ONE

November 12, 1938

 

Rana Fleischinger walked quickly, but kept close to the buildings, so as not to draw too much attention to herself.  She would not have even ventured out, had she not been out of so many staples: sugar, flour, salt, lard.  And pears, of course.  She ducked into the little alley that connected Koenigstrasse with the Marktplatz and made for the back door of Scheuer’s Market.  Stuttgart seemed darker these days, even when the sun was out. The imposing Koenigsbau, with its massive Greek portico and Ionic pillars, once a pleasant reminder of Strauss waltzes and concerts of Brahms and Hayden, now somehow seemed to her like a gigantic shooting gallery.  The old Hotel Silber on Dorotheenstrasse, with its white gingerbread facade, was now Gestapo headquarters. The synagogue on Hospitalstrasse, while still appearing largely intact, had been thoroughly gutted by fire.  The Nazis, incensed by what they considered to be a half-finished job, had hired the architect Ernst Guggenheimer to dismantle what was left of the centuries-old landmark stone by stone.  Each time Rana passed it she would pause to watch, tearfully, as the workers — Jewish prisoners from Welzheim and Dachau — struggled to pull it down, little by little, one stone at a time.  A labor of hate, Avi had called it.
Today’s shopping expedition was more important than usual, however.  It was Avi’s birthday, and she promised herself she would make her brother one of her pear tartes. She knocked once, then once more.  After what seemed an eternity the back door opened and the shop clerk, tall, bald, with skin like rare parchment, stuck his head out.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, I’d like three tins of pears and a bottle of vanilla, please,” said Rana.
“Sorry, no vanilla,” he said with no trace of sorrow in his voice.  “And I can only sell you two tins of pears. Rationing regulations.”
No point in arguing.  “Fine; I’ll take them.  And whatever amount of flour, salt, sugar and fat I’m allowed.”  Every day there seemed to be a new humiliation, a new regulation banning Jews from this or that, a new cut to her heart.  It seemed the Nazis were determined to tear down the Jews of Germany, little by little.  One stone at a time.
It wasn’t safe to be on the streets for too long, these days, but that wasn’t the only reason Rana hurried home.  Eugen Scheele had promised to come by, to celebrate Avi’s birthday.  When he was still a prosecuting attorney, Avi Fleischinger had come to respect the Order Police lieutenant’s diligence and phenomenal memory.  Lt. Eugen Scheele, in turn, had appreciated Avi’s fairness and blunt, artless manner, in and out of the court room.  More to the point, Eugen had found himself drawn increasingly toward Rana.
Avi was stretched out on the couch when she got home, the newspaper spread out before him, just as she had left him.  Since his release from protective custody on the 11th, two days after his arrest, Avi had not left the house.  She even had to fetch in the mail and buy his daily paper.  Despite her attempts to draw him out, he refused to talk about his detention, although he was otherwise the same old Avi: handsome, sarcastic, prone to teasing her about her clothes or her fondness for popular movies and jazz (Django Reinhardt was her favorite).
“Ah, she returns.” Avi stretched, and sat upright.  “How was the foraging today?”
“I managed to find one or two things worth buying,” she said, setting the bags down on the sideboard and taking off her coat and hat.  “And, no, you can’t peek.  You’ll have to wait until this evening.”  She took the grocery bags into the kitchen.
“This evening, eh?”  He pulled himself to his feet with some effort and joined her at the kitchen table.  “Still believe Eugen is going to show up, do you?”
She slapped at his hand as he tried to reach into one of the bags.  “He said he would be here, so I believe him.  Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”
“There are a million reasons in Germany today why you shouldn’t believe it,” said Avi. “But we both know Eugen Scheele, don’t we?”  He put his hands on her shoulders from behind and kissed her fondly on the cheek.  “Yes, he’ll most likely come this evening. He’s just reckless enough.”
She smiled and nudged him with her elbow.  “You’re just trying to sneak a peek at what I’m baking you for your birthday.  Go.  Go finish your newspaper, you!”  She turned suddenly and threw her arms around her brother and held him tight for a minute or so, just for believing in Eugen almost as much as she believed in him.  “Love you! Now clear out.  Out!  I’ve much too much to do to get ready for this evening.”
She steered him toward the door, then busied herself with the flour and baking soda. Aside from the occasional peck on the cheek, she and Eugen still had yet to share an actual, romantic kiss.  Perhaps that would change tonight.  Well, little by little.  One stone at a time.

