.
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In honour of Jon Cedar
1931 – 2011
whose portrayal of Karl Langenscheidt and Oskar Danzig
provides me with continuous inspiration
for this story, and others.
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Yelling. Badgering. A hoarse laugh. A shriek of terror. More shouting. Crying. The breaking of glass.
Karl Langenscheidt stood still and listened. It came from that side-street up ahead. Quickly he walked on and peered around the house at the corner.
He bit his lip in frustration. There they were again: the Nazi bullies. It weren't always the same guys. But they were always in a group, terrorizing and abusing one. Or two. And once a young mother with three little children.
Cowards, the lot of them. But too many to take on – as he had learned by experience the first few times he'd witnessed scenes like this. He'd simply been beaten up for being a 'Jew lover', and then they had turned back to their original victims. It was no use interfering.
Instead, he did what he had sworn not to: he stood to the side and watched. It was still more than what most people did. If they didn't join in the 'fun', they usually went by quickly at the opposite side of the street. And with their head turned away. Pretending the scene wasn't there. Hoping it wasn't there.
A cry of distress brought his attention back to the unfortunate couple. Two elderly people. Held by two of the bully monsters, while the others had gone inside and were thrashing all their belongings out through the window. Furniture broke, glassware shattered all over the sidewalk. Clothes were flying everywhere.
The lady burst out in tears when a few photoframes joined the heap with a crash. She tried to move over to pick them up, but the guy holding her wouldn't budge. Suddenly however, he changed his mind, and still holding her tightly, he led her over to the photographs. But he wouldn't let her bend down to pick up the pictures of her loved ones. Instead, he put down his heel on them. Hard – crushing and damaging them as much as he could.
A powerless witness to the woman's distress, Karl dug his fingernails into his palms. Oh, how he wanted to interfere! Teach those guys a lesson!
But he could not. His tactics of lately in a situation like this had proven to be wise. Patience was the key. Jumping in would not only leave himself severely beaten up; it also would gain nothing for the poor souls he tried to help. Better wait till the bullies had gone, and then offer his help and services.
'Langenscheidt's Moving Services,' he thought with a sour smile. 'Helping you to move once you've been beaten out of your home.' And he turned, and quickly hurried home.
It was but ten minutes later – shortly after the nasty bullies had left – when the couple was trying to salvage whatever was left to salvage from their belongings, that they were addressed by a stranger.
"I saw what happened," the man with the blue hat and the long overcoat said as he stopped at the gate. He fingered his salt and peppar coloured beard.
The elderly man gave him a look like murder. "Then why didn't you stop them!"
Sadly, the stranger shook his head. "I am but one man. I am as powerless against them as you are."
The man averted his eyes. "Verzeihung, mein Herr. You are correct: it was not your business to stop them."
"But it is now," the stranger refuted calmly. "I witnessed a crime, yet I did nothing to stop it. But only because I have learned by experience that there is nothing I can do to stop a group acting like this. But there is something I can do to protect you afterwards. To prevent this from happening to you again. This – or worse."
The lady looked up from the ground where she was sifting through their shattered belongings. "Who are you, sir?"
A bitter smile. "A man who saw too much."
They looked at him, imploring him to continue.
The stranger swallowed. "Last summer, I was the accidental witness to the senseless mass murder of some hundred Jews. Women. And children."
The woman let out a soft gasp.
"I could not stop it then – as little as I could stop this now," the man continued. "But that day I vowed that I was not going to stand by and pretend nothing is happening. Our present Reichskansler is a madman, and there is little I can do to stop him from turning this country into a living hell. But what I can do is help the people he oppresses and brutalizes… and possibly tries to eradicate completely… to get to safety. Out of harm's way until the day the German people will stand up together and bring this madman's regime to an end."
They both kept their gaze on him – one with trepidation, the other probing.
"Get us to safety," the man said at last. "Safety where?"
"Across the border. Poland, Denmark… wherever you'd want to go. Anywhere there Hitler has no authority."
Silence, in which the couple solemnly looked at one another.
"Actually," the lady spoke up quietly at last, "We have discussed leaving the country when we heard the tales of what was happening. But in the end we decided not to go. The rumours, they… they just seemed too preposterous to be true."
"I agree," the stranger said in an equally quiet tone. "But they are true nonetheless."
Another long silence in which the man and the woman searched each other's face. Then the woman nodded, and the man turned to the stranger once more – this time with his eyes narrowed. "How do we know we can trust you? You might just be leading us into a Gestapo trap."
