He hadn’t said a word in greeting, merely acknowledging Kurt’s salute with a fleeting smile and waving a hand toward the chair already drawn up at the foot of the table. It was when he embarked on his monologue that Kurt became gradually aware of a change in Hitler’s voice and demeanor. The change wasn’t easy to define; it had, perhaps, as much to do with his choice of language—less incantatory and categorical than usual—as with the manner of his delivery, which was exceptionally calm and curiously ruminative, as if he were alone and thinking aloud. And this impression was reinforced by the fact that after a first thoughtful gaze he hardly glanced at Kurt again until he was finished. While he spoke, he slowly paced the length of the room before the two ceiling-high windows, pausing occasionally to stare out at the distant Alps.
“Most of what we have written so far will not be lost, my dear Armbrecht—that is the first thing I want to tell you. But some of it will have to be revised here and there to fit into a new framework, the shape of which I shall outline, if not definitively now, then at some later stage, when the edges begin to harden about its ultimate dimensions. For the moment, I want you to suspend work on the chapter dealing with the churches and prepare yourself for a radical departure from the premises upon which that section of Mein Sieg was founded.
“You will recall how in Vienna six years ago, on the eve of the Anschluss plebiscite, I publicly declared my belief that it was God’s will to send a youth from Austria into the Reich, to let him grow up, to raise him to be the leader of the nation so as to enable him to lead back his homeland into the Reich? Well, I have a confession to make. The words I chose to use on that occasion were deliberately tailored for a Catholic audience, to window-dress what I never doubted was the real reason for my victory—not God’s will but the might of the Wehrmacht and the strength of our party in Austria. And I never had cause to doubt, since then, that the key to every victory I have achieved over my enemies lay in the boldness and skill with which I deployed that awesome power in the field. Never, I say, until that evening in Madrid, a week ago today, when I met Archbishop Giovanni Donati.
“We were of course predestined to meet, I see all that now. What astounds me, when I think about it, is that it took this pious priest—out of all the brilliant and perceptive minds with which I have always surrounded myself—to illuminate the mystery and the phenomenon of Adolf Hitler and to clarify his historic mission on this earth.
“The whole world, Armbrecht, has been asking itself how a totally unknown and underprivileged child, born to the son of a poor Austrian cottager, could in the span of fourteen years’ political struggle raise Germany up from defeat and disgrace to become the greatest power in Europe, and how that same person, in the briefer span of seven years, could become overlord of the whole European continent, half of Russia and the entire Middle East. History certainly offers no precedent. But during that first evening in the Retiro Park, and in later discussions at the Royal Palace, Giovanni Donati gave me the key to the mystery.
“I have been divinely appointed, beyond any shadow of doubt, to work the will of God on earth. My mission is twofold: first, to cleanse the world of the Jewish-Bolshevik evil; then to rescue Christianity from the fatal consequences of its own decadence and decay. My military task is now almost accomplished. The spiritual mission facing me will in many respects be more formidable. But Donati will be at my side, with his comfort and his wise counsel. He is at present in Rome, seeking the Pope’s consent—which had better not be withheld—to his appointment as special papal legate to my headquarters. As soon as he arrives here we shall go into retreat, up there on the Kehlstein, and there we shall stay while he interprets for me the divine inspirations for which, as he puts it, I am the vessel and the viaduct on earth.”
Hitler had paused again to gaze out upon the Alpine landscape. Without turning around, so that Kurt had to strain not to miss a word, he went on: “I am telling you this for two reasons, my dear Armbrecht. In the first place, I want you to read carefully through your first draft of Mein Sieg and to make careful notes wherever the text needs to be revised in the light of this transcendental truth now revealed to us. You will especially look for, and establish, the parallels between events in the life of Christ and in my own life. As an obvious case in point, there was the defection of one of my closest disciples, Rudolph Hess, to my enemies—a Judas betrayal if ever there was one! You will find an abundance of similar parallels. My second reason is that I shall be asking you, on my descent from the Kehlstein, to take whatever edicts and pronouncements I may have decided upon and put them into an idiom that is not only unambiguous but recognizably in semantic tune, as it were, with the spiritual authority behind its message. Archbishop Donati makes no pretensions to literary skill. Bormann is a good fellow and immensely efficient but incapable of communing with the faithful of the Church. You, as a former practicing Catholic, will be sensitive to every doctrinal nuance, and you will be couching my pronouncements in terms acceptable to the lay Catholic intelligence. The susceptibilities of our Protestant and Evangelical Churches need not concern us. They will fall into line or be condemned to penniless obscurity in the backwaters of our national life.”
In the silence, as Hitler ended his monologue and moved slowly toward his desk, Kurt floundered for a foothold. The Fuehrer had obviously crossed from delusions of grandeur into a hallucinatory state of chronic paranoia. The nation was doomed in Hitler’s lifetime to a role beyond the pale of reason and humanity. But with Hitler’s talk of going “into retreat,” it was a case of now or possibly never, as far as Walter Armbrecht’s fate was concerned. Kurt had to quickly weigh the risks involved in disobeying Martin Bormann against the possible leverage provided by the Fuehrer’s new image of himself as God’s appointed.
