Between Two Worlds

By Thomas Joyce

This is the second of three novels in which the central character is Karl Marbach. This story begins on the first Saturday in August of 1945, three months after the end of the war in Europe.
Stephan Kaasformer SS Major Stephan Kaasis walking the Ringstrasse, the great circular boulevard of Vienna, Austria. Vienna is a Soviet-occupied city. There are only token numbers of American, British, and French soldiers in the city, but newspapers are announcing the imminent arrival of troops from all four of the Allied countries. Soon Vienna will be divided into four occupation zones.
Kaas goes to the Hotel Regina, the headquarters for the small American force in Vienna. He is confident he can find and deliver to the Americans Dr. Hans von Hassler, a prominent physicist who is also a Nazi war criminal. Kaas is confident the grateful Americans will put him on his way to a good life in the postwar world if he captures Dr. von Hassler for them.
Inside the Hotel Regina, Kaas meets with Captain Millican, a young American who was a police officer before the war. For Millican, there could be trouble enlisting the services of Kaas before the Allied occupation of Vienna is formalized, but he makes the decision to send Kaas out on the hunt for Dr. von Hassler. While searching for Dr. von Hassler, Kaas learns that former Vienna police inspector Karl Marbach has just shown up in Vienna and that Marbach has brought Anna Krassny to the British army hospital. In 1938, Kaas was deeply in love with Anna. He looks forward to seeing her again, but when he visits the hospital, he finds that Anna has been badly scarred, and appalled by the scars, he resolves to never see her again.
Anna and her doctor, Pamela Green, a Jewish surgeon, become close friends. Anna calls her new friend Dr. Pammy. Although she is an American, Pammy is serving in the Royal British Medical Corps because the United States military wasnt taking women surgeons into the army in 1942, when, after her husband was killed in the Pacific, she was determined to get into military service as a surgeon.
Pammy knows that Anna will never again be a great beauty, but she is determined to make her look as good as possible. The two become close friends, and the incorrigibly romantic Anna encourages Pammy to go with Karl Marbach to a black market caf. In the course of things, Marbach and Pammy quickly become lovers. When Pammy teases Marbach about being a Gentile, he tells her how he hid out from the Russian Army near the end of the war by joining up with a Red Cross unit that entered Theresienstadt, the walled town turned into a ghetto by the Nazi SS. It was the place to which Jews were sent before going to extermination camps. Marbach says that in Theresienstadt, he heard a speech delivered by Rabbi Leo Baeck that had a powerful effect on him. He shows Pammy a piece of paper on which he wrote down some of Rabbi Leo Baecks words, and he reads them to her. The words help to bind the two lovers together.
A few days later, Marbach and Kaas join forces in the hunt for Dr. von Hassler. They capture the former Nazi scientist, but Marbach gets badly wounded. For his part in the capture, Kaas is guaranteed to have a good postwar life courtesy of the Americans.
In the British hospital in Vienna, Pammy finds that her unconscious lover is being tended to by Anna. The two women finally leave Marbachs room and go off to find a hospital room they can stay in. Pammy is exhausted since she hasnt slept in more than a day. While Pammy falls asleep in a hospital bed, Anna reads to her Rabbi Leo Baecks words about how to live in a world filled with mans follies: We stand before our God. We bow to him, and we stand upright and erect before human beings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496957511

Thomas Joyce

Tom Joyce worked in Ohio jails and the Ohio State Penitentiary. During his military service, he took ex-Nazis to Frankfurt, Germany, for denazification proceedings. After military service, he got a PhD from Cornell University. He has taught courses in criminology and sociology to FBI agents, police officers, and college students. For many years, he has been writing, rewriting, and re-rewriting stories about a Vienna police inspector in the 1930s and 1940s. He has written three novels and has created a dozen short stories out of chapters in the novels. He is now working on novel four.

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© 2014 Thomas Joyce. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   12/09/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-5750-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-5749-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-5751-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014922015

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

And why do you pray, Moche? I asked him.

"I pray to the God within me that he will give me

the strength to ask Him the right questions."

—Elie Wiesel, Night

CHAPTER ONE

Vienna, Austria. Saturday, August 4, 1945.

Former SS Major Stephan Kaas walked quickly along the Vienna Ringstrasse, following the great boulevard’s circular path. Two days ago, on the telephone, he had arranged for a meeting with the Amis—the Americans. Like many Germans these days, he used the colloquialism Amis to refer to Americans. Right now, he was on his way to the meeting with the Amis.

Around him on the Ringstrasse, a stench was rising from the smashed buildings and abandoned litter. He had known the same awful smell in Russia, in Hungary, in Poland, and in Czechoslovakia. Three months ago the war had ended, but still there was the stench.