The stranger held out his hands. "Sir, there is nothing I can say, or do, or show you that would prove my wish to help you to be genuine. It's entirely a matter of trust. But if this would be a Gestapo trap, would it not be easier to simply arrest you here and now?"
There was a battle of stares, until suddenly the woman spoke up. "I believe him, Dittmar."
"And how would you know?" her husband scoffed.
"His eyes," she replied. "They betray that they have seen too much. Just like he said."
Apparently that settled it. "What do you want us to do?" the man asked as he turned back to the helpful stranger.
"Pack up everything you want to bring along. Where do you want to go?"
The woman looked at her husband. "To Warsaw. It's where our daughter lives."
"Good. There is a train leaving for Warsaw at ten past two this afternoon. Would that give you enough time to pack up your things and get to the Hauptbahnhof?"
The woman looked around at their scattered belongings in doubt, but her husband nodded curtly. "There is not much to salvage anyway. We will be there."
The stranger nodded. "Good. Then I will meet you at the station's main entrance no later than two o'clock. And we will pretend that I am your son Otto who is seeing you off."
"But what about the tickets? We…"
"Don't worry – I'll get you the tickets you need."
They both looked at him. "Mein Herr, you are too kind," the lady said.
He sadly shook his head. "I'm just trying to soothe my conscience. To make up for being too spineless to speak up when I watched those women and children being slaughtered..." His voice trailed off, and the elderly man watched him with an expression akin to compassion.
"They might have killed you, too, if you would have," he pointed out quietly. "And if they had, you would not be here now to help us get away."
The man nodded without a word. And the lady took his hands in hers. "Go in peace, my son. We will meet you at the railway station as arranged."
With a final look at them, the stranger took his leave, and walked down the street without looking back.
Everything had gone so smoothly. Too smoothly perhaps? But it had gone this smoothly the five previous times he'd helped Jews get away, too.
He'd already met them as they alighted from the aft compartment of the tram – the only one allowed for Jews to use. "Vater, Mutter! There you are! Come – let me give you a hand with those bags." He had embraced them both, and under pleasant chatter had he guided them to platform 5, where the train to Warsaw stood ready for departure. He had presented their tickets and his own platform ticket at the ticket controller under a steady stream of well-wishing, travel advice and things they had to tell 'Nora' from him.
He had located their compartment, handed them their tickets plus (under protest) five hundred mark to cover first expenses, got into the train with them, made sure they found their places and were seated comfortably – or at least as comfortably as one could get on the plain wooden benches designated to Jewish passengers – and lifted their bags onto the overhead luggage rack. A hug farewell to his 'mother', a solid handshake to his 'father', and with the best wishes for a safe journey had he climbed down to the platform. A little more affectionate and advising sign language back and forth from the platform, and when the whistle blew, the doors slammed shut and the train started huffing and puffing its way out of the station, he had waved until it disappeared out of sight around a curve.
But on his way back to the station square outside, he had suddenly felt eyes pricking in his back.
Imperceptibly, his back stiffened. But he forced himself to walk on as if nothing were the matter. It could be just his imagination, or...?
He stopped at the kiosk in the main hall, and feigned interest in a magazine about automobiles that allowed him to look back at where he had come from. Was anyone there paying any special attention to him? There were so many people milling about...
He reached for the magazine to leaf through it while he searched the crowd for possible bloodhounds on his trail. And jerked back when the keeper of the bookstall suddenly barked in his face, "Keep your hands off my merchandise, you filthy Jew!" That's right – he had momentarily forgotten that he was posing as a Jew – with yellow Judestar and all – in order to make the charade of seeing off his 'parents' convincing for whoever would be watching.
He held out his hands and stammered an apology, before quickly making his way out of the station.
But first he needed to know whether he was really being followed. So he casually leaned against the main tramstop shelter, while keeping an eagle-eye on the station's exit.
He didn't have to wait long. Six, seven people exited the building and simply went their way. But the next man stood still for a moment, his eyes sweeping the square as he folded the newspaper he'd apparently been reading. And there could be no mistaking the facts: when his eyes found the fake Jew Karl Langenscheidt, they halted for a moment, before flitting off to the left, and immediately the man began to walk over to the tramstop in brisk stride. He even had the audacity to come and stand beside him, opening his newspaper again and continuing on the feature article.
Karl studied him out of the corner of his eye. Fortyish, dark hair, brown hat, dark eyes, sharp, peaked face, brown leather overcoat. He didn't recall ever having met the man. Was he really following him, or...?
