“Heil Hitler,” she said.
The car von Kresse kept in Berlin was American—a long, yellow, seven-year-old Duesenberg touring phaeton. Because of his sister’s political position, they were permitted to fly two Nazi flags from the front fenders. The count agreed to this solely as an additional means of assuring fewer complications and more freedom of movement. He himself had refused repeated invitations to join the party, calling the Nazis “gangsters with votes.”
Zimmermann helped him into the rear seat and then got the big engine going and sped off down the still-empty street.
“You are still going to the airfield, sir?”
“Indeed.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Indeed.”
But the airfield proved to be as far as he could go. The Fokker trimotor stood unattended on the tarmac, still glistening with the moisture of the night’s rains. There was no one at the counter in the airline office. Zimmermann went to one of several policemen standing nearby. They were all staring at von Kresse.
“The flight has been canceled, sir,” he said, returning.
“Why?”
“Orders of the Air Ministry, sir. Perhaps the weather.”
Von Kresse swore, quietly.
“The local weather, sir.”
“Yes. Very well, Zimmermann. You know where we must go.”
Zimmermann, who had served von Kresse as a sergeant mechanic during the war, quickly reached the turning that led to the huge Ministerium where Reichscommissioner Hermann Goering now made his home and principal office. In the war, Goering had been one of von Kresse’s flying comrades, his temporary commander, and, very briefly, his friend. Now the count had come to loathe this most amiable of the Nazis and resist every contact with him.
The yellow Duesenburg was well known in official Berlin, and the Ministerium’s gates were swung open immediately. When Zimmermann pulled up at the grotesquely outsized main entrance, two guards in the uniform of the new Luftwaffe came smartly to attention and gave the Nazi salute. Von Kresse, after descending stiffly from the car, replied with a purely military one.
The Ministerium appeared as immense inside as Versailles, though without the furnishings. The enormous rooms were nearly empty except for the paintings. The strong suggestion of museum was intentional. Goering now possessed one of the best art collections in Europe, and was intent on making it grander.
The slewed cadence of von Kresse’s limping gait made a strange echo as he followed his military escort through the maze of rooms and paneled corridors. At last they came to one of the largest chambers of all, the private office of “der Dicke”—“the fat one.”
This room, at least, was abundantly furnished, with outsized chairs and a desk that might have doubled for a banquet table. Yet it seemed not disproportionate to the chamber’s occupant. Goering suffered from a glandular condition little helped by the medication given him by physicians or the endless narcotic drugs he prescribed for himself. The heroic photo published of him in 1933, when he was commander of Hitler’s Sturmabteilung, had been more than a little retouched. Goering’s girth was becoming monumental. He rose from behind the great slab of a desk, a desk without papers, official or otherwise, but covered by a forest of telephones and outsized, framed photographs.
“Gute morgen, von Kresse,” he said rudely, nodding his guest to a chair but failing to extend his hand. He sat down again quickly, almost as painfully as von Kresse did with all his old wounds. Goering had survived the war without any serious injury but, more fortunately for his career, had suffered a wound for Hitler. During the 1923 putsch in Munich, he had been shot in the groin. This had led to wicked and spurious remarks about his subsequent love life, but the injury had a more serious consequence. He had quickly become addicted to the morphine administered to him to ease the pain.
The fat man glanced at a golden clock suspended beneath a glass bell among the framed photographs.
“You are prompt, von Kresse.” He grunted.
“I had assistance in that.”
“Your charming sister. She telephoned to tell me you appeared to have misunderstood my invitation. She suggested I reach you at the airfield.”
“And so you did.”
“And so, shall we go now to breakfast?”
“I am completely without appetite. I could not eat a thing.”
“Martin. Never defy my summons again. Never. On your life.”
The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment. They had known each other for nearly twenty years. Friendships born of war endure much, but bonds overstretched can snap. For good.
