by Farahad Zama
He watched as Otto's brother, Jeurg, came out of the house next door and walked over. The two brothers were similar in many ways– both six feet tall, with sandy blonde hair, wide of chest and broad of shoulder. When they were boys, strangers had often mistaken them for twins. But recent years had changed them in divergent ways. Otto, who was eighteen months younger than Jeurg, now looked older. He had a paunch from all the beer he drank, his muscles had lost their definition, a stubble was almost always present on his chin and he was taking on the appearance of a shambolic bear. Jeurg Hoenger, on the other hand, was still slim, always neatly dressed and in the last couple of years had started wearing gold-rimmed circular glasses that gave him a mild-mannered look. He worked in the railways and by all accounts was an excellent officer who was very good at scheduling trains.
Father Martin pressed deeper into the shadows and held his breath as Jeurg passed close by him and went to knock on the door of his brother's house. The first few knocks were timid and produced no response. Those within the house had probably not even heard the raps above their own noisy preoccupations. Father Martin watched as Jeurg's face showed impatience and the knocks became louder. The priest felt the noise in the house come to an abrupt end. Jeurg's next knock sounded very loud in the unexpected silence. From his position away from the window, Father Martin could not see inside, but he imagined the consternation of the revellers. Were they rushing around picking up their clothes and trying to make themselves respectable again? Was their ardour cooling as they suddenly realised how disreputably they had been behaving? Father Martin suddenly felt ashamed that he had been peeping on the lascivious scene rather than stopping it as Jeurg had done.
The door finally opened, spilling a puddle of light on the step where Jeurg was standing. Otto came out and Jeurg took a step back and Father Martin was struck again by the contrast between the brothers. Otto was dishevelled, his brown corduroy trousers hanging loose from his large waist, his shirt untucked and the buttons clearly in the wrong holes, so that one lapel was lower than the other. Jeurg said, 'What's going on here, Otto?'
Otto shrugged. 'Just having fun Jeurg. Do you know what that means anymore?'
'This is a respectable area Otto,' said Jeurg, his face red. 'You are bringing shame on our family.'
Before Otto could reply, a woman came out. She was now dressed, but Martin still remembered how her breasts had gleamed pale and white just a few minutes before. 'Who is this, Otto?' she said, laughing. 'Is he a friend of yours? Invite him in too and lets get back to what we were doing.' She kissed Otto on the ear, biting the fleshy lobe.
Jeurg drew himself to his full height. 'Disgusting!' he said loudly.
'Get inside liebchen,' said Otto, swatting the woman's bottom. 'I'll join you soon.' He turned to his brother. 'What do you say Jeurg? Do you want to play with us?'
Jeurg slapped his brother. Father Martin flinched at the sound. 'Your sister-in-law is in the house next door,' Jeurg said. 'Your nephew and niece are sleeping in that room there,' He pointed to a window on the first floor of his house. ‘And you are carrying on your immoral actions within yards of them. If you don't have any consideration for our dear father and mother whose house you are desecrating, at least think of your living relatives.'
Otto just stood there, not responding to the slap or to his brother's diatribe. Jeurg shook his head. 'You disgust me,' he said finally and turned and marched back to his house.
Otto remained standing outside his house for a couple of more minutes with a bemused expression on his face, before going inside. Darkness reclaimed the doorstep as the door shut, trapping the cold electric light within the house. The priest slipped away, not checking whether the orgy continued or stopped for the night.
As the months passed in 1922, the economic situation in Germany worsened. Inflation, already high since the start of the Great War, had gone up even more. Farmers and industrialists were doing well, but anybody on a fixed income suffered. Father Martin was busier than ever. The number of his parishioners who needed help was ever growing. He collected food parcels, ran soup kitchens and chivvied volunteers into helping old people repair their houses and chop wood for their fires.
One summer evening that year, Father Martin had just left the widow Bergdorf's house and was walking down the street when he saw Otto walking slowly in front of him, bottle in hand, as usual. Father Martin shook his head, thinking about how the fates of the two brothers had moved in different directions. Jeurg had risen up in the railways, and he had invested the money inherited from his father wisely over the years. The value of the nest egg was falling with inflation, of course, but it still provided a comfortable cushion and gave the man confidence in his ability to face the future. Otto, on the other hand, went from bad to worse. His share of the inheritance was frittered away. He and his friends became rowdier and the women with them more licentious.
