Winter of the World Read online

  Someone said: "This is all completely illegal. We should walk out in protest."

  "No, no!" said Walter emphatically. "They would pass the act in our absence. We've got to talk the Catholics out of it. Wels must speak to Kaas immediately." Otto Wels was the leader of the Social Democratic Party, prelate Ludwig Kaas the head of the Centre Party.

  There was a murmur of agreement around the room.

  Lloyd took a deep breath and spoke up. "Herr von Ulrich, why don't you take Gottfried von Kessel to lunch? I believe you two worked together in London before the war."

  Walter laughed mirthlessly. "That creep!" he said.

  Maybe the lunch was not such a good idea. Lloyd said: "I didn't realize you disliked the man."

  Walter looked thoughtful. "I hate him--but I'll try anything, by God."

  Lloyd said: "Shall I find him and extend the invitation?"

  "All right, give it a try. If he accepts, tell him to meet me at the Herrenklub at one."

  "Very good."

  Lloyd hurried back to the room into which Heinrich had disappeared. He stepped inside. A meeting was going on similar to the one he had left. He scanned the room, spotted the black-clad Heinrich, met his gaze, and beckoned him urgently.

  They both stepped outside, then Lloyd said: "They're saying your party is going to support the Enabling Act!"

  "It's not certain," said Heinrich. "They're divided."

  "Who's against the Nazis?"

  "Bruning and some others." Bruning was a former chancellor and a leading figure.

  Lloyd felt more hopeful. "Which others?"

  "Did you call me out of the room to pump me for information?"

  "Sorry, no, I didn't. Walter von Ulrich wants to have lunch with your father."

  Heinrich looked dubious. "They don't like each other--you know that, don't you?"

  "I gathered as much. But they'll put their differences aside today!"

  Heinrich did not seem sure. "I'll ask him. Wait here." He went back inside.

  Lloyd wondered whether there was any chance this would work. It was a shame Walter and Gottfried were not bosom buddies. But he could hardly believe the Catholics would vote with the Nazis.

  What bothered him most was the thought that if it could happen in Germany, it could happen in Britain. This grim prospect made him shiver with dread. He had his whole life in front of him, and he did not want to live it in a repressive dictatorship. He wanted to work in politics, like his parents, and make his country a better place for people such as the Aberowen coal miners. For that he needed political meetings where people could speak their minds, and newspapers that could attack the government, and pubs where men could have arguments without looking over their shoulders to see who was listening.

  Fascism threatened all that. But perhaps Fascism would fail. Walter might be able to talk Gottfried around, and prevent the Centre Party supporting the Nazis.

  Heinrich came out. "He'll do it."

  "Great! Herr von Ulrich suggested the Herrenklub at one o'clock."

  "Really? Is he a member?"

  "I assume so--why?"

  "It's a conservative institution. I suppose he is Walter von Ulrich, so he must come from a noble family, even if he is a socialist."

  "I should probably book a table. Do you know where it is?"

  "Just around the corner." Heinrich gave Lloyd directions.

  "Shall I book for four?"

  Heinrich grinned. "Why not? If they don't want you and me there, they can just ask us to leave." He went back into the room.

  Lloyd left the building and walked quickly across the plaza, passing the burned-out Reichstag building, and made his way to the Herrenklub.

  There were gentlemen's clubs in London, but Lloyd had never been inside one. This place was a cross between a restaurant and a funeral parlor, he thought. Waiters in full evening dress padded about, laying silent cutlery on tables shrouded in white. A headwaiter took his reservation and wrote down the name "von Ulrich" as solemnly as if he were making an entry in the Book of the Dead.

  He returned to the opera house. The place was getting busier and noisier, and the tension seemed higher. Lloyd heard someone say excitedly that Hitler himself would open the proceedings this afternoon by proposing the act.

  A few minutes before one, Lloyd and Walter walked across the plaza. Lloyd said: "Heinrich von Kessel was surprised to learn that you are a member of the Herrenklub."

  Walter nodded. "I was one of the founders, a decade or more ago. In those days it was the Juniklub. We got together to campaign against the Versailles Treaty. It's become a right-wing bastion, and I'm probably the only Social Democrat, but I remain a member because it's a useful place to meet with the enemy."

