Forty-two
What the hell happened to your nose?”
“I blew it a little too loudly, I think. Either that or it’s a lot colder in Berlin than I thought.”
Goebbels smiled. “You really brought her back from Switzerland?”
“I left her drinking coffee at the house, in Griebnitzsee, an hour ago. She’s fine. Reading her script. Looking forward to starting work on Monday.”
“But, I don’t understand, why hasn’t she called me?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Perhaps I should go down to the house, with a bunch of flowers. With a piece of jewelry, perhaps. I wonder if Margraf on Kanonierstrasse might have something.”
“I think she said she was going to take a bath. It is a long drive from Munich, sir. And it is a hot day. Perhaps she intends to call you later. After she’s freshened up a bit.”
“Yes, I expect you’re right. Gunther, I’m amazed. What with the bombing and that unfortunate business with her papa, I thought she’d never come back to Berlin. The last time we spoke on the telephone she virtually told me to go to hell. I’d even started to look for another actress to replace her. In the picture, I mean.” He smiled. “She’s really there now? In Griebnitzsee?”
“As soon as I saw that she was safely through the front door, I came straight over here to tell you. I would have telephoned but I thought I should tell you in person.”
“I just knew it was going to be a great day,” said Goebbels. “Yesterday, on my way here from Tempelhof Airport, I was reflecting on the folly of human beings who wage war when nature is so very beautiful. It’s hard to imagine anything like that happening on a day as beautiful as this, isn’t it? And now this. Your fantastic news. Really, I couldn’t be more delighted.”
Goebbels grinned, flipped open the silver cigarette box, and bounced a little on the sofa cushion. “Help yourself to a cigarette, Captain. Fill your case.”
I smiled thinly, unbuttoned the breast pocket in my tunic, and took out my case. I was back in uniform now. My suit was still on the floor of Dalia’s bedroom at the house in Griebnitzsee, where she had hurriedly thrown it before we’d gone to bed. I’d forgotten to hang it up and now a small part of me was worried that the suit would still be there if on the spur of the moment the minister for Truth decided to dash round there to welcome his favorite actress back to Berlin. Good housekeeping wasn’t Dalia’s strongest suit and without Agnes there to remember these things, I’d not much confidence that the suit wouldn’t still be lying there when Goebbels walked in. And not just my suit, but also my dirty underwear and the shoulder holster with the P38 I’d borrowed from the farmer in Ringlikon. The gun I might have been able to explain, but not the underwear.
In his own white summer suit Goebbels looked exactly like a male nurse in an insane asylum, which was perhaps not so very far from the truth. Waging war—total war—was one of the Mahatma’s most famous mantras, and to hear him waxing lyrical about the follies of war took me by surprise. What could he possibly know about peace and nature?
I was also surprised he’d seen me without an appointment. The ministry was full of state secretaries and stenographers running around the palace like lunatics. Clearly something very serious was up but no one I asked felt at all inclined to say what this was. For a few glorious moments I thought that the whole government was fleeing Berlin, which had been the rumor on the streets ever since the RAF bombing had intensified. Hamburg had been hit again and was supposed to be in ruins. And there was no doubt that certain Berlin public offices had been evacuated. The minister of the interior, Wilhelm Frick, was reputed to have taken his entire department to the country. Every real Berliner I knew was anxious to see the back of them all. But Goebbels certainly didn’t look like a man who was about to run away from Hitler’s capital. In fact he looked so pleased with the news I’d given him and so relaxed that he crossed his legs, giving me a clean view of his deformed right foot dangled in front of my face, something I’d never known him to do; I’d become aware he usually crossed them left over right.
“However did you do it?” he asked. “You have to tell me everything because I certainly won’t get the truth from Dalia herself. She’ll give me some nonsense about how she didn’t want to let everyone down. Me, Veit Harlan. The rest of the cast. The woman is an expert liar. Take it from one who has a nose for the truth. What on earth did you tell her?”
