Good People (5 page)

‘Dr Schnurre's name arouses admiration in many circles!' Thomas said. ‘Just last week, Herr Mailer, my colleague, told me that he had taken part in a meeting to discuss the expected challenges to the Foreign Office, in view of the poisonous diplomatic attacks against us in Europe, especially in Paris, London and Warsaw.'

He didn't have the slightest idea who Karl Schnurre was. He mentioned Warsaw and Paris simply because it was clear to him that Weller's position in the Foreign Office was connected to Europe, and if Schnurre was interested in Milton, he would therefore be curious about the company's offices in France, Italy and Poland.

Weller's forehead creased, and his cheeks bulged. He had apparently expected that his appearance here would arouse greater awe.
‘I am acquainted with the company and with the Department of German Consumer Psychology. And I have heard about your offices in Europe: Paris, Rome and somewhere else, right?'

‘Our flourishing branch in Warsaw, of course,' Thomas said. Now he was convinced that the man had done his homework, but he hadn't encountered such an amateurish manoeuvre in a long time. One could only hope that the Foreign Office showed more sophistication in its contacts with other countries.

‘A truly daring idea these days, to use Jewish ideas to sell merchandise to the Germans—or even to the Poles.' He was speaking like a radio announcer, accentuating every word, and his voice was loud and clear.

‘We don't use Jewish ideas.' Thomas gave him a disapproving glance. ‘This is an entirely original adaptation of universal principles, developed long before the appearance of psychoanalysis in its present version, of which, by the way, I am also not enamoured. Here we have been developing principles formulated by German philosophy. We at Milton Berlin divert the decadent principles of Jewish psychoanalysis into rational and productive channels that befit the German spirit. I established the department to inject true Germanness into the discussion of the improvement and perfection of human abilities.'

‘Sir, you express yourself well.' Georg Weller rose. ‘Herr Heiselberg, it was an honour to visit Milton's headquarters. I just happened to be passing by and I won't take any more of your precious time. Would you please convey my cordial greetings to Herr Mailer.' He extended his hand to Thomas across the table. His handshake was soft. ‘I expect that an invitation to a formal meeting at the Foreign Office will soon be issued,' he added.

‘That will be a great honour for Milton,' Thomas answered, pushing open the heavy wooden door and accompanying the visitor out into the corridor, taking the opportunity to mention the strict qualification examinations for prospective employees that Milton had instituted in cooperation with the SD, the intelligence arm of the SS. Weller nodded and polished his glasses with a handkerchief that bore
his initials embroidered in blue thread. They stood in the lobby whose broad windows looked out onto a narrow street decorated with poplar trees. Beneath the windows, around the entrance, stood benches in French Riviera style. Something about the room made Thomas uncomfortable, like his mother's parlour. In every corner was a fountain with a statue topped by an alabaster spear—the work of an American sculptor whom Fiske and Mailer mistook for a great artist. They exchanged a few courtesies and parted with a friendly handshake.

…

The hours passed. Only Thomas and the janitor were still in the office. Should he let Carlson know that the meeting hadn't taken place? Why hadn't the Daimler-Benz people shown up? After Weller left, Thomas questioned the staff. No one knew anything. Carlson had disappeared and it was impossible to reach him. Had he not come to the office because he already knew that the meeting had been cancelled? ‘Maybe, maybe, maybe,' Thomas grumbled. But there was no point in being disappointed, and it wasn't all bad: a meeting with a senior official from the Foreign Office was preferable to a meeting with some client, right? He began to work out which clients should be told about the meeting, and which ones didn't need to know. Of course, he wouldn't tell them directly. The information had to be circulated in the form of a strictly controlled rumour. That was a tactic which he had mastered. Still, he would have felt better if the Daimler-Benz people had shown up.

He paced through the dark corridors and stood in the lobby. He shook his jacket slightly, passed a hand through his hair, adopted a pleasant expression and stepped outside. Thomas liked walking out into the street at night. Standing beneath the canopy of poplar trees, he would imagine he was in a thick forest, plunging into the darkness that enveloped him, becoming invisible as he groped his way along until, with a few quick steps, he would be out the other side.