 

**********

 

“Herr Kriminalrat?”
Silence.
Corporal Lanke waited a few seconds before knocking again.  “Major Rehmann?”
“Come!”
“Heil Hitler.”  Lanke saluted but remained in the doorway.
“Yes?  What is it?”
“It’s Hauptsturmfuehrer Kreider, Major.  He still hasn’t reported in.”
SS-Sturmbannfuehrer Rehmann leaned back in his desk chair.  “Have you tried his home?”
“Not yet, sir. He is only twenty minutes late.  Still….”
“Yes, yes; it’s not like Kreider to be late.”  Rehmann stifled a yawn as he reached for a cigarette.  “Well, give him another ten minutes or so, then send someone around to his apartment.  And send in that damned Orpo man, Lieutenant Scheele, assuming he’s still out there.  Oh, and, fetch me a cup of coffee!”

 

     Franz Rehmann, 44, second in command of the Stuttgart Gestapo, turned back to the open dossier in front of him and frowned.  Shorter than average at five feet, eight inches, dark hair slicked back over his skull and with a neck that seemed to merge with his chin, he was a man with a dilemma.  In the cells in the basement they were still holding six or seven Jews left over from the Action on the 9th, out of the 700 or so detained in the initial roundup.  Two were determined to be penniless and therefore to be transferred to the Welzheim transit camp; the others, all wealthy businessmen, were to be released — for now.  Thanks to the reactionaries at the Ministry of the Interior, all wealthy Jews still in protective custody were to be freed, provided they agreed to pay a sizeable indemnity, which would then be transferred to authorized accounts.  Gauleiter Murr had insisted his former chauffeur, Bodo Tomasky, keep custody of the transactions and account numbers.                                                                                                                                                 Shortly afterward, however, Tomasky had been charged by the Orpo with price-gouging at his wurstwaren in the Marktplatz, after too many complaints from former customers had been filed with the Ordnungspolizei.  Now Tomasky would only agree to surrender the accounts provided all charges against him were dropped.  For that to happen, the Gestapo major needed the Orpo lieutenant to sign off on the deal.  Lt. Scheele, however, had already notified the Reich Price Commissar’s office to request an audit of Tomasky’s books.  Before either the Gauleiter’s office or the Gestapo could react, the request had reached the office of Party Treasurer Franz Xavier Schwarz, Hitler’s incorruptible fiscal rotweiler.  Even the Gestapo was now powerless to intervene.  Only two men had the power to cancel the audit: Lt. Scheele, and Adolf Hitler. The Fuehrer’s chancellery had already declined to interfere, ruling that the whole affair was a local matter, too insignificant for Hitler’s attention.  And Scheele would only drop the charge of profiteering on the condition that Block Warden Tomasky and his men were arrested and charged with vandalism instead.  Scheele refused to be intimidated, even with the implied threat of detention and torture by the Gestapo.
“You wished to see me, sir?”
Lieutenant Eugen Scheele of the Ordnungspolizei, or Orpo, stood at attention before Rehmann.  The Orpo were the gendarmerie, the beat cops in green and traffic police in white; the ones who broke up domestic disputes and rounded up truant school kids.  At just over six feet, with hair the color of mercury and confident hazel eyes, Eugen Scheele seemed to tower over the Gestapo major like a shadowy premonition.
Rehmann handed him the file folder and gestured toward an easy chair. Uncharacteristically, he decided to try a little diplomacy first.  “This Tomasky business, the sausage maker accused of price-gouging. Is this all we have on him?  Seems a bit thin to me.”
“We have statements from three witnesses, including that of Frau Kleemeier, the Lutheran bishop’s wife,” said Scheele, taking a seat.  “And that accountant from the Reich Price Commissar’s office is bound to find something in Tomasky’s ledgers.  Still…”  He glanced briefly at Rehmann.  “It is rather odd that small-scale profiteering should take precedence over wholesale vandalism and looting.”
Rehmann glared at him.  Scheele represented the old order:  liberal, bourgeois, and with too many scruples for Rehmann’s taste.  Not even a member of the Party.  A bad German.  “Careful, lieutenant.  The Tomasky matter is a…delicate one.”
“Oh, I agree.  Quite delicate.  A case for Reichsleiter Schwarz’s Party Auditors, certainly.  In any case, far outside the purview of the Orpo.  Of course, I suppose it would be a different matter if Tomasky were, say, a Communist.  Or a Jew.”
Rehmann’s eyes flashed now, his face nearly purple with rage.  In return, Scheele’s gaze was cold, impassive.
“Shall I have Party Comrade Tomasky brought in for questioning?”
Rehmann grunted, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray.  But he replied, calmly, “That will be all, Lieutenant.”
Scheele shrugged, closed the dossier and set it on the desk. Then he stood and, instead of a “Heil Hitler!”, gave a crisp military salute, turned on his heel and left, just as Corporal Lanke was bringing in the coffee.
Reactionary Jew-loving bastard, thought Rehmann, reaching for another cigarette.

