UNTERTAUCHEN: A Historical Novel

By Arthur M. James

untertauchen. Ger., verb, (1) to dive, plunge; (2) submerge (as a submarine); (3) to disappear, get lost (intentionally), to go underground.

Untertauchen is an historical novel, based on the true story of a German Jewish couple who outlived Hitler's Thousand-Year Reich. When their summons for "resettlement" arrived in November 1942, they went underground, living a heartbeat away from capture for thirteen months.

The reader will be drawn into the maelstrom of their tortuous existence, from the time of their engagement as the Nazis came to power, until their escape from war-torn Berlin with falsified papers on Christmas Day, 1943.

Principle date and events--the historical and those in their personal lives--are as they were.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889825456

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

Seventy

Seventy-One

Seventy-Two

Epilogue

Sources

About the Author

cover.jpg

UNTERTAUCHEN

A Historical Novel

Arthur M. James

Copyright © 2024 Arthur M. James

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2024

ISBN 979-8-88982-544-9 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88982-545-6 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

A Historical Novel

Based on the true story of a German Jewish couple who went underground to outlive the Thousand-Year Reich

Prologue

*1910*

Come, child, no time for playing. We can't keep the Kaiser or Uncle Max waiting. Frau Gerson smiled, and Anna knew her mother was joking politely about the Kaiser. But not about Uncle Max. While her mother finished her own preparations, the child toyed with the tight blond braids her mother had twisted into neat buns and pinned to the sides of her head.

For five-year-old Anna, who was brought up in her small village on the Rhine, this premier visit to Berlin was so exciting she nearly wore herself out just imagining the adventures that awaited. Berlin was such a contrast to her hometown, the village of Nochern, which was nothing more than a collection of houses and a few stores that looked down on the relaxed meandering of the river far below. There, along the narrow banks, snuggled houses, businesses, churches, and a synagogue. This was St. Goarshausen.

The mention of Uncle Max's name conjured mixed emotions. Anna was already sensitive to the differences between Uncle Max—the Prussian, as Anna's parents fondly called him when out of earshot—and the adults she knew in Nochern. In Berlin, everything seemed formal, blunt, hyper, and stilted.

Uncle Max had promised to take them to see the Kaiser in his full splendor as he returned from a state visit with his cousin, Tsar Nicholas of Russia. How proud her heart swelled as she envisioned relaying the event to her playmates when they returned. Some would think she was putting on and not believe her. No one ever saw the Kaiser or Father Christmas, not in real person anyway. Others might be jealous. And there was one girl who would say disparaging things just because of who she was.

That this girl had said bad things about her family bothered Anna the first time she heard it. Her mother, though, tried to explain how much better life was for them now than it had been in earlier years in Germany. Anti-Semitism meant little to Anna. It was too confusing. Her mother had said things were better, and that was enough.

And although she might have to stand for an hour on the sidewalk, she would see the only person who, in her mind, ranked above Papa and Uncle Max—Kaiser Wilhelm II. Her Kaiser!

*1911*

The world was not too big. It consisted of numerous square blocks of mostly two-, three-, and four-story stone and concrete structures. Some were apartment buildings. Others had dwellers in the upper levels, fronted by stores and shops underneath. These streets and alleyways in Berlin's Jewish quarter Hans Bracher knew well. Frequently, he made the trek with his mother on her daily shopping rounds. The shopkeepers, peddlers, and clerks were neighbors and friends.

These merchants, like their customers, were a melting pot of European Jewry which had found a home in the official new tolerance Berlin afforded. Many were recent immigrants from eastern and Slavic countries, bringing their ultra-strict Orthodoxy. Others were German orthodox families, having lived on German soil for generations, taking as much pride in their country and Kaiser as their gentile counterparts. Then there were the liberal Reform Jews. These splits often caused conflict, frequently within immediate families. Such was the case with Hans' father and uncle.

The two brothers, because of the marriage arrangements made for them, wound up with spouses who followed differing practices of Judaism.

To wit: Hans was four the first time his mother let him go alone around the block to Uncle Albert's spacious apartment. His aunt welcomed him at the door, but it was more than she which greeted him. It was the aroma of something he had never encountered. His mouth parted slightly before he asked what was cooking. His aunt led him to the kitchen. There he was introduced to bacon. When Hans returned home, his eyes sparkled mischievously, giving away the secret he held with his aunt. But his mother, Sophie, knew instantly. He reeked of pork, which put a halt to further visits alone.

Now he was five. It was late spring. That's when his parents told him when summer came, the family would go to one of those lakeside cottages the government provided for postal workers, such as his father.

The weeks sped by slowly.

At last, the anticipated adventure was at hand. After supper, Frau Bracher busied herself organizing the linens. Herr Bracher located the seldom-used handbags and made a big fuss cleaning the dust and mildew. To cover his excitement, he frowned a time or so, which sent peals of laughter through the close quarters.

Soon the children's reverie turned to fidgeting. Elzbeth, Hans' older sister, resumed her oblique picking.

But, Mutti, she whined, he wants to take that silly thing he calls a boat. She looked around to make sure Hans had heard her.

Hans' boat was not a feat of nautical engineering. But it was all he had, a scrap of wood and cardboard he had worked on, dreaming of splashing in the lake and making giant waves to challenge any seafarer's wiles.

Early the next morning, Herr Bracher recounted his Marks, making sure there was sufficient money for the week.

Jauntily, the family walked the two blocks to the tram stop, greeting neighbors out enjoying the early Sunday sunshine. It took about fifteen minutes for the horse-drawn trolley to arrive. At last, the Brachers' world took on the aura of real travel. Too soon for the children, they reached the train station.

There was a rush for compartments when the train pulled in and halted. Herr Bracher held his family back. When the euphoric crowd moderated, the family climbed aboard and began looking for empty seats. Their excitement escalated as the train whisked them the twenty kilometers to the long-anticipated destination.