I took a cigarette from my refilled case, rolled it under my nose to savor the sweet scent of good tobacco—which, unlike most German cigarettes, stayed tight in the paper and didn’t fall out in your pocket—and lit it with the table lighter. “The money, sir.” I aimed the smoke at the high ceiling and shrugged. “I told her about the money and the house you were offering to give her, for doing the picture. You mentioned it in your telegram.”
“She always knew that more money was in the cards,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s how these people work, you know. Actors. The women are especially ruthless. They wait until they have you between the jaws of their pliers before they start to squeeze you for the last penny. But money was never the issue with her. She has a rich husband. Houses and money are not that important to Dalia. No, there has to be something else, Gunther. Something you’re not telling me. She’s back in Berlin for something other than money. But what?”
I didn’t think he wanted to hear about the lady in the lake or that maybe her presence in Berlin had just a little to do with me, so I took a long haul on the cigarette, swallowed the smoke whole this time, and then said: “I told her she was going to be getting even more money for this movie than Zarah Leander got when she made The Big Love.”
“The Great Love.” Goebbels frowned. “The film was called The Great Love. But now I come to think of it, The Big Love sounds much more modern. More American. Anyway, the point is, there was nothing in my telegram about Zarah Leander. All I said was that I would double what Fräulein Dresner had been offered before. Which is already a hell of a lot, I don’t mind telling you, Gunther. You’ve no idea what these people call a day’s pay.”
“No, sir. That’s true. I’m afraid I took the liberty of adding that bit about Zarah Leander, just to help sweeten your offer. And, as it happened, Fräulein Dresner was pleased when I pointed out that she was going to be making more money than Leander. She seemed especially delighted when I suggested that she’ll be the highest paid actress in German cinema. Ever. I suppose you might even call that politics. As a result I think I might have given you a problem with Zarah Leander. You might have to arbitrate a power struggle between those two.”
“Brilliant,” said Goebbels, and he clapped his hands loudly. “Brilliant. Why the hell didn’t I think of that? Yes, of course. All of these actresses are pathologically jealous of each other. Dalia hates Zarah, who hates Marika Roekk. And everyone hates Marlene. How did you know that?”
“I didn’t. But when I did physics at school I learned about something called Coulomb’s law, which says that highly charged particles whose charges have the same sign repel one another. Sometimes violently. The same is often true with women. When there’s one woman who’s attracting all of the men in a room, then some of the other women might very well be repelled by that. At least that’s been my own experience. Sometimes I think that women pay more attention to each other than they do to men.”
“Isn’t that so true?” said Goebbels. “But not just of women, let me tell you. Male actors are just the same. Heinz Rühmann can’t be in the same room as Ferdinand Marian. Mind you, no one else can stand to be in the same room as Ferdinand Marian, either. His ex-wife is a Jewess, you know. They even have a half-Jewish daughter. His second wife used to be married to a Jew, as well. Incredible, isn’t it? Not being a Jew himself—you’d think he’d be a little more careful about that kind of thing, wouldn’t you? I mean, him of all people.”
I nodded vaguely; Ferdinand Marian was the actor who?
??d played the Jew Süss, in the film of the same name.
“But it’s exactly the same on Wilhelmstrasse. Everyone scrabbling to get the leader’s attention. Yes, they’re just like actresses, some of these people, with Bormann and Speer the very worst of them all. You’ve done well, Gunther. Very well indeed. I can’t tell you how pleased I am.”
“Thank you, sir.” I was already looking at the exit, wondering when I might finally escape the doctor’s pleasure and go home to my own apartment. After driving all morning from Munich, I was tired. Especially following a sleepless night in bed with Dalia. As a lover she was proving to be quite insatiable.
“You’re wasted in the War Crimes Bureau, Gunther. You should come and work for me here. I need someone resourceful. Someone who can think for himself. I suppose that’s what’s held you back in your chosen career. I mean, it’s very difficult to get on when you’re so independently minded as you are. But I can use that. And now I come to think of it, there’s one more job I need you to do for me. Yes, I’m afraid you can’t go and see your new wife quite yet. Sorry about that, but this is much more urgent. You might even say that this is your fault—the result of your earlier good work. That might well be unfair. But really it can’t be helped. Yes, this has to be sorted out as soon as possible.” He looked at his watch. “The sooner the better.
