Twilight in Danzig Read online

  “Shit on Hess. I have no use for his political crap.”

  “None of us do, sir, but it would be best if you could remain on friendly terms with them for now.”

  “Good night, Otto. Are you still planning to go to America?”

  “If things change the way I think they will, yes.” The loyal manservant paused, scanning the Prince’s face. “Perhaps, sir, you ought to give that some thought, too.”

  “What will I do in America?”

  Otto shrugged, but continued to gaze at the Prince.

  “Good night, Otto.”

  Upstairs in the Prince’s bedroom, the mirrored wall reflected a thirty-five-year-old man who suddenly looked ten years older. The flowered design of the wallpaper complemented the brilliant design of the silk sheets of the massive four-poster bed. A tufted chaise lounge was on the other side of the room, next to a statue of Adonis standing on a small French inlaid round table. A portrait of a young man painted by Edvard Munch hung over one wall. Brandenberg didn’t see the letter from his old friend Hess, inviting him to meet the future chancellor of Germany, Adolf Hitler, on the inlaid table beside the bed.

  The Prince undressed and stood naked in front of the long mirror, viewing his slender body. His thoughts turned to the young American at dinner tonight, as he ran his hands over his smooth chest, delicately massaging his nipples. From the large armoire, he pulled out a pair of pink bloomers and a black silk nightgown. He slipped into the bloomers, dropped the nightgown over his head, and sat down in front of the dressing table. After covering his lips in pink lipstick, he sprayed cologne on his body, tweezed his eyebrows and climbed into bed. On his night table was a small ceramic bottle. He took a silver spoon, tapped a bit of white powder onto it, brought the cocaine to his nose, and closed his eyes.

  His arms had held many young men before – sailors and salesmen, and others passing through town, their eyes meeting ahead of their bodies in rushed and urgent grunts. There had been bell hops, Emile most recently, a take-home souvenir from a recent trip to the City of Light, but never an American. When the rush from the powder started in his body, the Prince twisted in ecstasy, rubbing himself and thinking about Bill, strong, fresh, and virginal, just as he imagined America itself to be. “Bill, Bill,” he moaned. “What a splendid evening,” was his final thought as the cocaine took over. And then he remembered nothing.

  Most governesses’ bedrooms in Danzig were bleak looking, deliberately furnished sparsely to encourage these ladies to spend most of their time caring for their charges and not lounging around their room. Fräulein Marlow’s chamber was an exception. She had a large bedroom and sitting area with her own private bath; a small apartment, really, and a luxury by anyone’s standards in the early thirties. Lucia furnished the space for her with a velvet couch, two soft easy chairs, a Biedermeier armoire, and two Caucasian rugs, while Brand, unbeknownst to his wife, brought her exotic undergarments when he traveled to Belgium and France, along with perfumes and oils for her bath. Her rooms were not located in the servant’s quarters on the other side of the house, but instead were a short distance from where Jonas slept, yet far enough away to afford her the privacy for which she longed.

  She undressed and filled the upright ceramic bathtub with pine oil and closed her eyes as her entire body softened. Lately, she had been vowing that the time had come to leave, settle down, get married and begin her own life. She was, after all, a beautiful well-bred country girl, though she’d been in town for ten years now. She’d come to seek a husband of means, and if not that, then a position that would allow her to forget where she had come from, and what she had lost. Her memories of a sun-kissed childhood, before the War and Allies took that all away, had dimmed. Her officer father killed on the Marne, and her mother exhausted by debt and disappointment, the champagne country of her youth was now an embittered empty land. She had considered herself lucky to get away. All she knew was that poverty, genteel or inherited, was a disease that was hard to shake off. But now, even as her dead dreams dropped from her heart like tree leaves in a cold wind, there was reason to hope again.

