The Parsifal Pursuit

by Michael McMenamin

  Mattie took off her dress, threw on her robe, walked to the loo and washed her face. She was lonely. And barely a day apart from Cockran. She wanted to erase all that happened today and tonight but it wasn‘t going to be easy. Back in her cabin, she didn‘t need one, but she fixed a drink anyway and sat at the edge of her bed, staring down at the dim lights of a freighter below. She felt worse now than when she boarded the airship. The thing Cockran didn‘t understand––or maybe he did––was that after her father had died on that lonely mountain road in Scotland, when the last living member of her family had left this earth, something inside her switched off. The part of her that worried about dying; that cared whether she lived or died. All she had left was her career and for that she would risk almost anything. It made her feel alive. The truth was that when she climbed onto the outside of the zeppelin today, she didn‘t think for a second about her own safety or that she was risking her life. She had left that part of her behind a long time ago.

  Bourke was right. She couldn‘t give up her career but if she cared at all about him and Paddy––and she loved them both so much––she had to stop being so impulsive, so heedless of danger, so indifferent to the possibility of her own death. She just wasn‘t sure she knew exactly how to switch that part of her back on.

  16.

  The Crown Prince

  Amsterdam

  Friday, 29 May 1931

  THE roar of the three engines on the Lufthansa trimotor was deafening as the large plane powered down through the clouds on its approach to Schiphol, the Amsterdam aerodrome. Kurt von Sturm made a mental note to take the train back to Berlin. The current generation of airships was not designed to compete with airplanes on short flights from one city to another, but the comfort and quiet of an airship on long journeys would never be challenged by these metal-clad monsters which had to stop and refuel every few hours. An airship flight was more like a train where you could have civilized conversations uninterrupted by the roar of engines.

  Sturm stared out the window, still bemused by his failure to seduce his prey. And he had been so close, their kiss long and passionate, her body pressed eagerly to his. Perhaps if he had pushed matters, he may have succeeded. But, he thought, the kiss alone had been worth it.

  Sturm‘s only companion on the Lufthansa flight from Munich to Amsterdam was the folder which German Army Intelligence, courtesy of General von Schleicher, had prepared for Sturm regarding the Kaiser and his son, the Crown Prince. Sturm leafed through its contents. The Kaiser had been in exile in Holland for over eleven years, living at his estate in Doorn in the manner he imagined an English country gentleman would do, a way of life entirely fitting for a grandson of England‘s Queen Victoria. Rumors of a Hohenzollern restoration had been rife in Germany for years but, according to German intelligence, the Kaiser was not actively behind any of their plots. The old man was a patriot, willing to do his duty if his country called as it now was doing, thanks to the Geneva Group.

  The Crown Prince was another story entirely. The men of Geneva did not want a short-term figurehead to replace Hindenburg once he had been eliminated. Trading one aging legend for another would not provide a continuing symbol of Germany‘s unity. That left the Crown Prince who was no prize. The intelligence dossier on him stated that he drank to excess, was a heavy gambler and had personally broken up four marriages with his womanizing. Though he appeared to have, on the surface, an impressive war record, Sturm noted that the Crown Prince himself had never personally been under enemy fire even if he had issued the orders that sent his units into battle. The Crown Prince did not lead from the front but rather from far behind the fire trenches at his headquarters securely in the rear.

  Doorn, Holland

  STURM had never met the Kaiser in person. They sat in the Kaiser‘s study in his large rambling home in the Dutch countryside. The atmosphere was gloomy and oppressive. Dark wood paneling, heavy mahogany furniture, and floor to ceiling drapes which allowed little light to enter the room. The Kaiser wore a heavy Scottish tweed suit and his thinning hair was pure white as was his mustache and neatly-trimmed Van Dyke beard. He looked frail but otherwise in good health, his cheeks pink and the rest of his complexion ruddy, reflecting that he spent much time out of doors, tending the formal gardens side-by-side with the gardener.