For a child whose only contact with lakes had been in playtime fantasies and idle daydreams, reality was unique. Hans wanted to splash in the water. He wanted to run barefoot through the lush grass. He wanted to climb low-hung tree limbs. And he was out of Elzbeth's sharp-tongued reach.

By late afternoon, Hans had overcome his earlier anxiety about the water. He had captained his ship into the North Sea, through the English Channel, across the Atlantic, and delighted in nefarious enterprises building Germany's new push for African colonies. Once, though, he almost let his boat go out farther than waist high. That's where his parents had set the limit for his colonial expansion.

Monday brought a continuance of delightful weather. The children furthered their deeds of the day before while the parents relaxed completely. After supper, Frau Bracher told her husband they were out of eggs and low on milk, plus a few other items. They had passed a cluster of shops on the way to the cottage. She would go there in the morning. It would be a leisurely walk, less than a kilometer.

The next day, as noon approached, Herr Bracher started to worry. Finally, Hans spotted his mother trudging the graveled road. He dropped his boat and raced to meet her. She had gone for groceries, but where were the packages?

He watched inquisitively and waited as she mopped her sweaty face before reaching down to hug him. He sensed something was wrong but knew not to ask. Grasping his mother's hand, he tugged her toward the house, wanting to show her his latest find, a bird's nest in the hedgerow in the backyard.

Elzbeth and Herr Bracher caught up with Hans behind the house to see what had taken so long. The adults made eye contact. Frau Bracher shook her head, imperceptible to the children. When Elzbeth asked about the groceries, Sophie mumbled something about not being able to get what she wanted. Whatever she said satisfied the eleven-year-old, who went skipping back to the front yard. Hans lingered briefly then went running in search of his fleet. He had added a few pine cones and was now commodore of an entire flotilla.

Patting her straying hair in place, Frau Bracher peeped around the corner to make sure the children were out of earshot.

I tried everywhere. Nobody would sell me anything. They don't want us here. Her eyes started to mist, but her voice held firm. I explained we were here for just a week, and the children needed milk. It did no good.

Dumbfounded, Herr Bracher shook his head. This was 1911. Thirty years ago, it might have been understandable. But now? They had been granted full citizenship.

It's the whole area, Sophie said. I went to several places. Nothing! I'm afraid our wonderful vacation is going to be cut short.

Leopold focused on a small elm halfway out in the yard. His eyes glinted gunmetal gray.

One

*May 1932*

Leopold Bracher returned from his regular weekly B'nai B'rith meeting later than usual.

Is Hans here? he asked, looking around the apartment.

No. He's still at that political meeting, Sophie responded. Is something wrong? A look of concern threaded its way outward from Frau Bracher's eyes. She reached up to pat hair into place that was not askew.

No, not this time. After the meeting, Max and I talked. His niece will be coming to Berlin in July. We want those two to meet.

The cloud lifted from Sophie's face. A sparkle ignited in her eyes. It's time we should find Hans a nice girl to be his wife. What does Max say about her?

Like Hans, she looks European. Blond, blue eyes. Plus, she's tiny, not even five feet. That'll be a pair with Hans over six feet. A sly grin crossed his face.

Just as quickly, he turned serious again. She's an only child. Brought up strict kosher. Her parents are old, Max says. They have a mercantile business in Nochern. Own the property too. It would be ideal with Hans' background in fabrics.

Leopold pulled off his jacket and headed for the wardrobe.

Her name is Anna. She and Hans could really build a fine business. And Max says Nazi influence hasn't infected those small villages along the Rhine. That's good. Otherwise, they could have some real problems. There just aren't enough Jewish families there to keep the business going.

Leopold left the wardrobe and headed for the sofa. Listen to me. I'm carrying on as if they were already married. Hope they will like each other. From what Max tells me, don't see why it won't work. Looks to me like we've made an ideal match.

*June 1932*

Frau Bracher was in one of her elation tizzies.

Leopold had told her after Hans left for work that Anna would make her annual visit to Uncle Max next month. Leo was such a dear. He was going to let her tell Hans.

Last month, the three of them had discussed the matchmaking Leopold had with Max. To Frau Bracher's delight, Hans was interested.

His only concern was What if I don't like her?

Leopold retorted, So? Go take a look. Maybe you get along, maybe you don't. And maybe she won't care for you. You just got to look. If she's not the right one, then I start again. But personally, I think she's the right one.

*July 1932*

The entire week, Hans had put up a front, trying not to let his nervousness show. But his mother knew. The day had arrived for him to meet Anna. After shaving, he splashed on his special cologne. Then a bit more. When he was fully dressed, he went again to the mirror to make sure his tie was proper. And he dabbed on more shaving lotion.

They were going to Max Haggelmann's for wine then out for supper. The neighborhood restaurant was close, cheap, and kosher.

When the Brachers arrived at Uncle Max's apartment, he greeted them warmly. Anna will be right with us.

Hans settled in the overstuffed blue chair facing the door. As the floor creaked behind him, he turned slowly then rose. Anna's blue eyes melted into his as she waited for Uncle Max to make the proper introduction.

Hans had attended social affairs hosted by the Congregation and had met many nice Jewish girls, but none struck him like this. With her blond tresses now in front of him, his mind clouded. Anna's reality outdistanced all he had fancied.

He reached out for the perfunctory handshake. Her summer glove disappeared in his palm. They faced each other, her hand lost in his.

With an imperceptible nod of approval to Leopold, Max said, "Come, let's enjoy a bit of Rheinwein. Anna brought it."

While Max poured and passed the glasses, he suggested Hans and Anna take the sofa.

There was no protest.

On the way to the restaurant, they spotted a squad of brown shirts. Adolf Hitler's bullies had forced their way down the sidewalk and stopped an elderly couple. Max recognized the old people from synagogue.

There's nothing we can do to help, he explained to Anna.