  Inside the club Walter pointed to a sleek-looking man at the bar. "That's Ludwig Franck, the father of young Werner, who fought alongside us at the People's Theater," Walter said. "I'm sure he's not a member here--he isn't even German-born--but it seems he's having lunch with his father-in-law, Count von der Helbard, the elderly man beside him. Come with me."

  They went to the bar and Walter performed introductions. Franck said to Lloyd: "You and my son got into quite a scrap a couple of weeks back."

  Lloyd touched the back of his head reflexively: the swelling had gone down, but the place was still painful to touch. "We had women to protect, sir," he said.

  "Nothing wrong with a bit of a punch-up," Franck said. "Does you lads good."

  Walter cut in impatiently: "Come on, Ludi. Busting up election meetings is bad enough, but your leader wants to completely destroy our democracy!"

  "Perhaps democracy is not the right form of government for us," said Franck. "After all, we're not like the French or the Americans--thank God."

  "Don't you care about losing your freedom? Be serious!"

  Franck suddenly dropped his facetious air. "All right, Walter," he said coldly. "I will be serious, if you insist. My mother and I arrived here from Russia more than ten years ago. My father was not able to come with us. He had been found to be in possession of subversive literature, specifically a book called Robinson Crusoe, apparently a novel that promotes bourgeois individualism, whatever the hell that might be. He was sent to a prison camp somewhere in the Arctic. He may--" Franck's voice broke for a moment, and he paused, swallowed, and at last finished quietly: "He may still be there."

  There was a moment of silence. Lloyd was shocked by the story. He knew that the Russian Communist government could be cruel, in general, but it was quite another thing to hear a personal account, told simply by a man who was clearly still grieving.

  Walter said: "Ludi, we all hate the Bolsheviks--but the Nazis could be worse!"

  "I'm willing to take that risk," said Franck.

  Count von der Helbard said: "We'd better go in for lunch. I've got an afternoon appointment. Excuse us." The two men left.

  "It's what they always say!" Walter raged. "The Bolsheviks! As if they were the only alternative to the Nazis! I could weep."

  Heinrich walked in with an older man who was obviously his father: they had the same thick dark hair combed with a parting, except that Gottfried's was shorter and tweeded with silver. Although their features were similar, Gottfried looked like a fussy bureaucrat in an old-fashioned collar, whereas Heinrich was more like a romantic poet than a political aide.

  The four of them went into the dining room. Walter wasted no time. As soon as they had ordered he said: "I can't understand what your party hopes to gain by supporting this Enabling Act, Gottfried."

  Von Kessel was equally direct. "We are a Catholic party, and our first duty is to protect the position of the Church in Germany. That's what people hope for when they vote for us."

  Lloyd frowned in disapproval. His mother had been a member of Parliament, and she always said it was her duty to serve the people who did not vote for her, as well as those who did.

  Walter employed a different argument. "A democratic parliament is the best protection for all our churches--yet
you're about to throw that away!"

  "Wake up, Walter," Gottfried said testily. "Hitler won the election. He has come to power. Whatever we do, he's going to rule Germany for the foreseeable future. We have to protect ourselves."

  "His promises are worth nothing!"

  "We have asked for specific assurances in writing: the Catholic Church to be independent of the state, Catholic schools to operate unmolested, no discrimination against Catholics in the civil service." He looked inquiringly at his son.

  Heinrich said: "They promised the agreement would be with us first thing this afternoon."

  Walter said: "Weigh the options! A scrap of paper signed by a tyrant, against a democratic parliament--which is better?"

  "The greatest power of all is God."

  Walter rolled his eyes. "Then God save Germany," he said.

  The Germans had not had time to develop faith in democracy, Lloyd reflected as the argument surged back and forth between Walter and Gottfried. The Reichstag had been sovereign for only fourteen years. They had lost a war, seen their currency devalued to nothing, and suffered mass unemployment: to them, the right to vote seemed inadequate protection.

  Gottfried proved immovable. At the end of lunch his position was as firm as ever. His responsibility was to protect the Catholic Church. It made Lloyd want to scream.

