“I just live over there”, he replied, pointing with his stick to one of the buildings opposite.
“Let me walk you to the door”, I offered.
“That’s very kind of you.”
It wasn’t kindness that compelled me to help him, more curiosity. We had learned all about Jews and their dishonest ways, how they controlled money and sponsored Bolshevism. The Fuhrer called them evil and dangerous. They were an infection. Now I had the opportunity to actually touch one, smell one and expose myself to the evil and corruption. Nervously, I allowed him to take my arm and began walking slowly across the square.
“Are you from Paris?” he asked me, “You do not look French.”
“No, I am from Berlin. My name is Ralf Hartmaan and I am visiting my mother who is singing in Carmen at L’Opera Comique. Cecilia Hartmaan, do you know her?”
“I can’t say I am familiar with her but my son Paul has been to see this opera.”
“Did he enjoy it?”
The old man laughed loudly. I was surprised at the power in his voice.
“I think he enjoyed it very much. He was smitten by one of your mother’s colleagues. Art, eh? It captures your heart and soul Ralf. What do you like?”
“I like books”, I told him.
“Have you a favourite?”
“Death in Venice.”
“Thomas Mann, a great author and a beautifully written book full of pain and longing.”
We arrived at his door.
“I am Solomon Politzer.” He said. I shook his hand. He thanked me and went inside.
I couldn’t wait to return home and tell Herr Farber and my friends about this encounter. I had spoken to a Jew and survived. I began laughing. To be honest, a big part of me thought this demonizing of Jews was ridiculous. Solomon seemed like any other old man and he was quite pleasant. I actually liked him. I knew of course that I couldn’t discuss this with Herr Farber. I slept well that night dreaming of Leni and Venice.
The following evening I attended the performance of Carmen. I had spent the day alone, mother had rehearsals. We spoke briefly at breakfast and I described my encounter with the Rabbi.
“You were in Le Marais”, she informed me, “the Jewish quarter. It’s such an interesting place full of wonderful cafés and restaurants. The delicatessens are the best in Paris and hidden away in the narrow lanes are delightful art shops but best of all; you can buy the most exquisite clothes there.”
I wasn’t really that interested in art shops or exquisite clothes and after breakfast, on advice from my friends who had already visited Paris, I decided to seek out Le Quartier Pigalle. They told me it was full of whores and theatres showing saucy cabaret; reason enough for wanting to see it.
When I finally came upon the main thoroughfare it was lunchtime so I parked myself outside a restaurant opposite the Moulin Rouge and had coffee and a baguette filled with ham and cheese. I looked around but couldn’t see any whores. In fact, I began to realise that I probably wouldn’t recognise one unless she came right up and asked me if I required her services. I had no such luck and had to content myself with watching the general hustle and bustle. The Moulin Rouge with its large windmill was promoting someone called Mistinguett and near me a hoarding advertised Le Théâtre du Grand-Guignol présente Le Crime de la Rue Morgue. It sounded exciting and there was a performance beginning in forty minutes so I quickly finished my lunch and headed off to find the theatre.
I arrived ten minutes before the performance began. What an extraordinary place. An information poster on the wall informed me the theatre was originally an old chapel that had been converted to a theatre in 1894 and that I should seek out the boxes under the balcony used by nuns to watch the religious services and carvings of angels above the orchestra. A small endnote said that the boxes were available for hire during performances for audience members who became aroused by the action happening on stage. This sounded hopeful so I hurried to buy a seat as near to the boxes as I could.
I needn’t have been excited. The performance was awful. The nearest I came to being aroused was when a man dressed as a gorilla ripped the blouse of a well built young lady but proceeded to carry her off with such haste that I hadn’t time to see anything. I left after forty minutes disgusted with myself for being so easily deceived. I felt unclean and for some reason scared. This feeling increased as I made my way back to the apartment. I lost my way a few times and became more impatient with the city and the people. I kept reminding myself of my true calling as a member of the Hitler-Jugend and what I was supposed to be representing.
