Inside the Halle Communal Pawn Shop. Reinhard Heydrich and his father are at the teller’s window. While they wait for the teller to fetch the wristwatch, he and his father are chatting.
“This is very kind of you, Papi, to redeem Professor Siegfried’s wristwatch. He really didn’t need to do that. I mean, it is my duty to help him and all defenseless Germans.”
“Still, one must admit, it’s a lovely gesture. Many are ungrateful,” answers Bruno.
The teller comes back with a small brown paper package. “Sign here,” he points to a yellow piece of paper.
Bruno comes forward. “I’ll sign. My son’s underage.”
The teller looks blank and indifferent.
“Open the package, Reinie. It isn’t safe outside. We might find ourselves mugged or worse.
Reinhard Heydrich opens the package, taking care not to tear at the paper needlessly.
“Your mother has plenty of wrapping paper,” Bruno reminds him.
“Could I have it?” asks a woman anxiously, overhearing what Bruno has just said.
Reinhard smiles. “Here it is,” and stretches out his hand towards her while he opens the small, black rectangular box. In it is the most beautiful wristwatch he has ever seen. Gold. Sleek. Classic. A Patek Philippe. “Look, Papi! There must be some mistake. This is a Patek Philippe!”
Bruno turns to the teller. “This is a Patek Philippe. Are you sure this belongs to the slip we just gave you?”
“Ja. Ja. We don’t care what it is. We lend money only on the gold carats. Right now, horseshit’s worth more than gold,” replies the bored looking teller.
Before going outside, Reinhard puts the watch carefully into his pocket, admiring it one more time before he does. Outside the store, he thanks his father one more time, and then sets off to Prof. Siegfried’s home. As he approaches, he notices There are workmen and painters in the place.
“Is Professor Siegfried home?” Heydrich asks.
None of the workers turn around.
A jolly and portly gentleman answers for them. “They don’t speak German very well. They’re Polish refugees. I’m the landlord. Professor Siegfried left for England yesterday. Who might you be?” He takes a closer eyepiece examination of Heydrich.
“Heydrich. Reinhard Heydrich.”
“I see. Professor left this for you. He thought you might come. I live next door. My name’s Solomon Freberg.”
“Thank you, Herr Freberg. Did Professor Siegfried leave an address?”
“You can write to him care of the University of Oxford.”
One of the workers plastering over a wall asks Herr Freberg something in what might be Yiddish, or so thinks Heydrich.
“I’m sorry for the disturbance, Herr Freberg,” Heydrich apologizes, taking the letter. For the first time he sees two fingers are missing from Herr Freberg’s right hand. Indeed, most of his hand is a stump. Heydrich’s eyes remain impassive but he can’t help himself. “Where?” he asks painfully.
“In Flanders (Belgium).”
“War is horrible, especially for the vanquished,” declares Heydrich.
“Ah, youth! There are no victors in war,” replies Herr Freberg, turning abruptly away.
A disbelieving young Heydrich takes his leave. “Auf wiedersehn, Herr Freberg.” Reinhard Heydrich goes down the same way he comes up, taking the steps two at a time and heads to the Halle Conservatory.
Bruno Heydrich is rehearsing his students for a recital. During a pause, Reinhard joins him. “Professor Siegfried’s gone. He left a letter for me with his landlord, Solomon Freberg. Papi, it was terrible. Freberg had most of the fingers of his right hand blown away in Flanders.”
Bruno has consternation written all over his face. “So that’s why Solomon Freberg stopped giving concerts. Odd he should be living in Halle.”
Reinhard slaps his forehead. “How stupid and insensitive of me. Are you sure it’s the same Solomon Freberg?”
“One of my colleagues said he was injured in Flanders and would never perform again. Mind you, Freberg volunteered to fight. What did the professor say?”
Reinhard replies sadly, “I haven’t opened his letter yet.”
Bruno Heydrich says nothing, pats his son gently on the shoulder and tells his students, “Back to the Bach cantata.”
