PROTEGE

PROTEGE

Max left the building on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse feeling exhilarated following his meeting. As he stood beneath the panoply of red flags, all proudly displaying the swastika emblem of Nazi Germany, he took in a deep breath of the frigid November air. Finally, he had a clarity of purpose; a reason to look forward to the future with real optimism.

Ever since he had returned home from university, Max Brandt had been listless, unhappy, unsure of what his life might have in store for him. His father, Gerhardt, a wealthy industrialist was ailing and confined to bed, having suffered a second heart attack and was keen for Max to take over the running of the family business; something Max was loathe to do. He hated the idea of being stuck in an office poring over invoices amid the mundanity of machine production. He was young and idealistic and, from the moment he had been able to read, had devoured books of romance, chivalry and heroism. Even at university in Bonn, where he had excelled in economics, his real passion had been for the novels of Walter Scott, Mallory’s Morte d’Arthur, the old tales of Teutonic Knights. He was sure this accounted for his own interest in fencing and which had, indirectly, led him to meet with Reinhard Heydrich, the most feared man in Germany.

Just two weeks previously, Max had accompanied his friend, Wilhelm, to his local gymnasium in search of sone much needed exercise; the first time that Max had ventured out since his homecoming and he was surprised when, in the changing room afterwards, two men in black SS uniform had burst in and conducted a quick search before ushering in another tall, blonde man. Wilhelm had leant across and whispered fearfully:

“Heydrich. Gestapo”.

Though the name had meant nothing to Max, he had recognised the face for he’d seen him at a soiree hosted by Frau Schaeffer at her Berlin home just days previously which Max had attended with his father; the same night, in fact, that Gerhardt had suffered his second heart attack. That evening, this man, he now knew as Heydrich, had played a solo on his violin that had been simply mesmerising. Max had wanted to introduce himself and offer praise for this virtuoso performance but, his father suddenly taking ill, had prevented this.

“If he fences as well as he plays the violin, then we should go up and watch”.

Wilhelm was astounded.

“You know him, Max?”

“No, but I’d like to. Come, let’s watch him practise”.

In the sports hall, as they took their seats, there was a heated discussion taking place for it appeared that one of Heydrich’s practise partners had injured his hand and could not participate and another had not yet turned up. One of the club administrators approached Wilhelm and Max.

“He’s not happy. He’s training for the Nationals and now has no partner. He’s cursing the club for the lack of alternatives but I’m keeping well out of it”.

“Sabre or epee?” Max had enquired.

“Sabre. Why?”

“Well, I’m quite proficient with the sabre. I would be happy to step in”.

This news had been swiftly relayed to the great man and Max had found himself facing one of Germany’s finest swordsmen. Though not of Heydrich’s standard, Max had, nevertheless, acquitted himself well enough to earn the gratitude of both the club, for salvaging their reputation, and, also, of Heydrich, himself.

In conversation, Max had mentioned the soiree and who his father was and one thing had led to another and, Heydrich had invited Max to visit him at his office with a view to potentially joining the S.S.

At dinner, later, Wilhelm had been aghast.

“You cannot be serious, Max. He heads the Gestapo and the S.S. They say he’s a monster”.

“Nonsense, Wilhelm. The man was quite charming and any man that can play the violin with such emotion cannot possibly be a monster”.

And so it had proved. At Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, Heydrich had thrilled Max with his vision for the future, his personal role in helping the Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler, restore Germany to its former greatness. For too long, the Fatherland had been oppressed and under the thumb of the British and French but, now, they had embarked on a great task, a mission, to resurrect their great nation. Max had been enthralled and, when Heydrich had offered him the opportunity to join the S.S. and work alongside him in this daring undertaking, Max had accepted with alacrity.

Now it only remained for Max to inform his father. It was not something he looked forward to, knowing, only too well, the expectations that Gerhardt had for his son. Max’s home life had always been bittersweet. Gerhardt had been almost fifty when Max had been born and had been so engrossed in his business that the boy had never really come to know his father properly. Instead, he had been content to lock himself away in his room, transported back to medieval days by virtue of his beloved books. As for his mother, Leni, she was a drunk and spent most of her time in her wing of the mansion, apart from her husband and child. Max could not recall a single time when she had actually spoken to him, never mind shown any affection. With two parents such as these, it was little wonder that he had grown up oblivious of loving feelings and showing little empathy for others. His happiest memories had been when his mother had been sent away to a clinic whenever her alcoholic consumption had become too much. With her out of the house, it had seemed as though a dark shadow had been lifted.

Returning home, Max climbed the great staircase to the top landing, at which point the house divided into two wings. He took the left wing in which his own bedroom was situated along with his father’s. Knocking gently, he entered the darkened room and closed the door gently behind him.

“I’m awake, Max”.

He crossed the room to his father’s four poster bed and looked down at the ashen face of the old man. The only light in this great room came from the fire burning brightly in the other half of this vast chamber which had been set out like a drawing room. Fine Turkish rugs covered the parquet flooring, three walls were covered in books. A beautiful room; one this ailing man loved dearly.

