Mister Wolf

by Chris Petit

  ‘The question is was the Führer ever a guest of the clinic?’

  Schlegel could see as she stood there terrified that it was not for her to say.

  ‘There obviously is something,’ he said in a friendlier tone.

  There was. It was said the Führer sometimes visited.

  ‘And?’ prompted Schlegel.

  ‘Once, when I was changing sheets in a room and the door was open, he walked past.’

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’

  ‘He turned and stared for a long time. I thought I had broken the law even looking at him but in the end all he said was, “Good day,” and he walked on. Very polite.’

  She said he wore civilian clothes, was on his own and seemed preoccupied.

  ‘What else can you tell me?’

  Only that there was a steel door at the end of the corridor, which led up to an area at the top of the building where no one was permitted. Schlegel immediately thought of the falling man.

  ‘High security, with a guard?’

  ‘Just a locked door.’

  ‘Did anyone know what was up there?’

  ‘Everyone knew not to ask.’

  He believed her and didn’t know what to make of it.

  *

  Schlegel was still expected to fulfil his normal casework duties. The names on his Second Wave files required followup interviews, for further sorting. For this he could at least use the secretaries to make the necessary summons and he set aside time to deal with them: more sitting with frightened people in desperate rooms.

  If Schlegel lacked a first impression of Anna Huber, it was an increasingly common phenomenon. On an everyday level, people had learned to give nothing away. Huber was the last of that day’s Second Wave checks. Unlike those called before her, she retained her composure. She wore no wedding ring. Her demeanour was modest. No makeup, of course. Skin that could have been healthier with a better diet.

  At second glance, Schlegel saw she was undeniably good looking – auburn hair, hazel eyes and two becoming worry lines over the bridge of an aquiline nose.

  He gave his rehearsed speech, saying that in the light of recent events, everyone on file was being reconsidered. He looked at her card. Originally from Munich, early thirties. She would have been twelve when his father was gifted the Mein Kampf. Profession proofreader, Ministry of Propaganda.

  Huber said reasonably, ‘I didn’t know I had a file.’

  ‘By association. You are listed as having suspect relatives.’

  She remained silent without looking particularly worried.

  Schlegel felt almost as though she were interviewing him.

  ‘You know Munich.’

  Huber confirmed she had been raised there, with an expression that said he must know because it was on her card.

  ‘The cradle of National Socialism,’ declared Schlegel crassly. What was the matter with him?

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘What do you remember of those times?’

  Huber blew out her cheeks. ‘I was young.’

  He waited for her to go on. When she didn’t he filled in for her. ‘Concerned with a young woman’s things?’ God, he sounded laboured.

  ‘Whether to wear my hair up or down,’ she admitted.

  She wore it up at the moment.

  ‘Which did you decide?’ Schlegel asked, appalled by such leaden flirting.

  ‘I never did,’ she told him briskly.

  Schlegel wanted very much to see what her hair looked like down.

  ‘What did your family do in Munich?’ he asked, in an effort to sound more professional.

  He saw her hesitate at such a direct question.

  ‘My brother joined the brownshirts,’ she said.

  The brownshirts had been neutralised after the big internal revolution of 1934, with many shot. Enough to make the brother suspect.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He moved to the Munich Chamber of Commerce where he still works.’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Housewife. Before that a kindergarten teacher.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘He worked for the newspapers.’

  ‘As a reporter?’

  ‘Doesn’t it say?’ Huber asked.

  Schlegel shook his head. ‘It doesn’t appear to be a very complete file. Worked for newspapers?’

  ‘Yes. A typesetter.’

  If he had been a union man, it would be enough to put him down as suspect.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He was supposed to have come here to Berlin after he and my mother separated.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Ten years ago.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Frederick.’

  ‘Did he and your mother stay in touch?’

  ‘I don’t know. She died in 1937.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  She had a habit of touching her throat. Schlegel couldn’t remember if this was a sign of lying.

  ‘Did you and you father get on?’

  She gave him a strange look as if to say, why ever do you ask?

  It was his father he had been thinking about.

  *

  His father’s departure had never been questioned at home. Schlegel grew up believing going away was something people did, not that other fathers had. He knew from eavesdropping on adults that they lived in an age of shame and concluded his father’s absence was connected to that.

