“But, Father,” Thomas interrupted, breaking the solemnity of the moment. “Time will pass; things will change. We just need to keep our spirits up and our heads down, you’ll see.”
Nicolas shook his head gravely. He pulled himself up to sit beside Thomas, and leaned in to his son.
“I admire your optimism, Thomas,” he whispered. “But for now, this key is yours, yours to protect. We have no other choice.” Nicolas sighed. “I do not mean to burden you—you have been everything a father might want from a son—but I need to pass this on to you in case…”
Nicolas did not finish the sentence.
“The box number is 1518. Do you understand the significance?” Nicolas raised his eyebrows to show that he was waiting for a response.
Thomas nodded. It was Dieter’s year of birth followed by his own.
“What’s inside the box is crucial for your future, for the man you will be once we are through this terrible mess.”
“I understand, Father.” Thomas clasped the key momentarily before slipping it inside his jacket pocket.
Nicolas leaned forward and hissed urgently, glancing toward the front door as if time were running out. “There is one other thing, Thomas.” Nicolas bared his yellowing teeth. “You must never, ever, tell Dieter. If you do, what’s in there will be lost forever. Dieter must be kept away from that box at all costs. It will be dangerous for all of us—especially you—if he finds it. Do you promise me?”
Thomas nodded. He knew they lived in dangerous times, but was his father exaggerating the degree of peril?
“Promise me this,” Nicolas pressed him.
“I promise you, Father,” Thomas said.
“Good,” Nicolas said, standing up. It was clear the conversation was over.
“Good night, Father,” Thomas said, rising. “I hope you manage to rest.”
“You too,” Nicolas said. Then, as Thomas turned to leave the room, he grasped his son’s arm briefly. “I’m sorry, Thomas, truly I am,” he said. “One so young as you should not face such dark times.”
Thomas looked at Nicolas and saw his father as he had pretended not to see him over recent months: sick, worn-out, scared.
“Good night, Father,” he said, and walked upstairs to his bedroom.
Thomas struggled with raised voices in his dreams—two men shouting at each other in the night.
He turned over and the noise continued, the protagonists ever more voluble and quarrelsome. Then he realized: These weren’t voices of an uneasy dream; this was his father and Dieter, angry and set against each other as he had never heard them before.
Thomas rolled out of bed and walked out onto the landing, his feet warm against the floorboards. He crept down the stairs until he could see his father and his half brother, who were squared up to each other in the living room. While Dieter might have been smaller than Nicolas, he stood tall, his chest much wider than his stepfather’s. Nicolas’s face was purple with exertion; his hair hung loosely over his face.
“Look at you,” Nicolas said. “You’re nothing but a thug. I can only imagine what your mother would have thought.”
“And I can only imagine what was going through her head when she married you,” Dieter said. “A weak, old coward who spends his days reading dusty books.”
“Books I imagine you and your type would like to burn,” Nicolas said. “‘Action Against the Un-German Spirit’ indeed.” His voice rose. “God give me strength to face down such foolishness!”
“Be very careful,” Dieter said. It was the first time he had lowered his voice. His tone scared Thomas more than the shouting. “I am running out of patience with you.”
“You’re running out of patience?” Nicolas said. “I think that we are in agreement on something at last—you must leave this house tonight, Dieter. I no longer want you living under this roof. Out!”
Nicolas moved to usher Dieter from the room. Dieter looked at Nicolas for a moment and began walking very slowly toward the doorway, a thin smile on his lips.
“You think that you can give me orders? You think that you and your type—intellectuals, the metropolitan elite—are still in charge?” Dieter said. There was a spiteful carelessness to his words. The confrontation had built momentum and, instead of waning, it had spun out of control.
Thomas felt the ground beneath him shift—there was no way back now.
“I order you out of my house!” shouted Nicolas, following Dieter to the hallway, where he flung open the front door. By this time Thomas was in the hallway too. He saw that Dieter was absently rubbing his fists as he stood before his stepfather. His knuckles were raw. Thomas noticed the smell of smoke coming from his half brother’s clothes, which were streaked with soot.
