When I saw Anna again, it was at a pleasant restaurant in the town centre. I had decided to treat her to a nice meal out.
“Are you satisfied with your findings?” she asked.
“It’s very difficult to know for myself. What would ‘satisfied’ mean in this context, I wonder? It would probably mean that I’ve found out that my father was a victim of the Nazis, but instead I’ve found out that he was a really bad accomplice, a horrible criminal himself. I will need a lot of thinking to come to a conclusion as to how to cope with such knowledge.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, please.”
“How can you say such a thing? You who have been treated most abominably by him?”
“He was the love of my life, and he is the father of my child. How could I condemn him?”
“But you always knew about his Nazi career from early on. And yet you never hated him?”
“I was brought up a Christian, and as such I learnt to forgive. Yes, I was bitterly disappointed when he stopped writing back from Pirna, and I was almost equally disappointed when I heard about his career in the Waffen-SS. But as a Christian, I couldn’t find it in me to hate him. Do you know that even the worst Nazis were accompanied by a priest when they were taken to the gallows in Nuremberg? People like Keitel, von Ribbentrop, Frank or Streicher. I can’t remember all their names. But they were all informed about Heavenly Grace by the priests who escorted them to the gallows.”
“And you believe they deserved that?” I wondered at Anna’s understanding of Christian forgiveness. This was something I just couldn’t believe in.
“It is not for me to judge that.”
I was going to ask her if she believed that there shouldn’t be any judges, any courts of justice. But I checked myself. The woman’s generous conviction impressed me so much that I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. Instead, I came to the conclusion that I should really admire her and be grateful to her. Admire her for her strong character and be grateful for her love, the love she felt so strongly for my father, despite all the adversities.
It was then that I realized I had myself learnt to love her. It was true. I felt a very powerful love for this wonderful woman.
I stood up, walked round the table and gave her a long hug. She responded very gently.
Back at my place, I looked at her beautiful face, onto her clear eyes, and I understood her tears.
After a long silence, we took up our knives and forks and resumed our meal. As I was taking a forkful of potatoes to my mouth, I realized that our minds had been so completely absorbed by the topic we’d been discussing that we hadn’t even tasted our food. That is, we had started to ladle small amounts of food into our mouths before, but we had not actually tasted any of it. It had been a mere mechanical action, and only now, after the recent emotional climax in our intercourse did we begin to taste our food. It tasted like something I never tasted before.
Eventually, I managed to open our conversation again by asking her about Wolfgang Löffel. I asked her if he was still alive and if he still lived in Gera.
“He lives in Gera all right. He is still a constant threat for me, to tell you the truth, although I haven’t seen him for over three years. But I know he’s there.” Anna’s whole body shook with disgust.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought him up. But I think I have to know more about him before my mission is complete. He has made life for everybody - I mean for you and for my father - so difficult that I have to be sure he can no longer torture either of you.”
“I don’t want to talk about him, please. You can find him and form your own opinion of him. But please, do leave me out of this.”
“All right. I’m sorry. Again, I am deeply sorry. I only thought you might know where I could find him.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. Why don’t you go to Einwohnermeldeamt, the residents’ registry office?”
“Oh, that’s a very good idea. I haven’t been aware of the existence of such an office. But of course, that’s where I’ll go to find him. Thank you for giving me this idea.”
After this, we drifted off to some more pleasant topics. Anna wanted to know more about my music taste. I explained to her that I have a very broad taste, but I don’t really know much, neither about classical music nor about modern music, jazz or pop. I told her about my boy’s keen interest in classical music. I told her how proud I am of Andrew’s piano-playing. This pleased her very much. She told me how fond of classical music she was, particularly of Bach and Beethoven. I let her teach me many interesting facts about her music.
When we parted, we embraced again. I gave her my best wishes and thanked her for her openness and her confidence in me.
Walking back to my hotel, I thought of how different my life would have been if Anna had been my mother. But I immediately dismissed the fantasy and returned to the world of facts and of reality.
* * *
Anna’s advice was perfect. The people at Einwohnermeldeamt were very helpful and found Wolfgang Löffel’s address for me. He lives in a small house in Zwötzen, a southern suburb of Gera.
The house looked in a very poor state. It still had the worn grey plaster façade of the GDR times, and the front wall was streaked with bad cracks. The tiny front garden was unkempt, really neglected in every way. In one of the corners of the garden there stood a faded sunshade in bad repair. Behind the window to the left of the front door, I could detect a yellowed curtain which wasn’t hanging straight. The outside lamp above the front door was cracked and the bulb was missing.
I rang the bell. No answer. I rang a second time. Still no answer. I waited.
As I was preparing to walk away, I saw a face peeping over the wall on one side of the garden. I stopped in my movement. The face disappeared and a few seconds later popped up again. It belonged to a middle-aged man with a peaked cap on his head, greying stubble on his cheeks and glasses with round lenses pulled low on his broad nose, the type that used to be called John-Lennon-glasses when I was a teenager in England.