An intense glare burned above him, and light spattered in every direction. Blinded for a moment he shut his eyes. How he loved to
emerge into the glowing city lights. The sources of these great lights were big companies, and every new and surprising glow was a sign of an idea that had bloomed in the world, a stirring opportunity. He was always curious about new patents that other people invented, and nothing pleased him more than perfecting someone else's initiative and doing it better.

In the distance the rooflines sparkled like Christmas trees. It was as if the whole city was bathed in gold. He advanced down the street, at the end of which was Schultz, the exclusive men's clothing store. After darkness fell, a delicate light would bathe the fine suits in the display window, and the store looked so inviting that Thomas felt that every passerby would want to stop and buy something. Frau Tschammer used to tease that he was like Narcissus. ‘But Thomas falls in love with his reflection only when it appears in the display windows of luxury shops.'

Flames ballooned on the distant horizon. He heard voices. Looking over at the Schultz window he was immediately struck by the feeling of a routine that had been violated: something was missing. Fragments of glass were sparkling on the pavement. A boisterous group of young men in brown uniforms, carrying torches, passed by. Now he could see that the store was bustling with people, masses of them, with bundles of clothes in their arms. He spotted a familiar figure—the doorman from their office. Was his name Beck? He was hurrying out of the store carrying a pile of merchandise and a little girl with golden hair. Her round face was sooty. Her eyes were wide, and the doorman's heavy coughs shook her little body.

Another band of young men with torches approached. One of them stuck his head in the smashed window and shouted, ‘Disgusting! Thought you'd get yourselves some kikes' clothes?' He hurled the torch into the middle of the store. It caught on a rack of fine blue woollen coats with delicate collars, and they started to go up in flames. Everybody ran out to escape.

A familiar voice blared from a radio somewhere above. Thomas raised his eyes. People were looking down at him from their windows.
He began to worry: those people would have seen him standing there every evening, charmed by the Schultz display.

There's no need to get carried away, he consoled himself. At times of crisis, people tend to interpret events as if they were being specially persecuted and their souls were visible to the whole world. Besides, Erika Gelber always said that his feverish mind drove him, whether he was awake or asleep, towards terrifying scenarios that had nothing to do with him, and conjured up horrifying visions in which he was cursed and condemned. And, even if they had seen him, he could always claim that he was standing there because of the disgust he felt for those suits. Maybe he was imagining the ruin of those Jewish tailors? What other explanation was there for his attachment to the Schultz display? After all, in Berlin there was no lack of more splendid shop windows, KDW, for example, decorated with paintings by Cesar Klein, or the windows of Hermann Tietz or Wertheim, stores no longer owned by Jews. In a moment, Thomas was prepared to believe that something in him, something unconscious, apparently, had wished for the razing of Schultz. The murmurings of the soul are such a strange thing—here was another fascinating subject to discuss with Erika Gelber.

It occurred to him that the suit he was wearing now had been bought in Schultz. But a lot of stores sold suits like that. More or less. Actually there were no suits like it anywhere—Schultz had its own line. Those little megalomaniacs always boasted that they made everything themselves. To hell with that stupid desire for bespoke tailoring. His fingers flew up to the back of his neck and felt the label. Fear clung to his body like the incriminating suit.

He was filled with fury at that vicious gang of rioters, idlers who had never done a useful thing in their lives and were bent on mayhem and destruction. It was time they contributed something to the German economy. He looked with disgust at a strapping fellow who had a few looted suits draped over his shoulder. How ugly his gaping eyes were, gawking in the middle of his stupid face, the kind of face you could see in every train carriage, and now it radiated this mindless expression of victory.

He crossed Wichmannstrasse and looked up at number 10, where the Berlin Psychoanalytic Society once had its offices, and on the second floor—Erika Gelber's clinic. Where was she now? This wasn't a good night for wandering the streets. For an instant he was worried about her. Though it didn't seem as if this episode was going beyond destruction of property. He was sure they wouldn't hurt women, especially not a respected psychoanalyst like Erika, who had treated senior army officers—not to mention her achievements in rehabilitating soldiers with shell shock. The army was compelled to admit that in such cases psychoanalysis had produced results no other treatment could. In short, Erika didn't need his charity.