The so-called Jewish telegraph—an information grapevine faster, more accurate, and more reliable than the Nazi-controlled newspapers—reached the smallest Congregation in every hamlet. Anna had heard of SA tactics. Now she was seeing it. They had snatched the old man's spectacles, grinding frame and glasses into the sidewalk. The frightened wife looked on helplessly.

Max read Anna's concern. Police won't do anything. Might even haul the old couple in for ‘disturbing the peace.' She noted his cynical sarcasm. Much of the force is pro-Nazi. Best thing we can do is get to the restaurant before they come his way.

Anna sensed the bitter rage, concern, and futility that coursed through Hans. Finally, she drew closer, reaching her hand toward his.

After supper, when they returned to the apartment, Max suggested that perhaps Anna would be kind enough to fix coffee. And perhaps Hans would assist. Take your time. We're in no hurry, he added, winking to the young folks.

Anna scooped up the aromatic grounds. Uncle Max is special, she said. He's got my best interest at heart. And he really likes you, Hans. I hope you don't feel he's too pushy.

I don't think that at all. We all like him. I'm glad he and Father thought we should meet. They've told me a lot about you…and your folks. What have they told you about me? he asked.

She made a face, as though everything about him had been negative.

Quickly, she let him know she was teasing. Then she added, But isn't it dangerous? I mean, for you to be involved with the Social Democrats' Black-Red-Gold group. Trying to actually oppose the Nazis. Tonight was the first time I ever saw anything like that. Do they carry on like that often?

"All the time. The SA bullies us any way they can. Anna, they're trying to drive us out of Germany. But this is our country. We're German. Not like those from the east or the Zionists who don't want to assimilate.

"My uncles fought for this country in the Great War. Father wanted to but couldn't because his job with the postal service was considered essential to the war effort. So what did they do? After he got that last promotion in 1919, his coworkers raised such a stink the service finally kicked him out. Anna, somebody's got to stand up. My organization is about all that's left.

"Three years ago, in his newspaper Der Angriff, Goebbels said we had to be erased and that the Nazis had the courage to do it. How much courage was that tonight? I don't have a choice, Anna. I've got to do what I can. Heaven help us if they win the upcoming elections and gain complete control."

Anna looked at him compassionately. I understand. I feel your hurt. Those old people weren't bothering a soul.

Wafts of savory aroma were meandering throughout the apartment, but Hans and Anna talked on. They agreed to write every week. Then, coquettishly, Anna leaned around the corner. All right, folks, coffee's ready.

Everyone laughed as Uncle Max, in a stage whisper, said, It sure took those two long enough to cook just one pot of coffee.

Two

*January 30, 1933*

Two men sat in a darkened Berlin office. One was thin, lean, and angular. His eyes were bitterly hazel. His uniform indicated a ranking SA officer. The other was darker and fat. Rolls of flesh bulged over his collar. He pulled unconsciously at the flab. It was late afternoon.

Earlier in the day, eighty-year-old President von Hindenburg had appointed Adolf Hitler Chancellor of Germany. Though the aging relic had toyed with the notion a while, only the day before had he made his decision. His people would understand. This troubled land had to have stability. When things normalized, Hitler could be ousted. Until then, this appointment should bring needed calm.

The man in uniform rose from his chair and walked to the window. Wet snow clouds hung about Berlin. Waning afternoon sun filtering through the clouds set a mood of poorly placed indirect light. It created a somber note. In the office, no lights had been turned on. The uniform stood silhouetted, the man's back to the nearly invisible three hundred seated pounds.

It was a disembodied voice. It was the uniform speaking. They are fools. All of them. Especially that old von Hindenburg. We will never admit it, but we know there is opposition, serious opposition, to the Führer. The old man thinks he can use us. The middle class thinks as long as the old man is alive, he can control us. Idiots! We will move so fast that by the time they react, we will have complete control.

The figure at the window about-faced. He stared at the man in front of him. It's time to eliminate every bit of opposition. You've got to divide your people. Tell them to take their movement underground. That should sound reasonable since Hitler is now Chancellor. Tell them they are going to have to act independently. Once they get separated, their strength will be lost. Then we can smash the Black-Red-Gold.

The fat man tugged at his chin as though he were mashing pimples. His voice had a grating nasality. You want me to call a special meeting? Or wait till the next regular time?

Let it go as planned, but telephone the people. Make it sound like a reminder. Stress that they may have to take the movement underground. That, by itself, should start confusion.

The SA officer strode around the desk. In a voice of excited calm, he said, Once you get them scattered, we'll start. We'll have the jails bulging.

The fat man hoisted himself, lifting his bulk in a sideways rocking motion. His lips curled as he grinned. They won't question my orders. Your boys can start having fun hauling them in after a few tongues have been loosened.

A pudgy palm came up in the new German greeting.

Heil, Hitler!

Heil, Hitler!

The two parted, their mission accomplished.

Across Berlin's broad expanse and throughout Germany, similar meetings were taking place. Hitler's lieutenants were entrenched in many opposition organizations, including the Communist Party and the Social Democrat's militant wing, the Black-Red-Gold. They had seen the future and switched loyalties.

*First week of February 1933*

The session was set for 7:00 p.m. Originally, it was called to discuss fresh ideas to counter the Nazis. That was before Hitler became Chancellor.

Gathered were about a dozen young men, mostly functionaries, several Jewish, who wore the Black-Red-Gold of the Social Democrats. The meeting room was in the basement at SD headquarters. The low vaulted ceiling amplified the muted voices which settled to a moderate hum as a blubberous man waddled to the desk in front of the scattered folding chairs. With a shuffling of feet and bumping of chairs, the noise dwindled. The man pulled at the rolls of fat spilling over his collar. He spoke without ceremony.

I told you on the phone…you've got to be ready to ‘dive.' From now on, underground is your reality. This may be the last time you come together. Which means we've got to take care of a few details. The speaker looked pointedly at Hans. Bracher, is it? Hans Bracher?

Hans nodded.

