But her words were despairingly clear.
“Another murder! Another murder!” she cried in anguish. “They lie dead in the Englischer Garten! My poor sister! My poor niece! She was just a child. . . .” Disconsolate sobs. “Just a little child!”
THIRTY-SIX
The ensuing disarray was as deadly as random gunfire, creating panic that swelled and stretched in all directions. To his credit, the Kommissar was quick to respond, trying to take center stage to disperse the crowd in an orderly fashion, but the Austrian would have none of it. He pushed Volker aside and addressed the people, stoking the frenzied fire.
“Again the degenerates have stricken our women, and this time the lowly filth have stooped to the most heinous of despicable perversions by attacking a child! When will the police finally realize what they are dealing with and rid the city of these vermin?” Hitler shrieked. He pointed an accusing finger at Brummer, Roddewig, and Volker. “You know when the police will make Munich safe for our citizens, my friends? When we citizens demand that the police department clean up the degenerates in its own ranks!”
Supportive whoops and bellows rose from the audience. Berg shook his head in dismay. Why alienate such important allies? Hitler had no better boosters than Brummer and Roddewig, and even at a distance, Berg could see that they were furious.
Hitler’s screed continued. “When will we erase the filthy dog Jews from our city? When will we take back our banks from the rotten, evil inferior races and place them in the hands of trustworthy individuals such as our dear Kurt Haaf, who has already lost his daughter to a Jewdog!” The Austrian’s screams pierced the air, his face as red as a radish. “We must prohibit and prevent the Jews from breeding their filth into our pure Aryan women. We cannot afford to let the Jews bring us to despair and ruin. And if the police cannot or will not rectify the ‘Jewish situation,’ the good people of Munich will!”
Deafening applause drowned out any attempts by the police to respond to the indictment.
“It is the Jews who are murdering our women!” Hitler proclaimed. “It is the Jews who have been behind every evil deed from time immemorial! They have infiltrated the great Aryan race, and no rest and order will come until their inferior race is completely eradicated!”
“Get the Jews!” were the cries from a group of Brownshirts.
“Yes, we must get the Jews!” Hitler insisted. “And we must rid our good cities of other foul beasts that prey upon our citizens, like the Kommunisten who support the evil deeds of the Jews!”
Declarations of “Get the Kommunisten” were joined with the cries of “Get the Jews” until they became a singsong mantra.
Get the Jews, get the Kommunisten.
Get the Jews, get the Kommunisten.
Under these dark circumstances, Kriminal Direktor Max Brummer dared to take the stage. “There will be no rioting in this city! This rally is officially over—” But his officious manner further riled the crowd.
Hoots and jeers suffocated the rest of the Direktor’s speech. The shouting continued.
Get the Jews! Get the Kommunisten!
Get the Jews! Get the Kommunisten!
Berg turned to the nearby group of Kommunisten. Because of tension and fear, they had lost about half their original number. Speaking to the redheaded youth who seemed to be the leader, Berg said, “I suggest you leave at once! There are many more of them than of you.”
The youth paled, nervously adjusting his red bow tie. Still, he maintained bravado. “And this is how the great police department of Munich protects its citizens?”
“Right now, this is all I have to protect you with.” Berg held up his pocketknife. “For heaven’s sake, use some common sense. The assassination of Eisner occurred not so long ago. Get out of here!”
It took a few moments for the gravity to sink in, but then the youth addressed his followers. “Let’s go!” He turned on his heels and ran. Seeing their leader take flight, the remaining stragglers rushed off as well.
Berg looked at the stage, at Hitler, who was comforting the anguished woman who had just lost her sister and her niece to the elusive Munich monster. The Austrian stretched out his right hand and gave his oath to reform the city or die trying to do it. The crowd responded by mimicking his arm gesture.
The Brownshirts droned on.
Get the Jews! Get the Kommunisten!
Get the Jews! Get the Kommunisten!
Volker had had enough. He picked up the bullhorn.
“The rally is over! Go home now or face immediate arrest!”