A boy and a girl passed by, arm in arm. The girl was saying something about the synagogue that had been burned to the ground, and the firemen who had rushed to the scene, and the crowds who had driven them off. The sky was hidden behind clouds of black smoke that absorbed the redness of the flames, as if a fiery map of the whole city was spiralling above them.

He heard shouts and turned around. A group of men was approaching, most of them SS. There was something frightening about their uniform movements. They glided forwards like a pack of wolves. He restrained the panic that surged through his body. If he turned into another street now, he would look suspicious. He walked towards them, and caught sight of the tanned face of Hermann Kreizinger.

Thomas heard the pounding of his own heart. The distance between them closed to a few metres. He hoped that this time, too, Hermann would ignore him. But Hermann's eyes fixed on him. More than fifteen years had passed since they had looked at one another. Behind Hermann stood the young policeman, Höfgen. Two deep scratches seared his cheeks and twisted down almost to his lips. For the first time Thomas saw him without glasses and in SS uniform.

Thomas moved his head in greeting. Fear flashed in Höfgen's eyes. He looked away. Hermann, unlike his comrades, was decked out in smart clothes: a white shirt with a brightly striped tie fluttering over it. His black shoes gleamed. They were probably new. Thomas
remembered how on the first day of fourth grade Hermann appeared in school especially well dressed, and everybody whispered how his clothes had been bought thanks to the good business his father was doing with the Americans. Hermann sat down and took new toys that had been bought in New York out of his schoolbag. The boys stared enviously at them.

Hermann joined the SA, the Brownshirts, a few years after they finished school. His rise began in the early 1930s, when Hitler's friend, Ernst Röhm, who had returned to Germany from Bolivia to lead the SA, took a liking to him. Young Hermann served him faithfully, and won kudos and honours. He would wander the streets in uniform, or hang around beer halls whose owners were sympathetic to the organisation. Thomas remembered seeing him march on that evening at the end of January 1933. He had a wild look in his eyes, as if he were longing to meet those people who had once doubted him, and whom he would now astonish with his rebirth as a victor.

In 1934, rumours spread that Hermann had been in Tegernsee on the night when Röhm was arrested. It was said that Hitler himself had whipped Hermann outside the hotel. No one saw him for a few weeks, and it was clear that he must have been eliminated along with Röhm and the other Brownshirt leaders. But then he reappeared, and, not only that, he had a position and a rank in the SS, thanks to the intervention of Himmler's office. Hearing that he was alive and part of the SS, Thomas surmised that Hermann must have handled himself well during the crisis; maybe he had underestimated him.

‘Herr Heiselberg, isn't it a bit late to be wandering the streets?' Hermann said amiably.

‘I'm rushing home,' said Thomas. ‘A long day at work…'

‘A long day at work,' said Hermann. ‘How are things going in that American company?'

‘The German branch is jointly owned by Germans and Americans,' Thomas answered reasonably. ‘We employ only Germans.'

‘Only Germans!' Hermann crowed. ‘Your American cronies bring their corrupt democracy here, and shamelessly steal from Germany.'
Now he was speaking to his friends more than to Thomas. ‘Lucky the Führer has changed a few things in this country—not enough though, there are too many bourgeois whispering in his ear—but things are different, don't you think?'

‘The Führer is doing excellent work. No one could dispute that his achievements are enormous,' said Thomas, feeling a tremor in his right leg. It felt like the city had been stripped of its clothing, and had abandoned all restraint; the only things left in it were boiling soil and humans.

‘Interesting to think how your father,' said Hermann, straightening his tie in an affected way, ‘would take all this: while the whole country is devoted to building a new Germany, his son is busy collecting dollars from American capitalists.'

‘Actually, my father died two years after I started working at Milton.'