Since he had joined the Social Democrats six years earlier, he liked most of the party officials. But not this one. While others included themselves, this man seemed to always distance himself.

Bracher, you're acting secretary of this unit. Take the name cards with you. Hide them in your apartment. We may need the addresses later.

Something struck a dischord. This man was being specific. He normally left details to them. There were hundreds of names and addresses on those cards. What if they fell into the wrong hands? Hans made up his mind. He would take the cards to his basement and toss them into the furnace. That would better protect his friends than having the cards in his possession.

Now you people, the voice droned, have got to remember, the SA is going to get more involved in police activities. You will have to be on your own.

Why this constant harping on every man for himself, Hans wondered. It was contrary to SD philosophy. What had this man just said about the storm troopers? Hans wished he had paid closer attention. Even though the police sympathized with the Nazis, what made anyone think they would work together? The police were supposedly autonomous. Surely the Nazis could not get a foothold there. Or could they?

Hans was seated near the rear of the room. Though the meeting had not adjourned, he saw no need to stay. He rose and nodded to those around him. Starting to edge out, he placed a hand on the shoulder of Jakob Goldschmidt seated in the row ahead. Hans liked the young student who was enthusiastic about anything anti-Nazi. With good reason. During those fights at Berlin University, when others tried to prevent Jewish students from attending classes, both his legs had been broken.

The boxes of name cards were on a table at the rear of the room. Hans hefted them under his arm and was reaching for the door when he noticed Jacob, who had come up behind him, motion for him not to stop.

Once outside and with the door closed, Jakob said, Hans, I was hoping you'd be here. I need help.

Hans looked at the trembling lad. What's the problem? I'll help if I can.

I'm afraid, Hans. The young man's voice faltered. If I get caught… His voice trailed momentarily, then he said, Hide the pistol. And the ammunition.

At first, Hans hesitated. Then he said, Sure. Give them to me. But hurry. The others will be out soon. As an afterthought, Hans added, Hard to know who to trust anymore.

Jakob had propped his crutch against the wall and was fumbling underneath his jacket, extracting the pistol and a box of 7.5 mm cartridges.

Deftly, Hans shoved the weapon and bullets into his trouser pockets, wrapping his coat tight to see if the bulges showed.

Don't worry, Jakob. I'll take care of them for you.

Momentary relief appeared on the young law student's face. He reached out to shake Hans' hand. The door to the hall opened, and other party members began filing out, a look of gravity accompanying each face.

There was one smile in the basement. It was on the face of the man still behind the desk in the now empty room. He grinned as he rubbed the rolls of fat under his chin.

When Bracher did as he was instructed, arrests would follow.

Three

*Late February 1933*

Slushy ice covered Berlin. Trucks plastered with swastikas drove through dirty puddles, splashing frigid water on the sidewalks and on passersby if they were in the way. The new order drove forward, sloshing mud as it went.

It was late afternoon. The February sun was scarcely discernable, a splotch low in the western sky. Gathering snow clouds blocked most of the light.

Frau Bracher was in the kitchen preparing supper. Hans had returned from work early and was readying himself to go out for the evening.

Firm knocks, not overbearing but not to be ignored, sounded on the apartment door. Instantly, they repeated themselves.

Drying her hands on her apron, Frau Bracher pushed back a strand of loose gray hair and patted it into place. Now who could that be? she muttered. Then, louder to Hans, I'll get it.

Hans stopped buttoning his shirt. His eyes narrowed, shifting from one object to another on his dresser. There was something in that knock. Slowly, his hands returned to buttoning the shirt.

Frau Bracher opened the door.

Two SA uniforms, occupied by teenagers, stood there. One appeared to be about sixteen, the other maybe eighteen. The pistols strapped to their sides made age immaterial.

Yes? Frau Bracher asked.

Hans Bracher live here?

Hesitantly, Sophie replied, Yes. I'm his mother. May I help you?

We have orders to search this apartment. The older youth edged forward.

What is the reason for this? she asked. Do you have a search warrant?

There was no nervous twitch around her eyes this time, and for that, she was thankful. She had heard rumors of searches like this since Hitler became Chancellor. She forced herself to appear firm and disinterested.

We have orders to search this apartment, the storm trooper repeated. He did not answer either of her questions.

Hans had been listening intently to the conversation. He finished dressing and came out.

Had someone betrayed him to the SA? Or was this part of the growing routine? No. They are here for the files and membership lists, he told himself.

It's all right, Mother. Let them in. Turning to the two, he said, I'm Hans Bracher. Can I help you? Children! Just children, he thought, noting the younger one had not even started to shave. But they had sidearms, which made the situation risky.

The older one looked at Hans with unnerving disdain. We're going to search the apartment, he said. Now out of my way. He pointed to the far side of the room and said, Fritz, you start there. I'll take this side.

Frau Bracher backed around to let them enter. She looked questioningly at Hans. An imperceptible nod told her not to worry.

While the younger poked at furniture, peered behind cushions, and opened drawers, the older one had gone to the bookcase. At random, he pulled books out, leafing through a couple. He tapped the wall, looking for secret hiding places. His hands roamed over various books, shelf by shelf.

Hans felt a sudden tightening in the pit of his stomach. A thin film of perspiration coated his palms. He tried to control his breathing. They had pulled the book of poetry from the shelf.

It was an old used book, one among many. Sweet nothings poems, something no one was supposed to care about. That was why he had bought it.

The storm trooper examined the cover, looking curiously at the book. Then he glanced at Frau Bracher.

Poetry, huh? he said and flipped open to the title page.

Hans tried not to think of what would happen when the hollowed-out portion was discovered.

Abruptly, the young man closed the book and put it back on the shelf. Relief rolled over Hans. He was glad he had taken such pain hollowing out an exact fit for the pistol.

What is in there and there? asked the youth, indicating the doors nearby.

Just our bedrooms, Hans replied. Mine's here. Mother and Father over there.

