But preoccupied and half drunk, the first inkling Wolfgang had that something was wrong was when the creaking, clanking old lift began to settle as it arrived at his floor. That was when he noticed through the metal diamonds of the cage that the front door to their apartment was wide open.
That was certainly unusual.
Then a moment later as he was pulling back the concertinaed door and stepping out, Wolfgang heard Paulus’s voice shouting out. Shouting out a warning. ‘Run, Dad, run!’
But it was too late.
He turned but they were already all around him, reaching hold and dragging him into his own apartment, where Frieda was standing in silent terror, her arms around her sons.
There were half a dozen men present, one in plain clothes, the others dressed in a uniform that Wolfgang had only seen in news reels. A terrifying, all black affair, on the caps of which was a skull and crossbones.
One of the black-clad figures was holding the print that for ten years had hung above Wolfgang’s piano. The one by Georg Grosz depicting an army medical team from 1918 passing a skeleton fit for active service.
The man holding the print had put his leather-gloved fist through it, glass and all. The jagged shards lay broken at his feet.
‘You admire this decadent?’ the man said with a superior sneer.
Decadent? Even in that moment of dawning horror Wolfgang’s mind recoiled at the strange outrage of a thug who, having invaded a private home, ripped a picture from the wall and smashed it with his fist, then had the effrontery to call the
‘Yes,’ was all Wolfgang could think of in reply. Knowing very well that from this point of complete disaster onwards what he said was irrelevant anyway. They had come for him, that was all. He did not know why, but no one ever did. He had lost enough friends over the previous year to know that once these people had you in their sights there was no hope…
Another officer spoke up. He had hold of Wolfgang’s beloved trumpet.
‘You play nigger music?’ the man asked.
The same casual sneer. These people genuinely seemed to feel that
‘Well… I did play jazz… but now I…’
The plainclothed officer spoke up. Obviously a Gestapo man, dressed as ever in the inevitable gabardine coat and Homburg which every German, even the most fervent Nazi, had come to dread.
‘We have received intelligence that you are a dangerous subversive. A dangerous
‘Dangerous? I play music.’
‘Nigger music.’
‘How is that dangerous?’
‘It is morally corrupting. Germany protects itself from decadent and inferior culture. You will come now.’
Frieda cried out in desperate protest.
‘But, sir, officer, I’ve explained!’ she pleaded. ‘It must be a mistake, he’s just a poor musician. A harmless nobody. I am a doctor, I’m known in the neighbourhood, many Aryans of my acquaintance can vouch that my husband is of no consequence. The local Lutheran minister, he will speak for us, I know it… Please, let me call him!’
‘Stengel,’ the plainclothed figure commanded, pointing at Wolfgang, ‘come quietly or we will subdue you. I presume you would not wish your children to see that.’
Wolfgang glanced across at his family.
Frieda scrabbling in her address book for the pastor’s number.
Otto looking ferocious, ready to kill… His hand playing with something in his pocket.
Paulus glancing about, his eyes darting from one black-clad figure to another, trying to think of something, anything.
Wolfgang knew that the longer he drew this out, the more chance there was of his boys doing something very stupid. Particularly Otto.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will come. Boys, be calm. For Mum’s sake. Be calm.’
‘No! Take me!’ Otto shouted. ‘I’m the subversive. Whoever called you must have meant me! Look, I’ve got a—’
Otto’s hand was emerging from his pocket but Paulus, seeing what Otto intended to do, stepped forward, holding Otto’s arm and positioning himself in front of his brother. ‘Wait,’ he said, trying to smile, ‘I’ve got it! I know what this is about. There’s been a mix up. Your informant must have meant those
It was a good effort but the home-invaders weren’t listening. The Gestapo man barked a command and two of the black-clad figures took hold of Wolfgang. Frieda screamed in terror, leaping forward and holding on to him, struggling in the grasp of his tormentors.
During the moment of confusion when the room seemed to have twice as many bodies in it as a moment before, Wolfgang was able to grab at his wallet and press it into his wife’s hand.
‘Here, take what I have, there’s a little money — for the boys,’ he said, before leaning forward into her desperate embrace and whispering, ‘The number. Call it, ask for Helmut, tell him.’
Then the SS men dragged Wolfgang away.
As the last one, the Gestapo man, was leaving, his figure framed in the doorway, Otto pulled his knife from his pocket. There was a click and the blade sprung open. A vicious gleaming spike. Otto raised the weapon, blind hatred in his eyes, poised to spring. Paulus saw the danger just in time and shoulder-charged his brother, sending him sprawling on the floor as the door to their apartment closed.
‘You lunatic!’ Paulus snarled. ‘You stupid bloody lunatic. Do you want to get Mum killed as well?’
Otto turned on his brother, furious for a moment, then blank, and then, quite suddenly, he began to cry. Perhaps it was the words ‘as well’ which set him off. Had their father been dragged away to be killed? Both boys knew it was possible. Probable.
Paulus cried also. Perhaps Frieda would have done so too but she was too busy searching in Wolfgang’s wallet.
Outside they heard the groan and clank of the lift as it began its descent.
Unfriendly Nazi
FOR AN HOUR or so after Wolfgang’s arrest, Frieda tried continuously to call the phone number that she had found in Wolfgang’s wallet, but received no answer.
Paulus and Otto sat on the couch, scarcely able to speak. So sudden and absolute had been the disaster that had befallen them. They knew precisely what sort of danger Wolfgang was now in. This had not been an arrest in the way such a thing was recognized in other countries. With the reading of rights and the arrival of lawyers. The possibility of a defence, even of innocence. Too many husbands and fathers had been arbitrarily abducted over the previous eighteen months for the Stengel boys to be under any illusions that their father would be given a chance to defend himself. It was perfectly possible that Wolfgang was already dead.
‘Just like Dagmar’s dad. At the station,’ Otto said finally. ‘One minute you see him, a second later he’s gone.’
Paulus glared at Otto. ‘It’s not going to be like Dagmar’s dad,’ he said, and then repeated it, quietly, almost to himself. ‘It’s just not.’
Frieda put down the phone.
‘I’ll wait fifteen minutes and then call again. Have either of you boys ever heard your father mention anyone called Helmut?’
But the boys had not.
