Chapter 34

Upon my return from Munich, my relationship with Lilian was as icy as the day I left. I tried flowers, her favorite candy, even a piece of fine jewelry—but nothing helped. Our relationship would have plummeted further but for calamitous events that overwhelmed the issues between us.

On October 24, 1929, universally known as Black Thursday, the New York stock market suffered huge losses. The markets steadied the next day only to collapse the following Monday and Tuesday. The losses that became known as Black Monday and Black Tuesday cost the New York stock market forty percent of its value. World markets lost more.

The impact on Germany was devastating. Unemployment doubled and then soon tripled to thirty percent of the work force. Twenty million were forced to feed their families from breadlines. As economic night fell over Germany, the sun rose on the NSDAP. The political and economic seesaw that led people away from us in prosperity tipped the other way, driving the desperate Germans to us.

During the next two months, our party made significant gains in local elections in two states: Lübeck and Thuringia. Goebbels won a seat on the Berlin city council. By the end of 1929 we had 178,000 dues-paying members. No longer a fringe party of unsuccessful putschists, we were now a political force.

*

While the difficulties of the world minimized the differences between us, politics remained a hot potato when we read the morning papers.

“I see that your boys have finally made the grade.” Lilian pointed to a headline. “Thuringia, of all places. Of course, it wasn’t in a main state like Prussia or Bavaria. Just the same, your friend Wolf must be delighted to have his first Nazi elected to a cabinet position anywhere in Germany.”

“It was a dozen years in the making,” I answered. “With one foot in the door in Thuringia, we were invited to join the majority.”

“What price did your party extract to form that coalition?”

“I see you are no longer the political neophyte. That was a savvy observation.”

“And the answer?”

“We head the ministries of the Interior and Education. As a matter of fact, Wilhelm Frick was appointed minister of both. Remember him?”

“He gave me a creepy feeling when I walked in on the two of you here. And I will always blame him for calling you back to Munich for every crisis. Him aside, why would Hitler have one man heading both ministries?”

“Frick is a party man. He is hellbent to cleanse the government of undesirables. This ensures that Nazi policies would be implemented.”

Frick wasted no time. He soon instituted prayer in the schools but was thwarted when the court ruled it unconstitutional. Thankfully, Lilian missed reading about that. Then Frick established himself as the chair of Race Questions and Race Science—Rassenfragen und Rassenkunde—at the university. Next he promulgated a racist decree: Wider die Negerkultur für deutsches Volkstum. This law was meant to protect the German blood and culture from being tainted by Negroes.

When Lilian did read about these efforts, she hit the ceiling. Calling Frick a beast, she threw down the paper, spilling her morning coffee.

“How can you condone anything this hideous? If it spreads from Thuringia to the other states, Germany will be no better than the United States and the way they treat coloreds and Jews.”

“Please stop. You’re reading too much into this. The idea is to separate the races to prevent intermarriage.”

“You’re deluding yourself, Friedrich. Many of my actor colleagues are prepared to leave Germany for the United States. One of my friends, Peter Lorre, is most serious about it. He is contracted to make a movie with Fritz Lang called M. He said if things get worse, he would leave after that movie was wrapped and in the can.”

“Peter Lorre is German through and through. Why would he leave?”

“You’re proving my point. Prejudice is blind. It’s irrational. It has no place in our society or anywhere else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Peter Lorre is a great actor. His given name is László Löwenstein.”

“So he’s a Jew. You know I don’t care, just like Max is my dearest friend.”

“Listen to yourself, Friedrich. In your eyes Peter Lorre is another actor and what he is or believes in doesn’t matter . . . until you learn he’s a Jew. Now you look at him with a different pair of glasses.”

“That’s not true. Why do you say things like that?”

“Because the minute I told you his real name, you labeled him. You claim to reject the racist part of Nazi doctrine but accept their other positions. I believe you do accept Jews without prejudice. Yet, at the same time, you want me to understand the rationale for Frick’s racist laws. You simply can’t have it both ways.”

I made one last attempt to explain. “Life is not as simple as you’re making it out to be, Lilian. It is not always black or white. There is plenty of grey. It’s true that our party is far from perfect, but they are our only chance to restore our greatness. Reality says that bad choices need to be tolerated when good choices outweigh them.”

Lilian shot daggers at me. “You, Friedrich Richard, are confused as to what good and bad choices are.”