'Well, we'll find out soon enough, won't we,' he thought grimly, and took the first tram to stop at the tramstop.
Fortunately he remembered this time that he was supposed to be a Jew, and thus to take the aft compartment, and noticed his possible pursuer taking the wagon in front of that. And how he remained standing by the door, even though several seats were empty.
'Think!' Karl told himself. 'Try and recall all those pulpdetectives you read as a boy. How did those guys rid themselves from evil pursuers? Only better be careful – this is not a story, so I can't take for granted that I'll automatically come out on top.'
He noticed how the man in question kept glancing in his direction every time the vehicle stopped to load and off-load passengers. So he decided to get off at Pankow Station, just to see what the man would do.
And what do you know: he got off, too.
At this point, young Karl was actually beginning to enjoy the adventure of it. Carefully avoiding to look at his adversary, he made a show of checking Saturday's timetable, and then left the building again, hopping onto the first tram to pass.
As did his pursuer.
Yes, there was no doubt that the man was indeed following him. What other reason could he possibly have to start reading the Berliner Zeitung at the Hauptbahnhof, take a tramride to Pankow Station and continue reading his paper there, and then hop onto the same tram heading towards the city center as he had?
Luck was on his side when they stopped at the city center. The group of women getting off momentarily blocked him from his pursuer's view, and he quickly hid in the throng and got off. By the time his pursuer realized he was gone, the tram had already resumed its course.
Karl grinned. 1-0 for him. But he knew he had to act quickly. The next stop was only some hundred meters away, and if the guy was indeed interested in him, he'd be back here in mere minutes.
And the first thing to do was to get rid of his coat. Without the tell-tale Judestar, he'd have much more freedom to move around. So he purposely strode into the first side-street, and noticed a few large refuse bins near the rear exit of the department store.
Quickly, he stepped into the alley, pulled the horn-rimmed glasses from his coat pocket and put them on, took off both coat and hat and stuffed them in the first bin. True, it was a bit chilly with just his jacket, but he still had the scarf. And that's what any man who fancied himself the sporty type liked to wear these days: jacket and scarf. So it would do for now.
Casually, he ambled out into the street again, and chose the side entrance to the department store. For going around without headgear would certainly attract attention – he needed a cap or something, and he needed it fast!
Putting on an act of an absent-minded scientist, he accosted a sales-girl with a confused, overly detailed story about having left his cap on the train, and she graciously helped him pick a new one, and cut off the price-tag as well so he could wear it right away.
After profuse professions of gratitude, he headed for the main exit – only to discover that his nemesis had taken up a post at the doors, letting his eyes wander over the many clients in the store, as well as over the pedestrians outside.
Feigning an interest in the book department he was just passing through, he thought quickly. With glasses and cap, and without the coat, chances were pretty good that the guy wouldn't recognize him. But just to make sure he'd look natural, he'd better leave the store with a purchase. After all, women can indeed go shopping for hours without buying anything, but men tend to enter a store with a clear goal of buying this or that – and determined not to leave the store empty-handed.
So he wandered over to the crime section, reasoning that it wouldn't be a bad idea to refresh his theoretical skills in eluding a pursuer. And with two books and a bottle of aftershave, he then again walked toward the main exit – with a face clearly expressing his eager desire to get out of the place.
And the guy, who seemed to make an in-depth study of every male leaving the store, gave him the same obtrusive stare as he did everyone – and let him pass without a spark of recognition.
Once outside, Karl looked at his watch. And nearly jumped. It was twenty past three – he had to go on stage in forty minutes!
The Grand Festival Theatre wasn't far, but he still took off at a run. As the pronounced star of the ensemble, Oskar Danzig could certainly take a few liberties with the manager. But being late was definitely not one of them...
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Author's note: Yes, I know it's been ages (nearly two years in fact) since I've last updated this story. Two years in which Karl/Oskar has had quite some development in my other stories, but somehow I never managed to get beyond the first 500 words of this chapter.
Now that Jon Cedar has passed away, it seemed the fitting thing to do to at least continue with this one – the original story that set off The Corporal Chronicles – as a tribute to the actor who portrayed them both. And what do you know: now that I set my mind to it, I had little trouble pushing on beyond those 500 words, and am well on my way through the next chapter as well!
For those of you who were following the story before: I have gone back and changed a few small things in the earlier chapters. Like Karl/Oskar, even his associates have developed a fair bit in the subsequent stories, and to me, especially Little Red Ridinghood seemed terribly out of character here :-)
