by Michael Dean
‘You seem hungry,’ he said to the mark. ‘Doesn’t Rathenau feed you?’
He was in. He was right. With that apparently meaningless business with the menu, the mark had shown his soul. Buying it would be easy now.
‘No, he doesn’t,’ said the mark bitterly. ‘Rathenau doesn’t feed me, nor does he allow me to buy food. I starve for his principles.’
He had obviously used that line before.
‘Hey, that was good!’
The mark smiled, thinly. ‘Mean bastard,’ he muttered.
Von Salomon shrugged. ‘Well…We all know Jews.’
The mark nodded, absently, not brightening until the food came, which did not take long, as von Salomon’s orders were always put through first. But until then von Salomon played him along, telling him about more real and fictitious people in the café. Create expectation, then delay fulfilment, that’s how to play a mark along.
But eventually, with the poor sallow little fellow bursting with curiosity, von Salomon came to the point, as they ate and drank. It was dramatic news, and he said it dramatically.
‘We have cast-iron information that the 300 Elders of Zion, backed by International Jewry are about to make their move to take over Berlin.’
The mark’s eyes widened. He stopped chewing, though only for a second. ‘Who is “we”?’
This was the rebellion. There is always a rebellion, when you have established dominance. It is usually feeble. Von Salomon had read his Freud – even if he did call him ‘the Jew Freud’ every time he used his name. Freud calls it resistance.
He smiled indulgently. ‘I can’t tell you that. But were you to guess, I suspect you would be right. Who has been fighting International Jewry these past few years? And you are here because we need your help.’
The mark stopped eating again. There was egg on his ridiculous droopy moustache.
‘Oh no, I’m not having anything to do with…’
Von Salomon laid a hand on his forearm. ‘Hold your horses. I’m talking about a warning, only. That’s far more effective.’ He lowered his voice, conspiratorially, whispering into Prozeller’s ear. ‘You remember what happened to Philipp Scheidemann? We could have killed him. But we didn’t. Warnings create fear, get longer publicity. Scheidemann healed up. No harm done. It was a completely successful operation.’
‘So acid in his…’
‘It may not be acid, but something similar. Just to make him jump.’ Von Salomon smiled. ‘Almost certainly in the car. We would need you to slow down. We’ll give you the details when we’re ready.’
‘That’s it? Just slow down?’ Prozeller sounded relieved.
‘Sure! Nothing to it.’
Von Salomon took an envelope from his pocket and passed it to Prozeller. The servant was excited. He seized it and tore it open, there in public. Von Salomon was unsure himself how much he had put in. He just grabbed some cash before he left. Around ten thousand Marks, he thought.
‘That’s not much!’ Prozeller sneered.
‘That is per week. From now until we are ready.’
Prozeller’s mouth fell open. Von Salomon could hardly stop himself laughing.
‘And you’re sure of your facts. About the 300 Elders…’
‘For heavens sake, Prozeller! They are putting men in top positions. Do I really need to tell you that? You of all people? Don’t you want to bring Rathenau down a peg or two?’
‘Oh yes!’
‘And you can carry on stealing from him. We’ll sell that Rodin statuette for you if you like. I wouldn’t do it yourself. You’ll get caught. These Jews all know each other. They stick together.’
‘Sell..? Oh right! I’ll take you up on that.’
Josef Prozeller pocketed his money, scoffed every scrap of his food, drained his beer to the last drop and left.
OC owned him now, von Salomon thought, a half-smile playing in his face. They could use him, drop him, play with him, kill him. And in the end it did not matter much what they did with him. Von Salomon moved his lips, the words soundless in his mouth. ‘Because he is a meaningless piece of shit’
Chapter Eighteen
The British invited Rathenau - Rathenau personally - to London for secret talks. Lloyd George had been an admirer of Rathenau’s since the Times article of 1915 compared the KRA favourably with his own efforts at materials procurement. Then there was Spa, where Lloyd George’s private secretary, Philipp Kerr, had sent glowing reports of Rathenau back to his chief.
