Last Stop Vienna

by Andrew Nagorski

  I felt happier than I had for quite a while. As long as the party didn’t collapse completely, I figured, I’d still have something to do, and it was a relief not to be quarreling with Sabine. If only nothing changes, I thought, I’ll be all right.

  It was then that everything began to change.

  —

  For several days, Sabine had been acting testy again. Not exactly angry but distracted and irritated by small things. When I forgot to put the cheese on the outside windowsill at night and it spoiled, she lectured me about how we couldn’t afford to waste food. When she came home to find that I hadn’t tidied up the bed after getting up late, she remarked, “You’d think you could do one small thing in this house.” But when I asked her what was bothering her, she quickly apologized for her irritability and claimed it was nothing.

  Until the evening, when she came home with a strange, almost frightened look in her eyes. She took off her wet coat and, uncharacteristically, flung it on the bed. “I need to talk to you, Karl.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “There’s something . . .”

  I had picked up her coat with the intention of hanging it on the stand near the door. “Yes?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  She was biting her lower lip as I stood there, still holding her coat, not moving, certainly not knowing what to say.

  “Karl, say something, please.”

  “Are you sure, absolutely sure?”

  “Come on, I work in a doctor’s office.”

  I hung up the coat. “Sabine, sit down. We need to think this through.”

  “You don’t want it?”

  “No—I mean yes. It’s just . . .”

  Her face flushed. “I don’t know how I’ll manage. I’m scared. But look, go if you want. You don’t have to stay.”

  “Sabine, stop, please.”

  I coaxed her into her chair. And then, without thinking, or maybe thinking too much, I frantically argued my case—a case that I constructed as I talked. It wasn’t a question of not wanting to have children with her, I explained. I wanted children, many children. “Hitler says Germany needs more children,” I added.

  “Keep your Hitler out of this,” she snapped.

  My point was, I insisted, that I wanted us to embark on this important part of our lives the right way. We should have more stability first. My future was tied to a party with an uncertain future. We’d know soon whether I’d continue with this work or have to find something else. Then we could marry, which was the right thing to do first. When I saw her hurt look, I went further. We could get married soon, very soon, I promised. And then we’d have those babies.

  I found myself dramatically dropping to my knees. “Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

  She pushed my head into her lap and stroked it. I could feel her hands trembling. “Yes, but I want my baby.”

  “You’ll have your baby. Just not now, not yet. Let’s get married first.”

  She cried some more, and she pleaded. But when I stood my ground again and again, she finally agreed.

  —

  Hitler’s behavior only grew stranger. Or so I thought. In the Reichstag, Gregor Strasser denounced his continued imprisonment, claiming that the country was run by “a gang of swine, a mean, disgusting gang of swine.” Instead of expressing his gratitude, Hitler angrily let it be known that he didn’t want his supporters using such heated rhetoric. He seemed to be turning peaceful, almost apologetic, suggesting that he was no longer interested in anything but employing legal methods to advance his political views. Not for him the politics of violence. Not anymore.

  “What’s happening?” I asked Emil. “Doesn’t Hitler want to fight for his release?”

  “Of course he does. That’s what he’s doing.”

  “How? By acting like a lamb instead of a lion?”

  “You’re finally beginning to figure it out.”

  It was then I began to see another possibility: that Hitler wanted his party to look weak to convince the authorities he no longer represented a danger. I dismissed this reasoning almost as soon as it occurred to me. It seemed a betrayal of everyone on the outside. Later, though, I came to believe this was exactly what he was doing.

  Whatever the reason, the Bavarian supreme court ordered his release on parole less than two weeks after the elections in which our candidates had fared so poorly. Emil had sent me word in Munich as soon as Hitler was informed on December 19, and I rushed to Landsberg early the next morning. I arrived just before noon.

  The guard on duty urged me to hurry. “Everyone is ready for the send-off,” he said.

  He was right. I knew how sympathetic most of the staff was to our cause, how persuasive Hitler had been with his jailers. Still, I hadn’t expected the sight that greeted me that day. The guards and administrative staff, headed by Governor Leybold, were lined up in formation. Hitler stepped out of cell number seven for the last time, holding his cap in his hand and wearing a raincoat over his shorts. Leybold, his eyes filling with tears, wished Hitler well and shook his hand, and several guards shouted, “Heil Hitler!”

  Hitler didn’t linger. His photographer, Heinrich Hoffmann, and the printer Adolf Müller were waiting outside with a car. Hitler looked up at the dark gray sky, ordered Hoffmann to snap his picture before the prison gate and jumped in.

  Hitler had spent a little over a year in prison. I heard later that someone in the state prosecutor’s office had calculated how much time he still should have served: three years, 333 days, 21 hours and 50 minutes. Much later, sitting in my own prison cell, I had often thought about what would have happened if he had served that time, how differently everything might have turned out.

  Chapter Eight

  I was walking home one evening shortly after the New Year when I ran into Uwe. We hadn’t seen each other for a couple of months, and I almost passed him by.

  “What’s the matter, Karl? No time for your friends anymore?”

