Chapter 1

1936: ... a watershed

 

It all began in 1936; I was eighteen. The trip - you can call it the real beginning of my life, if you like - was a present from an indulgent father, my only parent, my mother having died giving birth to me. 1936? Prehistoric, I can hear some of you saying. But let me tell you something about 1936, you complacent bunch: if more than half the people in England had had their way back then we'd never have declared war on Germany at all and now we'd all be talking German and giving that Nazi salute and it's a pity we're not because it would have saved me a lot of trouble, one way and another. Mind you, I might have ended up dead, too, so I suppose it's all of a piece.

What's that? Lies, you howl? No, it's not bloody lies; it's God's honest truth and you can believe that because even if I don't tell it often, I'm telling it now. Back then it was all appeasement and let Herr Hitler and fat old Mussolini - who was a bit of a joke, really - have their way and who the hell cared about those odd, far-away places with funny names anyway? We don't want another blood-bath like the War (the first one was The War back then) and besides, the Germans got a bad deal out of that Armistice. Anyway, they'll straighten out all those Slavs and Serbs and Reds and odds and sods and they'll make the trains run on time, too. Let them get on with it and keep our lads at home and a pity there's not someone like Herr Hitler over here to keep those bloody trade unions in line. That's the way people thought back then and that's why everyone cheered like crazy when Chamberlain came home waving his piece of paper, the stupid old fart.

You ever heard of a bloke called Oswald Mosley? Well, his real name was Ernald and he was a baronet. He started the British Union of Fascists back in 1932, before Hitler came to power in Germany. They paraded round the country in black shirts - which is what they called themselves - making a lot of noise and acting a bit like thugs, but I'll tell you something that not a lot of people outside Whitehall know: there was an awful lot of very influential support for him, even after Parliament passed the Public Order Act to get rid of him. I know, because my father was one of them and he was by no means alone among the aristocracy. And back then a title carried a lot more weight than it does now.

There's your background, then: I was eighteen and had just left a well-known public school with a fair education, a passing acquaintance with homosexuality - though since I'd grown in height and strength and didn't care for it much I was pretty much left alone - a developing appetite for beer and motorcycles and a devout and passionate interest in and complete ignorance of that ever-lasting passion of young men: young women. Yes, I know that sounds strange to modern ears, but we really were like that in those days; we didn't know and no-one was going to tell us 'until the proper time' and that was that. Most young men - except the outstandingly forward, brash or just plain lucky - were virgin until their wedding day; which, given that the ignorance of sex was undoubtedly mutual, usually led to complete confusion and inevitable disaster.

So there I was: young, ignorant and with nothing much to do for three months until I went up to Cambridge for a life of boozy idleness, just enough work to get by with a third and maybe ... just maybe the chance to find out just what girls were all about and what the differences were. And then my father - bless him - dropped the bombshell. He called me into his study, where I stood before his desk wondering just what crime I'd committed and failed to hide from him when he changed my life: he handed me a large envelope that contained first-class tickets, traveller's cheques, letters of introduction and a brand-new passport.

"Coming of age," he said with a rare smile, "a few years early, but it'll do you no harm at all. I've laid it on with some friends who are well placed in business and in the Party and they've arranged to have a young chap of your own age and class to show you around. Get over there, lad; see what Herr Hitler has done and then come back and tell me I was wrong - if you can!"

 

That is how I found myself standing on a tree-surrounded plateau in the Harz Mountains of central Germany engulfed in noise, youth, enthusiasm, colour and an overwhelming sense of dedication and destiny. I was dazzled, because despite what my father had said I still had in my mind popular images of Germany (from the newspapers and newsreels) as a defeated and crushed nation, its citizens grey and colourless, racked with dreadful inflation, chaos and starvation. What I was seeing was thousands of young people - girls as well as boys - in uniform with smiling faces and shining eyes proudly carrying banners and flags decorated with the black swastika, their heads high. I didn't know that membership of the Hitler Youth had just been made compulsory and that all other youth organisations were banned and if I had, I don't think it would have made the slightest difference.