 

Eugen Scheele only knew one party trick, but it was a good one.
To Germans, New Years Eve is Sylvesterabend, St. Sylvester’s Eve.  Every year for the last eight or so, Lt. Scheele would open his home to the members of the Order Police on that evening, as well as to Avi and Rana Fleischinger.  After the wine and cheese and sausage, Sgt. Rudi Trommel’s wife would predict the futures of whoever wished using molten lead.  Bleigiesen is a time-honored German custom on Sylvester’s Eve.  Frau Trommel would melt a small lead form in a spoon over a candle and then pour the melted lead into cold water.  The resulting shape supposedly holds some meaning for the viewer in the coming year.  For example, something resembling an eagle might mean success, while a flower could mean a new friendship.  Last New Year’s, in Scheele’s blob of lead, Frau Trommel saw a broken wagon wheel.  She wouldn’t tell him what it meant for the New Year 1938, and Scheele didn’t ask.
Then came the Trick.  Scheele’s guests were asked to choose any page from any book on any of his shelves, tell him the page number, and Scheele would recite from memory the first paragraph from that page.  Originally he made it a betting game, but after the first few times his guests got tired of losing, so he turned it into a parlor trick.  Perhaps the best aspect of the trick was, that it wasn’t a trick at all; Scheele really had a knack for remembering everything he read, the first time he read it.
Five years earlier, for New Year’s Eve, 1933, the same year that Avi had been dismissed from his job as prosecuting attorney, Scheele had invited the newly-appointed Kriminalrat, or Detective Inspector, Franz Rehmann.  Inspector Rehmann had been a member of the Nazi Party since 1925.  When it came time for the Trick, Rehmann announced that he had brought his own book.  “Not to worry,” he said, eyeing Scheele closely.  “This is a book I know every good German here has read!”  The book was Mein Kampf, Hitler’s turgid, lifeless, anti-Semitic screed.  Everyone stopped to look at Scheele, who they knew had so far ignored all official injunctions to join the Nazi Party.
Holding a bottle of wine and just about to draw the cork, Scheele paused.  After nearly a minute, with everyone still watching him, Scheele asked, “What page?”
Rehmann named a page at random.  Scheele put down the wine bottle and closed his eyes as if in deep concentration.  He paused for maximum effect, then pretended to recite:  “‘I declare the following before the whole German People and the World: everything for which I and the National Socialist German Worker’s Party stand for is a load of shit!’”
rehmann’s face turned beet-red. He closed the book with a snap and stormed out without a word.  As soon as the door closed behind him, everyone burst out laughing in relief.  It was still a pretty good trick.  That year Frau Trommel saw a songbird in Scheele’s blob of lead; a sign of hope and renewal.  Rana Fleischinger fell in love with him on the spot.
To Eugen Scheele, Franz Rehmann represented everything he had come to detest about Hitler’s New Order.  In his office, locked securely in his desk, Scheele kept the original arresting officer’s report from 1926 detailing how one Wilhelm Murr, then just another SA thug, had raped and savagely beaten almost to unconsciousness the wife of a fellow SA leader after a drunken Bierabend.  It was then-Detective Sergeant Rehmann who had gotten the charges dropped and then buried the file.  And when Murr’s chauffeur, Bodo Tomasky, was implicated by Weimar authorities in the Feme murder of a Social Democratic labor leader in Freiburg a year later, it was Rehmann who intervened again, spiriting Tomasky across state lines into Baden until things cooled down.  Now Murr was the Governor of Wurttemberg, Rehmann was the Number Two man in the Stuttgart Gestapo, and Bodo Tomasky was a prosperous sausage maker caught with one hand in the Reich’s biscuit tin and the other in the cash registers of Stuttgart’s most prominent Jewish businesses.
Someone should go to prison this time, thought Scheele as he closed Rehmann’s door behind him. And it will most likely be me.

 

**********

 

