Corrupt! So corrupt! A whited sepulcher of a man! Rage and indignation rose up in me. Only fools, liars, and criminals can hope for mercy from the enemy. Endless plans chased one another through my head. Furiously, I demanded, “If your precious men are as wonderful as you say, why was I sent for? Couldn’t you track down this Red devil of a Doriot with your own green devils?”
He flushed. I knew I had struck home with a deadly shot. Then, with what might have been a sigh, he answered, “For special purposes, we need a special man.” A special man! Even though, at that moment, he was far from my friend—was, in fact, much closer to being not only my enemy but an enemy of the Kaiserreich—he named me a special man! Recognizing my qualities, he continued, “This Doriot has a strong streak of fanaticism in him. It could be you are the right one to hunt him.”
“We all need to be fanatics in service to the Kaiser,” I declared: an obvious truth. “Moderation in the pursuit of Germany’s enemy is no virtue, while iron determination to see the Fatherland thrive is no vice.”
“All right, Ade,” Brigadier Engelhardt said with a sigh. He did not like having an enlisted man outargue him. But, no doubt for old times’ sake, he did not shout at me for insubordination, as he might have done. “Bring me Jacques Doriot. You may say whatever you like then, for you will have earned the right. Meanwhile, you are dismissed.”
“Yes, sir!” I said, and saluted, and left. That is the superior’s privilege: to end a discussion when he is not having the better of it.
Give me the chance, my dear, when I come home to Munich, and I will show you just what a special man is your loving—
Uncle Alf
23 May 1929
My sweet beloved Angela,
It pours rain here in Lille. And there is rain in my spirit as well, for I have still had no new letter from you. I hope that all is well, and that you will bring me up to date on what you have been doing back in the civilized and racially pure and unpolluted Fatherland.
Here, everyone is gloomy: Feldgendarmerie, Frenchmen, Flemings. There are more Flemings—of excellent Germanic stock—here in the northeast of France than one might think. Regardless of whether they speak the Flemish tongue, all those whose names begin with van or de show by this infallible sign their ancient Germanic lineage. A priest hereabout, l’abbé Gantois, has some excellent views on this subject. Few, though, seem to wish to lose their French and reacquire the Flemish of their long-ago forbears. It is a great pity.
Few people out and about today—certainly few of the so-called diables verts, who might catch cold, poor darlings, if they went out in the rain! So you would think, at any rate, to hear them talk. But I tell you, and you may take it as a fact, that rain in a city, even a sullen French industrial city, is as nothing beside rain in a muddy trench, such as I endured without complaint during the Great War.
And so I sally forth as usual, with an umbrella and with the collar of my greatcoat turned up. It is a civilian coat. I am not such a fool as to go out into Lille dressed as a German Feldgendarmerie man. One does not hunt ducks by dressing as a zebra! This is another truth some of my comrades have trouble grasping. They are fools, men unworthy of the trust the Kaiser has placed in them.
I sallied forth, I say, into a working-class district of Lille. It is in such places that Doriot spews his poison, his lies, his hateful slanders against the Kaiser, the Crown Prince, and the Second Reich. There are, no doubt, also French agents pursuing this individual, but how can the German Empire rely on Frenchmen? Will they truly go after the likes of Doriot with all their hearts? Or will they, as is more likely, go through the motions of the chase with no real hope or intention of capturing him?
I have nothing to do with them. I reckon them more likely to betray me than to do me any good. I feel the same way about the Feldgendarmerie in Lille, I must say, but I have no choice except working with them to some degree. Thus ordinary folk try to tie the hands of the superior man!
What a smoky, grimy, filthy city Lille is! Soot everywhere. A good steam cleaning might work wonders. Or, on the other hand, the place might simply fall to pieces in the absence of the dirt holding everything together. In any case, steaming these Augean stables will not happen soon.
I can look like a man of the working class. It is not even difficult for me. I wander the streets with my nose to the ground, listening like a bloodhound. I order coffee in an estaminet. My accent for the one word does not betray me. I stop. I sip. I listen.