  They returned to the opera house and the deputies took their seats in the auditorium. Lloyd and Heinrich sat in a box looking down.

  Lloyd could see the Social Democratic Party members in a group on the far left. As the hour approached, he noticed Brownshirts and SS men placing themselves at the exits and around the walls in a threatening arc behind the Social Democrats. It was almost as if they planned to prevent the deputies leaving the building until they had passed the act. Lloyd found it powerfully sinister. He wondered, with a shiver of fear, whether he, too, might find himself imprisoned here.

  There was a roar of cheering and applause, and Hitler walked in, wearing a Brownshirt uniform. The Nazi deputies, most of them similarly dressed, rose to their feet in ecstasy as he mounted the rostrum. Only the Social Democrats remained seated, but Lloyd noticed that one or two looked uneasily over their shoulders at the armed guards. How could they speak and vote freely if they were nervous even about not joining in the standing ovation for their opponent?

  When at last they became quiet, Hitler began to speak. He stood straight, his left arm at his side, gesturing only with his right. His voice was harsh and grating but powerful, reminding Lloyd of both a machine gun and a barking dog. His tone thrilled with feeling as he spoke of the "November traitors" of 1918 who had surrendered when Germany was about to win the war. He was not pretending: Lloyd felt he sincerely believed every stupid, ignorant word he spoke.

  The November traitors were a well-worn topic for Hitler, but then he took a new tack. He spoke of the churches, and the important place of the Christian religion in the German state. This was an unusual theme for him, and his words were clearly aimed at the Centre Party, whose votes would determine today's result. He said that he saw the two main denominations, Protestant and Catholic, as the most important factors for upholding nationhood. Their rights would not be touched by the Nazi government.

  Heinrich shot a triumphant look at Lloyd.

  "I'd still get it in writing, if I were you," Lloyd muttered.

  It was two and a half hours before Hitler reached his peroration.

  He ended with an unmistakable threat of violence. "The government of the nationalist uprising is determined and ready to deal with the announcement that the act has been rejected--and with it, that resistance has been declared." He paused dramatically, letting the message sink in: voting against the act would be a declaration of resistance. Then he reinforced it. "May you, gentlemen, now take the decision yourselves as to whether it is to be peace or war!"

  He sat down to roars of approval from the Nazi delegates, and the session was adjourned.

  Heinrich was elated, Lloyd depressed. They went off in different directions: their parties would now hold desperate last-minute discussions.

  The Social Democrats were gloomy. Their leader, Wels, had to speak in the chamber, but what could he say? Several deputies said that if he criticized Hitler he might not leave the building alive. They feared for their own lives, too. If the deputies were killed, Lloyd thought in a moment of cold dread, what would happen to their aides?

  Wels revealed that he had a cyanide capsule in his waistcoat pocket. If arrested, he would commit suicide to avoid torture. Lloyd was horrified. Wels was an elected representative, yet he was forced to behave like some kind of saboteur.

  Lloyd had started the day with false expectations. He had thought the Enabling Act a crazy idea that had no chance of becoming reality. Now he saw that most people expected the act to become a reality today. He had misjudged the situation badly.

  Was he equally wrong to believe that something like this could not happen in his own country? Was he fooling himself?

  Someone asked if the Catholics had made a final decision. Lloyd stood up. "I'll find out," he said. He left and ran to the Centre Party's meeting room. As before, he put his head around the door and beckoned Heinrich outside.

  "Bruning and Ersing are wavering," Heinrich said.

  Lloyd's heart sank. Ersing was a Catholic union leader. "How can a trade unionist even think about voting for this bill?" he said.

  "Kaas says the Fatherland is in danger. They all think there will be bloody anarchy if we reject this act."

  "There'll be bloody tyranny if you pass it."

  "What about your lot?"

  "They think they will all be shot if they vote against. But they're going to do it anyway."

  Heinrich went back inside and Lloyd returned to the Social Democrats. "The diehards are weakening," Lloyd told Walter and his colleagues. "They're afraid of a civil war if the act is rejected."

  The gloom deepened.

