‘Georg was in there by himself?’ Dieter didn’t try and hide his surprise.
‘He was. My friend would walk in and he’d be there in the corner, always the same table, and always writing.’
‘Writing what?’
‘My friend said it looked like a letter. Every time. But he could never be sure.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like what?’
Friedrich stole a look at the stairs. He clearly found the conversation deeply uncomfortable.
‘You’ve known Georg a long time. Am I right?’
‘You are. He’s my best friend.’
‘How was he with women?’
‘Before Beata, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shy. Awkward. Guarded. Certain women, serious women, he sometimes liked. Most of them were married. That made them safe. He could talk to them, put them right about this and that. But anything flirtier, anything light and frothy…’ Dieter shook his head, ‘… he’d take to the hills.’
‘Until my daughter came along.’
‘Yes. And to be frank I couldn’t get over how lucky he was.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she can be so…’ Dieter shrugged, ‘… sexy, as well as serious.’
‘Sexy’ was a risk. Dieter knew it. But the word put a brief smile on Friedrich’s face.
‘You’re right,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve always thought that. Her mother did, too. That’s what made Beata so special. And Hanni would have been pleased about Georg, just the way I was.’
‘But?’
‘But nothing. This is about a single conversation, that’s all. My friend could have misheard. He could have jumped to the wrong conclusions. That probably goes for me, too. So pay no attention. This is an old man talking. We get it wrong. All the time.’
‘Get what wrong? You’ve told me nothing.’
Another gulp of Schnapps. Friedrich’s eyes were beginning to moisten. He bent towards Dieter, his voice low.
‘This is recently, two or three weeks ago. My friend found Georg at the usual table, scribbling away. The moment he walked in, Georg covered the pad with a newspaper. They had a few drinks. They talked the way they always talked. Then Georg mentioned an actress, Olga Helm. You know her?’
‘Of course. Everyone knows her. Especially Goebbels.’
‘Exactly. They must have met on some flight or other. She was part of the Goebbels circus until recently. Made appearances all over Germany. Strictly for propaganda purposes, of course. Remarkable woman. And a great actress.’
‘And you’re saying…? Georg and Olga Helm…?’
‘I’m saying nothing, except what my friend suspected. He said Georg was a man possessed.’
‘By Olga Helm?’
‘Yes. That was the phrase he used. A man possessed.’
‘Possessed enough to sit in a Weinstube and write to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Letter after letter?’
‘Yes.’
Dieter sat back, nursing his glass, thinking about the proposition. It was, on the face of it, wildly unlikely. To the best of his knowledge, Olga Helm was Russian. Hence the sculpted cheekbones and slightly Slavic eyes. Attractive? Without question. Talented? Undeniably. But risky, too, not simply because Georg was himself married but because one of the senior chieftains had put his smell on her. Goebbels was said to have a stable of mistresses, many of them actresses, but had never been keen on sharing. Once fucked, always fucked.
‘I’m not sure I believe this,’ Dieter said slowly. ‘It’s not what Georg would do. It’s completely out of character. He’d never expose himself like that.’
‘Then so be it. You’ve put my mind at rest.’
‘Have I?’
‘Of course not. My friend’s no fool. And neither am I.’
‘I see,’ Dieter nodded. ‘And Georg? What does this make him?’
‘It makes him very unlucky.’
‘To have fallen for a woman like Olga Helm?’
‘To have gone through a windscreen the way he did. And survived.’
*
Tam Moncrieff telephoned the Glebe House from the privacy of his office, returning to St James’s Street after an evening at the theatre. Ursula Barton had acquired two tickets for Flanagan and Allen at the Stoll Theatre in Kingsway and Hi-de-Hi! had been light relief for both of them after the sheer pressure of work over the recent weeks. Moncrieff was aware that many calls from the office were monitored but he anticipated nothing of any interest to listening ears. Wrong.
The number rang and rang. Moncrieff was about to give up, thinking that Cathy Phelps must have gone to bed, when she picked up the phone. The sound of Moncrieff’s voice put a smile in her voice.