I find . . . nothing. Have I been betrayed? Does Doriot know I am here? Has my presence been revealed to him? Is that why he is lying low? Has someone on my own side stabbed me in the back? I would give such a vile subhuman a noose of piano wire, if ever he fell into my hands, and smile and applaud as I watched him slowly die.
Hoping to hear again from you soon, I kiss your hands, your neck, your cheek, your mouth, and the very tip of your . . . nose. With much love from—
Uncle Alf
25 May 1929
Dearest adorable Geli,
What a special man, what a superior man, your uncle is! Despite having to carry on in the face of your disappointing silence, I relentlessly pursue the Red criminal, Doriot. And I have found a lead that will infallibly betray him into my hands.
One thing you must know is that the folk of Lille are most fond of pigeons. During the early days of the war, we rightly confiscated these birds, for fear of their aiding enemy espionage. (Some of these pigeons, I am told, ended up on soldiers’ tables. While I hold no brief for meat-eating, better our men should enjoy them than the French.)
Now, though, we have in France what is called peace. The Frenchmen are once more permitted to have their birds. La Societé colombophile lilloise—the Lille Society of Pigeon-fanciers—is large and active, with hundreds, it could even be thousands, of members, and with several meeting halls in the proletarian districts of the city. And could not these pigeons still be used for spying and the conveying of intelligence? Of course they could!
I know something of these birds. I had better—as a runner in the war, did I not often enough see my messages written down and sent off by pigeon? I should say I did! And so I have been paying visits to the pigeon-fanciers’ clubhouses. There I am Meinheer Koppensteiner—a good family name for us!—from Antwerp, a pigeon-lover in Lille on business. My accent will never let me pass for a Frenchman, but a Fleming? Yes, that is easy enough for them to believe.
“Things are still hard in Antwerp,” I tell them. “The green devils will take away a man’s birds on any excuse or none.”
This wins me sympathy. “It is not so bad here,” one of them answers. “The Boches”—this is what they call us, the pigdogs—“are very stupid.”
Nods all around. Chuckles, too. They think they are so clever! Another Frenchman says, “The things you can get away with, right under their noses!”
But then there are coughs. A couple of fellows shake their heads. This goes too far. I am a stranger, after all, and what sounds like a Flemish accent could be German, too. I am too clever to push hard. I just say, “Well, you are lucky, then—luckier than we. With us, if a bird is caught carrying a message, for instance, no matter how innocent it may be, this is a matter for the firing squad.”
They make sympathetic noises. Things must be hard there, they murmur. By the way a couple of them wink, I am sure they deserve a blindfold and a cigarette, the traitors! And maybe they will get one, too! But not yet. I sit and bide my time. They talk about their birds. Meinheer Koppensteiner says a couple of things, enough to show he knows a pigeon from a goose. Not too much. He is a stranger, a foreigner. He does not need to show off. He needs only to be accepted. And he is. Oh, yes—he is.
Before long, Meinheer Koppensteiner will appear at other clubhouses, too. He will not ask many questions. He will not say much. But he will listen. Oh, my, yes, he will listen. If I were back in Munich, I would rather listen to you. But then, after all, I am not Meinheer Koppensteiner. Thinking of the kisses I shall give you wh
en I see you again, I am, in fact, your loving—
Uncle Alf
28 May 1929
Dear sweet adorable lovely Angela,
Three weeks now in Lille and only two letters from you! This is not the way I wish it would be, not the way it should be, not the way it must be! You must immediately write again and let me know all your doings, how you pass your days—and your nights. You must, I say. I wait eagerly and impatiently for your response.
Meanwhile, waiting, I visit the other pigeon-fanciers’ clubhouses. And I make sure to return to the first one, too, so people can see Meinheer Koppensteiner is truly interested in these birds. And so he is, though not for the reasons he advertises.
