A Quiet Genocide Read online

  ‘Ah,’ said Michael, holding an index finger in the air to showcase his point. ‘Temper.’

  Michael’s three associates moved forwards, but Michael shook his head.

  The tacit exchange did not go unnoticed by the man, who began to grip his chair more tightly.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked again.

  ‘I want you to leave Jozef Diederich alone and I want you to leave Munich and never return. If you do not, I will find you and we will sit here again. And you do not want to sit here with me again. That would not be wise.’ Michael was enjoying himself. It was like the old days.

  A dusty timepiece above a scruffy fireplace chimed 9pm. The individuals crowded into the ill-fitting room observed the dongs briefly and the man who had punched Jozef saw his chance and jumped out of his seat. The men were not easily caught out and wrestled him back deep into his moth-eaten spot. The pair flanking him pressed down his arms and sides, while the man behind gripped his head in a chokehold. The man gurgled for air. Michael smiled.

  ‘Are you going to do as I say and leave Munich for good?’

  The man struggled in revolt at Michael’s question.

  Michael held up his hand and the three associates lightened their grip, allowing the man to wheeze uneasily.

  ‘My whole life’s in Munich – work, family, my sweetheart. I can’t just leave.’

  Michael nodded slowly. Experience had taught him what to expect. He nodded his head again, leaving no room for doubt.

  His three associates locked in their hold before one of them pulled one of the man’s fingers back, the longest, until it snapped out of the joint and was left broken, hanging unnaturally.

  The man screamed.

  ‘Will you leave Munich – tonight? My friends will escort you to the train station. I hear there is easy work to be had in Berlin at the moment.’

  The man who had punched Jozef nodded gingerly through the shooting pain burning up his arm like bushfire.

  ‘Gut,’ said Michael rising from his seat. ‘Gentlemen, I will leave our friend in your capable hands. Guten Abend.’

  None of them answered.

  * * *

  The man took a train to Berlin that night, like he was told, but he failed to notice Michael’s three associates quickly reboard after he was seated. They stole him in a quiet moment when he reached his destination. It was 3am and they hauled him to a back alley behind an old brothel still making ends meet after the war. No one in that district cared to ask why four men were marching through Berlin with such purpose at that time. If they gave it any thought, they assumed one of them was hopelessly drunk and being carried home.

  The man who had attacked Jozef did not make it until dawn, discarded unconscious in the alley. Exposure got him before internal bleeding. The brothel’s cleaner, a Jew and a survivor of the death camps, found him first thing. He felt nothing, but called the police.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Okay everyone,’ said Herr Slupski at the start of the afternoon lessons. ‘A bit of order, please. Thank you,’ he repeated more warmly when peace had prevailed. ‘Okay. Where were we?’

  ‘The Nazis, sir,’ said one boy with his hand shooting up high into the air. ‘And what helped them come to power in Germany after the Great War.’

  ‘Correct, young man,’ replied Herr Slupski, stooping slightly to get into character.

  Jozef smiled and instinctively felt Sebastian’s gaze – he did not need to glance across to return it.

  ‘The German people, people like your parents, were struggling in 1918, ladies and gentlemen, and they were ripe for a radical party like the National Socialists to persuade them that there was an alternative. The Allied blockade meant Germans were going hungry and thousands were dying of tuberculosis and influenza. Herr Hitler could play on all of those factors. In 1917 Russia, one of the Allied powers fighting against Germany, pulled out of the First World War in disarray after a Communist revolution brought Lenin to power. Munich itself followed suit.’

  Small gasps and quizzical faces were shared between pupils. Most of them had not heard of this.

  Herr Slupski half smiled and glanced up momentarily.

  More than twenty sets of hungry eyes were trained on him like snipers.

  ‘That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Munich became a mini communist republic for a little over two months in early 1919 until right-wing government troops were ordered to crush it.’

  A blackbird suddenly crashed into a window near Sebastian. He jumped, startled.

  ‘It’s okay, young Sebastian,’ said Herr Slupski, seizing on the moment and racing to Jozef’s friend’s side. ‘Maybe it’s the communists,’ he teased, turning Sebastian bright red while the rest of class laughed. He winked kindly at Sebastian before continuing.