His rapid forward march on the boulevard brought into his line of vision a temporary wooden structure awkwardly planted at the edge of the sidewalk. The wooden structure was a shed used by street workers. Painted in large English letters on one of the wooden walls was an impudent declaration in English: Kilroy was here.

A silly thing, Kaas thought, those three words: Kilroy was here. Amis were leaving those words everywhere these days. What did the words mean? Why were Amis printing, pasting, putting those words everywhere? In the next instant his mood darkened. On that same wooden wall were wanted posters. Ivan wanted posters. Hand-painted wanted posters, each individually painted by an Ivan or by one of the hired dogs of the Ivans.

Slowing his pace, he quickly established that none of the posters were for him. That was a relief, but one of the hand-painted pictures caused concern. He recognized it immediately. The picture on the poster was almost enough like him to be him. Standing still for a moment, he read what was printed under the picture:

The Soviet will provide 5,000 premium cigarettes for the traitor and renegade who is the former Vienna Police Inspector Karl Marbach.

Kaas had seen lots of wanted posters for Karl Marbach over the past few days—almost as many as for himself. He smiled as he looked at Karl Marbach’s picture on the poster. They had always looked very much alike: slightly different color hair, but similar faces, and almost the same height and weight. The similarity between them was most distinct on the wanted posters that had hand-painted pictures. Not black-and-white pictures. A lot of people don’t look much like their black-and-white photographs on wanted posters, but hand-painted pictures can be eerily realistic.

Kaas regarded five thousand cigarettes as a generous reward for Karl Marbach. The same number of cigarettes was being offered for him.

Cigarettes … cigarettes. These days, cigarettes were more dependable than currency for buying things, even Ami currency. Offer anyone a choice of either Ami currency or cigarettes, and, as long as the value was comparable, cigarettes would be the choice. For five thousand cigarettes a person could live comfortably for a year. Five thousand cigarettes were enough to pay for a place to live for one year and, in addition, also provide for food and other amenities during that year.

Kaas noted that the hand-painted Soviet wanted poster for Karl Marbach said that he had deserted from the Ivan army late in the war. There had been a lot of German and Austrian desertions from the Ivan army. The Ivans had provided incentives to join their army and didn’t take kindly to desertion. Kaas told himself with a chuckle that deserting the Ivan army didn’t warrant a five thousand–cigarette reward. Karl Marbach must have done something significant to get the Ivans to offer a five thousand–cigarette reward.

As he moved past the wooden shed, Kaas continued to think about Karl Marbach. He had been Karl Marbach’s boss in the Vienna Kripo—Vienna Criminal Police—back in 1938. For a short time, he’d been chief of the Vienna Kripo, and Karl Marbach had been one of his police inspectors. Very quickly, they had connected, becoming like comrade soldiers. Then bad things happened. Karl Marbach’s lover, Constanze Tandler, was killed by National Socialist thugs, and the police inspector turned into a renegade, an enemy of National Socialism. Even after all these years, it was painful for Kaas to think about the killing of Constanze Tandler, and what had happened after the killing. Of course it would have been necessary to kill Police Inspector Karl Marbach if he’d caught him, but it had been possible to avoid catching the fugitive.

Kaas resolved to think of other things. 1938 was a long time ago.

Now it was the month of August in the year 1945, and both he and Karl Marbach were fugitives. Karl Marbach was wanted by the Ivans, and he was wanted by all of Germany’s enemies—the Ivans, the Amis, the French, and the British. But for both of them the reward was five thousand cigarettes.

Right now, for Kaas, the important thing was the meeting with the Amis. If everything worked out as he hoped, the Amis would guarantee him a good future for the rest of his life in return for the service he was prepared to offer them.

Picking up his pace, he thought about the beautiful dream called National Socialism, the beautiful dream that had turned into an ugly whore. He lowered his head and resolved to stop thinking about the past. Then suddenly he brought himself up short. In his path—only a few paces in front of him—were two Ivan soldiers. They looked drunk and dangerous.

He stepped quickly aside, but it was obvious he had their attention.

The Ivans—two Bolshevik soldiers in big balloon trousers—gave out a shout in their language: Davai chass.

Davai chass! they shouted again.

He knew what Davai chass meant: give up the watch. They had spotted the wristwatch visible on his left wrist.

Other Slavic words were addressed to him. Among those other Slavic words was proverno. In their Slavic language, proverno meant that his wristwatch was confiscated.

One of the Ivans—a very big man—moved quickly in front of Kaas and placed his hands on Kaas’s shoulders.