“Keine Sau da,” he grumbled.
“Verzeihung,” I replied. “What were you saying?”
He seemed to understand that my German, though quite good and very fluent, wasn’t up to every vulgar saying. He smiled and repeated in proper language that there was nobody in.
“Is Herr Löffel away? Will he be back soon?” I enquired. I thought if he as a neighbour knows when the man is out, he might also know when he could be back.
“Der Scheisskerl macht ja, was er will!” was his comment. “The son of a bitch does what he likes anyway!”
“You don’t seem to like your neighbour very much,” I said.
“Of course not. Everybody knows what a crook he is. Are you a friend of his? Or are you family? For if you are, you may as well pay me back the five hundred deutschmarks he owes me.”
I saw the importance of keeping my distance. “No, I’m neither. I just want to find him, but I’m not a friend of his. On the contrary.”
“Then you’re on our side. Come over, let’s have a chat about that crook.”
I hesitated, but then decided to walk over to the neighbour’s garden, which was a lot better kept. We introduced each other. His name was Karl Brettschneider.
After our introductions, he bent down to where he had his garden tools and produced a bottle with two small glasses.
“Have a sip of Korn,” he said and poured me a glass.
We both downed our Korn in one gulp, as they do in Germany, and sat down on one of his clean garden benches. The alcohol loosened our tongues, and we had quite a long and pleasant chat about his unfriendly neighbour Wolfgang Löffel. I learnt that the fellow was obviously considered quite a criminal, no-one trusted him, he was unmarried and lived alone. But he was hardly ever at home. He seemed to be involved in strange projects al
l the time, always promising his neighbours to pay them back once his projects were successful. But they never were. At the same time, he kept bragging about his hidden wealth. He said he had a lot of money stashed away, but he couldn’t get at it. Nobody believed him, his life-style was so poor. He always wore the same old baggy trousers, the same old army-shirt and the same old dark grey jacket with holes in its elbows. He told everyone he was very educated and spoke several languages, but again nobody believed him. Sometimes he was away for three or four weeks at a time, and he always came back in high spirits, boasting of more riches that were coming his way.
Obviously, Wolfgang Löffel was disliked all around, he owed money to everyone, and he had cheated everyone. This general image suited what I had already found out about him from various sources, my Dad, Anna, Henrietta and others.
Herr Brettschneider - I didn’t follow his advice to call him Kalle - wanted me to stay for lunch, promising his wife would be happy to have me, but I politely declined. The man was getting a bit too familiar with me. Also, I didn’t like the way he looked at me with his blood-shot eyes. Again and again, his eyes travelled down my front, inspecting my figure, or so it seemed to me. I was uncomfortable. So, I kept my distance, thanked him for the Korn and especially for his useful information, and took my leave.
As I was driving back into Gera, I realised I should have taken the tram because I felt the alcohol of the Korn hammering in my brain, and I wasn’t sure if I’d pass a police check with a breathalyser in my present condition. Al least the strong schnapps had loosened Karl Brettschneider’s tongue, and he could give me a good impression of his unpleasant neighbour.
Back in my hotel-room I lay down on the bed and took stock. I concluded I didn’t really need to see the Löffel fellow. Nothing new could be gained from an interview with him.
* * *
Two days later. I am on my way back to England. I’m looking forward to being with George again. I don’t know what to do with my diary.
Part Five
Twenty-Three
Andrew felt exhausted after reading his mother’s diary. It was not only a physical exhaustion, but also a mental and emotional one. What a story!
He had asked Rebecca to leave him alone while he was reading his mother’s diary; he needed to concentrate on what he was reading, and the presence of another person would have bothered him too much.
Now, as he was slowly recovering, he gradually began to realize that what he had read wasn’t just a story, it was reality. It’s possible that Mum may have got a few details wrong, but not very probable. The main facts of her report must be true.
Now the big question: What to do with the knowledge of this truth? Throughout his life since his puberty he had always assumed his grandfather to be a victim. Now the old man had been found out as a perpetrator, a Nazi criminal.
Andrew tried to come to a decision about an adequate reaction to this shock. But he was too dumbfounded to keep his senses together and decide what he should do.
He left the apartment and went to the Dolphin. Once there, his most important question was how to get drunk. What was the right drink now? He asked for a white wine, and when Sandy behind the bar asked him what white wine, he just croaked, “Any old plonk will do, I just need the booze.”
Sandy tut-tutted but gave him a glass of Chardonnay because she remembered that he often had that. He refused the glass and asked for the bottle, which Sandy first hesitated over but eventually served him.
When David entered the pub about an hour later, he saw that his friend was already in a state of considerable inebriation - he often thought of this beautiful expression for a state which was anything but pleasant.
“Come on, old chap,” he said, trying to pull him away from the bar. “I think you’ve had just about enough.”
