Opposite Sides (38 page)

Abraham
Mossberg had been known by the family for many years. He ran a
drapers shop on the corner of the Hauptstrasse and Aunt Laura
always went there to buy the best buttons, cottons or embroideries
for her needlework. The ageing gentleman had always been so
obliging in finding just the correct or most appropriate piece of
material or the exact size of needle for the job. Suddenly, one
afternoon the shop window had a white painted message with
deliberate large letters that spread from one side to the
other.
Jude!
Just
one word but it sent a message that this shop was to be
avoided.

A month
passed and the amiable Herr Mossberg was no longer there.
Jude!
Only one word but
it changed the way aunt Laura shopped.
One
by one, these shopkeepers, like Herr Mossberg, were replaced and
new people took over their businesses, and more and more of the new
red flags with their black zig-zag hooked crosses were draped over
the shop fronts, like Herr Mossberg’s shop or suspended from city
buildings so that no matter where your eyes looked, there hung the
reminders that this was now the New Order. The rule of National
Socialism had begun.

Hans led the men into the
small back room, his uncle’s office, and where Hans did the
accounting. While Hans cleared the tabletop of papers and books,
Renard fetched chairs from the kitchen and then they sat squashed
together around the small table. They made a strange forum, Hans
and Renard in their every-day casual clothes and the pair in
uniforms so meticulously cared for that not even a button or
trouser crease was out of order. The lower-ranking officer was a
slight built man with a flushed face and a long slender nose. The
other, his senior, had broad shoulders that pushed into the seams
of his jacket sleeves and gave Hans the opinion that, for all its
neatness, the man was a trifle too large for his jacket and that a
body once strong and muscular had become flabby and fleshy, for
this was a man who sat on a soft office chair stamping documents
and signing order sheets all day.

He was a man of elephant
proportions, towering over the thin man in both bulk and height. He
lifted his wooden kitchen chair as if it had been made from balsa
and then gently lowered himself down as if he expected it to break.
He cleared his throat. His manner, when he spoke, was courteous and
mild. He grinned just like Renard and that made Hans uneasy, more
so when Hans observed that only his mouth reacted and this man’s
eyes remained aloof and unemotional.

“
Herr Resmel.
We are most sorry to have disturbed your evening. I hope you will
accept this intrusion.”

The skinny one murmured
something inaudible, then nodded, watching Hans
intently.

“
That’s all
right. I wasn’t doing anything important,” Hans answered. He
thought it much safer to agree with such characters. Any hint of
rebuff or resistance on his part might have brought dire
consequences.

“
We’ve come
on a mission.” The first one carefully wiped away some spit from
the corner of his wide elastic, grinning mouth. “Business, yes,
business. And an opportunity for you.” Hans nodded as the man
crunched up his eyes and sought confirmation that Hans was
interested. Having satisfied himself that this was so, he continued
in a more serious tone. “Our great leader has taken charge of the
country and in the name of the Third Reich, we have come to make
you an offer.”

Hans was cautiously
puzzled. His eyes moved from the fat man over to Renard.
Immediately the senior officer picked up on Hans’
hesitation.

“
Yes, your
good brother here has informed us that you had lived in England.
You worked for a well-recognised firm there.”

“
That was
some years back. Before the Wall Street collapse.”

“
Never-the-less, you would have given you connections. I am
informed that your knowledge of the English language is now most
excellent.” Hans wondered where this conversation was leading, yet
he gave no hint of his unease. The voice persisted furthering the
cause. “We need someone, such as yourself, to serve the
Fatherland.”

“
In what
way?” Hans was not certain he would like their answer.

“
To go to
London,” the thin man answered without hesitation, focussing on
Hans like a bird of prey. Hans’ eyebrows shot upwards. This seemed
too good to be true.

“
You will be
there over several short periods.” The fat man took out a
handkerchief and after clearing his throat, dabbed around his mouth
again.”

“
For what
purpose, may I ask?”

“
Information.”

“
You mean
spying? Is that what you want me to do?”

Hans was unsure of that
question’s reception but neither of the men blinked an eyelid. The
fat man indicated with his finger that the other speak.

“
No. Not at
all.” The thin man lifted his eyebrows high into the frown lines on
his forehead. His hair was noticeably thinner on top. “We have our
own people for that.” He suddenly leaned so heavily on the table
with his elbows that Hans thought the whole thing would topple
over. “We just need you to make several visits . . . connected with
the diplomatic office, shall we say. We do have several people
there already, who will put our case to the British Government,
should the need arise. We just need you to monitor the feelings of
the English public. Chancellor Hitler is most interested in holding
talks with their Mr Chamberlain. We’d like a little background
information first, that is all. We’re only interested in finding
out what the man on the street thinks about the situation in
Europe.”

“
And, if you
don’t like what I report?”

Hans was feeling quite
uneasy about the venture. He had already heard undertonal mumblings
that life could be very precarious should one go against such men.
He had no desire to question any of his friends in England and
considered them to be part of his private life and he wanted to
keep it that way.

The thin man sensed Hans’
concerns and flicked his hand in the air as if shooing away a pesky
fly.

“
No problem.
We just want to know what the politicians and the people think of
the Czech problem. We need to know their thoughts on what our
Government will be offering as a solution. We need to know whether
they are genuine, or not. Herr Hitler likes to know the truth. He
cannot invite diplomatic ties if he does not know their thoughts
with regard to the Fatherland.” The man cleared his throat and
leaned back away from the table.

