Trude did not move. ‘Postal regulations … Reich postal regulations require that I deposit the mail in the appropriate boxes.’
Heinz took a small step toward Trude and examined her as though he hadn’t quite seen her until now. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. ‘I see,’ he said. His voice was suddenly quite calm, and the beginnings of a smile flickered around the corners of his mouth. ‘Let’s ask Ortsgruppenleiter Mecklinger at SA headquarters what he thinks of postal regulations when the security of the Reich is at stake, shall we?’
‘The security of …?’
‘I’m talking about official Party business’ – he pretended to read her name tag – ‘Frau Heinemann. Suffice it to say that there is official interest in this Karl Juncker, and I have my orders to investigate.’ This was a lie. ‘So, if it is your intention to impede an investigation, by all means, take the letter. Of course, I’ll have to report your obstruction of a legitimate and important investigation, and we will see where it goes from there.’ He handed the rest of the letters back to her. She stood looking at him. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
Trude sighed, stepped forward and unlocked the panel above the mailboxes. She dropped the letters into the various boxes as quickly as she could and closed the panel.
‘Heil Hitler,’ said Heinz with a smart salute.
‘Heil Hitler,’ said Trude. She wanted nothing more than to get out of there.
Heinz Schleiffer
After the Great War had ended, Tullemannstraße 54 had been mostly vacant and without a guardian for several years. Without anyone in residence who could see to the maintenance, the building had slid into decline, until it had come under new ownership and Heinz Schleiffer had been engaged to fill the guardian slot. Heinz drove a beer truck afternoons and evenings, which gave him a flexible enough schedule to assume the duties of building guardian. This office required him to make small repairs – he was a handy carpenter and passable with plumbing and electricity – and perform regular maintenance: unlocking the entry door in the morning and locking it in the evening, sweeping the stairs, cleaning the lobby floor, washing the front windows, and, of course, polishing the brass plaque on the door of his lodgings. In exchange for fulfilling these duties – and he was assiduous in their fulfillment, you had to give him that – he got the use of the apartment rent free.
His guardian duties did not require that he be a storm trooper or that he wear the uniform. Nor did they include harassing the mail lady or investigating his neighbors. But the Führer had inspired in Heinz, as he had in many others, a newfound love of a particular sort of authority. The Führer’s own abusive ways were liberating. He gave people like Heinz, people who felt that they had been abused or mistreated or cheated or taken advantage of – whether they actually had or not – license to become abusive to others.
Heinz had first heard Hitler speak five years earlier when word had started spreading about him and his movement. Hitler promised that when he came to power, the little people, the forgotten ones, people just like Heinz, would have their day in the sun. ‘The socialist government has sold you out, has sold Germany out. But we will give you back your country.’
Heinz was not political. He didn’t even vote in those days, but he was moved by what he had heard.
Heinz was a little adrift and lonely. He wanted to be somebody, to be respected by other people. Hitler said that by joining their party you became part of a great German movement. That suited Heinz; he wanted to be part of something larger than himself, especially if it meant getting back at all those shitheads who had messed up his life.
Heinz’s wife had run off with another beer truck driver years earlier. There were two shitheads right there. His son Tomas was another. He had gone away to university and was now too big for his britches – studying art history, of all things. He came home to Munich less and less, and when he did, he stayed with his mother and rarely came to see Heinz.
‘Stop whining,’ said Jürgen, another driver. He had a wayward son too and thought he knew just what Heinz needed to do. ‘Haul the little shit back to Munich and slap some sense into him.’ They were drinking with their buddies at the Stammtisch, the table at the Three Crowns reserved for the neighborhood regulars.
‘No, I can’t do that,’ said Heinz, pretending to be reasonable. ‘He should have the chance to make something of himself.’
‘Yeah?’ Jürgen snorted. ‘Well, you’re his father. He needs to show you some respect and gratitude. I’d knock some sense into him.’
‘How about Lechler’s header on Sunday?’
Heinz was boring; his son was boring. So somebody brought up the spectacular last-minute goal by Lechler to win the match against Dresden.
‘Well, face it,’ said someone else. ‘Dresden has no defense. They threw that match away.’
‘Yeah, defense was always Dresden’s problem.’ The others nodded and muttered in agreement.
When talk turned to soccer or money or jobs, Heinz could never think of anything to say. He didn’t like soccer and he had a boring job. And anyway, no matter what the subject, he was bad at banter. The more they drank, the livelier the others got, while Heinz went silent. He sat with his back against the tile oven, but the warmth did nothing for him.
What warmed Heinz Schleiffer was putting on the brown shirt and tie, the brown pants, the boots of the SA. He had become a storm trooper not long after he had joined the Party. The uniform was like an exoskeleton for Heinz, supporting his insubstantial flesh, making his blood run hot, giving him, in his own eyes at least, substance, strength, and authority. Hitler and the National Socialists meant to restore