  First, there was her employer, who was also her lover, and a lover like none she had ever experienced. The other men she met were far less exciting, certainly less wealthy. Even though he usually stayed with her for only a half-hour, it was enough. Sometimes, when Lucia went to Warsaw to see her parents, he would stay long enough for them to briefly sleep locked in each other’s arms. It was a marvelous time of freedom. And then, there was this dynamic new movement that promised to change it all. There would be food and jobs again, security and hope. She heard about it at the cafes where she’d sometimes go with the other governesses on their evenings off. This movement of, and for, pure Germans. Let the Communists and capitalists, the trade-unionists, and the gypsies and the Jews trade places with them. Yes, let them endure a life without money, a life of loss and new rules. She imagined putting the heel of her shoe to the head of that despicable Uncle Herman. As she lay in the bathtub, she took the nozzle of the douche and placed it between her legs, her breaths shortening. Brand was going to visit her soon. She had another lover, Bruno, the meat cutter who worked in town. She met him at one of the cafes where he was espousing the new political party that was going to restore Germany to its former glory. Bruno was young, strong, and a German; rough, but she liked that, too. Brand was gentle, sensual. She liked the imaginative ways of the rich Jew. It gave her pleasure knowing that her mistress’ husband was her lover. It reversed her envy of the Jewess’s soft life. Fräulein Marlow’s body was fuller, younger, and Brand liked her full breasts.

  Tomorrow was her day off. She would meet Bruno at the beer hall and then return to his room for the night. She climbed out of the bathtub, dried her ready body, and climbed into bed, waiting. It was well past midnight. All those Kruger dinner parties bored her. She would have rather stayed upstairs. Lucia had the mistaken notion that she wanted to join the family’s friends, whom she resented. “You are part of the family, Fräulein. We want you to share in our good fortune.”

  Downstairs, meanwhile, sitting in his favorite room – the billiard room – Brand was exhilarated with happiness. The evening was a monumental success. He had forgotten entirely about Fräulein Marlow. The excitement of a big business deal that would double his fortune was stronger even than his sexual hunger. He filled his glass with more Napoleon brandy and saluted his company. In his mind he made a quick calculation of the increase to his fortune as his coal-filled barges steamed up the North Sea to Bremerhaven. The rolling doors of the room softly opened as Lucia appeared in a diaphanous white silk dressing gown. The lamplight illuminated her lovely curves.

  “Still up, Darling? Wasn’t that a beautiful evening? Your idea of the quartet was so clever. Don’t you just love Bill? He is such a doll.”

  “It was a great evening during which I, my dear, concluded the largest deal of my career.”

  “You mean we are going to be richer than now?”

  “Much richer.”

  She fell into his lap and her robe opened. She was naked underneath. “But more coal means more barges, doesn’t it?”

  “Right, my smart wife. We will have to double the staff, and the swampland I bought years ago is going to be part of the new port called Gdynia that the Poles are building. The entire harbor will be opened all winter.”

  The silk gown slid off her shoulder and Brand kissed her still youthful breasts.

  “Not bad for an old lady.”

  “Not bad at all,” he said as his mouth closed over hers.

  He still couldn’t sleep after they made love. He returned to his study and looked out the window. The night sky was dull and heavy, and he wondered whether this augured for an early snow. In this medieval town on the Baltic Sea, snow sometimes fell in late fall. He suddenly remembered Fräulein Marlow, and imagined she had waited for him. He sighed and then poured himself another brandy. Usually, with Lucia upstairs reading in her boudoir, thinking Brand was at his desk
reviewing contracts, it had been easier than he could have anticipated to steal thirty minutes with the alluring young Fräulein. The risks he took frankly thrilled him. After all the drama it had taken to get here, so much else in his life seemed settled now.

  It was only twelve years ago or so, he reflected, that he was in Zakopane. The only Jew in the Puszauaski elite cavalry division out in that barren field. World War 1 had ended, but not for Poland. He joined the Polish cavalry because he was starving and he was alone. Raised on a farm, he was an expert horseman. His mother had abandoned him to go to America, and his father had long been dead. At the age of fourteen, he was on his own, and hungry. Each day he hoped there would be a letter with a ticket to America, but the letter never came. It was not long after he joined the army that he was promoted to lieutenant in the cavalry. He had been careful to conceal his Jewishness, for no Jew could ever achieve officer rank. He knew how to read and write, and he had the instincts of a fox. He let his mind float back to that dark, distant time.