“So the weakling’s spawn emerges from his crib,” Dieter said, examining Thomas with a derisory glare. “I notice that you haven’t been attending youth group meetings. Perhaps the influence of your father has proved decisive. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, after all.”
Thomas peered outside. Dieter’s SA friends were waiting for him by a truck. They were looking into the house expectantly, as if deciding whether to move from being observers to participants.
“It’s time that you met some of the people who you have been slandering with your weasel words,” Dieter said. He pushed his father toward the door. Thomas watched as two of the SA men perked up, watching Nicolas grasping the doorframe.
“Stop this!” Nicolas ordered. With his bruised hands, Dieter shoved his stepfather forward until he teetered at the top of the short stoop down to the street. At the bottom of the steps the SA men waited for the old man to tumble. Dieter stepped toward Nicolas and shoved him down the stairs. Nicolas’s arms flailed as he grabbed hold of one of the handrails on his way down: There was a hollow ring from one of the metal stanchions as Nicolas’s knees crashed into it.
The SA men gathered around the sprawling figure as he moaned in pain on the pavement. He was doubled up, howling quietly to himself.
“Dieter!” Thomas shouted. “Please! What are you doing?”
Dieter, his face softened by the gaslight from the street lamps, looked up at his half brother, who stood in the doorway.
“It’s only what I have to do,” Dieter said.
Thomas looked at his father, his body hanging weakly between the thick uniformed arms of Dieter’s collaborators.
“Don’t, Dieter,” Thomas said. “I beg you.”
Nicolas raised his head to Thomas. Drops of blood from a gash above his eye were staining the front of his shirt. He stared weakly at his son. The boy was all he had and his view was dimming. Then, from deep within, as if summoning the last essence of himself: “Thomas.”
Nicolas raised his hand and reached toward him.
“Help me, son.…”
Thomas stepped toward his father. As he did so another two SA men emerged from the shadows. Dieter commanded them to wait.
“Go ahead,” he goaded Thomas.
Thomas looked at Nicolas, but remained still.
“Can you hear me?” Dieter asked his half brother, before pushing him backward. Thomas stared blankly down at his father, petrified by what he was witnessing.
“Still nothing?” Dieter demanded.
Thomas hung back. He felt like his body had shut down, as if he were not even there but rather floating above the scene, a numb observer.
“I thought not,” Dieter said. “You’re weak just like your father.”
Nicolas was dragged, moaning, onto the back of the truck, the SA accomplices laughing and joking as they dumped their human cargo onto the wooden struts in the bed of the vehicle.
Dieter stepped closer to his half brother, his gaze level and all-consuming. Thomas saw Dieter’s arm cock, and readied himself for a blow. Instead, his half brother clapped him on the shoulder, as if sharing a joke. Then he leaned in close, his teeth bared and his lips tensed.
“You can’t even save what you love most,” he said. He raised his pa
lm and patted Thomas on the cheek. Thomas could smell the nicotine on his fingers. “Remember: You are either with us, or you are against us, brother.”
Dieter walked to the side of the truck and grabbed a handrail before slapping the side of the vehicle. As the truck began to peel away from the curb, Dieter shouted, “Do not make the same mistake as your father.”
Thomas breathed in the diesel fumes as the vehicle sped away. He waited for a few moments until he could no longer hear the engine in the still of the night.
Thomas walked up the steps into the house alone.
The next day, Thomas rose and went to school for the last time. As the other pupils celebrated the end of their schooling and discussed their summer plans, Thomas barely registered the occasion, skipping the celebrations when the bell rang after the final lesson. He wandered home through the quiet streets until he arrived at his house. It was the only place he had ever lived: a Wilhelmine single-family home in a neighborhood of doctors, academics, and accountants. He gazed at the wooden front door with its etched-glass panels. He was sure that he had closed it this morning when he had left, but it was now slightly ajar. He pushed it open and walked inside. They had been robbed: The parlor had been turned upside down. Books and papers were scattered everywhere, drawers had been pulled out, and furniture overturned. Even the pictures had been taken from the walls, and their backs slashed open.