  ‘The leaders of the Munich communist republic were mainly Jewish and, in average German eyes, 1919 inextricably linked the two together. This was ‘evidence’,’ Herr Slupski underlined his words by miming inverted commas with long fingers.

  Jozef paid less attention than normal in German that afternoon. He had a football match, the biggest of the school year so far, straight after the final bell. It was at home, so at least they didn’t have to travel, but it was a cup semi-final against one of the largest schools in Munich. The more boys a school had, a simple law of averages meant that they had more and better footballers to form an XI from. Their opponents that afternoon certainly had some good players, some of the very best in Munich in Jozef’s age group. Jozef knew only too well. He played alongside most of them every Sunday in Munich’s boys’ football league.

  Jozef played for the best side in the city, but he was the only one from his school who did so. His schoolmates played for less fashionable teams on the weekend, if they played at all, preferring instead to experiment with beer and nicotine and girls.

  He would be man-marking the opposition’s star playmaker in central midfield, Jürgen Fiedler, who was bigger than Jozef, but who was not as quick or skilful. But Jürgen Fiedler had a ‘name’ in boys’ football in Munich and had long been on the radar of professional clubs in the city, who cherry-picked the best boys and offered them two-year apprenticeships when they reached the age of 16.

  Despite his ability, Jozef was largely a forgotten face when it came to Munich’s pecking order to win a professional football apprenticeship. He secretly resented his father for not being pushier and making sure he didn’t lose what position he thought he had in that queue. Jozef was becoming quietly convinced that not having a parent who turned up pitchside on Sunday mornings looking flash and middle-class and constantly talking up their son’s talent was allowing other boys to unfairly jump ahead.

  Still, Jozef could have his revenge on the Jürgen Fiedlers of this world while representing his school. He could scrap, kick and claw his way to victory and there was nothing any parent on the sidelines could do about it. He was used to being berated by the parents of the boys he played with on the weekend, and told to ‘calm down’ and ‘take it easy’. Such jeers only spurred Jozef on. Playing the underdog was in his blood.

  Gerhard knew how much Jozef’s big match meant to him. He knew his son would raise his game today, because he could see how desperate he was to win for his school on such occasions. He was never more proud of Jozef, but he could not bring himself to say so. Gerhard had thought of telling him through Catharina. She could get the message across. But then she didn’t understand football, so Gerhard wrongly believed that she did not understand her son on days like these. Instead, Gerhard admired from afar.

  In last year’s Munich Boys’ Schools Cup, Jozef’s team against the odds reached the final where no one gave them a prayer against the most powerful and fashionable school in Munich. Jozef had the game of his young life and helped inspire his school to a dramatic 4-1 upset. The other parents from Jozef’s Sunday side had barracked Jozef heavily from the stands all game. Jozef, for once, could not hear them and proceeded to kick the opposition’s prize player to piec
es. The more he complained, the harder Jozef kicked because for once Jozef was outpaced. It hardly ever happened, but Jozef’s opponent that day could run like the wind.

  That successful individual battle laid the foundations for his teammates to push forward and prevail. With his winners’ medal proudly clenched in his fist, Jozef looked up to the stands to spot his father while trooping triumphantly down the players’ tunnel. He felt like a star. He spotted Gerhard, sat with parents from his Sunday side. Father and son raised their fists in jubilation and both secretly treasured the exchange.

  Gerhard was late and missed today’s first half. Work had delayed him, which made him furious. Now he was here and soon heard it was 2-2. Jozef’s school had twice rebounded from falling behind. They were giving as good as they got. Michael timed himself beautifully to see every kick.

  Jozef had spotted him but disappointingly not his father, but he couldn’t think about them now. He had to concentrate. 2-2 became 3-3 after half-time. Again Jozef’s school had equalised in what had quickly escalated into a war of attrition. Whose will would break first?

  Jozef lay on the ground after one heated challenge in the engine room of the contest. It was muddy and he was suddenly exposed, prostrate on the turf. Jürgen Fiedler saw his opportunity and ran past, kicking Jozef while the referee wasn’t looking. The blow stung the back of his calf.

