David Dickinson: Death and the Jubilee

‘If it is quick,’ the young man said. ‘I have to get back.’

‘I was wondering,’ von Munster began as they sat in the back of the coffee house, ‘if you would like to be more closely associated with the Professor and his ideas. But, forgive me, how very rude, I don’t even know your name!’

‘My name is Karl,’ the young man smiled, ‘Karl Schmidt. I come from Hamburg. But tell me more about the Professor and his ideas. Are there more lectures I could go to? Or is it true that von Treitschke is dying?’

‘I believe he may be nearing the end, but his message will live on,’ replied Munster, lighting a small cigar. He looked carefully round the cafe, making sure that in their little alcove by the fire, they were truly alone. Pictures of German soldiers lined the walls. ‘It’s not a question of more lectures, alas. Would there were more where we could be inspired by the passion of the master. No.’ He leaned forward suddenly, stirring his coffee very slowly as he spoke. ‘There is a society devoted to his ideals.’ He looked Karl Schmidt directly in the eye. ‘It is a secret society.’

‘Oh,’ said Schmidt, feeling alarmed suddenly. His mother had warned him about the secret societies in the universities and the army regiments, terrible places, she had said, devoted to duelling and strange rituals like Black Masses and the worship of the dead. She had made Karl promise that he would never, never, have anything to do with these dens of vice. ‘What kind of secret society?’ he asked, his pale blue eyes troubled in the cigar smoke.

‘Oh, it’s not what you might think!’ Munster laughed. ‘We don’t go in for drinking our blood mixed with wine, or ceremonies with black candles or anything of that sort.’ He leaned back in his chair, as though he were insulted by the younger man’s hesitation. ‘It’s much more serious than that.’

He paused. Long experience had taught him to make the secret society seem as important as possible.

‘How do you mean?’ The young man was leaning forward in his chair now.

‘Well, we believe that von Treitschke’s message is far too important to be sullied with the pranks and the games university students and army cadets play, far too important.’

He paused to see if his message was getting through. It was.

‘But how do you join? What is the purpose of the society? What is it called?’ Karl Schmidt sounded as though he would sign on the spot.

‘I will tell you the name of the society in a moment. Its recruits have to satisfy four senior members that they will do everything to follow von Treitschke’s teaching and to advance the cause of Germany. Not just in their relations with their friends and family. It isn’t like joining a religious group or a church. It’s much more important than that. It may be that their place in life gives them special opportunities to further the cause. Every new member has to swear an oath to do that. Then we sing our hymn, our Te Deum, our Ave Maria. Can you guess what it is?’

The young man shook his head.

‘I’m sure you would get it if you had time to think. It is “The Song of the Black Eagle” which von Treitschke himself composed after France declared war on Prussia in 1870.’ Munster began to hum softly.

‘Come sons of Germany,

Show your martial might . . .’

Karl Schmidt joined in, smiling with pride.

‘Forward to the battlefleld,

Forward to Glory.

At the sign of the Black Eagle

Germany shall rise again.’

‘Hush,’ said Munster, ‘we mustn’t get carried away, even with the Treitschke song. The society is called the Black Eagle. Every new member receives a ring like this one so he can recognize other members if necessary.’

He pulled a silver ring off his finger. It had no inscription on it. Karl Schmidt looked puzzled.

‘Look on the inside. If you look carefully you will see a very small black eagle, just waiting on the inside, waiting to fly away in the cause of a greater Germany.’

The young man sighed. Munster waited. It was for Schmidt to make the next move. ‘I think – no, I am sure,’ he said, ‘that I would like to join. But I am not sure how I can be of service.’

‘You never know who may or may not be able to serve,’ said Munster severely. ‘That is for the senior members to decide. Sometimes people may have to wait for years before they find themselves in a position to do their duty. But tell me, what is your profession? Are you a student here at the university?’

‘I wish I was,’ said Karl sadly. ‘I’m a clerk at the Potsdamer Bank just round the corner.’

‘You work in a bank? You know how the banking business works?’ Von Munster sounded eager, very eager.

‘I don’t know all of it yet,’ said Karl Schmidt apologetically, ‘but I am learning. And my English is quite good now. The bank pays for me to go to evening classes.’

‘My friend, my friend,’ Munster was smiling now and seized the young man’s hand, ‘tonight or tomorrow we shall introduce you into the society. We shall all sing “The Song of the Black Eagle” together. Singing it together, the new recruit and the senior members, that is very important. And then, in a little while, it may be that we have some very important work for you. Work of which von Treitschke himself would be proud!’

‘Work here in Berlin? Inside the Potsdamer Bank?’ Karl looked puzzled again.

‘No, not in Berlin’ said Munster. He sounded very serious indeed. ‘In London.’

They came across London Bridge like an army on the march, regiments of men and a few platoons of women, swept forward by the press behind them. They were a sullen army, an army going to a siege perhaps, or a battle they didn’t think they could win. Behind them the roar of the steam engines and the shrieking of whistles heralded the arrival of reinforcements as train after train deposited its carriages into the station.

To the left and right of the army was the river, two hundred and fifty yards wide at this point, full of ships from every corner of the world. Shouts of the lightermen and the sailors added to the noise. Ahead lay their destination, the City of London, which swallowed up nearly three hundred thousand people every day in its eternal quest for business. Junior clerks with shiny black coats and frayed collars dreamed of better days to come. Stockbrokers with perfectly fitting frock-coats hoped for fresh commissions and extravagant customers. Merchants in all the strange substances the City dealt in, cork and vanilla, lead spelter and tallow, linseed oil and bristles, prayed that prices would get firmer.

All this silent army were coming to worship at the twin gods of the City, Money and the Market. Money was cold. Money was the yellow cakes of gold in the vaults of the Bank of England a couple of hundred yards ahead of them. Money was the bills of exchange the bankers and merchants had despatched across the five continents, the fine wrapping paper that enclosed English domination of the world’s trade. Money was to be counted in banking halls and insurance companies and discount houses, the daily traffic measured out line by line and figure by figure in the great ledgers which stored its passing.

The Market was different. If Money was cold, the Market was mercurial. She was like a spirit that flew across Leadenhall Street and Crooked Friars, across Bishopsgate and Bengal Court, turning in the air and changing her mind as she travelled across her City. Some older heads in the great banking houses said she could be like a volcano, erupting with terrible force to shake the very foundations of finance. There were many who claimed to know the Market’s moods, when she would change her mind, when she would grow sullen and petulant, when she would dance in delight across the Stock Exchange and bring sudden wealth with floods of speculation about gold or diamonds found in distant parts of the world. The optimists believed the Market was always going to smile on them. She did not. The cautious and the prudent believed she was a fickle mistress, never to be wholly trusted. Their fortunes might have grown more slowly than the optimists, but they were never wiped out.