Thomas surveyed the scene of devastation. Suddenly he heard footsteps upstairs. There was a familiarity to the sound. He recognized the sound of those boots: It was Dieter.
Thomas edged slowly up the stairs to his father’s bedroom. Through the crack in the door he could make out his half brother, agitated and exasperated, systematically pulling apart the room. Thomas pushed the door. Its creaking made his half brother look up, as if he were in danger. Dieter was red-faced and wild-eyed; the parts of his hair that met his face were soaked with sweat. He had not undressed from the night before—his uniform was soiled and disheveled. Dieter launched himself across the room at Thomas and grasped his shoulders.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
Thomas looked at him, dumbstruck. So much had happened in the past few hours, and now he was being asked a question about which he knew nothing.
“Don’t you try and play dumb with me,” Dieter said, shaking his half brother.
“What are you doing, Dieter?” Thomas asked. “Where is Father?”
Dieter wiped the sweat below his nose with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Father? Father? My father is long gone.”
“You know who I mean—my father.”
“Oh, you mean the traitor Nicolas Meier? At this moment he is at Prinz-Albrecht-Straße, but I don’t think that he will be there long.”
Thomas swallowed hard. The name of the Gestapo headquarters evoked terror.
“So he will be home soon?”
Dieter gave Thomas a look of disbelief. Did the boy not understand what had happened to Nicolas? Did he not know that the next stop for people who had been apprehended by the security services was a stay at Oranienburg, a new kind of camp where the enemies of National Socialism would be reeducated? Was Thomas demonstrating denial or stupidity?
“Forget your father, Thomas, forget him. Thinking that way will do you no good.”
Dieter released his half brother.
“It’s you and me now, Bruder. Just you and me.”
“But what about father?”
Dieter shook his head.
“Dieter, I don’t understand,” Thomas said. He was tired. Confused. His half brother’s mania wasn’t unusual, but he was more used to it being directed toward his father. He sensed that something even more awful than the violence of last night had happened, but he wasn’t able to fathom it.
“You really don’t understand?” Dieter said slowly. “Come on.” He led Thomas downstairs and into the parlor. As they entered the room, small white feathers spun up into the air.
“Show me where it is and it won’t be so bad for you,” Dieter said.
Thomas examined Dieter. Whatever he believed, he believed profoundly. This wasn’t a game: Whatever it was that Dieter thought Thomas possessed, he was convinced of it.
“I am tired of this now, Thomas,” Dieter said, an irritated calmness in his voice. It was as if he were trying to hold back every part of his body so as not to lose his mind.
Thomas’s expression remained impassive.
“Tell me. Now.”
Thomas looked back at Dieter. There was nothing in his eyes to betray his knowledge.
“Where is the key?” Dieter snapped.
Of course. The key.
“Everyone knows that Father had a safety deposit box in which he stored his valuables. I heard him talking about it many times. I know you accompanied him to the bank when you were little.”
“What’s in it?” Thomas asked.
“Riches,” Dieter said. “Money, jewels, gold… who knows?”
Thomas nodded.
“I think you’re playing a clever game: You ask questions and keep me talking while planning to steal it all for yourself.”
“I’m not going to take anything,” Thomas replied.
“You lie,” Dieter said, moving toward Thomas, his body stiff, uncompromising. His arm was extended in front of him, and he pushed his half brother until Thomas backed into the wall. There was nowhere to go.
“You and him were thick as thieves,” Dieter spat. “A proper couple of old women in each other’s business. Don’t pretend he didn’t give you a nod and a wink. I know that you know where it is.”
