He is posing these questions in relation to Hansi, of course. The dog was a stray, after all, and he picked him up in good faith that he was a German dog.
Is it possible that what he actually found was a devious Jewish pet, pulling the wool over his eyes in order to escape being put down? If that were the case, Wünsche would be guilty of an offence. His career would be over.
Hansi is certainly no hunting dog; that makes him suspicious. On the other hand: he loves German sausage. Are Jews not kosher?
And so the Hauptsturmführer’s thoughts go around in circles. He likes Hansi. Naturally, though, he would shoot him on the spot if the law required it. But it hasn’t yet come to that.
He decides to take Hansi for a walk in front of the Ministry the next morning, very casually, right at the time when Hermann Göring arrives for the day. No-one can differentiate a German dog from a Jewish dog better than the Reichsmarshall.
The plan proves successful.
The imposing state carriage drives up, and out of it climbs the Reichsmarshall, dressed particularly smartly today. He is wearing a snow-white uniform with gold buttons and braid, and his chest is littered with orders and medals. Over his shoulders lies a fur sash that reaches down to the floor, presumably mink or chinchilla.
Seemingly by coincidence, Erwin Wünsche is standing on the grassy area in front of the drive. At the end of the lead is Hansi, in the process of lifting his leg over a cornflower.
“Wünsche,” calls Göring in surprise, “what are you doing here? Are you not on duty today?”
The Hauptsturmführer salutes. “I’m always on duty, Herr Reichsmarshall! The German people are aware of their high moral obligation towards animals!”
“Bravo!” replies Göring, pleased that the preamble to his Reich Animal Protection Law is being put into practice.
“Is that your dog?” he asks.
“Yes, Herr Reichsmarshall,” replies Wünsche. “Yes and no. He is everyone’s dog. We follow the Führer! That applies to the German people and German dogs.”
Göring nods in approval. “So what’s the little chap’s name?”
“Hansi, Herr Reichsmarshall,” replies Wunsche.
“Hansi Herr Reichsmarshall?” smirks Göring. “That’s a long name for such a little dog.”
He winks to show that he’s making a joke. Wünsche salutes, a little taken aback. It is intended to mean: joke understood.
Now the conversation becomes more serious. The Hauptsturmführer summons up his courage. “Herr Reichsmarshall, please allow me to ask you a question. One that only you, as the highest authority on German animals, can answer. Is Hansi a good dog?”
Göring feels flattered, and for this reason he wants to give the question due consideration.
He circles around Hansi, estimates his height and checks his tail. Then he pontificates: “The breed was reared by Prince Albrecht zu Solms-Braunfels, a noble Hessian family that goes back to the twelfth century. The lion is its heraldic animal.”
“Hansi,” he calls approvingly, “the blue blood of the Count Palatine runs in your veins. The stately castles of noble knights are your kennels.”
Even his testicles don’t escape an appraisal. Göring comes to his ceremonious conclusion: “Hansi, you are a good dog.”
The dog can’t help but feel a certain pride. Blue-blooded, who would have thought it? He has to admit that he’s always had a weakness for accolades. In Hollywood he was given the “Golden Hercules.” And now, for the role of Hansi, the seal of approval from the Reichsmarshall. A tragic role, therefore significantly more demanding.
This fills him with satisfaction.
Sirius is saved. For the time being, at least.
“Wünsche,” says Goring, “it’s actually very convenient that we should run into one another, as I was planning to speak to you anyway. And Hansi has strengthened my resolve. I have big plans for you.”
“Your tomatoes,” he continues, “are proof of your high regard for organic food. I haven’t forgotten the 5,000 nesting boxes, on the double. You are a man of action. And now I’m seeing that you’re a dog lover, too. All respect to you!”
The eulogist stretches his hand out into the German greeting.
“Hauptsturmführer Wünsche!” he exclaims. “What I have said qualifies you for the most responsible role there is in the Reich Chancellery. I’m promoting you to personal adjutant of the Führer!”
