The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

  “It is the National Socialist German Workers’ Party.”

  “That sounds distinctly Communist.”

  “No, no, it is anti-Communist.”

  “It was not on my list.”

  “That is because it is not regarded as important.”

  “But you think it is.”

  “One day it will be the most important party in Germany,” she declared. “In the world.”

  She was quite fervent, and Berkeley found himself intrigued. But before he could take the matter further, several people appeared on the dais. Most of them were in somewhat shabby civilian clothes, but one wore a sort of uniform rather like those of the bouncers. He was a fairly tall, well-built young man, extremely handsome in an intense fashion, with lank dark hair. He advanced to the edge of the platform, and stood there, hands on hips, while he surveyed the auditorium.

  Frederika waved at him, and he stared at her for a moment, then went to the side of the dais and came down the steps to reach them.

  “Frederika,” he said. “It is good to see you. I did not know you were in Munich.”

  “I am working,” she said. “Rudolf, may I present Colonel Townsend, of British Military Intelligence, and . . .” she glanced at Lockwood. Who looked at Berkeley. Who was utterly taken aback. It had not occurred to him that she would break their cover, just like that.

  “Lockwood is my aide,” he said. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “This is Herr Hess,” Frederika introduced.

  Hess clicked his heels and then shook hands. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Colonel Townsend. And have you come to spy on our little group?”

  “Ah . . .”

  “Colonel Townsend is on a fact-finding tour of Germany,” Frederika explained.

  “How interesting,” Hess commented. “For your Intelligence? Most interesting. I have always admired the British,” he confided. “Even if they are our enemies.”

  “We are not your enemies now,” Berkeley protested. “The War is over.”

  “For you,” Hess pointed out. “Our war is only just beginning. You have been to Germany before?”

  “As a matter of fact, no.”

  “Your German is very good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now I must leave you.”

  “You will see him again later,” Frederika said. “I am to introduce him to the Fuehrer. He is coming tonight?”

  “Oh, he is. But he is late. As usual. The privileges of being a leader, Colonel Townsend, is that one can afford to be late.” He clicked his heels again, gave a quick bow, and returned to the platform.

  They sat down again. “One day, perhaps quite soon, I am going to wring your pretty little neck,” Berkeley remarked.

  “My principals like to know with whom they are dealing,” Frederika said. “And in any event, they already knew of you.”

  “That fellow Hess?”

  “Perhaps. But the Fuehrer certainly. I told him myself, as soon as I found out the truth.”

  “Am I allowed to ask why?”

  “Because I believe a man like you, high in Military Intelligence, can help us.”

  “I do wish you’d believe that I am nothing but an observer.”

  “Of course I do not believe that. Were you not in Sarajevo the day the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated?”

  Berkeley sighed. He supposed that day was going to haunt him for the rest of his life, and for more than one reason. But then, that day was haunting so many lives – those who had survived the War.

  “I didn’t kill him, you know.”

  She smiled. “Of course you did not. But you were there. We do not believe in coincidences.”

  “And you believe that merely by being here I will cause something to happen? Something you wish to happen?”

  “No, no. Not now, at any rate. I have said, we need your help. We need the help of your government. We can obtain no help, no recognition, over here. They regard us as nothing.”

  “They being the government?”

  She nodded. “Both the national government and the Bavarian government . . .”

  “So what makes you think my government will think differently, even if they were inclined to interfere in another country’s politics, which they are not?”

  “Not even to save the world from Communism?”

  Berkeley wondered.

  “In any event,” Frederika said, “you could at least listen to what the Fuehrer has to say. You may regard it as part of your fact-finding.”

  “Am I allowed to know his name?”

  “It is Hitler,” she said. “Adolf Hitler. Listen, he has arrived.”

  There was indeed some noise behind the curtains at the back of the dais, and a few minutes later they were parted to allow several men on to the stage, Most of these wore the party uniform, but the one in front was in a suit.

