The Arms Maker of Berlin (9 page)

“I’d like that,” she said. “And thank you.”

“Splendid! Then let’s change course. Hold on!”

He turned the wheel sharply to starboard, and they leaned into the sweeping curve, heading west toward what remained of the dusk, a faint glow in the bare treetops along the far shore. So much for keeping his two worlds apart, although Kurt supposed they were bound to have collided sooner or later.

“I heard yesterday that congratulations are in order for your sister,” Erich shouted. “When’s the wedding?”

“No date yet. Depends on when he’s posted to the front, I guess.”

Liesl gave him a look, and Kurt felt like a fool.

“Wedding?” she said. “Traudl’s getting married and you haven’t told me?”

“Well, it’s not really a sure thing until the background check is finished.”

“Nonsense,” Erich said. “He was probably just afraid you wouldn’t approve of his new in-laws. Bruno’s an SS man. Spit-polished and shiny, with all the lightning bolts. Very fearsome. Except to Traudl, of course.”

Leave it to Erich, even in jest, to zero in on the real reason Kurt had kept the news from Liesl. He didn’t dare look at her.

“Well, I’m sure that if he’s all right for Traudl,” she said awkwardly, “then he’s probably a fine young man.”

Later, when Kurt would look back on the progression of the whole disastrous evening, he would decide that this was where events had begun to veer off course. Not only did it wreck their earlier sense of ease, it primed them for what turned out to be their most fractious disagreement.

“So what was your dad’s urgent business?” Kurt asked, hoping to change the subject.

“See that big white villa on the far shoreline, dead ahead?”

“The one with the huge lawn?”

“That’s it. Normally it’s some sort of guesthouse for visiting security police, but this morning there was a big powwow there. Or
boring
powwow, I should say. Invitation only—not that anyone would have wanted to crash it. Especially since the host was the even more boring Reinhard Heydrich. Talk about someone who loves to hear himself speak. My dad said he hardly shut up the entire morning.”

Heydrich was the chief of the Reich Main Security Office, which made him boss of both the Sicherheitsdienst, or SD, and the Gestapo secret police. Rarely, if ever, did anyone toss around his name as lightly as Erich just had. Liesl shifted uncomfortably at Kurt’s side.

“I don’t know about boring,” she said, “but he’s certainly dangerous. Supposedly he’s the reason Professor Schlosser’s been detained. Another faculty member complained to Heydrich’s office about something Schlosser said in a lecture. Three days later he disappeared.”

“Yes. He can be meddlesome that way.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

Erich glanced back at her, then broke into an awkward grin.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m too used to hearing about him from my dad’s perspective. To him, Heydrich’s just a power-crazy bureaucrat nosing into everyone else’s business.”

“What was the meeting about?”

“Jews, of course. My poor father had to go because the minister wouldn’t. Frick is such a milquetoast. My dad doubts he’ll even last out the war. But maybe it was all for the best, because Frick doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground where the Jews are concerned, and ever since the Nuremberg laws everyone assumes that my father is some kind of expert. He’s not, of course. He just knows how to write an airtight law.”

“Airtight,” Liesl said. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Her face was stony, which made Kurt nervous. His earlier fears were right on the mark. Mixing these two in close quarters was volatile. And while Kurt sympathized with Liesl’s views, he believed there was a proper time and place for expressing them, and this wasn’t one of them.

“So you think my dad’s too hard on the Jews?” Erich said it with an amused air, which Kurt knew would only provoke her. “Believe me, he did them all a great favor by keeping their big noses out of certain places. The best thing a Jew can do right now is lay low, and with those laws in place they
have
to play it safe.”

“Next you’ll be telling me that all that cold weather in Russia is actually good for our boys at the front, because bullets don’t hurt as much when you’re numb.”

“Very good!”

Erich laughed, apparently oblivious to just how close he was to pushing her into an explosion. To him this was all in good fun. For all of Kurt’s love and admiration for Liesl’s boldness, there were times when he wished that she, too, wouldn’t take things so seriously.

For whatever reason—Erich’s laughter, perhaps, which may have showed Liesl the folly of arguing further with a buffoon—she lowered the volume of her next remark, which Kurt recognized as one of Bonhoeffer’s statements from the previous Sunday.

