‘A hundred?’ Gunther asked scoffingly.
‘Yes. People are joining us in hordes. The bourgeois parties have failed Germany.’
‘Bourgeois? You sound like a Communist.’
‘In Berlin we’re chasing the Communists off the streets,’ Hans said seriously. ‘We’re a German party, a racial party, we’re for Germans of all classes.’
‘Father doesn’t seem to approve. I’m not surprised if your party’s into street fighting.’
Hans shook his head vigorously. ‘Only to stop the Reds handing us over to the Russians. When we take over, we’ll bring order back. Real order. It won’t be easy, though, we know that. We’re realists. Father thinks that somehow you can wave a magic wand and go back to the Kaiser’s time but it’s not like that. And then . . .’ Hans’ eyes lit up. ‘We’ll make Germany the master of Europe.’ He laid a hand on a thick volume on his table, reverently, like a pastor touching the Bible. ‘It’s all set out here, in the Leader’s book Mein Kampf.’ The gleam in his eyes, mirrors of Gunther’s own, was frightening but compelling too. ‘Come on, Gunther,’ Hans said, spreading his arms wide. ‘You know Germany’s been done down and crushed, that this isn’t how it’s meant to be.’
‘I know, but . . .’
Hans leaned forward. He asked his brother, ‘What do you believe in?’
‘Getting away from English rain.’
‘What are you going to do now?’
Gunther shifted uneasily. This was a new Hans, jabbing these questions at him. But Hans had always thought about things more than he had. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘While I’ve been away – I’ve decided, this academic stuff isn’t for me, I thought of giving it all up, maybe even joining the police after all. Doing something real, something honest.’
‘Come with me tonight,’ Hans said quietly. ‘I’ll show you something truly real and honest.’
They cycled out to the forest, their front lamps piercing the darkness. Gunther was tired and his head was full of jumbled impressions of the last few days – leaving England, the long train ride to Berlin, the beggars and demonstrators, Hans in this uniform. Moths danced in the thin pencils of light cast by their lamps. Other cyclists in Brownshirt uniforms appeared, many of them teenagers in black shorts, and they exchanged happy shouted greetings with Hans.
They came to the entrance of a forest path that led to one of the many little East Prussian lakes. Families went walking there on Sundays. Hans and Gunther had gone with their parents as children. Tonight a group of older Brownshirts, big men, stood on the forest verge where the path began, oil lamps on the ground beside a neat stack of bicycles. Hans walked over to them, extending his arm and shouting out, ‘Heil Hitler!’ It was the first time Gunther had heard the Nazi greeting. A big Brownshirt put a hand on Gunther’s chest. ‘Who are you?’ he asked threateningly. ‘Where’s your uniform? You look like a fucking tramp.’ It hurt Gunther that the man didn’t realize they were twins.
‘He’s my brother,’ Hans said. ‘He’s just travelled back from England.’
The man shone a torch in Gunther’s face. ‘All right, Hoth. But he’s your responsibility.’
Gunther and Hans joined a trail of men and boys walking down the path, talking excitedly, lighting the way with their bicycle lamps. They came to the little lake. Tall torches in braziers had been lit on the shore, a boy watching each to make sure the flames stayed under control in the dry forest. There were about two hundred people there. Hans said, ‘I’ve got to get my lads lined up. There’s a speaker coming from Berlin. Just stand somewhere on the side and watch. Don’t sit down,’ he added. ‘That would be disrespectful.’
Gunther watched as Hans organized two dozen boys efficiently into straight lines. They stood to attention on the shore. At a command everyone fell completely silent. Gunther could hear the wood crackling in the branches. The scene was beautiful and dramatic: the torchlight, the uniformed men still in their silent lines before the calm moonlit lake, the forest behind. Gunther felt a shiver of excitement. Then four Brownshirts walked out of the trees, accompanied by a tall, slim young man in black uniform. He had light blond hair and an extraordinary, long face, ascetic with a proud beak of a nose and a wide, full mouth that somehow spoke of strength and immense firmness. He stood beside a torch, back to the forest, facing the assembly. He was introduced as National Comrade Heydrich from Berlin, recently appointed to the Leader’s personal guard.
Heydrich began speaking, in a confident, penetrating voice. He said, ‘Sixteen years ago, in 1914, in a forest not far from here, Germany fought and won a great battle. Russia had invaded us, they were set to conquer and destroy us. But at the Battle of Tannenberg we threw them back. We destroyed their army. The few Russian survivors ran away. Germany suffered 20,000 casualties; brave men many of whose bones lie in these forests, in the German soil they defended. This is what brave Germans can do! So how, comrades, have we fallen so far?’
Heydrich spoke of the surrender by Socialist German politicians at the end of the War, the destruction of the German economy by the Allies, the Depression, the dithering bourgeois parties and the growing Marxist threat. He spoke of a new Germany to be built on the ruins. He had taken a military stance, hands behind his back, his voice growing more insistent. ‘We shall prevail, because greatness is Germany’s destiny; that is the lesson of history, clear to all who read it. A legacy handed down by our ancestors who first settled these forests, the heroic Teutonic Knights.’ Gunther suddenly thought, I’ve spent years studying English history. But what about my history, Germany’s history? Have I wasted all this time?
Heydrich raised a slim hand, pointing at the ranks before him. ‘But if we are to fulfil our mission we must be alert, aware of the enemies within and outside the Reich! It will take years to beat them down but we shall do it. The French, the Socialists, the Catholics with their masters in Rome, the Communists with their masters in Russia. And the masters of them all, the controlling hand, the enemy within and without. The Jews.’
Gunther hadn’t thought about the old Jew he had seen in the alley for years but he remembered now.
Heydrich fell silent. Gunther glanced over at Hans to see him looking back at him. His twin smiled and nodded. At a signal, the Brown shirts began singing, their clear young voices echoing across the lake:
‘The flags held high! The ranks are tightly closed!
SA men march with firm courageous tread . . .’
As he listened, Gunther thought, Now I can be proud to be German again.
He woke with a grunt. Sitting there, thinking back, he had fallen asleep. He looked at the clock; the Englishman would be here in half an hour. He was hungry. He walked into the kitchen and, sitting at the little table, ate some bread and sausage. Then he went back to the bedroom and took some fresh clothes from his case. He looked at himself in the mirror, the sagging features and protruding belly. He was letting himself go, had been ever since his marriage broke up. His wife came from a police family, too, but even so she had never been able to adjust to Gunther’s irregular hours. She had loathed England during his posting there. Back in Germany she hadn’t liked his new work either, finding the remaining Jews and the networks that harboured them. ‘I know they must be resettled,’ she had said, ‘but I don’t like the idea of you hunting people out, hounding them.’