Get the Jews! Get the Jews!
“You must start clearing the square now!”
Get the Kommunisten! Get the Kommunisten!
“You must do this now and in an orderly fashion!”
Get the Jews! Get the Kommunisten!
“Anyone loitering in the square will be arrested!”
The Kommunisten have fled! Get the Jews! Get the Jews!
And in a single tick of time, the threats finally erupted into action. Stones were hurled at the uniformed policemen who surrounded the stage. The initial assault was followed by a barrage of more projectiles—rocks, stones, pebbles, rotten food, and beer bottles. Within a flash, a series of whistles were blown—the official signal to move in and suppress the insurrection.
The police responded, pushing Hitler and his cohorts off the stage. The police were on the attack, grabbing any Brownshirt that dared to confront them, punching them mercilessly, kicking the punks to the ground, and only when they were fully prostrate did the police attempt to handcuff them. This decisive action caused the crowd to rise up in volleys of protest, physical as well as vocal.
The hostile response caused the police to act even more aggressively.
That led to more projectiles flung at the uniforms.
The crowd moved as a single unit, a dark, ominous cloud rushing forward. The horde began to charge the police, demanding their rights as citizens of Munich, accusing the Munich constables of being supporters of the enemy. Haphazard skirmishes were converging too quickly into a full-fledged riot. Keeping beat to the warfare was the constant chant.
Get the Jews!
Get the Jews!
Berg was at a crossroads. Although his physical energy was much improved, he was still suffering the effects of his severe beating of less than three weeks ago. As much as he wanted to help out his Kameraden, as much as he wanted to fight fist to fist with the punks and the hooligans who confronted the city with disobedience, he knew that physically he was useless.
Get the Jews!
Get the Jews!
His mind was racing. It was 1923 again. The stage was thick with Brownshirts, and police were going at one another in a collage of black and brown. Although he couldn’t make out any individual, he knew that Müller and Storf were up there.
For a moment of insanity, he thought about charging down the center aisle, jumping onstage, and helping them out. These were his fellow officers, his fellow Inspektors and his friends. But his options were cut short when a throng in an unbridled delirium surged toward him like a tidal wave. Arms were flailing and fists striking whatever and whoever got in the way.
What to do!
It was the murder of a woman that had led to Berg’s beating. He knew that these newest murders would lead to more beatings, specifically beatings of Jews. As in ’23, the Nazis would use these latest tragedies and the subsequent upheaval as excuses to riot and loot, to beat and murder Jews.
Horrible images ripped through Berg’s brain—war recollections—spurting blood and seared flesh, bombs going off and bodies blown apart, the ground steeped in human remains. Hideous enough on foreign soil, he’d be damned if he allowed it to happen on his own home ground.
The first Jewish house they’d ransack would be Regina Gottlieb’s. Even though the woman had been brutally murdered, the Nazis would find a way to blame her murder—as well as the most recent murders—on her husband.
The drama unfolded before his e
yes. A group of Brownshirts broke free from the crowd and formed a double line. Fists in the air, they marched and chanted:
Death to the Jews!
Death to the Jews!
They moved southeast toward Isarvorstadt. Still weak in his legs, Berg knew there was no way he could keep up with them on foot. Fortunately, he was one of the few officers assigned to a Kraftrad. Stowing his knife in his boot, he turned on the ignition and forged through the crowd, zooming ahead. With any luck, he could reach Herr Gottlieb before the Brownshirts.
Passing the parade of high-stepping Nazis, hoping that his mind was clear enough to remember where Gottlieb lived. Racing through the streets, scaring pedestrians and motorists. His ears rang from the angry shouts and pandemonium left in his wake. Still, he could make out the constant dirge:
Death to the Jews!
Death to the Jews!