  That evening he took the train to Charlottenburg in the hope of finding Christoph at home, nervous about seeing him. For all Christoph’s having bought into the establishment, Schlegel suspected his old friend’s compromises were fewer than his own.

  Living as they did it was the impossible to question anything that fell outside proscribed areas. It was always better not to know. For that reason Schlegel had chosen not to address what else might have been happening in Budapest, much of it bizarre. Not that he expected Christoph to be frank but he was his only connection to anything else that might have gone on.

  Christoph showed no surprise as he answered the door, and shrugged with a coolness bordering on indifference as he motioned him in.

  A gramophone was playing. ‘Bruckner,’ said Christoph, knowing Schlegel wouldn’t know.

  Everything about Christoph was calculated: from the immaculate pressed white shirt, sharply creased flannels and tasselled loafers; to the rehearsed easy gestures and the positioning of furniture; to the size of the apartment in relation to Christoph’s solitary presence. Schlegel was offered sherry, an unusual drink and a gift from the Portuguese embassy.

  They sat in a formal reception room with parquet flooring, expensive rugs and a mixture of antique and modern furniture. The walls were covered with what Schlegel supposed was good art, landscapes mainly.

  ‘Fairly dull,’ said Christoph of the paintings. ‘I have to entertain. Burghers, diplomats and matrons. There’s an international aspect to the work.’

  Christoph made a point of not enquiring after Schlegel.

  ‘What paid for the sherry?’ asked Schlegel.

  ‘A Lisbon artist: Botelho – contemporary, quite collectible though not much outside Portugal. He once drew a weekly comic strip for children. A set was brought to my attention and I was able to arrange its sale.’

  ‘When I was here the other day, did you know I was coming?’

  Christoph picked imaginary fluff off his trousers. He was sitting on a high-backed French sofa with carved legs. Schlegel was in a disadvantageously low armchair with rattan side panels that he wanted to pick apart.

  ‘Had no idea.’

  ‘Who were you dealing with?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was asked to act on behalf of certain parties and I wondered if you were, too.’

  ‘You first,’ said Christoph.

  ‘My stepfather was one,’ he said.

  ‘Not at my end. I remember your stepfather, of cours
e,’ Christoph added unnecessarily.

  ‘Arthur Nebe?’

  Christoph said he didn’t know Nebe. He opened his hand, as if to say he had nothing to hide. All he knew of the matter was he was in the process of purchasing art works from Budapest and there was a contract for signing.

  Artworks didn’t sound like Nebe, thought Schlegel; nor his stepfather whose aesthetic appreciation didn’t extend beyond racehorses.

  ‘Is the buyer the SS?’ he asked.

  ‘Technically.’ Christoph teased out the pause. ‘But the SS could be procuring on behalf of someone else. The international art market is complicated. We are in something of a golden period.’

  ‘And this particular purchase?’

  ‘To be frank, the SS is being unusually aggressive. They are negotiating with a notable Hungarian family to lease its steelworks and buy its considerable art collection. While Himmler knows nothing of art he is always keen to purchase at the expense of rivals.’

  ‘Such as Göring?’

  ‘For example.’

  ‘And the Führer?’

  ‘Not in this case.’

  ‘Has he already had his pick?’

  ‘I vetted the collection. There is nothing of interest to him.’

  In as much as he was able to pin Christoph down, Schlegel concluded that the deal was probably on behalf of Himmler. Christoph even knew the name of Himmler’s man in Budapest, Becher, whom Schlegel had briefly met. Christoph threw in another name, Hermann Fegelein who was handling the Berlin end.

  ‘Fegelein?’ asked Schlegel sharply. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Only by repute. You sound as though you do. He races horses.’

  Mention of Fegelein was not a welcome addition. Their paths had crossed before, not to Schlegel’s advantage. ‘That man can talk his way out of any corner,’ he said and left it at that. It still didn’t explain Nebe’s involvement.

  ‘Have you met the Führer?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Of course. He likes to discuss art. Within his field he is very knowledgeable.’

  Even five years ago they would have considered the idea faintly risible. Schlegel would have dearly liked to know how much the remark cost Christoph, if anything.

