Everything about Wilhelm Richter’s attitude discouraged conversation, though, in a perfunctorily sort of way, he did raise his eyes from the newspaper to acknowledge Werner’s presence. The large window behind him furnished amble morning light to assist in his present endeavor while its wedge made the recently starched white tablecloth almost blinding to the eye. His black hairline was receding along a tongue-shaped peninsula. He was close-shaven, had small hands and a cautious, candid manner intensified by eyes that very seldom blinked.
With a large welcoming smile, Gisella rose from the table and came over to greet him. “Your right on time. Good for you! Help yourself.” She handed him a plate and pointed to a long buffet covered with an assortment of covered and uncovered breakfast items. “Once you’ve got what you want, and don’t be shy, join us at the table. You’ll sit there, across from me.”
Werner glanced at her father, the empty plate in front of him and then the bountiful platters on the buffet. He had never seen so much food. And during a time of hyperinflation! Most people he knew were barely able to buy bread if any at all.
“Vater always rises early and starts before the rest of us,” she said, totally misreading him. “Mutter will join us later.” With a gentle push, she directed him to the breakfast ensemble, and rejoined her dad at the table.
All the walls in the breakfast room were papered in a dullish pattern of scroll work which were low in coloring and not outstanding so not to distract the occupants’ attention from the main function of eating. The ten-inch skirting boards were white as were the seven-inch crown mouldings, stacked into three sections. Two doors leading into the breakfast area from the hallway were trimmed with white symmetrical dentil molding. The dark stained wooden floor was covered with two oversized East Asian rugs while the furniture was dark, heavy, and cold-looking. Decorative glass lighting fixtures were strategically spaced along the wall to provide illumination during dusk and late evening.
Gisella’s and her father’s gaze fell on him when he sat at the table.
“Anything wrong?” Werner asked, picking up the silverware and about to tuck in.
Wilhelm folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. “How do you stay so scrawny, boy?”
“Oh!” He looked at the heap of food on his plate, not a hint of chinaware visible. He stood up.
“Where are going, boy?!” Wilhelm asked.
“To return…”
“Sit down! Enjoy!” Wilhelm demanded, his index finger jabbing through the air toward the table. He sat back in his chair and watched Werner eat. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. “The clothes fit you well.”
“Yes, thank you sir.” Garbled, almost unintelligible, the words sputtered out from his food-filled mouth in reply.
Wilhelm peered at his daughter conveying information without saying a word.
An uneasy silence developed between them as her gaze followed his and fixed on Werner. “The likeness is…to say the least…uncanny!” she purred in astonished undertones. “I had not noticed it until now.”
Wilhelm nodded in silent agreement.
Werner stopped eating and uneasily slid back in his chair. Their intrusive stare and whispered dissecting mannerisms unnerved him. Frozen in place, temporarily disabled to speak, he waited for an explanation to their unusual and discomforting actions.
Wilhelm reached into the inside pocket of his jacket; pulling out his wallet, he slipped a dog-eared photo from it and placed it in front of Werner. He raised his eyebrows slightly to convey, ‘this is why we are looking at you in this manner.’
“Oh! I see,” Werner said staring at the snapshot. He could not take it upon himself to touch it, but neither could he take his gaze from it. His preternatural resemblance to Wilhelm’s late son, Meinhard, disarmed further comment he might offer on his part.
Wilhelm retrieved the photo and returned both the wallet and picture to the inside of his pocket. “How old did you say you were?”
“Twenty-four,” Werner lied, adding a quick five years to his age. He wasn’t quite sure why he said that except, at that moment, his gaze was fixed on Gisella.
Wilhelm stroked his chin. The intensity of his unblinking eyes heightened by obvious concentration in deliberative thought. Finally, he said, “Jews. What are your thoughts about Jews?”
Werner locked eyes with him. And spitted out his words. “Germany did not lose the war because of military failure. We were stabbed in the back! By Jews, socialists, and liberals! Their efforts were to blame for undermining the war effort! The whole demon lot, founders of this Weimar Republic. Demons! All of them!” This was the first time he noticed a smile etching upwards on Wilhelm’s face.
“How would you feel working for me?” Wilhelm asked.
“In the Berlin police?”
“Not quite. You would be attached exclusively to my office.”
“Doing what?”
“Let’s say, to be arranged. Well? Do I have an answer?” Wilhelm extended his hand.
Werner glanced at Gisella, whose eyes sparkled with excitement. And he shook her father’s hand.
“Good! Recently, Jews living in Berlin’s Scheunenviertel, deemed foreign parasites with dangerous Bolshevik views, were rounded up. The intent, of course, was to render them harmless. Tomorrow, you will accompany me to a Jewish camp near Zossen where three hundred of their type, men, women, and children, are interned.”
Werner could feel Wilhelm’s eyes scrutinizing him closely, reaching down to his very soul.
“I think the uniform I have in mind should fit you to a tee.” He peered at his pocket watch. “Gisella! Go to Meinhard’s room and retrieve it.” He handed her the key. “As for you, young man, you have only fifteen minutes to get ready before my car arrives. Now, follow her! Quickly! Return here once you are ready.”