"It is quite magnificent!" I cried, turning to my companion, my voice raised over the thump of martial music, the tramp of feet on turf and the sound of thousands of young voices singing the 'Horst Wessel Song'. I can hear it in my head now, nearly seventy years later; in other nations it would have been considered a sort of half-hearted half-anthem half jolly-the-mob-along thing: there and then it was nothing less than an affirmation of national will that seemed to reach inside me, grab, squeeze and twist. Of course I know now that the words and story behind them are utter rubbish, but then I couldn't speak German and that's what it did to me, that and the spectacle and all that emotion. I was deeply moved; it was another of those moments that was to shape my opinions and feelings and hence my life because it gave my conscience - what little I had anyway - something to hide behind. Perhaps that's how it worked for a lot of Germans, too.

Rupert's - his real name was Ruprecht, he told me with that engaging smile of his, but he'd used 'Rupert' ever since reading 'The Prisoner of Zenda' - own eyes were shining, as I'm sure mine were. But then all this was much closer to his heart than it was mine, so I could only imagine his feelings. He was the companion that my father had promised, a boy of almost exactly my age - eighteen - and very similar in general build and looks, though he was taller and slimmer than me, with finer-drawn face and much lighter blonde hair. His features were more expressive too, particular the eyebrows and mouth, which could act in concert to show anything from absolute delight to scathing scorn or - as I frequently saw later - the most chilling mercilessness.

"It is," he responded, almost shouting, "the re-birth of Germany! We are strong again! We will destroy all the filthy Jews and Reds!"

I was eighteen, English and, if I say it myself, possessed of a fairly keen intelligence. But I saw no threat in any of that; on the contrary, I was filled with a sort of vicarious pride, as if I too was part of this great crusade. Clearly Rupert sensed something of this, because he grasped my arm and squeezed it, meeting my eyes with sparkles in his. But let's get this Jew business in perspective: Jews weren't all that popular in Britain at the time; I clearly remember that one of the songs we sang I our Officer's Training Corps unit at school had the words: 'and cock-sucking Jews!' in it and it was bellowed out without the slightest complaint from the officers or anyone else who heard it. I wasn't anti-Jew, not particularly, I just happened to fit with the feelings of my time. And if they weren't there to act as scapegoats and whippings-boys (boys?), then it would have to have been someone else.

When, several hours later, the parade was over, he led me back to the car and the waiting chauffeur through the crowds of uniformed children, their ages ranging from ten to our own. Rupert wore a uniform as well; I envied him the smart brown shirt and cross belts and most particularly the fascinating dagger that he wore dangling from his belt. He had been in the Hitler Youth since its inception, he told me proudly. Now he was too old to be in the ranks, so was the under-leader of his local region's organisation, a position he had earned as much through sheer ability and drive than from his guardian's position as a high-ranking Party member.

I learned more about him and his family - or lack of it - in a tavern that he took me to. It was a quiet place, one in which he was clearly well-known, because he was ushered to a quiet table by the owner himself, accompanied by much bowing and scraping. We ate wurst washed down with beer while we told each other about ourselves; there hadn't really been time before: I'd stepped off the train to be greeted by a very large, square-headed man with closely-cropped grey hair who introduced himself, with a bow, as 'Ernst Schnauser, ein vriend of din vater.' This was rapidly translated by Rupert, who explained that his guardian - and uncle - spoke very little English, but had come to greet me because of the high esteem in which my father was held. His guardian regretted that he had urgent Party business and would I mind if Rupert was to take me directly to the parade, which would be very exciting?

Which is how I came to find myself up in the hills watching that marvellous scene; Rupert had been quite right, I had found it exciting - more than exciting: enthralling. And now we sat at this quiet table exchanging confidences as if we'd known each other all our lives. He was born in eastern Germany, it seemed, though his parents - from an aristocratic family - had held estates in Silesia until 1919, when huge chunks of Germany had been taken over by Poland. The estates were lost along with the family fortunes. Shortly afterwards his parents had been killed in a riot in Potsdam which Rupert claimed, his eyes blazing through tears, had been instigated 'by the filthy, blood-sucking Jews!' A shout he accompanied with a clenched fist hammering on to the table, making our steins jump and the beer slop.

The reaction from other customers was not what I expected; no one looked at us with disapproval and the proprietor didn't rush over to remonstrate or ask us to leave. Quite the contrary: every head that turned our way was smiling and/or nodding approval; one or two people clapped and one even gave the Nazi salute and the shout: 'Heil Hitler!' The owner did indeed come over after a few minutes, but he didn't bring a complaint; he was carrying a bottle of what even I could see was a bottle of very expensive wine. More bowing and scraping and would we accept this with his compliments and would the young gentleman be so good as to remember him to his distinguished uncle?