Father Martin had known this would happen. Years ago, when the senior Hoenger was on his deathbed, he had visited the sick man. 'Peter, please consider what I am saying. I have every confidence in Jeurg, but don't you think Otto is too irresponsible to be given so much money all at once?'
Peter Hoenger had shaken his head. Despite the cancer that was eating him from the inside, turning him for a healthy vital man to a hollow shell, the man was as stubborn as ever. 'I have two sons. I have never discriminated against them before and I won't start now.'
'But Peter, we are not talking about discriminating. We are talking about protecting a young man from temptation. Don't you remember how Otto ran away that summer and came back with that unsuitable gypsy girl?'
'He was seventeen then,' Peter said. 'You cannot be holding that against him, surely? Doesn't the church preach that the prodigal son must be forgiven and welcomed back into his family?'
Father Martin sighed. Peter had not become a rich man without being clever.
'Anyway, I've left a legacy for the church.'
'That's not what I am worried about,' said Martin stiffly, though the news relieved him slightly. The church door needed repairs.
The man had died shortly afterwards and his will contained no surprises. A house each for the two sons, investments in shares, bonds and cash divided equally. As promised, the church had received a thousand marks – a sum gratifyingly large, so that not only was the great wooden door repaired but Father Martin had been able to make a start on the chancel windows too. And for that reason, he still talked to Otto, tried to get the man to mend his ways. Martin increased his pace and caught up with the man in front of him. 'Otto,' he said. 'When will you change and appear in front of me without a bottle in your hand?'
Otto laughed. 'I am usually carrying six bottles at a time, Father,' he said. 'But now I can only afford one and the way prices are going up, even that may have to stop. So economics might do the job you've been trying to do with religion all these years.'
'The price rises are ruining good people so I hardly think that God is using that as a means to salvage you,' said Martin. They walked in silence for a moment and Martin shook his head. The man still had charm, despite being an immoral sot. 'Otto, I always see you taking bottles to your house but I've never seen you throw any away. What do you do with the empties?'
Otto shrugged. 'I don't bother throwing them away,' he said. 'They are all in the cellar. Every single bottle I've ever drunk from is down there. I can hardly open the door now.'
'You really should change your habits,' the priest said. 'Look at Jeurg, such a successful man. He's even talking about buying a car. Wouldn't that be something? The first car in our village… You are his brother, Otto. You too could have been like him.'
Otto shuddered theatrically. 'One Jeurg is enough, don't you think Father?' he said, and laughed. Martin looked at him with concern. Was he all right? Otto continued, 'Why would I want to be like my prissy brother? He gets up every morning, goes to the office, comes back to his house and counts his money. When did he last have fun, Father? When did he last kick off his
shoes and wade into a stream? When did he last laugh at a joke told by a pretty woman or slap a friend on his back to wish him luck? Yes, my cellar is filled with empty bottles rather than Reichsmarks or Railway Bonds, but my life has been filled with experiences and his has been devoid of them. Did you know that just yesterday, my Schwägerin, my sister-in-law, told me that she was bored, utterly bored of living with my brother? Can you imagine that? Jeurg is married to a beautiful woman like Klara, and he doesn't actually spend any time with her. Is that what you want for me?'
Father Martin changed the subject. 'How is Klara?' he asked.
'Apart from being bored stiff with her husband? She is all right. Klara is a good woman,' he said. 'If there's one supergeil thing my brother has done in his life, it is to marry her. Yesterday, she gave me a Sauerbraten for dinner.'
'She is a good cook,' said Martin, remembering her pot roasts and the Stollen she always sent to the church for Christmas. 'Well, I have to leave you here. Listen to me, Otto. Change your ways before it is too late.'
Otto waved and continued his way.
In January 1923, France and Belgium occupied the rich Ruhr valley where much of German industry was located with the aim of forcing Germany to pay its war reparations in goods rather than cash. The German government encouraged workers to go on strike and printed money to continue paying their wages. Inflation started galloping. By April, the price of bread was an unimaginable four hundred and fifty marks. As summer rolled along, even that price would look like a pittance.