  He was a small, dark man, with a little moustache and black hair brushed somewhat theatrically across his forehead. He did not look like a born leader of men, unlike the man at his shoulder, tall and heavy, with powerful features just tending to run to fat. This man looked around the auditorium like an eagle, as if daring anyone to interrupt the proceedings, but was apparently content to play second fiddle to the ‘fuehrer’.

  At the leader’s entrance, everyone stood up and clapped, but there were only about fifty people in the room. Hitler advanced to the edge of the stage, his face serious but occasionally giving a little smile. Then he raised his right hand shoulder high, and the clapping ceased. Next he moved his hand from side to side, and everyone sat again. He certainly had this little group well disciplined, Berkeley thought.

  Once the room was quiet, Hitler spoke, his voice low and yet well modulated; everyone could hear what he was saying.

  “My friends,” he said. “You will know that the Beast has been turned back from the gates of Warsaw. This is an achievement of the Poles for which we must all be grateful. The cowardly, Jewish-inspired and Jewish-led, monstrosity that calls itself Soviet Russia, the hyena-headed masses it sends out to force its foul doctrine upon those more fortunate than itself, has received a slap in the face which hopefully will cause it to rethink its strategy.”

  He paused to look over the faces in front of him, tense with rapt attention; Frederika even grasped one of Berkeley’s hands and squeezed it, tightly.

  “But the Bolshevik beast will come again.” Hitler’s voice had risen. “It will lurk there, ready and anxious to cast its evil spawn across the civilised world, feeding on the money supplied by the Jewish financiers whose only wish is to see the Christian virtues destroyed. Its defeat is our duty. That is our task. That is our sacred cause!”

  Another pause, and this time there was rapturous applause.

  “But first,” Hitler said, and now he was shouting. “We must deal with the Beast here at home. For make no mistake, my friends, this is the most dangerous for us. These vermin lie in wait at every street corner, in every darkened place, waiting to spring out and ravish our maidens, steal our money, pollute our souls. And here, as in Soviet Russia, the Communist is inspired and financed by the Jew. Those are our enemies. Defeat, destroy, exterminate the Jew, and we have at the same time beaten the Communist. That is our first task, to make Germany fit for our people to live in, and reach for the greatness which is their birthright. Seek out the Jew, bring him down, that we may become one nation, one society, one folk!”

  Now he was beyond mere shouting, but was screaming the words, beating the air with his fists, while flecks of foam appeared at his lips. Berkeley thought he might be about to have a seizure. Of the effect his speech had had there could be no doubt. Everyone was on his or her feet, stamping and shouting, “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” right arms thrown out in a latterday version of the Roman salute.

  Berkeley found himself on his feet as well, although he was not shouting, and he merely clapped; Frederika had released his hand to join in the salute. Not that he cared for what he had heard. Never had
he listened to such concentrated hatred being hurled into the air. Of course the man was a demagogue, of whom no one outside Germany had ever heard; the chances were that no one ever would. But he seemed able to create an empathy with his followers, even with people like Frederika, who appeared to be reasonably well educated, and certainly sensible.

  Hitler waited for the applause to die down. Suddenly all the emotion had left his face, and his expression was benevolent as he beamed at his audience.

  “Come.” Frederika grasped Berkeley’s hand again, and led him to the steps to the dais.

  “Are we allowed up there?”

  “I want you to meet him and he will be leaving soon.”

  At the top of the steps, a brown-shirted man stepped forward to block them.

  “Rudolf!” Frederika shouted.

  Hess pushed his way forward. “It is all right,” he told the guard.

  “Colonel Townsend wishes to meet the Fuehrer,” Frederika said.

  She seemed intent on taking over his mind as well as his body, Berkeley thought. But as a matter of fact he did wish to meet the little man with the charismatic voice.

  “Come.” Hess led them through the throng on the platform, and whispered in Hitler’s ear. The Fuehrer turned towards Berkeley, beaming, hand held out.