  I looked at him in disbelief. He was as big and brawny as ever, but instead of the usual scruffy coat and workman’s pants that he wore for his housepainting jobs, he was outfitted in a plain but proper navy blue overcoat and gray slacks. His hair was combed neatly to one side, and his chin no longer had the permanent stubble that he had cultivated since our SA unit had fallen apart.

  “Forgive me, Herr Passau,” I said, bowing with mock formality, “for confusing you with our capitalist masters.”

  Uwe grinned. “Jealous? Come on, let’s get a beer, and I’ll fill you in on my secret.”

  He steered me toward a nearby pub that was both smaller and tidier than the sprawling beer hall where we usually drank. It was also more expensive. Uwe quickly read my thoughts and patted me on the shoulder. “Fret not: The beer is on me.” When he opened his coat, I glimpsed a white shirt and tie. “Patience, my friend,” he said.

  We settled onto our stools on opposite sides of a small round table, and a waitress took our order, returning with the two frothy mugs.

  “Cheers,” Uwe said. One thing hadn’t changed. He still wiped off the foam on his upper lip with the back of his large hand.

  “All right. What’s the big secret?”

  Uwe leaned across the small table and motioned for me to do the same. He whispered, “Work.”

  “Work?”

  “Yes, full-time work. Not this here-and-there stuff I was doing but a real job with real earnings. It’s incredible how that can change your life.”

  “Just like that, you got a job where you make real money?”

  “Maybe not just like that. I had a bit of luck, but the times are getting better, and there are opportunities out there if you look for them. Things have changed, Karl. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Uwe explained that renovation and construction companies were hiring again. Now that inflation was back under control and the pressure on reparations from the victors in the war against Germany had eased, more and more people had the money and the confidence to fix up the
ir old apartments or to invest in new ones. His boss, who had started with a small crew of part-time workers like Uwe, now employed several crews. He had taken a liking to Uwe, saw that the other workers respected him and made him the office manager. Uwe’s job was not only to organize the schedules of the crews but also to deal directly with customers. Hence the more respectable clothes, the haircut and the shave. And the income.

  “Look, Karl, I might be able to find a job for you, too.”

  “Full-time?”

  “Sure, we’re a serious operation now.”

  Uwe looked at me quizzically when I didn’t respond right away.

  “You see, I still have other commitments,” I said.

  “To Hitler, to that crew?”

  I nodded.

  “You can’t be serious. What have they done for you? Don’t you get that it’s over? We’re long past the stage where playing soldier accomplishes much of anything. You saw the results of the last elections. All of those groups put together, including the Nazis, couldn’t get three percent of the vote. No one takes Hitler seriously anymore. His party isn’t even legal.”

  I tried to respond forcefully, but my reasons sounded less than convincing even to me as I trotted them out. Hitler was already looking for ways to rebuild the party, which had fallen into inevitable decline while he was imprisoned; he was talking to the Bavarian authorities about winning approval to relaunch the party legally, and he seemed to be making headway. Most important, he had learned his lesson in the putsch. From now on, he repeatedly promised, he’d stick to only legal methods. We weren’t going to be bashing heads anymore, just working to build a political base.

  “You miss the point,” Uwe countered. “Even if Hitler can put some kind of party back together, it won’t count for anything. I admit that Hitler knows how to talk. I was as much under his spell as you and the others were. He made sense in a lot of ways. But now that the times are getting better, I don’t need him.” He paused. “Nor do most Germans, which is why he’ll be the leader of only a fringe protest movement at best. People just want to live normally for a change.” He drained his mug. “Shouldn’t you be thinking about living normally, too?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure what normal is anymore.”

  “You’re missing an opportunity. I bet Sabine would be happy if you took it. You’ve got a terrific woman. Why not make her happy?”

  “We’re going to get married soon.”

  “Good God, man, why didn’t you tell me earlier?” He turned to the waitress, who was wielding several more mugs on her way to a bigger table. “Give us two more—my friend is about to be married.”

  —

  The walls were a dirty brown, and the ceiling was covered with large damp spots. The room’s single window let in almost no light; it looked like it hadn’t been washed in years. From somewhere nearby came the pungent smell of cabbage and pig’s knuckles on the boil.

  Sabine shivered. “Are you sure this is all right?”

  I reassured her yet again that Dr. Stein came highly recommended. She had been too embarrassed to ask any of her fellow nurses or the doctors she knew for help. Maybe she had hoped this would prompt me to reconsider, to abandon the whole idea. But I had confided in Emil, who seemed pleased to be consulted in such a matter. “No problem,” he assured me. “I know the right man. He’s reasonably priced and very discreet.”

  “And good? Safe, I mean?”

  “Absolutely. You have no idea how many satisfied customers he’s had.” Emil smirked. “And satisfied men who needed to send the women his way. Yours truly prominently among them. I’m a regular.”

  I had wanted to believe him, but now, sitting in what passed for the waiting room, I couldn’t help but share some of Sabine’s doubts. I wasn’t about to admit them, however. There have never been any complaints against him, I told her. There was no need to worry. And once we had this taken care of, we could get married.