  The complexion of the Crown Prince was equally ruddy but, Sturm surmised, for different reasons, most notably the large crystal tumbler of scotch in his hand, obviously not his first of the day, even though it was barely 3:00 p.m. The Crown Prince wore white flannel trousers and a navy blazer with the Hohenzollern family crest on the breast pocket.

  The Kaiser spoke first. “We are pleased that you have agreed to assist us in restoring the heilege lance to the House of Hohenzollern. A spear once possessed by our blood relatives, Frederick Barbarossa and Frederick the Great, deserves a more fitting home.”

  “What my father means,” the Crown Prince interrupted, the curled ends of his mustache quivering as he talked, “is that the recent study published in England is but one piece of a larger puzzle which coincides with intelligence received by us, both before and after the war. We don‘t know by whom, but we know we were betrayed before the war. That is the only explanation for Franz Josef canceling the plans for an exhibition of German historical treasures in Berlin which would have included the Spear of Destiny. His Majesty and I interviewed Professor Campbell and we believe his monograph is accurate. The spear now at the Hofburg is not genuine ”

  Sturm watched silently as the Crown Prince became more animated. “Professor Campbell told us privately what he had withheld from publication, namely who took the Spear and where it was hidden. Recently, additional intelligence has come to us from agents still loyal to the German crown. A retired officer of the Imperial Austrian Army may have information to help us. Here is his name and address,” the Crown Prince said, handing Sturm a folded piece of stationery. “He lives on the outskirts of Alexandria, Egypt where he‘s been known to boast in nightclubs of the role he played––always a central role––in spiriting the sacred lance from the Hofburg and carrying it to safety at a mysterious castle high in the Austrian Alps.”

  The aging Kaiser spoke again. “Find this man, Herr von Sturm. Find this officer. Make him tell you where the Lance is located. We don‘t have much time. Hindenburg is old, older than me. My family is prepared to reclaim our heritage once the President is called to his reward in the afterlife. But before that can happen and the Crown Prince can take his rightful place on the Prussian throne, we must have the Spear. Without it, Germany will never regain her greatness. With it, we will. Find us the Spear, Herr von Sturm. Find us the Spear.”

  17.

  Negotiating With Hitler

  Berchtesgaden, Germany

  Friday, 29 May 1931

  MATTIE McGary smoothly downshifted her silver BMW roadster as she approached yet another hairpin curve. She negotiated the curve and then pushed the accelerator to the floor once more, the wind ruffling her tousled red hair as she did so. At first, the interview with Hitler had seemed an honor bestowed on her by Hearst, trusting her to negotiate important contracts with Hitler today followed by Mussolini on Monday. Now, however, they were simply chores whose completion would bring her that much closer to commencing her quest to complete her father‘s life work. Finding the missing Spear of Destiny. She had a sudden pang of guilt. Would she feel the same way in Venice, wanting the fortnight with Cockran to pass quickly? If so, she‘d better not let it show. That would not help patch things up between them.

  The cloudless sky above her was a deep cerulean blue and the air was crisp and cool. Already, she was beginning to feel better about her last night on the airship. Thank God the music had ended when it did. She knew she had to find a way to begin being more careful, the way she used to before the war, but as she powered into another hairpin turn, tires screeching, she laughed. It wasn‘t going to be easy. She had been living this way for so long and she liked it. Maybe just letting Bou
rke know she was aware it was a problem would be enough for awhile.

  Hearst had made her agree not to bring up controversial subjects during her interview with Hitler. Securing his signature on the contract took precedence over headlines. Nazi anti-Semitism was one of those verboten subjects, so Mattie had decided to make a two-pronged flanking attack. She would begin by asking Hitler‘s views on the arts, painting and music especially, which would give Hitler the opportunity to blame the Jews for degenerate art and music. Once she had Hitler softened up, she would move in and nail him with an ever-so-sweet question regarding the notorious anti-Semite Henry Ford whose photograph, according to the Hearst clippings she read, occupied a place of honor on Hitler‘s desk at the Brown House. An autographed photo, for god‘s sake! Herr Hitler,what do you most admire about Mr. Ford?

