by Peter Haden
‘Has he spoken to the police?’ she queried. ‘Wouldn’t that be the best thing to do?’
‘Apparently, they sent a delegation,’ he told her, ‘but the police were not very reassuring. So, he’s asked if I would be prepared to go over, just to be around in case there’s a problem.’
‘Surely not,’ she said anxiously. ‘You have a family and a business to run!’
‘So does your father,’ he replied. ‘And he and his friends don’t want to just give in to the SA. But he’s not a young man any more, Hannah. And although he says all the staff will go in if they can, I think he could do with my moral support.
‘Don’t worry,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘I’ll take young Otto with me.’
Otto Blecher, she knew, was a good worker. But more to the point he was young, fit and had a reputation. On more than one occasion Günther had spoken up for him to the authorities when he had been involved in fisticuffs after a night in the local Bierstube. Moreover, Otto lived at home in the village with elderly parents. During the terrible inflation years of the Weimar Republic, Günther’s father had given him enough rations to feed all three of them. So Otto Blecher was fiercely loyal. Not too much comfort to her, but if Günther felt he had to go, young Blecher would be a useful man to have around. Although it would not stop her worrying, and she said so in no uncertain terms.
Otto and Günther left the estate early on Saturday morning, taking Hannah’s small Opel. Otto confessed that it was the first time he had been in a “motoring car”. They arrived soon after ten, parked in a side street and waited more or less opposite the restaurant until Herr Rosenthal arrived to open up. The staff used the rear entrance and the luncheon service proceeded without interruption. Hannah’s father asked them to stay until the evening service was under way, but expressed his thanks and offered the view that perhaps the SA had not realised the owner of the restaurant was Jewish. The first bookings were for seven p.m.
Herr Rosenthal’s hopes were dashed when four men in SA uniforms arrived – brown shirts, baggy trousers tucked into high boots and swastika armbands. The first customers were roughly pushed away – they were elderly, not of an age to confront their aggressors. By half past seven the restaurant was still empty.
‘Do you want us to go outside and sort this out?’ queried Günther. ‘We can’t go on like this – it’s unfair and it’s horrible.’
‘I have phoned the police,’ his father-in-law told him, ‘but although they took the call half an hour ago, nothing has happened. I don’t want you to get involved with a brawl in the street – I think I shall have to send the staff home and close for the night. We are shut on Sundays and Mondays, but perhaps I shall be able to open again on Tuesday.’
They locked up the front of the restaurant. The SA men were a few metres along the street. With Herr Rosenthal between Otto and Günther they had no choice but to walk past them towards either the Opel or the Adler. The four men moved to stand directly in their path. The one centre-right, about thirty and strongly built, threw out the NAZI salute.
‘Die Juden sind unser Unglück,’ he announced, ‘Geh nach Palestina.’
‘We don’t want any trouble,’ Herr Rosenthal said quietly, holding up his hands, palms outwards, hoping to placate the four of them. But he could smell alcohol and some spittle had landed on the front of his coat. ‘We are good Germans,’ he added gently. ‘We are not your misfortune and we are not able to go to Palestine. I have closed the restaurant, so please let us pass.’
The SA member in front of him side-swiped the hat from the older man’s head. Herr Rosenthal quietly picked it up and held it to his chest in his right hand. He moved to walk past the person confronting him. But that meant he had to pass between two of them, the one to the front and the one a pace or so to his right – the one facing Günther. And this latter swung a vicious punch into the older man’s solar plexus. Herr Rosenthal, unable to draw breath, fell to his knees.
Günther could have taken the hat insult – just. But his father-in-law was one of the kindest, gentlest of men he had ever known – a loving father to Hannah and a doting grandfather to Renate. It ran through his mind in an instant that he had not fought a war to see this happen to an innocent family, least of all his own.