Fritz, you take his room. I'll start here, said the eighteen-year-old as he went into the parents' bedroom.

Hans looked at his mother. You might as well finish fixing supper. There's nothing we can do. His tone was normal and conversational.

As she headed toward the kitchen, the apartment door opened, and Leopold entered, returning from work.

Nasty out there. Sleet and snow starting to whip around. His voice trailed as he saw Hans' eyes and knew something was wrong. What's going on? he asked. And why wasn't the door locked?

SA. They're searching the apartment.

Rummaging sounds came from the bedrooms—drawers being pulled out, clothes tossed and rifled, drawers shoved back in.

Herr Bracher looked at his son.

Du, Karl! Komm schnell! the excited voice crackled from inside Hans' bedroom.

Ja? Was ist? responded the older boy, now identified as Karl, who was crossing over to Hans' bedroom.

Bullets. A full box, 7.5 mm. Bundled in a wad of socks in the back of this drawer.

Having his body filled with adrenaline moments earlier, Hans now tried to cope with the new flood. There was no longer a hint of youth about the pair. Their faces, their eyes, displayed what had not been evident before. Here were two men, no longer boys, Hitler's lieutenants, who had just discovered a crime against the state.

Where is the gun? growled Karl. His eyes leveled first on Hans then shifted to the elder Bracher.

There is no gun. I've had the cartridges for years, Hans lied. He hoped he was convincing, returning the steadiness of their gaze. He felt a sickly feeling in his extremities.

Fritz, let's find the gun. Tear the room apart! The whole apartment if we have to. It's here somewhere. Karl headed for the kitchen.

Frau Bracher had witnessed the exchange from the kitchen doorway. Karl slammed into her and pushed her backward as he entered.

Civility was now gone. Get out of my way! he exploded, shoving her to the floor. Hans Bracher! You come here right now!

Hans was moving to help his mother. It was all he could do to constrain himself, his first impulse to jump on the youth. But that would precipitate consequences which would make the present seem insignificant.

Cabinet doors banged, contents were emptied on the floor, pillows were ripped, and mattresses poked and torn. It lasted more than an hour. Throughout, they asked Hans, Where is the pistol? He denied its existence each time.

Dark had settled over Berlin. The search was proving fruitless. Finally, Karl said, That's it. There's nothing more we can do here. He turned to Hans and demanded, Hans Bracher, you will come with us. His hand rested on the holster, ready to be persuasive. Get your coat and come along.

The storm trooper kept tossing the box of bullets in his left hand as though he were jingling coins. He followed Hans to the bedroom while he got his coat. Then the three went downstairs.

Like a serrated knife, ice-laden wind cut through the streets, pelting every surface with stinging sleet, coating everything with a layer of frozen cold. The trio walked out of the apartment, and the chill hit them a stunning blow. Each drew his arms tighter. Hans was aware of the penetrating cold, but under the circumstances, it seemed inconsequential. Until…

Parked in front of them was an open-bodied stake truck. Swastikas were on its doors.

Up in the back, Karl commanded. Fritz, tie him up.

Hans climbed aboard with the young storm trooper following. Karl opened the cab door and took out a length of rope, tossing it into the back.

Lie down and put your hands behind you, demanded Fritz.

Hans felt his wrists being bound. He sensed further movement and knew Fritz was running the rope down to his ankles. Then it was looped over and tied to the stakes near the cab. Escape, impossible.

The pair had not said where they were taking him. That further interrogation would ensue was a forgone. Where it would occur, irrelevant.

For several blocks, Hans was able to follow the swerves and knew the general vicinity through which they were passing. However, the wind and sleet soon found openings in his jacket and trouser legs, mocking his condition. By the time the truck came to a halt, Hans had given up trying to follow the route they were taking. He was barely aware of movement near him. Someone was fiddling with the ropes. A fire-like pain had settled in his back. He had no feeling in his legs. Now they were standing him upright. The stomping he heard came from his own feet as he tried to get the blood circulating.

For the first time since he had lost touch with his whereabouts, he was able to look around. Am I delirious? he wondered. They were on Alte Jakobs Strasse, parked in front of the Communist Party Headquarters. Or at least what used to be. Nothing made sense.

The puzzling pieces began to fit, however, as they entered. People he had seen recently in this very building, acting the role of dedicated Communists, now wore SA uniforms or had on swastika armbands. They had been undercover, working for the Nazis all the while. With the sudden rise to power and dispersal of opposition, the SA had confiscated this property and taken control of the building. Now it was an SA command post.

The quiet black of the street outside, interrupted by pools of calm light circling lampposts, gave no hint of the furious activity inside. Brown shirts formed a collage of constant motion. There were middle-aged men to boys in their late teens, Hitler's bullies and henchmen, human instruments of terror. Their expressionless eyes were glazed with newfound authority. Haughty bearing denoted the strength of their position.

Hans tried to look straight ahead. However, as he was brought through the maze of bodies, he noted the number of prisoners who apparently had been arrested earlier in the evening but not yet interrogated. Several were people he had encountered before. He knew them to be stringently opposed to Hitler and the new order.

There was no time to reflect on the implications of his discovery. He was only one of hundreds, maybe thousands, of political prisoners. Hans was pulled through rapidly and taken to a room halfway down the hall.

Hier ist Hans Bracher. We found these bullets in his apartment, Karl said, handing over the ammunition to a storm trooper who appeared to be in his late thirties. The markings on his uniform indicated a ranking SA officer. He was tall, his eyes steel gray. With a nod, the officer dismissed the younger men, scarcely acknowledging their existence.

Hans looked around the room and noticed two regular storm troopers, possibly in their midtwenties. There was also a plump young woman just out of her teens wearing a Nazi uniform. She was seated in the corner with a stenographer's pad on her lap.

There is something familiar about her, Hans thought. Then he remembered. A month ago, he had talked with her in this very building. At that time, she pretended to be a loyal Communist. They had jokingly made fun of the impertinent Austrian corporal.