“Now that Mussolini has gone—yes, I’m afraid so, Gunther, the Duce has resigned and Badoglio has taken over in Italy. That’s what all the fuss is about. Out there. In the corridors of power, so to speak. Why everyone is running around like headless turkeys. The whole situation is still very obscure. I’ve just got back from the leader’s GHQ in Rastenburg, where I spent hours in conference with him. Anyway, everything is in a state of flux here, in Italy of course, and in Croatia. The Croatian Poglavnik, Ante Pavelic, is already here in Berlin to seek assurances from von Ribbentrop. Not that von Ribbentrop could give anyone an assurance about anything very much. I’m afraid that our illustrious foreign minister is diplomatically illiterate and couldn’t manage to reassure a simple schoolboy if his pockets were full of lollipops.”
I took a deep breath before prompting him. All I really wanted to do now was go home. “So, what’s this job you want me to do for you, sir?”
“Oh, yes. Well, this is our problem, do you see? The one we created just a few days ago in this very office, you and I. Yes, I freely admit, this is my fault, too. But in my own defense, Gunther, I should say that this was your idea. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you did come up with the idea. The Poglavnik has brought some of his people with him. His head of internal security, Eugen Kvaternik; Lorkovic, his German liaison minister; Peric, his foreign minister; and various bodyguards and Ustaše officers. And here’s the real hair in the soup. It seems that one of these officers is none other than our old friend Colonel Dragan. Yes, that’s right. Dalia’s father. Father—what’s his name?”
“Father Ladislaus. He’s here in Berlin? Christ, how did that happen?”
“It’s all von Ribbentrop’s fault. He just went ahead and issued everyone in the Poglavnik’s delegation with a visa without consulting anyone in this ministry, or even the Ministry of the Interior. Well, you’d have to find someone in the Ministry of the Interior, I suppose. Anyway, he’s here now and it seems more than likely he’ll try and make contact with Dalia, if he can, don’t you think? I’ve already called security down at the film studios to make sure he’s not allowed through the gate.”
“He won’t go to the studio,” I said. “He won’t need to. Her address in Griebnitzsee was on the letter I gave to the colonel when I met him, at Jasenovac. I can’t imagine he’d have lost it. When I gave him the letter he put it in his breast pocket, over his heart.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“The house has got to be his first port of call.”
“I can see you understand the problem. I knew you would. So it’s up to you now to make sure he doesn’t ever see her. After all, he is supposed to be dead. At least that’s what you’ve told her, isn’t it? That the Father Abbot from the monastery in Banja Luka told you that he was killed in the war by Serbs, or something? It wouldn’t do at all if they met now. Not after all the effort we’ve been to in bringing her back to Berlin. Chances are she’d go straight back to Switzerland. And then we’d be back to square one.”
I nodded. I could already hear the way that Goebbels would spin this if ever Dalia came to demand an explanation of him:
“I can understand why you’re upset about this, Dalia. But you mustn’t blame me. And you mustn’t even think of going back to Switzerland. The fact is, that awful fellow Bernhard Gunther has lied to us both. He told me your father was dead, too. I’ve no idea why he did that. It’s inexcusable, I agree, but I had nothing to do with it, you must believe me.”
“Drive over to the house in Griebnitzsee, for a start, and make damn sure Colonel Dragan doesn’t get through the fucking door. Tell Dalia he’s an impostor, tell her he’s an assassin—tell her anything you damn well like and shoot him if you have to, but just make sure the two of them never meet. If they do, she’ll know we’ve both lied to her. You and me. And no amount of special pleading will fix that, Gunther. He is her father, after all, even if he is a psychopath.”
“Where is the Croatian delegation staying?”
“All over the city. Pavelic and Kvaternik are at the Adlon with some of the bodyguards. Peric is at the embassy. Most of the Ustaše officers are at the Villa Minoux, in Wannsee. But a few, including Dalia’s papa, are staying with the Grand Mufti at his villa in Goethestrasse.”