Günther’s Stosstruppen training clicked in automatically. He might not have been as fast or as fit as he had been at the age of eighteen, but he was strong from heavy farm work and no slouch. It was a split-second decision. With Herr Rosenthal down, it was two against four and he had no intention of finishing up on the cobbles under a jackboot kicking that all too often these days proved fatal. He had to put his man down and quickly. Rather than skinning his knuckles and bruising his fingers, Günther used the palm of his hand. A straight blow would have bloodied his opponent’s face but possibly left him on his feet. He dropped slightly and pushing up with his knees, put all the force into his arm that he could muster. His palm went under the SA man’s nose and connected in a rising arc. The danger, he knew, was that the bone might be driven into the man’s brain. Which was precisely what happened.
Herr Rosenthal’s first attacker was stupid enough to try to land a haymaker, turning towards Günther and signalling his intention with a slowness dulled by alcohol. Günther, who had been taught years ago that the human knee joint has very little lateral strength, spun to half-face him. Using the sole of his right foot he kicked viciously against the inner right knee of his opponent. The joint, jolted outwards, was crippled. A swift kick to the other leg and his man was on the ground.
Günther was vaguely aware of his father-in-law, now with a foot on the floor, both hands on one knee, trying to push himself to his feet. But his immediate concern was Otto. It need not have been. One of the SA Sturm Abteilung was horizontal and unconscious, his arms splayed out as if he had been crucified. The other turned to run, but Günther watched as Otto tackled him from behind, turned him and began rhythmically to apply a series of low stomach and solar plexus blows that put the uniformed thug on his knees, gasping for breath. Günther approached the SA man from behind, placed one hand on his chin, ran his other arm round the man’s forehead and twisted, hard. There was an audible crack.
They had been fortunate. Because of the SA presence, the citizens had stayed clear of the streets, not wanting to be involved. Günther looked up at the flats above the shops and restaurants, but they were all either in darkness or lighted with curtains drawn. He was fairly sure there were no witnesses, or at least none that would wish to come forward.
‘Schnell,’ he hissed to Otto. ‘Help me pull them round the corner into the alley.’
The SA thug that Günther had crippled was on the ground, moaning softly. ‘Bitte, bitte,’ he pleaded, having watched the fate of his companion. But Günther knew that if they left a single witness his father-in-law was a dead man, and that would also apply to himself and Otto, because Herr Rosenthal would not be able to resist the SA interrogation that would surely follow. He despatched his second opponent. Seeing what he had done, Otto did the same with the remaining survivor, who mercifully was still unconscious. He was as wise to their situation as Günther. They eventually left four bodies in a pitch black passageway that led off an alley. It was far enough from the restaurant for there to be no obvious connection. Herr Rosenthal joined them, still a little doubled over and clutching his stomach, but otherwise none the worse for his experience.
‘Can you drive?’ Günther asked his father-in-law, who nodded to confirm that he could.
‘I don’t think you should go back to the house,’ Günther told him. ‘Come with us to the farm and stay overnight. We’ll put you in mother’s old cottage, just to be safe, and see how things look in the morning.
‘Otto,’ he instructed, ‘please go with my father-in-law, just to make sure that he is all right. I’ll follow in the Opel.’ A few hours later the two vehicles drove on to the estate.
On the way up
the drive, Günther overtook the Adler and flicked his tail lights so that it would follow. He had not wanted to arrive outside the main house in case any of the staff were still on duty. It was a two-minute walk. Hannah had heard the vehicles and was waiting in the hall.
‘What happened?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Was that the Adler, and if so where’s Vati?’
‘Later,’ he said, more brusquely than intended. ‘Are there any staff still around?’
She shook her head. ‘Frau Brantis went home some time ago.’
‘All right.’ He took a deep breath. ‘A lot has happened. But your father’s fine. For now, can you bring the makings of a simple hot meal to the cottage? Otto’s gone home, so enough for just two of us – three, if you haven’t eaten. And put a bottle of schnapps and a couple of bottles of wine in the basket, please. We’ll tell you everything when we get there.’
‘As you know you have to secure the back doors from the inside,’ her father explained. ‘They have good strong bolts. But the locks and the shutter are on the front door, so you always have to leave that way. There had been four SA thugs outside from the beginning of evening service. No one was allowed in, so at around half past seven or eight I decided that the best thing would be to shut the restaurant and see how things panned out over the next few days.