The Stadtpolizei headquarters in the Wilhelmsplatz was a short street car ride from Gestapo HQ at 10 Dorotheenstrasse.  Eugen Scheele, 41, already a twenty-year veteran of the Orpo, had his cap and overcoat off by the time he reached the front desk.  Rudi Trommel was on duty, as usual.
“I know what I saw, officer,” an old woman in green tweed was saying.
“But your eyes could have played tricks on you,” said Trommel from behind the polished oak station desk.  “Perhaps with your glasses off….”
“My glasses were NOT off, my good man!  I never take my glasses off during the day,” she said, taking off her glasses and wiping them clean with her floral scarf.  “I can see quite clearly, thank you, and I say I saw one of your SS officers disappear into thin air right outside Mohn’s shop.”
“It’s just that….”  Sergeant Trommel looked up in relief as Scheele approached.  “Oh, Lieutenant. This is Frau….”
“Lukesch.” The woman extended her hand to Scheele.  “Herta Lukesch.”
Trommel gestured toward her with his fountain pen.  “Frau Lukesch has some…information regarding Hauptsturmfuehrer Kreider.’
Scheele released her hand gently with a polite nod. “You have seen Captain Kreider, then?”
“Well, of course, I don’t know the officer’s name.  But as I was telling your sergeant, here, I saw a man in a black uniform disappear in front of the bakery on Fehlingstrasse. Just disappear, like a letter into an envelope.”
Scheele’s smile was kindly.  “Perhaps he simply went into the bakery.”
“No, no, I stepped inside, myself.  He wasn’t there.  No, he simply vanished, right there on the sidewalk.  Right there in front of me, I tell you.  Not thirty minutes ago.  I would certainly never trouble to come all the way to the police if I wasn’t absolutely sure of what I saw.”  She lowered her voice conspiratorially.  “It’s ten pfennigs for the street car these days!”
“Yes, well, thank you for your information, Frau Lukesch.  We’ll certainly look into it. And if you remember anything else that may be of use to us, please call on us, won’t you?”  Scheele reached into his pocket and slipped her a ten-pfennig piece before she could reply.  “Good day, dear lady.”
After she had gone, Trommel said, “Not even sure how I should write that one up.”
“Well, she seemed sober enough,” said Scheele.  “Better have someone check on it.”
“I can send Mertens and Dreifasch round to his apartment.  Maybe he overslept or something.”
“Well, tell them to be careful.  Rehmann’s SD men are already looking into it.  Remind our boys to give the Gestapo a wide berth.”
“Wonder why no one else reported seeing such a thing.”
“No one wants to stick their neck out these days.  Can’t say I blame them, after that business on the 9th.”  Scheele suddenly thought of something.  “How are we coming on that vandalism report I requested?”
Trommel chewed the inside of his cheek before answering.  “Do you really think that’s a good idea, sir?”
“Tens of thousands of reichsmarks’ worth of damage.  Seven hundred Jews in ‘protective custody’ here in Stuttgart alone.  The main synagogue gutted by fire, while our Feuerwehr stood by.”  Scheele paused, looking him in the eye.  “Vandalism is still illegal in the Greater German Reich, last time I checked.  And we know who the vandals are.”
“But if Colonel Boes and Major Rehmann find out….  I just, my family….”
Scheele’s expression softened.  Rudi Trommel’s strength of character was no more than average, but he was essentially a decent man.  “Don’t worry, your name will be left out, I promise.  Just prepare the raw data and I’ll draft it myself.”
“And what about your name, sir?”
“I’m already in Major Rehmann’s sights, as you know full well.  Think of this as my own personal life insurance policy.”
Scheele patted the desktop and retreated to his office.
Trommel thought, Yes, well, the trouble with life insurance is, you have to be dead before anyone can collect.

 

**********

 

     That evening, after his second slice of Rana’s pear tarte, Eugen refilled all of their glasses from the bottle of riesling, then raised his.  “To Avi: you fucking old goat, you!”
Avi laughed as Rana cried, “Here, here:  Prost!”
As they all three drained their glasses, Avi said, “You, Lieutenant, are drunk.”
“That’s worth drinking to,” said Eugen, refilling his glass once more.
Avi started to pour some wine for his sister, but she waved him off and he refilled his own glass instead.  “A little bird tells me you were at Gestapo headquarters today.”
Scheele started to object, then waved him away.                                                                           “Any news on your crooked Nazi butcher boy?”
Scheele shrugged.  “No change.”
Avi shook his head and smiled.  “You’ll be in Dachau before I will, at this rate,” he said, waving a finger at him.
Rana rose and snatched the bottle away from her brother.  “All right, that’s enough. Time you were in bed, my dear.”
“Oh, but Eugen and I were just about to map out a brilliant legal stratagem, here.”
“Well, you’ll just have to do that some other time.  Eugen is just about to make love to me.  And the last thing we need is you standing around cheering us on!”
Eugen drained his glass.  “I was?”
Rana set the bottle on the table and took Eugen by the hand.  “You were. Say goodnight, Avi.”
Eugen turned to appeal to Avi.  “I was?”
“Apparently you were, yes,” said Avi.
“WE are,” said Rana.  “Good night, Avi!”
As they reached her bedroom door, Eugen repeated, tenderly:  “We are?”
Rana smiled. “We are.” And she closed the door after him.