As young pilots in the German Air Service, they had looked somewhat alike. Now they scarcely seemed to belong to the same species. In his Wehrmacht field gray, von Kresse was the perfect image of the utterly correct Prussian officer. Goering wore his bizarre uniforms as human plumage. With summer now gone, he had switched from white to powder blue with white facings and labyrinthian snarls and swirls of gold braid. These distracted from his chest paving of medals, some of them of nonsensical invention but among them two Iron Crosses won in the war. At his throat he wore the Pour le Mérite, the “Blue Max,” a decoration the kaiser had bestowed on only seventy-two German airmen. Goering had been an inadequate and often irresponsible Jagdgeschwader, or group, commander, the last of those to succeed to the post of the great Richthofen, but he had downed twenty-two enemy aircraft. Markgraf von Kresse had been credited with forty-four victories, tying with Rudolph Berthold for seventh-ranking German ace. Von Kresse wore only two medals: his own Pour le Mérite and the plain Iron Cross he had won as a private in the trenches.
“And so, Herr Markgraf,” Goering said, not pleasantly. “How goes it with you?”
Von Kresse replied with some civility, disliking himself for it. “It goes well, Herr Reichscommissioner. And you?”
Goering said nothing, setting his elbows onto the polished desktop and resting his heavy chin on folded hands. His eyes stared directly into the count’s, full of shrewd assessment. Von Kresse looked for some manifestation in them of the paracodeine morphine derivative Goering used but saw no trace. There was only intelligence and human poisons.
“You are in trouble, Herr Markgraf,” Goering said slowly and quietly.
“With you, Herr Reichscommissioner? Am I under arrest? If so, what have I done? Or doesn’t it matter?”
“It’s being said that you are the only German officer in the Reich who has failed to swear his sacred oath to the Führer,” Goering said. “This has been reported.”
When President von Hindenberg’s death had allowed Hitler to become both president and chancellor of Germany, all military officers were given a direct order to swear their undying fealty to him personally, as if to the old emperor. Such oaths were a matter of sacred honor to German officers, especially Prussian ones, and the order had not been universally popular.
The count repeated the charge, emphasizing the words “only German officer.”
“This certainly is not true,” he said.
Goering placed his hands palms down on the desktop and slowly pushed himself to his feet. “That is precisely what I said to the Führer,” he said, and began to laugh, the basso quickly rising to heaving, squeaky sputters. With his great military waddle, he went to one of the tall windows overlooking an interior court, then turned.
“You are such a problem for us sometimes, von Kresse. Such a racial problem.”
The count gazed at the large portraits that dominated the wall behind Goering’s desk. Both were of beautiful women. That on the left was of Karin von Kantzow, a Swedish baroness who had hastily divorced her husband to marry Goering nearly fifteen years before. She had died in 1931, and this last April Goering had married the woman in the painting on the right, the actress Emmy Sonnemann, for whom he was said to have a great passion. Yet he continued to be devoted to his dead first wife, naming his country estate, Karinhall, after her. It seemed ludicrous that this sinister hulk could have on
ce been a handsome and romantic youth, ludicrous that he could still be so romantic. Yet he was charming. There was no serious doubt of that. He remained now close friends of the Hohenzollerns and Prince Philip of Hesse, cousin to the British throne. Without the Goering charm, Hitler would never have gained power.
Karinhall had become host to the principal paintings in Goering’s ever-expanding collection—most of them expropriated from rich Jews and other exiles fleeing the Fatherland, or looted from museums. Charm was not gentility, not honor, not pride.
“You are not interested in racial problems, Herr Markgraf?”
“Race has never concerned me. Not mine. Not anyone’s.”
“A dangerous attitude, von Kresse. Your race should concern you. You are a most un-Prussian Prussian.”
“What are you talking about? My family held title to our estate in the rule of the Order of the Teutonic Knights. My ancestors fought Alexander Nevsky.”
“Your father was half Polish.”