Heydrich eases out of the studio and heads back home. The watch in one pocket, the letter in the other. Taking his time he heads toward the river. There is one more thing to take care of before leaving town, something he doesn’t want his parents to know about.
. . .
The boats sailing down the Saade River are hooting back and forth. The street he is watching faces the river. A motorcycle noisily snorts up the street. A young man in his early twenties is on the motorcycle. He is alone. He stops the motorcycle and chains it to a post in the garden which belongs to his family. He moves arrogantly and cockily. Heydrich pounces. “If it isn’t Jurgens. Remember me?”
Jurgens squints and orders, “Come closer. I don’t know you.”
Heydrich dwarfs him by a good seven inches, although Jurgens is built like an ox. He jumps up and crouches next to Jurgens. He’s so close, he can smell his breath. It stinks of beer and sauerkraut.
“Who are you?”Jurgens shouts.
“I’m Heydrich. Reinhard Heydrich. The naaaany goat, the Paganini, the 13-year old you used to beat and torment with four other rogues. To be continued, you said. Five years ago in the classroom. You were going to crush all my fingers one by one. Remember now?”
Jurgens looks momentarily terrified. “But… that was a long time ago.”
“That’s right, But I see you’re still the same, maybe a killer now, shooting at unarmed civilians, riding on bicycles from a first story window?”” taunts Heydrich.
Jurgens has to look up at Heydrich. “You wouldn’t be so high and mighty if my men were with me. They’ll be here soon.”
“No, they won’t. My men have intercepted them.”
“So you’re the son of a bitch who ruined it! I should have known. The little Jew Paganini, the blonde Moses, wants to get even.”
“Worse than that, Jurgens. I am challenging you to a fight. I’m going to show you how much I can hurt you even without using my hands.”
At that exact moment, Heydrich pulls out a small flashlight, signals towards the front. From a harmless looking milk cart, seven men in various states of disability emerge accompanied by a black, snarling Doberman on a leash.
Jurgens steps back. “You big Jew bastard…”
“Shut up, Jurgens. Thanks to you and your ilk, words have no effect on me. My friends are war heroes. They are here to search you inch by inch. This is going to be a fair fight.”
The legless wonder in a crude cart examines Jurgens’ legs and boots, removing two stilettos. He grins and shows them off to Heydrich and his friends. Another one knows just where Jurgens keeps his guns. Two, oops, no, three Berettas. 22 caliber.
“No picking off the helpless tonight from first story windows.”
From behind his neck, another friend in crutches unearths a shiv. The sleeves of his jacket reveal a Swiss Knife each. “Mein Herr,” the soldier with one missing arm bristles. “Bitte, The cap off your head.” As Jurgens moves his arm, the black Doberman gives him a slow, vicious snarl. “Sorry. I’ll remove the cap myself. Nothing here.”
“Let’s see those legs wide open. Good. Nothing here. From the look of your trousers, you couldn’t be hiding anything near your teeny weeny.”
“Feel his back. Remove his belt. That buckle is a deadly weapon. Check the soles of his boots again.”
“Are you ready, Jurgens?” asks Heydrich in a cold voice, which makes the hardened war veterans tremble.
“That kind of anger is very dangerous,” one of them whispers.
“The slow, seething, day after day, year after year kind of anger,” says Heydrich. “Have you read the Count of Monte Cristo?” he asks Jurgens.
No reply.
“Your kind don’t read Alexandre Dumas. The Count of Monte Cristo waited twenty-five years to exact his revenge. I’m seventeen; it’s been five never ending years. Almost a third of my life,” he tell Jurgens in the same cold, icy demeanor.
“I’m ready. Bastard!” Jurgens spits on the ground violently.
The Doberman lunges towards him. Jurgens jumps back, naked fear in his face.
“So am I, coward. So am I.”
His seven friends turn away. They enter the milk cart slowly and then leave the scene as quickly as the old nag will carry them. Heydrich lifts both his arms and waves wordlessly. That is the precise moment Jurgens chooses to attack. Heydrich expected it. He jumps lithely backwards and than sideways. “The rules are… look Mutti, no hands for me. You can use your hands and any other part of your body.”