  The Red Army under Trotsky was at the gates of Warsaw, ready to march into the Polish capital. Out on the field with the ruffian cavalry, Brand was a pariah. The men did not trust him because he did not drink. For weeks they waited for battle to come, soaking in vodka and gambling. Then one morning, in the late fall, it began to snow, and his drunken men were about to run away, to flee from the barren land and from their fears and boredom concerning the fight that fortunately hadn’t come, to return to Warsaw. They were camped in the middle of a field, surrounded by their horses. As the first morning light fell on the sleeping men, barrages of gunfire opened upon them on all sides. The Red Army had surrounded them, and in less than half an hour the field was covered in blood. Brand was thrown off his horse when a cannon shot struck his arm. The Bolsheviks swept down on them with their swords, slashing the throats of his fallen men. Brand rolled over towards some high grass and hid himself from the ongoing slaughter. Later, much later, he was found by a gentleman farmer who took him to his estate and nursed him back to life. The slaughter had taken place on his land.

  The aristocratic Polish gentleman who saved Brand’s life was named Stefan Metchnik. It was Metchnik who owned the coal mines in Zakopane, and that was how Brand, the pauper, eventually became the industrialist. Metchnik gave him a job, sending him to Danzig to represent his interests. Brand devised a plan to ship coal up the Vistula River from Krakow to the port of Danzig. He was twenty-two years old, and soon formed his own company with Metchnik’s blessings, and his coal. Since then, Brand had been both son and protégée to the old gentleman.

  It was good that his arm ached once in a while to remind him of how it was to starve, to be poor, and how much nicer it was for him to be rich and powerful. Brand’s son, Jonas, was never going to have to beg for bread or sleep in only his clothing on the ground. The gods had been good to Brand and he wouldn’t allow that to change. He had survived being killed.

  Bill Harrington had come to Danzig to learn architecture and to have an adventure. Life in Columbus was all about going to football games and drinking beer before inevitably marrying and entering your dad’s business. With the Depression in America deepening, it was a fate one had to feel grateful about. Still, Bill knew the satirist James Thurber, a friend of the family whom Bill thought of as a wise uncle, who had heard about his dreams and encouraged him to study architecture in Europe. As his main interest was medieval Nordic architecture, Danzig was an ideal choice. Most of the buildings were still intact, dating back to the fourteenth century when the city had belonged to the Hanseatic League, an association of northern German towns and merchant communities.

  The adventure that he was seeking had seemed possible when he met Lucia Kruger at Beaux Arts School, and now he knew a Prince. The morning after the dinner party, an engraved invitation was lying under the door of his modest rented flat, adorned with the Brandenberg seal: “Please come to my home for cocktails and dinner at seven o’clock.”

  Dressed in the only suit he owned, with a white shirt and red tie, Bill arrived promptly at the Prince’s home. Otto met him at the door, followed by the Prince, in a blue smoking jacket with a red scarf around his neck. Emile had been given a one-way train ticket back to Paris that morning and the Prince was feeling chipper indeed. “Welcome to the Brandenberg home,” he said. “I see you like red, too. How nice.”

  Bill didn’t know where to move his eyes first. Everywhere he looked was stunning: ancestral portraits hung in the hall; a large crystal chandelier was suspended from the tall ceiling. “It is like living in a museum,” Bill stammered slightly.

  “It is a museum. I let the public in every spring for a tour. Come, dear friend,” the Prince spoke in French. “You do understand French?”

  “A little.”

  “Good, then we will speak in French and English.”

  Cocktails were served in a small sitting room around a delicate table stacked with liqueurs, canapés, and decanters of Scotch and rum.

  “Scotch? Americans like Scotch, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.”

  The Prince sat in a Pope chair with his legs crossed. When he smiled, he displayed a fine row of white teeth. Bill smelled the cologne his host was wearing and began to feel uncomfortable.

  After a third tumbler of Scotch, however, he felt more relaxed and continued to listen to the Prince discuss the poet Verlaine, and how he had killed his lover.

