Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

by Jack Martin

  Himmler drew a folded document from an inside pocket of his tunic, and threw it on von Papen’s desk. “This is your resignation. Sign it.”

  Fearful, but determined, von Papen slowly shook his head. “I will not. I don’t care if you kill me, I will not bow down before you … you Sträftater … you murderers.”

  “That is a pity,” replied Himmler with a sigh. “Heydrich, take the two men at the door and go to where Frau von Papen and the children are being held. You know what to do.”

  “NO!” screamed von Papen. “I will do all that you ask! Please,” he begged. “Just leave Martha and my children untouched.” He staggered over to the desk and signed the document without reading it.

  Himmler smiled benevolently. “See. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “What is this so-called service you wish of me?” asked von Papen in a hollow voice.

  “You’ve heard of the Thule Society?”

  “Yes. An association of unbalanced crackpots who have some idiotic ideas about the origins of mankind.”

  The smile instantly disappeared from Himmler’s face, replaced by a scowl. “Be careful what you say. Their ideas are not idiotic, and they exercise great power behind the scenes in the Reich. I am one of their Inner Council, with Heydrich as a candidate member.”

  Von Papen’s jaw nearly dropped. He wondered if it was possible for Germany to become any more insane under the Nazis.

  Himmler continued to speak. “The subtle pressure the members of Thule were able to bring to bear eased the Leader’s path to the Chancellorship.” Himmler stopped. “I see from the look on your face that you do not believe me. Well, no matter, your lack of belief will not affect your ability to conduct your duties.”

  Madmen are indeed running the asylum, thought von Papen. Even so, his family must be protected. “So what is this service you wish from me?”

  “There is a secret society in America, one in accord with many of our goals. It wishes our financial support in funding a politician to replace Roosevelt in the White House, a politician who is in accord with many of the principles of National Socialism. This is tempting. Roosevelt despises us, and may try to thwart our future plans. The Leader wishes to be assured that they are a serious organization with serious resources. You will take a ship for New York under a false name, wearing a disguise. There, you will be met by a representative of the American group. He will take you to see those who control it, where you will examine their financial resources. If you are satisfied that they are a serious group, you will be taken to meet their American politician, and, as they say, ‘strike a deal’.”

  With courage he had not known he possessed, von Papen replied, “Why do you think I would give you an honest evaluation?”

  Heydrich answered. “Because, after you finish your job, you will return to Germany to see your family.

  And you will all remain under house arrest. If later it should turn out you have betrayed us….” The Hangman gestured toward the body on the floor.

  “Very well,” said von Papen. “It appears I have no other choice.”

  “Excellent,” Himmler replied as he clapped his hands.

  “We will begin immediately.” Himmler patted Heydrich on the back. “Heydrick will escort you to SS headquarters and begin fitting you with the papers for your new identity. I,” again Himmler bowed, “will escort your beautiful wife and children to your country estate, and ensure that a … ah … guard of honor is established for them.”

  Just then, the distant chatter of a submachine gun followed by a scream caused von Papen to jump.

  Schmidt shook off his reverie and left his cabin. After descending the gangway, he went to the customs station, and handed his papers nervously to the official, certain that as someone who had, however briefly, been one of the most important politicians in Europe, he would be recognized. On the contrary, Heydrich had been correct about changing his appearance. The bored official glanced at him casually, stamped the passport, and handed it back to him. A relieved von Papen collected his single suitcase and exited the customs building. All at once he heard, “Welcome to America, Herr Schmidt.” Von Papen turned to face the speaker, a large, somewhat overweight man with a friendly smile, who enthusiastically shook his hand.

  “I’m Jackson Noyes, Mr. Schmidt,” the man said in a distinctive Boston accent. “As you were undoubtedly told back in Germany, I will be your guide and your host during your visit to our fair shores.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” responded von Papen automatically, although he had taken an instant dislike to the man.

