Untitled Robert Lautner

by Robert Lautner

  ‘But it is my money.’ The stupidest words you can say in a bank. There was a woman crying and being herded into a corner by shushing tail-coats. She was screaming that her house had been bombed, Weimar I assumed. She needed ten thousand marks, cash, her money, for a new place. The landlord demanded cash, they all did now. Not a poor woman. No husband with her. This would not be a Jewish landlord, not a Jewish bank. They did not have her money. This was Germans together. This was Germany.

  ‘Work’, He had said on the radio. Work. But do not expect your money when you have need of it.

  ‘There will be a charge for such a withdrawal, Herr Beck. Fifteen percent.’

  I wrote the slip. ‘And you’ll take that from the money that I cannot have, yes? The money that doesn’t exist?’ A queue behind me awaiting the same bad easily explained news. Still, two hundred marks. That should do. And a diamond. Rely on that. Do not try to think on where it may have come from. A tiny stone that could open doors like a crowbar when called upon. But just once, just one door. But not an oven door.

  February, but by the time I got back to Etta I was sweating. I gave her the notes. The first stage. We had money. With the cash in my wallet and change we had two hundred and thirty-five marks. It is surprising how money can bring hope. It should not be so.

  I patted the motorcycle as I left. I had a page of petrol rations not used. An exit to use. I did not let Etta hold me before I left. I would be back in a few hours. Back with a travel permit. Second stage. I waved to her from the gate, distracted by an accordion player on our lonely street. He had chosen the wrong spot. Most likely picked for the wealthy-looking homes, not knowing they were empty save ours. A lambskin waistcoat with beaded stars, a happy curled moustache and happy stout belly. At Christmas he probably would have worked on the bridge with all the others. Christmas never happened so he gave February music, something French, not a polka. I gave him the last pfennigs in my pocket.

  ‘Good luck to you, sir,’ he waved his cap. Then he gave the salute and the call as I walked to the factory. I pretended not to hear.

  Chapter 43

  An afternoon of inking line drawings for malt burners. Dull, but with the satisfying rule of neatness over creativity, to concentrate and be delicate, comfort in the patience and intricacy. Devoid of thought other than the nib of the pen and the steadiness of hand. Its reward in its distraction. Of me. If this was not my work it would be my hobby. The solitude of detail. As such I went to Klein’s office with a hangman’s calm. Not the shivering of the condemned. He had a roll of permits. I was not asking payment for my silence. A gentleman’s handshake. A businessman’s handshake. The walls of a factory, of industry, designed to keep secrets in. One cheque cashed from a dead man, one permit given. Fair trade. I had become as Klein now. Or just grown up now. These subjects not taught at university. You just go out into the world and they come.

  I knocked on the door, the call to enter instant.

  ‘Take a seat, Ernst.’ Klein stood by his window. His pallor of one who had smoked all day, as newspapermen or detectives do in the American movies. All stress and snappy talk.

  ‘I cannot grant you a permit.’

  My chair weakened. I held its arms as if a pitching boat. I had no questions. He would answer them for me.

  ‘It is a security matter. Anyone associated with Topf not permitted to travel. This comes from the SS.’ His first look to me. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘But Etta does not work for Topf. You said so yourself. This is for my wife. Not for me. Have I ever asked for anything?’

  ‘All travel is restricted. Regardless.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘The trains run, but only with permits signed from Weimar. You would never get that. Not for months. You know this. It would just be a useless piece of paper.’

  ‘Then give it to me. If it is useless. I could bribe Etta onto a train. They queue at the station all day. I have seen them. But a permit would help. I’m sure.’

  ‘I understand, Ernst. But if you work for Topf so does your wife. By proxy. Do not offend me. Do not suggest I am ignorant enough to not consider that she has knowledge. It would be harmful for the company.’

  This was not him talking. I could tell. Maybe he had tried, maybe not. He had appeased me in the morning because that is what bosses do. At the close of business, after five, is when they drop the guillotine.

  I stood up, would not let my second stage be thwarted so easily. Could not go home with this. Mirrored his pose.

