I came from a country that used to be free and happy. We spoke German at home, that much was true, but was that reason enough for Herr Hitler to come along and take over? I was almost always a good boy and often stayed at home to help my mother, although she did send me to the mountains to live with her brother for a while to build up my strength because I was a weak child. I wondered why my mother, teacher and priest all tried to convince me to be a good and honest young man and put up with no injustice from others? When this was put to the test and I followed these directives, it caused only shock and dismay. The first time this happened was when I was buying a new exercise book. This was immediately after the invasion of the German troops and in the midst of jubilation. The window display of the stationers with the funny name was almost empty. Only the owner, an old man with a grey beard, sat there with a sign around his neck – Saujud, swine of a Jew. It was written with no orthographic errors unlike the other signs in similar shops, and this was rare. An SA man guarded the shop. It was already obvious to me that no one would be able to buy an exercise book in the foreseeable future. I didn't walk on. It was a disgrace to humanity; and I felt sorry for the man in the window display with the sign around his neck. He had always been so kind to me and friendly. Perhaps I could help.
‘Why don't you let me sit in the window in his place?’ I asked the SA man. A few people who had been eyeing the display came a little closer so that they could follow what was happening. ‘Just think,’ I continued, loud enough for the others to hear, ‘how embarrassing it must be for the old man. Imagine if it was your father.’
One of the women said, ‘Really, what is the point? Why should an old Jew sit in the window like that?’ The other women murmured their approval. At this time and location it wasn't unusual for the crowd to change their opinion. It resulted in the SA officer setting the old man free. People weren't really that bad; they were easily led astray. One only has to lead them on the right path again. With these comforting thoughts in my mind I fell asleep.
The next attempt was less successful. Two days later, quite early in the morning, I passed a group of elderly women who were being led away by the SA for cleaning duties. I think they were mainly wives of old officers and aristocrats, loyal to the emperor. They were carrying heavy buckets filled to the brim with lye, brushes, brooms and cleaning rags. A particularly unsavoury rabble who had recently converted to the new regime followed them, scoffing and jeering loudly. One old lady with snow-white hair stopped to rest. She could go no further with the amount she was carrying. I stepped in, took her bucket and said: ‘Gnaedige Frau’ (‘Madam, let me carry that for you’). I was not sure why they felt they had to beat me to a pulp for this act of politeness. If I had not pretended to be dead, they would have carried on relentlessly. My poor mother hardly recognised me. I had to stay at home for a few days so my wounds could heal.
I was disappointed – I had no chance! How could I change the mind of 80 million people? I had to change my methods. I would either need several hundred kind helpers or I would have to speak to larger groups of people at one time. It would not be easy recruiting helpers, so I chose the alternative – to speak to the masses. Sadly, this was not as easy as I had imagined. The masses that gathered to hear the speech of a bigwig might have listened to what I had to say. The speech they had come to hear was to be about the extermination of the inner enemy. I got no further than ‘In the name of humanity’ before the Gestapo grabbed me by the collar of my overcoat. I managed to free myself by slipping out of the coat and darting between their legs. I then was able to get through to the next street by running into a house with two exits, and then jumped onto a tram.
I remembered my coat pocket held the deposit receipt for my faltboot, my collapsible boat. Here I had left a copy of a book from the library. The author was a Jewish philosopher and it was about the freedom of speech. There was a register showing who the current holder of the copy was. If the Gestapo followed this lead, they would track me down within a few hours. When I got home, I told my friends and family. Everyone was shocked. My friends all contributed money to enable me to cross the border straight away. Once out of the country I was passed from pillar to post until I finally ended up here in England.