  Mattie repeated the question aloud until her voice was completely neutral, betraying no hint of her own feelings. She turned right onto a smaller winding road, only one car-width wide. A mile up the road, she pulled up in front of a sturdy gate. Two men, both dressed head to toe in black, stood in front of the gate, each holding a submachine gun suspended from a leather strap over his shoulder. She gave them her name and one guard went back to the guardhouse while the second guard kept his submachine gun trained on her.

  The man checked and nodded his head affirmatively. “The fraulein’s name is on the approved list of visitors.” Mattie saw the second guard relax slightly, his finger moving away from the trigger, but he otherwise kept the weapon pointed at her while the first guard returned and thoroughly searched her car from the boot to the hood, as well as the undercarriage beneath.

  The scene was a distinct contrast, Mattie reflected, to the last time she met Hitler when the two of them had strolled alone together to the Café Heck in mid-afternoon, with no bodyguards anywhere in sight. She wondered how else he had changed from the man she saw in the Burgerbraukeller that fateful November night in 1923, three days after her interview.

  Munich

  Thursday, 8 November 1923

  THE Burgerbraukeller was heavily timbered, smoke-filled and noisy, the smell of beer and sweat permeating the atmosphere. Mattie was sitting in the balcony with a good view of the speaker‘s platform erected at one end of the large, high-ceilinged room. She and Helmut Stein, her photographer, were good friends, as well as colleagues, so the wait had been pleasant. They bought two hefty steins of rich Doppelbock and waited for the fireworks Putzi had promised.

  “I just don‘t understand,” Helmut said, for what may have been the fourth or fifth time. She had lost count. “Why does the press pay so much attention to the National Socialists?”

  “I suppose that‘s what we‘re here to find out tonight, now isn‘t it?”

  “Tonight? More like every waking moment of the day with you. Why must you cover these people? Why go so far as being friendly with a fat-headed bigot like Göring and even flirt with that pretentious bastard Hanfstaengl?”

  “Look,” she snapped, “If I don‘t see them socially, I won‘t get the story and you won‘t get your photos. They want to take over. If they try, that means news and I intend to be there. I‘d shake hands with the devil if it meant I‘d have a front row seat at the Apocalypse.”

  Helmut responded by taking a large gulp of his Doppelbock, a man‘s way of pouting in Germany. She didn‘t regret what she‘d said; she meant every word of it. Nothing irritated her more than when someone tried to get in the way of her story. Mattie was relieved to have their awkward silence interrupted by the short, heavily-jowled figure of Gustav von Kahr, the Bavarian Minister-President, as he began to speak, reading in a dull monotone.

  Kahr was thirty minutes into his speech when it happened. There was a loud clamor at the opposite end of the hall and the crowd‘s attention was drawn away from the droning Kahr to the steel-helmeted Storm Troopers entering the room, nearly fifty of them, all heavily armed. On the floor below, people were standing on their chairs to see what was happening and, above them, Mattie, Helmut and others rose as well. The Storm Troopers were holding the crowd back and Mattie watched as the familiar figure of Adolf Hitler strode in hatless, holding a pistol at his side, flanked by two armed body guards. Hitler wore a severe black dress suit, his Iron Cross prominently displayed around his neck. It looked to Mattie as if Hitler were shouting something, but no one could hear him above the noise of the crowd. She watched as the two body guards roughly moved two members of the audience out of the way and placed a chair in the middle of the aisle. Hitler stood upon the chair, raised his Browning pistol high above his head, and fired a shot straight up, the noise reverberating through the hall. The crowd grew silent.

  “The national revolution has started! There are six hundred armed troops surrounding the building. If anyone resists, I‘ll have a machine gun put in the gallery!” Hitler shouted, gesturing upward to where Mattie and Helmut sat. With body guards clearing a path, he then strode to the speaker‘s platform and, at gunpoint, forced President von Kahr to leave with him.