When hands are placed upon you, you must quickly make a choice: let those hands secure their hold or make a stand.

The big Ivan had an ugly look of intensity on his drunken face. In another second or two, too much advantage would be given away. At the point where a fight is inevitable, the important thing is to be the one who strikes the first blow. Striking the first blow fast is more important than striking it hard.

Kaas’s mind moved ahead of the flow of the action, as it always did when there was a fight, or any serious trouble. He took measure of the action that was about to take place, made a quick movement that separated him from the big Ivan trying to hold on to him, checked exactly where the other Ivan was positioned, took stock of the space around him, calculated direction and speed of movement for himself and for each of the Ivans, and began delivering blows. The first blow was dealt to the big Ivan who had been holding him—a fast blow, but hard enough to get the job done. The punch was delivered across the side of the Ivan’s face, and it was immediately followed by a finishing blow.

After that, he faced the second Ivan.

There was hatred on the Slavic face. But the hatred was quickly replaced by fear as a jabbing fist pushed the man off balance, and a heavy punch produced a distinct cracking sound from the exposed jaw. A final blow drove the second Ivan down onto the cement where he rolled before collapsing into unconsciousness.

Five deft blows, and it was all over. Kaas savored a good feeling. He had seen hatred in an enemy’s eyes become fear, and he had smashed two Ivans into helplessness.

People were gathering around. He eyed the onlookers. This moment was good. It was grand seeing the looks on the faces of these Viennese civilians and hearing their voices shout approval. Only one sour note: those who can stare at you and shout words of praise can also betray.

After waving to the onlookers, he quickly moved on. The voices expressing praise lingered in his ears while he continued to the meeting with the Amis at their headquarters in the Hotel Regina.

CHAPTER TWO

A few minutes later, Kaas stood still for a moment, taking stock of where he was on the Ringstrasse and how much farther he still had to go. Turning his head to one side, he saw the badly damaged Burgtheater, and, looking across the boulevard, he could see the buildings of the University of Vienna. There wasn’t much farther to go. Soon he would be at the Hotel Regina, where the Ami had their headquarters in Vienna.

He nursed his hand. Some of his knuckles were painful. His entire fist throbbed painfully. He hoped nothing was broken. He knew that all could have ended for him a few minutes ago. He could have brought disaster on himself for the sake of a cheap steel watch, but he hadn’t let those Ivans rob him. A country gets defeated, an army gets defeated, but a man isn’t defeated as long as he has the will to resist.

He lifted and dropped his shoulders and began walking again. As he walked, words sprang into his mind unbidden: Move on, keep going. They were words he had shouted to soldiers under his command during an attack and, more recently, during countless retreats. Those were words he had shouted in the snows of Russia, in the fields of Hungary, and in the mud of Poland. He silently pronounced the words to himself again: Move on, keep going.

He liked hearing those words in his head. He was back from the east, back from ruin in the east, and moving west, toward the good life he hoped he was going to find in the west.

Without slowing down, he looked over his shoulder. No one was following him; in fact, no one was paying him any attention at all. He glanced around. Vienna wasn’t as badly damaged as a lot of other cities he’d been in during the past few years, but the damage was bad enough. The city was no longer beautiful. It was no longer the way he remembered it from 1938. Early in the day, he had seen the devastation that had been wreaked on St. Stephan’s Cathedral. Seeing the terrible damage done to the great cathedral, on impulse, after confirming that others around him were doing the same thing, he had blessed himself: put his hand to his forehead, then down, and then across. Yielding to strongly felt emotion had seemed to be the thing for him to do.

Now, on the Ringstrasse, he quickened his pace and reflected on the war that had been lost by Hitler and the fools around the Führer. Göring had been a lazy clown. But the worst of the bunch was Himmler. The former SS chief had been a fraud, a shame, a disgrace. As for those on the General Staff—Keitel, Model, Buehle, Jodl, and the others—none of them had real combat experience. All of them were bunglers. The fighting generals like Sepp Dietrich and Erwin Rommel and von Paulus could have won this war if they had been allowed to fight without interference from on high. For Kaas that was a certainty. He believed that without interference from on high the fighting generals would have won the war.

Twenty-five years ago, at the end of the first great war, Kaas thought, Germany had found a way back, but how could Germany find a way back this time? From all the devastation? The blackened ruins? The collapsed buildings? The wreckage? The rubble? … the stench?

Yes, the awful stench. He was at a bad place on the boulevard. He held his breath and quickly walked several paces until the air became less foul.