“Poland and East Prussia are much the same country.” Von Kresse moved his left leg to ease the pain. This line of conversation always irritated him. He endured it constantly from Dagne.
“But,” said Goering, “as Baron von Richthofen would certainly agree, the Teutonic and the Slavic are hardly the same race. Your wife is Polish, isn’t that so?”
“You know that very well, Herr Reichscommissioner. You attended our wedding.”
“You haven’t seen her since the war. Do you have any idea where she is?”
“Lalka is somewhere in Poland. I believe in Krakow. She occasionally writes to a mutual friend.”
“In French, I believe. Would you like any help in reaching your wife? These days, anything is possible for us. We could have her in Ortelsburg for you tomorrow.”
The Reichscommissioner’s moods were as changeable as his uniforms. He seemed now to be offering this outrage as a genuine act of friendship.
“Nein, danke.”
“Your mother was not Prussian.”
“She was American, as you know.”
“Bernard Baruch, von Kresse,” said Goering, distastefully, “is an American. What sort of American was your mother?”
“Her heritage was predominantly English. Some German, but mostly English. It doesn’t matter though. She was a Virginian. Her people have been Virginians for three hundred years. It’s the same as nationhood for them.”
“Was she, are you, related to this Nancy Langhorne, this lady member of the English Parliament? She is from Virginia.”
“My mother was not related to Lady Astor in any way. You must know this.”
“A pity, von Kresse. You could use an anti-Semite in your family. It would be helpful.”
“My sister Dagne should more than suffice. If not my stepmother.”
“Your half sister, von Kresse. And much more Prussian.”
“She is as much Polish as I am. And her mother came from Silesia, not Prussia.”
“Yes, but Dagne is not English, not American. Unlike you.”
“Did you have me ordered here only to discuss my genealogy? Is that all you people do these days?”
The Reichscommissioner’s expression relaxed into the dumpling smile reserved for favorites and intimates. He gestured to the two high-backed chairs that sat facing each other by the high windows and lowered himself into one.
“If you will not take breakfast with me, Martin, would you like some schnapps?” he asked, all cheerful host.
“It’s early.”
“That makes it much nicer.”
Von Kresse hesitated, then nodded assent. His nerves needed bolstering in this atmosphere, in this treacherous, evil companionship.
Goering touched a metal plate in the flooring with the heel of his boot. A military servant appeared almost instantly, and returned with a bottle and glasses nearly as quickly, as if they’d been waiting just outside. When he was gone, Goering leaned close.
“Martin,” he said, his voice now wet with affection. He reached with effort and patted von Kresse’s crippled knee. “I have asked you here for a very serious reason, for a matter of state.”
“A matter of state that concerns me?”
“The war.”
“What war? The last war?”
“The new war. The war that must not come. The war that you know and I know would destroy Germany, destroy Prussia, just as the last one almost did.” Goering sat up very straight now, all seriousness. “They are saying that war ultimately is inevitable. Himmler. Goebbels. The Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. All of them. But they are wrong. The army does not want this war. I do not want it. And now a chance has come to hand, a small chance, a miraculous chance, but a real one, to prevent it. You would jump at such a chance, would you not, Martin? Because if we don’t take advantage of this, war may indeed be inevitable.”
Von Kresse said nothing, waiting. Art collections did not survive well in wartime. When Goering drank from his schnapps, he did the same.
“You are now very much the pacifist,” said Goering, setting down his empty glass. “You wear this handsome uniform in Berlin, but home in East Prussia? Never. You are all tweeds and country clothes. Squire von Kresse. You are never with your regiment. Your adjutant virtually commands it. You have given up shooting. You read, play chess, dally with the ladies. You write letters abroad, very dangerous letters, to Poland, to England. To America.”
“You have read them?”
“Of course. Welcome, please, to the Third Reich. My own letters are read. Because you preach such a moderate, peace-loving philosophy to your correspondents, yours have been tolerated. Such sentiments are quite useful at this juncture. It is how we would like the Reich to be perceived.”