  “It was a terrible scandal, terrible.” Brandenberg put down his Scotch glass and looked at the young American. “But come, let me show you the house.”

  They started in the wine cellar, which was as large as the living room.

  “You pick any wine you like for dinner.”

  “I don’t know anything about wines.”

  “Perhaps someday soon you will.”

  “What is your oldest bottle?” Bill asked.

  “Here in this corner.” They moved to the far side of the cellar and Bill stumbled on a rack. The Prince quickly caught him before he fell, holding fast onto his arm.

  “These old places sometimes are dangerous,” the Prince warned, and Bill felt a strange sensation as the Prince put his arm around his waist.

  “Come, we don’t want any more falls.”

  Dinner was served in the small dining room, at a narrow dinner table, surrounded by more family portraits hanging on a velvet wall. Bill drank more wine and champagne than he ever had in his life. He barely remembered eating the delicate pheasant or the dessert, a coeur a la crème with caramelized strawberries.

  After dinner, the tour resumed. When they arrived at the Prince’s bedroom, the Prince placed his arms around Bill and opened the large armoire.

  “Have you ever had cocaine?” he asked.

  “No,” Bill admitted, “they even took it out of Coca Cola.” The Prince laughed.

  “Take some. It will give you courage to do what you dare not.”

  He placed the spoon against Bill’s nose, and removed a gold jewelry box from the armoire. He reached for a small ring with the Brandenberg crest.

  “For you.”

  Bill blushed and felt his body shift almost inexorably; the cocaine suffused into his head, mixing with the alcohol. It made him feel like a different person.

  “I can’t take that,” he protested as the Prince handed him the ring.

  “For our friendship, today and tomorrow. English lessons we will start tomorrow and I will pay you. Students are so poor.”

  “But I have no present to give you.” Bill’s voice came from another part of his brain. He knew what the Prince would say next.

  “You have a present for me. It is late. Stay for the night and my driver will take you back in the morning.”

  Adjacent to the Prince’s bedroom was a guest room with a large four-poster bed. A pair of silk pajamas was already set out across the bed, and a robe.

  “Make yourself comfortable. It is getting late and you are so tired,” the Prince said. “Or, are you drunk?”

  �
��A little of both, I guess.”

  The Prince’s face was flushed. He left Bill alone in the room and when he returned in his robe, Bill was fast asleep. The lines of the Prince’s face seem to advance him five more years from his utter disappointment. He quietly closed the bedroom door and filled his nose with the white powder.

  It was the morning of Jonas’ birthday. Brand, in his gray and white Duesenberg, sped up to a gabled building, the home of his company, Baltic Kohlen. He wore a fedora hat with a silk brim, dark striped pants, and a double-breasted blue jacket. He entered the marbled hall where his secretary, Fräulein Giesela, greeted him. It was precisely ten o’clock. “Good morning, Herr Kruger. Mr. Metchnik has been waiting for you for two hours.”

  “God in heaven! This is a surprise,” he bellowed as he entered his office. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until later.”

  A tall, simply dressed young man with the face of a bulldog followed Brand. He had been a bouncer in a Berlin café; now he was a doorman, a bodyguard, an errand man – and he carried a Mauser in his pants.

  “Karl-Heinz, ice up the 1920 champagne! Metchnik, you are a devil. We missed you last week at the party.”

  Metchnik, an elderly, elegant, aristocratic looking man, was seated in a deep armchair sipping a demitasse. “Yes, we were sorry to miss it. Sonja has a new protégée, you see. So we had to go to Venice. She has fallen in love with a bunch of nuts. Expressionists they call themselves. She made a party for a young man called Weber, and invited the Guggenheims from New York. It is the craziest art I ever saw, but what does a coal dealer know about art?”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Shopping for a present for your son’s birthday tonight, what else? We arrived on the overnight train. You see, we always honor our promises, which, when it comes to young Jonas, also happen to be our priority.”

  Metchnik and his wife would be dining tonight with them, of course, when the family celebrated. Jonas was like a grandchild to them, one whom Sonja, without children of her own, loved to indulge.