“Doktor Koenig, you should see it in Danzig. Thousands and thousands of Germans fighting for the Führer. Letting the world know that we will not be abused any more.”
How proud he was of the deliverance of the Germans from Austria and Czechoslovakia!
“I’ve been thinking of it deeply, Liedendorf. I want to join in this work.”
He walked along the edge of the Saxony Gardens, past the blocks of government buildings and palaces and art museums. All this granite and marble were not of his sinew. In the beer halls, in the homes of his own people, German people, was where he belonged. Here Dr. Franz Koenig was a respected man. Here they spoke of great things without shame or fear.
He stopped before the Square of the Iron Gates just beyond the Saxony Gardens.
A sickening odor of half-rotted vegetables, unwashed peasants, squalling chickens, haggling, screaming barterers and beggars, and a thousand pushcarts pleaded for the zloty in the most primitive form of trade.
“Used neckties, good as new!”
“Pencils!”
“Buy from me!”
Old women squatted on the cobblestones with a few eggs, thieves and pickpockets roamed about, and lines of pushcarts dangled secondhand shoes and greasy jackets. The noise of the iron rims of the carts roared and echoed over the square.
“Buy from me!”
Bearded Jews, bearded Paul Bronskis, argued endlessly to save a half zloty in hand-waving Yiddish, a language cruelly butchering the beautiful German tongue.
A drunken soldier was hurled from a café and fell at Koenig’s feet.
Drunk as a Pole—that is what they say, Koenig thought. Drunk as a Pole. Such fitting words.
All of Poland had passed before him in two short squares. How wrong is Hitler’s disgust of the Slavs? A nation of thirty million people with only two million newspaper readers. A nation of feudal lords and serfs in this, the twentieth century. A nation which worshiped a black madonna as African Zulus prayed to sun gods.
This was Poland to Franz Koenig. Five per cent Paris, walled behind marble mansions and ruling decadence. Ninety-five per cent Ukrainia ... abominable ignorance.
What could the good industrious German folk have done with the fertile flat lands and the bursting mineral deposits of Silesia?
“Buy from me!”
Who was this mass of dirty people with their childlike mentality to hold back the German people, who had contributed more to the world’s enrichment and knowledge than any other race?
Franz Koenig knew that no matter what small injustices the Nazis perpetrated the final result of a greater Germany justified the means.
Koenig circumvented the confusion of the market place and entered Hans Schultz’s bar.
Schultz smiled. “Guten Tag, Herr Doktor, Guten Tag.”
“Hello, Schultz. Anything new?”
“Ja. Herr Liedendorf is unable to come out these days. He said that our work is done and you should stay home and wait.”
Dr. Koenig downed his beer and nodded to Schultz, who smiled as he wiped the bar.
In a few moments he entered his flat and put his hat neatly on the rack and placed his cane directly below it. He looked at his fat Polish wife, whose mouth was sucking in and out like a puckered fish, and he could not hear what she was saying. She walked and her flesh wobbled.
He envisioned her in the bed, which sagged on one side because of her immensity, and he saw her flabby buttocks and her hanging breasts.
Koenig walked to his study and slammed the door behind him.
He turned on the radio. It was always set now on Radio Deutschland.
A rally from Hamburg!
“We Germans cannot tolerate the outrageous treatment of our citizens in Poland, where German women and children are unsafe from Polish vandals ... where German men are beaten and murdered!”
“Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”
And soon ten thousand voices shattered the air waves, singing “Deutschland über Alles,” and Dr. Franz Koenig closed his eyes and tears fell down his cheeks, just as they had fallen down the cheeks of his students.
And he prayed that his liberators would be coming soon.
Chapter Four
Journal Entry
WONDERFUL NEWS! ANDREI CAME home on leave unexpectedly! We of the Bathyran Zionist Executive Council have a lot of things to talk over and decide. With Andrei here it will give us a chance to get together.
ALEXANDER BRANDEL
The army truck came to a halt before the northernmost bridge that spanned the Vistula River from Warsaw to Praga. Captain Andrei Androfski hopped out of the cab, thanked the driver, and walked along the river toward the new northern suburb of Zoliborz. He tilted back the four-cornered cap worn by officers of the crack Ulany regiments and he whistled as he walked and received and returned the smiles and flirtations of young lady strollers. Captain Andrei Androfski indeed cut the classic figure of a Ulan cavalry officer. His leather shined, and the short stiletto at his side glinted when the sun caught it.
He turned away from the river and into a tree-lined street of lovely new homes in an area stamped with upper middle-class wealth. Andrei spotted a large stone on the sidewalk and began to dribble it with his feet with the dexterity of a trained soccer player, his leg muscles fairly rippling through his trousers. He gave the stone a final swift kick of the boot, speeding it down the street toward an imaginary goal, and turned at the gate of Dr. Paul Bronski’s house.
“Uncle Andrei!” shouted ten-year-old Stephan as he sprinted over the lawn and leaped on his uncle’s back.
“Schmendrick!”
The two “clashed,” and the big cavalry officer was “thrown” to the ground, apparently no match for his eighty-pound nephew. He surrendered gallantly, got to his feet, and lifted the victor on his shoulders.
“How is Batory?”
“Batory! The first, the most beautiful, and the most fierce animal in all of Poland.”
“What has he done lately, Uncle Andrei?”
“Lately? This week—well, let me see. I took him to England for the Grand National, and he ran so fast he split their and caused it to thunder. Well sir, those Englishmen thought it was raining and ran for cover and didn’t even see the race. Batory lapped the field four times and was coming up for the fifth time when the second fastest horse crossed the finish line. And those stupid Englishmen who were hiding in the stands thought Batory finished last.”
“Who takes care of Batory when you are gone?”
“First Sergeant Styka, personally!”
“I wish I could ride him again,” Stephan said, recalling the most thrilling incident of his young life.
“You will, just as soon as we clear up some things.”
“Can I jump him this time?”
“Yes, I think so. That is, if heights don’t make you too dizzy. When Batory jumps, the world below becomes very small. As a matter of fact, I don’t enter him in jumping races any more. Batory jumps so high, the other horses are around the track before he comes down.”
Andrei walked to the house.
“Uncle Andrei!” cried Rachael Bronski. This meeting was devoid of the previous violence, for the voice belonged to an elegant black-eyed fourteen-year-old young lady whose greeting was limited to an affectionate hug.
“Andrei!” cried Deborah, running in from the kitchen, wiping her hands. She flung her arms around her brother’s neck. “You devil! Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”
“I only knew myself last night. Besides, I want to stay clear of Alexander Brandel. He’ll call one of those damned meetings.”
“How long?
“Four whole days.”