Chapter 9

November 20, 1919

I made a habit of taking daily afternoon walks around the city now that the streets were quiet. I was surprised to find Anna home when I returned to the apartment. Her shift didn’t end for another couple of hours.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought I would surprise you before you left for work.”

I tried to make sense of this. “Okay. I give up. What’s the occasion?”

“It’s our anniversary, silly. We’ve been together one year today.”

I turned sheepish. “I don’t have a present.”

“The one present I want from you is to quit your job. It’s come between us. I want you out of that life and back with me. I’m sorry I ever pushed you to take it.” She waited for a reply. But I had nothing to say.

Anna edged onto the kitchen chair; her shoulders slumped. “I had to try. From the time you came to Berlin, I thought maybe you were the one. Maybe we would get married. But this is not working for me. I want more. I deserve more.” She fished a white handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes.

I moved to her and eased my hand onto her shoulder.

Rather than flinch she leaned into it.

“The war messed up so much for so many,” I said. “More than anyone else, Anna, you understand what happened to me. For all I know I might be married. Even have children. I need more time.”

She shook her head and pushed off the chair. “I have to get back to work. We’ll talk about this again.”

*

The conversation with Anna lingered in my mind as I marshaled patrons through the entrance door at the Nightingale. I was conflicted about my next steps until fate decided for me.

Three boisterous men turned the corner and headed straight toward the Nightingale. Between their stench and their bloodstained, ripped clothes, I reckoned they had just come off the late shift from the local pig slaughterhouse. I reached for the set of brass knuckles tucked in my pocket.

“Sorry mein Herren, this is a busy night. We’re full. I can’t let anyone else in.”

Their leader tottered into his compatriot. His speech was slurred. “All we want is a drink. Now out of the way.” He was a brute of a man . . . bigger than me. He tried to brush me aside. I held firm.

“I told you: there is no room for you.”

Without warning, he cocked his arm and took a roundhouse swing at me. I ducked and delivered a right uppercut with all my weight behind it. At that moment, he lurched forward. Instead of hitting his chin, the brass knuckles smashed into his throat. There was the unmistakable crunch of his trachea. He dropped to the pavement, clawing at his neck. He struggled for air. His eyes bulged. He soon turned blue. There was no helping him.

The other two stood immobile, their mouths open, transfixed by the sight of him writhing on the ground, frantic to breathe. I whipped out my Billy and raised my arm. “Who’s next?” They took one look at me—wide-eyed and snarling—and scattered.

When I turned back, the man on the ground lay still. I checked: no pulse. I grabbed two busboys and, together, we moved the body into the alley. He was not the first they carried away. They thought he was just another drunk that needed to sleep it off.

I had no remorse. If the police were called, I could justify defending myself. But I was a man without a real identity. I could not survive a police investigation.

I found Max, counting cash, in his small office tucked behind the bar. A glass of brandy was wedged between the stacks. He glanced up, nonplused by my appearance. “Looks like you just saw a ghost or worse. Everything all right at the door?”

“I just killed a guy. Dragged the body out back.”

“What happened?”

“He attacked me. I hit him.”

“With the club?”

“The knuckles.”

“Did he have a weapon?” I shook my head. “Wait here.” Max returned with a kitchen knife. “Press the guy’s fingers around the grip and then leave it close to the body. Get lost for a few weeks. I’ll get word to you when it’s okay to come back through Marta.”

I was too numb to thank Max. I spun around toward the door.

“Not so fast, Friedrich.” Max pressed a fistful of cash in my hand.

“How can I ever thank you?”

“Stop wasting time. Get out of here.”

*

I managed to put together a travel bag without waking Anna. But as I reached the front door, she called out. “Where are you going?”

Anna stood in a white nightgown. She rubbed her eyes then saw the bag in my hand. “Friedrich, I didn’t mean to scare you away with our talk. Please don’t leave.”

I could not report that I had just killed a man. “Anna, I’ve tried, but I can’t give you what you want until I find myself. I know now I can’t do that in Berlin.”

“Even if that’s true, were you going to leave without saying goodbye? I thought you were better than that, Friedrich. If there is someone else, be a man and tell me.”

I took her hand. “I’ve told you before, Anna, there really is no one else I care about. You have been the best thing that ever happened to me. I would have been nothing without you.”

