by Philip Kerr
“Beria says they have. But I’m not so sure. Still, even if they haven’t all been caught, I don’t give much for their chances. Not in this country. It’s a filthy place. Not at all what I imagined. From what I’ve observed so far, the tap water is hardly less lethal than the stuff that was in the Führer’s carafe.”
“I rather think President Roosevelt sipped some of that water,” said von Ribbentrop. “Before it was knocked from his hand.”
“He seems all right.” Himmler shrugged. “I sent Brandt to enquire after his health—in plain clothes, of course. But it seems that Roosevelt has gone shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“Yes, the Russians have set up a shop on the grounds of the embassy. They say it’s for the convenience of all the delegates, so that we don’t have to leave the estate—but, oh, my, the prices! Brandt says they’re astronomical.”
“But what is there to buy?” laughed von Ribbentrop.
“Oh, it’s well stocked with everything that might appeal to an American tourist. Water pipes, carpets, wooden bowls, Persian daggers, silver. Brandt says there is even a box of silk teddy bears.”
“Perhaps Roosevelt is picking out a teddy bear for Churchill’s birthday.” Von Ribbentrop laughed. “Or, perhaps, some sour grapes. The son is here, too, you know. Randolph. It seems that he’s an even bigger drunk than his father.”
“I hear Roosevelt’s son, Elliott, is just as bad. Apparently he and Randolph stayed up late last night getting drunk. There is no greater curse than the curse of a great man for a father.”
“Can you imagine what Hitler’s son would have been like?” von Ribbentrop asked. “I mean, if he had ever had a son. To live up to such a man as the Führer. Impossible.”
Himmler smiled quietly to himself: there were perhaps only three people in the world who knew that Hitler had indeed fathered a son, by a Jewish woman in Vienna in 1913. In Mein Kampf, Hitler had claimed to have left the old Austro-Hungarian capital for “political reasons”; he had even written a version that had him leaving Vienna to escape conscription into the Austro-Hungarian army, preferring to enlist in a German regiment, the Tenth Bavarian Reserve Infantry Regiment, instead. But only Hitler, Himmler, and Julius Streicher knew the truth—that Hitler had an affair with a Jewish prostitute, Hannah Mendel, who had borne him a son. Mendel and her son had disappeared from Vienna sometime in 1928 and not even Hitler knew their final fate. Only Himmler knew that Mendel had abandoned her son in 1915; that she had died of syphilis in 1919; that her son, Wolfgang, had been brought up in the Catholic orphanage in Linz; that Wolfgang Mendel had changed his name to Paul Jetzinger and become a waiter at Sacher’s Hotel in Vienna until the outbreak of war, when he had enlisted in the Third Motorized Infantry Division; and that Corporal Paul Jetzinger had been killed or captured at Stalingrad. Which Himmler had thought was probably for the best. Great men like Hitler shouldn’t have sons, he thought; especially sons who were half-Jewish.
Himmler and von Ribbentrop were in an excellent mood when the drawing room door was suddenly flung open and Hitler stormed in. His face was wreathed in fury as he marched up to Himmler, brandishing a file in front of the Reichsführer’s face.
“Did you know about this?” he yelled.
Himmler stood and clicked his heels together as he came to attention. “Know about what, my Führer?”
“It’s an SD file entitled ‘Beketovka.’”
“Beketovka?” stammered Himmler, and, wondering how on earth Hitler could have come into possession of the file, he colored noticeably.
“I can see you recognize the name,” Hitler barked. “Why was I not shown this before? Why did I have to receive this from the Americans?”
“I don’t understand. The Americans gave you this file?”
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes. But that hardly matters beside the fact that I have never been shown the contents of this file.”
Himmler winced, suddenly understanding exactly what must have happened. The Beketovka File. He had forgotten all about it. The file had reached Roosevelt’s hands, as he had ordered it should, and mistakenly, the Americans had simply handed it back to Hitler. As Himmler searched for an explanation, Hitler struck him on the shoulder with the file and then threw it on the floor.