  ‘I need that permit, Hans.’

  He flushed at my use of his name. Looked me up and down. Our suits the same, mine under white-coat. The wing-tips the same. I had cuff-links now, not buttons. Almost a year I had been here. I was a dull pin in comparison, not shiny but still sharp. Grown sharper. And he grinned, his circus grin, the one of Victor Hugo’s comprachicos’ mutilations. The Man Who Laughs.

  ‘And what, Ernst, would you do. Without a permit.’ Not a question. He never questioned. Only put his thoughts into the room. Blew a veil of smoke at me.

  I pushed open his orb of cigarettes. Plucked one and sat down. Used my matches instead of his table-lighter. Respected that at least.

  ‘I would be forced to do two things. And be fired for both.’

  He went behind his chair and I wished I had not sat. He was above me, framed in the window. Commanded the room.

  ‘Do what? Exactly?’

  Something of pride in his voice. Wondering what his pupil considered. What he had constructed.

  ‘I could go to the Gestapo. Tell them that Topf and Sons have cashed a cheque for thousands of marks from a dead man. For work they would never do.’

  He blew this off like cooling soup.

  ‘Just business. We would return the monies. If occasioned. We did not know he was dead. Apologise and move on. Anything else?’

  ‘A cardboard tube of diamonds.’

  He moved from the chair. Leaned on the edge of his desk in his perfected fatherly manner. Smoked and watched me sweat.

  This was not the stage I wanted. One. Get the money. Two. Get the permit. Or not. My plan ripped from my notes. One, two, three. The third stage. Etta on a train. Anything past that just the foolishness of a boy sticking a plan down his trousers and running. He saw it all in my face. The cigarette paper stuck to my dry lip.

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  Just that. An apologetic sigh. For both of us.

  He leaned across his desk and pressed the box beside his telephone. A white light came on. Stayed on.

  ‘You must love your wife very much, Ernst.’

  I watched the light blink out. Forgot to smoke. I sat as in a dentist’s chair. Waited to be addressed. I thought I had thrown the winning card to the table. Wondered on what I had not done correctly. I had threatened. He had a drawer full of travel permits. I had missed something, misjudged something. Sweat on my face. In February. I remembered the first day I saw the factory, the chimney in the centre of the roof, when I imagined the oven in the basement fuelling the floors. It must’ve been firing now. Pictured Etta at the window, waiting for me, watching the smoke rise from the chimney.

  The door opened. A one-legged man eased himself into the room. Did not shut the door. The uniform. The cap.

  I had almost forgotten him, forgotten they existed, that surely they were too busy. But what would a one-legged colonel do in Berlin? Terror enough here.

  ‘Helmut,’ Klein said. ‘Ernst here would like to explain what has happened to your diamonds.’

  ‘Ah,’ he had said. A thousand words.

  Klein’s hand to my shoulder.

  ‘Come, Ernst,’ he said. Softly. A dragon’s wing. ‘We will discuss this in Prüfer’s office.’

  I rose with his hand like a marionette, dropped the cigarette to the floor.

  The colonel said nothing, waited in the door-frame. He followed us out, the clack of his crutch the only sound as we walked.

  There had been no car with runes when I had returned from lunch. It had come while I
worked.

  They always come when you are not watching.

  That is how it is done.

  Chapter 44

  Prüfer’s office absent of him and the ISIS board. It had been cleared away to make room for a new machine, the desk also moved to accommodate, to nest beside the curious thing sat on its own trolley.

  The colonel took Prüfer’s leather chair, I the wooden, Klein the window. That would be our setting for however long this took. It was long after five. Etta expecting me.

  The colonel removed his cap, his crutch resting against him. He had a half-eaten plate of grapes and cheese on the desk. I could only think that they would be the fat late harvest grapes. Frozen. Used for the sweet wines. Ignorant to eat them with cheese. I thought on that wine, on if I would ever taste anything again. Did not want to hear. To answer the questions. I did not hear the first time it came.

  ‘Ernst?’ the colonel asked again. ‘Where are the diamonds?’