  Michael saw it. He wasn’t mad. Boys will be boys, he thought. He wanted to see how Jozef reacted; he wanted to see what he was really made of. Michael didn’t care for ‘good Nazis’. Millions were ‘good Nazis’ during the war. Michael wanted great ones.

  Jozef’s school was starting to get on top and threatening to take the lead for the first time in the match, but now Jürgen Fiedler was counter-attacking at pace down the wing and Jozef was one of only two defenders, outnumbered, tracking back. He could not allow Jürgen to beat him and pass to a supporting teammate. 4-3 would be a bridge too far for Jozef’s school at this heady juncture. Jürgen took a heavy touch and Jozef had his chance just past the halfway line. The two opponents were on collision course. Jozef sneered. He did not know why but he hated Jürgen Fiedler and everything his privilege represented, and he felt that distaste rushing to the surface now. He slammed into his opponent, tossing the boy onto the ground and ballooning the ball harmlessly out of play.

  ‘Scheisse!’ cried Jürgen, lying muddied at the feet of spectating parents.

  ‘Come on, Jozef!’ cried a parent in protest.

  Jozef was still sneering and said nothing before trotting away to restart play.

  ‘Great tackle, Jozef! Well played,’ cheered Michael, applauding loudly. No one told him to be quiet.

  The next morning Jozef still had yesterday’s epic match in his stiff legs. It was the talk of the school.

  ‘Brilliant match!’ Herr Slupski commented in Jozef’s ear while everyone settled down for double German. ‘You were fantastic – quite fantastic.’

  Jozef smiled. This was personal praise from the most popular teacher in school, but his tired mind weighed heavy and he currently could not muster anything more positive.

  Herr Slupski was disappointed even that he had not elicited a more excited response from his pupil.

  ‘You’ve got sexy legs,’ said Elena Engel, hurrying past Jozef while clasping school books close to her bosom.

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Jozef, his face flushing at the compliment from the focus of his rapidly exploding emotions.

  Jozef had developed cramp in the later stages of yesterday’s match and, in front of a crowd of classmates and pupils from his school, had had to receive treatment on the pitch, stretching tightened calves high up in the air, so that they were revealed to all, including girls secretly sweet on him.

  Herr Slupski felt charged today and launched himself straight into the lesson. ‘By 1921 Adolf Hitler was the leader of the then German Workers’ Party, soon renamed the National Socialist German Workers’ Party or Nazis for short. His rhetoric was simple and relentless,’ he began, taking off his jacket and placing it on the back of his chair.

  ‘He spoke about the injustice of the Treaty of Versailles, Germany’s terms of surrender after the First World War. Paying reparations to France crippled Germany’s economy. Inflation smashed through the roof. People were demoralised, utterly. Hitler was not alone in making public such views. There were lots of right-wing parties springing up in Bavaria at the time and their message was the same – Versailles was a crime and Jews were behind it.’

  Jozef enjoyed a rush of adrenalin as he caught sight of Elena Engel’s exposed leg. She was not wearing socks above her brown shoes and Jozef thought he might burst. His face flushed hot before he forced it back down and his normal colour returned.

  ‘Hitler’s sheer energy and zeal set him apart from rival right-wing parties. That dynamism attracted other political talent, which helped elevate the Nazis to a position of unrivalled power in Germany by 1933. Hermann Goering, who became Hitler’s deputy, said, ‘I joined because they were revolutionaries, not because of any ideological nonsense’.’

  Herr Slupski put on a wicked German accent for his impersonation of Goering and reached out toward the pupils closest to him. Everyone laughed.

  ‘On November 8, 1923,’ he continued, ‘Hitler called for a national revolution right here in Munich, Bavaria. The next day the Nazis and other right-wing parties marched through the city, but the government ordered police to crush the protest and 16 Nazis were killed in the crossfire. Four policemen died. Hitler fled.’

  This didn’t sound like the Hitler the world knew and feared, Jozef thought, imagining a selfish Führer scuttling away to save himself.

