Aces (11 page)

He had the money to take a motorbus if he chose. He was getting by earning a living doing odd jobs. He’d put on his old uniform
and go calling at shops and residences with his pack of tools on his back. With the terrible inflation, the mark was worth
only a fraction of what it had been at the beginning of the war. Most everybody was broke, but people, seeing a young veteran
at their door, seemed always able to find the money to pay him to fix something, and often invited him in to share a meal.

For the chance to eat, Goldstein was especially grateful. Food was scarce, like most everything else in Germany excepting
bitter recriminations. With his injured legs it was difficult for him to stand in one place for very long, and the lines were
long at the sporadically open bakeries and groceries.

In the evening, Goldstein went for long walks to exercise his legs, or read: either technical books on aviation and mechanics,
borrowed from the library, or newspapers. He enjoyed current events. It was interesting, for instance, to follow what was
going on in Palestine concerning the Jews, and to read about the American President Wilson, who especially fascinated Goldstein.
In print, Wilson seemed an uncommonly just and kind man, considering the American President’s Fourteen Points for what would
have been a merciful settlement toward Germany, and his attempt to establish a so-called League of Nations to mediate all
future international disputes, and thereby avoid another world war. The more Goldstein read, the more it seemed to him that
only America had a leader wise enough to want to put aside vindictiveness towards vanquished Germany. The Americans had certainly
seemed more willing to be fair at Versailles than the English, and especially those bastard French…

A crowd was backed up at a government sentry point on the Dorotheenstrasse, near the Winter Garden Theater. Goldstein was
waiting his turn to pass when he saw Heiner Froehlig of all people, seated alone at a table for two in a sidewalk cafe across
the street. Froehlig was wearing blue pinstripes and a derby, and had clipped back his once luxurious walrus moustache, but
Goldstein was sure that it was his old comrade.

In November, after the Armistice, Froehlig had frequently visited Goldstein in the hospital. For a few months Froehlig showed
up a couple of times a week, to pass Goldstein his silver flask when the nurses weren’t about, and talk about their intended
partnership in the motorcar garage.

Gradually, though, Froehlig’s visits began to taper off. Finally, he no longer came at all. Goldstein was mystified, and deeply
hurt. He concluded he’d been naive to have expected anything different. When would he ever learn? With the economy the way
it was, the idea of starting a business was utter foolishness. Anyway, what did he have in common with Froehlig? Their friendship
had been the result of a particular set of circumstances, a friendship of time and place.

Goldstein hadn’t much thought about Froehlig since then. Now, seeing him again, Goldstein was filled with longing for his
company. He was very lonely in Berlin. Perhaps his friendship with Froehlig could be resumed.

It was worth a try, Goldstein decided. He crossed the street to say hello.

Froehlig saw him coming, but did not look happy about it. “Hermann, such a surprise…”

Goldstein waited for an invitation to sit down. When it was not forthcoming he indicated the empty chair. “May I join you
for a coffee? I have money,” he quickly added, not wanting Froehlig to misunderstand. “Let me buy you a coffee,” he said proudly.

“Well, I’m actually waiting for some people.” Froehlig looked around nervously. “I’ll be leaving at any moment…” Then he looked
up at Goldstein and seemed to soften. “My young sergeant.” He smiled.

“Not anymore,” Goldstein said whimsically. “Just a civilian, like yourself.”

“But your legs!” Froehlig exclaimed. “How could I have forgotten. And here I’m keeping you standing! Of course you may sit
down. And allow me to buy the coffee.”

A waiter appeared, and Froehlig ordered for both of them. “Would you care for a schnapps?” he asked Goldstein.

“It’s so expensive!” Goldstein protested. He smiled. “Unless, of course, you’re offering from the silver flask…”

“No. I lost that flask. I don’t know what happened to it.”

“Then just coffee is plenty,” Goldstein said.

As the waiter left with their order, two young prostitutes leaning against a nearby lamppost strolled over, arm in arm. They
paused at the table to raise their worn, faded skirts, showing off their high boots.

“Get away,” Froehlig growled.

“Perhaps your balls were blown off in the war,” one of the prostitutes taunted in oddly accented German. They sauntered off.