The officer spoke, his voice caustic and harsh. Sit down. He pointed to a plain wooden chair in the middle of the room. The seat Hans took, the chair the woman was using, and a drab table at the far end of the cubicle were the only furnishings in the room.

Bracher, what are you doing with these? the officer queried. He held out the box of bullets.

Hans repeated the story he had told at the apartment. The officer kept his head riveted in Hans' direction, but his eyes darted from one to another in the room.

Soon the other men became involved. Why do you have the bullets? Who else is involved? Where did you hide the pistol? Cooperate and you can go free.

The three hovered over him, shouting into his ears one moment, talking straight to his face the next, followed by leering whispers he could barely hear.

Hans tried to keep his composure. He detected a rising anger though, particularly in the two regulars. Several times they withdrew their pistols and toyed with them close to Hans' head.

Suddenly, the questions had nothing to do with a missing pistol. Who are the other members in your Black-Red-Gold unit?

The unexpected switch and brittle voice caught Hans off guard. I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about, he responded cautiously. Too cautiously. No sooner had he said it than he wondered, Maybe that was the wrong approach. They knew of his political involvement.

Hobnail boots clomped around his chair. He was bombarded with fast questions. The names of his fellow members, that's what they really wanted.

As the minutes wore on, the trio became increasingly angry, striking him several times. He could not let them know anything. After the initial flash of pain, their blows became meaningless.

Suddenly, there was a billow of light. Blood spurted from the top of his head. Pink lacerated flesh peeped through his hair. Then the wound began to cradle an expanding pool of blood. Hans crumbled to the floor. The brilliant display faded into darkness.

You stupid ass! Look what you've done, railed the officer, his eyes boring into the storm trooper who had just cracked the butt of his pistol over Hans' head. You know we aren't supposed to let suspects go out of her maimed. Not so anyone can see.

Sulkily, the man retorted, But he wasn't talking. I was just trying to loosen him up.

You idiot! So he wasn't talking, but he will. Now, though, we've got to let him go because of what you just did.

Hans was on the floor. His face felt funny. Wet. His head was starting to throb. He put his hand to his face then to his scalp.

Stop that! the officer barked. I don't want it bleeding any more than it is. Helmut, you and Dieter put him back in the chair.

Hans' head and face were covered with blood. He could smell its sticky warmth. He had no idea how severe the wound was.

Fräulein Garr, get him a towel, barked the officer.

For the first time since Hans had entered the room, the young woman rose. She left the cubicle and was instantly back with a small hand towel.

This is the only thing we've got clean right now, she said, tossing the cloth in Hans' direction. She returned to the chair and picked up her stenographer's notebook.

Mop your face with that, Bracher, the officer ordered.

Blood continued to dribble from the wound, but it was not spurting. At least no artery had been severed, Hans thought through a maze of dizziness. He cleaned his face and dabbed at globs of blood on his starched white shirt.

Stand up in that chair!

He wished they would leave him alone. He felt nauseous. He wanted to sleep, but not here.

Get up in that chair!

Maybe they're testing to see if I'm strong enough for them to continue, he thought.

Move it, Bracher!

Blindly, he obeyed the order. It's all right to do this, he told himself. Something so mundane. As long as I don't divulge any information…it will be all right. Just don't give any names.

Lower your trousers. The voice was throaty.

At first, Hans thought he was hallucinating. What did you say? he asked.

Since the blow to his head, everything seemed dislocated. He felt disoriented.

I said drop your pants!

There was no misunderstanding the husky command this time.

Hans looked at the girl then the officer. Stone faces were watching him. What are they up to? he wondered. Slowly, his hands came to his waist, and he unbuckled his belt. Then, button by button, he gradually worked his way down the fly. As his trousers began to sag, he slipped them over his hips and let the fabric crumple in a pile around his feet. He stood there, staring into space.

Now your underpants, Bracher. The leer on the officer's face was lewd and ominous.

The name Ernst Röhm, head of the SA, flashed through Hans' mind. Röhm's homosexual practices were widely known and had attracted many fellow travelers to become storm troopers. As a result, a new word had entered the German vocabulary—Röhmling, another word for queer.

Underpants, Bracher!

At any other time…under different conditions…he would have…what would he have done? He was not sure. What he did know was that he was blushing deeply, and there were hostile faces staring at him.

See, Fräulein Garr. That's what a Jew looks like. Half a man. The rest got cut away.

Laughter filled the room.

What kind of man do you call yourself, Bracher? Not much that we can see. The taunts were dark and brooding, yet the mockery only intensified Hans' resolve.

After amusing themselves another few minutes, the officer abruptly said, Put your clothes back on. He turned to the others, smirking. Just like these swine. Indecent exposure. He wheeled back toward Hans. You know, I could charge you and keep you here, especially with a young lady present.

Hans did not respond. He dressed as best he could. The room swam each time he bent down. He eased himself into the chair. The bloodstained towel was still over the back of the chair. Hans mopped his face again. The bleeding had stopped.

Jew, I'm going to let you go for now. We're too crowded to keep trash like you here. But I am ordering you to stay in Berlin. Now get out before I get mad.

Hans was vaguely aware of going through the hall and out the main entrance. He sensed that some of the waiting prisoners eyed him as he moved through their midst. But they said nothing to him. The SA was everywhere. Now it really was every man for himself.

The sleet had abated, and the winds lessened. As Hans stumbled out of the menagerie, downy snow was falling. It covered his shoulders and laid a white bandage on his wounded head.

Trucks laden with bound prisoners continued to roll up and stop, unload their cargo, then move on.

Halos of misty light encircled the streetlamps, bright islands in the darkness offering blurry guideposts as Hans headed for the nearest streetcar stop.

He had not been able to fully focus since the blow to his head.

He had to get out of Berlin. That was the only thing he saw clearly.

Four

It was after 2:00 a.m. when Hans groped his way up the stairs of the apartment building. He had to stop on the second landing to let the dizziness settle before tackling the next flight.