Germany was to be host to the world’s nations the next year for the Olympics. A docile England had just agreed to allow a German U-boat tonnage equal to its own.
“You said ‘matter of state,’ Herr Reichscommissioner.”
“A matter of the greatest concern. And it has always been my principal concern. You know, Martin, my interests in helping to bring the party to power were never the same as the others’. I of course agree with everything the Führer believes and has said. But the excesses that some—Himmler, Goebbels. Well, they go too far, Martin. I am different from them. I joined the party because the honor of Germany had been so abused. And our honor. The officers. You remember how we were treated. Mein Gott, Martin, you had a brick thrown at you in Leipzig! You, with forty-four victories! We were spat upon, treated like swine. We heroes of the war!”
Goering had been born in Bavaria, the son of a minor diplomat. He had grown up in a castle owned by a wealthy Jew. He had taken much more joy in being a German officer—an oberleutnant by the end of the war—than von Kresse had.
His talk was rot. As interior minister for Prussia, he had introduced the secret police to Germany as a method of political control. He had also introduced the concentration camp, a British invention of the Boer War that Goering and Himmler put to much more ruthless and sweeping use. Goering would always do whatever he felt was necessary to achieve a goal, no matter what it might mean.
“The matter of state, Hermann.”
Goering seemed pleased rather than offended by the familiar address. “Germany will be restored, Martin. We shall regain what is ours. All that the kaiser aspired to shall come to pass. But who is the key to this?”
“The Führer?”
“Of course, but what I mean to say is, what country stands most in our way?”
“The Soviet Union.”
“They, as always, pose the greatest military threat, and are necessarily a preoccupation of yours, Martin. We cannot prevail if the Soviets make common cause with the West. But I cannot imagine this happening. We could march into Prague, Vienna, even Warsaw, and I think Stalin would not raise a hand. They are so insular, the Russians, so xenophobic. The essence of Bolshevism is paranoia. No. The key to our future is England. Without the English, the French will do nothing. They ha
ve trouble now governing themselves. England is in many ways more our friend. If the English remain amiable, then we shall attain what we require peacefully. There shall be no war.”
“As always, you are too optimistic.”
“Mind your manners, Herr Markgraf, and listen. The old English king is unwell. Ribbentrop thinks he may not live a year. The heir to the throne, Edward, is friendly toward us. Sehr freundlich. He is very popular with the English people. When he is king, it should go very easy for us. There should be no war. There couldn’t be war, since he would not oppose us. With his immense personal popularity, he could prevent the British Parliament from opposing us. And we have many friends there as it is.”
“You seem quite certain about all this.”
“The British royal family is German, as you know. It was an embarrassment to them in the Great War, but it is so. They are the most German monarchy in the world. Our Hanovers replaced the Stuarts. Marriages brought in more Germans—Brandenburg, Mecklenburg, Saxe-Meiningen, Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Teck, Hesse. They change names. Saxe-Coburg becomes Windsor. Battenberg becomes Mountbatten. But they are German. The King of England is more German than you, Martin. You know all this.”
“Queen Mary, the former Princess of Teck …”
“For all her Germanness—and she still can’t speak proper English—the prince’s mother is not so friendly to us. She is a major part of my concern. She believes in the English traditions. She was much against us in the Great War.”
“Hermann, you are being most indirect. It is unlike you.”
Goering shifted his weight, an elaborate effort.
“Queen Mary dislikes her son the heir, as does the king,” he said. “And the heir dislikes them. When he becomes king, she will be irrelevant to the scheme of things. A cypher. As long as he stays king. With his brother, Albert George, the next in line, it is different. Mary adores him. He is in thrall to her. An obedient little boy. He has stayed clear of our friends, Prince Edward’s friends. He is against us.”
“He is not the heir.”
“He is der Nächste. You know of Mrs. Simpson, Prince Edward’s American mistress?”
Dance on a Sinking Ship Page 5