Mother was in the apartment when I arrived. I tried to avoid speaking to her and lied when she asked me where I had been.
“I was walking by the river.”
“How lovely. Did you walk as far as Notre Dame?”
“No.”
I lay down on a couch and must have dozed. Because the next thing I remembered was mother singing Habanera from Carmen. She was standing before the large windows in the sitting room, her body silhouetted by sunlight, the muslin curtains swaying gently behind her. I was transfixed as she swayed in time to music and moved her arms elegantly through the air.
When we arrived at L’Opera Comique she took me straight to the dressing room to meet some of the cast. Alex I already knew but when she introduced me to the female members I think I fell in love with all of them. I left to find my seat excited by the prospect of spending an evening with the cast after the performance. The music began and everyone began singing and stomping. I have to admit I enjoyed it but when mother entered and began to sing I was instantly embarrassed and felt exposed to all those sitting around me. Unlike her singing at the window, she pranced and flaunted herself around the stage in the most revealing way and I sighed with relief when she finished. I was bored with the rest of the opera and nodded off a few times. Afterwards, we went to La Coupole. The walls were plastered with grotesque paintings, people were shouting instead of talking and the band played what the Fuhrer would have called decadent music. Mother sat me between someone called Anton and another girl called Sabine. I liked her. She was full of fun and amusement and we entertained ourselves by ridiculing other people in the restaurant; how they dressed, their walk and how they sat. Anton was more introspective and we spoke briefly about opera of which I knew very little. To be honest, I wasn’t that interested either but allowed him the courtesy of discussing it with me. As the evening progressed we all drank too much wine, laughed too much and mother spoke incessant nonsense about how wonderful we all were. Later, when mother had gone off to talk to others in the restaurant, Alex began shouting at me across the table.
“Cecilia tells me you are a member of the Hitler-Jugend, Ralf.”
I nodded and raised my glass.
“Here’s to the Hitler-Jugend!” I replied drunkenly. Sabine and Anton joined me. Everyone laughed but not Alex.
“I suppose you know everything now about how wicked the world is.”
“Yes, the world is a wicked place indeed”, I continued, “Here’s to the wicked world”. I toasted my glass once more.
“You’ve come from the rally in Nuremburg?”
“I have”, I replied proudly, “and good fun it was.”
“Did you really enjoy all that saluting and parading around?”
Saluting and parading around! I resented Alex’s smug and clumsy analysis.
“It was more than that”, I retorted.
“Really, are you referring to Hitler’s speeches? It seems no-one can get a word in edgeways when he’s around.”
How dare he refer to him as Hitler! He was my leader. I had shaken his hand.
“He is passionate about his beliefs and he cares about the German people.”
“So much so he’s willing to start a war”
I felt outraged and was not prepared to listen to his lies.
“All we want is peace”, I replied. “We are made to feel like second class citizens in our own country. Now we are claiming back
our identity and our culture. People like you laugh and ridicule us because we have the strength and the will to stand up and declare our freedom, but it was people like you who enslaved us.”
“Does that give you the right to trample on everyone else’s freedom? Your Fuhrer has decided who is German and who isn’t. He has come up with this notion that you are all Aryans, tall beautiful blonde haired and blue eyed supermen but look at him, short, dark haired and wearing that stupid moustache. My dog looks more Aryan than he does.”
I almost laughed at his stupidity.
“You dim-wit. You have no idea who we are. You have never bothered to read anything or learn anything about us. You just sit there spouting nonsense trying to impress my mother.”
“So dressing up in fancy uniforms and strutting around with that stupid salute isn’t about impressing people either? Do you not get a kick out of it Ralf? Don’t you want all the girls to see you as a real man?”
Some of the girls laughed. I was angry. Then mother returned and noticed how upset I was.
“My darling, what’s wrong”, she cooed placing her arms around my shoulders. “Have you drunk too much wine?”
