The Auslander

by Paul Dowswell

  Peter felt a shiver pass through him. Fleischer. He must be Lothar’s father. All the HJ boys had heard Fleischer boasting about him.

  ‘Were you aware of this?’

  Peter was astounded. He shook his head. He could not think of a thing to say.

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ said Kaltenbach. His voice was calm but there was a cold menace in his manner.

  ‘I have never heard anything about it,’ Peter managed to say. ‘Who? Who is Jewish in my family?’

  They were talking in low voices. As if the subject was so shameful it could not be discussed aloud. Kaltenbach plucked the letter from the envelope.

  ‘Your grandmother on your mother’s side, which makes you a Mischling of the second degree.’

  ‘But she was a devout Catholic,’ said Peter. ‘It was a joke in our family, how often she went to church. She died when I was seven or eight. I can barely remember her. I remember her funeral though. She was buried in the grandest style, incense, the boys’ choir, a magnificent headstone . . .’

  He was babbling. The Kaltenbachs stared at him. They were making an intense effort to keep their disgust at bay.

  ‘The Parish records show that she was born a Jew. There is no question about it,’ said Kaltenbach. ‘You must have known.’

  Peter could not believe it. He thought it must be a ploy – an excuse to send him back to Poland. Then he began to wonder if it was true. After all, his mother had argued so fiercely with his father about the way the Jews had been treated when the Nazis first arrived in Poland.

  ‘Jews are as unpopular in Poland as they are in Germany,’ said Peter. ‘Perhaps my parents felt it was a shameful secret?’ He felt like a traitor to himself, saying these words, but he was trying to save his skin.

  Kaltenbach spoke his thoughts aloud. ‘We should have looked into your bloodline more carefully when we chose you. But the records then . . . achhh, they were a terrible mess in the early years of the occupation’

  Then he turned his gaze to Peter. ‘For two years we have been host to Jew blood. We have fed Jew blood, shared our bathroom with Jew blood,’ here he seemed to shudder, ‘nurtured and even cherished Jew blood . . .’ he was shaking his head. He could scarcely believe it. ‘Well, you’re a clever race, that’s for sure. Goebbels always said never to underestimate you.’

  Peter was trying to stay calm. He said, ‘Herr Professor, I cannot believe it. How can it be that I have been so widely praised for my Nordic appearance? How can it be that I am considered to be prime Aryan stock? You yourself, when you first met me, declared I was a first-class racial specimen. I remember that clearly.’

  ‘You snake,’ said Kaltenbach in a whisper. ‘How you must have been laughing at us. Well that explains it all. No wonder we could never instil the correct spirit in you. No wonder you like that mongrel swing music. No wonder you are never first with the German greeting – this is what has been holding you back. You are tainted . . .’

  Frau Kaltenbach had been silent until this point. ‘You are a Mischling, Peter. I would never have believed you had Jewish ancestry.’

  She paused to let this sink in. ‘Now the Reich is aware of your racial heritage you will no longer be permitted to join the SS, you will no longer be permitted to join the Party, or the Civil Service, and you can forget about the Luftwaffe. Mischlings are excluded from the officer class. And neither will you be permitted to see Fräulein Reiter. We will make arrangements for you to be sterilised as soon as possible.’

  Peter reached for the table, white with shock. ‘You mean you want to cut my balls off?’ he whispered. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  ‘Peter!’ they both hissed at him.

  Kaltenbach spoke sharply. ‘Sit down and listen, and control your mouth. You are in quite enough trouble already. We are not savages, Peter. Second Degree Mischlings are entitled to humane treatment. You will go to hospital and the operation will be performed under anaesthetic. You will not have your testicles removed. It is a simple procedure where the tubes from the vasa deferentia are severed.’ He put a hand on Peter’s shoulders. ‘You have bad blood, Peter. It is your duty not to corrupt your fellow Germans further by passing on the Jewish stain.

  ‘Now, for the moment, we will say nothing to anyone else. Especially not the girls. I don’t want this to get to them. I know how girls can gossip.’