‘Lovely to hear you,’ she said. ‘At least you’re still alive.’
‘You thought I might not be?’
‘I’m not sure you’d tell me if you were. Does that make sense? Probably not.’
Moncrieff wondered whether this was some kind of reprimand. It had been days, after all, since he’d received her letter. If it felt right, she’d written.
‘You’ve applied for that job? The one you mentioned? Buckingham Palace? Court Jester? By Royal Appointment?’
‘I have not.’
‘But it still interests you?’
‘Only if you approve.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because I like to think you might be part of it.’
‘But you’d have gone. No more Glebe House.’
‘That’s not what I meant. And you know it.’
Moncrieff blinked. The phone was in the hall in the big old house. He was trying to imagine her in the chilly gloom. He knew she wore a long nightshirt in bed. He’d seen it hanging on the washing line, a creamy white with lace around the low neckline, and once – all too briefly – he’d looked up from the courtyard late at night and glimpsed her at the bedroom window in the attic quarters where she lived. He visualised her now, her bare feet curling on the cold flagstones.
‘Did I wake you up?’
‘No. I’ve been waiting for this call. I just need to know, Tam.’
‘Know what?’ He smiled. She’d never called him by his Christian name.
‘Know whether there’s something else between us. You’re a lovely man. Am I allowed to say that? Probably not.’ She paused. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s nowhere to go. Which is rather the point. I’m glad you employed me. I’m grateful for this job of mine. But I’d be lying if I said it’s all about the house. It’s a lovely house. I love the silence, the views, the wind in the trees, everything. But that’s not the end of it and in some ways it’s not even the beginning. This house is you, Big Man, and it’s empty if you’re not here. Is there any chance of you coming back in the near future? On a regular basis? The answer’s no. Do I want to see you more often? Be with you? The answer’s yes. But only if it feels right. And that judgement has to be yours.’
This time the silence stretched and stretched. Moncrieff admired the way she’d been so candid. She’d quickened the pace, just like a good RSM, and in so doing she’d forced him to a decision he should probably have taken months ago. What the hell.
‘You say the job is there for the asking?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then take it.’
‘I will, Boss,’ she laughed. ‘And I promise you won’t regret it.’
7
Winter came late to Berlin that year. It was early December before a hard frost and freezing rain made the roads and pavements treacherous underfoot, and the first blizzard had yet to sweep in from the east. Beata continued to come to the Charité hospital every day, and whenever he was in Berlin Dieter Merz was happy to drive her.
By now she seemed hardened to her husband’s apparent indifference and she still took up her post by the bed and tried to coax him into conversation. Most of the time it was hopeless.
Georg simply feigned sleep or turned his head away. Dieter watched her at the bedside, keeping vigil, her hands in her lap, composed, still, watchful, as if she was trying to conjure back the man she’d known and loved. Once a nurse paused beside her and quietly asked whether there might be days when she’d prefer to stay at home and rest, but she shook her head.
‘We’re husband and wife,’ she said. ‘We must go through this together.’
In many respects, Georg was getting better. He had full movement in every limb, his speech was unimpaired, he was beginning to put on weight again and he could even manage the walk to the toilets at the end of the ward. Then, late in the evening on 20 December, he had an epileptic fit. Two nurses held him down for nearly a quarter of an hour while his body convulsed. Afterwards, exhausted, he slept.
Next morning, when Beata and Dieter arrived, they found him slumped in bed, his eyes closed, his face sagging, and a thin dribble of saliva moistening the roughness of his chin. From time to time there were tiny spasms of involuntary movement in his right hand and his eyes would open and he’d stare at it with fierce concentration, as if it had appeared from nowhere, a mysterious addition to the wreckage of his body. On these occasions Beata tried to help him, calm him down, tell him to relax, but he always ignored her. He was angry, as well as helpless, and the anger began to overwhelm him.