Berg cut through the old city of Munich, riding on the streetcar tracks, past the stores and the cafés, past the tobacconist and the milliner, past the majestic government buildings and Marienplatz and the china shop that had serviced the Bavarian kings. When he got to the Viktualienmarkt, he slowed, half walking his Kraftrad and half riding along the cobblestone walkways, casting off purveyors’ curses and the enraged epithets thrown at him by shoppers. He bore down on the motor scooter until he came to Gärtnerplatz. A quick left, then a right.
The sun had dropped below the horizon. Darkness would fall within twenty minutes. Anarchy would reign: the queen of the night. Under the veil of darkness were phantoms of terror preying upon those unlucky souls who were without resources to defend themselves. Berg looked up at the dusky sky. Just let it stay light enough to find Gottlieb.
Another right, another left, then another left.
No time to lose. The area should have looked familiar, but all he saw were tenements—one crumbling building after another. Terrified people dashing through the streets trying to get home. Dark-skinned Eastern Europeans—Jews, Poles, Czechs, Gypsies, Romanians—all of them buzzing with frenetic activity, boarding up windows and doors.
They knew what was coming. Though still far away, the noise and singing could be heard and grew steadily louder.
Another left turn.
The block looked vaguely familiar. Yes, he thought. This was it. He slowed as he peered at the wretched structures. Was it this one or that one? The one in the middle of the street . . . or that one across the street? He settled on one of the apartment houses, hoping he was correct, dragging his Kraftrad up the stoop, then through the front door into the apartment house. The foyer was barely big enough to contain the bike. He took a moment to look around. Yes, he was sure this was the right building. He recognized the torn-up floor, the same rotted staircase. He didn’t want to leave the Kraftrad downstairs for fear of it being stolen, but he didn’t have the energy to carry it up the stairs. Furthermore, Berg doubted that the steps could hold the machine’s weight. He left it in the foyer, blocking the stairwell, then hurried up the steps and banged on Gottlieb’s door.
“Axel Berg here. Kommen Sie schnell, schnell!” More banging. “If you don’t come out, others will break down the—”
The door flew open. The man’s complexion was ashen, as if mercury instead of blood ran through his veins. He tried to speak, but no words came out. He was trembling violently.
“You must come with me now!” Berg said.
“I must pack a few things.”
“No time.”
“My money. I need money!”
Berg conceded the point. “Quickly. I will be downstairs with the motor scooter.” He raced down the steps as fast as his limp would let him. Sweating with exertion, exhaustion, and fear, he dragged the Kraftrad outside and turned on the motor. Gottlieb appeared two minutes later.
“Into the cart!” Berg ordered him. As soon as the Jew was seated, Berg tore away from the decrepit building.
The big question was what to do with him. Berg wouldn’t dare hide the Jew in his own apartment. For one thing, he couldn’t get the man across town safely. But neither would he endanger his family and his career by being labeled a Jew sympathizer.
Ah, but those two little girls . . . their angelic faces. How they plucked at his heartstrings and stirred his compassion. They were motherless. How could he do nothing if nothing meant they’d be orphans?
The chanting grew louder and louder.
Death to the Jews!
Death to the Jews!
The question now was what to do! As a temporary measure, he thought about arresting him just to keep him safe. But then surely the police would steal his money and probably beat him as well. Moreover, the Brownshirts might take over the police station as they had done in ’23. Then the man would be as good as dead.
His mind was awhirl, shuffling through a dwindling list of options. Berg could think of only one place to bring him. It wasn’t a terribly good solution, but it was the only one he had.
THIRTY-SEVEN
By the time the Kraftrad reached the cigarette house, the first group of Brownshirts were filtering into the streets, waving sticks and beer bottles, their chanting and drunken singing drowning out any ambient noise. There wasn’t a police officer to be found.
Berg remained concerned about the welfare of Müller and Storf, as they had been stationed in the center of the rioting. It had been a long time since either of them had been on the streets. He remembered the helpless feeling of being outnumbered, the relentless punches and kicks; a limp and constant pain still plagued him. Surviving the trenches and mustard gas only to be beaten by bloodthirsty hoodlums, residents of the city that Berg had sworn to protect—punks with no jobs, no skills, and small brains occupied only with hate.