“
I’m afraid
I’m not at all political.” Hans wiped away the beads of sweat he
could feel building up on his forehead. He was hoping the men would
swallow his comment.

“
That is also
of no consequence!” The fat man cleared his throat with a gargle
that seemed to come from deep down in his chest as though he had
spent a life-time smoking.

“
Think of
yourself like a journalist. A reporter of sorts. We know you had
connections along those lines. Did you not work in Fleet
Street?”

“
Well, yes,
but that was some time ago and I didn’t . . .”

The men were not
interested in excuses. Hans felt as if his eyes bored through his
clothing as the man looked for any clue to what Hans was thinking.
Hans could feel the skin under his shirt pricking as he became hot
and itchy.

“
Why the
hesitation, Herr Resmel?”

Hans looked to his
brother but Renard sat like a statue, mute and
unresponsive.

“
I’m not
sure,” Hans began rubbing the top of his little finger. It still
sounded very much like spying to him.

“
Of course,
you would be paid and we will see you’re well rewarded.” The thin
man’s forehead furrowed deeply as he now looked down his nose at
Hans.

“
Think of the
money you’d get, Hans,” Renard quipped. He glanced at the fat man,
and added, “Solve your problems. Besides, you’ve always maintained
you’d like to get back there. And you’d be doing a huge favour for
your country.”

The fat man leaned in
Hans’ direction and grinned. It was more of a sly grin than one of
friendship or warmth. He held out a piece of folded paper and waved
it in the air directly in front of Hans’ nose.

“
There is
just one slight problem,” said Hans as he glanced at the official
heading on the papers. “I’m not actually a citizen of this country.
You see I was born in Salzburg. I am Austrian.”

The fat man smirked. He
shook his head and looked from Renard and back to Hans.

“
Oh, Mr
Resmel, that is where we beg to differ. You see, since your brother
Renard here has joined the Party, we have done our homework, so as
to say. Your birth was actually recorded in one of our Bavarian
offices. Your mother was staying in Freilassing at the time and you
were born there.”

“
But on my
passport, it says I was born in Salzburg.”

“
And so some
records do show that. But we have found different documents which
prove otherwise.”

A bombshell went off in
Hans’ head. He looked for help from his older brother but Renard
just shrugged his shoulders and commented,

“
A surprise,
brother. I never knew that until I saw the evidence. As for me, it
would have made little difference where I was born. I had decided
to join up, anyway.”

“
Join up?”
asked Hans, looking from the men to his brother.

“
The Party,”
Renard answered. “Germany’s destiny is in our hands.”

“
Your
signature on this would be much appreciated, Herr Resmel,” the fat
man smooched pouting his mouth and licking his upper lip from one
corner to the other. “A worthy contract for everyone.” He waved the
paper back and forth in the air to try and make his point. Hans had
not expected to have been pushed into such a corner.

“
I need time
to think about this offer but I am not willing to follow Renard and
become a party member. I am just not political, that is all. I hope
this is acceptable to you.” He wasn’t sure how the two men would
react but it was worth a try.

The fat man removed a
paper from his briefcase and laid it down on the table top slowly
pushing it across the table so that it was directly in front of
Hans. He clasped his hands together and rested his bulging arms on
the top of his briefcase and waited, watching, licking his top lip
as if preparing for a meal. He held up a pen and grinned, his eyes
disappearing into two thin lines which made his rounded face rather
like the cartoon drawings one saw regularly in any one of the
newspapers.

“
We only ask
for your loyalty. I will not pressure you to join the party but we
do ask for your loyalty to the country.”

The thin man who was
quiet managed to squeeze a weak smile to Hans across the
table.

The fat man put the pen
and paper back into his open case. There were two audible clicks as
the lid was closed.

“
A little
time, perhaps? Your brother may persuade you where your interests
lie. So, Herr Resmel, one of us will call again tomorrow evening at
eight. Heil Hitler!”

The pair jumped to their
feet and threw the expected salute. Renard did likewise. Hans stood
and bowed his head in acknowledgement of their
departure.

“
Auf
Wiedersehen
, gentlemen.”

The next evening, only
one man walked through the door; a different man in a different
uniform. He was punctual, right to the minute. The dining room
clock had just finished striking eight. Renard, together with Uncle
Karl and Hans had spent the remainder of the previous evening
discussing the offer until the early hours of the morning. Uncle
Karl seemed so sure that once Hans accepted the offer, that life
would become much better and Hans’ money concerns would be at an
end. It was the least he could do for his uncle who had been so
kind and helpful to him and for a brother who had already come to
the decision that national socialism was the answer to solving all
the country’s woes. They were so organised that no stone was left
unturned and their scrutinous ways were becoming expected and
almost legendary.

Hans had prepared himself
to hear what else he might be told when one of the men returned. He
was not sure whether he should trust either of them or whether he
would be able to resist their demands. When he opened the door and
saw the light grey uniform, he was relieved that a Wehrmacht
officer had arrived this time.

“
Good
evening, gentlemen,” he began. He removed his cap and hung it on
the empty coat hook by the door. This man was more relaxed than
either of the other two and was content to remain in the kitchen.
“Shall we now be seated?”

Renard was the first to
sit, followed at once by the officer. His countenance now became
more serious. He made it clear that there was business to be done
this evening. His slim attaché case was placed with careful
precision on the table half an arm’s length from the edge. He took
out a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles from his top pocket and put
them on, putting the arm first over his right ear, and then his
left. Having done that, he deliberately tapped the table top with
his fingers several times, a master in making those he interviewed
feel uncomfortable. His words were slow and deliberate.