“Did you hear? A foreigner,” Froehlig grumbled. “Berlin needs a good cleaning.”

Goldstein nodded vaguely. There were lots of streetwalkers in his neighborhood, and he’d taken a girl up to his room on a
few occasions. He saw nothing wrong with it. The girls were clean. Being with one once in a while eased his loneliness. “Tell
me, Heiner, what have you been doing with yourself since we last met?”

“I’ve been involved in politics,” Froehlig replied. “Organizing for the Deutsch Arbeiter-Partei.”

“Heiner, you must excuse me, but I’ve never heard of it.”

“Of
us
,” Froehlig corrected. “We’re all just decent, working stiffs, Hermann. Honest men who know that the government in power is
to blame for our misfortunes.”

“Heiner, I don’t see how you can blame the Weimar Coalition for losing the war.”

Froehlig shrugged. “Well, I don’t see how President Ebert can claim it is the German military that failed us.”

“I believe Ebert claimed it was the German military
leadership
that failed,” Goldstein quietly pointed out, but Froehlig seemed not to hear him, and he decided not to press the point.

The waiter came with their coffees. Froehlig waited until they were served, and then said, “I don’t know about you, Hermann,
but I
resent
what Ebert is claiming.” He scowled. “We soldiers fought hard, and risked our lives for our country. You yourself physically
suffered on behalf of the Fatherland.”

“I can’t argue.” Goldstein smiled.

“Of course you can’t argue,” Froehlig replied. “You shouldn’t argue. Hermann, I go around every day. I talk to people. I
know
. Despite the fact the socialists won the election, every day more and more good Germans are coming to resent the way Ebert
is stabbing our nation in the back. And then there are the shortages we’re suffering—”

“But how can we blame the current government for shortages?” Goldstein interrupted. “There will continue to be a lack of everything
while the Allied blockade is still in effect.”

“And why is the blockade still in effect?” Froehlig asked rhetorically. “Because the French wished to kick us now that we
are down. Those cowardly Frenchies would never dare presume to tread upon the German people if Ebert showed some guts, some
nationalistic pride, the way the Kaiser would have.”

“It’s the Kaiser your German Workers Party wants back?” Goldstein asked, surprised.

“At least under the Kaiser there was food, and it was safe to walk down the street,” Froehlig said. “But no, we don’t want
the Kaiser. He belongs to yesterday. Germany must change if it is to regain and maintain its superiority in the world. We
want a leadership that understands that. Ebert’s moderate Socialist party is too busy trying to placate the Allies in Paris
to understand what is needed, and the left wing communists are too busy engaging in class warfare, and endorsing the dictatorship
of the proletariat.” Froehlig looked disgusted. “The German people don’t want power handed over to them. They appreciate a
wise and just leader telling them what to do.”

“You’re leaving out the military,” Goldstein pointed out.

“Like the proletariat, the military desires a master,” Froehlig said.

“Well, whatever the German Workers Party says is fine with me.” Goldstein looked down at his coffee. “Heiner, I have to ask,”
he began timidly. “Why did you stop coming to see me in the hospital?”

Froehlig looked uncomfortable. “Hermann, we both know that there are many Jews in the socialist, and especially the communist,
factions of the Weimar Coalition…”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Froehlig was frowning. “This is difficult for me to tell you. Have you ever read
The Protocols of the Elders of Zion
?”

Goldstein shook his head. “I’ve never even heard of it.”

Froehlig nodded. “I believe you, my boy. I don’t think you’d lie to me.” He reached inside his suit coat and brought out a
thin, tattered pamphlet, which he placed on the table. “It’s a document that was smuggled out of Russia in 1905, by some unsung
hero. It reveals the international Jewish conspiracy to control the world’s industry.”

“What are you talking about, Heiner?”

“I’m talking about Germany’s future,” Froehlig said forcefully. “And the future of the world! The Jews have seized control.”
His fist came down on the pamphlet. “It’s all here in black and white. Read it with your own eyes. Thanks to the Zionists’
grand designs, our country is to be surrendered to her enemies.”