Jurgens is enraged. The veins on his thick neck are distended. He comes after Heydrich like a raging bull. Heydrich runs, then without warning he turns, jumps into the air and slams both of his legs into Jurgens’ solar plexus. Jurgens falls flat on his back, gasping for air. Heydrich edges closer but safely out of reach of either Jurgens’ arms or legs.
“Get off the ground as soon as you recover your breath. I’m waiting.”
Jurgens tries to talk. It is impossible.
“Take your time. We’ve got all night.” Heydrich delivers these lines as if he were talking to a friend.
This infuriates Jurgens even more. He forces himself to get up; he can’t quite do it. He crawls on all fours, then leans against the wall for support, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe regularly.
“Really, Jurgens. I didn’t hit you that hard. I’m saving that for later.”
“I hate you,” Jurgens utters in between gasps and cries. “I’ve always hated you… you… pretty face.”
“This is the night of reckoning. I’m giving you a chance to bash my pretty face in, Jurgens. Come on! Do it!”
Jurgens stumbles but he’s slowly but surely on his feet.
“Now, don’t rush at me, you dumb ox. I refuse to fight with the handicapped.”
That really gets to Jurgens who rasps, “I’ll kill you, Yid!” and goes after Heydrich.
As his punches fly, Heydrich dodges, crouches and somersaults. Then Jurgens stops. His motorcycle is in front of his eyes. If he can get to it, remove the chain or yank it, in the mood he’s in, he can run over Heydrich and turn him into mincemeat. But Heydrich knows all about what he’s thinking.
“Jurgens, did I win all those prizes for excellence because my father bought the school authorities? I won because I worked hard to be the best. Idiot! You’ll never get to your motorcycle. Why?”
Jurgens is really ferocious now. A few blows just miss Heydrich’s stomach and kidney. Heydrich’s reaction is to keep reciting in a soft, almost caressing tone of voice which baits Jurgens even more.
“Why, Jurgens? Why?”
“I hate you. I’ll kill you, Heinz and Maria.”
“You’d better be lying about my brother Heinz and my sister Maria,” Heydrich says, dropping to the ground. Something about the way Heydrich is coiled, poised to strike, alarms Jurgens but he does not reply to Heydrich. Then Heydrich goes behind a large, black car parked on the street.
“Where are you? Come out.”
“Voila!” replies Heydrich, kicking Jurgens so ferociously in the back of his waist, Jurgens falls down in great pain. Blood from his broken nose begins to flow onto the ground.
“You disgust me, Jurgens. I refuse to fight. You’re in terrible shape. In a few days I’m leaving for the Naval Academy. Keep away from my family. Stay out of our lives. I haven’t cut out your tongue. Speak!” Heydrich turns Jurgens over with his boot. “Just nod for yes.” Jurgens is choking on his own blood. Heydrich rolls him over again on his stomach, removes his handkerchief, stances the flow of blood from his broken nose. “I take it that’s a yes. Stay calm. I’ll call the hospital. Remember, I didn’t use my hands. What’s more,” Heydrich laughs a little at the thought, “you didn’t even touch me. If we never meet again, it will be too soon. So long, Jurgens.”
Without a backward glance, Heydrich slowly walks away. At the corner of the street, there is a telephone booth. He enters, places a few coins, surprised it has not been vandalized. He dials the number for the Emergency Hospital of the Franciscan priests.
“We have a surprise for you Reinie. Admiral von Luckner invited us all for dinner tonight. You can hear all his adventures first hand,” says Bruno Heydrich. “He wants to meet you.”
Admiral Graf von Luckner has the physique du role of what people expect from a national hero. Tall, perfectly chiseled nose, high cheekbones, cleft chin, wavy black hair, brownish yellow eyes, beautifully formed mouth. Charismatic. Admiral von Luckner is the most highly decorated war hero in Germany. Even the Allies, his former enemies, admire him.
