeth Kohler for a wife.”
“Renard?”
Hans wondered what kind of woman would be acceptable to his brother. He had not met the new love of his life since Uncle Karl had let it be known that Renard and Magda had finally gone their separate ways. So much for until death do we part and everything we had been taught by the church, thought Hans. Hans followed the teachings of the church most seriously on matters such as this, whatever the new order teaches people to think. Obviously, not so Renard and he was disgusted by his brother’s lack of morality. He could only guess that Renard’s new lady friend was also a supporter of the Party.
“Yes, your brother.”
Streiter shifted his weight and rested a hand on the upright cane. He smiled slightly and tried to look pleasant.
“I think you will find that, Fräulein Kohler is a very pleasant young woman, Leutnant Resmel, with excellent connections. Quite a bit younger than you but very mature in many ways.”
“Oh, very mature, I would say,” Ott affirmed. “Her participation in courses for young German women has been excellent. Most perfect.” Streiter’s eyes widened in anticipation. “You have no objections so far I hope, Leutnant?”
“None, Sturmbannführer.”
“Good! I am pleased to hear that. As soon as the marriage is arranged, I’m sure there could possibly be a rise in rank coming your way. Yes, I’m almost certain of it.” He laughed and his shark teeth glistened in the soft yellow light. “Much better than being demoted, would you say?”
Secretly Hans thought the man most objectionable but he did not give either of them any hint to think otherwise.
“Thank you, Sturmbannführer Ott. I’ll give it my complete consideration.”
“That is most pleasing to hear. I was banking on you being sensible. You’re a man who knows what it is to show loyalty in his duty. I honour you for that.”
Hans gritted his teeth. Those two words juxtaposed together took him back to Miss Turner’s office. How empty those two words seemed: loyalty to whom and for what kind of honour? He waited as Streiter poured yet another glass. The tip of his nose was turning red like the skin of a polished apple.
“Fräulein Kohler lives with her parents near Neubrandenburg,” explained Oberst Streiter. “That is not not too far away from here. You have a few days leave. Here are your travelling papers and immediately you get to the station, a staff car will pick you up and take you to Herr Kohler’s house. He will be expecting you.” Streiter handed over the papers and documents. They were contained in a plain brown envelope. As Hans took them and put them in his briefcase, Streiter held out his hand. “Good luck, Leutnant.”
“Herr Kohler will be informed immediately.” Streiter quickly wrote a few words. He clicked his fingers for the soldier standing guard at the door to come forward. Streiter handed him the message. “Contact Herr Kohler.” The soldier clicked his
heels together, took the message and immediately left the room. Sturmbannführer Ott stepped back to make a clear passage towards the door. He flicked his hand upwards mimicking the wave of a king.
“We wait for news, Herr Leutnant. Heil Hitler!”
Hans put on his hat and returned a military salute, as did Streiter. He wondered what his brother had told these men. Why did Renard have to involve him in their plans to rule the world? Hans was prepared to do his duty for his country. He was not happy to have connection with these so called friends of this brother.
Never-the-less, the week was a pleasant one. Herr Kohler was an excellent host and kept Party politics out of the conversation. As for Elisabeth Kohler, he found her most aimiable. She was young, no more than twenty or twenty-two at the most, yet she came over as being a sophisticated and charming young lady and one who knew how to be graceful in her entertainment. Her education had been thorough for Hans discovered fairly quickly that she was capable of discussing a wide variety of subjects from music and art to telling him about all the new and exciting developments taking place in the town. She spoke of the things the Party was doing to help young girls in the Bund deutscher Mädel group to realise their own destiny and realise how important it was to obediently do their bit in serving the Fatherland. Elisabeth Kohler was very much a daughter of the times and of the Reich.
When Major Streiter rang from Turpitzufer four days later, Hans was able to tell him that the meeting had, indeed, been a success.
The following evening, a despatch rider arrived with orders for Hauptmann Resmel. In two days time he was to be flown out from Tempelhof to a posting in North Africa where Generalleutnant Rommel and the Afrika Korps were ready to receive another man.