“Tell me of your day. Did you go to see Petr at the office, as I asked?’

Max took a deep breath and sat on his father’s bed.

“Nein, father. I had another appointment and have been offered a job elsewhere. One I have decided to take, actually”.

There, he had managed to get it out. He felt relief though tensed still for he knew that his father would be shocked.

Silence prevailed. Either his father was too stunned to speak or he hadn’t heard him correctly or, God forbid, he had suffered a relapse. Max leaned in closer, peering to see if the old man’s eyes were open.

“I heard you. I don’t know what to say. What job could possibly steer you away from your destiny? I have spent my life building Brandts so that I could hand it over to you...”

“Father, we both know that Petr Franck has run Brandts for years now. You left everything up to him. How could I possibly do as good a job as he? Besides, I can still keep an eye on things. I just don’t want to be hands on. Please, father, don’t make this difficult. Allow me to do what I have set my heart on”.

“And what exactly is this thing you have planned”.

“I was invited today to meet with Herr Heydrich...”

“Heydrich? The Heydrich? The swine who heads the Shutzstaffel and the Geheime Staatspolizei? That swine?”

“Calm yourself, father. He said that he knows you. That you have accepted contracts for the Reich...”

“That was business, you fool. For Brandts. For you. The man is a brute, as are all these Nazis...”

“He was most civil to me. He spoke of the plan to restore the Fatherland to its former glory...”

“Restore? Those fiends will destroy Germany. You cannot work for them. You simply cannot!”

“I’m afraid that I have already given my word. I’m sorry that you are not accepting of my wishes but...”

“You are Jewish!”

These words were literally spat from Gerhardt’s mouth with such venom that Max was covered in phlegmy spray. He looked at his father with anger and disgust.

“What are you saying, you stupid, filthy old man? How can I possibly be Jewish? You are not Jew...You mean that...mother?”

“No. Not Leni. She is not your mother. I...I had an affair with a woman, my secretary. She became pregnant. I needed an heir. I paid her to have the baby...you...but I brought you home to rear you in this house. She is your real mother and she is Jewish”.

Max’s senses were reeling from this. Was his father making this story up just to stop him from joining the S.S.?

“But...Leni...she...”

“Hates you. Despises you, almost as much as she despises me. She shut me out from that day, turned her back on you, too. Started to drink. But I insisted, even though I knew the price. You see, now, why you cannot be a part of this Nazi gang of thugs? What would happen if they found out the truth about you? I did it for you, Max. So that, one day, Brandts would...”

Max, knowing that, somehow, his father was telling the truth, saw his entire world crumbling around him. His hopes for the future being washed down the drain. Looking at this old man, spit dribbling onto his unshaven chin, he felt only revulsion and a deep, long buried hatred. He had never been a proper father; cared only for his business. This man had cursed him, scarred him for life.

Leaning forward, he reached for a pillow as if to bolster his father’s head. The old man looked up at him, his watery eyes searching for a sign of forgiveness for his shattering confession but there was none. Emotionless, Max placed the pillow over his father’s face and pressed down. The lack of strength in that frail, ailing body offered little resistance and he was dead within seconds. Replacing the pillow, Max stood and walked from the room as if floating. A strange sense of euphoria sweeping over him.

At the top of the staircase, he encountered Leni, the woman he had, until moments ago, regarded as his mother. A mother who had treated him with scorn and contempt his entire life. She was, of course, drunk. But her cunning instincts detected something in Max’s face; something very awry.

“You know! He’s finally told you! After all these years. How does it feel, Jew boy?”

Once again, emotionless, Max reached out and grabbed hold of this woman and threw her bodily down the staircase. As her head cracked against the wood panelling of the first landing and he stared down at the blood oozing from her splintered head, seeping into the carpet, Max felt a new wave of euphoria sweep over him.

One week later, Max stood at the gravesides as both his parents were lowered into the ground. It was a bitterly cold December day and the trees scattered around the cemetery were barren, the sky grey, threatening snow. One by one, the wealthy and great of Berlin lined up to offer their condolences at the dual deaths, so cruel to have occurred on the same day. Gerhardt Brandt, of course, was expected to expire so nobody had been too surprised. Leni Brandt, though, had been much younger than her husband and had been so pickled and preserved from her years of alcohol consumption that she had been expected to long outlive her husband. Of course, that was provided she had continued using the private elevator and not try and descend the staircase.

Max accepted the sympathy of each mourner, feigning sorrow. He knew them all, acquaintances and business associates mostly but he was surprised by the sudden appearance of the man dressed in black uniform. How good of him to attend like this. Reinhard Heydrich, Hitler’s Hangman, held both of his arms open and Max felt compelled to fall into them. They hugged and Max, for the first time ever in his life, felt a bond, a deep connection as the tears fell from his eyes.