The workers babble on about the pigeons. They drink wine and beer and sometimes apple brandy. As a Fleming, Meinheer Koppensteiner is expected to drink beer, too. And so I do, sacrificing even my health in the service of the Kaiser. At one of the clubs, I hear—overhear, actually—quiet talk of a certain Jacques. Is it Doriot? I am not sure. Why is this pestilential Frenchman not named Jean-Hérold or Pascal? Every third man in Lille is called Jacques! It is so frustrating, it truly does make me want to chew the carpet!
And then someone complained about les Boches—the charming name the Frenchmen have for us, as I told you in my last letter. A sort of silence ensued, in which more than a few eyes went my way. I pretended to pay no particular attention. If I had shouted from the rafters, I am Belgian, not German, so say whatever you please!—well, such noise only makes the wary man more so. A pose of indifference is better.
It worked here. Indeed, it could not have worked better. Quietly, sympathetically, someone said, “Don’t worry about him. He’s from Antwerp, poor fellow.” In fact, he said something stronger than fellow, something not suited to the ears of a delicate, well-brought-up German maiden.
“Antwerp?” someone else replied. “They’ve been getting it in the neck from the Boches even longer than we have, and there aren’t many who can say that.”
This sally produced soft laughter and much agreement. I memorized faces, but for many of them I still have no names. Still, with the help of the immortal and kindly Herr Gott, they too will be caught, and suffer the torments such wretches so richly deserve.
Seeing me make little response—seeing me hardly seem to understand—made them grow bolder. Says one of them, “If you want to hear something about the Boches, my friends . . . Do you know the house of Madame Léa, in the Rue des Sarrasins, by the church of Saints Peter and Paul?”
I suspected this was a house of ill repute, but I proved mistaken. This happens even to me, though not often. “You mean the clairvoyant?” says another, and the first fellow nods. Madame Léa the clairvoyant? There is a picture for you, eh, my dear? Imagine a fat, mustachioed, greasy Jewess, telling her lies to earn her francs! Better such people should be exterminated, I say.
But to return. After the first pigeon-fancier agrees this is indeed the Madame Léa he has in mind—heaven only knows how many shady kikes operate under the same surely false name in Lille!—he says, “Well, come tomorrow at half past nine, then. She gives readings Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Other days, other things.” He chuckles knowingly.
Tomorrow, of course, is Wednesday. Who knows what sort of treachery boils and bubbles in Madame Léa’s house on the days when she does not give readings? No one—no one German—knows now. But after tomorrow, she will be exposed to the world for what she is, for a purveyor and panderer to filth of the vilest and most anti-German sort. Such is ever the way of the Jew. But it shall be stopped! Whatever it is, it shall be stopped! I take my holy oath that this be so.
Maybe it will not be Doriot. I hope it will be. I think it will be. No, it must be! It cannot be anyone, anything, else. On this I will stake my reputation. On this I will stake my honor. On this I will stake my very life!
When the mothers of ancient Greece sent their sons into battle, they told them, “With your shield or on it!” So it shall be for me as I storm into the struggle against the enemies of the German Empire! I shall not flag nor fail, but shall emerge triumphant or abandon all hope of future greatness. Hail victory!
Give me your prayers, give me your heart, give me the reward of the conquering hero when I come home covered in glory, as I cannot help but do. I pause here only to kiss your letters once more and wish they were you. Tomorrow—into the fray! Hail victory! for your iron-willed—
Uncle Alf
29 May 1929
My dear and most beloved Geli,
Himmelherrgottkreuzmillionendonnerwetter! The idiocy of these men! The asininity! The fatuity! How did we win the war? Were the Frenchmen and the English even more cretinous than we? It beggars the imagination, but it must be so.
When I returned to Feldgendarmerie headquarters after shaking off whatever tails the suspicious pigeon-fanciers might have put on me, I first wrote to you, then at once demanded force enough to deal with the mad and vicious Frenchmen who will surely be congregating at Madame Léa’s tonight.
I made this entirely reasonable and logical demand—made it and had it refused! “Oh, no, we can’t do that,” says the fat, stupid sergeant in charge of such things. “Not important enough for the fuss you’re making about it.”