“Do you really think I would have come here, ready to withdraw my forces from Russia, if I had known about this?” he said.
Himmler stayed silent. Knowing Hitler as well as he did, it seemed to him that the question hardly needed to be answered. This was the end of Teheran, he could see that. Plainly, Hitler’s rage, the worst Himmler had witnessed, made it impossible that the Führer could continue to sit at the same negotiating table as the people he would hold responsible for the atrocities detailed in the Beketovka File.
“Thousands and thousands of our brave musketeers and lieutenants have been murdered by these Russian pigs, in circumstances that beggar belief, and yet you would have had me sit down and talk peace with them. How could I look my soldiers in the eye if I made a deal with these animals?”
“My Führer, it was for those soldiers who still remain alive that I thought it best to pursue these talks,” Himmler said. “Those German prisoners still in Russian camps may yet be released.”
“What kind of a man are you, Himmler? Two hundred thousand German prisoners have been systematically starved, frozen, or beaten to death by these subhuman Slavs and you can still contemplate cozying up to them.” Hitler shook his head. “Well, that’s a matter for your own conscience. Assuming you have one. But I for one will not make a peace with the cold-blooded murderers of German soldiers. Do you hear me? I will not shake hands that are dripping with German blood. You’re an unprincipled swine, Himmler. Do you know that? You are a man without values.”
Still beside himself with fury, Hitler marched around the room, biting the cuticle around his thumbnail and calling down vengeance upon the heads of the Russians.
“But what will we tell them?” Himmler asked weakly. He knew that the question hardly needed to be asked since he was quite certain that the room concealed hidden microphones: a large part of his negotiating strategy had been based on the assumption that the Russians would listen to their supposedly private conversations; another sign of good faith, as Himmler had described it to Hitler. But in his anger, the Führer seemed to have forgotten this.
“Tell Stalin that because of the attempt on my life you no longer believe that my safety can be guaranteed and that we are forced, reluctantly, to withdraw from these negotiations. Tell them what you like. But we’re leaving. Now.”
1245 HOURS
AS SOON AS Sergo Beria read the transcript of Hitler’s conversation with Himmler and von Ribbentrop, he hurried over to the NKVD villa to tell his father what had happened. Sergo loved his father and was probably the only man in Russia, including Stalin, who wasn’t afraid of the state security boss. Despite Lavrenti Beria’s incessant womanizing, Sergo recognized that Beria had always been a good father who wanted nothing more than to keep his son out of politics, encouraging him to be a scientist. But Stalin favored his security commissar’s nineteen-year-old son, and hoped that the handsome Sergo might one day marry his own daughter, Svetlana, with whom Sergo had gone to school. To this end Stalin had promoted Sergo to the rank of captain in the NKVD, invited him to the conference in Teheran, and personally charged Sergo with briefing him every morning on what the other two leaders were saying “privately” in their respective villas.
Lavrenti Beria was nervous about the apparent high regard in which his son was held by Stalin, for he knew how capricious the old man was and feared the idea of Sergo marrying Svetlana. Stalin might have encouraged a romance between these two young people, but Beria knew that in a year’s time, the boss might think very differently about it, even to the extent, perhaps, of accusing the security commissar of trying to worm his way into Stalin’s family. There was no telling what a paranoid personality like Stalin was capable of.
Arriving at the NKVD villa, Sergo found his fa
ther already speaking to Himmler. Their meeting lasted only a few minutes, after which Himmler exited through a secret passage in the basement, leaving father and son alone. Beria stared glumly at his son.
“I can see you already know what has happened,” the older man observed.
“Yes, but the reason I think he gave you—that Himmler no longer believes the Führer’s safety can be guaranteed—that’s a load of crap.” Sergo showed his father the transcript of what Hitler had said to Himmler and von Ribbentrop. Lavrenti Beria read the half-dozen pages without comment. Eventually the younger man blurted out the question he had been dying to ask since first hearing of Beketovka. “Who or what is Beketovka?” he asked his father.