“The Apostles were all Jews, you know. And if they had all just decided to ‘lay low,’ as you put it, then none of us in Germany would ever have become Christians.”

Erich smiled again.

“My father’s bosses wouldn’t necessarily see Christianity as a good thing, you know. I’m not even sure my father would, sorry to say.” Then, after the briefest of pauses, “So what are your plans for later, you two? Because I’ve been thinking, maybe it would be easier for everyone if you both just stayed for dinner. As long as Liesl didn’t hound my father too much about the Jews, of course.”

That was Erich all over, careening from glib to serious and back again in the blink of an eye, as recklessly as he piloted the boat. Nothing seemed to matter very much to him apart from girls, a stiff drink or two, and a roaring good time.

Kurt should have said no right away. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of his father, who would have dearly wanted him to say yes. Currying favor in the Stuckart household was high on the Bauer agenda, mostly because Erich wasn’t the only person who thought so little of the current Interior Minister, Wilhelm Frick. Stuckart was the real power behind that throne.

So Kurt paused, and the lapse proved fatal.

“We’d love to,” Liesl said. “As long as I can phone my parents from your villa to let them know I’ll be late. It will be interesting to hear what your father has to say.”

Her answer seemed to surprise both young men, although Erich recovered quickly.

“Splendid,” he said. “And my mother will be thrilled. She hasn’t seen Kurt in ages. As for my father, well, if he can endure four hours of Heydrich, then he can damn well put up with whatever any of us has to say.”

Erich pulled out his flask for another quick swallow, and roared with laughter into the icy breeze. Kurt’s stomach began tying itself into knots.

T
HE
W
ANNSEE WATERFRONT
had become quite the enclave for Nazi bigwigs over the past several years. Goebbels had a place there. So did his undersecretary, Hermann Esser. Economics Minister Walther Funk was another neighbor, as was Hitler’s physician, Dr. Theodor Morell. The Reich Bride School had set up shop nearby. And it was only fitting that Stuckart had a villa, too, since his Nuremberg laws had helped free up some of the properties from previous owners at such reasonable prices.

The size and scale of the Stuckart place was fairly modest, but inside the decor was that of a Bavarian hunting lodge. Just as Erich had said, the heads of trophy animals stared down from the walls of the vaulted main room—elk and boar mostly, a procession of antlers and tusks that seemed fearsome and predatory, especially when you were already worried sick that your girlfriend would wander heedlessly into a field of fire.

Erich’s mother answered the door and took their coats while Erich introduced Liesl and announced that they were all staying for dinner.

“My apologies that none of our servants are here,” she said. “I’m afraid that we only brought a cook, and even at that I must apologize in advance for what will be a very simple dinner.”

She hustled down a hallway with their things. Erich’s father must have already returned—Kurt spotted a brochure on a side table promoting the villa where the meeting had been held. The cover featured a handsome black-and-white photo of a grand room with polished wood floors and a splendid view of the lake. The sales pitch referred to its “completely refurbished guest rooms, a music room and billiards room, a large meeting room and conservatory, a terrace looking onto the Wannsee, central heating, hot and cold running water, and all comforts.”

Not exactly a terrible place to have to spend a morning, he thought, no matter what Erich said.

They gathered by the fire along with Erich’s two older sisters and an elderly uncle. The flames were roaring by then. Liesl warmed her hands, her expression unreadable. She had been very quiet since they arrived. Soon afterward Erich’s father joined them. Presumably he had changed out of his work clothes. He wore a tweed hunting jacket and heavy wool pants, and he smelled of pipe smoke.

“Good to see you, Kurt,” he said heartily. “I could have used your father with me today. Lots of questions about railway logistics and hauling capacities. All quite baffling to me, really. I’m afraid none of us was quite up to the challenge.”

“I can ask him to phone you, if you’d like.”

“Please do. I’d like to tap his expertise on some of these matters.”

Liesl gave him a cold look, which only went to show how little she understood about the business world, he supposed.

Stuckart offered everyone a drink, and to Kurt’s relief Liesl accepted. Maybe things would be all right after all. He wondered idly where Erich had put the flask of cognac.