  Peter felt totally confused. He was horrified – at the prospect of being sterilised, and not being allowed to see Anna, and all the future choices in life that would now be closed to him. But at least they were not going to throw him out on the street. At least he was not going to be taken away by the Gestapo in the middle of the night, or sent back to Poland.

  His day passed in a daze. What had the girls thought? How much had they overheard?

  And what about Fleischer? For the moment he was away doing his preliminary army training. But when he came back, the whole of Peter’s HJ squad would know. Then Kaltenbach would be forced to do something.

  There was a more immediate concern. How would he carry on seeing Anna? The Kaltenbachs had friends all over the district and they would soon be spotted together. He had to talk to her. As soon as he could, he slipped over to the Reiters’ apartment.

  .

  She was out, but Ula was in. She greeted him with a huge smile. ‘Stefan is alive,’ she said, almost crying with happiness. ‘We heard this morning. He’s been taken prisoner. A telegram arrived from the Red Cross.’

  Peter tried to look pleased, but he was too preoccupied with his own predicament. He told Ula the whole story, and when he got to the bit about being sterilised he started to cry. She put her arms around him and spoke so tenderly he felt like a little boy being comforted by the school nurse after a playground accident.

  ‘Peter, this is all nonsense. I know enough about the Nuremberg Race Laws to tell you Professor Kaltenbach is bluffing. It would be entirely their decision to have you sterilised, and even then, I think you would have to give your consent. Mischlings of the second degree do not need permission to marry Germans. They are forbidden to marry Jews or other Mischlings of the second degree. Sometimes, second degree Mischlings have to undergo further racial examination to establish whether “the Jewish strain”,’ she lifted her eyes to the ceiling, ‘is “predominant”. I don’t think they’ll be doing that with their prize Aryan.’ She ruffled his hair.

  As Peter got up to go she said, ‘I don’t think the Kaltenbachs are going to do anything about this immediately. I think they’ll want to keep quiet about it as long as they can. But it’s going to come out sometime . . .’

  She sighed impatiently. ‘This whole “Mischling” business just exposes the Professor and all his Racial Science gobbledegook as the nonsense it is.’

  Peter thought about that conversation a lot. Not least because it was the last time he ever saw Frau Reiter sitting at home in her kitchen.

  .

  CHAPTER 32

  August 8, 1943

  .

  Otto Reiter thought little of the knock at the door that Sunday morning. On the doorstep was a man in a long leather coat and leather hat, and four uniformed policemen. It was obvious the man was plain-clothes Gestapo. They always wore those clothes. It took another second or two before Otto realised he had a machine pistol pointed at him.

  ‘You and Frau Reiter are to come with us,’ he said. ‘And your daughter, too. We wish to talk to you.’

  Colonel Reiter stood his ground. ‘We will be quite happy to come with you. You may put away your pistol. It is absolutely unnecessary.’

  The man stepped forward and punched him in the face with such force it knocked him to the ground. As Otto took a handkerchief from his pocket to staunch the blood from his mouth, he was grabbed by the other policemen.

  ‘This is no way to treat an officer of the Wehrmacht,’ he protested. Another of the men punched him hard in the stomach.

  The police officers poured into the apartment. ‘And where are your wife an
d daughter?’ said the Gestapo man. Although Otto was in great pain he could still think straight. This was carelessness of the first degree. Surely they should have waited for them all to be home, if they had come to arrest them?

  ‘They are both at church,’ said Otto, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Dom,’ said Otto. Although Berlin’s great Cathedral was the other side of the Tiergarten, and quite a walk, it was the one they usually went to. Ula enjoyed her Sunday stroll, and she loved the beautiful interior.

  ‘And why are you not with them?’ said the Gestapo man. Otto recovered some of his courage. ‘We National Socialists are not encouraged to attend religious ceremonies,’ he said.

  The Gestapo man did not have an answer to that. It was true. But Ula and Anna were not at church. They had gone to visit the Schafers. Otto was expecting them home any minute.

  ‘You will come with us,’ said the Gestapo man. He ordered two of the policemen to stay behind and wait for Anna and Ula to return.

  Otto Reiter jolted around in the back of the black van that took him to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. If they were treating him like this from the start, he knew that something very serious had been discovered about him or, worse, all of his family.