'Belgium.... Belgium!' spluttered Jeurg.
Father Martin nodded sympathetically. It was crazy. The treaty of Versailles meant not only that Germany had to pay war reparations, but also that it could not maintain an army large enough to defend itself from even a pipsqueak nation like Belgium. One hundred and fifty thousand Germans in the Ruhr valley had been evicted from their homes by the occupiers and Germany could do nothing except print money to pay their salaries and look after them.
Jeurg slammed the tankard down on the table so hard that some beer splashed out. 'I tell you that man Hitler has the right idea. You should hear his speeches.'
It was the end of August and Jeurg, Martin and a few other men were sitting in a bierstube, a beer hall. Martin and the other men shook their heads. They had heard of Hitler but no one paid any attention to the politician in far-away Munich. Jeurg wiped his beer moustache with the back of his hand. He isn't looking so dapper these days, thought Martin. But then, who was? The price of everything was ruinous. Just buying food was enough to wipe out a man's salary. Jeurg looked at all of them and continued, 'Hitler says that there can be no resurrection, no social changes until the treaty is set aside and all Germans are reunited.' Jeurg's voice changed to the sing-song cadence of his hero and he continued, 'He who will not be a hammer must be an anvil. An anvil we are today, and that anvil will be beaten until out of the anvil we fashion once more a hammer, a German sword!'
Everybody round the table nodded. 'The man is right,' said Leon, the schoolmaster.
The door opened and Otto walked in. Jeurg waved him over. 'Mein lieber Bruder, come here.' Otto came to their table. Jeurg turned to the men, 'Make a little place for my dear Otto.' They all shifted; Otto dragged a chair from the next table and sat down amongst them. Jeurg turned to him. 'What brings you here Otto? Karla said that you didn't have any money left, but if you can afford to come to a beer hall, you are not such a pauper after all.'
Father Martin frowned. It seemed to him that Jeurg was being unnecessarily spiteful to his brother. 'Er...' he began to say. 'There's no need to-'
Otto shrugged and interrupted. 'Karla is right. I am a pauper.'
The priest noticed that Otto's clothes, always untidy, were now threadbare as well. His hair was long, as if he hadn't been to the barber in months, and he was thinner. The paunch wasn't as visible any more. Otto continued, 'I didn't come here to drink. I came to meet the landlord.'
'I hope he is not thinking of offering you a job as a bartender. His profits would just go down the drain,' Jeurg said, and laughed at his own joke.
Father Martin squirmed. The others must have felt the same because there was an uncomfortable silence at the table. The landlord hurried over with a thin, dark man. 'Ah Otto, there you are,' he said. 'Meet Herr Kolberg. Otto Hoenger. Father Martin, Jeurg...' The landlord performed the introductions. A man called loudly from the bar and he left. There was an awkward silence for a few moments as another chair was found and Mr Kolberg was fitted in. Leon, the schoolmaster, frowned at the newcomer. 'Kolberg...' he said musingly. 'Are you the man from the brewery?'
Kolberg nodded. 'Yes. The Kolberg brewery was started by my grandfather. Though we are small, we have always followed the Reinheitsgebot, the German Beer Purity Law, and we have been quite successful.'
'Purity Law,' exclaimed Jeurg, interrupting. 'That's exactly what we need in Germany. I say we round up all the Jews and Gypsies and other untermenschen, put them in railway wagons and drive them all out of the country.'
‘And where would you send them? They are Germans too, after all,’ said Father Martin.
‘There are Germans and there are Germans. I have been giving this matter serious thought,’ Jeurg said. ‘Madagascar would be good but that’s not practical. In Upper Silesia, Poland, near the border with Czechoslovakia there is a place called Auschwitz that is perfect. It is well connected to the railways for easy transport and…’
'What the hell are you talking about?' said Otto.
Father Martin looked closely at Jeurg. 'Your brother is drunk Otto. Ignore him. He was talking about Hitler before you came in.'
'That shorty Munich thug who keeps ranting about Jews and international conspiracies against the Fatherland?'
Jeurg nodded beatifically.