  “Here, let me take your bag. Follow me to our car.” von Papen followed the American for half a block until they entered a parking lot, and reached a flashy new Cadillac convertible, the top already down. Noyes threw the suitcase into the trunk and took the driver seat, gesturing for von Papen to take the passenger seat. Barely seated himself, Noyes ignited the engine, and with the V-12 howling, gunned out of the parking lot, turning left on a northbound street. Above the sound of the engine and the wind, von Papen had to speak loudly to be heard.

  “I understand that you are to introduce me to some of your, ah, colleagues, as well as some of your resources. I was not given the details. Now that I am here, I would appreciate more information.”

  Noyes laughed ruefully. “Our organization is quite old, and seventy years ago was close to doing for this country what your Leader is doing for Germany. Unfortunately, we moved too quickly and encountered unexpected opposition. That opposition thought it had destroyed us. What they did not know is that we had boltholes it never dreamed existed, and we still retained stupendous financial resources. We sent some of our best people to Europe to found a sister organization, but moving slowly, never excited suspicion. The Thule Society is the result. And although even most Party members don’t know it, we have been a major supporter of your Leader—and of Herr Himmler. They are grateful to us, and in return will make the resources of Germany available to us, so that we can put a man in the White House who will support our mutual goals.”

  “Fringe beliefs such as yours are three a penny since the Depression hit,” von Papen said, frowning. “Why should Germany back a pack of chanting cultists?”

  Noyes was now smiling broadly. “Oh, we are ever so much more than, as you say, ‘a pack of cultists’. We are something you would not believe, unless you saw it with your own eyes. That is why I am taking you to see some very curious facilities and people in rural Vermont, and then to spend a couple of educational days in the Massachusetts seaside village of Innsmouth, with a final visit to meet our Grand Council.”

  “In Boston?”

  “No, in an interesting town northeast of Boston called Arkham.”

  Harry Bierce brought his rented Hudson convertible to a stop just in front of the imposing brick mansion. Killing the engine, he emitted a long sigh; the day and a half drive from Chicago to Kentucky had involved some bad roads, and the constant jolting had tired him. In addition, he did not look forward to his meeting. Still, she deserved the warning he was here to give. He got out of the car, stretched, and started toward the grand front door. He stopped short when his eye caught the image of a woman riding a horse near a distant barn. He hurried toward the barn. The woman must have noticed him, but continued to put her mount through its paces. As he walked directly up to the horse, Mrs. Belasco brought her animal to a stop and smoothly dismounted, keeping the reins in her hand.

  The raven-haired beauty smiled arrogantly at her guest. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Do you need more money?”

  “No, your kind gift has been more than sufficient. I have come rather to give you a warning.”

  “Indeed. Well, come walk with me and warn away.” She whistled, and a groom came scurrying out of the barn. Wordlessly she handed him the reigns, then began walking to a nearby pen. Bierce followed, his sensitive nose wrinkling at the foul odor emanating from it. On closer inspection, he could see that the enclosure held ten or twelve large h
ogs, grunting and snuffling at the muck that covered the ground. Mrs. Belasco leaned on the top railing, looking affectionately at the animals. Bierce held back, distaste written on his features. Mrs. Belasco noticed this and laughed.

  “You never did like pigs, did you?”

  “Foul animals,” he muttered. “I’ve seen them in the aftermath of battles, feeding on the dead and the not quite dead, eating until there was literally nothing left of the soldier.”

  “Ah, yes, perfect little disposal machines. That’s why I keep them around. They eat the garbage, and then can be sold to the slaughterhouses. Anyway, where have you been lately?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Took the train to Louisville?”

  “No. Rented a car and drove the distance. Took more time, but I wanted to get a view of the towns and countryside on the way. Terrible. The people are suffering and in want. Many of the farms are derelict, most of the factories seem to be closed. Homeless men, women, and children could be spotted wandering the streets in every town through which I passed. It’s even worse in the South, but not by much. It reminds me so much of those awful times, long ago.”