  In his prayers Otto asked that he would die in a good cause and not just be killed by one of the bombs that were now falling on the city. So. He would die saving his wife and his daughter. He prayed now that Ula and Anna would not be arrested and taken into the cells. Only that would truly destroy him.

  .

  Luck had not completely deserted the Reiters. Ula and Anna had been returning to the apartment when they saw the police draw up in their car and enter the building. Something made Ula wait and she pulled Anna to one side and they hid themselves in a doorway some distance from the apartment block. Ula’s patience saved them. When Otto came out sandwiched between two policemen, and with his face bloodied, she knew to fear the worst.

  .

  Peter was alone in the Kaltenbachs’ apartment when the telephone rang. Professor Kaltenbach had gone to the Institute to collect some papers, Elsbeth had gone to church and the others were visiting one of Liese’s relatives. Peter had not been invited to accompany them.

  When he picked up the phone, a voice said, ‘Call Wulfie this afternoon.’ It was Anna. Then the line went dead.

  Peter was swept up in a wave of panic. Then he felt sick with fear. The sensation reminded him of that awful moment when he saw his parents’ crushed and bloodied automobile. He forced himself to go into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee. Breathe deeply. Think.

  What should he do? He was in a terrible state of indecision. Should he wait until he could call Anna and find out what was happening, or should he just go? Had someone betrayed them? Why didn’t she tell him more when she rang?

  There was a noise at the door. They had come for him already.

  It was Elsbeth.

  She sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Seen a ghost, have you?’ she said. ‘You look very pale.’

  Peter said nothing. He lifted the coffee cup to his mouth but his hand was shaking so much it was all he could do not to spill it.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, what is the matter?’ she said.

  He didn’t tell her much. Only that a good friend was on the run from the Gestapo and they might want to talk to him too.

  ‘Vater will be pleased with you,’ Elsbeth crowed. ‘Do you want to tell me what this is about?’

  There was a loud knocking at the door. Peter was too petrified to speak.

  ‘If it’s them, I’ll say you are out. Go and hide in your room,’ she whispered.

  Even in his terror Peter felt grateful for this unexpected support, although he still did not entirely trust her.

  Elsbeth went to the door, hurriedly putting her coat back on. ‘One moment,’ she shouted. There was a plain-clothes officer – probably Gestapo – and a policeman standing there. The Gestapo man was polite. ‘Good afternoon, fräulein. We would like to talk to Peter Bruck. I understand he lives with your family.’

  ‘I have just returned from church,’ said Elsbeth. ‘I don’t think he’s in. PETER!’ she shouted. ‘No . . . He went to an HJ rally in Pankow this morning. He’ll be back later,’ she shrugged, ‘I don’t know when.’

  ‘You will understand, of course, that we will need to inspect your apartment,’ said the Gestapo man.

  ‘I will understand no such thing. My father, Professor Franz Kaltenbach, of the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, is engaged in top-secret research. He often works from home and would not permit anyone to inspect our apartment without his being here.’

  ‘Quite understandable, fräulein,’ said the man. ‘Would you mind if my colleague here waits for Peter Bruck to return?’

  ‘Come in,’ said Elsbeth, as the Gestapo man departed. ‘You may sit in the hall.’ She indicated to the policeman a high-backed ornamental chair, situated in the draughtiest spot. It was especially uncomfortable. ‘As I said, I have no idea when he will be back.’

  The man was charming. ‘And where do you work in Berlin?’ he asked.

  ‘Over by Hallesches Tor,’ she told him icily.

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘Nothing exciting.’

  Peter was hiding on the deep window ledge behind the curtains in his room. The window recess was just high enough for him to stand upright. It was the best place he could think of, although he knew at once it was dismal. He’d heard the other man leave and watched the street below, desperately hoping that anyone leaving the apartment entrance would not look up. Some children at a window on the other side of the street waved at him. He gave them a distracted grin and a half-hearted wave back. He scarcely dared breathe.

  The policeman waited and fidgeted. Whenever Elsbeth passed through the corridor, he tried to start a conversation.

  ‘Thirsty work, waiting for people,’ he said.