  They all returned to the debating chamber at six o'clock.

  Wels spoke first. He was calm, reasonable, and unemotional. He pointed out that life in a democratic republic had been good for Germans, overall, bringing freedom of opportunity and social welfare, and reinstating Germany as a normal member of the international community.

  Lloyd noticed Hitler making notes.

  At the end Wels bravely professed allegiance to humanity and justice, freedom and socialism. "No Enabling Law gives you the power to annihilate ideas that are eternal and indestructible," he said, gaining courage as the Nazis began to laugh and jeer.

  The Social Democrats applauded, but they were drowned out.

  "We greet the persecuted and oppressed!" Wels shouted. "We greet our friends in the Reich. Their steadfastness and loyalty deserve admiration."

  Lloyd could just make out his words over the hooting and booing of the Nazis.

  "The courage of their convictions and their unbroken optimism guarantee a brighter future!"

  He sat down amid raucous heckling.

  Would the speech make any difference? Lloyd could not tell.

  After Wels, Hitler spoke again. This time his tone was quite different. Lloyd realized that in his earlier speech the chancellor had only been warming up. His voice was louder now, his phrases more intemperate, his tone full of contempt. He used his right arm constantly to make aggressive gestures--pointing, hammering, clenching his fist, putting his hand on his heart, and sweeping the air in a motion that seemed to brush all opposition aside. Every impassioned phrase was cheered uproariously by his supporters. Every sentence expressed the same emotion: a savage, all-consuming, murderous rage.

  Hitler was also confident. He claimed he had not needed to propose the Enabling Act. "We appeal in this hour to the German Reichstag to grant us something we would have taken anyway!" he jeered.

  Heinrich looked worried, and left the box. A minute later Lloyd saw him on the floor of the auditorium, whispering in his father's ear.

  When he returned to the box he looked str
icken.

  Lloyd said: "Have you got your written assurances?"

  Heinrich could not meet Lloyd's eye. "The document is being typed up," he replied.

  Hitler finished by scorning the Social Democrats. He did not want their votes. "Germany shall be free!" he screamed. "But not through you!"

  The leaders of the other parties spoke briefly. Every one appeared crushed. Prelate Kaas said the Centre Party would support the bill. The rest followed suit. Everyone but the Social Democrats was in favor.

  The result of the vote was announced, and the Nazis cheered wildly.

  Lloyd was awestruck. He had seen naked power brutally wielded, and it was an ugly sight.

  He left the box without speaking to Heinrich.

  He found Walter in the entrance lobby, weeping. He was using a large white handkerchief to wipe his face, but the tears kept coming. Lloyd had not seen men cry like that except at funerals.

  Lloyd did not know what to say or do.

  "My life has been a failure," Walter said. "This is the end of all hope. German democracy is dead."

  vii

  Saturday, April 1, was Boycott Jews Day. Lloyd and Ethel walked around Berlin, staring in incredulity, Ethel making notes for her book. The Star of David was crudely daubed on the windows of Jewish-owned shops. Brownshirts stood at the doors of Jewish-owned department stores, intimidating people who wanted to go in. Jewish lawyers and doctors were picketed. Lloyd happened to see a couple of Brownshirts stopping patients going in to see the von Ulrichs' family physician, Dr. Rothmann, but then a hard-handed coal-heaver with a sprained ankle told the Brownshirts to fuck off out of it, and they went in search of easier prey. "How can people be so mean to each other?" Ethel said.

  Lloyd was thinking of the stepfather he loved. Bernie Leckwith was Jewish. If Fascism came to Britain, Bernie would be the target of this kind of hatred. The thought made Lloyd shudder.

  A sort of wake was held at Bistro Robert that evening. Apparently no one had organized it, but by eight o'clock the place was full of Social Democrats, Maud's journalistic colleagues, and Robert's theatrical friends. The more optimistic among them said that liberty had merely gone into hibernation for the duration of the economic slump, and one day it would awaken. The rest just mourned.

  Lloyd drank little. He did not enjoy the effect of alcohol on his brain. It blurred his thinking. He was asking himself what German left-wingers could have done to prevent this catastrophe, and he did not have an answer.