  I looked up from the plate. Could not answer. He eased back into the chair.

  ‘You see, Ernst, there comes a time in war when men must make, how you might say … securities … for themselves. You wish to make your wife secure. So surely you can see how those of us without families, without wives, those who must stay and fight, need to secure for themselves a contingency that no-one else will provide.’ He opened his arms. ‘And you know there is no faith in paper, Ernst. It always falls to diamonds and gold. Always.’

  I spoke then. I was the jester to the king. I could say what I wanted.

  ‘And where did they come from?’

  ‘From the ground. And after that the terrible truth about gems is the tragedies that come from owning them. All diamonds look like tears for a reason.’

  I did not expect such poetry from a man with so much silver and braid. He was relaxed, patient, trying to relax me with his philosophy. A man of reason. He smiled away my question. Moved on.

  ‘I am a colonel, Ernst. But I am not a real colonel. A paper colonel they say. Behind my back.’ He slapped his thigh, the thigh where his leg ended. ‘Do you know how I lost this? It was in the last war. And not how you might expect.’

  I was glad for the story, for the pause, the delay, my eyes drawn to the ominous machine beside us. The size of a writing desk, two wheels on the front of it the size of a child’s bicycle. It looked like some industrial tool for sewing or spinning. Wheels always spin. Spin to make something. I had missed the story, came in on the end.

  ‘My own brother! Can you believe that, Ernst? He shot me in the trench so I could not go over the top! Tried to save his little brother. But I lost my leg because of it, and he his life. And they made me a captain. And then when this war began I was made a colonel. For the SS. You know why the SS, Ernst?’

  ‘No, Colonel,’ I said and looked at the back of Klein at the window. I had let him down. Ashamed to look at me. That back more terrifying than the bald cripple in front of me. My shame his shame. He would not be my ally.

  ‘Because He had need of colonels. He needed ranks. Most of the true army did not approve of His actions, His demands. So he rose His own colonels, majors, His and Himmler’s own divisions. Legitimacy. Yet still the old ones resist. Attempt coups and assassinations year after year. And you know why?’

  I was not expected to reply. I was being lulled, softened. I was sure this was how he began all questionings. Confusion and beguilement. I would answer because I was not sure what a question was. He talked slow and deliberate. Until I thought I knew him. Until I felt sorry for him and our leader.

  ‘It was because He was not one of them. Just a foot soldier. The little corporal. The army is a class unto itself. Its echelons are privileged sons. And the air-force? God in Heaven! Even worse. They think themselves out of Siegfried legends. They shake hands with our enemies when they get the chance. Send each other food parcels when they are prisoners. Like they are in some gentlemen’s club. They think war is an occupation. A union. And so the SS came. And I sit at a desk in front of people like you. Because they would not even care that you exist. You are not the war.’ He took a breath, took a grape. ‘He knows differently.’

  The pistol came to the desk with a rattle, broke the hypnotic speech.

  ‘You know what this is, Ernst? It is an Erfurt Luger.’ He touched the odd bevelled wheels at the back of the pistol, caressed the etching.

  ‘You see that? The Erfurt crown. I had this pistol in the first war. My brother shot me with his. I’ll wager you did not even know there used to be an arms factory in Erfurt, eh? Our enemies took that from us. Their treaty forbade us to make weapons. Hundreds of thousands of men and women became unemployed within a year. They forbade us to have our own industries. Yet they all wanted to come in and sell us what we were not allowed to make for ourselves. Came and stole our industries. Our inventions.’ He picked up the telephone.

  ‘You know what the Americans and British did with this? Used it to call their servants downstairs. We had a network of exchanges before they even knew what an exchange was.’ He dropped it back to its cradle with a chime of the bell, swivelled his chair to look on the strange machine. ‘And this? This you should know.’

  Enough. Just stand up and walk out. I did not have his diamonds, did not have a travel permit. So what? Just get up and leave. I am not a soldier, I do not work for the SS. I am free. A citizen. Do they shoot German civilians? They guillotined students. A bullet less work, less meaning.

