Corridor of Darkness Page 7

  René led the way into the room, its walls heavy with sabers, shields and etchings of fencing matches from earlier eras. On either side of a stone fireplace, iron-tipped poles bore the fraternity colors. Above the mantel an oil painting depicted a medieval battle, knights on horseback flailing with swords and foot soldiers wielding long lances. The opposite wall was dedicated to leather-bound books. A solitary skull, its original owner and reason for residing there long forgotten, sat forlornly as a dusty bookend, a lone candle affixed to its brow. The odor of stale tobacco was all-pervasive.

  “Out with it, what's put you in such a sour mood?”

  “It looks like I’ve offended one of your fraternities, and now I’m to fight a duel,” Ryan said. “Care to give me some lessons with the saber?”

  “Better yet, give me details. First off, you aren’t allowed to fight a duel; you're not German. Dueling with a foreigner is off-bounds. Even we Corps brothers have to be careful since academic fencing is now officially forbidden. If a foreigner were hurt, they’d clamp down hard and the sport would really be over for everyone.” He took a seat. “Secondly, do you even know which end of the saber to hold?” He grinned. “Now tell me what happened?”

  Ryan paced before the musty couch as he told his story. His mind overburdened with cramming for the exams, he had taken his usual morning break and headed up toward his old haunts at the castle. Unexpectedly, two Corps brothers had stopped him in his tracks and upbraided him for passing the Sachsen-Wachonia fraternity house and failing to lift his hat to their blue, red and gold flag. Ryan had tried diplomacy and an apology: he had not known a salute was expected. The explanation fell on deaf ears. A third student then strode out and faced him down. Ryan immediately recognized the obnoxious Brownshirt leader from the Duisberg House incident.

  “Obviously you have no concept of honor.” The man was in his face. “Perhaps you need a lesson in manners.”

  Ryan took a reflexive step backwards. “My lessons are academic, and no business of yours. I’ll tip my hat now and be on my way.”

  “Far too little, far too late.” The Nazi pulled an embossed calling card from his jacket, tore it halfway through, and handed it to Ryan. “Shall we say tomorrow afternoon, four o’clock, Marbach? I assume you can find your way?”

  The three had turned abruptly on their heels and entered the fraternity house, leaving Ryan staring in disbelief.

  “And that was that.” Ryan handed the calling card to René with a quizzical look. “You know him?”

  René nodded. He rose and shut the door to the library, then took a chair facing his friend. “Quite a piece of work, this von Kredow. Arrogant bastard, but a damned strong fighter, well respected in a Mensur, likes to pose as the old-school aristocrat. He heads Wachonia this semester, as well as the Nazi student group, and has quite a following.”

  “So I’ve managed to piss off a good one.”

  “Sounds like a set-up to me.”

  “Probably so,” Ryan acknowledged. “He sure had a problem with me the other day, and their house is on my customary walking route. I’ve never been asked to doff my hat before.”

  “What could you expect? Wachonia has gone full-bore Nazi, out to cleanse the country of anyone not “pure” German. And it gets worse: this von Kredow heads the AWK, as well.”

  The euphemistically-titled Academic Research Employment Office, das Akademische Wissenschaftliche Arbeitsamt, organized Reich-wide military training under the guise of character-building “defensive weapons practice.” Its regional offices bore the acronym AWK. All the fraternities had now joined the movement, along with many of the student organizations, until every non-affiliated student felt pressured to participate. It was as much as mandatory for anyone not a foreigner.

  “Speaking of such nonsense, how was your AWK ‘vacation,’ anyway?” He lit his pipe and handed René the tobacco pouch, relieved to have a friend in a dueling fraternity to advise him.

  “I’d hoped for the nautical training, of course. But signing up and getting in aren’t the same, especially when things are run by our archrival, your friends at Wachonia. They shunted me off for three weeks in the countryside.” He tamped his pipe.

  “Not your typical camping getaway, I suppose.”