As he continued walking, he told himself that it was a long time since he had thought in calendar time: weeks and months. During the war, time was measured in seconds, minutes, or hours. Sometimes it might be measured in days. Mostly, war time was differentiated by whether one was experiencing danger or boredom. From now on, Kaas was resolved that for him time would be a process differentiated by whether he was experiencing pleasure or anticipating pleasure to come.

Using calendar time, he recalled recent history. The capture of Vienna by the Bolshevik army had taken place in April. A month later Berlin had fallen. The war was lost. The war had ended in total defeat. Before the war was lost, he had been Major Stephan Kaas, Sixth Panzer Division, Waffen SS. Farther back, before the war, he—a Berliner—had been Commander Stephan Kaas, chief of the Kripo in National Socialist Vienna. Long before all of that, in the war that began thirty years ago, he had been a captain in the German Sixth Army. He had been Captain Stephan Kaas when he was awarded the Pour le Mérite, the German medal with the French name, the German Imperial Army’s highest award for valor.

That was in the past.

Very recently—a mere ten days ago—he had led a small group of former soldiers on a raid: a raid that had made him a fugitive, a raid that had put his hand-painted picture on wanted posters that offered five thousand premium cigarettes for his capture. He had robbed the Ivans of several important German scientists. The scientists, their wives, some children, and a few mistresses had been brought out of a detention camp in Czechoslovakia to safety in the Ami-occupied part of Austria. More than fifty civilians had been brought to safety. The important ones were the eight or ten scientists. He didn’t know the exact number.

He checked over his shoulder, back along the Ringstrasse, before letting his thoughts return to the raid. The action of that raid had been a tonic. He had needed the action of that raid.

He stared ahead on the Ringstrasse. The Hotel Regina was very close now. He took a deep breath, immediately regretted the act, spat out distasteful air, and slowly took in a more careful breath.

He looked around and spotted another wanted poster—a piece of paper on a street lamp. The poster wasn’t for anyone he knew, but all wanted posters caught his attention these days.

Keeping up his pace, he thought about Emma, his recently acquired woman. She was important to him, even though he didn’t fool himself about why she was important. Emma was past her prime. Her most appealing quality was her desperate need for him. It was good to be desperately needed by a woman, even by one past her prime. When the time came, he would get rid of her. In the meantime, she was available to pleasure him.

A random thought intruded: he was walking too fast and too much like a soldier. That had been something he had done all his life: walk fast like a soldier marching. But nothing must draw attention to him. He slowed his pace, planted his feet less determinedly, and turned his thoughts again to the raid.

There had been a lot of confusion in the aftermath of the raid. He had fled in the company of a scoundrel. That hadn’t been planned. In the confusion, things had just happened, and he and a scoundrel had ended up together. But that had turned out to be great good fortune. The scoundrel’s brother was Dr. Hans von Hassler, one of the scientists liberated by the raid. Dr. von Hassler was a very important scientist. One of the shining lights of Aryan physics.

The raid was ten days ago. Now the Ivans were claiming that the Amis had Dr. von Hassler and were keeping the Nazi war criminal scientist hidden, keeping him safe from justice, planning things so he would be able to secretly work for them in America.

Kaas took satisfaction from the thought that all he had to do to find Dr. von Hassler was put pressure on the scoundrel brother of Dr. von Hassler. It was that simple. He knew where the scoundrel brother was hiding in Vienna. They had split up after the escape, but he knew where to find that scoundrel. All he had to do was put his hands on him and squeeze. Then he would capture Dr. von Hassler and deliver him to the Amis, which would put them in debt to him.

Continuing his forward march, Kaas looked ahead. It seemed to him that the circular boulevard of the Ringstrasse was straightening out. That was an illusion, of course, but he enjoyed the illusion.

On impulse, he cast a glance around. But no one was paying him any attention. He was just a tall man in a shabby suit going about his business, a man who blended right in with the poorly dressed citizens walking the Ringstrasse on this August day in 1945.

As he walked, he thought about what had happened after the raid. After giving the matter deep consideration, he had gone to a tavern and put through a telephone call to the Amis. It was hazardous talking about Dr. von Hassler on a public telephone, but, at the mention of the name, a meeting had been arranged. For the convenience of the Amis, he had to agree to come to Vienna. There was risk in that, but, for the convenience of the Amis, that was the way it had to be.

In a few minutes, he would meet with the Amis in their headquarters within the Hotel Regina in Soviet-occupied Vienna.

He looked ahead on the Ringstrasse. There wasn’t much farther for him to go. All he had to do was keep moving.

He winced as he placed his hand in his coat pocket. The hand wasn’t broken, but it pained him badly. There was less discomfort when it was securely supported by his coat pocket and didn’t just hang at his side.