  ‘Hitler was tried in court for the part he played in those deaths in early 1924. It was a media sensation. Entrance to the public gallery, typically empty for everyday cases, was by ticket only. Hitler spoke powerfully and eloquently to the packed courtroom,’ said Herr Slupski, unfolding his arms theatrically.

  ‘He defended himself and boldly told the presiding judge, ‘History will be my judge’. Brave? Foolish? Neither,’ Herr Slupski responded in answer to his own question. ‘It was a con. Hitler knew the judge. Unbeknownst to almost everyone in court that day, Hitler had stood before the same judge two years earlier in 1922 for his part in violently disrupting a left-wing political meeting. The judge was sympathetic to Hitler that day and he was sympathetic to him again in 1924 – Hitler served a short prison sentence. He was now a hero and, more dangerously, a martyr.’

  A sense of injustice started to fill the room like water. Jozef turned and made eye contact with Sebastian.

  ‘In the mid-1920s Germany’s economy recovered, inflation fell and the good times were back – but only temporarily. American dollars were footing the bill, not German marks. The day would come when Washington would call in those loans and economic gloom would return, playing right into Hitler’s hands.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘People were calling for a simple life in the 1920s,’ said Michael, sipping Gerhard’s best whisky in the Diederich’s living room. ‘They wanted to enjoy the outdoors. They did not want decadence. Jewry was wasteful and flaunted its wealth. I know you felt the same Gerhard,’ Michael continued, inviting his host to join in the right-wing rhetoric. ‘Hitler was clever back then. He used that movement to recruit the Hitler Youth.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Gerhard hurriedly, brushing over the invitation and pouring himself another drink.

  Their living room felt tired tonight. Catharina had not cleaned up fully from their dinner party the other evening with the Gottliebs, and Gerhard sensed Michael’s disapproval.

  ‘Why did you join the brown shirts Michael?’ he said.

  ‘Jewry wanted to rule the world. We could not let that happen. I gladly joined. There was nowhere else for me to channel my feelings towards the left. And my family disapproved violently, so I knew it must be right,’ he smiled.

  Gerhard himself had supported Hitler fervently in the 1930s. Even
Catharina had done so, but his wife had her doubts when war seemed inevitable and Gerhard privately turned on Hitler in 1942 following the invasion of Russia. Gerhard had known Hitler was deranged then and had only ever wanted to blow the whole world to oblivion, and everyone back home in Germany with it.

  ‘But Hitler was insane,’ said Gerhard, cradling his drink and interrupting his own train of thought.

  ‘Hitler was not insane, he was just,’ replied Michael, searching for the right words. ‘Just emotional Gerhard – impatient, stubborn and disorganised.’ He smiled again. It was rare for him to be this drunk and it was making him sentimental.

  ‘Hitler was often late for meetings. He hated them,’ Michael reminisced. ‘He believed in Darwin. I had that in common with him – the survival of the fittest. We survived Gerhard. Jozef survived. You don’t know how important he is to us do you?’

  The clock struck 10pm. Catharina would be home soon. Michael was normally comfortably gone by this hour, ensuring he and Catharina remained vessels in the black, knowing the other was out there somewhere but preferring not to see.

  ‘Jozef’s mother and father are still alive,’ said Michael.

  Gerhard lost grip of one arm of his chair and instinctively grabbed the other, clinging to it grimly. He felt he was aboard a ship which had been catastrophically torpedoed. He could see Michael was talking because his mouth was moving but he could not hear the words.

  Gerhard had always believed Jozef’s parents died in the war. He also knew Jozef was special to Michael, but no more. Jozef was just a boy, in need of loving parents. Gerhard and Catharina had met that natural need. His senses began to swim back to the surface.

  ‘Gerhard,’ Michael said. ‘Gerhard.’

  Gerhard looked up and caught Michael’s eyes.

  Michael felt sympathy for him but only the sympathy one felt for a dog.

  ‘You have always known what you needed to know,’ he said. ‘You needed to know Jozef’s birth parents were dead and now you need to know that they are very much alive. You needn’t worry about his mother. She is still in Munich.’