A car finally approached. It was heavy and moving very slowly. I got up and ran towards it, waving my arms in the headlights. I hoped this car would give me a lift, at least to somewhere I had a chance of finding my way from. It stopped. It was a Rolls Royce with a slightly unusual shape. The bonnet was exceptionally wide and the roof was very high. The driver and his partner were wearing top hats and there was a large black box behind them – it was a hearse. I decided against the lift. ‘Sorry,’ I called out and stepped back on to the pavement. The car with the sombre profession appeared to have gotten lost in the blackout; the headlights were aimed towards the houses and walls, on the lookout for a clue to their current position – a street sign perhaps or something else. This proved to be fortuitous for me because the gloomy memory of the hearse was soon replaced by something far more pleasant. A larger-than-life image of a beautiful girl with long flowing hair and rosy cheeks was glowing in the darkness. Her white neck was shimmering and her shapely arms were beckoning me. For a few seconds I thought I was witnessing a miracle, but then I understood. The headlights were directed at a large poster and had singled out this perfectly sharp image. I could not make out what her sweet smile was extolling: soap, toothpaste or shampoo? Something to eat or strengthen the nerves or perhaps washing powder? The fair image disappeared. The searchlights found a clue to our whereabouts. We were only a few hundred metres away from Upper Regent Street.
As I walked on I asked myself: why was I not only without a home country but also without a home and poorer than I had ever been? Was I being penalised for the fact that I had spent recent months following my personal interests and only worrying about satisfying my creature comforts? Should I travel back to the Reich and continue with the fruitless task of trying to persuade 80 million people to change their opinion as one single soul labouring against the masses? That was the error. What a ridiculous mistake to think that I could influence millions of people when their individual opinion counted for nothing. In the whole of the Reich there was only one man whose opinion counted – and that was Hitler himself. I should have tried to persuade him instead so that he would see the error of his ways and end this war that was both wrong and unjust. This insight came a little late as I was now in England and there was no opportunity for me to get back to Germany and penetrate the Führer's inner circle. Disillusioned and a little bitter, I told myself: just give up! There is no point in fantasising. You need to think about yourself and the future. And right now you need a bed for the night!
I decided to head for the West End. This is where I would normally find my friends and acquaintances. There was a good chance I would bump into one of them, start talking and then be invited to stay the night. I did not think I would even have to beg or complain about my situation too much. It was generally enough to look a little sad and despairing. The darkness made things difficult. If only I had a big illuminated sign or something to hang around my neck, but even then no one would be able to see what kind of face I was pulling.
People of various shapes and sizes were running into me, as I had been standing still for a few moments. I could sense by their prods that this was no ordinary flow. People were heading in more than one direction. An entrance covered with a heavy black curtain became clear to me. On it red neon letters proclaimed: OPEN ALL NIGHT, MUSIC.
Thank God for that! Music was allowed again.
People pushed in and out as the flow led me towards the entrance and I found myself heading inside. It must have been fate. I didn't suppose I could invest my 5d in a profit-making way so I thought I might as well spend it. Why wait until I got even hungrier and more tired? Judging by the raincoats, packages and dialects my neighbours in the human stream called their own, this was more a haven for the common people, not the
upper classes. I would rather avoid being somewhere where custom would dictate that I tip half a crown in the absence of having the right change to hand.
Despite my resolution not to be impressed, and although I had been here before, I took in the lavish luxury of the establishment. Marble, cut-glass mirrors, concealed lighting illuminating the vaulted ceiling, porters in uniform … Had the flow of people not carried me, I might have turned around and ended up in a cheap pub eating fish and chips or sausages and cabbage instead. The stream carried me past the reception desk. I reached into my pocket and counted the coins by feeling with my fingers. They were all still there. At the other end of the hall there was a podium with white-suited musicians, instruments at the ready. The conductor was just raising the bow of the violin as I tiptoed past as quiet as I could. I had just taken my seat when the dulcet tones began. If only the other customers had been as considerate. They spoke in loud voices, rattled their cutlery and plates, shouting their orders loudly to the waiters. I, for my part, had no wish but to remain invisible for the time being and surrender fully to the rhythm of the melodies.