  Elsbeth wasn’t going to make him a coffee. ‘I’m sure it is.’

  Peter had pins and needles and shifted his weight on the window ledge. His foot caught his toy model of Hitler’s staff car and it clattered to the floor.

  The policeman looked at Elsbeth. ‘Oh Frieda!’ said Elsbeth. She looked at him and shrugged. ‘We have a cat.’

  The policeman began to call. ‘Here Kitty! Kitty!’

  ‘She doesn’t like strangers,’ said Elsbeth.

  She was beginning to panic. Her father would be home sometime soon. He would know Peter was not at a rally and she guessed he would not be inclined to protect him. Elsbeth knew what she was doing was very dangerous. She could be arrested, for helping ‘an enemy of the state’ or some such charge. She might even find herself in Sachsenhausen, or Plötzensee. She wondered if Frau Doktor Magnussen would get sent her eyeballs in the fullness of time. And whether her father would idly come across them and her photograph during the course of his work.

  An hour had passed. The policeman grew bored. She wondered if he had stayed this long so he could have the chance to talk to her. She had one more trick up her sleeve. ‘Well, sir, I have to go out now,’ she told him. ‘You will appreciate I cannot leave a stranger in the house on his own.’ This time she smiled.

  Elsbeth was lucky. Before they arrived, the Gestapo man had told his accomplice to wait an hour or two at the most, if the boy was not there. They could always come back.

  ‘Of course, fräulein,’ he said, and got up to go.

  They walked down the stairs together. She had to bite her lip not to show the relief she felt. As they walked out through the apartment entrance, he bowed and tipped his hat in an exaggerated display of chivalry.

  ‘How gallant,’ said Elsbeth, who was feeling frivolous, and granted him another smile. He was quite nice-looking, she thought. Perhaps she could have been kinder to him. They went their separate ways, and as soon as he rounded the corner she dashed back up to the apartment.

  Peter was waiting in his room. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You were v
ery brave. I’m grateful to you.’

  Elsbeth nodded. ‘Why are they after you?’ She sounded concerned.

  Peter took his life in his hands and told her as much as he dared. ‘They think I’ve been helping the U-boats.’

  She nodded again. ‘I wouldn’t risk my neck helping the Jews. They wouldn’t help you,’ she said flatly. ‘The Gestapo will be back soon. What can you do?’

  Peter looked close to panic. ‘I don’t know.’ In truth he did not want to tell her. Elsbeth was still full of Nazi poison. One minute she was helping him, the next she was spitting nonsense about the Jews.

  ‘I’ve got to leave,’ he said. ‘Can you lend me a little money? Just a few marks, for the U-bahn?’

  She fetched her purse and gave him 25 Reichmarks – it was half a week’s wages. ‘Take some food too,’ she said. ‘Hurry. Vater will be home any minute.’

  Peter was so surprised at her generosity he gave her a hug. She stood there, frozen, unbending. He quickly stood back. ‘Thank you. I will pay you back as soon as I am able,’ he said.

  He hurriedly packed a bag with a spare set of clothes and an overcoat. Then he carried away a loaf and some sausage and cheese from the larder. Quickly dressing in his Luftschutz uniform he was all set to leave. She was there waiting at the door. ‘I’ll tell them you’ve been called away to the Fire Observation Station, and you might have to stay there overnight . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Elsbeth,’ said Peter. ‘I wish we could have been better friends.’

  ‘Don’t be sentimental,’ she said, and kissed him briskly on the cheek. ‘Now quickly. Get lost.’

  He passed Professor Kaltenbach on the stairs. ‘Guten Tag, Onkel,’ he said. ‘I have Luftschutz duties to attend to.’

  Kaltenbach waved his paper. If I ever see you again, thought Peter, then I’m sure to be dead soon after.

  .

  CHAPTER 33

  As soon as he felt a safe distance from the apartment, Peter went to a café to collect his thoughts. Then he walked through the Tiergarten to the Brandenburg Gate. That killed a good half-hour. As soon as he heard a clock strike noon he went at once to a public telephone and dialled the emergency number in Kreuzberg that Anna had given him. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Is Wulfie there?’