The “simple” dinner was anything but. There was venison roast and cold duckling, served on Dresden china with the finest silver. Somehow the Stuckarts had even found green beans, perhaps from the larder, along with shredded winter greens and mounds of potatoes dripping with fresh dairy butter. For dessert, a red berry compote, Rote Grutze, served the traditional way, with vanilla sauce. Each course came with a different bottle of wine fetched from the villa’s cellar. Conversation was cordial and blessedly dull, and by the time everyone had moved on to coffee Kurt was feeling unguarded enough to believe the worst of the danger had passed.

Liesl, in fact, was looking quite healthy and inviting after their strenuous day in all that fresh air. She seemed refreshed, too, as she sipped from the china cup.

“Thank you for the lovely dinner,” she told Erich’s mother. “I can’t tell you how luxurious it is to taste real coffee again.”

“Yes,” Stuckart’s father chimed in from the head of the table. “I simply can’t stomach any more of that fake stuff. Roasted barley mostly, but I’m told some brands even have ground-up
acorns!
Like we’ve been reduced to boars, rooting through the forest. What is it I heard you calling it the other day, Erich? ‘Nigger sweat’ or something?” He chuckled. “That sums it up pretty well, I’d say.”

Liesl set her cup down with an unnerving rattle, although only Kurt seemed to notice. When Mrs. Stuckart offered a refill, she shook her head.

Talk then turned to the war, as it always did. As was also customary, the women mostly stayed out of the conversation, speaking in asides to each other about other matters. Except for Liesl, who leaned forward and followed closely as the elder Stuckart led the way.

“Field Marshal Leeb has been removed from command of Army Group North,” he said. “The word just came down today.”

“Isn’t he the third one to lose his job?” Erich asked.

“All since the first of December. But Kuchler has taken his place. A good commander. He’ll buck them up for sure. It may take some doing, maybe even a little more juggling of commanders, but the Fuhrer will have us back on the right track in the east. By the time the spring thaw is here, we’ll be ready to go back on the offensive. Winter in wartime is always about waiting things out, anyway.”

“Did you hear about that poor man, von Reichenau?” Mrs. Stuckart asked, in a rare interjection.

“Old news, dear,” Stuckart said, indulging her with a smile. “He was appointed weeks ago. The new commander of Army Group South.”

“Yes, I know. But he just dropped dead of a heart attack. Right there at his headquarters.”

That wiped the smile off her husband’s face.

“You’re certain of this?”

“Lotte heard it from his wife only this morning. And he was so young, too, as these things go. A terrible tragedy.”

Everyone was still digesting that bit of news when Liesl spoke up.

“I am afraid that the war in the east is lost,” she announced. “I have heard that almost anyone who is realistic now believes there is virtually no way that we can win.”

The response was shocked silence. Kurt stared at his saucer. The fire popped, and a log dropped with a thud and a shower of sparks.

Mrs. Stuckart glanced uneasily around the table, as if gauging how much the comment had upset everyone. She dabbed her mouth gingerly with a napkin. Even the glib Erich managed only a cough.

Kurt felt compelled to speak up, to somehow try to limit the damage. It was bad enough that the Interior Ministry’s second in command was sitting right there. He, at least, was probably used to hearing such candor from others in government during guarded moments, so maybe he would overlook it as a mistake of youth. But you never knew when someone else—even one of Erich’s sisters, for example—might feel compelled to pass along a defeatist remark to the wrong kind of policeman.

Everyone there had probably heard the story of Karlrobert Kreiten, the talented young concert pianist who had remarked to a friend of his mother’s that Hitler was “a madman” for ordering the invasion of the Soviet Union. His mother’s friend turned him in the next day and he was now awaiting trial in Plotzensee Prison.

“It is easy to be discouraged these days,” Kurt said haltingly, “but we are all doing what we can. Liesl does volunteer work for wounded soldiers, you know. She collects cloth for bandages, and reads to them in hospitals in Berlin. The very ones who have been serving on the eastern front. I can see how that kind of experience, day after day wouldn’t leave you feeling very hopeful.”

No response, not even from Liesl. Kurt sensed his fruitless words drifting up through the chimney and off into the night sky.