Steelie 14

Mole stands on the U-Bahn platform, his leg jiggling. The place reeks of sweat, damp woollen uniforms and thick coats pressed together, and the sour remains of spilled Bratwurst grease but he no longer dreams about food. His choked sobs lost in the symphony of a city alive and on the move. Its tunnels reek of overly damp concrete and machine oil. The exhaled metallic breath and distant lights in the dark tunnel grow larger. They breathe in coal dust and those at the back shuffle forward as the engine breaks with a shudder and sparking of steel on steel.

Barking officers, and distant shouts and train whistles overlaid by the emergency break being applied. Mole lets got of the trousers he cinched at the waist. They fall down. He stumbles as he jumps in front of the oncoming lights.

A sharp, gloved grip. Yanked back to life just as the train roar into the station, wind from its sleek familiar contours whipping their faces, rattling the metal signs. Mole gasps. His body rigid before crumpling into the older, well-dressed man’s arms. The smell of unwashed clothes and fear clings to him.

‘Bist du verrückt?’ the man mutters under his breath. He kneels beside him, gripping his thin shoulders and examining his face. His breath comes in shuddering gulps.

‘Mole,’ he whispers.

He frowns. ‘Wie bitte?’

‘Baron von Stehle’ he replies in a patrician voice introducing himself. His voice barely audible over the din of the station as the station master with some porter came to help, but seeing the yellow star on his jacket, they shrank away.

Von Stehle exhales slowly as station life moves beyond them with the stampeding of feet and banging shut of train doors.

The station master smells of booze and tobacco. His mouth a slit and his face darkened by hatred of Jews. His talk of ‘Polizie’, by which he means Gestapo, has Mole lying inert. All humanity extinguished as he waits on his fate. His heartbeat feverish against the Baron’s chest, he tries to resist tears, but is swept away by sobs.  

His baritone tone was one used to wielding easy authority. ‘What business is the boy of yours, Sir?’

The taller and shorter men confront each other.

The station master takes off his hat and bows. ‘I meant no disrespect, Sir. But he is Juden.’

‘A dubious distinction.’ Von Stehle produces a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wipes away Mole’s tears. The smell of cologne lingers on his face. He whips the jacket from his back and flings it on the tracks. ‘He is no more a Jew that you or I are a worthless blackamoor. He is, in fact, the nephew of our glorious Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler.' His hand shot out in salute. ‘Sieg Heil.’

The station master’s arm shot out in response and others nearby answers in the same way.

The distraction allows Von Stehle to wink at Mole and help him to his feet. He explains to the station master with a ringing laugh and manly slap on his shoulder how Hitler’s nephew had been caught in a childish dare that he couldn’t ride to the end of the line in such a disgusting garb.    

‘I could not allow it,’ he concludes with an open-handed shrug. ‘But I couldn’t not allow it. So here we are.’

The station master is so intoxicated with being taken into Von Stehle’s confidence about Hitler’s nephew that he ushers other passengers aside and creates a passage through oncoming passengers that both laugh as they were royally escorted out of the station.

Taking Mole’s hand and squeezing his fingers, Von Stehle tucks him into his side under his greatcoat and led him away from the station towards the park, their breath escaping in great plumes before they spoke.

‘Where do you live?’ Von Stehle asks. ‘And I’ll take you home.’

‘I’ve nowhere and no one,’ Mole replies.

He considers this and there’s a twinkle in his eyes. ‘I guess you’re around nine-years old.’

‘Ten,’ Mole corrects him.

A deep intake of breath. ‘And if what you say is true and you’ve nobody, then having saved your life, I’m responsible for you for seven generations. And let’s face it, we couldn’t let Hitler’s nephew wander about Berlin alone, now, could we?’