“Jesus, that’s halfway to Babelsberg.”
“No doubt he and the mufti are comparing notes on this SS regiment of Bosnian Muslims that Haj Amin has persuaded Himmler to set up so they can go and murder some more Jews. What are they called?”
“The Handschar,” I said.
“Crazy, if you ask me, but when did something like common sense ever stop Himmler? Well? Have you any bright ideas? About what to do about this unconscionable mess we’ve managed to make?”
“I think the best thing would be if I got her out of town for a few days. Until the delegation from Croatia has left Berlin.”
“That’s an excellent idea. But not Switzerland, eh? We’ve only just got her back. Somewhere in Germany would be best. But where would you suggest?”
“It had better not be in Berlin. Dalia’s too famous to put up in any Berlin hotel. Why can’t you take her to Rastenburg?”
“You are joking, aren’t you?”
“Sorry.” I thought for a minute. “Look, don’t you have a safe house? Somewhere you go when you don’t want to be found?”
“I’m a married man, with six children. Seven if you count my wife’s son, Harald. What kind of man do you take me for, Gunther?”
“I could always take her to my own flat.”
“No, I don’t think that would be appropriate, do you?” He thought for a minute. “Actually I do know a place. There’s a small cottage I own, near the Potsdam Forest in Wirtshaus Moorlake, a little way southwest of Pfaueninsel. You could take her there, I suppose. Tell her—tell her that the Aviation Ministry have given us some intelligence that there’s going to be a bombing raid on the film studio, to destroy German morale.”
“Does it have a telephone?” I asked. “This cottage.”
“Yes, of course. Or you might tell her that the Jew who once owned that house in Griebnitzsee has escaped and is believed to be on his way back to Berlin. That he might try to attack whoever is living there. Yes, that might work. It does happen, you know. Not all Jews take the process of Aryanization lying down.”
“Then I’ll bring her to the cottage. You can call me again when it’s safe.”
“Or just say that there’s been a threat to my own life and the lives of those who I’m close to. That would work, too, don’t you think?”
I w
as beginning to wonder just how close the two of them actually were. I only had Dalia’s word for the fact that she and Goebbels weren’t lovers. But his talk of flowers and buying her jewelry from Margraf was beginning to persuade me otherwise.
“You’d better tell me where this cottage is, sir. And give me the telephone number.”
He told me the address and showed me where it was on a map he retrieved from his desk.
“I know the area well,” I told him. “I had lunch with General Nebe there once. It’s nice down there, at this time of year. Really beautiful on the lake. And very discreet, I imagine. And very romantic, of course.” I smiled. “Do you go there often, sir?”
Goebbels gave me an icy look, which made me feel much more comfortable. I knew exactly where I was with him that way. “I’ll find the key for you,” he said. “Telephone me as soon as you get there.”
Forty-three
I rang the house in Griebnitzsee from a cream-colored private telephone in the ministry but there was no reply. That didn’t worry me. Dalia probably was taking a bath. I never knew a woman who took so long in the bathroom. Washing and drying her hair could take more than an hour. At the Bayerischer Hof in Munich, where she had taken a suite almost as big as the Tiergarten, she’d used six large towels in the course of just one evening, which would have shocked many Germans who managed to make one towel last a whole week, but somehow this struck me as amusing. Most of the time Dalia managed to live as if the war only existed for other people. I admired her for that. What was the point of pretending to be as miserable as everyone else when you already had everything anyone could ever have dreamed of in peacetime? Me, I just wanted to be near someone like that for as long as that was possible and to enjoy that carefree existence, albeit vicariously. It felt like a very welcome intermission in the black-and-white horror movie that was my life. Of course, both of us were living in the moment, although for entirely opposite reasons: Dalia because she could see no reason to deny herself whatever earthly pleasure she wanted; as for me, because all earthly pleasures seemed as if they might be denied me at any time. In my world, heads were usually removed at Brandenburg Prison, or at Jasenovac. But in hers, the only heads that needed cutting off were the ones on the roses.