  Mrs. Belasco laughed heartily, heartlessly. “I am always and forever baffled as to why you still care for those peasants.”

  “Those ‘peasants’, as you call them, are trying to build a better world under a government which encourages them in their dreams of freedom, but seems unable to help them with their daily wants. When I see what is happening in Europe and Asia, I come to believe America and its ‘peasants’ are the only hope for decency and freedom.”

  Mrs. Belasco chuckled. “You and your idealism. No matter what government comes, I will continue my pleasures, indulge my desires. And I know you share those desires, no matter how valiantly you struggle to suppress them.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “Do not try to deny it. In any event, you do seem to have had some influence on my brother. He has been enjoying the high life of Berlin recently, and has acquired some interesting information. He has joined this delightfully decadent thing called the Thule Society, and has sent me a short message through … shall we say, unusual channels … that he wished me to give to you next time we met. He says that the Thule Society is tight with the Nazis, and they’ve persuaded the Austrian peasant to contact a society in America to investigate the possibility of an alliance.”

  “Starry Wisdom,” Bierce said softly. “Yes, your old friends.”

  “I thought they had been beaten into impotence years ago.”

  “You, of all people, should have known better than that. Anyway, brother says that if the two societies can come to an agreement, they will funnel their resources to support some Southern governor to kick FDR off the ticket in ’36. He thought that you would be interested in this information.”

  “I am indeed. When you can, thank him for his information, and tell him I would be extremely grateful for more such information in the future.”

  “You know, I believe he will do so,” she said thoughtfully. “It seems like some of your idealism rubbed off on him after all. Now, you said you had some sort of warning to give me.”

  “It is about your missing husband. The Chicago office tells me that the search for him is being upgraded. There is a lot of pressure to apprehend him. It seems several of the victims in the Maine mansion were very well connected, socially and politically.”

  Mrs. Belasco leaned her back against the railing of the pigpen, smiling strangely. “So what does this have to do with me?”

  “I know you two are estranged, and I am glad of it, but in a desperate last resort he might try to hide out here. I warn you against giving him shelter. If you did, you would be an accessory after-the-fact to multiple murders, and all the money in the world won’t be able to keep a jury from sending you to the chair. If he shows his face, turn him in. I beg you.”

  She turned around and looked lovingly at the hogs. “I don’t think he will be showing up anytime in the future. Just look at my beauties here, very efficient. They literally eat anything. And, they do not leave a trace.”

  Bierce’s stomach did a small flip. He gave Mrs. Belasco a short, quick bow, then turned and walked quickly to his convertible. Behind him, Mrs. Belasco’s laughter sliced through the clear Kentucky air.

  Bierce drove two more days to get to New Orleans. The last time he had driven that route had been in 1928 to interview a retired police detective named LeGrasse about a ritualistic murder. That drive had taken four days. Grudgingly, Bierce admitted to himself that Long had fulfilled at least one of his promises: in the last five years he had paved every road in sight, and replaced the inefficient ferries with bridges over the numerous rivers. As he drove through the countryside and the small county seats, he still saw poverty and despair, but he also saw new schools and hospitals—the former still segregated, but the latter obviously admitting black as well as white patients. Bierce reflected that many people in the North would not think of this as much, certainly not worth surrendering freedom to the increasingly dictatorial and corrupt Long machine. Seeing all this, Bierce now understood why he was constantly seeing pro-Long signs and placards in front of tarpaper shacks in the country and in run-down tenements in the towns. Even before the Depression, the downtrodden souls of Louisiana had nothing. Long had given them good roads and bridges, new schools, free textbooks for their children, hospitals and health facilities for all—white and black alike. Of course, the middle and upper classes despised Long’s corruption and increasingly dictatorial rule, but the poor loved him unreservedly, and did not give a damn if he took their political freedoms. It reminded Bierce uncomfortably of what was happening in Germany.