Andrew made a feeble attempt to protest, but David managed to get him out of the pub, supported him along the pavement to his doorstep, helped him find his key in his pocket and then helped him to his flat. He got him out of his clothes and put him to bed. Then he wrote a note for Rebecca, which he left so she would see it when she came home. In it, he begged her to be gentle with Andrew. He wrote: “He’s had such a terrible experience reading his mother’s diary.” David had expected something like this. He didn’t know why.
When Rebecca came home, she saw the note and decided to sleep on the settee in their living-room. The next morning, she met Andrew in the bathroom. She could tell he had a bad headache. He didn’t say very much. Later, after some medicine and two cups of coffee, he slowly got back to his old self.
“You must’ve had a very interesting evening,” she teased.
“Oh, my dear! I’m sorry, but I needed to get drunk. It was my first reaction. Now I have to cope with what I’ve learnt about my family’s past.”
“Why do you have to cope? Can’t you let sleeping dogs lie? What does our family’s history matter? What has it got to do with us?”
“I know, it’s hard to understand for you. But your family are all good people. You haven’t got a Nazi criminal among your ancestors.”
“A Nazi criminal? Your Granddad? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“But even then... I mean, there may have been murderers, rapists and arsonists among my own ancestors, only not just recently. Back in the eighteenth century or so, what do we know?”
Andrew reflected for a few moments. “The crimes of the Nazis are too recent. It’s too early to forget them. Besides, many of their inhuman ideas are still around. Look at all those populist right-wing politicians that you can find in many European countries. Their ideas are extremely dangerous. It’s only to be hoped that they’ll never get to power. So we have to know these dangers in order to prevent such developments.”
“Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?”
He decided to leave the subject. Rebecca wasn’t interested enough, and her political sensitivity didn’t amount to very much. He took another sip of coffee and only remarked, “I’ll have to discuss it with Dave first.”
But she wasn’t prepared to let him off. “Can’t we just forget the whole thing? Look, we are so happy. We live in great times. Our nation isn’t at war, we are gradually moving towards something like world peace. We are all growing happier and richer every day. If we play our cards right, we might be able to buy our first house soon.”
He did not respond to this. Any adequate answer would be either too complicated or too detrimental to their relationship.
“I think I’ll ask Dave to spend a men’s weekend with me, just the two of us. If you like, you can arrange something with Marie-Claire or with any of your other friends.”
“If that’s what you want. Where will you go?”
“We shall see.”
* * *
It was two weeks later when the two friends managed to get away for the weekend. They took David’s car, a relatively new Ford Mondeo, and drove to Weymouth. David knew a nice hotel there. It offered a pleasant view of the bay. When they were checking in, the receptionist, who was Irish and seemed to be the owner, explained to them that the bay in front of his hotel was going to host several water-sport events in the upcoming Olympic Games.
After settling in, they walked along the seafront and began to talk. During the trip they had discussed all sorts of things but avoided the all-important topic, saving it for now.
“So, what about the worst part of your findings? Or should I say your mother’s findings?” David introduced the sensitive topic.
At first, Andrew had difficulties finding the right words, but then decided to dispense with all embellishments. His best friend deserved to get the unmitigated facts.
“My own grandfather was a Nazi criminal,” he began. And during the following forty-five minutes, he managed to tell his friend the whole story of Manfred Weidmann, SS-Hauptsturmf�
�hrer Weidmann, the man’s escape to Frankfurt under the name of Dieter Wolff, his move to Switzerland and eventually his emigration to the States under the name of Didi Woolf. He also mentioned his grandfather’s love affair with Anna Kleinschmidt before the War.
“There’s even a half-uncle living somewhere in Canada, I understand,” he added, before he concluded his report.
“Tell me,” David asked, “which aspect of the whole story hurts you most? Which part really gets under your skin?”
“I think it’s the injustice, most of all. The injustice. How did he manage to get away like that? How could he have the cheek to lead the life that he’s been leading from 1945 to this day? How could he escape without being caught? Why did he never have to appear in front of an inquiry, a so-called Spruchkammer?”
“Well, my dear fellow, that’s another story.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that those Spruchkammer procedures were anything but just. Yes, we all know they represented at least something like a public effort in the whole process of Vergangenheitsbewältigung in post-war Germany. But only too often in reality, they were mere fig-leaves.”
“Why?”
“Because most of those inquiry boards called Spruchkammern had a fair share of old Nazis among their members. You know, after the really big shots were condemned at the Nuremberg Trials, there was a general feeling that that was enough. The new democratic Germany needed educated men, teachers, university professors, lawyers, judges, policemen and politicians. Almost every man they could recruit had some brown spots in his biography. So, the watchword for those Spruchkammern was leniency, clemency with the men they had to assess in view of their Nazi pasts.”
“You mean they didn’t get their deserved punishment?”
“Most of them got off with a mild reprimand, and some bad guys were even transformed into heroes and heaved into important positions.”
White Lies Page 35
