Читать книгу Our Only Shield - Michael J. Goodspeed - Страница 13

7

ANNIKA WAS TAKEN ABACK. She stood in the living room of her town house, her right hand unconsciously raised to her mouth. “You mean you’re leaving Amsterdam tomorrow? But Pauli, I think I’ve managed to get you a job through Saul’s uncle. You can start a new life here. It’ll be wonderful. Your family — they’ll be safe and secure and we can help you with the adjustment. This is the Netherlands. It’s not like Germany.”

Pauli shook his head. “Annika, Germany hasn’t been like Germany for ten years now; Europe’s turning into a madhouse. You’ve been very kind, and I’m really grateful for the help you and Saul have provided on no notice when we just turned up on your doorstep, but last night, after we went back to your place, my wife and I decided we’re not staying in Europe.”

“This will end, Pauli. We need people like you here. Where will you go?”

“You obviously haven’t heard the news on the radio. Germany just attacked Denmark and Norway.”

Annika said nothing. She crumpled backwards into an armchair, stunned and numb, as if she had been given a strong and unexpected electric shock. It wasn’t just the news of disaster from a distant country. She felt personally stung with the sudden understanding that the future would not be what she hoped it would be. The news left her frail and embarrassed. Her mouth went dry. “It can’t be true. We could be next. It’s unbelievable.”

Pauli’s voice sounded remote, as if he were speaking from another room. Unaware of Annika’s distress, he continued. “I went to Saul’s synagogue today. It was just a hunch, but apart from yourselves, the only other man I had any connection with in Amsterdam was a distant cousin on my mother’s side. I found someone at the synagogue who knew of him and he gave me his address. My cousin was smart. He left Stuttgart when things really started getting ugly in 1935. I’d almost forgotten about him. He lives here in Amsterdam, but last week he sold his business and he’s leaving for South Africa next Thursday. He has connections with a Dutch shipping line. He’s offered to arrange our way to Cape Town. We can pay him back when we’re on our feet in South Africa. We sail to Lisbon tomorrow on the first leg of the journey. In ten days, we’ll be in South Africa.”

“Pauli, do you really think the Germans will come here? We haven’t done anything to harm them.”

“Neither did we. Neither did Norway or Denmark. For that matter, my father was even wounded in the German army in the Great War. We’ve been living in Germany for hundreds of years. What did any of us do to deserve this?”

“Pauli, I feel like such a fool. I’ve always believed people were essentially civilized, and that if you treated them decently they’d behave the same way. Even with the Nazis and Hitler, I thought they were just an aberration, something caused by an unjust peace treaty. I thought the invasion of Poland was the worst thing that would happen, and even then I thought that it could be justified in some measure because they intended to absorb the Danzig Germans. But now, Denmark and Norway. What could they have possibly done? What does this mean for us? They really might try to enslave us all. Is this possible?”

Pauli gave her a look of resigned finality. “Oh, it’s not only possible, it’s happening. Europe’s going into a dark age; but my family’s not going to be a part of it. We sail at eleven tomorrow.”

* * *

Kaldenkirchen, 9 May 1940

IT WAS MUCH TOO WET for the beginning of May. By late afternoon, the rain had picked up in intensity and was drumming on the roof of the 1935 Opel Olympia. The car had been parked for the last three hours in front of a grubby and shuttered electrical repair shop in the German village of Kaldenkirchen near the Dutch border. Major der Schutzpolizei Reinhold Neumann was sprawled in the back seat watching the puddles grow on the far side of the cobblestoned street. It was still much too cold for this time of the year, but that wasn’t what was troubling him. Neumann had to remain stuffed into the back seat of this cramped car until they were called forward sometime after first light tomorrow when the invasion of Holland began. It was chilly and damp, and to save fuel they were forbidden to run their engines. To make things worse, he was getting a cold. His throat was sore and his head ached.

Neumann would have gone back to bed if he could have gotten away with it, but by early afternoon the army’s Feldgendarmerie had placed all units of the 26th Infantry Division into their pre-invasion Order of March. Patrolling the flanks of the columns were grim-looking helmeted military police with rifles.

Neumann thought the army’s nickname for the MPs, “Chain Dogs,” was appropriate. Around their necks they wore a distinctive brass neck plate. And come to think of it, Neumann had never seen one of these men smile. Not once. They served their purpose, though. They kept curious onlookers away and ensured that no German soldier strayed from his allotted spot in the assembly area. Besides, Neumann knew he couldn’t go back to bed anyway; the hotel that he had been billeted in the previous night was now out of bounds. If he was caught there he’d probably be summarily shot for desertion.

Down the street, the enormous smiling figure of his driver, Rottenführer Dieter Schmidt, lumbered towards him. Schmidt was a tall, gangly, fresh-faced Austrian in his late twenties. Before being transferred to the Ordnungspolizei and then into the Schutzpolizei, Schmidt had been the senior member of a two-man detachment in a small Tyrolean village. He was rustic to his roots. He even told Neumann that before he was transferred to the larger police force he did his rounds on a bicycle. When he transferred to the SS, some clown must have acknowledged his supervisory status and made him a noncommissioned officer. Neumann wondered how he was ever posted into his unit as a driver.

