The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

“The barman was expecting payment for the drinks he’d just served them, and they were faking amazement at his chutzpah. Suggested he should be paying them for drinking such ‘piss’. And they greeted my intervention with some comment like ‘if it’s good beer you want, you’d better try somewhere else’.

“And as I was still trying to process the ugliness of it all, one of the thugs threw himself over the bar, grabbed the barman round the neck and dragged him to the floor. What then followed took place under cover of the bar, so the visual impact was thankfully lost on me. But the crunch of boot against bone and the lifeless silence of the victim with every savage kick made up for anything I might have otherwise missed. You know, that thug was enjoying himself so much that he began to laugh and chuckle at his footwork and the lump of senseless flesh he was creating at his feet. It was not until his euphoric frenzy had taken him to the point of exhaustion, and he had to lean on the bar for support, that he eventually stopped. Draped over the bar, he smiled, looked down at the floor, and spat out the mouthful of phlegm generated by what was probably the only kind of exercise he knew. ‘Filthy Jew’ he scowled, then left. The other brownshirts followed, looking well pleased with the entertainment. One of them muttered something to the effect that I could help myself now if I was really so keen on the beer.

“And do you know what I did? Nothing. Just stood there and did nothing. One of the other customers ran over behind the bar as soon as they’d gone. And I did nothing – until my dumb inertia was wrenched apart by a deafening crash that made me duck for cover. Suddenly we were all pinned to the floor in terror as all the tables around us were showered with splinters of glass. The mindless animals had taken it into their boneheads to leave a visiting card. They hurled bricks and bottles from the street outside through every pane of glass in the building. When the cacophony of breaking glass eventually subsided, the hush that fell on that house was deafening. I’ve never known a silence like it. And I hear it to this day.”

Achim’s eyes moistened with the memory of that night. And Frank had nothing of value to offer in the way of sympathy or commiseration.

“Ever since then, I’ve given up what you would probably call gainful employment and devoted my energy to a more meaningful life. Away from all that dumb inertia. I had to do something, Frank. And it was your letter that eventually gave me the idea.”

“So this is where Silverstone comes in?” Frank asked.

“I was told that a lot of counterpropaganda is being produced down here on some of the friendlier Swiss printing presses. And I thought that might be something for me. I could even put my graphic talents to use designing posters. And as I say, some people I know gave me Silverstone’s name.”

“Well, if that little book he showed me on how to win at chess in three easy moves is an example of his propaganda, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Achim hesitated, and shed the trace of a smile as he pondered his friend’s words.

“That’s just for a dummy run, Frank.” He poured another brandy for each of them. “And this is where you come in. I remembered you saying that you would be going to visit your mother soon. So it seemed like the perfect opportunity. You see, we need someone to test the run to Cologne. We’re slowly exhausting all the courier options. A lot of the stuff doesn’t reach its destination. Much of it is delivered haphazardly, thrown almost at random onto trains that pass through by night from Italy. And we thought a brazen daylight run would not only stand a good chance of success. It could also get the stuff delivered straight to its target.”

“So you want me to play courier for you?” Frank asked.

“No, I want you to do a dummy run. We just need to know if it’s viable. And since you’re going to visit your mother anyway, you seem the obvious choice.”

“Can I remind you, Achim, that it was you who suggested I visit my mother in the first place?”

“But you are going to, aren’t you?” his friend asked. There was an audible uncertainty in his voice. For a moment he seemed to lose his composure.

“I’m not sure,” Frank replied.

“Look, why don’t you stay for dinner. Gertrude would love to talk more with you. And we can discuss the detail in a more convivial atmosphere.”

Without warning, Achim got up and left the room. Frank listened to the fading rhythm of his footsteps down through the stairwell. When he returned a few minutes later, Gertrude was with him. She seemed genuinely pleased to see Frank again. Nonetheless, the entire choreography of the way she welcomed him and invited him to dine with them made him suspect that this, like the whole meeting, had been well rehearsed beforehand. The suspicion chafed at his efforts to appear calm and composed. In reality, Achim’s whole manner had ruffled him. But at least Silverstone had gone, so that was one irritation less to contend with.

As the evening progressed, and they sat over the modest fare that Gertrude was able to provide for them, Frank’s unease sank little by little into the sea of nostalgia that inevitably flooded their conversation. Gertrude remained conspicuously in the background the whole time, and Frank found himself thinking once again how she had changed from the vivacious and carefree person he had known. She devoted most of her attention to the two baby boys, even long after they were tucked up in bed. The earnestness with which she took her role as a mother surprised Frank. It seemed to exclude every other