Taking the plunge, he said, “May I ask your indulgence, my Fuehrer, and possible intercession in a personal matter?” “That’s something else I shall seek guidance on,” Hitler said sharply. “The whole preposterous mystique of so-called holy indulgences needs thorough examination.” Glancing quickly over at Kurt, as if surprised to see him still in his place, he raised his right hand in a curiously uncoordinated gesture, half salute, half blessing. “But we’ll have time to go into all that, later.” He gave a nod and walked around to his chair.
“It’s about my father—” The notebook fell from Kurt’s shaking hand as he stood up. He retrieved it and slipped it into his pocket. “He’s been sent to Dachau on false charges, my Fuehrer. If you’ll forgive me, for just one minute—-”
“Of course I forgive you!” Hitler snapped, sinking into his chair. “Now be a good fellow and get down to those revisions we talked about. So much to do before I am taken away!”
“My Fuehrer, if you would grant me—” The plea died on his lips, muted by the look Hitler sent him across the room. It was the old, glassy basilisk stare that could freeze the blood in one’s veins. Despairingly, Kurt raised his arm in salute and turned toward the door.
Sophie answered the telephone at once. “Kurt? Oh, thank God it’s you!”
“Are you all right, Sophie?”
“Fine. Just—well, what’s happening up there?”
“Has anyone called you?”
“Not yet. I have some clothes now, so I can—”
“I don’t think you’ll be hearing from him again. But about Father—”
“Good or bad? Tell me quickly!”
“Undecided.” His eyes were closed tight. “It’s going to take more time than I thought.”
“But Kurt! Remember where he is!”
“I know, I know. We’ve all got to be— Listen, Maedel: go home right now. Tell Mother I’ve at least seen to it that he’s safe, you know what that means. I’ll find some way to— Sophie, are you still there?”
There was a whispered affirmative.
“I’ll get a letter to you by tomorrow.” And then, deliberately for the ears of any SD monitor: “I’m sure the Fuehrer will intervene. It’s just a question of timing.”
I
WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR hours of the Vatican’s announcement of Monsignor Donati’s precipitate transfer from Madrid to Hitler’s headquarters, the top Party leadership had converged on Obersalzberg.
Something of profound consequence was afoot, they all knew that. And whatever it was, it was certainly not covered by Bormann’s bland explanation that “the Chief and his religious adviser are working on a formula for our future relationship with Rome.” Above all, why this secrecy—to which Bormann was evidently privy—about the Fuehrer’s intentions, when he had always in the past been so ready to bore them with his monologues on religion?
None of the leaders had been allowed into Hitler’s presence between their descent on the Berghof and Hitler’s ascent to the Eagle’s Nest, almost immediately upon Donati’s arrival from Rome. They had to be content with a message conveyed by Bormann, inviting them to remain within call during the Fuehrer’s absence and to treat the Berghof as their home until his return. This they were doing, not for the splendid view from the broad terrace where they assembled before lunch every day but in the hope that one of them might have heard something through his own private grapevine that would throw some light on the Chief’s eccentric behavior. And as the days went by, with no break in the clouds of obscurity figuratively wreathing the Kehlstein’s bare peak, nerves began to tighten and fray as the lords of the Greater Reich, each in his own style, vented their spleen on one another and on the upstart Italian archbishop.
The afternoon of the second day of Hitler’s “retreat,” Kurt received a summons to call on Doctor Goebbels in his suite at the Platterhof guesthouse, a little way down the road from Kurt’s own quarters. It was five-thirty, and he had just made up his mind to seek out and confront Werner Voegler, who had so far completely ignored two separate written requests to visit Kurt in his rooms. It would have been a good time to catch the SS officer after his daily workout in the gymnasium, but Goebbels’s adjutant, Hauptsturmbannfuehrer Schwaegermann, strongly advised against keeping the Herr Doktor waiting.
“Very well. I’ll be right over.”
In fact it was a relief to postpone the confrontation with Voegler, which he had secretly been dreading. And now he could rationalize the relief by hoping that the Propaganda Minister might be persuaded to intervene on his father’s behalf.
Goebbels received him in the sitting room of his suite, dismissing his adjutant with a nod and gesturing Kurt into an armchair. He was wearing an immaculately pressed gray lounge suit and seemed physically unchanged from the person who had first interviewed Kurt two years ago at Munich airport, except for a slight retreat of the hairline from his lofty brow.
“A pleasure to see you again, Armbrecht. How’s the work going?”
“Reasonably well, Herr Doktor. It’s now mostly a matter of revisions.”
Goebbels nodded abstractedly and sat down at a small escritoire by the window, turning the chair to face Kurt. “Revisions —the carpet sweeper in every historian’s closet ...” His dark-brown eyes focused for a moment on Kurt’s empty left sleeve. “I can imagine this new development in the Fuehrer’s thinking is going to call for some pretty drastic revisions to the book?”