Ahead of him on the Ringstrasse were the twin spires of the Votiv Church. He crossed the large boulevard. It wasn’t much farther—just a few a few more minutes, and he would be at the Hotel Regina where the Amis were waiting.

His throbbing right hand was buried deep inside his suit coat pocket. He cursed and muttered under his breath: Davai chass. Those words helped. They were now a part of his pride.

He had kept his cheap watch. The fight—that redeeming brawl with the Ivans—had lasted only a few moments. But they were good moments. He was no longer young—two years past fifty—but he could still handle young toughs. He had his courage, his strength, his brain, and his honor. Yes … his honor.

He hadn’t yielded his cheap steel watch. He hadn’t surrendered anything. The two Ivans were young, but with no reinforcements to back them up, he had beaten them senseless. It was a good victory. In the war that had just ended, there had always been wave after wave of Ivan reinforcements, but not this time.

For three years—how long is that when the time is measured in fighting a war?—he had fought the Ivans, learning as little as possible of the multiple Slavic languages. During the time he spent with their women, there had been no need for words.

After the end of the war, in Austrian towns and villages he had often been stopped by Ivan soldiers, but always without any trouble. He had excellent forged identification: a gray card. Officially, the gray card was called a Kennkarte. His gray card was good enough to pass routine checks, good enough to risk using it to get him to this meeting with the Amis.

CHAPTER THREE

Kaas approached a kiosk that housed a small news stand. He paused in front of it and carefully withdrew his throbbing right hand from his coat pocket. He quickly examined his knuckles. The right hand was sore, and the skin on the knuckles was red, but he quickly established that the injury was only painful; nothing was broken.

He shifted his attention to the metal cages surrounding the kiosk that held the newspapers until payment was made. Using his good hand, he moved a newspaper around in one of the metal cages in order to peruse the front page more easily. The newspaper was two days old. Most of the news he was able to read dealt with progress on cleaning up the wreckage from the recently ended war. He read that German engineers were saying it would take twenty years to clear the war rubble from shattered European cities and that rebuilding Europe would take one hundred years.

Pushing the newspaper around in the metal cage, he read more. Other experts, Ami engineers, had different, more optimistic estimates. The Ami engineers said that in ten years Europe might be back to where it had been before the war.

He snorted irritably. The Amis could afford to be optimists. Victors can afford optimism. He told himself that all that really counted were the questions a front-line soldier might ask: will there be food this coming winter? For everyone? If not for everyone, then for how many? Who will be the ones who get fed? And what about fuel to keep warm? Will there be coal and will there be wood? How many people will be kept warm? How many will freeze?

The metal cage was frustrating. Kaas made another attempt to twist the newspaper around and was able to read a small part of an article about the famine expected when winter came. Already Vienna was a hungry city. Citizens were living on bread and peas and small portions of meat.

Trying to read more about the famine, he jerked the metal cage, but with no success. The metal cage was formidable, especially for a man with only one good hand.

He moved to another metal cage, one that had three-day-old newspapers, and began reading an article about the occupation protocols: Vienna was going to be divided into four zones under four different military governments: Russian, American, British, and French. The Inner City, the area within the Ringstrasse, was going to be jointly occupied by all four countries. Right now, the only country with a serious number of troops in the Inner City was Russia.

He asked himself the question the Viennese were asking: where were the Ami, British, and French troops? Those forces were currently present only in token numbers. Until more of those troops arrived, there would be no division of the city into zones. Again and again, Ami, British, and French occupying troops had been scheduled to arrive in Vienna, but again and again there had been postponements created by the Ivans. The Ivans were good at postponing things. Only small numbers of Ami soldiers were now stationed in Vienna, fewer even than the British or the French. And only the Ivan forces were allowed to be armed. How long was that going to last? Absent a threat, why should the Ivans give up anything?

Using his good hand to fuss with the newspapers in the metal cages, trying to make it look as though he might buy one, Kaas noted that several of the front pages were covered with details about the continuing war in the Pacific, the war against the Japanese. There were vivid descriptions of the latest air raids being carried out by Ami B-29 bombers against Japanese cities.

That news had little interest for him. He teased one newspaper around to read more from an article about the alleged German war criminals scheduled to go on trial later in the year at Nuremberg. The article reported that General Sepp Dietrich, Commander of the Sixth SS Panzer Army, might be handed over to the Ivans for what were being called the Kharkov atrocities.

What an abomination, thought Kaas. If General Dietrich was handed over to the Ivans, that would be an obscenity. The world was indeed a foul place if it