After finishing the best meal they have had in nearly four years, and hearing truly inspiring stories of daring do, Heydrich is on the edge of his seat. Bursting with excitement, he looks around the table first his parents and finally settling his eyes on Admiral Graf, who looks straight back at him. “I am determined to be just like you, Admiral Graf. I want to become a great and famous Admiral,” declares Reinhard.
Bruno Heydrich chokes on his glass of apple cider. Elizabeth Heydrich gasps. When he finds his voice, Bruno protests. “Musical success is assured for you!”
“And what about your ambition to become a scientist?” asks Elizabeth.
“In biochemistry,” states Bruno. “This is unbelievable, Reinhard,” he states in disbelief.
Admiral von Luckner, who is also an aristocrat and looks the part, replies serenely, “What do you have to say to that, young man?”
“Germany’s defeat crushed both my dreams, that of becoming a Maestro on either the violin or the piano. Regarding a scientific career, I shall always remain a biochemist at heart but I am unshakeable in my resolve to embark upon a naval career.”
Admiral von Luckner presses his point. “It is very prestigious. Even my mother who was very status conscious approved of my choice many years ago.”
Elizabeth is showing signs of softening her stance. “Well, if Reinhard is so determined…”
“Admiral von Luckner adds, “After ten years, Reinhard will be guaranteed a full pension.”
“He’ll only be 28!” marvels Bruno. “A steady, good income in these terrible, uncertain times.”
“With great reluctance,” says Elizabeth Heydrich.
“and reservations,” adds Bruno Heydrich, “you have our blessing.”
Admiral von Luckner smiles contentedly, having accomplished the objective of the dinner. He passes out cigars to Bruno and Reinhard Heydrich. “Well?” he asks the young man.
“I joined the Frei Korps when I was 15 years old, then the Volk movement. I’ve been in a leadership role ever since, but it’s just too depressing to see what’s become of us all. It’s time for a change. This is definitely what I want to do. How soon can I start.”
“I’ll put in a good word and see what I can do. The German Navy needs bright and determined young men like you.” Admiral von Luckner aspirates on his cigar heavily, while handling one to Heydrich and his father.
The taste of a Romeo y Julieta adding to his joy and pride at Heydrich’s determination, but as the smoke dissapates in the air, he tries to imagine what it will be like without Heydrich around every day.
Reinhard chokes a little but they pretend not to notice.
. . .
Reinhard Heydrich’s bedroom. On the wall are posters of his father’s operas, “Amen” and “Peace”, Mozart’s “Magic Flute” and Wagner’s “Das Rheingold”. Dozens of books are on his desk. His violin has a place of honor, on a small, separate table. He is in bed reading “The Black Mask Magazine,” an English magazine which publishes detective and spy thrillers. A discreet knock on the door. He doesn’t hear it as “The Black Mask Magazine” absorbs him. Louder raps. He says, “Enter please,” in English without looking up from the magazine.
“Son, could we talk a bit?” It’s his father and mother.
Heydrich puts the magazine down, jumps out of bed, wraps himself in a silk robe and carries the armchair next to his desk closer to where his mother is.
“Mutti! Papi! I thought it was Heinz.”
Elizabeth Heydrich takes the armchair. Bruno Heydrich eyes the matching armchair covered with “Popular Mechanics” and “The Economist” magazines. They are so high, he would not have seen the chair but for its legs. He sits on Reinhard’s bed.
“We know you’ve made up your mind,” Elizabeth begins.
“And you won’t go back on your decision about a career in the Navy,” continues Bruno.
“However, we are in shock over your choice because it came without warning tonight over dinner,” Elizabeth says calmly.
“We were not going to argue in front of Admiral Graf von Luckner, even if he is our dear friend,” declares Bruno.
“And we are not going to do it now, are we, Bruno?”
“No, Elizabeth.”
Both his parents wait tranquilly for their son to speak up. Reinhard is still standing up. “May I?” he asks, gesturing a place on his bed next to where his father is sitting.
“Oh, Reinie! We’re so sorry. Of course, you can sit down.”
He does. “Consider this, Mutti and Papi. Half, if not more, of our grand concert halls in Germany are closed for lack of money. The after effects of the war are worse than the war itself. Things are not much better in the rest of Europe, other than Britain with all her colonies and America.”
