Chapter 13
I found myself drawn to the baby grand in Kitty’s salon. When no one was around, I pecked at the keys. To my surprise, I could play songs I did not recall. I was soon playing with both hands. When I discovered I could read sheet music, I bought compilations of well-known composers at a local music store.
“You play surprisingly well,” Kitty said one day.
“It relaxes me.”
“Why not play in the early evening when guests first arrive?”
The first time I did, the patrons applauded. It soon became a routine. One evening, Kitty placed a large brandy snifter on the piano and tossed in some bills. Patrons took the hint. From then on, money often filled the snifter at night’s end.
*
I kept up with Wolf and the party through calls to Emil.
“The man is really clever,” Emil said on one call. “No matter how tired Wolf is after speaking, he has me drive him to rallies of other political groups.”
“Is he soliciting their members?”
“Nothing like that. Wolf is never satisfied with his performances. He pushes himself to study other speakers.”
“How is the party membership?”
“We gain new members whenever Adolf speaks. Money is coming in, too. Even a few rich people donate including a small stable of rich old ladies. Enough about the party, what about Berlin?”
“Day-to-day living is getting tougher. Inflation is out of control, Emil. More and more people are supporting the Communists.”
“The Boss—that’s what some of us have started calling him—warns about the Bolsheviks in every speech. But the big news is that the Boss tendered his resignation from the army.”
“As of when?”
“He’ll be a civilian April 1.” Emil burst out cackling. “Best part is that he sublet an apartment from some mother/daughter combination. Frau Dachs and her daughter Maria Reichert.” Emil let loose a whoop. “My prayers are answered. Finally he has his own apartment and will be out of my hair! How’s your job?”
If I told him about Pension Schmidt he would never stop making jokes. “There’s nothing glamorous about being a bouncer. Things are pretty much quiet every night.”
“Is it like the other job you had in Berlin?”
“Same job, different venue. It pays the bills.”
“Adolf constantly asks about you, Friedrich. When are you coming back?”
“There are things I still need to do in Berlin.”
“He told me you would say that. He wanted me to tell you that while he understands your needs, you are testing his patience.”
“Tell the Boss that if there is something imperative that requires me to return, I will be there in a jiffy. Reassure him of my loyalty.”
I had never shared my memory loss with Emil and there was no need to mention it this time. But Emil’s message introduced a heightened urgency to tackle the search for my identity.
*
I hopped out of bed that next morning, determined to deal with the issue.
“Where are you going?” Marta asked through half-closed eyes. “It’s barely light out.” She had returned from the club not three hours earlier.
“I made an appointment to see Dr. Forster. He’s the doctor who treated me at Pasewalk,” I answered, thankful that Anna had remained tightlipped to the end. “I helped him with an experiment when I was there. He asked that I stop by so he could collect more data.”
“What kind of experiment?”
“Something about reflexes of patients that had broken bones. He wants to see how these injuries affect patients over time.”
She tossed off the covers. “I can certify your reflexes are in good working order. Are you certain you have to leave now?” She reached out with lean arms.
I ran my fingers up and down her bare back. “Nothing would please me more, but I promised the doctor.”
I did not like the subterfuge, but I could not let her know I was headed for the Ministry of the Reichswehr in an attempt to discover my name, and then to a psychiatrist to discover anything I could about myself.
*
I made my way to the monolithic square building that housed the personal records of the German armed forces. The building complex sat on Bendlerstrasse overlooking the Landwehr Canal. Before I entered, I strode across the cobblestones and stood at the edge of the safety barrier where Rosa Luxemburg was shot and her limp body thrown into the canal. I tore myself away from the spot and the memory.
“May I help you?”
After many inquiries I found the right clerk. “I am trying to locate a soldier who was in the bed next to me in the hospital toward the end of the war.”
The clerk peered over his wire-rimmed glasses. Temperatures outside were rising. His coat was on a hanger, and his sleeves rolled up.
“Do you have a name?”
“That’s what I am trying to find out.”
“Didn’t he tell you his name?”
I shook my head. “He lost his memory when a shell exploded next to him. He was severely injured. When he recovered, he had no recollection of what happened, including his name.”
“Do you have anything else to go on? What was his regiment?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was he in the trenches? Possibly a tank commander? Perhaps he was in the Deutsche Luftstreitkräfte?”
“I am pretty certain he was not a pilot.” Then I remembered. “He was in the Second Battle of the Marne.”
The clerk removed his glasses and wiped smudges off the lenses with a white handkerchief. “That battle lasted weeks. We started with twenty-three divisions. Hundreds of thousands of men fought in it, not to mention those soldiers in artillery and backup support. You’re asking me to find the name of a lone soldier without a shred of useful information. You’re wasting my time.” He returned to his ledgers.