The band was playing the Intermezzo from Cavalleria, a piece of music that in the best of times could move me to tears. It was either that or take out my flute and play along; both options sadly out of the question. People were still coming and going, getting awkwardly in and out of their coats. A new experience for me: the aim of many was not to listen to music, talk to friends, or eat and drink, but rather to find the most complicated way of shedding their parcels, gas masks, umbrellas, hats and coats. How complicated life was for the well-heeled! I was much better off, I thought. I had nothing to stash away under seats and behind tables. Full of enthusiasm I listened to the music, determined to reach the most paradisiacal state of bliss that my 5d would buy, regardless of what the waiters thought of me. And who knows, I thought; they might even play La Bohème or Butterfly.
It was not possible to remain invisible. The waiters were already attempting to take my order, approaching me from all possible sides. Finally I had to acknowledge their presence. I took the menu as if I had never looked at it before. It was a smallish leather-bound booklet with multicoloured print. I explained to him that I needed more time. My English was improving. He seemed to understand and left me in peace to make my choice.
There were two pennies on the table which I could have swiped without anyone noticing. My assets would have increased to 7d; enough for a proper meal of bread and butter, for example, with two sardines or bangers and mash or even soup and an egg. However, 5d did not yield quite as much. I could not bring myself to order a mere cup of tea when water would do just as well to quench my thirst. The waiter returned. I pointed to the 2d, for I was and wanted to remain, an honest man. He seemed to misunderstand and disappeared, reappearing with a fresh tablecloth. A few practised movements and the old tablecloth, by no means pristine, was gone and replaced by a new one. He then removed the 2d from under my eyes. I could hear the rattling in his pockets and the coins were gone. It was time for me to order. It was a good thing my hearing was what it was. ‘Chicken liver is out,’ I heard another waiter say. Perhaps my waiter had not been into the kitchen for a while. I ordered the liver; he noted it and went off. Another fifteen minutes of paradise passed. The band still did not play La Bohème or Butterfly but We’re Going to Hang out the Washing on the Siegfried Line, not a piece I particularly enjoyed but I tried to memorise it because I thought it might work well on the flute. I tried with little success to ignore two gentlemen and a lady behind me who were speaking loudly and unabashedly in German. But they were beginning to interest me. To turn around and stare at them would have been impolite and was unnecessary. I could observe their table in one of the many mirrors if I looked straight ahead. Admittedly, I could only see them the wrong way around. There was a young man with broad shoulders and a smart haircut, a greying older gentleman and a younger lady with platinum-blonde hair. They must have had a few drinks before they came in because they were definitely in ‘high spirits’, but here they were only drinking coffee. Finally the band finished We’re Going to Hang out the Washing and was silent. I could now hear every word they were saying and paid full attention.
‘How much have we earned all in?’ asked a bass voice, probably the greying man.
‘I haven't counted it,’ replied the metallic tenor voice, undoubtedly belonging to the young man with the mass of hair. ‘Here,’ he was beating his breast pocket. ‘You can hear the rustling noise. Loads of £10 notes. And the timing was perfect! If the war had broken out twenty-four hours later I would have lost it all to the Portuguese agent who disappeared to South America. Poor German bigwig in Berlin! I can see him now, tears rolling down his fat cheeks. But I don't dare let the money out of the country. Rather than risk coming into conflict with the Defence Finance Regulations I'd prefer to waste it and drink on my own. I mean with you guys, ha ha!’ He was sounding merrier by the minute.
‘Leo,’ said the man with the deeper voice. ‘I hardly recognise you, pull yourself together. Yes, it is an achievement to receive a handsome sum in English currency as a result of the outbreak of war, and I have no sympathy with the German bigwig. But that's no reason to lose control of yourself like this!’