These London discussions were so clandestine that the ever co-operative Times described them as being solely about a loan, which was only ever a cover.
The real reason for the talks was this: Britain and Germany both wanted a moratorium on Germany’s crippling Versailles debt repayments. The British wanted Germany back on its feet, so it could start trading without undercutting them. Rathenau appeared to them the German politician most likely and most able to deliver that.
The problem was the French, who were still insisting on the current draconian repayment plan. And the French had the largest army in Europe. With the Great War still dominating the minds of men, armies equalled power. They had already called in the British ambassador and asked about Rathenau’s visit to London. Lord Curzon had lied through his teeth about it, as diplomats are paid to do.
The secret talks were held at the elegant town residence of Philip Sassoon, at 25 Park Lane, on December 2 1921, starting at 8.15. Sassoon was David Lloyd George’s Parliamentary Private Secretary. He was the scion of no fewer than two great Jewish families, the Sassoons themselves - Siegfried the war poet was Philip’s cousin - and the Rothschilds. Maybe they were trying to make Walther feel at home.
Philip Sassoon was famous in London as a great host, even when he was not there, which he was not during Rathenau’s talks with Lloyd George. Fortunately, he had left behind not only the Courbets on the wall, which Walther greatly admired, but also the white-gloved footmen, whose attentive service over dinner Rathenau enjoyed more than he admitted, even to himself.
Present were three men only: Prime Minister David Lloyd George, Walther Rathenau and Sir Robert Horne, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. There was also one woman, there as hostess and mistress of ceremonies, David Lloyd George’s daughter, Megan.
The discussion that fateful evening was to sketch out the direction of European foreign policy for the next five years. It also led to another victory for Rathenau over Stinnes.
The ubiquitous Stinnes had met Horne in London a week earlier. He had outlined detailed proposals including the dismissal of a million people from German national enterprises, like the railways, which would have caused mass unemployment and chaos. Lloyd George and Horne had serious doubts about Stinnes. So the door was open for Rathenau. He needed only to walk through.
At this late stage of his life, Rathenau developed an acuity about the essence of people which he lacked in his youth. More and more, he understood the other man. And on the political stage, as opposed to the personal, he knew how to apply his insights.
So it was with David Lloyd George. Anyone among the German intelligentsia could have told you Lloyd Georg was Welsh. But within seconds of meeting him, Rathenau’s intuition understood what that meant - that he had emotions of an entirely different type and degree from an Englishman, that these emotions were paramount, and that he used them differently.
There was the hug on arrival, as soon as Rathenau’s coat, cane and Homburg had been taken by a footman. Sensualists recognise one another. Unlike masons they do not need a complex schema of signs, one glance is enough. Lloyd George, looking up at Walther, after the hug, recognised his homosexuality and the importance of both his sexual-being and his Jewishness to the drive which made up his formidable energy.
Rathenau, for his part, intuited and was mildly amused by Lloyd George’s need to have sexual relations with any attractive woman he saw. The fact of the mutually recognised sensualism was more important to both men than the detail of the object of it – wom
en in Lloyd George’s case, men in Rathenau’s.
The bigger surprise was Sir Robert Horne, whose age Rathenau estimated that evening as mid-forties, though he had in fact turned fifty. Horne should perhaps not have been a surprise, as he, like Lloyd George, was a Celt. He had been a Scottish lawyer and philosophy professor before entering politics. But Walther’s emotional unconscious picked up even stronger sexual notes from the Chancellor of the Exchequer than from the Prime Minister.
He understood the focus of these feelings only mid-way through a long evening and night. Just as consumption of the rum babas was coming to an end – they reminded Rathenau of the British Mills Bombs Ludendorff had shown him at Kovno – Megan Lloyd George made a brief appearance from the kitchen to ascertain the gentlemen’s complete satisfaction with the food and general arrangements.
She was dark, svelte and looked about twenty. Her eyes met Horne’s for the briefest of seconds, but it was enough. To literally spare Megan’s blushes, Rathenau glanced at Lloyd George. His face grimaced, sending his grey moustache shooting upward in something like terror.