I was no stranger to a bit of mild deference from the couple of servants we had at home, or from some of my father's workers and tenants, but this sort of obsequious grovelling indicated that Rupert's guardian/uncle must be a very big cheese indeed. I began looking at my handsome new companion with a good deal more respect and interest. I have to add that I also paid a great deal of attention to that bottle of wine and the one that followed...

We weren't exactly drunk because neither of us was strangers to the odd trip to the pub, in my case via a well-known route that led up a tree and over the wall surrounding the school, then to the back parlour of the Hen and Bucket. But as our consumption increased, so did our conversation loosen, until at last - it didn't take long - we got on to the subject that is close to the heart, mind and nether regions of almost every teenage youth: girls.

"I saw you looking," Rupert said suddenly, peering at me in that oddly owlish way that tells of uncertain sobriety.

"Eh?"

A casual wave of the hand, "at the parade," he explained, "the girls," he added, "and their..." he cupped his hands in front of his chest.

I was immediately embarrassed, but his grin reassured me. "Well," I responded, stammering slightly, "they were ..."

Again the grin. "Yes, they were, weren't they?" His English really was excellent; he'd studied it at school, apparently. I had already made up my mind to learn German; I'd found that languages were my best subject at school, though we'd done only Greek, Latin and French, all of which seemed a bit weedy to me. German, though, sounded like a real man's language, gruff and guttural and eminently suited to shouting and cursing. "But I was looking at them, too. They were very fine."

I managed a half smile, wondering - with more than a spark of hope - where this was going. Now he looked distinctively furtive, his face becoming serious as he leaned forward over the table, his eyes flickering from side to side. I put my head close to his conspiratorially.

"Would you like one?" he hissed.

My eyes flew open and I very nearly jumped upright; I gulped, strangling back the exclamation that sprang to my lips. Did I want one? If he meant what I thought he meant of course I wanted one! "A g ... g ...girl?" I managed.

"Of course a girl," he said. Then he stopped and his eyes examined mine. "Have you not ...?" He saw the truth. "Oh! You haven't, have you?"

I felt myself reddening again. "Well, I ... we don't ... you see, it's ..."

"Ah! I understand! You do not find it so easy in England, I think!" He almost laughed, but held it back, something for which I was grateful. Then his face became conspiratorial once more. "Then, my friend, I think I can make a great ... what's the word? ... treat? Yes, treat for you."

I gulped again, only too glad that I was sitting down because my knees suddenly felt like water. I was happy too, that the table covered the tent in my trousers, something I had been entirely unable to control. Still can't, come to think of it. "You ... you mean you can ... you know ...?"

His face twisted suddenly and his mouth and eyebrows twisted into an expression of almost apologetic scorn. His voice dropped even lower. "Only a Jew-bitch, you understand and we'll have to hunt her out because they've started getting pretty careful. But I'm sure we can find one for you. You don't mind one of their sluts, do you?"

I wouldn't have minded a one-legged Hottentot! I wondered about the odd way he put things, but it sounded to me that here was the opportunity that I'd been waiting for what seemed so long! A woman! Once more I swallowed, hard. "No," I squeaked then swallowed again, "no, I don't mind at all," I answered in an approximation of my normal voice.

He leaned back and clapped me on the arm. "Good! Then we'll finish this off," he indicated the wine, "then go back home and find you something to wear."

Only then did it occur to me - and then only as a very secondary thought, you understand - that I had no idea where I was going to be staying; nor, for that matter, what had happened to my luggage, which I'd last seen on a trolley at the station. But a girl! A girl, at last!

He had dismissed the chauffeur - another indication of Herr Schnauser's status that hadn't escaped me - so we walked back to his home. That evening stroll helped to sober me up, but I was still in a fever of excitement, though I tried hard to cover the more obvious signs. I think he found it rather amusing that I kept asking questions which he refused, with a gentle smile, to answer, even after we'd reached his road.

It was an imposing place in what seemed to be a well-to-do area, which rather puzzled me. Hadn't Rupert said that his parents had lost all their money when they their land had been confiscated? If that was the case, how could he afford something in an area so obviously affluent? He answered the question for me, gesturing expansively at the houses - every one of them displaying the swastika flag in the front garden or window - as we walked past them.