*

As a result of the financial crisis, Hitler seized on the worldwide calamity to transform the puny NSDAP into a major political force. Playing on fears of collapse and offering hope of stability to the German people, he preached the need for a strong dictator. He exhorted workers to break the chains that bound them to low wages. At the same time, he courted the industrialists. He risked internal dissent with the Socialists in his party in order to achieve dictatorial power to confront our domestic economic emergency and weakness in the international community. And it worked! Our strength continued to grow. Soon new elections were upon us. We knew that the party would do well—but were anxious to find out how well.

*

It was still dark when I felt the mattress shift. Lilian crawled out of the bed and tossed on her bathrobe. “Where are you going dressed like that?”

The door clicked open and then slammed shut. We had four papers delivered each day: two German papers, the London Times, and the International Herald Tribune. By the time I tossed on my robe and washed, she had devoured the pages.

I slipped alongside her to read screaming headlines:

NSDAP WINS 107 SEATS

Unbelievably, we were now the second largest party in the Reichstag. Thirty-seven different parties ran candidates for Reichstag seats. A remarkable eighty-two percent of the eligible voters cast their ballots. While the ruling Social Democrats received the most votes, their overall numbers dropped.

I expected Lilian to give one of her patented negative remarks regarding the party, but instead she swiped away a tear with the sleeve of her robe.

*

When the new Reichstag assembled a few weeks later, all 107 Nazi deputies marched into the chambers wearing their brown shirts. At roll call, each stood and called out in his loudest voice, “Present, Heil Hitler!” This brought more recriminations from Lilian.

“Your party bullied everyone their first day in the Reichstag. And what do you say? ‘I’m not surprised?’ Don’t you believe in some sort of proper decorum? In tradition? Politicians ought to exhibit a certain grace among themselves. They are an example for young people.”

“How I think they should behave is not the issue. A good number of people voted NSDAP party members into office with a mandate to shake things up. These new delegates are doing just that.”

“I can’t believe you can toss away manners like a crumpled piece of paper.”

“Are you really saying that, Lilian? Why not give the new Reichstag members a chance to make changes?”

I knew Lilian wasn’t entirely wrong and that the new Nazi deputies would behave differently than traditional politicians. I also knew that our people were tired of representatives who talked politely and got nothing done. If these rough loudmouth men could save the country, I was for them. But rather than continue to battle with Lilian, I buried my head in the paper.

*

Soon after the election, hundreds of SA men roamed the streets, shattering windows of small shop owners, cafés, restaurants, and even those of the upscale department stores . . . all owned by Jews.

As the street violence escalated, the studio sent a car each morning to ensure the safety of “Germany’s Sweetheart.” I rode with Lilian. Most mornings proved uneventful. One wasn’t.

We barely settled in for the ride when I spotted three Brown-Shirted hooligans, with swastikas pasted on their sleeves, harassing a black-garbed Orthodox Jew. The man had grey, wavy hair and appeared to be in his seventies. One Brown Shirt held a dagger to the Jew’s belly while another knocked off his yarmulke. When the man bent to pick it up, the brute with the knife yanked the frail man up by his beard and pressed the blade against his throat. The other two convulsed in laughter.

I tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Stop the car!”

Lilian cried out. “No, Friedrich. There are three of them. Driver, go on!”

Unsure of what to do, the driver slowed down. I couldn’t wait for the car to stop. I flung the door open while still moving, landed on my side, rolled, and pushed up to my feet. The Jew was now on the ground. A Brown Shirt pinned each arm down. The third straddled the helpless man, shouting anti-Semitic gibes and brandishing his SA-engraved dagger. He was about to slice off the man’s beard when I wrenched him by the collar, spun him around with my left hand, and decked him with a right to the jaw. He went sprawling, no longer a threat. The SA man holding the victim’s left arm popped up with a raised billy club. He misjudged my reach. I grabbed his hand, billy and all, and twisted it behind his back until something popped in his shoulder. He let out an ear-piercing scream. I pushed him aside and he scrambled away.

The third man snatched the fallen dagger and charged as if it were a bayonet. He was clumsy and leaned forward too far. I deflected his arm with my left hand and came deep and hard with a right to his solar plexus. The man doubled over. While he clawed for air, I grabbed his ears and drove my knee into his chin. Chunks of enamel flew out of his mouth as he tumbled to the ground.

Both men lay on the pavement, neither moving. Lilian shouted from behind me, “That’s enough, Friedrich!”

She snatched the victim’s yarmulke and knelt beside him. The old man covered his head and rocked in place . . . still stunned by the assault.