Dieter began reaching inside Thomas’s pockets, turning each inside out before pulling his half brother’s jacket from him and searching the lining.
“I know you have it, Thomas, I know you do.”
“Dieter, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Thomas said. It was the first time that he had lied, but his father’s instructions had given him courage. He had failed his father the night before; he would not fail him again by giving up the key.
Dieter gritted his teeth and put his right hand across his half brother’s throat. “I swear that I will not hesitate to finish you.”
Dieter let his hand drop. He looked around the messy room. Thomas reached up and rubbed his throat where Dieter had left thick welts that matched the width of his fingers.
“There must be another way,” said Dieter angrily. “I will go to the bank and explain to them that the holder of the key is incapacitated. There will be a master key that will allow us access. Which bank did you go to with your father?”
“I can’t remember,” Thomas said. “I was very young. I—”
Dieter stepped forward, grabbed Thomas’s hair, and banged his head against the wall.
“Danat-Bank,” Thomas said timidly. “The one at Schinkelplatz.”
Dieter nodded, satisfied and unsuspecting of the lie—Thomas had only ever accompanied his father to the branch on Behrenstraße.
“While I’m out, you must hunt for the key,” he instructed. “Every cushion, every picture frame, every cupboard must be thoroughly searched. You hear me? And for your sake, I hope that you find it.”
Dieter’s meaning was clear: At his whim, Thomas would follow his father onto the back of an SA truck.
“I’ll start looking now,” said Thomas, starting to lever up a floorboard as his half brother stomped from the house. But, when he was sure Dieter was gone, Thomas stood up and looked around the parlor. He didn’t recognize it. The world that he had known had shifted, distorted into grotesque shapes, as if by a fairground mirror. This wasn’t his home any longer.
He went upstairs and pulled his father’s worn leather suitcase from under the metal-framed bed and took it to his room. There he neatly folded his clothes and laid them inside the case, then took it downstairs and left it by the front door. He found the portrait of his mother and one of his father amid the debris in the parlor and placed them inside the winter coat he had pack
ed to protect the glass. He looked around the room. There, in the corner by the window, was the piano. He walked over and began to play. Bach: the Goldberg Variations. When he had finished, he folded down the cover to protect the keys, picked up the suitcase, and closed the front door behind him.
He would never return.
2
JUST WEST OF THE RIVER ODER, BRANDENBURG
MARCH 31, 1945
The two stick-thin, scabrous men carrying the wounded soldier on the stretcher muttered to each other in Russian. Doctor Johann Schultz assumed the prisoners, who were forced laborers, hadn’t eaten for several days. That wouldn’t make them that different from him, or from any of the other staff at the field hospital. The Soviet cadavers delivered their cargo to the trauma room and limped out, bedraggled and infested. Johann examined the patient lying motionless on the oilskin before him and tried to assess whether he was able to do anything for the man. He blinked several times as if trying to alert his eyes that they were required to function: He was almost seeing double with tiredness.
The man was in his midforties. About a decade and a half older than Johann. The patient was typical of those he was treating now: mostly old men, young boys, and grizzled veterans of the eastern front who had somehow managed to survive long enough for this, the endgame. They marched on, and fought on under pain of death, but none of them was under any illusions: They were playing out the finale. The war was over, and all they could hope was that they might survive the coming offensive from the east. The whispers of intelligence floating around the front were that the Soviets were preparing a final, devastating attack. There were, literally, millions of battle-hardened Ivans waiting for orders to advance.
Word was that some German units had had white handkerchiefs confiscated from them to prevent surrender. They peered through the mist knowing that the Bolshevik tempest would hit them soon. Perhaps within days. The Soviets were waiting for the first real signs of spring to move their ragtag might forward. Resistance in Poland and West Prussia had been smashed, troops and civilians alike murdered, mutilated, and raped. It was to be expected. When the Wehrmacht had moved east nearly four years before it had been equally unforgiving.
The Nero Decree Page 2