A ribbon of light sliced underneath the apartment door. His parents were still up.

With difficulty, he inserted the key that had so effortlessly opened the door hundreds of times before. As he entered, his parents rushed forward.

Son, you're home, his mother stated, really not knowing what to say or ask. Relief was evident in her voice. The tautness in his father's face began to relax. Then they spied the blood.

What have they done to you? The question came from both simultaneously.

Hans related some of the events, omitting others. No reason to cause them any more distress than necessary. Still, he had to make them aware of the seriousness.

After a quick discussion of the evening's events, Frau Bracher led Hans to the bathroom and began cleaning the wound. When she was satisfied the area was ready for bandaging, she made a plaster that would hold through the night.

Hans, tomorrow, you must let a doctor see about this. I've done all I can. It'll get you through the night, but you do need a doctor to look at it.

They walked back to the living room.

I'm leaving Berlin. Immediately. Hans spoke as though he had not heard a word his mother said. Renewed concern crossed his parents' stunned faces.

Where will you go? What will you do? they asked.

I'm not sure, he responded. It was not the complete truth, but it was better that way. It's safer for you not to know too much. I'll be all right. Don't worry. But the SA is not going to give up. They'll come back. I will get out of Berlin first thing in the morning. Turning to his father, he said, "For your own protection, go to the police registration office as soon as you can tomorrow. Tell them I left and took my things with me. Put down that I left no forwarding address, that I just took off. You'll be safer that way, and it will throw them off my trail for a while.

I'll keep in touch through Elzbeth. Once I get settled, I'll let her know. And don't try to write to me. Use her. They'll probably be watching the mail coming out of this apartment.

A few more minutes of conversation followed before they retired, but no one slept.

With barely three and a half hours of rest, Hans rose shakily. He heard his mother in the kitchen preparing coffee, rolls, and scooping out marmalade. He dressed hurriedly. He was still dizzy but attributed it to a lack of sleep. Into the old black leather suitcase, he tossed some warm underwear and socks, crammed in a pair of extra shoes, folded in a couple pairs of trousers, and topped the heap with four freshly pressed shirts. Reaching to the back of the dresser drawer, he took all the money he had stashed there and slipped it into his wallet. He got his passport and personal identification card then took his heavy coat and wool scarf. Finally, he reached for his hat and headed for the living room.

Mother, I'm not going to take time for breakfast. I'll pick up something on the way.

His father came out when he heard the talking. Son, you be careful. Keep in touch. Our prayers for a safe journey go with you.

Hans embraced his father then kissed his mother goodbye. As he was going out the door, he heard his mother say, Be sure to let a doctor check you. Soon as you can!

Immediately, he was down to the landing but had to concentrate on his steps because of the dizziness. He did not hear her add, Have a safe journey, my son. Wherever it takes you.

Five

It was invisible, those first few inches. Then the thin jet of steam rushed upward from the locomotive in a white column before the morning wind whipped under the station's canopy, exerting its dispersing effect.

The piping sound of the train whistle reverberated with shrill determination.

Hans milled in the crowd on the cold platform near his train, unsteady on his feet. Departure was moments away. This was the Alexanderplatz station. The hollow deafening noise made him feel nauseated.

He watched the vapor fade as the conductor shouted, Einsteigen! Coal was being shoveled into the gulping engine. Prim red flags, emboldened with black swastikas, were attached to the locomotive. The clock read 8:23 a.m. Two minutes more and the Frankfurt Special would pull out. His legs felt rubbery, but his gait was even. Finally, the clock's sweep hand ticked to 8:24 a.m.

Now, thought Hans, head for the car and get aboard quickly, like a businessman almost late for an appointment. He liked his analogy about the businessman. Yes, he was on a business trip. The business of survival.

He located a compartment that held only one middle-aged woman. He returned her Heil, Hitler! with just enough enthusiasm not to rouse suspicion. But she would know from his aloofness that he did not want to be disturbed.

Two blasts of the whistle were accompanied by a smooth lug forward. Then the clatter of couplings taking hold dominoed from the engine backward. With another forward lurch, the train eased ahead. Waving crowds on the platform slipped by as momentum built.

Hans slouched back, waiting to clear Berlin's limits so he could relax. Relax? That was the wrong word. Safe? More secure, possibly. How long was Germany going to tolerate this Nazi mess? he wondered.

He unfolded a copy of the Völkisher Beobachter (the People's Observer), the leading Nazi newspaper. He had picked it up to disguise himself when he first entered the station, pretending to read stories of who was filling various posts, proclamations, edicts, demands, and repressive measures. They claimed all this was in the national interest, none of which omened good for Hans.

He thought of Anna. She would be there when he reached Nochern. The life we will build together, think of that, he told himself.

Hans looked out the window but saw nothing. Wisps of smoke climbing from distant snow-covered cottages, scenes he had loved since childhood, brought no response.

As the train cut through the middle of Germany, Hans noticed the intensity of Nazi activity at the various stops. Each station tried to outdo the one before. Banners, Nazi slogans, pictures of Hitler, and swastikas. Brown-shirted SA units patrolled the platforms at larger stations with self-importance.

In his rush to leave Berlin, Hans had not stopped to pick up cheese or bread. When the Frankfurt Special finally reached its destination, Berlin was some six hours behind. Hans was famished. He had eaten nothing since lunch the day before. Another twenty-five minutes before his connection to St. Goarshausen. He had time for a Wurst and beer.

The high-ceilinged hall reeled with crowd noise. His head throbbed. The smell of travelers clung to everything. Storm troopers bullied their way through waiting passengers.

Hans threaded his way to the quick-lunch counter. A hurried wiener, two rolls, and a small glass of beer put him in better stead for the onward trek. Rather than risk an encounter with the SA, he waited at the lunch counter then stepped briefly to the restroom before heading straight to the loading platform, ready for the next two hours along the Rhine. To St. Goarshausen.