*
Wednesday afternoon. Sirius creeps out of the house and makes his way to Benno Fritsche’s apartment, taking care that nobody sees him slip in through the garden gate.
Fritsche is not alone. He is surrounded by men smoking cigars and scowling worriedly. They call themselves “the Circle.”
“This is Sirius,” Fritsche introduces him.
“Welcome to the Circle,” says Count von Studnitz. The other members of the circle introduce themselves too, clearly not at all taken aback by the fact that a dog is joining their midst.
They know his story. An American in the group, called Ted Bloomfield, even knows his films.
“You saved Luckyville,” he says. “Bravo!”
The others laugh.
“We want to save Germany,” says Count von Studnitz. “Maybe you can help us with that.”
Save Germany? Sirius gives a start. He has no idea how he could help with that.
“Does he have any idea what we’re saying?” asks the man who introduced himself as Professor Wundt.
“He understands every word,” says Fritsche. As proof, he lays two pieces of paper on the floor, one of which has “yes” written on it, and the other “no.”
“Is today Tuesday?” asks Fritsche.
Sirius jumps on “no.”
“Is today Wednesday?” calls Bloomfield.
Sirius jumps on “yes.”
And so the questioning continues, until Professor Wundt triumphantly demands: “Does nothingness exist?”
Sirius jumps on “no.”
“He’s contradicting Nietzsche!” marvels Wundt.
“And he’s right to!” retorts Count von Studnitz. “Nihilism was the beginning of the end!”
“Now, now,” retorted Wundt, changing tack. “If anyone was right then it was Kierkegaard.”
“We’re going round in circles again,” groans Bloomfield.
Sirius doesn’t understand the circuitous debate. Is this why they are called “the Circle”?
Fritsche bangs his fist down on the table.
“Listen, all of you!” he cries. “You’re making the dog nervous. He must think we’re all crazy.”
“Sirius,” says Count von Studnitz in a calm tone, “we are ‘the Circle’. We are an underground organisation. We are in the resistance. Do you understand what I mean?”
Sirius jumps on the paper with “no.”
“Germany is in the hands of monsters,” reinforces Wundt. “That’s what we’re fighting against.”
“Monsters!” repeats Bloomfield. “Exactly!”
Sirius jumps on “yes.”
The poor dog is utterly confused. All he wanted was to pay a visit to Uncle Benno, his erstwhile knight in shining armour, the familiar face on the advertising pillars.
“I was the poster boy!” laments Fritsche. “I gave my face to this evil spectacle. And what do I see when I look in the mirror? A mask. A lie.”
“Keep your voice down!” admonishes Count von Studnitz. He has to prevent the dissenter from being too obvious about his resistance. Being underground is not Fritsche’s strong point.
Sirius is tired. He wants to go home.
“We know that you live in the house of a Hauptsturmführer,” whispers Bloomfield. “You’ll be sure to hear something here and there that could be of interest to us.”
“We help you, and you help us,” says Count von Studnitz.
*
The letter with the swastika seal arrives in Hollywood like a missive from hell. And that’s exactly what it is.
The Crown family is
so happy that Sirius is alive. And yet, the letter closes with the words “There is nothing you can do for your beloved dog now except pray. He is in the service of our Fatherland. With love, Benno.”
Fatherland? Not even Jack Warner, Hercules’ creator, could have imagined that the little dog was currently poised to save Germany. The script said Ancient Rome, but Berlin is his fate.
The summer is drawing to a close. Else and Andreas welcome their child into the world, a boy, Johnny. The proud grandparents are filled with joy.
Georg has completed his medical studies. He is now an assistant doctor in a practice in Santa Monica.
But there is no light without shadow. Carl Crown is summoned to see Jack Warner. Even as he steps into the office, he already has what people call a “uneasy feeling”. And it proves to be well-founded.
“Any news on the dog?” asks Warner gruffly.
Crown launches into a story which is supposed to end with the bit about the service to the Fatherland.
“Where’s the dog?” bellows Warner.
Crown asks for his understanding regarding the Second World War; Hitler wanted it, so Berlin has no choice but to be part of it all.