  Sabine sat rigid, glumly staring ahead of her but seeing nothing. When she spoke, it was in a dry, low whisper. “Maybe we should just walk out and have the baby. Would it really be so bad to get married when I’m pregnant?”

  “We’ve talked about all this before. It’s about having a child before we’re ready. Let’s do it right.”

  A small bald man, wearing thick glasses and a stained smock, stepped into the room. “Stein,” he said brusquely. “Is the fräulein ready?”

  Sabine looked at me with pleading eyes. “I don’t really know. I . . .”

  “If you’re undecided, then why are you here? I don’t have time to waste.”

  “No, no, we’re decided,” I assured him. “Right, Sabine?”

  Her eyes met mine and then, not finding what she wanted there, once again went out of focus as she looked straight ahead. “If you say so,” she whispered.

  “Well, then,” Stein said, “I’d like the money now, if you don’t mind.”

  I paid without a word.

  Stein quickly counted the bills and shoved them under his smock. “You won’t be needed till later. Come back around five.”

  Sabine didn’t look at me as she followed Stein through the door.

  I spent the next few hours walking around the city. When I felt cold, I stopped off in a café, and once I returned to the apartment, thinking I’d do some reading. I couldn’t concentrate.

  I was cutting though the English Gardens when a ball rolled near my feet. I leaned over and picked it up. “Give me,” a small boy said, his hand out. He was bundled in a worn coat with a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, but the face that poked out from under his cap was a work of art: a precisely chiseled mouth, a snub nose and light blue eyes.

  “Ask the man nicely, and I’m sure he’ll give your ball back.”

  I tore my eyes away from the boy and saw the mother smiling uncertainly. “Of course,” I said, handing the boy the ball. “Of course.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said, taking her son by the hand.

  “How old is he?”

  “He’ll be three next month.”

  “He’s very . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Nice, handsome.”

  “I know.”

  I stood there watching them walk away. As the boy lifted the ball and showed it proudly to his mother, I suddenly recognized what I had done—how much of a mistake it was, how horrible a mistake. I raced up the path, passing the mother and child without a word, tearing through the rest of the park, through the streets and squares that were nothing more than a blur to me, until I arrived, breathing hard, at Stein’s door.

  I knocked and, when no one responded, banged hard and kept banging. The door opened a crack, and I shoved it hard and stepped in.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Stein demanded.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t do it—the abortion.”

  “It’s a little late for second thoughts. I told you two earlier that you have to know what you want.” He looked me up and down. “Are you trying to get your money back?”

  “You mean it’s done?”

  “Yes, it’s done, goddammit. No refunds.”

  I sat down, feeling sick. “I don’t want a refund,” I managed to say. “That’s not the point.”

  Stein’s face relaxed, but only slightly.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “A little wobbly.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, fine. She’s a bit weak. Some women take this harder than others.” Leaving me in the dark room where Sabine and I had sat earlier, he ordered: “Wait here.”

  I waited and waited. Maybe it wasn’t so long, but it felt endless, and all I could think of was why hadn’t I come back earlier, why hadn’t I realized that Sabine had been right all along.

  I was almost ready to barge in when the inner door reopened and Stein led Sabine out. Her face was drained of all color, her eyes had shrunk into the far recesses of her
face and she shuffled forward.

  I reached out to steady her, allowing Stein to step back. “Sabine, I’m sorry,” I pleaded, my eyes suddenly wet. “I’m so sorry. Maybe we should sit down here and rest some more before we go. You don’t mind, Doctor?”

  Stein stood there impatiently.

  “For God’s sake, you can see how weak she is,” I said.

  “Right, stay if you want to.” He turned his back toward the inner door. “I’ve got work to do.”

  I began leading Sabine to a chair. “No. I want to leave now,” she protested in a barely audible voice.

  We negotiated the way out and started down the street. Leaning on my arm, Sabine tried to keep shuffling ahead. But before we had managed to turn the first corner, she collapsed onto the sidewalk like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Not knowing whether I should try to lift her alone, I put my coat under her head and shouted for help. A man ran over from the other side of the street. “Just keep her head up,” I pleaded before darting back to the abortionist’s office and banging on the door. Once again the door opened a crack, and once more I immediately shoved it wide open. “Not again,” Stein seethed. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  “You’d better get help for her fast or you’ll need the help yourself,” I shouted. “I’ll have every brownshirt in Munich here.”

  I must have looked like I meant it, because Stein didn’t argue. He peered out and saw Sabine lying on the pavement. “Go to her,” he commanded. “I’ll get help.”

  A car pulled up on the quiet street a few minutes later. The driver, a young man with the square jaw and huge hands of a boxer, leaped out. “We’ll get her to a hospital,” he said, swiftly lifting Sabine in his arms. I tried to help, but he already had her maneuvered into the backseat. I jumped in and put her head on my lap. As the car lurched forward, I caught a last glimpse of Stein looking out his partly opened door then slamming it shut.