  “Colonel Townsend.”

  “I told you of him, my Fuehrer,” Frederika said.

  “Yes, indeed. You are from the British Government.”

  “Only partly,” Berkeley said.

  Hitler continued to smile. “You are a diplomat, Colonel. We must talk. You will dine with me. Rudolf!”

  “The car will be here in a few minutes, my Fuehrer.”

  “Good. What do you think of my gathering, Colonel Townsend?” Hitler turned to survey the auditorium, through which his uniformed men were passing with little boxes, collecting money from the acolytes.

  “Ah . . . very impressive,” Berkeley lied.

  “The numbers will grow,” Hitler said. “Oh, yes, they will grow. What we need is money, and publicity. I know that we represent the heart of the German people. But so far few have heard of us. Money and publicity, and . . .” there was a sudden huge noise at the front of the building. Hitler’s head jerked, and they all turned to watched the doors being hurled open by a good score of large men, armed with staves and heavy sticks.

  The bouncers had been powerless to halt the attack, and were being swept along in the tide; several had been hit on the head and were streaming blood.

  “Communists,” shouted the big man. “Everybody out the back.”

  Hess seized Hitler’s arm and hurried him to the curtain. The other men milled about as they also tried to get out. In the body of the hall the invaders were hurrying forward, picking up chairs and throwing them left and right, smashing some to gain even more weapons. The people who a few minutes earlier had been enthusiastically cheering Hitler were screaming in both anger and fear; some were trying to obtain weapons for themselves, by also breaking chairs, but most were too surprised by the sudden invasion to do more than cower beneath the onslaught or attempt to get their womenfolk to the exits, which were already blocked.

  “Swine!” Frederika shouted.

  “What do you reckon?” Lockwood asked, hand slipping to the pocket where he kept his revolver.

  Frederika saw the movement. “Yes,” she said. “Shoot the swine down.”

  “We don’t have sufficient fire power,” Berkeley told her. “And we don’t want to wind up in gaol. Let’s follow fashion.”

  He held her arm to urge her towards the back of the dais, but the leading Communists were already at the stage, and clambering up, waving their sticks. Berkeley stepped forward, and kicked the first man in the face, sending him tumbling back down into the auditorium. But two more of his fellows were on the stage, and two more were coming up the steps at the side.

  Lockwood acted on his own initiative, drew his revolver, and fired a shot at the ceiling. That halted the attack for the moment, and before anyone could recover, the lights went out.

  “Let’s go,” Berkeley told Frederika, dragging her in the direction of the curtain, bumping into people and pushing them out of the way. “Harry!” he bawled.

  “Here!” Lockwood was at his shoulder, and a moment later they were through the curtain and the doorway behind, and stumbling up steps towards the street. They emerged in the midst of a great many people; it was difficult to tell if any of them were part of the apparent Communist attack or just in a state of flat panic; several of them were exchanging punches and some of the women were screaming.

  Someone aimed a blow at Berkeley, and Berkeley drew his own revolver and hit him on the head. He went down to his hands and knees, streaming blood, wailing in pain. Berkeley was still holding Frederika’s arm with his left hand, and he continued to urge her through the crowd.

  “That was well done,” Frederika panted. “Bastards. When we are in power . . .”

  “Shit!” Berkeley commented as they approached the head of the alley-way, and found it barred by a dozen policemen, wearing coal-scuttle helmets and carrying sidearms. Hastily he put away his own weapon, but it had been seen.

  “Halt there!” shouted a police inspector, levelling a Luger pistol.

  Berkeley hesitated, every instinct calling on him to draw again and shoot his way out. But he didn’t think he would be successful, and he had the woman to think of.

  “Don’t do it,” he said over his shoulder to Lockwood, and waited, hand well away from his pocket, while several policemen surrounded him.

  “You are armed,” the inspector accused.

  “It’s a habit,” Berkeley agreed.