"See these?" he asked, a curious tone in his voice, as if he was on the point of spitting, "they were all the homes of filthy Jews until we cleaned them out, the dirty swine!" He laughed, a hard sound, edged and malicious. "How they squealed and howled! Tried to tell us that it was against the law! Can you imagine that? Jews claiming the protection of the law! We threw their dirty arses on the street and told them to ... to ..." for the first time he groped for a word and looked at he for help.

Greatly daring, because bad language wasn't something I used very much, I ventured: "Fuck off?"

"Yes!" he cried, delighted. "Fuck off! That's it, fuck off! What a delightful word; close to 'fick' I think and meaning very much the same thing, eh?" He nudged me. "You see, even our languages are nearly the same!"

I laughed, but inside I was rather more disturbed than I wanted to admit, even to myself. How could people just be turned out of their homes, even if they were Jews? "What happened to them?" I asked hesitantly.

He shrugged. "Who cares? They breed like rats, so they probably moved in with more of their kind. Some may have got out of the country, while others would have been arrested for vagrancy or criminal acts and ended up in Dachau. Or," he added mysteriously, "some of them did."

"What's Dachau?"

He gave me a look; a rather closed look; the sort that tells you a lot more than the words that are to follow. "It's a sort of correction camp near Munich. They work as penance for their useless lives. Maybe they convert to a decent religion."

"Ah. And who lives here now?"

"Good Aryan Germans, of course! Party members, officials who were forced to live in poor parts of town because the bastard Jews were their landlords. My guardian..." he stopped and looked at me, "you know he's my uncle, don't you?"

"I think it was mentioned, somewhere."

"Ah, quite so. Well, he is my uncle by marriage because he married my mother's sister. But he is not of our class, you understand, although he is important in the Party and will, I think become a very influential man. I think he is aware of the social ... divide? ... between us and so he arranged that I should have one of these houses. He thinks it will impress me."

I was taken aback. "What? You were just given it?"

He shrugged again as he started walking once more. The effects of the beer and wine were wearing off, I noticed. "Well, it was standing empty so someone had to take it. And it did impress me, I must say. He may be of peasant stock, but he has much to recommend him. I admire him a great deal."

An uncle who gave me a house would impress me too, I thought, peasant or no peasant. Then something else he'd said struck a chord. "What was that about some of the others?" I asked.

Again that mysterious smile. "Perhaps I will show you that later if I can get permission. In the meantime, we have arrived."

I'd been expecting something small and modest, but this was an entire house, fully furnished. I stood in the hall, gazing at the opulence with staring eyes.

"I left most of the furniture alone," he said, "but I naturally got rid of a lot of their disgusting icons and the bedding, of course. Rather good, isn't it?"

"It's bloody marvellous! Do you ... do you pay anything for it?"

"Oh, no! There's some city taxes and things, but my uncle takes care of all that. There was a mortgage, but that was with a kike banker who's got other things to think about now, so it's all mine. I have papers and everything."

"Just you?"

"Just me. Yes, it's big, I know. But," he smiled confidentially and I thought a little nervously, "I hope to get some servants. At the moment I have a housekeeper who comes in to make breakfast and clean, but I want ..." a pause, "... some real servants."

"Servants, too? My word!" Then I noticed that my bags had been stacked at the foot of the stairs and was distracted from following that line of questioning. Which was a pity, because it could have brought some interesting answers; not that it mattered, because those unspoken questions were resolved soon enough anyway.

"Come on, I'll show you your room and then we can see if my spare uniform will fit you."

"Eh? Uniform?" I eyed his, which I'd already admired, all but for the shorts.

He grinned. "It's all right. I've spoken to the district leader and he thinks it's a fine idea." The smile twisted slightly. "I didn't tell him precisely why I wanted you to have it, but I don't suppose he'd have minded too much. The trouble is that he's an old gossip and the police chief in this area isn't," his lips twisted, "sympathetic to the Party." He looked savage and added, in a malicious tone of certainty: "but he'll soon be gone."

I was bewildered, but followed him as he mounted the stairs, each of us with a suitcase. "But ...?"

He led me to a bedroom and threw open the door. It was the size of my father's room at home and had a huge double bed with crisp linen and a uniform laid on it, complete with kepi, swastika armband and, to my delight, a dagger. He turned to me.

"Are you sure you don't mind a Jew?"

"No, I don't mind at all," I replied, wondering what that bit about the police chief was all about, but that was submerged in the tide of rising lust.

He sat on the bed. "All right, this is what we'll do ..."