Braking the Kraftrad in front of the broken-down structure, tires splashing mud and muck onto his boots, he brought the machine to a halt. The blue wash that had once colored the strips of siding was almost nonexistent, and the wood framework had splintered and rotted. The shutters were drawn tightly over the windows. Stagnant rainwater had pooled in front of the entrance and formed a dirty, rank moat around the entire building. Each puff of wind brought up another putrid stench. Berg wrinkled his nose in disgust. His hip throbbed dully. He was uncomfortable, but if the pain stayed at this level, he could live with it.
He retrieved the pocketknife from his boot and told Gottlieb to get out of the sidecar. “Help me drag the scooter into the vestibule.”
Gottlieb grabbed the cart as Berg hefted the motorcycle. Together, they carried the machine up the rotted stairs of the stoop. “What now?” the Jew asked.
“Don’t talk,” Berg barked out.
Gottlieb glanced with darting eyes at the streets swarming with Brownshirts. Berg tried the door, but it was locked. He banged on the wood, announcing that he was police and ordering that the door be opened immediately.
There was no response.
“Herrjemine, what next?” He looked at Gottlieb. “We’ll have to break it down.”
“Whatever you say.”
Berg counted to three, then both men rushed the door, right shoulders serving as battering rams. Pain shot through Berg’s torso when his body was met with resistance. So be it—he’d nurse his wounds later.
“Again. Eins, Zwei—”
The door swung open. The fat desk attendant staring at them through small, hooded eyes, his pocked face covered with sweat. “Sind Sie verrückt?”
Are you crazy?
“Help us get this thing inside now! If you don’t, I’ll tell the boys outside that you harbor Jewish whores.”
“And don’t you think they know that already?” the attendant said. “Why do you think the place is locked?”
He tried to close the door on them, but Berg was too quick, slamming his body against the portal so hard that the wood cracked. Once inside, Berg butted his head into his opponent’s stomach, causing the fat man to double over in pain. Berg pushed the attendant against the wall, grabbed a shock of his hair, and lifted his face, sticki
ng the point of his knife into the layers of fat underneath his chin. Red liquid trickled down Berg’s arm. Still leaning hard on the man and speaking just inches away from his face.
“If you move, I will cut your throat. Verstanden?”
The fat man whispered a hoarse yes. From the corner of his eye, Berg noticed that Gottlieb had not been idle. While he was dealing with the proprietor, the Jew had managed to drag the motorbike inside and bolt the splintered door. The Jew was panting.
Berg was breathing hard as well. “None of us wants this place to be raided by the police or vandalized by thugs, correct?”
In lieu of a nod, the fat man lifted his eyes. Had he moved, the knife would have glided through his fat as if it were warm butter.
Berg eased up the pressure. “Is she upstairs?”
Again the fat man croaked out a yes.
“Ah, very good!” Berg turned his head, his eyes sizing up the room while never leaving the attendant or the point of his knife. He spotted a door that was slightly ajar. “What’s inside that room?”
“Broom closet.”
“That’ll do. Put your hands up.”
The fat man hesitated. Berg kneed him hard in the stomach. When he doubled over in pain, Berg turned him around, pushed him face-first against the wall, then yanked his arms around his back. The clerk was so overweight that his hands did not touch. From the jacket of his uniform, Berg took out a pair of handcuffs and linked the proprietor’s hands together. Yanking him upright, he marched the man into the closet. Before Berg locked the door, he said, “You’ll be safer in here anyway.”
Berg bolted the front door, his mind jumping from issue to issue. “Help me put my Kraftrad behind the counter. If the Nazis break in and see it, they will know that a policeman is here.”
“Isn’t that good?” Gottlieb asked.
“I told you not to talk.” Berg was nervous and angry. “Right now the police are the enemy. Not as bad as the Jews, though. They’ll attack you before me. Let’s move.”
Together, they lifted the motorcycle and stowed it behind the counter so it wasn’t visible.
Straight into Darkness Page 29