So, Horne was a roué! And his chief’s daughter, too! Who would have thought it! He was well-built, but his pleasant, knobbly appearance would not have caused much of a stir in the dives Rathenau frequented back in Berlin.
No wonder they felt themselves kindred spirits, the three of them, that evening. Sex united them in a way international relations never could, as if they were tied together round the waist. But Walther, childless Walther who had never had any dealings with children, felt loving pity for David Lloyd George in his powerlessness to protect Megan from another roué.
As to the political discussion in massive chintz-covered armchairs and then round the table, it all went rather well, from Rathenau’s point of view.
Over coffee and brandy, Lloyd George stapled his fingers over his stomach, leaned back and belched.
‘If German trade could be re-established with Russia,’ he said slowly in that gorgeous lilting accent, ‘and one half to two-thirds of the proceeds definitely allocated to reparations, the problem of reparations would be solved.’
Rathenau’s eyes widened. Incongruously, he thought of Bosie – Hartmut Plaas - presented to him on a plate, like the recently consumed rum babas. This was everything he had ever wanted. Everything Germany had ever wanted. Lloyd-George had just encapsulated German foreign policy.
‘Yes,’ Rathenau said.
‘We need to reconstruct Russia with western capital and German expertise,’ Horne added, sipping at his coffee. ‘It would do wonders for world trade.’
‘Look, we can get you off the next instalment,’ Lloyd George added. ‘And we’ll get you down to 500 million Goldmarks for 1922. I’ll speak to Briand. We cannot go on like this. You cannot frame an indictment against a nation.’
Rathenau recognised the quotation – it was Burke. But for the only time in his public life his English (or any other language) let him down. He had not completely heard or understood ‘indictment.’
‘…dike??’ he said. ‘What is…?’
Lloyd George laughed. He was speaking his second language, too. His first language was Welsh.
‘You cannot blame a whole nation, forever,’ he said.
‘No,’ Rathenau said. There were tears in his eyes.
‘So we are agreed?’ said Horne
‘Oh yes!’ Rathenau wanted to hug them both.
The two Celts speaking for England laughed.
‘And there are one or two nuts and bolts,’ Horne said mildly.
Rathenau looked wary. ‘May I make notes?’
‘No!’ said Lloyd George. ‘Not now and not later.’
‘Don’t worry, Herr Rathenau.’ Horne beamed. Rathenau suddenly saw what Megan saw in him. ‘We need you to balance the budget. If you’d be so kind. We need you to make the Reichsbank independent.’
‘That is so it can…’ Lloyd George began.
‘That is so it can refuse to discount government bills,’ Rathenau completed. ‘Yes, consider it done, my friend.’ He would have put a hand on Lloyd George’s shoulder, but even Rathenau couldn’t reach from there.
‘And. Stop. All. Subsidies.’ Horne ground this out, smile gone, staring Rathenau in the eye. Rathenau felt himself responding to Horne. He could feel what Megan saw in him.
Stopping all subsidies would stop the undercutting of British goods. It would also cause the immediate collapse of the German economy.
‘Naturally,’ said Rathenau smoothly. ‘Just give us a little time, if you would be so kind.’
Masterful, that.
There was one more grace note to the evening’s discussion. Lloyd George left it until the early hours.
‘Walther…’
‘Yes, David.’
‘You must understand that not only must this evening remain confidential, but our alliance over Russia must, too.’
Rathenau was disappointed about that, but did not show it. ‘Of course.’
‘We shall shortly be players in the largest gathering of nations the world has yet seen.’
Lloyd George stared at Rathenau to make sure he was following. He was. ‘At this conference I cannot support your Ostpolitik…’
‘Good accent, David.’
Lloyd George twinkled. ‘Thank you. At best, I must pretend ignorance, for the sake of the French. You may find me out of reach and out of touch when you feel you need my support. There is no other way. That said, you may regard Horne, here, as a secret conduit to me. Robert keeps secrets rather well.’
The two men exchanged loaded looks.
‘I understand,’ Rathenau said softly.