The reason for Goebbels’s invitation was now out in the open. The third-most-powerful man in the land, after Hitler and Himmler, had been reduced to pumping an army captain for information about what was going on in the Fuehrer’s mind! But Kurt’s heart sank as he realized that he had nothing to trade for Goebbels’s good will. To reveal, in defiance of Bormann and the Fuehrer himself, the insane truth behind Hitler’s ascent of the Kehlstein would be to seal the fate of his father and his own into the bargain. Groping for something to offer, he said, “There’s no doubt about that, Herr Doktor. The whole chapter on religion will almost certainly have to be rewritten.”
“Quite so,” the Minister murmured. “But of more immediate concern—from my standpoint, anyway—will be the task of reeducating the public to the Chief’s new policies. I should welcome any suggestions you might have, Armbrecht, for putting this across.”
He had one suggestion. It was that Goebbels, through his control of the Reich propaganda machine, should announce that the Fuehrer had lost his mind and was no longer to be trusted with Germany’s destiny. As the heresy momentarily stopped his tongue there came an encouraging smile from Goebbels.
“You find it surprising, my asking you that?”
“It’s immensely flattering, Herr Doktor. Unfortunately—” he groped for the right words—“except in the most general terms, the Fuehrer’s intentions—”
“—have yet to be clarified,” Goebbels put in crisply. “We all realize that. It’s why we’re gathered here. I understand, however, that the Fuehrer spoke to you in private only a few days before the announcement of Monsignor Donati’s appointment. No doubt he alluded to that event?”
“He did mention it in passing, Herr Doktor. I—well, I have the impression he is going to lean very much on Donati’s judgment in his future dealings with the Church.”
The little Reichsminister was showing signs of exasperation. “My dear fellow,” he said, with less than genial sarcasm, “you surprise me! May I ask what other immensely perceptive conclusions you drew from the Fuehrer’s remarks?”
“Forgive me,” Kurt muttered, blushing fiercely. And then, in a miserable effort to deflect Goebbels’s hostility: “I’m finding it hard to concentrate these days. A family problem. My father has been sent to Dachau.”
“Nobody’s going to hold that against a good National Socialist like yourself. Banish it from your mind. Getting back to this man Donati—”
“It’s the circumstances of the arrest, Herr Doktor,” Kurt blurted out. “The charges against him are false and malicious. If you would permit me to give you the—”
“Why me?” Goebbels threw up his delicately tapered hands. “You’re at the center of all executive power, here on the mountain! A word from the Fuehrer, to Reichsleiter Bormann—” Frowning, he flipped back the cuff from his wrist watch. “Which reminds me—”
Kurt stood up at once. He was being dismissed. With a last desperate attempt he said, “If the Herr Doktor could spare a few minutes, perhaps later today—?”
“We’ll see, we’ll see . . . Be a good fellow and send Schwaegermann in on your way out, will you?”
Voegler was still in the gymnasium below the main SS barracks, lolling in a canvas chair as he watched two blond giants pummeling each other about the boxing ring. He was wearing a long bathrobe with the “key” motif of the Leibstandarte Panzer division sewn on the breast. He glanced around as Kurt strode across the otherwise deserted gymnasium, but immediately redirected his attention to the ring.
“Scheffer, keep that right hand up! You’re throwing away points like a drunken Baltic sailor!”
Kurt, halting a few paces from Yoegler’s chair, said, “I believe we have something to talk about, Voegler.”
Voegler kept his eyes on the ring. “If it’s about your sister, you can save your breath. I have no further interest in her.”
“We’ll settle my sister’s account sometime, you and I. I want to talk about my father.”
Softly, through the narrow slit of his mouth, Voegler said, “I don’t like your tone, Captain. Watch it, or I might give you something else to go running to Bormann with.”
“I’m not a defenseless girl, Voegler—or an elderly academic. I want my father out of Dachau. What are you going to do about it?”
The vein on the left of Voegler’s brow was beginning to pulse. “Your father’s a traitor, Armbrecht. I wouldn’t lift a finger to help him, even if I had the power.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, Voegler. I’m only just getting my teeth into this.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do . . .” Voegler stood up suddenly and barked at the men in the ring. “That’ll be enough for today! Get your showers and rub down! On the double!” As the men scrambled under the ropes, he
strolled over to the wall and came back dangling a pair of four-ounce boxing gloves in one hand. “Let’s settle this in a man’s way. We’re about the same weight and you’ve got four years’ edge on me. If you can step down from one three-minute round in that ring, without help, I’ll see what I can do for your father. Otherwise, you need not bother me again with your family problems.”
“Aren’t you being rash? An SS Silver Medal for boxing, not to mention the fact that you’re one arm up on me?”
“The medal was twelve years ago. As for the arm—” He held up the two gloves. They were both right-handed. “If I use my left, even to block you, you’re the winner.”
Kurt turned away and started to strip down to his underwear. He had seen Voegler in the ring and he knew what he was letting himself in for; but he had boxed for his grammar school at sixteen and if he could manage to stay on his feet for three minutes, riding the punishment of those lethal four-ounce gloves, he would have Voegler honor-bound as an SS officer to keep his part of the bargain.
From the entrance to the locker room Voegler called out to him, “What size shoes?”
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