‘Oh, you and your self-control, Herr Doktor,’ the girl squealed. She probably hadn't had the most to drink but seemed to tolerate the least. She also had a rather off-putting speech impediment. ‘Come on, Leo,’ she lisped. ‘Celebrate (th-elebrate) with me. I'm a bird, flying high in the sky (thky), high as a kite. Tweet, tweet!’
In the mirror I could see she was getting up and trying to use the seat as a step onto the table. People began to stare.
‘Sit down, Angelica!’ the tenor hissed, ‘or I’ll feed you to the dogs.’ She put up some resistance but fell back into her seat, throwing her things to the floor in the process. Her hat, handbag and umbrella rolled towards my feet. I could no longer ignore the situation and turned towards them. The music was changing: Troubadour, Schon naht die Todesstunde (The Hour of our Death is Approaching). Not quite appropriate but I had no time to enjoy the melody. I could only make out the skinny back of the girl in her ill-fitting suit. She was crawling on the floor, looking for her treasures.
By now I was looking right at the man with the tenor voice; he had a pleasing, well-balanced and well-fed face with a strong chin. Sparkling blue eyes were staring back at me. His complexion was like milk and blood, a dimple in his cheek, his smooth forehead set off by the wellcoiffed light brown curls. He left me no time to admire him further. He grabbed the lapel of my jacket. I was none too pleased about his rough treatment. He pulled me up, shouting: ‘You old crook! Have you finally escaped? You see – you managed it without my help. But I'm pleased. I'm really pleased!’
How could I escape this sudden outburst of unwanted attention?
I responded coolly: ‘Sir, I am neither old, nor a crook, escaped or otherwise. Besides, I don't even know you. Please be so kind as to let go of my jacket.’
His reaction was one of unfeigned surprise. Despite being the victim of a misunderstanding, I was playing a manly and dignified role. The waiter had returned and was standing behind me: ‘Chicken liver is out, sir.’
The girl by the name of Angelica had packed her things and was ready to leave. ‘You know what he's like, full of fun and jokes!’ Once again she demonstrated her speech impediment. I looked at the girl more closely. There wasn't much of her. Without the make-up, the platinum-blonde hair, false eyelashes and the speech defect, she was very ordinary – and this girl was called Angelica!
Now the bass-voiced man got involved. ‘You know, I don't think it's him, Leo. He must be five years younger, but what a resemblance!’ he said quietly to the tenor. ‘We should make the most of this opportunity.’ The man with the grey hair was grim-looking and serious, his glasses thick, mouth small and malicious.
‘Leo … honey,’ Angelica begged, ‘but we promised our friends …’
The grey-h
aired man added quietly, ‘And what we promised we should keep. And besides, someone with such technical knowledge is a good investment.’
I had no idea what they were talking about but I was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. It was a bit like being in a madhouse. The rosy-cheeked man was still holding me by the lapel of my coat and the waiter was still waiting for my order.
‘Do give us the pleasure of joining our table,’ said the man called Leo. The other man pulled out a chair for me. I hesitated.
‘I would be pleased if you could clarify, Mr Leo,’ I said. ‘I don't know your surname, so please excuse me for calling you Leo. Is this an invitation? Then I would gladly accept. I'm afraid I do not possess the means to get involved in such unclear situations where I do not know what is expected of me.’
Now they were all laughing.
‘Of course we are inviting you,’ Leo said, as he signalled to the waiter. ‘You haven't eaten dinner? One should really eat at seven o’clock, several hours before going to bed. That's much healthier. Anyway, we will have … er … soup, mixed grill with all the trimmings, sweets and coffee.’ The waiter could hardly keep up. I listened without feeling obliged to protest; the man had grabbed me and called me a crook so he could pay.
‘My name is Leopold Karner,’ the young man introduced himself whilst I was already greedily spooning my soup. ‘From Vienna,’ he continued. ‘I was a former illegal; an SS man in the Vitztum legion. You are from Vienna too judging by your accent? Or at least Austrian?’
Any Survivors (2008) Page 2