“Enough about Hitler,” interrupts Warner stroppily. “That man has already unleashed enough misery, and the dog plays no part in it. But here in the studio, the dog does play a part. The lead part – Hercules!”
He thinks for a moment, his mind racing.
“The world,” he says after a while, “wants Hercules. It’s irrelevant who plays the dog. Find a dog that looks like your dog! A doppelgänger.”
Crown is outraged. “A doppelgänger? Impossible. There isn’t one, Sirius is unique.”
“Unique?” roars Warner. “Nonsense. Every dog is replaceable.”
“Not Sirius,” says Crown, firmly and abruptly.
Jack Warner stares at him with the ice-cold eyes of a shark cheated out of its prey. Then he makes the kind of hand gesture with which someone might swat away a fly.
“Leave the Chevrolet in the courtyard. And vacate that strange glass house of yours. Immediately.”
In the blink of an eye, Carl Crown has become jobless and homeless.
*
Erwin Wünsche begins his position in the Reich Chancellery. The Führer’s quarters are located on the first floor. Willy Kannenberg, the so-called house intendant, is responsible for the Führer’s housekeeping. He briefs Wünsche on his new role.
“The first job of the morning is to iron the world map,” he says. “The Führer hates it when the world map is creased.”
Wünsche makes a note.
“Breakfast,” continues Kannenberg. “The Führer goes to bed late and rises late. Krause, the valet, will give you the signal. Crispbread, butter, honey, cocoa. Always the same thing. But Lange, the cook, knows all of that.”
Wünsche makes a note.
“On the stroke of 12 o’ clock, Julius Schaub will read out the schedule for the day. Schraub is the Führer’s chief adjutant and your immediate superior. The schedule, of course, is dependent on the Führer’s appointments. Essentially speaking, you are responsible for everything that moves. That’s easy enough to remember.”
“But,” Wünsche hesitates, “when you think about it everything moves, in a way.”
“Does it?” asks Kannenberg. He points at the chandelier. “Is that moving right now, in your eyes?”
“No,” admits Wünsche.
Kanneberg nods solemnly. “Correct. So you are not responsible for it. Five things move, generally speaking. Tyres, pictures, Blondi, breakfast and the Front.”
Wünsche makes a note.
“Tyres,” explains Kanneberg, “means the fleet of vehicles. Erich Kempka is the Führer’s chauffeur. Pictures. I mean moving pictures. The Führer likes to watch films in the evening. Blondi. The Führer’s dog. She needs a lot of movement.”
“Understood,” says Wünsche. “I have a dog myself.”
“No, no,” corrects Kannenberg, “the walking is taken care of by Paul Feni, Blondi’s keeper. You are the contact person. You coordinate. Vet appointments. Transport. To the Berghof, to the Wolf’s Lair. That kind of thing.”
Wünsche makes a note.
“So what’s left?” asks Kannenberg, checking the newcomer’s quick-wittedness.
“Breakfast and the Front!” calls Wünsche.
“Correct,” comes the answer. “Breakfast is taken to the Führer. It is the only meal which he likes to eat alone. For lunch and dinner he dines in company. Now, the Front…”
Wünsche interrupts, startled. “I hope I’m not responsible for the soldiers on the Front. I mean, they’re moving, after all.”
“Of course not,” Kanneberg reassures him. “The Führer himself takes care of that. Your job, as I already mentioned, is to iron the map of the world.”
“But I don’t see where the movement is,” says Wünsche assiduously. “In what way does the map of the world move?”
“It crinkles,” replies Kannenberg.
*
Air-raid siren. The English bombers are coming back. In the middle of the night, the sirens suddenly begin to wail.
The ear-piercing sound tears the Wünsches from a deep sleep. They lie in bed fully dressed at night, and have done so ever since the high alert was given on the radio. The suitcase stands packed and ready by the front door. So they are out on the street in a matter of moments and on their way to the nearest air-raid shelter.
The planes are already circling in the sky, dropping ‘Tannenbäume’, rocket flares designed to illuminate the targets for the bombers. Immediately in their wake follow the deadly fighter planes with explosives and fire bombs.