“It’s a prisoner-of-war camp near Stalingrad,” Beria explained. “For German prisoners. I don’t have to tell you that Stalin thinks even less about them than he does about the welfare of his own soldiers. I haven’t seen this camp myself, but I imagine conditions there are harsh. Extremely harsh. If this Beketovka File that Hitler talks about documents the camp in any detail, then it would be hardly surprising if he were upset about it. Very likely the Germans gave the file to the Americans in an attempt to support the contention that they are no more morally reprehensible than we are. Most likely Himmler has been concealing this file from Hitler. He must have been well aware of the effect it would have on him, and on these peace talks. The only question, therefore, is if the Americans were aware of that when they gave it to him. For one would then have to conclude that they meant for these negotiations to fail.”
Sergo Beria shrugged. “There must be some Americans who continue to share Churchill’s point of view: that we should not be negotiating with these Fascists.”
Lavrenti Beria picked up the phone. “Get me Molotov,” he told the embassy switchboard. And then to Sergo: “I didn’t see what happened in the conference room myself. Perhaps our foreign minister can tell us which one of the Americans gave the file to Hitler.”
Molotov came on the line and, at some length, Beria explained what had happened, after which there arose the delicate question of who was going to tell Stalin that Hitler was leaving.
“This is a security matter, surely,” Molotov argued. “It’s your responsibility, Beria.”
“On the contrary,” said Beria. “Without question this is a foreign affairs matter.”
“Under normal circumstances I might agree with you,” Molotov said. “But as I recall, it was Himmler, your opposite number, who put out these peace feelers in the first place. And you who dealt with them. Moreover, all matters pertaining to the Führer’s presence here in Teheran have, as I understand it, been arranged by you, Comrade Commissar.”
“That’s true. However, the initial contacts were made by Himmler via Madame de Kollontay, in Stockholm. It’s my understanding that these conversations were cleared by Stalin himself, through you, Comrade Secretary.”
“And it was agreed that all matters relating to the handling of the German legation would be administered jointly by the NKVD and the SS. As I see it, Hitler is going home because of a security breakdown of one sort or another. Either because an American tried to kill him or because another American gave him an intelligence file right under our noses.”
For once, Beria had to concede that Molotov was right. “Do you happen to recall which American it was that gave him the file?” he asked Molotov.
“It was the man who saved Hitler’s life. The interpreter.”
“Why would he save Hitler’s life and then fuck up the peace negotiations?”
“I suspect it was just a mistake. The fellow was confused after what had just happened. I think if I had just saved Hitler’s life, I might feel a little perplexed myself. To put it mildly. Anyway, Hopkins told this fellow Mayer to hand over the American position papers and he handed him something else. As simple as that. It must have been this file you describe, because Hopkins was almost at the door when he realized he still had the position papers that were meant for Hitler. Probably he was a bit rattled himself. That’s what happened. The Americans fucked up, that’s all. They probably thought it hardly mattered that this fellow had just given Hitler the Beketovka File, since they could hardly have imagined that Hitler had never seen an important file prepared by his own SD.”
“Jesus Christ,” groaned Beria. “The boss is going to go nuts.”
“Blame it all on the Yank,” advised Molotov. “That’s my advice. Let him take the heat. There’s not much point in saving Hitler’s life if you then manage to fuck up the peace talks.”
“But how? It was a mistake. That’s all. You said so yourself, Molotov.”
“Look, you know what the boss is like, Beria. And he saw it just as I did. Maybe he’ll decide that it was an accident. But just remember it’s our treatment of German POWs that’s sending Hitler away. In other words, the Americans will find out that this is the reason Hitler’s run home. Now that puts the ball in our court, and the boss won’t like that at all. Better give him something he can throw at the Yanks, just in case he’s feeling bloody-minded.”
“Such as?”
“All right. But this is just a thought. And you owe me, Lavrenti Pavlovich. Got that? A favor.”
“Fine, fine, whatever. What’s this thing the boss can level at the Yanks?”
“Just this. The interpreter. He’s a Jew.”
“And?”
“And maybe he’s a pal of Cordell Hull, the American hostage in Berlin. He might want the talks to fail without Hitler getting assassinated, and his friend Hull’s life being forfeit as a result. Something like that.”