I pivoted to leave and then swirled back. “One last question. What would have happened if they found a soldier’s identification disk in the field after a battle was over, but no body to go with it? At least no body that could be identified. Maybe after a direct mortar hit. How would that have been handled?”
He answered without looking up. “If this is about finding a disk in a battlefield, the soldier would have been presumed dead.”
“Would the family have been notified that this soldier had died in battle?”
“Only after suitable inquiries to the man’s unit. There would have been no other way to handle it.”
That meant my family believed me dead and would not be looking for me. It also meant I had no way to find who they might be. Even recognition through a chance meeting was eliminated. My plastic surgery gave me a different face.
“Last question,” I said.
The clerk didn’t bother to lift his head. “What now?”
“Another mate of mine went missing. Friedrich Richard.”
He stopped writing. “With a name like that I probably could help. Do you know his rank or unit?” The clerk flapped his hand. “I’m sure you don’t. No matter.”
He rose from his seat, trucked to a wall filled with oversized tomes, hefted one off the shelf, and brought it to his work area.
The clerk removed his glasses and looked up. “He’s dead. Friedrich Zalman Richard. Suicide. Pasewalk Hospital. June 24, 1918.”
“Zalman? His middle name was Zalman? That’s a Jewish name.”
“Precisely. Another dead Yid.” He closed the book, replaced his glasses. “I suspect that was your last question.” This time he pulled down a curtain to close his window.
*
I left distraught. The fact that the army had recorded Friedrich’s death meant his family was notified and must have buried him. Even if I ran into a family member of his, it would be taken as a coincidence that we two men had the same name. But that worked as long as I stayed as private as possible. I would never be able to survive an official investigation. So far, my instincts led me on the right course. When I joined the Thule Society and the NSDAP, I avoided signing both applications. I left no record. I knew I would need to be on my guard at all times, and never give anyone a reason to check into the official records of “Friedrich Richard.” If they did, they would discover, as I had, that Friedrich Richard was a dead Jew, and that my papers were false.
I left the building burning with fury at that son-of-a-bitch Forster. He lied to me about not reporting Friedrich’s suicide. He lied to me that Friedrich Richard had no family. Then there was the matter of concealing from me that the dead man was a Jew.
*
I had a few hours before reporting to Kitty’s. I marched to Charité and found the psychiatry department located at Bonhoefferweg 3. There was a small reception desk to the left.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the secretary, her silver hair pulled tight in a bun.
“No, but Dr. Forster will want to see me.”
The secretary pointed to a chair before trying to find him. Too agitated to sit, I planted myself in front of a large window and peered out at the bustling city below, rocking from foot to foot.
“Friedrich!” Dr. Forster appeared less haggard, his face fuller than at Pasewalk. “I expected to see you when you saw Dr. Joseph. Why didn’t you make an appointment?”
“We need to talk. But not here.”
“I have a cubicle for an office. Of late, I don’t see patients. Only research.”
“That is all the space we will need.”
Dr. Forster’s office, if one could call it that, was filled from floor to ceiling with bookshelves that sagged from their load. A small, narrow window let in light. The space was more like a pantry than an office.
Before he had a chance to sit down on the lone chair, I asked through clenched teeth, “Who was Friedrich? You said that the hospital was unable to contact his family after he died.”
“That’s right.”
“How hard did they try?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m not certain.”
I grabbed the collar of his white lab coat. Our faces were inches apart. “You lying sonofabitch. You told me his death had not been reported. You told me they were unable to contact any of his family. Now you’re not sure. Why is that?”
Forster became flummoxed. He stuttered. “They . . . I gave them orders not to report Friedrich’s death. I knew you needed an identity.”
“Guess what, Dr. Forster, if you really told them that, they didn’t listen. His death was recorded in the army records.”
“I swear I told them not to report it.”
“Swearing isn’t good enough, Dr. Forster. If Friedrich’s family finds out about me and starts an investigation, they’ll call me an imposter. What’s to stop them from informing the police?”
He grabbed my arm to loosen the grip; I let go and stepped back.
“You can’t be the only person in Germany with that name.” He straightened his lab coat. “Well then, let’s hope you don’t run into anyone looking for this Friedrich Richard.”
“That’s you’re best answer? Your scheme not only forced me to always keep my head down to avoid any chance of an investigation into my background, but what’s worse, you made me a Jew. Why the hell didn’t you pick a Catholic? Really, Dr. Forster? Who wants to be a Jew in this country?”
His lips quivered; his voice turned shrill. “You have to believe me, Friedrich. I thought I was helping you.”
I wheeled around and left, never wanting to see him again.