  But we sit. We always do. And then cannot explain why we did so. But they know us. Know their people. We only stand and roar disapproval at football matches and bad actors.

  Klein still looked out the window. I wondered where Prüfer was, where Sander was, wondered what would happen if I walked out of the room and straight to Topf’s office? Informed him that a one-legged man with an old Luger was holding his employee in his factory. Whose factory was it? Whose country was it? Who paid this old man’s wage?

  But we do not get out of our chairs. We sit. Always. And they have always relied upon it.

  ‘It is called a Magnetophon.’ Scoffed. ‘What a name! How they come up with such, eh?’

  And then the diamonds forgotten.

  ‘It was quite a coincidence,’ he said. ‘You see, you chose to take tea at the Elephant Hotel in Weimar. Last year. And although I am sure you would have known it to be our leader’s favourite hotel in the state, you could not have realised that we have wire recordings set up throughout.’ A gleeful eye.

  ‘Wire recordings are of course not very sophisticated, even if our enemies are still decades behind us. But your recording was most interesting. Not only because we had been observing your friend Herr Reul for some time …’ He dropped his eyes from me, began squaring a notepad and pencil on the desk. ‘But because it was revealed to us that you had decided to not legally declare you were married to a Jewess.’

  Klein turned his head from the window.

  ‘Helmut? You never mentioned this?’

  The colonel ignored.

  ‘So, naturally, given your predilection for deviancy, we arranged with Topf and the Gestapo to afford you a house where we could monitor your activities.’ He tapped the machine proudly.

  ‘The enemy has always wondered how we are able to broadcast speeches simultaneously across the empire. Regardless of time-zone. Iron oxide recordings. Those morons record on wax with needles. Like some kid in his box room with his Negro music. This device enables us to record hours of conversation, replicate it endlessly. The future of security will be the removal of privacy. All governments know this.’

  He sat back, let it all sink in. The pistol left on the desk.

  ‘The surprising thing – and in your favour, Ernst – is that with some limitations it appears that your conversations reveal that you acted under duress. You have been a good German. If anything you seemed to oppose both Herr Reul and your whore.’ Whore. My father’s word, the voice almost the same. ‘It is apparent that your actions were as one under threat. A man
protecting his treacherous false wife and himself. Forced. Would I be correct? You had to collaborate for fear of reprisal from their group, yes?’

  You know these times when they come. I had seen many of them. Probably not the last citizen to be in a dock without a dock. You know why they call it a dock? It is the end of your journey. Your ship has come in, and not in the good sense. I had always been wrong. There was never going to be a knock on the door late at night. No leather coats and fedoras. It would be a hand on your shoulder in the bright of day, in the street, in the baker’s while you were buying bread, while you were at work. How it was done. They knew the truth before you said it. They had written it for you.

  ‘I wanted nothing to do with it,’ I said. ‘And Etta is no longer a part. Of any of it.’

  I went for my papers and tobacco and his hand lighted on the pistol. As if I needed to be reminded of it. I smirked at the drama, his thought that I was reaching for a gun. Like one of our leader’s favoured cowboy movies.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe that was the whole war. Zane Grey not Mein Kampf. He imagined himself in a Western. We the frontiersmen. He our bold law-man in white hat who the townsfolk followed against the cattle barons, against the ‘Vons’ that ruled. Maybe it was just that dumb. I glanced at Klein, his face more perturbed than I expected. I rolled a cigarette on my knee. An image our leader would approve.

  ‘And my wife is not a whore. Her parents are Jewish by birth. They were all born in Germany. As Germans. I did not find out about my wife until that day. You know I am not a communist. My only intention is to “resettle” my wife in another country. Where she can do no harm. And be out of here. Is that not what the Party would demand? Would it not be cheaper for me to do it for you?’

  I lit my paper, took the longest draw on it that I have ever done, my blue eyes watered with it. An annoyance all my life. People think I care, am sentimental or gentle because my eyes water. That something has moved me. It is the pale blueness of them. Nothing more.