Neumann smirked at the thought of this monster of a man struggling up and down hills on a small bicycle, keeping order amongst the cowherds and pig farmers. What were they thinking, posting mild-mannered men like this into the SS? Schmidt was the kind of yokel who gave Austrians a bad name in the new German security apparatus. Neumann regarded him as far too rustic for the kind of hard police work National Socialism demanded – much better to have cold-blooded men from the cities about you rather than farmers’ sons who longed for the smell of cow shit and an evening’s yodelling.

Schmidt fumbled along cheerfully, juggling a green wine bottle, two loaves of bread, and a large paper bag in his arms. Neumann had let him go forward within the vehicle column to see what kind of luck he might have scrounging food to supplement their army hard rations. He had obviously been successful.

Holding the bag under his chin, Schmidt tugged open the car’s back door. Neumann made no effort to help him. The junior policeman was dripping wet but smiling. “Herr Major, some things to make the night pass a little more quickly. I bought them from an old man who lives in that apartment building by the traffic circle.” He was excited and obviously pleased with himself. “The signals troop leader a few blocks farther up says he’s seen the first motorized infantry battalion leave the assembly area. They passed not twenty minutes ago. It’s really going to happen.”

“Get in the front and close the door. Of course it’s happening; you think we’re here for the fun of it?”

Schmidt shrugged, climbed in behind the driver’s seat, and gently closed the door.

Neumann shifted in his seat. “Let’s see what you managed to find. Did you think to get us glasses?”

Schmidt rummaged in his coat pocket and triumphantly produced two small tumblers. “Yes sir! And some pork pâté!”

Neumann grunted. “Good. Pour me some wine and pass me some of that bread and pâté.” Neumann sniffed and made a face. “Schmidt, did anyone ever speak to you about that cologne or aftershave, or whatever it is you’re wearing? It’s revolting. Don’t wear it again. You smell like a Hamburg pimp.”

“Yes, Herr Major.” Schmidt paused for several seconds. “It was a gift from my wife. But you know, I’ve never smelled a Hamburg pimp before.” Schmidt turned away and sipped his wine and then busied himself breaking the crusty loaf.

Neither man spoke and the implied rebuke hung in the air between them. Neumann could punish Schmidt for that kind of insolence. He didn’t have to explain anything to anyone. That’s what discipline was. On the other hand, Neumann thought, someone quick witted and resourceful like Schmidt could be useful, especially in Holland. Who knew what waited for them there. It would probably be advantageous to have him onside. It wasn’t that long ago he had been walking a patrol beat himself. Still, it burned to be made an ass of by his driver, especially when Schmidt was being gracious and Neumann knew he had behaved like a swine.

For a brief moment Neumann debated with himself whether to say something now or jolly Schmidt along later. He could teach him a lesson by letting him sweat it out for a while, worrying that there would be some kind of reprisal for his impudence; then again, maybe it might be the wiser just to brush it off now.

“Schmidt, I’m going to stretch my legs for a few minutes.” Neumann grabbed his hat, opened the door, and stared down the street. “And Schmidt, thanks for the food. How much do I owe you for my share? You know, I have a terrible headache.”

Schmidt beamed. “Not to worry at all, sir. Four marks, and we’ll say we’re even.”

Neumann gave him a mirthless smile and stared at him for a second. Schmidt couldn’t have paid more than a mark fifty for the lot.

Outside, Neumann stood up and stretched. Nothing had gone right today. He reached back into the car and grabbed his Tyrolean hat, the expensive one with the grouse feathers and boar bristle plume. He liked that hat. It was a hat that made a statement. When dressed in civilian clothes, most Gestapo officers wore a green leather trench coat and a dark, wide-brimmed fedora, pulled down low over their eyes. Neumann thought they were imitating the gangsters in American movies. This hat was clearly Austrian and Neumann privately resented it that so many “German” SS officers half-jokingly ridiculed him for being Austrian. After all, the Führer was an Austrian, and when he was in civilian clothes he frequently wore a Tyrolean hat. Nobody dared make jokes about the Führer’s clothing.

Behind Neumann’s Opel was a requisitioned Daimler bus filled with uniformed police officers. He gave them only a passing glance. He didn’t want to appear too interested in them. Better to exude confidence in front of his men.

Some of the men on the bus tried to read in that fading light, some were sleeping in uncomfortable positions; others smoked and stared vacantly out at the world, thinking their own thoughts. The war pulled them away from their normal jobs, their families, and the routines they had once known. His car and the bus accompanying them made up the first police contingent designated to go into Amsterdam. They were assigned to occupy the police headquarters. In his briefcase, Neumann had a long list of priority tasks they were to accomplish on their first day in the city. They were going to be busy.