The bunker at Bahnhof Zoo can accommodate 18,000 people, and yet it is still a matter of luck that the Wünsches are able to find shelter at the last minute. The crush is intense and any space has long since been filled.
“No pets!” bellows the air-raid warden at the entrance. He means Sirius.
Erwin Wünsche protests – but in vain. The warden remains firm.
“No pets! No Jews! We don’t even have enough space for people!”
Sirius has to stay outside.
The fear in the bunker chokes throats shut. The heat is stifling. The stench of the burning city forces its way into the cellar through the air vents. Gertrud trembles with fear, clinging onto her husband. He is as pale as a corpse, staring at the concrete ceiling as it tremors more dangerously with every explosion. The bombs are falling right above them. Ulrich and Rudi cry, pressing their hands against their ears.
Sirius trots along the Kurfürstendamm. He could creep into a doorway, he could seek shelter under a bridge, he could flee into a cellar.
But no. He walks right in the middle of the street. The pyrotechnics of the phosphorus bombs illuminate the night sky. The glowing splinters set trees on fire. The theatre on Kurfürstendamm goes up in flames, the German Opera House on Bismarkstrasse, the university. The Deutschlandhalle arena is burning.
Sirius walks through the sea of flames. Proud and brave. He isn’t afraid of the Allies’ hailstorm of bombs.
And why would he be? After all, he is their ally.
*
In Stalingrad, the fate of the German Wehrmacht turns within a matter of days. The 6th Army has almost completely destroyed the city, and Hitler is already celebrating the victory of Operation Hubertus with a frenetic speech in the Löwenbräukeller beer hall in Munich.
But at the last moment, the Red Army makes a success of Operation Uranus, the counter-offensive. They encircle the enemy, and suddenly the German army is trapped. The Russian winter rages. The soldiers freeze and starve.
Hermann Göring, the supreme commander of the Luftwaffe, has announced Operation Winter Storm, the aerial rescue mission. But he is unable to make good on his promise. The Stalingrad cauldron becomes a deadly trap. A German soldier dies every seven seconds.
While this is happening, Erwin Wünsche irons around the Volga on the map of the worl
d with particular precision. Under no circumstances can the front line be allowed to crumple.
Krause, the valet, tiptoes over and gives the signal for breakfast. Lange, the cook, has laid out crispbreads, butter, honey and cocoa on the tray. The door opens, and out steps the Führer.
Erwin Wünsche finds himself standing right before Hitler for the first time. He stands to attention.
The Führer is a man whose side parting doesn’t sit quite right first thing in the morning, his hair is dishevelled, and even his famous moustache doesn’t have its distinctive shape until after his shave. He is wearing a dressing gown, and his feet are encased in slippers with the swastika emblem. For breakfast, he puts on his peaked cap with its wreath of oak leaves. He yawns.
“Is this the young man we have Göring to thank for?” he asks.
Wünsche salutes. “Ja, mein Führer!”
The Führer looks exhausted. The previous evening, he held one of his frequent monologues on the international situation deep into the night. His guests, fed with overcooked vegetables and unable to get a word in edgeways, are witnesses of the so-called “Table Talk.” As always at these events, the Führer’s thoughts are captured for posterity by a stenographer.
The evenings usually come to an end in the at-home cinema, where the Führer likes to unwind by watching Hollywood movies. Yesterday it was Walt Disney’s Snow White, his favourite.
“What do we have today?” he asks, pointing his crispbread at the man who is responsible for moving pictures. Wünsche, already familiar with the Führer’s tastes, suggests Laurel and Hardy.
“Very good,” approves the Führer.
The red light on the telephone illuminates, which means there is a call for the Führer. A highly unusual occurrence at this time of the morning. Everyone knows that the Führer’s official working day begins only once he has taken up residence, fresh and alert, at his desk in the Reich Chancellery. Right now, he is still sat at breakfast in his robe.
“Colonel-General Paulus,” whispers Rochus Misch, the bodyguard, and hands over the receiver.
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