The two SA men might have been in their early twenties. Maybe a little older. I rifled through their pockets for identification. One lifted his head to protest but stopped when I raised my arm. They had party cards, but their names meant nothing to me. Neither was in condition to go anywhere. I reckoned the third man was still running.

I turned to Lilian. “Is he okay?”

“I can’t tell. I’ll get a doctor.”

The man grabbed Lilian’s arm. “Please don’t do that. I don’t want any more trouble. I’m all right.” He nodded toward his assailants. “They’re the ones that need help.”

The shrill of a police siren pierced the air. Lilian could not be found here when the police arrived. I motioned for our driver, who remained close to the car, to lend a hand to Lilian who hooked her arm around the elderly man. I made certain the thugs remained put.

I called out. “Take this man to wherever he wants to go, and then take Fräulein Harvey back to the Adlon.”

Lilian shook her head. “I’m late for the studio.”

“Depending on what happens, you may need to get me. The studio will understand. Now please go. You can’t be found here.”

The police arrived moments after Lilian and the old man were on their way. I greeted them and handed the dagger to the first officer. “It belongs to him.” I pointed to the brute that had tried to cut the old man’s beard. “A third one got away.”

The policeman sized up the two on the ground. “Who helped you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Those are tough guys. If the one who got away was anything like them, you must have had help.”

I shook my head. “I can handle myself.”

While I spoke to the policeman, the officer-in-charge approached the assailants; he appeared familiar with them. The longer they conversed, the more the officer-in-charge tossed hard looks my way. Rather than speak with me next, he conferred with a third policeman who had stayed back.

Then the officer-in-charge walked towards me. “Hold out your hands,” he ordered, unhooking handcuffs from his belt. “You’re under arrest.” The other policeman circled behind me.

I balled up my fists. “You have this all wrong. They attacked an old man. I came to his defense.”

He drew his pistol. “I won’t say it again. Hold out your hands!”

I did not have to turn around to know there was a pistol pointed at my back. Resistance was futile. I held out my hands. With a twist meant to hurt, the officer-in-charge snapped on the handcuffs. One of them dished out sharp jabs in the back with no let up, prodding me toward the van. I had no chance to explain that this was a mistake. At the same time, the officer-in-charge told the SA men that they were free to go. Both smirked as they limped away, but not before giving me a Hitler salute.

As I placed my foot on the first step, I was whacked in the back of the head. I tumbled to the floor of the van. The two policemen locked themselves in with me and began kicking and punching before the van even started toward the station. Every bump heightened the beating. I twisted and turned to lessen the impact of their blows . . . without success. By the time the van stopped, they needed to half-carry me into the stationhouse. Blood poured from my face and scalp. My stomach and back and ribs screamed from the beating. When they removed my handcuffs, I had a shred of satisfaction when I vomited on their shoes before they shoved me into the cell.

“Next time you won’t be so lucky,” said the fat one.

It hurt to breathe. I crawled to the cell bars and then, hand-over-hand, pulled myself to my feet. I squinted through a swollen eye to read their names.

“Weber and Schneider. We’ll be seeing each other again.” My face was distorted; the words sounded distant.

They broke out into ear-to-ear grins. “Are you going to report us to your Communist comrades?”

“I don’t know what those jerks told you, but you couldn’t be more wrong. Consider this your lucky day. I am going to let you live to see your grandchildren.”

Schneider, who was in charge, tapped Weber on the shoulder. “Klaus, did you know this was our lucky day?”

Weber glanced from Schneider’s shoes to his shoes. “We need to teach this Bolshevik a lesson. Give me the key.”

Weber slid the key into the keyhole.

Through my pain I stepped back, ready for them. I grinned, my face a bloody mask. “I was kind to those SA men. If you are stupid enough to open the door, get ready to piss red.”

Weber saw the hate in my eyes; he tapped Schneider’s shoulder. “They are only shoes. He’s not worth it. Let the chief take care of him.” They left without another word.

*

I struggled to find a position where I was not in pain; it was wishful thinking. I did manage to get a few winks in. I awoke sometime later to the clank of metal. Instead of a menacing police officer, a small man dressed in civilian clothes stood by the cell opening. He had a trimmed moustache and sported gold, wire-rimmed glasses that gave him an owlish, professorial look. His voice was low and soft but wrapped with authority. “Please, follow me.”