  René’s voice dropped to a whisper, “A shitload of Nazi crap about the ‘Jewish threat’ and ‘holy duty to the Fatherland.’ My favorite: ‘strengthening the defensive will of German youth.’”

  “Boot camp, then.”

  “No, merely ‘defensive training,’ remember?” Both chuckled at the absurdity. The country was re-arming at a feverish pitch, right under the nose of the nations that had signed the despised Treaty of Versailles.

  Ryan returned to his personal dilemma. He knew he did not have to Heil Hitler at every hello and good-bye, but most foreign students toed the line and used the salutation, and he had quickly adjusted, finding it easier throughout the day. It was very uncomfortable—and in some situations dangerous—to be viewed as lacking respect for the new Germany. Not a few had been soundly thrashed for failing to salute a passing SA parade, even though as foreigners they weren’t obliged. And now Ryan had shown some unintentional disrespect to a local Nazi powerhouse.

  “So what is von Kredow’s angle, anyway? He must know I’m American and can’t duel.

  “Public humiliation. If you don’t show for the Mensur, he spreads the word you haven’t the guts. If you do show up, he makes you a laughingstock in front of his cronies. Either way, he validates his power. Remember, you’re dealing with bullies. They dishonor the very concept of honor daily, and get away with it.”

  “All right, let’s say I just ignore all this?”

  René considered carefully. “Face facts, my friend; you’ll be crossing the Atlantic soon, so maybe you can pretend this never happened.” René struck a match. “But we both know the Nazis now own the student council…and the faculty.” He exhaled a plume of smoke. “And there’s your big risk: once a Corps brother, always a Corps brother. Your exam committee will be stacked with Wachonians—they’re the oldest and strongest of the corporations—so your degree’s at risk if you piss off the wrong people. Willing to chance failing your orals?”

  Ryan shook his head in disbelief. “So what’s my answer?” The inadvertent slight of a colored piece of cloth, and his doctoral work imperiled.

  René abruptly stood and assumed the dueler’s start position. “I am.” He creased the air with the imagined saber in rapid flicks of the wrist. “Frankly, I’m fed up with these assholes, and wouldn't mind putting that one in his place, so I’ll take the challenge on your behalf. You can second me, there’s no rule against that.”

  “You know I’m grateful for the offer, René, but you just said he’s a strong dueler, and you tell me repeatedly you’re still learning the ropes? I couldn’t ask that of you.”

  “No one’s asking, my friend, I’m volunteering. I’ll land this Scheisskerl on his pompous ass. As your champion, I’ll show up for the challenge and we’ll shake up his plan.”

  chapter EIGHT

  Horst’s summer had been a great success. He had organized and spearheaded the AWK training in the Hessian countryside, and then marched and celebrated with his comrades at an impressive National Socialist Party Congress in Nuremberg. But upon his return to Marburg for the fall semester he learned that much had happened in his absence. His reputation stood at risk, and now he had set the wheels of retribution in motion.

  Horst had anticipated an enthusiastic reception from Erika Breitling after the lengthy separation. The girl’s lithe body and desirable looks suited his own physical attributes, in bed she yielded to his demands without question, just as a woman should, and in public she earned him the envy of every man in the crowd. In short, she was worthy of him, and the right wife was integral to his master plan. The Party demanded an obedient wife to bear perfect German children for the Reich, and Erika’s considerable charms were to play a fundamental role in promoting his career.


  Reichsminister Göring himself had congratulated Horst on his taste in women, giving a conspiratorial nod toward Erika in appreciation, man-to-man. That brilliant evening back in February had been a triumph. Göring had paid an official visit to Marburg, and Horst represented the student association at the reception for the Reich’s most powerful police official. Göring had recently separated the political and intelligence units of the Prussian police and formed the Geheime Staatspolizei, the secret state police known as the Gestapo. Erika stood at Horst’s side, and his handsome fraternity uniform had mirrored the striking outfit of the man who now commanded the nation’s largest law enforcement group.