“But you heard Hitler. He’s threatening to massacre the rest of Europe’s Jews. Why would a Jew want these talks to fail?”
“Maybe for the same reason Churchill does. Because the total defeat of Germany will require an American army in Europe. Churchill wants that army in Europe as a bulwark against us, Beria. Churchill knows that if Hitler is left in control there will be another European war, which Stalin will win. Meaning the whole of Europe, including Great Britain, will come under Soviet control. It could be that this Jewish interpreter hates communism more than he hates the Nazis. Like a lot of other Americans.”
“That’s not bad, you know,” admitted Beria. “That’s not bad at all. You’ve got a devious fucking mind, Molotov. I respect that.”
“It’s why I’ve stayed alive so long. One more thing: Hopkins was telling me that this Jew is also quite a famous philosopher. Did his doctorate in Germany. Very likely he’s a kraut-lover. Maybe you can make something out of that as well.”
Beria laughed. “Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, you would have made a fucking good policeman, do you know that?”
“If you fuck this up, Lavrenti Pavlovich, there might just turn out to be a job vacancy.”
1430 HOURS
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL, mild, sunny Sunday afternoon. Birds were singing in the many cherry trees that grew on the grounds of the Russian embassy compound, and somewhere something delicious was being prepared. But among the president’s immediate entourage, spirits were low and no one felt like eating the late lunch that was scheduled. Hitler’s abrupt departure from the peace talks—he was already aboard his Condor, flying back to the Crimea, and then home—had hit Roosevelt hard.
“Things were going so well,” he said, shaking his head. “We were going to make a peace. Not a perfect peace, but a peace nonetheless. Hitler was ready to withdraw his forces from nearly all the occupied territories. You heard him, Professor. You understood what he said better than any man in this room. He did say that, didn’t he?”
My despair was no less profound than Roosevelt’s, although for very different reasons. “Yes, sir. I think he was ready to do it.”
“We had peace in our hands and we screwed up.”
“No one could have foreseen what happened this morning,” Hopkins said. “That nutcase pulling a gun on Hitler like that. Jesus Christ. What the hell made him do it, Mike? And the water. That was poisoned, right?�
�
“Yes, sir, it was,” said Reilly. “The Russians gave the rest of the water in that carafe to a dog, which has since died.”
“Goddamn Russians,” said Roosevelt. “What did they want to go and do a thing like that for? The poor dog. What kind of fucking people would do that sort of thing?”
“It’s too early to say what the poison was, however,” continued Reilly. “This country is rather short on proper laboratory facilities.”
“Why the hell did he do it, Mike?” asked Roosevelt. “Has he said anything?”
After the shooting, Agent Pawlikowski had been taken to the American military hospital at Camp Amirabad.
“They’re still operating, sir. But it doesn’t look too good. The bullet went through his liver.” Reilly swallowed uncomfortably. “On behalf of the United States Treasury and the Secret Service, I’d like to offer you an apology, Mr. President.”
“Oh, forget it, Mike. Not your fault.”
“And to you, Professor Mayer. You’ve been right about this all along. Ever since the Iowa you’ve been saying that there was an assassin among us.”
“I was only half right. I thought it was Stalin he was after. And half right is as bad as wholly wrong in my book.”
“I think we all owe Professor Mayer our thanks,” said Hopkins. “But for him, Cordell Hull would be facing a firing squad round about now.”
“Yes,” said Roosevelt, pressing his hand to his own stomach. “Thank you, Willard.”
“You don’t look too good sir,” Reilly told the President. “Shall I fetch Admiral McIntire?”
“No, Mike, I’m all right. If I look sick it’s because I’m thinking of all those American boys who are going to lose their lives on the beaches of Normandy next year. To say nothing of Europe’s Jews.” Roosevelt shifted uneasily in his wheelchair. “Do you think he meant it, Harry? Do you really think he means to kill three million Jews?”
Hopkins said nothing.
“Professor?” asked Roosevelt. “Did he mean it?”