By midnight, the rain stopped and the clouds blew away, leaving wisps of vapour trailing across a crescent moon. Neumann had managed to sleep fitfully for a few hours; Schmidt, despite being crammed into the driver’s seat, was sleeping like a baby. In one of the trucks farther down the street, there were cigarettes glowing, and Neumann could see the silhouette of troops in helmets with rifles slung. They were talking in low tones. He wondered when they would all be going home. But another problem nagged at Neumann. Tonight he wasn’t quite sure where his home was.

Maida had moved back to Vienna. He had got the letter from her the day after he left Berlin. It was the last he had heard from her. It was so matter-of-fact, a heartless, one-page note informing him of her move. There was none of the old chatter about the children. He wondered how Klaus and Monica were doing. They were probably in their pyjamas, fast asleep, still clutching their teddy bears at this time of night.

It was no use asking Maida to wait for him back in Berlin; she wasn’t going to stay there. She said in her letter she was going to be staying at her parents’ house; she had already asked her mother to put the children’s names down for an expensive private school. The implication was clear. She had no intention of following Neumann in his career. Even worse, there was no suggestion that he should come back to Vienna when this was over. He rubbed his hand across his mouth. What the hell was going on with that woman? What could have caused the change in her? This was all so sudden. Did it mean she wanted a divorce? She had no grounds. The party didn’t take kindly to that sort of thing. Families in the Third Reich were meant to stay together. It hurt. And on top of it all, it didn’t look good. It was humiliating.

The only good news in all this was that Maida’s father had been retired prematurely. Maida had offered no explanation. She simply wrote that Daddy was now retired from the police force. That was good news. It meant he would never have to feel beholden to her family for anything again. Not that they had ever done much to help him. It was his participation in party activities that had given him the boost he needed. Besides, the party didn’t like these old-guard families anyway. Now, no one could ever say his future achievements were anything but his alone. Still, he had to admit that the tension between him and Maida’s family never did anything to help their relationship.

He exhaled deeply. It sounded more like a sigh. Maida had never shown the slightest interest in his family. Not that Neumann was much of a family man in that sense. He hated his father, who he had not seen in six or seven years; and he had never been at any great pains to be close with his mother, or his sister and two brothers. He wasn’t sure where his brothers or his sister even lived now. He fumbled for his cigarettes. He should quit these; they made his throat sore. But in a funny sort of way, he’d hoped to have had a better life with Maida and his children than he did growing up. He didn’t understand Maida sometimes. There were times when she could be a proper little bitch; then he chided himself. He didn’t want to be angry with her. Whatever it was, perhaps it would blow over.

He turned and tried to make himself comfortable. All this would have to wait until the war was over and he could go back home on leave. With any luck, he might get home before the end of the summer. He couldn’t do much to fix things from here. But maybe in late August or early September he could convince Maida to join him in Amsterdam if things improved. Who knew?

Shortly after one in the morning the first flight of aircraft roared overhead. Neumann was surprised at how low they were: wave after wave flying low and in formation, all of them making a tremendous din. The noise of their engines reverberated in the box-like street. It was a disturbing and frightening sound, but at the same time it was strangely thrilling. In the dark it was hard to tell what kind of planes they were. They had big engines, that was certain. Neumann thought they might be bombers, but, then again, maybe they were transports carrying paratroops. Whatever kinds of planes were ploughing overhead through the night, Neumann knew that the soldiers in them were soon going to be killing Dutchmen who were probably now sleeping. That didn’t bother him. He hoped that if they were bombers, their bombs rained down on Dutch soldiers, inflicting massive casualties. Better to have the Dutch army suffer than our own troops.

The soldiers in the truck forward of him jumped out of the back of their vehicle and began shouting and slapping one another on the back and waving up at the sky. The prospect of the coming violence was invigorating. Neumann smiled at their enthusiasm. Another flight of planes thundered above them, and the windows and shutters in the buildings of the village shook.

As energizing as this moment was, Neumann didn’t regret that he had never been a soldier. He didn’t care for the possibility of getting killed or wounded in battle; who did? By the same measure, Neumann didn’t like the discomfort, or the discipline, and he didn’t like living and working at close quarters with so many others. That kind of life had never appealed to him. In fact, when he really thought about it, Neumann didn’t like the idea of spending time in groups. He was more of a solitary man. Police basic training was something to be endured, but since then he rarely had to work in a team. It was just as well, too. Neumann didn’t want anyone else taking the credit for his work.

Although he certainly never wanted to be a soldier, he revelled in the sense of power that the German army infused in the nation. He was proud of the Third Reich’s military. Those planes overhead, these young soldiers in front of him, even those menacing Feldgendarmerie troops made Germany a nation to be feared; and tonight they were going to seize Greater Germany’s rightful place in the world. Even Austria – as much as he loved its slower pace and unassuming character, he knew in his heart of hearts that it was stronger and more vigorous now that it had fulfilled its destiny as a part of a greater Germany, and the German army was somehow inseparably bound up in that sense of destiny.

He smiled as the soldiers in front of him whooped and cheered and made obscene jokes about the unsuspecting Dutch. Tonight, even some of the military police who wandered over to the vehicle lines were smiling. No one should ever get in the way of the might of the Third Reich. Tonight he was proud to be a part of that new nation.