‘Unfortunately,’ he went on, ‘when we were leaving they attacked us. I was hit and fell to the ground. They would have kicked us to pieces. Günther and Otto saved my life.’
‘What happened to the SA men?’ she asked immediately.
All three of them were silent, until Günther said quietly, ‘I’m pretty sure there were no witnesses.’ Her right hand flew to her mouth, but she kept her own counsel.
They passed an anxious Sunday but were not disturbed. On Tuesday morning Günther insisted on accompanying his father-in-law back to Stettin. His housekeeper made no mention of any police enquiries, which they knew she would have done. Herr Rosenthal learned that Giulio’s had not been targeted, only the better known Gli Olivi.
During the lunch service Officer Bosch from the local Schutzpolizei called at the restaurant. Like most members of his force, he was conservative by nature and although he broadly supported Hitler he had little time for the SA party thugs, who caused him more trouble than enough. There had been many acts of violence on Saturday evening and several people killed in the city centre. He would do what he could, but this case was not a priority.
He also knew Herr Rosenthal slightly. Bosch was neither for nor against Jews, at least not those like Rosenthal, and the respectable businessman had contributed generously to their local police charity in the past.
‘I haven’t come to eat, Herr Rosenthal,’ he told them. ‘Can we have a word, somewhere private?’
Günther followed them into the office. ‘My son-in-law,’ Herr Rosenthal said briefly, making the introduction without mentioning Günther’s name.
‘What happened on Saturday night?’ asked the policeman, not unkindly.
‘I phoned you, or at least the police,’ Rosenthal replied steadily. ‘There were four SA men in the street. They would not let anyone enter the restaurant. But nobody turned up to help us.’
‘So what did you do?’ came the reply. Günther sensed that the policeman was sympathetic, although he was duty bound to make enquiries.
‘There was no point in staying open, so some time between half seven and eight I locked up and left.’
‘Was there any trouble?’ he was asked.
‘Yes,’ Herr Rosenthal opened his hands. ‘They knocked my hat off, and there was some abusive language. It was not very pleasant, but as you can see I am still here.’
‘And then?’ the policeman queried.
‘I did what I usually do on Sunday morning, but as it was early I went there on Saturday night. We are not open on Sundays, so I drove to my son-in-law’s estate to join them for Sunday lunch. It’s something of a family tradition,’ he finished quietly.
The officer looked at Günther, who simply nodded his affirmation.
‘We found the bodies of four uniformed SA men about half a kilometre from here,’ the policeman announced. ‘But there was a lot of unrest and violence in the city on Saturday evening. Thank you for your help, Herr Rosenthal,’ he said courteously, rising to his feet. ‘I hope not to have to trouble you again.’
After he had gone Günther let out a long, slow sigh of relief. ‘I think I can guess what his report will say,’ he said very quietly. ‘The SA were murdered, but it was hardly likely to have been the work of one elderly gentleman.’
‘Maybe he has his suspicions, maybe not,’ said Herr Rosenthal, ‘and he might even know more than he’s saying. But for whatever reason, I don’t think he wants to take this case any further.’
But both men knew that they had been very, very fortunate.
They were together again in May for Sunday lunch, this time at the Rosenthal family home in Stettin.
‘How’s business these days?’ Günther asked as they sipped sherry. This was their first family lunch since the day after the boycott, as Hannah’s father had wanted to stay in Stettin for a while to see how things developed. Hannah was in the garden with Renate, who would soon celebrate her eleventh birthday. With her mother’s good looks and light, copper-golden hair she was a lovely child, with every sign of being a beauty in the years to come.
‘Things more or less settled back to normal, after that Saturday,’ his father-in-law replied. ‘The NAZIs are still calling for a boycott, but I don’t think any of my regulars are taking notice. I don’t like the law that they passed on the seventh of April, though.’
The Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service signified the beginning of a campaign by the NAZI party against the whole of Germany’s Jewish population, not just business owners. In practice, it meant that Jews could not be employed by the government, either as teachers, within the judiciary, or as administrators within any branch of government service. Most were fired. The only exceptions were those who had served in the armed forces during the war.
‘What will you do?’ responded Günther. ‘I don’t mean you personally, but the Jewish community in Stettin?’
‘The new law won’t affect me, employment-wise,’ his father-in-law replied, ‘and we are still talking about it. But there is going to be a lot of hardship. Almost certainly we will have to set up a charitable fund, and perhaps some sort of soup kitchen, to help out those families whose breadwinner has lost his job.’
‘It’s wrong, but the rest of the population doesn’t seem to be making much of a fuss about it,’ observed Günther. ‘Perhaps because the economy seems to be picking up again, either that or they’re scared of the SA… or both!’ he observed wryly.
‘But what’s worrying Hannah most is the Decree they passed a few days later,’ he went on. ‘If someone has a parent or grandparent of the Jewish faith they are now a non-Aryan. It might affect Hannah, even though she’s married to a gentile, and it also brings Renate into that category.’
Further discussion was prevented by the return of Hannah and Renate to the drawing room. The restaurateur’s face lit up at the sight of his daughter and granddaughter. Lunch was served and they moved to the dining room. It was mutton slow roasted on a bed of rosemary and whole garlic cloves, some of which had then been crushed into the jus. With it Hannah’s father served a very passable Chianti classico. Renate, spoiled as ever by her grandfather, was given a little wine to which her mother promptly added an equal volume of water before wagging her index finger at her father, but she was smiling fondly. With the French windows slightly ajar to the early spring sunshine, the conversation eased on to other things as they enjoyed a leisurely, family meal.
Life on the estate, and for Hanna’s father in Stettin, passed pleasantly enough. But Hitler’s government continued to pass a series of worrying and sometimes draconian la
ws. In May books were burned, not just in Berlin but throughout the country. In July, the NAZI Party was declared the only legal political party in the country. Before the year was out, Jews were prohibited from owning land and were not allowed to be the editor of a newspaper. Many businesses, particularly the larger ones, increasingly refused to employ Jewish men.
In August of the following year the 87-year-old President Hindenburg died, and Hitler became Führer with the powers of both Reich President and Reich Chancellor, powers endorsed by 90 percent of German voters in a plebiscite soon afterwards. However, most shocking to Günther and Hannah were the Nuremberg race laws passed in September nineteen thirty-five. German Jews were deprived of their citizenship and became merely “subjects” within Hitler’s Reich. Moreover, they were forbidden to marry or have sexual relations with Aryans, or to employ young Aryan women as domestic help. But fortunately, anti-Semitism eased in nineteen thirty-six as Hitler’s Germany prepared for the August Olympic games.
A few weeks after the games, Hannah’s father dropped the bombshell that he was selling up. ‘The writing’s on the wall,’ he told Günther as they walked the estate one Sunday afternoon. ‘It’s not as though they make a secret of what they are thinking. The latest talk is of denying us the right to the professions – we are no longer permitted to be accountants or dentists, or to teach Germans. And we are going to lose all the tax allowances that everyone else enjoys. If they are doing that to Jews as individuals, it can only be a matter of time before they come after our businesses.’
‘Is it a good time to sell?’ queried Günther. ‘And what will you do then?’ he added.
‘I’ll almost certainly have to settle for less than businesses are worth,’ said Rosenthal, ‘whether I sell to a Jewish or an Aryan German. The buyer will know why I’m selling up, and take advantage. But I’d rather be cheated a little now than lose out even more in the future.’ He paused, then went on, ‘As for what’s next, I have to get out of Germany. If and when Hitler’s gone, I might come back, but for now it’s just not tenable. I’ll stay in the restaurant business, but to a certain extent I’m going to have to build things up all over again. If I can get into Switzerland, that might be favourite. If not, I’ll try for Britain or America. But I’m not going to stay here. Josef and I will go to Switzerland first, and make enquiries from there.’
