The man had been a confidant of Hitler, an industrialist during the last war. He believed he and his colleagues could be reborn through their children, and getting that poor girl pregnant was all part of their plan. Filled with panic, he delved deeper into the memories, searching for a lifeline. Watching the scenes play out, he was able to remember the man’s thoughts and feelings. His name was Hofmann. Heinz Hofmann.
Hofmann’s childhood hopes and dreams were not unlike those of any child during his school years. From dreams of becoming a professional footballer to marrying his first love. An apprenticeship in his father’s company had proved to be the turning point. The man had led a normal life until then. The company had been his passion—it manufactured parts for the car industry, and his father had built it up from scratch. In the mid-1920s, however, the company experienced its first loss. As the great depression took hold and demand dropped across the world, profit margins suffered. On top of that, the company faced new and intense competition from local competitors. Jewish-owned companies were undercutting them and became the focus of Hofmann’s outrage. By forming cooperatives, Jewish suppliers had made themselves more cost-efficient than his father’s company. Hofmann had watched his father tear himself apart trying to save the business. Resisting the urgings of his son to make redundancies to streamline the company and make it more competitive, he had waited until the company stood on the brink of bankruptcy before taking his own life instead. Hofmann, forced to take the reins from his father, went about it with a zeal that bordered on the maniacal. He halved the workforce, undercut the competition, and started to source his raw materials from less reputable suppliers. When the bank manager informed him that they were about to foreclose, he broke two of the man’s fingers, before threatening the life of the banker’s only child. By the end of the month, there had been a series of fires at his competitor’s premises, which filled his order books and returned the company to solvency. His success had set the tone for the rest of his business life—he took what he wanted. After he met and went into a joint venture with the equally scruples-free Franz Meyer, their future was written. Misdemeanours turned into serious crimes, fibs into lies, false bookkeeping into corruption, and threats into murders. When the men’s attention was drawn to a young Adolf Hitler, they introduced their business methods into politics. Actively supporting Hitler was in both their interest and his. He was a young man with a future, in a land that was crying out for change. They were businessmen in need of political influence. Helping him to gain power served them both. Hitler’s party had already recognised him as a great orator, able to galvanise the voters’ support. Now, with financial backing, he became the obvious choice for party leader. The way had not been without its setbacks, but even after Hitler’s arrest after the “beer hall putsch” the businessmen’s support helped to get him released within nine months of a five-year sentence. Strangely, this setback had brought Hitler to the attention of the German people, and it was just a matter of time before the Nazi Party got itself elected. Hofmann and Meyer didn’t waste any time convincing Hitler to support the automotive industry—creating new jobs in their industry was what the country needed. After coming to power in the 1930s, the Nazi Party passed its Motorisierung policy, which saw the motor industry as a key to returning the German people to work and prosperity.
The more Michael remembered about the man’s past, the more his feelings swung towards a deep loathing. Michael had his own strong beliefs about life; not all were positive, but he had a strong moral compass. Hofmann had been a monster, and he could feel his corrosive history burning into his brain like non-ethical acid. Flooding him with knowledge and indoctrination that had no place in his mind or soul. Sweat poured from his forehead, yet he felt freezing cold, shaking with anxiety. By the time he managed to push the memories from his mind, he had reached an inescapable conclusion.
Hofmann was a relative and most probably my grandfather. It explains my childhood to some extent. There is no other explanation.
The nefarious nature of the man was poisoning him, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop it. He felt the absolute necessity to get out of the building. The concrete walls of the basement were oppressive, but the building had taken on a more iniquitous air, oozing the immorality of its proprietors. Struggling from the bed, he took a brief look in the mirror before picking up his wallet and watch from the bedside table. Unsure of exactly what to do or where to go, he determined that confidence was the best policy and strode through the corridors in the direction of the lift to the club upstairs. A guard sat at a small table next to the lift door. He was a young man, but incredibly well built, and he watched Michael with suspicion. Hitting the elevator’s button, Michael did his best not to make eye contact.
“Will you be long, Mr Jarvis?”
“No, I am just popping out for some air.”
Michael wondered what Hofmann would have done in the circumstances, but it was too late for that. The guard was already on top of him. He was incredibly strong, levering Michael’s right arm up behind his back and slamming him up against the elevator door. The panic lasted less than a second. He had inherited more than just a bad temper from his grandfather. As the lift door opened in front of him, he went into a forward roll, carrying the guard on his back and ploughing him face-first into the elevator’s mirrored interior. Springing to his feet, Michael stamped down on the young guard’s neck with all the force he could muster. The snap of the guard’s cerebral spine echoed around the cabin, as his body became a heap on the polished floor. Shocked by his actions, Michael still had the presence of mind to move the body. Carrying it fireman style back to his room, he laid it out on his bed. The young soldier’s neck was bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring blankly up at the bedroom wall. Michael only just made it to a small basin in the corner of the room before being sick. His head spinning with the realisation of what he had just done, he stumbled back against the wall, his hands clawing it for stability, his eyes unable to pull away from his victim’s blank stare.
I killed him. Oh my God! Michael’s right hand came up to his mouth as his stomach threatened a repeat performance.
I have to get out of here! His fear now overriding all other emotions, he set off for the elevator for a second time. Punching the ground floor button, he pressed himself against the broken mirrored wall, still unable to escape the dead, staring eyes of the guard. When the lift doors opened, he sprang through them, running towards the club’s exit whilst leaving a half-dozen bewildered waiters watching his desperate departure.
Once on the street, fighting back the panic, he started to walk towards the Underground, every step a struggle, his entire body screaming for him to run. The feeling of a myriad of eyes examining his every step persisted. Only the distant call of his name prompted a change of plan, fight or flight? He made the decision in a heartbeat. Accelerating to a sprint, Michael took off down Ludwig Street. Convinced he could hear the sound of men running behind him, he put his head down and ran as hard as he could towards a distant underground station. Despite his exertions, he could tell that they were closing and started looking for an alternative. Spotting the entrance to a courtyard on his right, he hurdled the red and white barrier and sped toward the communal gardens of the Bavarian Governments Libraries. The green space was lovingly kept, the few trees surrounded by golden shower roses, their yellow blossoms complementing the daffodils planted around the garden’s circumference. Ripping through the boundary flowers, he sprinted across the garden, making for the building’s entrance on the other side. Screaming to a halt, he found himself with the choice of two black polished doors. Neither door was signed, and his decision to take the right door had more to do with the golden door handle than any expectation of solace behind it. Twisting the handle, he put his shoulder into the door, only to be bounced back into the garden by the solid structure, landing hard on his left shoulder. A bolt of pain shot up his back and shoulder, and panic filled his heart. As he made to stand, the feeling was quickly replaced by the pain of a wasp like sting, as a tranquiliser dart impacted with his neck.