Not important enough! “Do you care nothing about serving the Reich?” I say, in a very storm of passion. “Do you care nothing about helping your country?” I shake a finger in his face and watch his jowls wobble. “You are worse than a Frenchman, you are!” I cry. “A Frenchman, however racially degenerate he may be, has a reason for being Germany’s enemy. But what of you? Why do you hate your own Fatherland?”
He turned red as a holly berry, red as a ripe tomato. “You are insubordinate!” he booms. And so I am, when to be otherwise is to betray the Kaiserreich. “I shall report you to the commandant. He’ll put a flea in your ear—you wait and see.”
“Go ahead!” I jeer. “Brigadier Engelhardt is a brave man, a true warrior . . . unlike some I could name.” The fat sergeant went redder than ever.
The hour by then being after eleven, the brigadier was snug in his bed, so my being haled before him had to wait until the following morning. You may be certain I reported to Feldgendarmerie headquarters as soon as might be. You may also be certain I wore my uniform, with everything in accordance with regulations: no more shabby cap and tweed greatcoat, such as I had had on the previous night for purposes of disguise.
Of course, the other sergeant was still snoring away somewhere. Did you expect anything different? I should hope not! Such men are always indolent, even when they should be most zealous—especially when they should be most zealous, I had better say.
So there I sat, all my buttons gleaming—for I had paid them special attention—when the commandant came in. I sprang to my feet, took my stiffest brace—my back creaked like a tree in the wind—and tore off a salute every training sergeant in the Imperial Army would have admired and used as an example for his foolish, feckless recruits. “Reporting as ordered, sir!” I rapped out.
“Hello, Sergeant,” Brigadier Engelhardt replied in the forthright, manly way that made him so much admired—so much loved, it would not go too far to say—by his soldiers during the Great War. I still tried to think well of him, you see, even though he had thwarted my will before. He returned my salute with grave military courtesy, and then inquired, “But what is all this in aid of?”
Having only just arrived, he would not yet have seen whatever denunciation that swine-fat fool of a sergeant had written out against me. I had to strike while the sun was hot. “I believe I have run this polecat of a Doriot to earth, sir,” I said, “and now I need the Feldgendarmerie to help me make the pinch.”
“Well, well,” he said. “This is news indeed, Ade. Why don’t you come into my office and tell me all about it?”
“Yes, sir!” I said. Everything was right with the world again. Far from being corrupt, the brigadier, as I have known since my days at the fighting front, is a man of hono
r and integrity. Once I explained the undoubted facts to him, how could he possibly fail to draw the same conclusions from them as I had myself? He could not. I was certain of it.
And, again without a doubt, he would at once have drawn those proper conclusions had he not chosen to look at the papers he found on his desk. I stood to attention while he flipped through them—and found, at the very top, the false, lying, and moronic accusations that that jackass of a local Feldgendarmerie sergeant had lodged against me. As he read this fantastic farrago of falsehoods, his eyebrows rose higher and higher. He clicked his tongue between his teeth—tch, tch, tch—the way a mother will when confronting a wayward child.
“Well, well, Ade,” he said when at last he had gone through the whole sordid pack of lies—for such it had to be, when it was aimed against me and against the manifest truth. Brigadier Engelhardt sadly shook his head. “Well, well,” he repeated. “You have been a busy boy, haven’t you?”
“Sir, I have been doing my duty, as is expected and required of a soldier of the Kaiserreich,” I said stiffly.
“Do you think abusing your fellow soldiers for no good cause is part of this duty?” he asked, doing his best to sound severe.
“Sir, I do, when they refuse to do their duty,” I said, and the entire story of the previous evening poured from my lips. I utterly confuted and exploded and made into nothingness the absurd slanders that villain of a Feldwebel, that wolf in sheep’s clothing, that hidden enemy of the German Empire, spewed forth against me.
Brigadier Engelhardt seemed more than a little surprised at my vehemence. “You are very sure,” he remarks.
“As sure as of my hope of heaven, sir,” I reply.
“And yet,” says he, “your evidence for what you believe strikes me as being on the flimsy side. Why should we lay on so many men for what looks likely to prove a false alarm? Answer me that, if you please.”
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