Her eyes watered. “Friedrich, will you come back?” I didn’t answer. “Did you take your photograph? The one from your boot.”

I pecked her on the cheek. “Goodbye, Anna.” I turned to the door.

“You didn’t answer me. Will you come back?”

I knew she would search. When she found the photograph gone . . . she would have her answer.

*

Brisk steps took me to the street. I froze. Max was clear: I had to leave Berlin . . . but where to go? Then it occurred to me: Wolf rejoined his Bavarian Regiment after he left Pasewalk. Perhaps he was still in Munich.

Although trains weren’t running at that late hour, I made my way to the station, found a bench, and snoozed until early morning announcements woke me. I bought a third class ticket on the afternoon train to Munich.

With Munich’s Central Train Station behind me I found myself ambling down the wide, tree-lined Maximilian Street. Beyond the statue of Maximilian was the Hotel Vierjahreszeiten, The Four Seasons Hotel. Large arched doorways welcomed guests. Everything about this hotel shouted, “Expensive.” I had plenty of money from the tips I had saved, plus the wad of bills Max gave me. In fact, I was pretty well off. Why not?

They had a room available that faced the back. I could afford to stay a week . . . if it took that long to find Wolf.

I pointed to a poster just inside the hotel lobby. “Excuse me,” I said to the clerk at the registration desk, “What is that meeting about?”

“That’s the Thule Society. They used to be called the Order of the Teutons. They meet here every week.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

The man looked about to make certain no one paid attention to us. “I slid into the back of the room once and listened to them. They believe that they are the direct descendants of a super race that had its origins in a lost land mass. Like the missing city of Atlantis . . . but not under water. They call it Hyperborea and claim it was located in the furthest regions beyond Iceland. Its capital was known as Thule. Their people are known as Aryans.”

This was gobbledygook. “What’s an Aryan?”

He pointed to me and then to himself. “You and I are Aryans. True Germans. We are part of the so-called master race.” He puffed out his chest as he spoke.

“Being born German makes us Aryans? Is it that simple?”

Again he glanced around furtively before continuing. “Only if you are pure-blooded. They check for that, you know.”

“I don’t understand.”

He reached under his desk and produced a membership application for the Thule Society. Above the signature line, he pointed to the following declaration. “Read this.”

The signer hereby swears to the best of his knowledge and belief that no Jewish or colored blood flows in either his or his wife’s veins, and there are not members of the colored races among their ancestors.

The Jewish reference I understood. I heard a lot about that from Wolf in Pasewalk, and, afterwards, from many of the men in the Freikorps. Even Anna and Marta made off-handed comments about the Jews . . . mostly about Jews and money.

But colored people? My only experience was with the entertainers at Max’s clubs. They were talented and fun to be around. I never heard that Negroes were responsible for any of Germany’s problems.

“Can I go to their meeting?”

“As long as you’re not Jewish or colored. Walk in and introduce yourself. I’ll arrange for your bag to be brought to your room.”

I grabbed my room key, headed for the door, and entered a banquet hall filled with rows of chairs. About thirty people milled around. All men. A fog of pipe and cigar smoke hovered over them. There was a table in the front for the speaker.

A stocky man about my age strode toward me. He had a dark receding hairline. “Welcome.” He offered his hand, “I’m Hans Frank.”

“I’m Friedrich Richard.”

“Have you come to hear our speakers, Feder and Rosenberg?”

“I saw the sign when I registered. The clerk explained a little about your Society. I thought I would find out more.”

“Wonderful. Gottfried Feder is a noted economist. Alfred Rosenberg talks about the German soul, on what it will take to keep our race pure in order to fulfill our destiny.” Just then, there was movement in the front. “We’re about to start. Let’s sit over there.” We took seats next to each other in the back row.

Applause greeted Gottfried Feder as he approached the front of the room. He was a trim man, of medium height; his thinning white hair was in full retreat. His chin had a deep cleft and a small salt-and-pepper moustache punctuated the space between his nose and lip.