  The celebration of their powerful guest was a memorable affair held at the castle, and the weather cooperated with a winter sky sparkling with stars. Göring emerged from the Grosser Mercedes resplendent in his white uniform, the Pour le Mérite cross at his throat and a dagger at his side. Horst and Erika were introduced in the reception line, and Göring, after an appreciative nod to Erika's beauty, mentioned his familiarity with Horst’s local efforts to further the Party cause. Toward the end of the evening an aide drew Horst aside, inviting him to meet with the state police leader in a private room off the main hall.

  “You come well recommended,” Göring said, signaling a steward to offer Horst a glass of champagne.

  “I’m honored to serve in any way I can, Herr Reichsminister.” Horst took the glass.

  “We’ll need more men of your strength and dedication in the months and years ahead. The local chief of police is a friend of ours, and he says you’ve helped him identify local troublemakers standing in the way of our progress.”

  “I do my best, sir.”

  “And I’m also told that you assist him—unofficially, of course—by setting straight such enemies of the state?”

  “An honor and an obligation, sir.”

  “I’ve recently made some changes in the structure of our state police force, and I shall be requiring young men of proven skills to undertake difficult tasks. We are destined to win back our rightful place in Europe, but it will take work.” He sipped his champagne. “I believe you have these merits. Interested?”

  “Nothing would please me more, sir.”

  “I’m told you study law.”

  “I’ll have my degree by the end of the year, sir.”

  “Then we’ll be in contact once you finish your studies. It’s important to have well-educated men of caliber on our force, don't you think?” He grinned. “And it certainly favors your cause having that attractive blonde on your arm. Makes things more pleasurable for everyone, don’t you think?”

  With those words a door had opened to Horst’s future. Police work on behalf of the State. Secret police work, where he might write his own rules, all in the name of state security. Here was a goal to strive for, and he would need the wife, the family. He would need Erika.

  Months of silence followed. A representative of the Academic Research Employment Office arrived from Berlin to review Horst’s university-wide promotion of the defensive military training. He was commended for bringing the student government into the fold and regimenting the training camps. The functionary noted in passing that an agent from Gestapo headquarters had recently inquired about Horst’s work with the local AWK branch, so he knew he was not forgotten.

  But April came and Horst read with dismay in the Völkischer Beobachter that Göring had transferred leadership of the secret police. The duties of running a consolidated police organization nationwide had now passed to Heinrich Himmler. Horst heard his door of opportunity slam shut.

  Then in mid-summer Klaus Pabst, his right-hand man, climbed the stairs to Horst’s private room to announce an unexpected caller. The gentleman waiting for him below in the foyer of the Wachonia house wasted no time with formalities. “Join me for a little ride,” he said. Horst got a quick glance at the identification card, Kriminaloberassistent. Geheime Staatspolizei. Gestapo. Recalling his conversation months prior with Göring, Horst felt his hopes begin to recover, and he followed the man without hesitation.

  When they reached the street he slid into the back of a spotless black Mercedes driven by a uniformed policeman. The agent sat beside him but turned a deaf ear to his questions, so Horst kept his peace and waited to learn their destination. They drove south toward Giessen, stopping after half an hour at a roadside inn where a solitary, similar Mercedes stood on the gravel lot, its engine idling. The driver, a sullen-looking Storm Trooper, propped a Nazi newspaper before him on the steering wheel and barely gave a glance as the new arrivals entered the Gasthaus.

  The apron-clad innkeeper’s eyes never left the sole patron, a well-dressed man about thirty years of age in an expensive suit who sat at the table farthest from the entry. The agent pointed Horst in that direction but withdrew before introductions. The slender stranger rose to greet the younger man, and Horst noted an equine face, cool blue eyes, a strong nose and jawline.

  “Heydrich,” the man said in a surprising tenor. He extended his hand but gave no rank or title, no document of identification.

  “Heil Hitler! Horst von Kredow, at your service, sir.” Horst saluted and offered his own hand, regretting the sweat on his palm.