The bustling expectancy of Frankfurt had been like that in Berlin—people looking, longing for Hitler's new order to bring relief from Germany's economic chaos. The new Chancellor blamed it on the Versailles Treaty, world Jewry, and the Communists, alternatingly or jointly. Hans hoped the rural villages would be immune to all that turned city dwellers topsy-turvy.

By the time the train reached Wiesbaden, ready for its northerly swing at Rudersheim, Hans was starting to relax. Sunshine played hide-and-seek on snow-covered vineyards up through Lorch. The stony cliffs seemed mild and tranquil as the Lorelei appeared ahead in the curving valley. St. Goarshausen would be the next stop.

The brakes belched steam, and the train crunched to a halt. The apparent tranquility Hans saw through the window was beneficial but bitter. He needed rest and quiet but regretted having to leave Berlin. He reached up to touch the bloodstained bandages.

That something was still wrong made itself known the instant he stood up. The compartment spun with such force that Hans slammed back into his seat. The other passengers who were getting off had already hoisted their luggage from the overhead rack. They stopped briefly to look at him but offered no assistance. He ignored them and remained seated while they gathered their belongings and filed out.

Hans fought the desire to stay seated. His travel bag seemed to sway as he reached for it. Finally, he grasped its handle. With one deft motion, he lifted it over the leather restraints and brought it to his side. As he walked down the aisle, his footing became a bit more certain. Cautiously, he stepped off the train.

For the first time since leaving Berlin, Hans breathed free air. Granular sleet stung his face as he glanced at the low hung sky.

The few people milling around the platform were unhurried. The station scarcely reflected the Nazi clamor he had left behind. An occasional picture of Hitler and a modicum of swastikas, that was all. He could, no, he would ignore them here. And there was not one of the hated brown shirts.

Hans looked up to where Anna would be. Once he had his bearings, he headed for the path she told him led to Nochern. It was a quarter-mile climb, straight up the Rhine embankment with lots of slippery rocks, all the more treacherous because of the falling ice.

About halfway up, he knew Anna had not exaggerated its ruggedness. He paused to look down into the valley but saw little because of the clouds below. His feet were sore with stone bruises from the pebbles he had not dodged. Though the handrail was rickety, he appreciated its rustic presence. It represented security, meager but there. He looked down to affirm his footing on the strange remote walkway.

Hans!

Anna's unexpected voice startled him so much he almost pushed the handrail from its mooring.

Oh, Hans, I'm so sorry I startled you. What are you doing here? What happened to your head?

Anna, he stammered. I was headed up to Nochern. Where are you going? We've got to talk.

Perplexed, she looked at him, sensing his distress yet not able to interpret his actions or mood. I was going down to St. Goarshausen, an errand for Papa. But it can wait. Let's get back to the house.

While they climbed the steep rolling path toward Nochern, Hans did most of the talking. He updated Anna on the past forty-eight hours and why he was here.

You're safe here, she said. We've got a spare room we can fix up. And Papa will welcome your help with the business. If that's what you want… She left the latter statement in a questioning mode.

That's what I was hoping. You're sure I won't create any problems?

None. I'm glad you're here. First, let's get you home and a fresh bandage on your head.

When Anna entered the shop, her father looked up, expecting a customer. Why, Anna, too soon you're back, he exclaimed. Everything, is it all right? He then noticed the man beside her. And who is this? he demanded. He squinted in the dim light, trying to focus better.

Papa, this is Hans Bracher, she said proudly, laying an affectionate hand on his arm.

The old man seemed confused but was ready to welcome the one Anna had earlier told him would someday be his son-in-law. He came from behind the counter, trying to put vigor in elderly legs, all the while reaching out his hand in a welcome greeting.

Anna has told us much nice things about you, my son. And what you are doing now here in our little village?

Anna cast what she hoped would be a glance of caution to Hans. Her parents did not comprehend the perils Hitler evoked. She had told them about Hans but had only brushed on his political activities.

Before Hans could respond, Anna told her father, Hans had suffered a recent accident. And that, coupled with the faulty economy, led him to leave Berlin sooner than expected.

The old man understood the Depression meant millions were out of work. He understood, too, that his daughter's future husband had come to help and to be helped. That was good. Whatever made her happy suited him just fine.

So the Mama is upstairs. You go surprise her too. Take Hans with you and get his room fixed. Welcome to Nochern, my son. A faint smile crossed his wizened face as he watched Anna's hand reach for Hans' to lead him through the shop and up to his new home.

By the way, Anna, she heard her father say almost casually as they were starting up. Did you tell Hans of the fire last night? The Parliament Building burned. This Hitler fellow, the one they've put in office, says the Reichstag was set on fire by the Communists. We heard it on the wireless. People are being arrested all over Berlin. Hundreds, maybe thousands by now. President von Hindenburg has signed a decree that gives this Hitler dictatorial powers. He shook his head then added, People in Berlin do strange things. No offense, my son.

Hans did not doubt the blaze. He questioned whether the Communists were at fault. It would not surprise him if the Nazis themselves set the fire to blame others and to increase their power.

Six

*Mid-March 1933*

As March flew, Hans learned rural life firsthand. This was a Germany he never knew existed. Instantly, he liked the Osters, the other Jewish family in Nochern. Soon, he was introduced to the kosher households in St. Goarshausen, all five of them. The entire community—gentile and Jewish—accepted him readily during those first few weeks. Life in Nochern could not compare to Berlin, where the two cultures coexisted but acted separately, neither having much to do with the other.

Naturally, the Gersons and the Osters went down St. Goarshausen for Sabbath services. Their meals were a bit different, but no one cared. They were part of the community, a unity. Hans liked that. Unity. A peculiar word that lets variety act in unison.

How soon this would change.

The days melded, one into the other. Mornings were spent mostly with Herr Gerson. Hans learned the merchandise and the clientele, something in which Anna's