“Ralf and I were merely discussing the pros and cons of National Socialism”, Alex informed her.
“Don’t listen to him”, mother replied, “He loves to embarrass people with his rudeness and lack of manners. Isn’t that right Alex?” She threw him a stabbing glance.
“Absolutely Cecilia, I’m an ignorant fool who knows nothing” Alex laughed.
The rest of the evening was an anti-climax. We tried to revive the earlier humour but everyone was now on tenterhooks. I spent some time speaking with a girl called Camille. She was nice enough but what really interested me was where she was from. She came from a village in Cathar country and knew everything about the Holy Grail legend. I told her about Otto Rahn’s book but she didn’t appear that interested.
“Crusade is not a popular word in Villelongue”, she said.
I returned to Berlin the next day. Six weeks later Leni and her parents visited my house. Leni was pregnant. It was quite a surprise. Mother was home having a short break before she toured with Carmen. She summoned me to the living room and sat me facing Leni and her parents.
“Leni said it happened at the Rally”, her father began. “Can you confirm this?”
I said nothing and looked hopefully at mother for assistance. She appeared flustered and fanned herself with a magazine.
“Frau Hartmaan, have you anything to say about the matter?”
“I am quite shocked Herr Himmel. Shocked that Ralf would do such a thing. In fact, I don’t believe he would. He is a respected member of the Hitler-Jugend and very well thought of at the school. His principal, Herr Lang is a close friend and I suggest you speak to him about it.”
Leni was crying and her mother looked terrified.
“With all due respect Frau Hartmaan, I fail to see what Herr Lang has to do with this.”
Mother struggled to retain her composure.
“He will tell you that Ralf could not be the father.”
Herr Himmel shook his head. He asked me again if I was responsible. I was now gripped with nerves.
“What if I was”, I replied.
“If you are then I would expect you to do the honourable thing. Leni is a sweet child and does not deserve to be cast aside.”
“It’s all right Papa”, Leni sobbed. “It wasn’t Ralf’s fault. I had been to the women’s meeting and heard the Fuhrer speak about the role of mothers in the new Germany. He encouraged us to bear healthy children for the future of the Fatherland.”
“I don’t care what he said”, her mother interrupted loudly, “speaking like that to a group of young girls is irresponsible. I have already made a complaint to the authorities of the complete disregard shown for moral safety at that rally. It is a disgrace that young boys and girls were allowed to camp so near to each other. What did they think was going to happen?”
“I absolutely agree Frau Himmel and I said as much to Ralf”, mother added. “There seemed to be little or no proper supervision and the ones that were supposed to look after them spent more time in the Bierkellers.”
Herr Himmel appeared frustrated now. The women were now agreeing with each other and Leni blamed herself.
“May I speak to Ralf alone Frau Hartmaan, man to man so to speak?”
Mother nodded and appeared relieved. I went with Herr Himmel to the drawing room.
“Now Ralf, I think you and I need to come to some understanding.”
Leni had told me he was a banker and now he certainly sounded like one.
“In what way”, I replied.
“I want to tell you that I am not happy with the way you are handling this. I get the impression that you think you are clever and above everyone else and that you can sail through life using people to suit your needs. Well you can’t. I’ll make sure of that. You are the father of Leni’s child and you need to do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“Like marry her! We are not prepared to accept the disgrace of your mistake Ralf and I don’t think your mother should have to either.”
Marriage! The thought had never entered my mind. How could I marry her? I was only eighteen.
“Have you spoken to Leni about marriage?”
“Leni will do as she is told.”
And that was that! No more discussion. I admitted I was probably the father and our parents spent the rest of the evening talking about our marriage while Leni and I sat facing each other like strangers. We had met briefly in the heat and passion of the weekend, gotten drunk, had sex, spoken a little about our likes and dislikes and enthused greatly about the Fuhrer. She still looked pretty but so did Camille from the opera. We were married on the 3rd November 1936 with a small civil ceremony and reception at our apartment. Leni came to live with us and the following summer she gave birth to our daughter Resi.