“But President Ebert—”

“Is merely a puppet, whether or not he knows it,” Froehlig insisted. “Like the entire Weimar Coalition. Jews from all over
the world are pulling the strings, whether or not the politicians know it.” He paused, and smiled. “You know, Hermann, our
running into each other might have been destiny… I have an idea… You once told me that while you were born a Jew you don’t
feel you have anything in common with those of your race. Do you still feel that way?”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Excellent.” Froehlig sounded relieved.

“What are you getting at?”

“Do you understand the importance of propaganda?” Froehlig asked.

“What?” Goldstein was utterly confused.

“Never mind,” Froehlig said. “You know, if I told my friends in the party about you they’d think that you were something very
special. A Jew, there’s no denying it,” he mused, “but also a battle flier, and an ace who was wounded in action; a man who
flew with Richthofen.”

Froehlig reached across the table to grip Goldstein’s arm. “Think of the publicity you’d get, and the good you’d be doing
for Germany if you publicly renounced your heritage! If you admitted that the
Protocols
are true, and if you publicly endorsed the German Workers Party’s efforts to expose the international Jewish conspiracy for
what it is?”

Goldstein stared at his friend. “That’s what this party of yours is all about?” He picked up the pamphlet. “To help them make
Jews into some sort of scapegoat for Germany’s failings?”

“We only want to expose the truth,” Froehlig coolly replied.

“But how can I accuse innocent Jews of something I know nothing about?” he demanded.

“First off, they’re not innocent.”

“How do you know they’re not?”

“Read the pamphlet, boy,” Froehlig growled.

“The hell with your pamphlet.” Goldstein tossed it into Froehlig’s lap. “I’m a Jew, but
I’m
innocent. I never heard of any conspiracy—”

“But
you
were an orphan,” Froehlig pointed out. “Your parents died before they could initiate you. And
anyway
, some innocent are always swept away with the guilty. Look at what happened in the war! It’s the way of the modern world.
It’s God’s way.”

“Is this a joke?” Goldstein demanded, incredulous. “Are you mad? You spoke of the war. What about the thousands of Jews who
served in the Kaiser’s army? We didn’t have many in the Air Service, it’s true, but so
many
Jews were infantry soldiers. They fought and died for their country just like any other German.”

Froehlig looked disgusted. “When did you become such a Jew lover?”

“When did you become such a Jew hater?”

“When I learned the truth,” Froehlig said, exasperated. “Hermann, be reasonable. I don’t hate all Jews, you
know
I don’t. I hate only the bad ones; the ones that need to be punished.”

“Goering thought that I needed to be punished,” Goldstein said quietly.

“Dammit, Hermann! That was something totally different!” Froehlig turned red. “You’re letting your emotions confuse the facts.”
His fist pounded down on the pamphlet. “But why are you so concerned in the first place?” he demanded. “You keep telling me
that Jews mean nothing to you, and yet you keep defending them—”

“God help us all, Heiner,” Goldstein said sadly. “Thanks to your pamphlet, and your new friends, you’ve turned into a bigger
bastard than Goering ever was.”

“Who are you to talk, you little piece of shit!”

“That’s better,” Goldstein said calmly. “Now, at least, you’re being honest about how you feel. Now you and Goering are on
equal footing…”

To his credit, Froehlig seemed suddenly to comprehend Goldstein’s point of view. “I’ve always been a gentle man, Hermann.
You can remember that about me?…”

“I do remember it, and I wish I still knew that man.”

Froehlig looked genuinely anguished. “But the world has been turned upside down. Everything now is so complicated. I don’t
understand what’s happened to my country. We were winning the war, but then we lost. How could that have happened? My friends
in the German Workers Party seem to understand what happened, and they’ve told me how I can help to put things right.” He
sighed. “When they tell me that I can do something, I feel good. It’s hard to feel good these days—”

“This shit your friends are feeding you is not the answer,” Goldstein said bluntly. “Hatred will not solve Germany’s problems.”

“—I want everything to work out all right for everyone,” Froehlig said. “But first comes me, you understand? First come Germans.
Germans before Jews.”

“Jews
are
Germans!” Goldstein declared.

Froehlig shrugged. “I see that we can only agree to disagree. You asked me questions and I answered them. Now, if you’d be
so kind as to go. My friends are expected.”