As Christmas approached, decorations appeared in the ward. One of the porters had acquired a tree from somewhere and a couple of the nurses wrapped tiny presents to hang from the boughs. On Christmas Eve, children from a local school sang carols in a circle in the middle of the ward and afterwards they took the presents down from the tree and circulated from bed to bed with fetching little curtseys. Beata unwrapped Georg’s present. It was a tiny replica of a Bf-109. Georg ignored it.
The following day, shortly before noon, the Matron stepped in from the corridor and clapped her hands. The ward, to her delight, had been selected to receive a visit from a pair of very special guests. Dieter was at Georg’s bedside. He’d been reading a novel Friedrich had lent him and he looked up to see Joseph Goebbels at the entrance to the ward. Beside him, unmistakable in her trademark black dress, was the Slav cinema goddess, Olga Helm.
The Minister of Propaganda limped into the ward, Olga on his arm. Behind him was a two-man camera team. Goebbels paused at the foot of each bed to offer a nod and a seasonal greeting. Then came the moment when he recognised Georg Messner. His rubber smile widened. He whispered something to Olga. She, too, was gazing at Georg. And she, too, was smiling.
Beata and Dieter got to their feet. Georg was staring at the actress. Dieter was dreading a Heil Hitler from Goebbels but instead he turned to his cameraman. He wanted this scene recorded. Back with Georg, Goebbels asked how he was. Georg, who seemed to recognise the minister, struggled to frame an answer. His gaze kept returning to Olga. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
The Matron was hosting the visit. At a word from Goebbels she summoned two nurses to raise Georg into a sitting position. Then Goebbels told Olga to perch on the bed beside the Führer’s favourite pilot. When she was comfortable, he took a seat on the other side. The cameraman was ready with his tripod. He rearranged the cards on Georg’s bedside cabinet and then returned to his camera. He wanted three smiles, drei frohe Weihnachten. Olga and Goebbels obliged. Happy Christmas, they chorused. Both had an arm round Georg. He seemed dazed. His eyes had lost focus and tears were pouring down his face.
Dieter stole a glance at Beata. Her expression gave nothing away, but he suspected that she wasn’t fooled by this vintage piece of Nazi pantomime. Her poor mute husband had become the focus for Goebbels’ attention and there had to be a reason.
The cameraman had finished. Goebbels was already on his feet. Olga whispered something in Georg’s ear and squeezed his hand. When Georg wouldn’t let go she kissed him on the cheek and then sought the help of the Matron to disentangle herself. Moments later, without a backward glance, the circus moved on and silence descended once again. Outside, Dieter caught the distant whisper of a Christmas trolley bus.
Two days later, a uniformed SS orderly appeared with a parcel at the house beside the Wannsee. For once, Beata’s father had accompanied her to the hospital and so Dieter was in the house alone.
‘You’re Major Merz?’
‘I am.’
‘Sign here, please.’
‘This is for me?’ Dieter was staring at the package.
‘Yes.’
‘From who?’
‘The Promi.’
The Promi was Berlin slang for Goebbels’ Ministry of Propaganda. Merz scribbled a signature and watched the orderly return to his motorbike. The door closed, he opened the parcel. Inside was the previous day’s copy of the Völkischer Beobachter and a bundle of what looked like letters. There must have been at least a dozen of them. They were written on ruled Luftwaffe-issue notepads and Dieter knew at once that these were Georg’s work. He recognised the handwriting, the way the words crabbed carefully across the page. Meine Liebling, the first one began, Wo kann ein Mann anfangen? My darling? Where can a man start?
Dieter swallowed hard, already embarrassed by the way his friend had let himself down. The first of the letters was clumsy but explicit. Georg and Olga had obviously been meeting at her apartment, presumably somewhere in the city. Georg described the look of her bedroom, the smell of her perfume, even the way her dachshund would join them in bed. He was obviously obsessed by her – by her smile, by her body, by the way she made love to him – but he lacked the language to do this passion justice. Parts of it read like the work of a fourteen-year-old. Other passages, more prosaic, might have come from a post-mission combat report. She’d attacked him from a direction he’d least expected. And he’d surrendered totally to what followed. More, he kept begging. I need more.
