Chapter 4

They were standing about the room drinking coffee and speaking desultorily when Erick entered the next morning. His uncle introduced him to each in turn, and they all shook hands silently, wonderingly, diffident in the presence of a man they knew held office in the Third Reich of Hitler. The chairs and couch had been drawn up to form a rough semicircle about the fireplace, and Erick placed himself with his back to the mantel, waiting silently and aloofly while they quietly seated themselves. He stood erect and calm, sure of himself and watched them coldly as they seated themselves. Then, suddenly flinging his hand in their faces, he snapped, “Heil Hitler!”

There was a moment of startled silence, then “Heil Hitler!” loudly and enthusiastically from Gunther and Strauss; a further pause and a more subdued “Heil Hitler” from Gerhmann and Lange. A snort from Goetz. Silence from the old man von Roesler, and from Riepert, the lumberman from Parana. Erick smiled grimly to himself as he filed the reaction of each in his sharp memory. He waited until the renewed shuffling had again subsided before beginning to speak.

“Gentlemen. Citizens of the Third Reich. You are all aware, I am sure, of the situation that exists today in the homeland. The Fuhrer has made exceptional efforts to avoid war, and these efforts, so far, have been successful. But our enemies are not satisfied to sallow this peaceful situation to endure.

“German nationals, who have played the greatest part in the development of every country in the world, are being persecuted and made to suffer today for no reason other than the fact that they are German! This is the truth, gentlemen; the international conspiracy of Jews and so-called Christian Democrats will not be satisfied until every man, woman, and child in the Reich is driven into starvation and despair!”

He paused and studied the faces before him. Goetz ways eyeing him coldly, almost sardonically; his uncle sat huddled in one corner, blankly studying his veined hands. Gunther was leaning forward excitedly, drinking in the words; Strauss was vigorously nodding his head. The tension had disappeared from the faces of Lange and Gehrmann; they looked interested. Riepert was staring out of the window, his face disclosing nothing.

“Gentlemen. In this situation, to be blunt, the Fatherland calls upon all of its loyal sons and daughters in all parts of the world for support. These hostile elements that surround us on all sides have long taken advantage of our weakness, of our lack of organization, of our sincere desire for peace. As Germans we are beginning to once again raise our heads under the inspired leadership of our beloved Fuhrer; we are throwing off the shame of the past, we are beginning once again to stand on our feet. But these elements will not leave us in peace! It is only a question of time until they change their attacks from verbal and economic ones to actual intervention in the internal affairs of the Reich!” He eyed them all coldly, conviction in every line of his taut body. “And when that time comes, they will be smashed down; taught that we Germans also have a right to live, and to grow, and to fulfill the destiny of the Third Reich!”

His voice had risen despite himself; he found himself pounding the stone mantelpiece for emphasis. A pity, an inner voice whispered, to waste this oratory in a farmhouse in this backward place, but then didn’t the Fuhrer himself start in a Brauhaus in Munich? There was an embarrassed shifting of bodies, but no one spoke.

“Gentlemen. We cannot wait for the below to fall before preparing ourselves for it. Even as I come today to Brazil, others have gone to Argentina, to Sweden, to Canada, to the United States; to all of the countries that owe so much to their German population, and who yet hold us down so much. What is the answer? The answer is that we must organize ourselves; organize into Bunds. Prepare ourselves for the day when the Reich will be forced to defend itself on the field of battle against these enemies!”

There was a sudden movement as Goetz heaved himself to his feet. He stood towering over the silent group, eyeing them with cold disgust; then his huge head swung toward Erick. “Enough is enough,” he said, his big fists clenching and unclenching. “You are mad! You and your crazy Schicklgruber! You come here to Brazil to tell us about Germans suffering in other countries. When have you ever seen Germans suffering in other countries? What do you know about how Germans live in other countries? When have you ever been out of Germany?” His face was reddening with his growing anger. “To take a bicycle trip to Vienna? To go visit the whorehouses of Paris?” He snorted. “You talk of suffering! Suffering!” He looked about the room.

“Everyone in this room today can thank Brazil for everything he has!”

“Goetz, Goetz!” cried Gunther, his little body shaking with conviction as with an ague. “He’s right! It’s changing! He’s right! They are talking now of even forbidding the teaching of German in our schools in Santa Catarina!”

“It gets harder each day to import from the Fatherland,” interposed Strauss sullenly. “The verdammt Americans get preferential treatment.”

“Why?” Goetz roared, his patience snapping. “Why? What does Germany have to export? Guns? Airplanes? Tanks?” He turned fuming to the silent waiting figure of Erick, watching this display with icy calm from the fireplace. “Ask our young friend here, he was still wet behind the ears when I left Germany. Ask him what Germany has to export! Hate? Poison? Little men like this—this…” Words failed him. He pushed to the door, seething. “My God, but you are fools! Von Roesler, I go! You will pardon me if I do this to your hospitality, for you are an old friend and I do not hold this against you, but this is too much! For this idiocy I drove two days, yet!” They heard his feet go pounding down the stairway. Riepert rose to his feet.

“I think I also go,” he said quietly. “I am over twenty years in Brazil. I think maybe you exaggerate, however. Von Roesler, good day.” He nodded stiffly to the others and left the room. The grinding of the Ford’s starter came from below.

“And now,” said Erick softly in the shocked silence that had fallen, “are there more to leave? Does the Reich have more traitors in this room?” No one answered. He studied their faces, studiously avoiding his uncle’s look of misery, but somehow strengthened by it. “You are all sure? You have no doubts?” His eyes flashed from one to the other; they all stared back in waiting silence. “No? Then let us get to work!” He seated himself at the table and drew his briefcase toward him. “The plans are all drawn. We shall discuss them. Actually, the situation is not very different between the different countries….” The others moved around him as he spread his papers upon the table top and continued to talk.

This was the young Captain Erick von Roesler of the Sicherheitsdienst, provisionally assigned by the SD as Gauleiter-to-be for the country of Brazil, in South America, in the month of June, in the year of 1939.