I shuffled down a cell-lined corridor filled with brawlers and drunks, trailing into his private office. The wall to my left was lined with shelves, floor-to-ceiling, filled with legal statutes plus books on law, philosophy, and Judaism. I grabbed the doorjamb to steady myself only to feel a mezuzah. Max had taught me that this was a “mitzvah,” a blessing because it fulfilled the Biblical commandment to “write the words of God on the gates and doorposts of your house.”

The man pointed to a chair. “Please.” It took some seconds to work my way onto the wooden chair. The bespectacled man winced when I yelped. “Can I offer you anything? Tea? Water?”

“I’d prefer scotch . . . but a cup of coffee would do.”

His gaze never left my face. After ordering two coffees, he asked, “Do you know who I am?”

I did. He was Bernhard Weiss, the deputy president of the Berlin Police Force. Weiss was the enemy of the Nazi Party. Joseph Goebbels called him the pejorative, “Isidor,” a typically Jewish name. Caricatures of him were posted across the city. As deputy president of the Berlin Police, he sued Goebbels dozens of times for defamation . . . and won every case.

“Should I know you?”

He knew I recognized him but let it go. My Ausweis and identity papers were spread out on his desk. He also had my treasured photograph, the one found in my boot those first days at Charité Hospital

Weiss pointed to the documents. “I don’t need these to know who you are . . . Herr Friedrich Richard.” He leaned back and tented his fingers. His calm manner forced me to lean forward. When I did, lancinating pain seared through me. I gasped; he winced again.

“What I want to know is why one of Hitler’s closest friends and most powerful advisors would assault three, low-level SA men to save a Jew’s beard?”

At that moment, a clerk appeared with coffee. I fussed with the sugar and cream, buying time to formulate an answer. All those years I struggled to stay out of the limelight. Now, in an act of kindness to save a Jew, I was about to be exposed.

I blew to cool the coffee, took a sip, and replaced the cup. “You must have me confused with someone else.” I pointed to my papers. “As you can see, there is no party card.”

He smacked the desk. “Don’t take me for a fool, Herr Richard. Your power in the party is not drawn from some manufactured title or rank, but from your personal relationship with the man your people have styled Der Führer. Now, Herr Richard, I ask again, why would a man like you beat up three SA men who were practicing what your best friend preaches? Even more curious, if you wanted to stop them, why didn’t you just identify yourself and order them to leave the old man alone?”

Pain seized my body; I grabbed the arms of the chair.

I beat them up because I hated them. I beat them up because I hated myself for being a part of them. This was my expiation. I did not identify myself to them because I did not want to identify myself with them. Isn’t that obvious, Herr Weiss?

After the pain passed, I said, “Well, Herr Weiss . . .”

“So you do know who I am.”

“Most Berliners do. As a matter of fact, Dr. Goebbels speaks about you often.”

Weiss smoothed his moustache. “I imagine he would.” His eyes sparkled. “Knowing that you cavort with such an avowed anti-Semite makes it all the more difficult to understand why you did what you did.”

I started to shrug but the pain stopped me in my tracks. I sucked in air. “If you believe that I acted to save an innocent man from an assault, why was I arrested? Still worse, why did your police beat me and toss me in jail for doing a good deed? I sat for hours in my own vomit and piss, with blood dripping down my face. Is that how you treat law-abiding citizens?”

His thin lips creased into an arc. “Ah, yes. All good questions that save you from answering mine. As it turned out, the officer-in-charge recognized that one of the thugs was the son of a policeman. They said you attacked them and their friend without any provocation. They claimed you shouted Communist slogans. The officers thought their story made sense. How else could you have gotten the jump on them unless you started it?”

“All lies. As my car neared, I saw them attack an old Jew.”

“So you said at the time. But when my men arrived on the scene there was no Jew or car. Just you and two SA men sprawled on the ground. Once my men heard their story, they had no choice but to arrest you until the facts became clear.”

“Even if it was an honest mistake, look at me. Is that what your police do? Beat up prisoners for no reason?” He had no response, or at least, didn’t offer one. “Perhaps this was payback for the way Goebbels treats you.”

This was getting me nowhere. “How did you learn what really happened?”

“Once I knew who you were, I dispatched men to canvas for witnesses. I had to keep you locked up while they made their inquiries. It took time to establish what people saw and cobble the facts together.”

“When you knew the truth you could’ve sent someone to open the cell door, but you didn’t. Keeping me longer served no purpose.”

“I’m going to let you go as soon as we finish our little chat. Given the facts, I apologize for the way my men treated you. What you did was admirable. Yet I’m not satisfied as to why you did it. But . . .” he shrugged, “it appears that will not be answered today.”