'Hey,' said Leon. 'You can't deny that there is an international conspiracy against our Fatherland. Why can't we maintain an army? How come even Belgium can walk over and occupy the Ruhr valley and we can't defend ourselves.'
'I don't want to get into politics,' said Otto, raising his hand. 'But discriminating against people because of their religion isn't going to make us all better off.'
'We are the anvil,' said Jeurg suddenly. 'Everybody keeps hammering us.' He started crying into his tankard.
Otto stood up. 'I'd better get Jeurg home,' he said.
Kolberg stood up as well. 'I'll help you,' he said. 'I have a business proposition for you.' Together they supported Jeurg and walked out.
'You may not be interested in politics,' said Kohlberg. 'But the occupation of the Ruhr valley is proving problematic for us. We can't get bottles any more.'
'I thought you sold beer in barrels.'
'We supply about half our beer in barrels. But the bottle business is large too. We've recently put in a new steriliser and we are paying interest on the loan but not able to use it fully because we don't have enough bottles.'
'Aha!' said Otto, understanding what the brewer wanted from him.
Kolberg nodded. 'My father has dispatched me as the bottle finder. The landlord told me that you have lots of bottles.'
Otto said, 'Thousands.'
'Excuse me,' said Kolberg. 'What did you say?'
'Thousands,' said Otto. 'I have thousands in my cellar.'
Kolberg laughed. 'You are a saviour,' he said. 'Oh my god. I traipse for days round the country for twenty or thirty bottles and you are telling me that you have thousands?'
'Ja,' said Otto. 'I've been drinking since I was seventeen and I've kept every bottle that me and my friends ever brought home.'
Kolberg said, 'You are sitting on a gold mine, Herr Hoenger. Don't let anybody know or people will slit your throat while you sleep and empty your cellar.'
Otto laughed nervously. 'I am sure-'
Kolberg shook his head. 'Things are getting desperate. And they'll get worse, mark my words. We'll offer you a good price. Don't give your bottles to anybody else.'
'Okay,' Otto said. 'I like your b
eer anyway.' He knocked on Jeurg's door and Klara opened it.
'Is he okay?' she said anxiously. 'He never gets drunk. I don't understand.'
'It's the times, madam,' said Kolberg, as they manipulated Jeurg through the hall. 'They are enough to drive any man to drink.' The scion of the brewing family seemed rather happy about it.
The next morning, Jeurg woke up with a hangover. He was groggy and cut himself shaving. The alum stick stung like a nettle as it touched the bleeding chin. He hurriedly got ready and picked up his leather satchel. Klara came rushing out of the kitchen. 'Jeurg, breakfast!' she said.
'I am late,' he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. 'I'll pick up something in the café.'
'Are you sure? Let me cut you a slice of rye bread at least.'
'No, that's okay.' He was already opening the door.
'Did you hear the news about Otto's bottles?'
'Not now, Klara. The regional director is coming this afternoon and I need to prepare. Tell me when I come back home.' Jeurg walked briskly down the lane towards the railway station. His office was in a building on the other side of the tracks. There was a café just inside the railway station and he stopped there. Unusually there were no customers. 'Guten Morgen Hans,' said Jeurg. 'Ein coffee bitte.'
Hans looked at him curiously for a moment, and then silently showed him a slate. Jeurg read what the man had written and stared up at his face incredulously. 'You are joking!' he said.
Hans shook his head. 'Nein,' he said sadly.
Germans had gone to sleep the previous day in late summer in 1923 with an economy that was steadily worsening, but still under control. The next day they woke up in a strange new world. Overnight, inflation had galloped to unimaginable levels.
'Two million marks for one coffee?' said Jeurg spluttering. 'Don't be ridiculous.' He strode out and walked to the bank. On the way, he saw Mrs Hotti put up a hand-written sign. A loaf of bread was now a staggering one and a half million marks. What the hell was going on? At the bank he went straight into the manager's office. The manager raised his shoulders in a shrug. 'I don't know what is happening either, Herr Hoenger. Money has suddenly lost its value. You had one million marks yesterday. You still have one million marks today. But whereas yesterday you could have bought an estate with your money, today, it is barely enough to buy some bread.'
