In the Claws of the Eagle (16 page)

Erich walked stiffly down the stairs from the Abrahams’ flat. His uniform felt like a strait jacket across his shoulders. He had done it! He had acquired his first work of art for the
Führermuseum
, and an outstanding one at that. But yet he felt like dirt. The uniform that had made him feel like a god on their
triumphal
entry into Vienna that spring now stifled him. He thought longingly of the worn comfort of his climbing clothes; all he wanted now was to be swinging loose-limbed down the path from Montenvers to Chamonix after a week climbing in the French Alps.

What was he doing here? He stopped on the landing; the sweat that had sprung up during his interview with Herr
Abrahams
was cooling uncomfortably. Why, when Klaus had told him about the picture, had he not given him the man’s first name? He must have known that this was the famous violinist. Was he testing him, or was Klaus getting his own back for the time when he had stood up for Abrahams in front of the boys? The Jew would, of course, be compensated, he consoled himself, and he was a musician, not an artist, but when Erich recalled touching the wood of the maestro’s violin, he felt as if he’d burned his fingers. The arguments against the Jews seemed to lose their power when faced with someone like Izaac Abrahams.

Looking down the stairwell, he could see the corporal
waiting at the door; he’d better get on. There was a motley group of militia and civilians skulking under the stairs. A couple of them raised their arms and said ‘Heil Hitler’. He ignored them and hurried out; what were they were waiting for here? The elderly couple he’d seen being dragged down earlier were on hands and knees scrubbing the pavement, their toothbrushes now bald, while a mixed group of local people, some carrying shopping bags, watched and chatted as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

He noticed two men in suits being made to paint anti-Jewish slogans on a shop, probably their own, surrounded by glass from their smashed windows. Erich stopped in disgust. In the distance clouds of smoke were rising from the burning
synagogues
. This has got to stop, he thought. The sooner the authorities get on with finding somewhere for the Jews the better. He strode on. A new thought crossed his mind. He stopped so suddenly that his corporal, walking behind, nearly bumped into him. Those militiamen under the stairs of the Abrahams’ house … who were they waiting for?

‘Corporal! Take the picture back to my quarters. I have left something behind in the Jew’s flat. I will follow you directly.’ People stepped out of his way as he marched back, his SS
uniform
clearing a path as effectively as a snowplough. Admiring looks added to his sense of disgust and urgency.

There was a bigger audience outside the apartment now. He quickened his pace. A policeman was holding back the crowd where someone had thoughtfully spilled white paint on the cobbles, and was making an elderly couple scrub at it with cold water. The more water was added the more the paint spread, and the more abuse they got. The woman, dressed only in a light kimono, had obviously been forced from her bed. Erich did not see Izaac Abrahams at once; he was
surrounded
by a big crowd of his own. They had invented a
game. They were throwing tiny groschen coins on the cobbles and making Izaac pick them up, chanting: ‘Yid, Yid, pick up a quid.’ If he didn’t try, he got a clip on the head; if he did, they tried to stamp on his fingers. Erich looked about for help; thank God, he saw the black uniform of a fellow SS officer in the crowd. He pushed his way over to him.

‘Heil Hitler! Officer,’ he said. ‘I think we should stop this.’ The man just laughed.

‘Aren’t they doing a great job?’ he said, looking with interest as a man in working boots slammed one boot down within a centimetre of Izaac’s hand. He grabbed Erich’s arm, laughing, ‘Hah ha! Go for it, get his greedy fingers!’ he called out.

Afterwards Erich would not remember precisely what he had said to his fellow officer, but he did remember lashing out at him before he turned to the mob and shouted:

‘Don’t you realise who this is? It is Izaac Abrahams, one of our finest violinists! You ignorant Yahoos, if you break his fingers you deprive …’ A boy lifted his foot. ‘Don’t you dare!’ In one lunge, he lifted the boy and threw him bodily out of the circle. That, combined with the ominous effect of his uniform, was enough for him to be able to clear the civilian scum from the corner. Herr Abrahams explained that the lady in the kimono was his mother and that she was unwell. Together they helped her and his bewildered father upstairs to their flat. Erich was too angry even to acknowledge their thanks. When he arrived at the ground floor door again he was greeted by the SS officer he had spoken to outside.

‘Congratulations,
Untersturmführer
, you protected your Jews very well. Perhaps I could have the pleasure of your name?’ Erich felt his tongue dry in his mouth; why this
unexpected
courtesy, the man had done nothing to help him? Why this sudden emphasis on his rank? Then he looked – as he should have done before – at the officer’s collar. There, next to
the three officer pips like his own, were not just one, but two silver bars! The man was a Captain, two whole ranks senior to him! Erich gave his name, which the officer wrote in his
notebook
. ‘My name, if you wish to make an apology, is Captain Winkler,’ he said, like a dueller dropping his glove.

Erich was marched into the room where he was to be charged with his offence.

‘Left, right, left, right, left, right. Halt! Salute!’

‘Heil Hitler!’ Erich raised his right arm.

‘Cap off!’ He took off his cap and placed it under his left arm while the sergeant major who had marched him in took two steps back, saluted, and positioned himself with his back to the door.

Retribution had been quick. It was less than three days since the incident outside the Abrahams house. The charges against him read: ‘Assault on a senior officer, insubordination, fraternizing with Jews, and disgracing his uniform.’ His friends had told him he was lucky not to have been court martialled. Captain Winkler, the officer he’d confronted outside the Abraham’s flat, was making his case to the judges; his accusations rising to a fanatical scream. Erich concentrated on the outlines of his judges, haloed against the light streaming in from the high windows behind them, trying to ignore the fine spray of spittle as Captain Winkler raved. In the centre would be the presiding officer, flanked by Erich’s own colonel on one side, and the one representing Captain Winkler on the other. At the end of the table was a clerk, taking notes. At last Winkler was running out of steam.