Need? Dieter shook his head. The rest of the letters he wouldn’t bother to read. They’d be simply variations of the same theme – a loyal servant of the Reich, a pilot charged with the safety of the Führer, the co-star of the pre-war dogfights on the air show circuit, in thrall to a Slavic film goddess with a following of millions. Under pressure, Dieter could dream up a number of ways Georg Messner could make a fool of himself, but nothing was as cheap and as hopelessly disloyal as this. Talking to Beata’s father last night, Dieter had fought hard not to believe the suspicion that Georg was cheating on his wife. Now, faced with the evidence, he had no choice.
But why had the letters come to him? And what, exactly, was he supposed to do with them? Dieter didn’t know. Showing them to Beata wasn’t an option. His loyalty to Georg was too strong. But maybe, in due course, there might come a time when he could share the billets-doux with his ex-wingman. Beware of temptation, he’d say. And beware, above all, of the bastards who’d baited this little trap and turned up in Georg’s hour of need to make him look a fool.
He picked up the copy of the Völkischer Beobachter and began to thumb through it. He found the photograph and the accompanying story on page five. Georg Messner, the Führer’s brave pilot, was recovering in the hands of expert doctors following a car accident. The Minister of Propaganda and one of the Reich’s leading film stars had been happy to pay him a visit and wish him a Happy Christmas, secure in the knowledge that they carried with them the good wishes of the entire Reich.
Dieter’s gaze returned to the photograph. This was the real nastiness behind Goebbels’ little game, the reason he’d planned the hospital visit in the first place. Georg Messner had crossed a line and now he was sending this drooling cretin a message. One of my women, he was saying. Leave well alone.
The New Year came and went. The atmosphere at the house beside the water was glum. Dieter did his best to find ways of comforting Beata without upsetting her further but in the end he was relieved when Friedrich suggested that the pair of them could cope without der Kleine’s aid. Maybe it’s best if you get on with your life, he said. We’ll give you a call if we need you.
And so Mer
z found himself spending more and more time with Rudolf Hess. The Deputy Führer’s daily schedule of meetings and speeches across the Greater Reich was as demanding as any of his fellow chieftains’ and, when the pressure of events obliged him to attend to his paperwork in the air, he was happy to let Merz fly him from city to city. On these occasions Merz was careful to let Hess handle both the take-offs and the landings. Winter weather often complicated both but Hess’s performance at the dual controls, as he reported to Goering, never left him with a moment’s doubt that the Deputy Führer was an extremely accomplished pilot.
In mid-January, Merz attended a conference with Hans Baur at the Reichsregierung at Tempelhof airfield. Baur wanted to know whether, in Merz’s opinion, Georg Messner would ever be fit enough to return to the Führer Squadron. Merz shook his head. He hoped against hope that Georg might one day find his way back to a pilot’s seat but, given what had happened, Merz was certain that his friend’s days of flying premium cargo were over. The latter phrase amused Baur.
‘You don’t think these people wouldn’t relish the company of a fellow madman?’ he asked.
Later that afternoon, Merz ran into Goering again at Tempelhof. The Reichsmarschall had just got off a flight from Paris. He took Merz aside and asked him about Hess’s navigational skills. Merz didn’t understand the question. Hess had been flying for two decades. Of course he could find his way around.
‘But a really long journey? More than a thousand kilometres? With somewhere in the dark to find at the end of it all?’
At the time Merz had simply repeated that Hess was amply qualified in the air. Pilots with his experience could always find their way home. Only months later did this innocent question acquire greater significance.
*
At the Glebe House, meanwhile, Cathy Phelps was taking pains to make Christmas especially memorable. With a full week’s holiday at his disposal, Tam Moncrieff had taken the train north. He was now in regular contact with Cathy by telephone, and he knew that she’d been accepted for the post at the Palace, but the abrupt change in their relationship still felt slightly unreal. How easy would it be for his former housekeeper to occupy a far more intimate role in his life? Or was he, the Laird of Glebe House, simply the victim of some middle-aged fantasy?
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