  Mattie watched the bulky body of Hermann Göring take von Kahr‘s place at the podium. “Calm yourselves, everyone,” Göring said. “Our action is not directed at the President, the army or the police. Remain in your places. You‘ve got your beer. There‘s no need to leave,” Göring said and took a long swallow from the stein in his hand. The crowd laughed.

  Ten minutes later, Hitler was back. He repeated Göring‘s assurances that their actions that night were not directed at the army or the police. “The only ones who need fear us are the Berlin Jew government and the November criminals of 1918. General Ludendorff must become leaderin-chief of the National German Army. President von Kahr is talking right now with the head of the Bavarian militia and the police. They are struggling hard to reach a decision. May I say to them that you will stand behind them?”

  Mattie shivered as the crowd of beer drinkers bellowed their support. Beside her, Helmut looked very pale. Below, Hitler raised his pistol. “I can say this to you. That the German revolution begins tonight or we will all be dead by dawn!” The crowd cheered again.

  Thirty minutes later, President von Kahr returned to the stage, accompanied by Seisser, the head of the Bavarian state police, and General von Lossow. Hitler stood off to the side, beaming with approval as each man in turn pledged his loyalty to the dawn of a new day in Germany. The crowd once more roared its support with twice the intensity as before.

  Haus Wachenfeld

  Obersalzburg, Germany

  Friday, 29 May 1931

  HITLER had the same piercing blue eyes Mattie remembered from 1923. But the nervous mannerisms were no longer there. He was now as smooth and self-assured as any politician Mattie had ever interviewed. Smoother than most, Mattie had to admit when she found he was not so easily outflanked on the subject of Jews as Mattie had planned. When she asked him about art, Hitler was quick to condemn the art of modernists like Chagall and the Jewish influence through their art commentary. He hastened to identify, however, several minor Jewish artists whom he knew personally and whose classical art he admired.

  “I am, most of all, a hopeless Romantic, Fraulein.” Hitler said. “Rembrandt, Brueghel, Vermeer, Tintoretto, Tiepolo, Titian, Leonardo, Botticelli. And the Dutch, of course, van Dyck and Reubens. But, of the Spanish, I fear, only Goya is worthwhile.”

  Mattie was out of her league. She had no idea whether any of those artists were Jews. Probably not but it was the same with music. Hitler knew more than she did. He named several Jewish musicians whose work he enjoyed. The closest he came to an anti-Semitic comment was his observation that it was odd the Jews had failed to produce a single great composer, given how many talented musicians there were among the Jews. They were good at copying, Hitler explained, but not at originality.

  “What about Mendelssohn?” Mattie asked, hopefully. At least she knew he was a Jew.

  Hitler made a face. “Ach, he proves my point. Mendelssohn is overrated. His music is pleasant enough but too cloying and
sentimental. Second-hand. Hardly original. But Edvard Grieg and his score for Ibsen‘s Peer Gynt? True genius. You were here in 1923, Fraulein, ” Hitler said. “Did you not see the superb stage production in Berlin? My intellectual mentor, Dietrich Eckhardt, was the producer. He and Ibsen were great friends.”

  Mattie had not and said so. She thought briefly of asking questions about Henry Ford at that point, but Hitler clearly had his anti-Semitic antennae up and, so far, Mattie was no match for him. Much to her surprise, Hitler raised the same subject which had caused him to lose his temper with her years ago.

  “Consider Wagner for a moment, Fraulein. He is an acquired taste for some but there is no denying his originality. Or his power. In many ways, Wagner foretells the future. Parsifal is a good example. When you and I last talked, I had only read the opera. I did not see it performed until 1925, shortly after I was released from prison. But once I saw it, all became clear. The idea of a state built on the principles of a medieval Order, fanciful though it may seem, is one that for years has struck me as thoroughly feasible. I can see the same thing in Lohengrin,” Hitler continued, “with knights in shining armor called to the service of the Grail and pledged to lance adversaries low with the sword.”