  As Bierce parked his Hudson near the entrance to the Roosevelt Hotel, he spotted a large gathering a block away. A voice boomed from several loudspeakers. Despite the distortion, he could tell that the voice was that of Senator Long. Bierce decided to delay checking in and go to hear the great Huey Long in action.

  A short walk brought him to the edge of the crowd, which he estimated to consist of about 8,000, a respectable turnout, even for a city the size of New Orleans. Although the crowd seemed friendly, even rapt with attention, Bierce noticed that on either side of the speaker’s dais stood a large, ugly man in a crumpled suit, whose appearance screamed hired muscle. More disturbingly, toward the back of the platform were about twelve national guardsmen, each with a pistol, and several with Thompson submachine guns. The sight of them made Bierce frown deeply. He then devoted his entire attention to the speaker, who had apparently been winding up the crowd for some time.

  “My friends, you know I have been trying to work with President Roosevelt up in Washington City. I’ve been telling him that the people of Louisiana—hell, the whole country—have been hurting. All of you, my hard-working friends, be it on the farm or in the factory, you’ve been working your hearts out, wearing away your health and years, and yet, it’s hardly enough to feed your family. Yet is this country poor? Is it?

  “NO!” yelled the crowd in unison.

  “It is not, my friends. How could it be? Look at all those rich Easterners—the Mellons, the Carnegies, the Astors, the Morgans—why, Mr. John D. Rockefeller alone, is worth over a billion dollars. Now my friends, I don’t begrudge a man money that he’s worked for. Some of God’s creatures are blessed with more ability and luck than others, and more power to them. But how many meals can a man eat, while others go hungry? How many suits can a man have, while others don’t have a pair of pants without a patch? How many houses does a man need, when so many have no shack they can call their own? Does this seem a proper state of affairs, my friends? Does it?”

  “NO!” yelled the crowd, louder than before.

  “But do not despair, my friends! Today I have exciting news! Since Mr. Roosevelt does not seem to have the backbone to take on the rich and get this country moving again, I am forming a new organization to do just that. It is called the “Share Our Wealth Society,” and its slogan is “Every Man a King.” I u
rge you all to join it. I urge you to tell your friends to join. Tell your families to join. There are no dues! All I ask in return is help in spreading the good word. Now what does the society propose to do, you may ask? Well, I’m here to tell you.

  “We will get the Congress to enact a tax taking away all family properties above a value of five million dollars. We will get the Congress to enact an income tax that will take away all family income of more than one million dollars a year. Now, what will be done with that money?” Huey Long stepped away from his podium and moved to the edge of his stage. Then he pointed his finger at the crowd, his voice booming. “Every family in America will receive five thousand dollars—enough for a home, a car, and a radio!” The crowd roared.

  “Thereafter, every family in America will receive an annual payment of two thousand dollars. Two Thousand Dollars!” Bierce could barely hear the man over the thunder of the crowd.

  “And every family with a child of proven ability will have that child sent to college, tuition free! Not only that, but the work week shall be limited to thirty hours a week.” Long walked back to his podium and turned back to the crowd, and threw his hands in the air. “Now, my friends, do you think that this would make every man in this country a king?”

  The crowd went wild, the cheering, deafening. Many in the audience were crying tears of joy as the grinning Long held his arms out, as if he wished it was possible to embrace every member of the crowd at once. Bierce had seen nothing like it—except in newsreels of the Jew-baiter in Germany. He frowned to himself at that thought.

  When the audience finally quieted down, Long began to speak again.

  “Friends, this is going to be a campaign, but not a campaign of hatred or misery. No sir! Our campaign will be one of joy. And like all campaigns of joy, it should have a joyful anthem. Now, as you all know, I’m a humble man.” Both the crowd and Long chuckled. “But I decided to try my hand at writing such a song. Now, I found the words all right, but here before you I admit I found that the notes themselves were beyond my modest ability. So, the head of our beloved LSU Marching Band assigned his notes to my words. He and some of his boys are here this very day to play you the result. Boys, get on up here!”