“We agree. For the sake of a rational argument, you could be making good money playing the piano or the violin in a world class cabaret in Berlin,” observes Bruno.
“Or you could compose musical scores for films, maybe even play the music at the UFA Film Studios in Berlin,” agrees Elizabeth.
“I’m not afraid or ashamed of hard work. Somehow playing in a cabaret or nightclub seems small, petty stuff. Working for UFA Films would be like prostituting myself. I’m too ambitious.”
Elizabeth and Bruno exchange surreptitious glances. Bruno shifts position. “What about…”
“Papi, hear me out. I haven’t finished,” a serene, almost fire and ice Reinhard says.
Bruno nods a “go ahead, we’re listening” expression.
“I wouldn’t mind owning a cabaret or a string of them. Run properly, they’re good cash cows. Also people talk too much when they’re under their cups. One can obtain unimaginable sorts of information. Films are a marvelous invention. Good moneymakers. I wish we owned a studio instead of a music conservatoire. Information is a powerful tool and will only increase in our century and beyond.” Reinhard folds his long, tapered hands gracefully over his lap.
Bruno clears his throat several times. “I was going to say, what about biochemistry?”
Reinhard mournfully shakes his head, taking his father’s hands into his own. “Oh, Papi, Papi!” He pauses and swallows to keep his emotions under control. “You know many faculties of prestigious universities are operating part time. The prices are so astronomical even the fabulously wealthy are having second thoughts about paying for their children’s education.”
“The papers are full of stories of ghost classrooms, professors committing suicide, emigrating to Great Britain or America,” Elizabeth joins in, her voice breaking.
“Let’s consider my studies in the Naval Academy an excellent detour towards my dream and, as a consequence, your dreams for me as well.”
Bruno breaks down completely into his son’s arms. “I’ve failed all of you. Especially you, Reinhard. Forgive me.”
“Papi, there is nothing to forgive. That’s life and mostly that’s war and the aftermath of war.” Reinhard strokes his father’s thick mane of dark brown hair, tears spilling down his face.
Elizabeth too has tears in her eyes. “So many injustices. I always pray that these inequalities and inequities be removed. Not enough of us pray and I suppose I’ll need to pray more.”
“It makes me angry,” sobs Bruno. “Look at the Krupp family or other millionaires. Their sons are dribbling idiots or outstanding mediocrities.”
“That is a reminder from God that no one has everything,” Elizabeth declares firmly, leaving the armchair to sit next to Bruno and Reinhard to comfort them.
“How soon do you plan to leave, son,” Bruno finally asks.
“There’s one thing I’d like to do before I go, for a scientist I met. After that, I guess the sooner the better, as it means more money for the family.”
“There’s something wrong. It’s too quiet,” Heydrich whispers. “Let’s spread out.”
His men take cover accordingly, moving behind parked cars, vans, tall garbage cans.
An elderly man, white wavy hair, muscular and fit, pedals by them on a bicycle. He stops a few houses down and steps down. His bicycle is filled with bread loaves, fruits, bottles of sauerkraut, wurstel and bright red apples. As his hands touch the loaves of bread, a gunshot rings out from the first floor of a building across the old man. The loaves of bread scatter as the old man crumples on the muddy and wet street.
“Get the bicycle and the food, you idiots!” a harsh voice orders from inside the open window.
Heydrich yells, “Cover me,” as he zigzags, crouching and dodging bullets to help the old man. “He’s alive!” he tells his men as he begins to pull the old man behind the carcass of a car.
A gun battle breaks out between his G.O.D. League and the band of lawless men.
“They want the food,” gasps the old man. “I pawned my gold watch to buy this food.”
“Don’t talk. We must get you to a hospital!”
The bullets are going ping! ping! ping! against the car.
“I’m a doctor. Save the food and the bicycle. My wife and grandchildren need it. Keep this.” Heydrich feels a piece of paper thrust into his hand. Distractedly, he puts it in the pocket of his trench coat. “Please!” pleads the old man. Heydrich nods “All right.”