“May I go now?”

“For the record, if you wish to make a complaint, we will launch an investigation into my men’s conduct.”

That was the last thing I needed. I struggled to my feet. “That won’t be necessary. I am sure it was an innocent misunderstanding.”

“There’s a car outside with a rather well-known, beautiful woman waiting for you. She’s been making threats for some hours. I promised you would be out after I asked you a few questions.”

“I trust you got the answers you needed.”

“Not the ones you avoided.”

“It’s simple, Herr Weiss. I helped an old man. What more is there?”

“So you said.” He slid my identification papers to me. He held back the lone photo. “Is this your family?”

My heart stopped. I managed to give him my stock answer. “A dying soldier shoved it in my hand and asked me to find them. I never knew his name. I’ve carried it with me ever since. Do you recognize them?”

Weiss studied the faces.

I held my breath.

“For a moment, just a moment . . . I thought the father looked familiar.” He looked up. “Families with small children all look the same. In any case, take your things and go.”

When I reached the door, he said, “Herr Richard. Perhaps one day we will finish our little talk. There are still questions left unanswered.”

I started to tell him that there was little chance we would ever meet again, but there was no need. Instead I shuffled out of his office, holding onto the walls as I went. At the time I didn’t notice he had slipped a card with his private number into the envelope with my Ausweis, identity papers, and photograph.

*

Lilian turned wide-eyed when she saw me limp to the car. My lips were swollen, my left eye was partially shut, and crusted blood clung to my skin. She pushed open the door and started to say something. I cut her off. I put my finger to my lips and then pointed toward the driver; we rode in silence.

At home, I eased into a chair while Lilian gathered alcohol, cotton, and gauze. She knelt down and began to clean my wounds. The alcohol stung.

“Take off your shirt.”

Dried blood trapped the fabric in so many places there was no point in being delicate. I ripped it open; a spray of buttons clattered to the floor. Lilian helped slip off the sleeves with a ginger-like touch. When she saw the welts and bruises and fresh wounds, she cried.

She disinfected the wounds; I jerked from pain.

I made a clumsy effort to kiss her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Putting you through this.”

“Me? You’re the one suffering. Was it worth it? Why did you do such a crazy thing?”

“I haven’t felt like much of a man lately. I thought by stopping those thugs, you would feel better about me.”

“You big fool. I love you the way you are.”

“But I don’t love myself.”

“What are you talking about? We have our issues, but we always get past them.”

“It’s about day-to-day stuff. Your career. It’s skyrocketing while mine is going nowhere. I live off of you. Oh, I know . . .” I shook her off when she wanted to say something, “. . . you’ve been very good about it. Not demanding anything. Not making me feel dependent. But that doesn’t make me feel any better. I could come to grips with all this, but your contempt of the party stops me.” Her beautiful lips parted but I continued before she could say anything. “Many of your criticisms are right. I know that. But in my heart, I believe that Germany’s future lies with the NSDAP.”

Lilian shook her head. “You big dummy. The Nazis, the money, none of this is important right now. What I do know . . .” she straddled my lap with great care and cradled my head in her hands with a feather touch, “. . . is that the last thing you need to do is prove your manhood to me. What I do know is that I love you.” I tried to say something, but she brushed her lips against mine. “Friedrich. Look at my face. Then, close your eyes and picture me.”

I closed my eyes. “Can you picture my face?”

“Of course I can.”

“Picture the way I look on screen.” I could. “Now imagine me twenty years from now. Then twenty-five. Then thirty. The shape is different. The eyelids droop. The neck sags. I will not be this pretty face in the years to come.”

“You’ll always be the most beautiful to me.”

“You’re sweet, but unrealistic. Try harder, Friedrich. Twenty-five years from now I will be in my mid-fifties. Ancient when it comes to actresses. My skin will have blotches. Furrows in my forehead. Wrinkles spreading from my eyes. It’s going to happen.”

I pictured older actresses I had worked with, and then tried to imagine what they looked like when they were Lilian’s age now. I couldn’t.

“What I want you to understand, my darling,” she continued, “is that no matter how old I will be, I will expect you to love me and need me and want me just as you do now. That’s the kind of man I need you to be. That’s the kind of man that I know you are.”

I blinked until I could focus on the most beautiful woman in the world.

She eased off my legs. “Now take me to bed if you feel up to it. If you’re in too much pain, I’ll hold you until you fall asleep.”