10.
Berlin, 9th November 1938
On completing my studies at the Goethe School in 1937 I had assumed I would go to the Humboldt University to study literature. Now I was married with a child, work seemed a more practical option. I had no desire to go to the factories and no father whose footsteps I could follow so I proposed joining the Schutzstaffel but as I had no formal military training it was impossible for me to enrol in a military unit. Herr Farber suggested a more suitable position with the Rasse- und Siedlungshauptamt-SS and in January 1938 having been presented with glowing references from both Herr Farber and Herr Lang I was assigned as a clerk to the Amt Sippen und Heiratsamt which dealt with Family and Marriage in the new Reich. Mother was delighted and said if I worked hard, “they might even give you one of those cute black uniforms to wear.”
My duties included maintaining files lettered L to N and checking that each section of new marriage applications was completed properly. I was determined to work diligently and impress my superiors and in July 1938 I was promoted to senior clerk with full responsibility for checking all applications. It was the duty of our department to safeguard the racial purity of all marriages so stringent checks on nationality and lineage had to be conducted. One such case was an application from a Herr Thomas and Fraulein Sauer. He was twenty-eight and she was twenty-three. They were both born in Berlin from Prussian parents. Their grandparents were also Prussian. They seemed ideal Aryans. However, his surname intrigued me so I did some research. The name derived from the Aramaic t’om’a, meaning twin. This alerted me to the possibility that there may have been some past corruption. The name Thomas is best known as the one who doubted the reality of Christ’s resurrection but I quickly discovered that it was also used as a family name among the Jewish Christian (Nasrani) families from Kerala, South India. I immediately reported this discrepancy to my manager. After some deliberation he accepted the application on the basis that our Aryan lineage had originated in the Indian sub-continent and as such any name that could be referenced there was indee
d suitable. I enquired about the Nasrani connection and was told this only confirmed the extent to which Jewish culture corrupted even the purest people.
In spite of my initial concern, life with Leni and Resi was becoming more joyful with each passing day. Mother was singing now with the Berlin State Opera and home more frequently though there were times when she disappeared for days on end presumably to spend time with her lovers. I didn’t mind. It meant Leni and I had the house to ourselves and we took full advantage of that. Our passion for each other was growing as was our understanding of National Socialism. We had both joined the party and Leni was particularly active in the NS-Frauenschaft, the women’s branch, organizing instruction in the use of German manufactured products such as butter and rayon in place of imported goods and holding information classes for brides and schoolgirls. Herr Farber also suggested that I enrol in the Sturmabteilung. I rejected his advice. I was fully aware of what the SA was; a den of thugs and criminals who cared little for the principles of National Socialism. Indeed, they seemed to be opposed to any intelligent political analysis concentrating instead on very public displays of violence. I knew the Fuhrer had attempted to re-organize them a few years earlier but recently they had grown bolder. In the end I compromised with Herr Farber and agreed to work with new recruits to the Hitler-Jugend.
As 1938 progressed more effort was being put into extricating ourselves from the debilitating effect of Jewish culture on our society. From January to October Jews had been forbidden to change their names, own gun shops, use health spas, had their property transferred to non-Jewish Germans and their passports stamped with a J. They were also required to add an additional name to their birth certificates, Sara for a woman and Israel for a man. It all came to a head on November 9th. Someone told me at work that an incident had occurred two days earlier in which a 17-year-old Polish Jewish student named Hershel Grynszpan had shot Ernst vom Rath, the Third Secretary of the German Embassy in Paris. Apparently Grynszpan was enraged by the deportation of his parents to Poland from Hanover where they had lived since 1914 and hoped his dramatic action would alert the world to what he referred to as the ominous plight of Europe's Jews. When he was arrested Grynszpan announced that being a Jew was not a crime.
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