Feder had a loud, clear voice. “It has been one year since the politicians signed the armistice with our enemies that ensured the destruction of our economy. Germany has no credit. Our factories are idle. Our skilled workers cannot find jobs. Why is that?” He raised his voice and pointed to the ceiling. “Our country has been crippled by the usurious interest rates banks charge. Who runs the banks? Let me give you their names: Samuel Sachs and Marcus Goldman, Solomon Loeb, Jacob Schiff, Henry Lehman, Jules Bache, the Warburg brothers, the Rothschilds, and the Oppenheim family. Most are German or their families came from Germany.” He paused for effect and was rewarded by murmurs of assent from the crowd. “All are Jews! What drives them to do these things to us? We all know the answer: make as much money as they can, regardless of the pain and suffering they cause us. Who bears this pain? I assure you not the Jews. You and I! It is the Deutsche Volk!”

While the audience thundered its approval, I was confused. I had no memory of Jews. I did know Max Klinghofer. He was fat and ill mannered. Yet, he had given me work when I needed it, treated me fairly on the job, and helped me escape at the end. I knew Dr. Joseph, admired his skills, and was grateful that he took an interest in my wellbeing. Then I recalled Dr. Kroner at Pasewalk, who tended to his patients with compassion. Was I supposed to hate these men because they were Jews?

Then I thought of Jews like Rosa Luxemburg, Karl Liebknecht, and many other Bolsheviks, who denounced these same banks and bankers that Feder railed against. I was puzzled that Jewish Communists and this Thule group made identical accusations against the same people. For the life of me, I could not see the difference between leftist Jews and this group cheering Feder’s remarks.

Feder took an extra few seconds to scan the audience, giving a slight nod to signal he was almost done. “Germany will not be great again until we rid ourselves of this plague that infests us. Only then can we fulfill our mandate as the greatest race this world has ever seen.”

At this, everyone jumped to their feet and gave Feder a booming ovation. Hans Frank poked me in the arm, and then whispered, “Wait until you hear Rosenberg.”

The audience settled down. Alfred Rosenberg shuffled to the front. In contrast to Feder, Rosenberg had the bearing of a taxidermist. Sallow-faced, dark circles rimmed his deep-socketed eyes, and his thin lips were pressed into a grimace.

“Germanic culture,” Rosenberg began, “has been crucial to the spread of civilization throughout the ages. Whenever a great empire has arisen, there can be no doubt that Aryanism influenced it. From Caesar to Napoleon and all the great leaders in between, whether they were aware of it or not, their successes originated as direct legacies carried from the peoples of Ultima Thule. These first Aryans descended from an alien master race in search of another planet to inhabit as their sun grew black.”

Rosenberg’s voice dropped, his eyes still glued to an imaginary mark. Everyone tilted his head to better hear. “In the end, they all failed. There is no Egyptian or Roman Empire. There is no French Empire or Ottoman Empire. Why? Because they let the races intermix; their blood became tainted. Impure. We Germans lost the war because Jews brought us to the fateful decision to sign the armistice. We must never let this happen again. Our Aryan greatness is directly descended from the peoples from the lost continent of Hyperborea. We must return to racial purity in order for Germany to reach its destiny . . . to rule the world.”

The audience stood as one and cheered. Although I barely understood what he said, making Germany stronger sounded like a good thing. I rose to my feet along with the others.

Rosenberg then spun around and faced the flag on the wall behind him. Feder joined him. In unison, they extended their right arms outward, straight as arrows, toward the flag. It bore the Thule Society insignia of a Hindu letter representing good fortune. Both men shouted, “Heil.” To which everyone in the audience, including me, shouted back in unison, “Heil.”

Frank turned to me. “We are on the lookout for new members, Friedrich. Perhaps you would consider joining us . . . that is, if you pass the test.”

“Test?” Then I remembered the pledge.

“You cannot have any Jewish blood in your veins.”

“I don’t.” Dr. Forster had inspected me and told me I was not a Jew.

“Or colored blood.”

“It’s not possible.” I did not know that for sure, but seemed a safe answer based on how I looked.

“If you enjoyed hearing Feder and Rosenberg, join us to hear another dynamic speaker. He’s electrifying.”

“Is it another Thule Society meeting?”

“No. It’s a new political party.”

I was grateful to meet people who took an interest in me.

“Tell me where and what time. I will be there.”

As we said good-bye, Alfred Rosenberg sailed past. Frank grabbed his arm. “Alfred, don’t be in such a hurry. Let me introduce you to Friedrich Richard.”

“Are you from Munich?” he asked.

“No, Berlin. I’m here to find a friend. I last saw him a year ago when he was about to reunite with the List Regiment.”

“Then he’s Bavarian,” Frank said.