  “Hand over the weapon. Butt first.”

  Berkeley carefully extracted the revolver, allowed it to be taken from his grasp.

  “You have a licence for this?” the inspector inquired.

  “An English licence,” Berkeley said.

  “Ah. You are an Englander. And you?” He turned his gaze on Lockwood. “You are also an Englander? And carry a gun?”

  Lockwood also drew his gun, carefully, and handed it over.

  The inspector sniffed. “This has been fired.”

  “In self-defence,” Lockwood said. “It’s those thugs behind us you need to get hold of.”

  “No doubt,” the inspector said, and gave a quick smile. “But it is you I have hold of, Englander. You are under arrest. Both of you. And you,” he said to Frederika.

  “You are being absurd,” Frederika said. “Here is my card. I am an accredited newspaper correspondent, attending a political meeting with my associates, which has been broken up by Communist agitators.”

  “And your associates are armed men,” the inspector said. “Perhaps you broke up the meeting yourself, Fräulein. Take them away.”

  “You Communist bastard!” Frederika shouted.

  “Easy,” Berkeley recommended, as the inspector scowled. “Ask for the right to telephone your editor.”

  “You have no rights,” the inspector said, and they were bundled into the back of a recently arrived black maria.

  “So much for our tour of Germany,” Berkeley remarked.

  “Pouf,” Frederika remarked. “They cannot hold us.”

  Berkeley was doubtful, but it appeared she was right. They had no sooner arrived at the police station, in the company of several others – again it was difficult to determine which were Communists and which were adherents of the German Workers Party – and were formally charged with making an affray and causing a disturbance of the peace, when the large man who had been at Hitler’s side on the platform strode in.

  Instantly the police inspector was deferential. While the large man was arrogant. “You are holding some friends of mine, Mulder,” he announced, loudly.

  “There was a riot, Herr Goering.”

  “Inspired by the Communists,” Goering told him.

  “Well, as to that, sir, I have arrested several Communists as well.”

 
“Not enough,” Goering told him. “Your behaviour has been outrageous. I will have them released. That woman, and those two men.”

  “There will have to be police bail, Herr Goering.”

  “Oh, stuff and nonsense. Give me the papers. I will sign them.”

  The inspector obliged, and Goering scrawled a huge signature.

  “Just who is this character?” Harry muttered to Frederika.

  “He is Hermann Goering. Have you not heard of him?”

  “Can’t say I have,” Harry said.

  “He is a famous man. Have you heard of the Baron von Richtofen?”

  “Ah . . . yes. He was your principal fighter ace in the War.”

  “That is correct,” Frederika said. “Colonel Goering was his commanding officer. And hardly less of an ace.”

  “Well, now, you are free to go,” Goering said. “We have not met. Hermann Goering.”

  “Berkeley Townsend, Harry Lockwood.”

  They shook hands.

  “May we have our weapons back, Herr Goering?” Lockwood asked.

  “Weapons? You have weapons?”

  “As I told the man, it’s a habit,” Berkeley said.

  “Of course. Mulder, give these people back their weapons.”

  The inspector looked pained, but he handed back the two revolvers.

  Goering examined each before giving them to Berkeley and Lockwood. “British Army issue,” he remarked.

  “That is because Berkeley works for the British Army,” Frederika explained.

  “Ah,” Goering commented. It was impossible to judge whether he was pleased or dismayed, or merely interested.

  By now the large number of people in the station was surging forward, several called Goering’s name, and he acknowledged them with a throwing up of his right hand, as far as the shoulder.

  “We will attend to you in due course,” he said.

  The crowd parted to reveal a camera, mounted on a tripod, in the doorway. Behind it a man crouched, and as Goering stared at it imperiously, the flash exploded.

  “Swine,” Goering snapped, and stepped forward. The photographer straightened in alarm, with good reason, as the big man swept the tripod over and then deliberately trod on the camera.