‘I hope you do, Walther. Because the time may well come, and come soon, when I shall have to go as far as to feign opposition to your Russia policy.’ He smiled, then rubbed his moustache. ‘I shall feign outrage, I shall feign rage.’ He sounded as if he was looking forward to it. ‘But feigning is all it will be. An act, so that our alliance with France remains intact. Rest assured, Walther.’
‘Thank you, David.’ Rathenau was genuinely moved.
‘And rest assured we will prevail. We must prevail, Walther. Because the world cannot be left in this costive, stagnant state with no trade.’
‘Yes!’
‘Your way is the right way, Walther. And I shall back you to the hilt. Furtively.’
And at that all three of them roared with laughter.
Chapter Nineteen
Spring is here, thought Ernst von Salomon to himself, as he sat in his box of a money-changing kiosk. Anemones, irises, crocuses, hyacinths, snowdrops, all poisoned by the Jews among us. The Jews have defiled spring. Our so-called Weimar Republic has made the Jew Rathenau Foreign Minister and it then intends to send him abroad in Germany’s name. Scandal and shame! Scandal and shame!
Enough is enough. Von Salomon nodded in agreement with his own thoughts. We may discuss the means but the end is clear enough. Rathenau must die. Rathenau must die soon.
Von Salomon locked the kiosk, even though it was earlier than usual, and made his way to the Aschinger Restaurant. At the third or fourth time of asking, Hartmut Plaas finally kept his appointment to meet there. This was around the average in their dealings, especially since the cocaine had taken hold of him.
The idea of using Plaas as the instrument of Rathenau’s extermination had come from A1 - Erhardt. Von Salomon had argued against it. He rarely lost arguments, but A1, in a heated exchange on the telephone, said it was an order. Von Salomon thought Plaas was too unreliable and unpredictable. He knew Plaas was too unreliable and unpredictable. He wanted to use the chauffeur, Prozeller. But orders are orders.
A1’s reason for using Plaas was the opportunity to have Rathenau put down outside Germany, when he went to this international conference coming up in Genoa.
This would be helpful, as the potentially dangerous hunt for the perpetrators would be hobbled, abroad. And von Salomon had to admit that outside Germany, Plaas could get close to Rathenau
more easily than anybody else could.
Plaas sat opposite von Salomon at a table at the Aschinger, close enough to the band so they would not be overheard. Von Salomon was silently congratulating himself on the tactic of controlling Plaas’s drug supply, thus putting Plaas more closely under his control.
‘Hello Hartmut.’
Hartmut Plaas looked weary. He had rings under his eyes. His clothes were dirty and his hair needed a wash.
‘You got my stuff?’
Von Salomon slid a small package wrapped in brown paper across the table to him. Plaas took it, glanced inside the wrapping and pocketed it.
‘Can you help me get my sonnets published? All the magazines are controlled by Jews, now. They won’t look at my work.’
Von Salomon cleared his throat. ‘I can get them into Viking for you.’ Viking was the OC newspaper.
Plaas pulled a face. Then he unexpectedly grinned. ‘I wish we were back in the old days, when we worked on the Deutsche Front.’
Von Salomon smiled back, genuinely enough. He too had enjoyed their journalistic work on that fine newspaper, a scourge of Jews and Bolsheviks. But looking back is always a sign of weakness, so he pulled himself together.
‘Is Viking not good enough for you, then?’
. ‘My father’s a bloody count. I never used to mix with riff-raff.’
Von Salomon cleared his throat. ‘Can’t Rathenau help you get your work published?’
‘No. Zukunft won’t take my poems any more. Rathenau wants to work on them with me.’
‘We all know what that means.’
Plaas made a popping noise with his lips. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but he’d make them more sentimental. Shit German romanticism. All that Caspar David Friedrich crap. Shit mountains, shit forests, shit shadows, shit gloom.’
Von Salomon shut his eyes for a second. ‘Now and again,’ he thought to himself, ‘I have to remind myself that this rambling poetaster has also made dynamite out of dirt when we needed it and could shoot the heart out of the ace of hearts at fifty metres.’