Heydrich looks up. The shooting is coming from several young men in the balcony on the first floor of the building. “Go up there but don’t enter until I join you,” he shouts to his followers. He takes advantage of this momentary lull n the shooting as the hooligans confer on what to do next to grab the bicycle full of foodstuff and drag it behind the broken down car where the old man can see it.
“Strasser, stay with the old man.” “Can you use this?” Heydrich puts a gun into the old man’s hand.
“Yes, but not well,” replies the old doctor.
“Shoot if anyone tries to steal the bicycle with your food,” he instructs the doctor. Heydrich runs across and enters the building. Hinkel is waiting for him in the courtyard. “They’re holed up in the apartment to your right.”
“Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll explode the firecrackers in the courtyard, yell a lot, then run back towards the old doctor, help him get to a hospital. One of you see that the food gets to his family.”
“We’re not going to have a gun fight?”
“We’re here to defend the defenseless, not be killers. Let’s go.”
Hinkel hesitates.
“Hinkel, listen to me. You won’t be sorry,” Heydrich says sincerely.
Later in the evening. Reinhard Heydrich and a few of his men are back at the building where the man on a bicycle was shot. His leg is bandaged and he seems to be quite comfortable though shaken.
“The bullet only grazed me. If you look carefully in the street, you’ll find the empty cartridges. But for you, my family might have been without any food for who knows how long?”
“You said you’re a doctor,” Heydrich reminds him.
“I have a Ph. D. in physics but I’ve also studied medicine,” he says very matter-of-factly.
Heydrich’s men exchange an “It’s going to be one of those conversations” expressions. One of them volunteers, “We’ll see what turns up on the street while you and the doctor talk shop.”
“This is fascinating. I had dreams once of becoming either a pianist, violinist or a biochemist,” Heydrich says sadly, checking to make sure they’re alone.
“These are tragic times when young men like you speak of broken dreams,” the doctor declares with real sorrow in his eyes.
“Germany’s defeat, the economic situation, the non-existence of law and order, the lack of money for scholarships in Science, my father’s temporary financial setback, everything has made me reflect on a different path.”
“Which is?” asks the kindly looking scientist with concern.
“Perhaps a career in the Navy. I haven’t the courage to tell my parents. Especially my mother. She’s been my music professor while my father’s been my mentor.”
“How ironic. Until the shooting incident, you and I were strangers. Now we are exchanging confidential matters. I am leaving Germany in a few weeks for Great Britain. Professor Alan Turing is my sponsor in Oxford University.”
“Germany’s losing someone like you? I can’t bear it! Professor Turing is a genius,” exclaims Heydrich. Then he says emotionally, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Franz Siegfried,” he declares in a very hushed voice.
“The Professor Franz Siegfried of light and time travel?”
Before Siegfried replies, Heydrich says, “Someday, I’ll bring you back to Germany. Even the sky won’t be a limit.” He gazes into the Professor’s eyes and realizes that his hair is prematurely white.
Professor Siegfried picks up Heydrich’s flashing pupils. “We were gassed,” he says quietly. “All my comrades in the trenches around me died. When I reported back to my commanding officer, my brown hair had turned white.”
“Keep well, Herr Professor. Believe me. Believe in Germany. I’ll see that you and others like you return.”
Professor Siegfried might have doubted the words spoken so sincerely by the young man sitting before him if he had not seen the determined qualities of a leader during the shooting on the street. “There is something about you which makes me believe you. At any rate, I owe my life to you. So does my family.”
Loud clatter of footsteps in the hallway.
“Till we meet again, Herr Professor Siegfried.” Heydrich bows respectfully and heads for the door.
“Wait! What is your name?”
Heydrich pauses briefly with his hand on the doorknob. “Heydrich. Reinhard Heydrich.”
“God keep you, Reinhard Heydrich. I’ll remember the name. When you send for me, I’ll come back.”
Heydrich laughs a little. “I’m 17 years old. Give me 10 to 12 years please.”
“Then God keep me, Heydrich,” Professor Siegfried laughs back.
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