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Authors: Lavie Tidhar
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was unfamiliar to him. It was a man decked out all in black leather with black boots and black gloves and a black peaked cap. He marched up to Wolf and gave a Prussian click of the heels.
‘Herr Wolf?’
‘Ja?’
‘I am your chauffeur.’
‘My chauffeur.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But I do not have a chauffeur.’
The man almost smiled, but not quite. ‘Please, sir. You are tired. I have been instructed to take you to your flat, where you will no doubt wish to wash and change. Do you have the invitation?’
‘The invitation?’
‘To tonight’s soiree, sir.’ The chauffeur sounded almost reproachful.
‘Mosley’s soiree?’
‘
Sir
Oswald would be delighted to see you, mein herr,’ the chauffeur said. ‘As will Lady Mosley. It promises to be quite the night, sir.’
‘Did … did
Oswald
have me released?’
‘I am sure it is not my place to comment, sir.’
Wolf kept a calm expression. You had to, when dealing with the help.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘Sir.’
Wolf followed the chauffeur out of the police station and into the night.
Wolf’s Diary, 3rd November 1939 –
contd.
I was furious, though I tried not to show it. The chauffeur drove me the short distance to my apartment. Outside, the whores were at trade as usual. It would take more than a murder or two to stop them.
How I hated whores!
I well remembered, as a young man, the prostitutes of Vienna, walking one night with Gustl along their Sink of Iniquity, after the opera. How I loved the opera!
And yet worse was the time we had been approached in the street by an older man, on the corner of Mariahilferstrasse-Neubaugasse . Well-dressed and prosperous-looking. He spoke to us pleasantly, asked us about ourselves. When he learned that we were students he invited us to dinner. I was studying architecture at the time, while Gustl studied music. Sometimes I missed Gustl. He had been my only friend.
The man took us to the Hotel Kummer. I was very poor at the time and he let us order whatever we desired. I must confess I had at the time a predilection for pastries and tarts and I had sated myself at the man’s expense. He was a manufacturer from Vöcklabruck, in town on business. Over dinner he told us of his indifference to women. He wanted nothing to do with them, for they were all gold-diggers. He and Gustl discussed music. Towards the end of the meal, as Gustl was stuffing his face obliviously, the man slipped me a
carte de visite
. At the end of the meal we thanked him and then left. Gustl was entranced, the infantile. Charmed by the man. ‘Did you like him?’ I said, as we were walking home.
‘Very much,’ Gustl said. ‘A very cultured man, with pronounced artistic leanings.’
‘And nothing else?’
‘What else should there be?’
I took out the
carte de visite
and showed it to him. ‘That man,’ I said, calmly, ‘was a homosexual.’
Poor Gustl! He had never even heard the word. I had had to explain it to him, in some detail. His poor little eyes opened up in horror. The idea of two naked, sweaty men engaging in unnatural copulation, grappling with each other, muscles straining, their hard bodies rubbing against each other, fingers and tongues working over buttocks and nipples, a hard thrust and I …
It disgusted me. The card went into the fires of our oven.
If it were left up to me all homosexuals, along with communists and Jews, would be sent to specially built camps for their kind.
But the world I had once envisioned was not to be. The future I had envisioned had been robbed from me.
I washed, wincing with each movement as my bruises began to turn dark. I dressed carefully, in my one remaining suit.
There was this, too, about Gustl: he was a compulsive masturbator. At any given opportunity, in his bed, in his wash, behind his piano, sometimes at his desk in class or even on the corner of the street, his hand in his pocket, Gustl would relieve himself the way I had denied myself . He was a sweet, innocent boy; I
‘Herr Wolf?’
‘Ja?’
‘I am your chauffeur.’
‘My chauffeur.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But I do not have a chauffeur.’
The man almost smiled, but not quite. ‘Please, sir. You are tired. I have been instructed to take you to your flat, where you will no doubt wish to wash and change. Do you have the invitation?’
‘The invitation?’
‘To tonight’s soiree, sir.’ The chauffeur sounded almost reproachful.
‘Mosley’s soiree?’
‘
Sir
Oswald would be delighted to see you, mein herr,’ the chauffeur said. ‘As will Lady Mosley. It promises to be quite the night, sir.’
‘Did … did
Oswald
have me released?’
‘I am sure it is not my place to comment, sir.’
Wolf kept a calm expression. You had to, when dealing with the help.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘Sir.’
Wolf followed the chauffeur out of the police station and into the night.
Wolf’s Diary, 3rd November 1939 –
contd.
I was furious, though I tried not to show it. The chauffeur drove me the short distance to my apartment. Outside, the whores were at trade as usual. It would take more than a murder or two to stop them.
How I hated whores!
I well remembered, as a young man, the prostitutes of Vienna, walking one night with Gustl along their Sink of Iniquity, after the opera. How I loved the opera!
And yet worse was the time we had been approached in the street by an older man, on the corner of Mariahilferstrasse-Neubaugasse . Well-dressed and prosperous-looking. He spoke to us pleasantly, asked us about ourselves. When he learned that we were students he invited us to dinner. I was studying architecture at the time, while Gustl studied music. Sometimes I missed Gustl. He had been my only friend.
The man took us to the Hotel Kummer. I was very poor at the time and he let us order whatever we desired. I must confess I had at the time a predilection for pastries and tarts and I had sated myself at the man’s expense. He was a manufacturer from Vöcklabruck, in town on business. Over dinner he told us of his indifference to women. He wanted nothing to do with them, for they were all gold-diggers. He and Gustl discussed music. Towards the end of the meal, as Gustl was stuffing his face obliviously, the man slipped me a
carte de visite
. At the end of the meal we thanked him and then left. Gustl was entranced, the infantile. Charmed by the man. ‘Did you like him?’ I said, as we were walking home.
‘Very much,’ Gustl said. ‘A very cultured man, with pronounced artistic leanings.’
‘And nothing else?’
‘What else should there be?’
I took out the
carte de visite
and showed it to him. ‘That man,’ I said, calmly, ‘was a homosexual.’
Poor Gustl! He had never even heard the word. I had had to explain it to him, in some detail. His poor little eyes opened up in horror. The idea of two naked, sweaty men engaging in unnatural copulation, grappling with each other, muscles straining, their hard bodies rubbing against each other, fingers and tongues working over buttocks and nipples, a hard thrust and I …
It disgusted me. The card went into the fires of our oven.
If it were left up to me all homosexuals, along with communists and Jews, would be sent to specially built camps for their kind.
But the world I had once envisioned was not to be. The future I had envisioned had been robbed from me.
I washed, wincing with each movement as my bruises began to turn dark. I dressed carefully, in my one remaining suit.
There was this, too, about Gustl: he was a compulsive masturbator. At any given opportunity, in his bed, in his wash, behind his piano, sometimes at his desk in class or even on the corner of the street, his hand in his pocket, Gustl would relieve himself the way I had denied myself . He was a sweet, innocent boy; I
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