“That’s right, suddenly I’m outraged.”
“Don’t you understand, my friend, their outrage is far greater than yours. Theirs is inspired hate. Acceptable hate. Racism is the accepted order of things here. In Germany it is unpopular not to hate. Not to hate is nonconformity. We are a closed society and conformity is required. Our leaders repeat the same lies over and over and over until they become a kind of national truth.”
Conrad stood up, wandering around the room as he spoke.
“You know what I did before I became a he waved his hand around the room, “saloon keeper? Hmm? I was a schoolteacher., Ja, a teacher of history at the University in Heidelberg. I quit because a teacher by nature is a nonconformist, a rebellious creature, likely to disagree simply to stimulate an argument. The war made that impossible.”
“What did the war have to do with it?”
“‘I fear the real danger in war is that conformity becomes the only virtue and those who refuse to conform will pay the penalty.’ Do you know who said that?”
“Nope.”
“Your own Woodrow Wilson, on the same day he urged your Reichstag to declare war on Germany. He understood that conformity is essential during a war because patriotism demands conformity and since conservatives are usually conformists, it follows that you must be conservative to be patriotic. Say it enough, it becomes the truth.”
“I can’t believe the whole country buys that. Hitler won’t last.”
“You are wrong, Francis, Hitler will last because he is at war already.” Conrad tapped his head as he said it. “He burns books if the ideas do not conform to his, closes newspapers down if they disagree with him, attacks artists because they are unreliable, because they think. And the irony is t1at it is all done in the name of freedom and patriotism. Understand this, to be a German today, you must be a fascist, otherwise you are a traitor. To be a fascist you must hate Jews. What do you do when you hate something? Eh? You get rid of it.”
“And you support this?” Keegan said.
“Come, come, my friend, why so surprised?” Well held his hands out at his sides. “Have I ever in the year or so we have been friends, have I ever shown you any pretenses? I am not a hero or a revolutionary. I am a devout coward. I run the most degenerate saloon in Europe. I have become rich pandering to the basest of human frailties. Do I think it is right, what Hitler is doing? Nein. Do I oppose it? Nein. Do I support this Nazi party?” He shrugged. “I am like a blade of grass, I sway with the winds of the times. For that reason, I say save yourself a lot of grief, forget this girl. Sooner or later she will have trouble again. It is the way of things.”
“I don’t think I want to do that.”
“You have heard her sing once, met her for thirty seconds, you do not even know where she lives. And already you cannot tear yourself away from her.”
“Very funny.”
‘But true.”
“I don’t want anybody telling me what I can and can’t do.” Conrad shrugged. “Very altruistic. Unfortunately, not very
practical in Germany these days.”
“What’s her address, Conrad?”
Weil heaved a sigh. “She lives at 236 Albertstrasse and she starts tonight at the Kit Kat. Two shows, nine and eleven.”
“Thanks,” Keegan said and, polishing off the brandy in the snifter, stood up.
“You are a man who has always avoided trouble, Francis. At least since I have known you. Why start now?”
“Maybe you just haven’t known me long enough, my friend.”
When he got back to the hotel, Keegan went to the flower shop and sent Jenny Gould two dozen roses. No card.
Willie Vierhaus hurried up the steps of the Brown House and down the long marble hallway to the Führer’s office. Every Tuesday morning at precisely 11:45 A.M., Vierhaus reported to Hitler to provide him with party gossip and other news of interest. The meeting always lasted twelve to fifteen minutes, until Hitler went to lunch.
When he entered the anteroom, Hitler’s secretary held her finger to her lips, her brow furrowed and troubled. Hitler’s voice, high-pitched and furious, echoed through the paneled doors.
“I don’t want to hear that, you understand? Not one more word. That’s hogwash, hogwash! You are a stupid man, Plausen. I thought you were a smart man but you are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Get out. You are relieved of your duties. Pack up your things and get out.”
“Yes, mein Führer. Heil Hitler.”
“Out!”
The door flew open and Plausen, a tiny mouse of a man who worked in the procurement office, rushed past, his face as white as chalk. From inside his office, Hitler saw Vierhaus waiting and waved him in.
Vierhaus entered and raised his arm in a salute. “Heil Hitler.” Hitler waved a half-hearted salute in return but his mood changed immediately. Hitler’s mood always improved when Vierhaus arrived. He adored intrigue and gossip and Willie Vierhaus provided him with both.
“So, Willie, what is the news? Brighten my day. So far it has been dismal. A morning dealing with idiots like He waved vaguely toward the door.
“I am sorry, mein Führer.”
“Tell me some juicy news, eh.” He smiled fleetingly in expectation.
“Well, sir, you know General Romsdorf?”
“Third Division. Of course, of course.”
“His wife Fredie is having an affair with a dancer in the Berlin Ballet Company.”
“A ballet dancer!” Hitler cried out, clasping his hands together and pressing them to his lips.
‘Ja. Not even a featured dancer. He is on the chorus.”
Hitler stifled a giggle. Then his face grew serious.
“That could present a problem. Romsdorf has a very important post.”
“Yes, mein Führer.”
“Not to mention that Romsdorf is extremely proud of his manliness.” Hitler stifled another giggle.
“Yes, mein Führer.”
“In fact,” and he giggled out loud, “he fancies himself somewhat of a ladies’ man.”
Vierhaus felt comfortable enough to laugh along with Hitler.
“Poor old Romsdorf,” said Hitler. “I pity the poor dancer. When our general finds out, the young man will be off to Dachau. Any other news?”
“A rather dull week, I’m afraid. There are the usual rumors about Röhm. He is becoming more of an embarrassment. Outrageous stories about his preference for young boys. He seems to be more brazen about it than ever. And I hear he is drinking more heavily than usual.”
“He has always been a drunk and a queer,” snapped Hitler. Ernst Röhm was more than an embarrassment, he represented a deep, personal hurt to Hitler. He had brought his friend from the Beer Hall Putsch days back from South America and made him head of the brownshirts, one of the most powerful posts in Germany, giving him carte blanche to deal with the Reds and the Jews. But Röhm wanted more. Now he was actually challenging Hitler’s authority and talking about running for president of Germany, a traitorous affront to his mentor.
“The problem is Vierhaus began.
“The problem is, the SA has six hundred thousand members!” Hitler roared, his voice rising to a near scream. He snapped his head angrily, took a deep breath, and began pacing. When he spoke again his voice was almost a whisper.
“The only way I can deal with this problem is with my own personal guards, Willie, but it will be another year before the Schutzstaffel has the proper strength for that.” He waved his hand again. “I know, I know. Another year and he grows that much stronger.” He stopped pacing and leaned toward Vierhaus, his eyes narrowing. “We cannot destroy the SA until my SS is stronger than they are. And that is the only way to deal with Röhm and his bullies. Destroy them.”