Nor was the butchery confined merely to Röhm and his henchmen. Dozens of Hitler’s political opponents were murdered, some as they slept. The SS was given carte blanche in its murderous forays. Mistakes were made during this Night of the Long Knives. Several people were killed because of mistaken identity.
We have managed to compile only a partial list of those murdered during the night of terror. Estimates range from two hundred or three hundred to as many as three thousand. The actual number of people murdered in Germany in the last twenty-four hours may never be known.
One thing is obvious. With the destruction of the Sturmabteilung, the brown-shirted storm troopers who helped elevate him to dictator, Hitler’s power is unchallenged. His personal elite guards, the Schutzstaffel, known as the SS, which number fifty thousand to sixty thousand, are now the undisputed rulers of the streets. The Gestapo, the secret police, his replaced the civilian police.
In Man Kampf Hitler wrote: “Racism gives the Germans blood and soul. It identifies the enemy and gives the People a sense of self-identity and self-confidence.” Racism has now become the law in Germany.
But this was different. This was not Nazi against Jew, this was German against German, soldier against soldier, comrades killing comrades. This was power through mass murder. This was an outrageous violation of contemporary morality.
Those of us who have watched the frightening malignancy of Nazism grow within this nation recognize this purge as the prelude to the nightmare. Germany has bowed to the law of terror and Hitler has once again proven himself the master of treachery.
She folded the paper and stuffed it in her bag. As always, she was proud of Bert for being so outspoken. But she was also humiliated by the horrible news—another humiliation she as a German had to endure. The leader of their country had sanctioned mass murder, like some psychotic despot from medieval times.
She hurried to the corner and turned into Rue Fresnel, a short, bright street lined with gay shops. A flower stand dominated the center of the block. She went to the stand and looked over the freshly watered bundles of flowers, glistening in the morning sunlight.
“M’amselle?” the stand keeper said pleasantly.
“I am looking for something special,” she said in French.
“Perhaps I can help.”
“I am looking for a black lily,” she said.
His expression changed only slightly, a shift in the eyes, a tightening of the jaw.
“I am sorry,” he said. “Try deux cent cinq.”
‘Merci.”
He tipped his hat and turned to another customer. She went on down the street, checking the numbers; 205 was near the middle of the block. It was a tiny tailor and cleaning shop, cramped and hot and smelling of steam and cleaning fluid. It was empty except for a young man in his shirtsleeves pressing pants on a steam machine. He smiled as she entered.
“Picking up or leaving off?” he asked pleasantly.
“I came to see Uncle,” she said quietly.
“Uncle?”
He was tall and slender with long, shaggy hair and soft brown eyes. He looked out the window, quickly perused the street.
“Uncle Eli,” she said. “I brought a flower for him, a rare flower.”
His smile grew more cautious.
“Oh? An orchid perhaps?”
“A lily.”
“Lilies are not so rare.”
“The black lily is.”
He nodded, still staring intently at her.
“So it is. And who should I say is calling?”
“Jenny Gould. I am Avrum’s sister.”
His eyes brightened.
“Ah, yes,” he said warmly. “This way.”
He led her past the steam machine into a back room. They edged their way through racks of fresh-smelling clothes to a stairway at the back of the shop.
“My name is Jules Loehman,” he said, leading her up a narrow staircase to the second floor. “Uncle Eli is my father.”
“Thank you for helping me, Jules.”
“A pleasure and an honor. I met Avrum a few months ago when he was here. A very courageous fellow.”
“He would be pleased to hear you say that.”
“Good. Then tell him I said so.”
They reached a small hallway at the top of the stairs and Jules knocked softly on a door and then opened it and ushered her into a small, incredibly cluttered sitting room. An elderly man was seated at a roll top desk, writing in a ledger book. Every cubbyhole in the desk was jammed with papers and envelopes. A small dining room table was also stacked with books, papers, file folders. There were even files stacked on the chesterfield and easy chair that occupied one side of the room. In sharp contrast to the litter, the room itself was a bright and cheerful space, lit from above by a large skylight.
The old man was thin to the point of being frail, his white hair wisping from under a black yarmulke. His skin had the soft, almost translucent look that comes with old age and he had a shawl thrown over his shoulders even though the room was quite warm. He looked up as they entered, squinting over his half-glasses.
“Uncle, you have a guest. This is Jenny Gould. She is Avrum Wolffson’s sister.”
“Half-sister,” she said.
He stood with some effort and took her hand.
“Well, well,” he said with a wan smile. “What a pleasant way to start the day.” He kissed her hand then waved at the sofa. “Jules, make a space, please.”
He led her to the sofa as Jules stacked several piles of litter on the floor.
“I had to leave Germany rather abruptly,” Old Eli said, gesturing around the room. “This is the sum total of my possessions. I have been going over these things for almost a year and I am still on the first pile.”
“I must get back to the shop,” Jules said, excusing himself.
“You are German then?” Jenny asked.
‘Ja,” old Eli said sadly. “I taught t the university with Reinhardt and Sternfeld. I got out.” He stopped for a moment and then added: “Unfortunately they were not so lucky.”
“Yes, I know. I am so sorry.”
He studied her through gentle eyes, wise with age and faded with time.
“You have this look of. . . surprise,” Old Eli said.
She laughed. “I am sorry. For some reason I expected you to be younger.”
“Oh? Subterfuge is a young person’s game, is that it?”
“I suppose that’s exactly what I was thinking. A ridiculous prejudice.”
“Most prejudice is ridiculous,” he said with a shrug. “Anyway, my dear, it takes an old head to keep young hands steady. Besides, who would have thought that at the age of seventy- nine I would become the traffic director for a subversive organization. I find it all quite invigorating. So, what can we do for you?”
“I must talk to Avrum.”
His face clouded up. He made a pyramid of his fingers and stared across the tip at her. “Very difficult, my dear. In fact, quite impossible at this moment. Have you heard what’s happening? Things are insane in Berlin right now. They are saying as many as three thousand of the Sturmabteilung and many. others may have been killed since two nights ago.”