  “Herr von Kredow, you come well recommended, so let’s get straight to the point. If you’re still interested in law enforcement—I have it on good authority you are—we’ve need of your services, and soon.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Please take a seat.”

  Horst complied, and waved away the innkeeper who approached the table to take his order.

  “As you’re undoubtedly aware, our movement still has enemies at every level of society.” Heydrich took a sip of tea.

  Horst nodded.

  “Even in the local and regional governments we still have those who would oppose our greater plan for the Reich. It’s the desire at the highest level that we set up strategic offices for our police force to draw these people out, to expose their crimes against the Reich. And we’ll need diligence from the Volk as well to help uncover sedition. From what we understand, you and your comrades have already done an excellent job within the student population and the local AWK. From now on, we’ll offer you training in tools and techniques that will make your job—and ours—easier for all concerned.” He clarified with a grin: “Easier for all but our enemies, of course.”

  “Of course, sir.” Horst showed his appreciation of the jest with a smile.

  For the next hour he sat in rapt attention as the man laid out his future. He was to develop his investigative skills with professional instruction, continue disciplining those who failed to fall into line, and follow Party orders, no matter where they might lead. He assured his host in return that his devotion to the Party and the Führer knew no bounds, that he had already taken this assignment to heart. It was to be a glorious future.

  Only upon returning from the Nuremberg Party Congress did he learn that Erika had been seeing an American doctoral candidate in his absence. Klaus Pabst reported the embarrassing discovery, and Horst could barely control his rage. It wasn't that Erika had made him any promises, and he certainly continued to bed any attractive girl he chose. In fact, he had undoubtedly fathered a brat or two in Nuremberg. But this development was a blow to his pride and social stature, and an unacceptable threat to his career plans.

  He had called on Erika midday at the women’s clinic. “Erika, my beauty, still remember me?” He knew he looked handsome and fit in his SA uniform.

  “Horst, you’re early, you’re back! When did you arrive?” She rose clumsily from behind the desk.

  “Not glad to see me?” He feigned concern.

  “Of course I am, but you weren’t due for another week,” she said, coming around to embrace him.

  “Well, here I am now, and I’d hoped for a warmer reception.”

  She kissed him. “Warm enough for you?”

  “That’s more like it. I couldn’t stay away from you any longer. A
fter all, a couple of months apart can be dangerous to a relationship, right?” Her cheeks flushed, yet she said nothing. “But certainly not to a friendship as close as ours, of course. Did you find ways to keep yourself occupied? You weren’t bored, I hope.”

  “It’s been pure havoc here at the clinic, so many away on vacation, you know. Not a moment’s rest, but I never stopped thinking of you…of us, that’s for sure. Was field training good, and Nuremberg?”

  “We grow stronger by the day, Erika, soon nothing will hold us back. So yes, very fulfilling. Sorry you couldn’t find time to relax while I was away, but I’m going to make that up to you, I promise. Dinner at eight tonight?”

  “I’m so sorry, Horst, nothing would please me more, but I’m handling two shifts today, so I’m already exhausted and wouldn’t be any fun anyway. Another time?”

  “Count on it, my beauty. I’m sure you’ll find time for me…and soon.”

  chapter NINE

  René tested the balance of the heavy saber. The steel basket of the fist guard hovered just above his scarred brow, the blade angling past his shoulder toward the worn oak flooring. The padding at neck and shoulders felt restrictive, and the leather arm guard added to the heft of the blade.

  “Crouch low and stay to my left, and for God’s sake, keep your head down.” He turned to reassure his American friend. “The mask and shielding will protect you.”

  “What about my saber?” Ryan appeared pale, his winning smile noticeably missing. “It does feel a bit foolish, my just holding this thing.” He cautiously swung the blade from side to side.

  “Fine, think of it as a stage prop.” He limbered up his wrist. “As my second, there’s little else for you to do. Von Kredow’s man will use his blade to block the duel when the umpire cries ‘halt,’ so just crouch low and stay out of range of our sabers, and please don’t cut yourself in the meantime.” He gave Ryan a smile. “Or anyone else.”