“I don’t think so.” I remembered that Dr. Forster told me that Wolf’s mother was from Linz, Austria. “I’m not even sure he’s still in the army.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Adolf Hitler. Do either of you know him?”

Looking from one to the other, even the grim-faced Rosenberg broke into a toothy grin. Then Frank said, “He’s the one I planned to take you to hear. Adolf is our best speaker. Although still in the army, his captain gave him permission to join our party: the DAP. Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. The German Workers’ Party.”

“Is Adolf a member of the Thule Society, too?”

Rosenberg’s smile evaporated. “Adolf refuses to join.” He checked his watch. “It’s late enough, why don’t you join us for a drink?”

As we moved toward the lounge, an athletic looking man exited the meeting room with long strides. Frank called out. “Rudolph, Just a minute. Your Fräulein can wait a little longer.” Rudolph, a young man with dark, beady eyes topped with heavy bushy black brows broke into a soft smile. Frank put his arm around Rudolph and pulled him toward the lounge. “You’re coming with us. Tell her I held a gun to your head.”

“That’s the only excuse she would accept.” He acknowledged me for the first time. “Whom do have we here?”

Frank brought me nearer. “Meet Friedrich Richard. He is thinking of joining our group.”

“Rudy Hess.” He held out his hand.

We moved to a wood-paneled lounge where the hotel served high tea in the late afternoon and beer and cocktails at night.

Frank nodded to the far corner. There was a polished round table with four high-backed, brown leather, nail-head chairs. Just as we took our seats Frank called out to a tall, lean man headed for the bar. “Wilhelm, come join us.” After we made room for a fifth chair, Frank made the introduction. “Wilhelm, may I introduce Friedrich Richard.”

I rose to greet him. He had a firm handshake.

“Wilhelm Frick, Herr Richard. A pleasure to meet you. Are you new in Munich?”

“Be careful, Freidrich,” Frank winked, “Wilhelm questions everyone.” I later learned that Frick, older than the others, was a prominent lawyer and a leader in the Munich Criminal Police Force.

“Were you in the war?” Frick asked.

“I was.” I wanted the questioning to stop there, without needing to explain my memory loss or making up a history, so I said, “I spent a good part of the time since then in the Freikorps. First in Berlin and then in Munich.”

Hess’s eyes widened. “I was in the Freikorps in Munich.”

“I witnessed the Freikorps overthrow the Bavarian government, though I couldn’t participate,” chimed Wilhelm Frick. He shrugged one shoulder. “I was with the police.”

“I fought under Ernst Röhm,” I explained. “Before that, I was in Berlin when Liebknecht and Luxemburg were killed.”

This got everyone’s attention.

“We’re in the presence of a celebrity,” said Frank. “You should know that Röhm is one of us. He joined the DAP. Member #625. Hitler is #555.”

“I thought you said the DAP was a small group. You have hundreds of recruits.”

Hess snickered. “We’re not many. Hitler said to start the membership numbers at 500.” The others chuckled with him.

“Tell me, Friedrich, what sort of leader was Adolf when you were with him in the army?” asked Frick.

There was no escaping their hunger to learn more about Wolf’s past, but I had to stay away from the psychiatrist in Pasewalk.

“It was at the end of the war. We were both wounded. Our beds were next to each other in the same ward. He had trouble with his eyes. I read the newspaper to him every day. He absorbed every article like a sponge. After I finished the paper, he would tell me what was wrong with each politician. Adolf spoke of how our leaders betrayed German workers by supporting the industrialists.”

Hess hung on every word. “I’m sure Adolf could not contain himself.”

“Oh, he was animated all right. He held back nothing when it came to how we were forced to surrender when we should have kept on fighting.”

“You said it was something about his eyes,” said Rosenberg. “He doesn’t speak about being in the hospital much.”

I kept to the facts. “It was a gas attack. He was blinded for many days.”

“Then we are all lucky he recovered,” said Rosenberg.

I noted Frank’s gaze bounce from Hess to Rosenberg to Frick. Each nodded. Then Frank patted me on the back. “It’s unanimous. We welcome you as the newest member of the Thule Society.”

They took me at face value and did not ask me to fill out a membership application. Though I didn’t think much of it at the time, it was a fortunate happenstance: I avoided making a record with my borrowed name. As time went on, I made it a practice to protect my false identity and my murky past by avoiding making records . . . anywhere.