‘… this
officer
, gentlemen, is worse than the
crawling
Jew he tried to protect – no doubt for his own interests. He is a
disgrace
to his uniform, to his oath, and to the Führer. Heil Hitler!’
He snapped to attention, and stepped back. Erich noticed his fingers drumming against the side of his leg.

‘Untersturmführer Hoffman,’ Erich’s colonel grated. ‘You have heard Captain Winkler’s accusations; what have you to say to the charges made against you?’

Erich knew he was in deep trouble; if this went to a court martial, not only might he be put in prison and reduced to the ranks, but he might be thrown out of the SS and end up as a private in the army. For all that he knew he could even be shot. He
should
be conciliatory, but fury at Winkler’s ignorant tirade got the better of him.

‘Fellow officers, I had not expected to hear the language of the Viennese gutter in this courtroom. It is my understanding that the uniform I wear is to uphold the highest standards of behaviour in our new Greater German State. It has been put to me that I am disloyal on the Jewish question, far from it. But if what I saw on the streets last week is the sort of behaviour we can expect from our citizens, the sooner the Jews are protected from them the better. If something has to be done, let it be done soon and with dignity and compassion. Stamping on the fingers of a great musician and artist is not the way. What
Captain
Winkler has described is substantially correct; but he, wearing the uniform of the Reich, not only failed to intervene but was actively encouraging this gutter behaviour by cheering them on. If I had seen that he held the rank of captain, frankly gentlemen, I would not have believed it. As far as my
conscience
is concerned, my oath and my allegiance to the Führer are unshaken. Heil Hitler.’

Captain Winkler couldn’t resist intervening: ‘You see, he admit–’ he began, but the presiding officer rose.

‘Silence!’ As he had risen, Erich noticed the light shine for a second on the silver-on-black shoulder boards of a full general. Erich blinked. A
general
! He really must be for it!

‘I think you have made your case, Captain Winkler,’ he said. The voice was authoritative but neutral. ‘You will both wait outside while the court considers its verdict.’

They were marched out and put to sit, one each side of the door, under the watchful eye of the Sergeant Major. A
secretary
, typing her way through a pile of forms looked up, caught Erich’s eye, and smiled encouragingly. Angry voices rose inside.

‘Just because he climbed the Adlerwand doesn’t make him beyond the law!’ A moment later the door flew open and they were being marched in again.

The general addressed them: ‘Untersturmführer Erich Hoffman, you have been found guilty as charged. You will remain here for sentencing.’ He turned to the captain. ‘
Hauptsturmführer
Winkler, you may return to your quarters.’

For a moment Winkler stood, his mouth opening and closing like a fish; he wanted to hear Erich’s sentence. ‘Dismiss!’ He had no alternative but to go.

The general then turned to the other two presiding officers. ‘Gentlemen. I will now interview the prisoner on my own.’ Erich’s heart sank.

The general ushered his colleagues to the door, put his head outside, told the girl who was typing that they were not to be disturbed, and turned back into the room where Erich was standing ramrod stiff.

‘At ease, Lieutenant,’ he said. He came up with his hand outstretched. ‘Von Brugen.’ He clicked his heels. Erich shook his hand. He recognised the name as that of a general from the First World War, one of Grandpa Veit’s heroes. He had a lined face and eyes set deep under bushy brows. Most SS men were young, ex-storm troopers who had been
handpicked
for Hitler’s bodyguard. The general moved stiffly to a small table, extracted a file from his briefcase, waved Erich into
a chair opposite to him, and fixed him with a penetrating look.

‘You may not have been told, Lieutenant, but I am the head of the Art Acquisition Programme. I decided to involve myself in your case when I heard that you had applied to join this programme. You have not made the most auspicious start, have you?’ Erich inclined his head. ‘You understand that it will be my duty to punish you, no matter how much I may be in sympathy with your attitude. You struck a senior officer, and also countermanded his orders. If it was wartime I could have had you shot. Captain Winkler may be over-zealous, but technically he is in the right, and will expect a maximum penalty. My job, however, is not to waste a good man over a silly argument. In order to decide what I do with you I need to know a little more about you. I see that you are a graduate of the college of art here in Vienna.’

‘Yes sir. I specialised in art history.’

‘Your thesis was on Dutch Art of the seventeenth century; good. So this is why you volunteered to work with the new SS Art Acquisition team?’

‘Yes sir.’ The general was running his finger down the sheet.

‘It says here that your mother is an artist?’ Erich nodded. Suddenly the general chuckled. ‘Oh dear! “
Modern, degenerate
” it says on your file. Would you say her art was “degenerate”, showing
Jewish or Negro
influences, perhaps?’

Erich’s colour was mounting; he was, as always, torn between loyalty to his mother and his dark associations with her paintings. In his dreams Grandpa Veit, though years dead now, looked out at him from her pictures. Erich continued to be tortured with doubt about Mr Solomons and his influence on Mother. Were the catalogues and books he brought for her intended to corrupt her or were they to draw her into his arms?

‘I’m afraid she
was
infected, sir. I don’t like her work.’

‘Well, never mind. Perhaps you will learn. And the Jewish
thing?’ Erich gulped; he found these changes of direction confusing.

‘If, as they say, there really is a conspiracy to establish a “Jewish Republic in Europe”, to overwhelm the Aryan nations, then of course something has to be done. We need a solution. The British have supported the idea of a Jewish homeland in Palestine. We need somewhere for them to go.’

‘But you don’t approve of seeing old Jews scrubbing the streets, and a violinist having his fingers stamped on?’

‘Of course not, that just degrades us.’