  ‘What’s the Führer like?’

  ‘Quiet and well-mannered,’ said Christoph. ‘He always asks after one. Very unassuming for such an important man.’

  ‘He knew my father, apparently.’

  ‘Your actual father? He went away.’

  A silence fell. Christoph did not pursue the matter. Schlegel took it for his way of saying that he was no longer interested. He filled in the silence, saying, ‘Your file makes no mention of homosexuality, or at least the one mention is discredited as unreliable.’

  ‘Am I now in your debt?’ Christoph asked irritably.

  Schlegel was being mean. ‘I thought you should know. These days the lists are starting to go on and on. It says you are an expert on ownerless Jewish art.’

  Christoph sighed. ‘It’s more complicated than it looks.’ With Christoph it always was. ‘A blind eye is turned in exchange for foreign cash.’

  ‘What about the embargo on currency transactions?’

  ‘Don’t be naive.’

  ‘Do you know the Führer well enough to ask about my father?’

  ‘It would be seen as presumptuous.’

  Schlegel realised what a smooth operator Christoph had become, brushing him aside with the lightest deflection.

  Schlegel looked at the art on the walls and thought of how the pictures Christoph bought separated themselves from their owners, to be followed up by correct documentation and legal paperwork to ensure their new purchase was in order.

  Schlegel told him about his father’s copy of Mein Kampf, thinking, I’ll get you yet. Christoph was bound to be impressed because he was a snob. Ten years ago he would have mocked the vulgarity of the whole political show and now he didn’t.

  ‘It really is your father’s copy?’

  ‘I found it at home in the garage.’

  ‘What is the story about him now?’

  ‘It rather looks as though he went to Munich rather than South America.’

  ‘Book dealing is not really my forté. Are you interested in selling?’

  Schlegel said it depended.

  ‘Given its provenance it’s probably worth quite a lot,’ Christoph went on. ‘I can get it valued. You may find it would fetch most in the United States. I know of certain private collectors interested in memorabilia. They buy via Stockholm.’

  Christoph stood and paused, staring at the carpet, before asking, ‘Are you so interested in your father?’

  Schlegel hadn’t thought of it like that before. He wondered how much he really was. ‘Yes, in that I was led to believe one thing and now I am being told another.’

  Christoph said nothing. If being adult was about learning to live with one’s compromises, Christoph struck Schlegel as very accommodating of himself.

  Christoph glanced at his watch and said, ‘I must be getting on.’

  Schlegel wanted to say it was a pity how they had become strangers to each other when they had once had so much in common. They parted without saying goodbye and only as he walked downstairs did it strike Schlegel how much had changed between them and was he aware of how much hadn’t been discussed – recent events, Christoph’s life, Schlegel’s work, old times, asking after family – and he saw how expert Christoph had been at steering the conversation. Schlegel supposed fair enough. He was the one who had put the distance between them.

  *

  Back at his apartment, whose meanness stood in stark contrast to Christoph’s opulent surroundings, Schlegel was left feeling grubby and restless. He stared at the Mein Kampf, asking himself what he was letting himself in for. He put the book out of sight and picked up the Munich guide, wondering if his father’s hands had flicked through it too.

  He flipped through the guide’s gallery section then its restaurant pages, noting their specialities. Italian. Hungarian. He salivated at the thought of full tables and regular service. Meatballs. Bolognese. Schnitzel. Strawberry cream cake. Entries listed telephone numbers for reservations and the names of proprietors.

  The Bratwurst Glöckl advertised itself as specialising in local cuisine. It made him think of impossibly plump sausages, vats of potato salad, seasonal asparagus, foaming steins of beer, jolly dirndled waitresses, every cliché in the book, all the while staring at the name of the proprietor, Zehnter, asking himself why it seemed familiar.

  He checked the original list. Zehnter’s name was on it, next to his father’s. Had Anton Schlegel eaten at the Bratwurst Glöckl? Had he and Zehnter known each other? Schlegel’s brief elation fell flat. If you weren’t allowed to investigate the present no one would let you go digging up the past. Not only was the past past, the past was dead.

  12

  A brown sun beat down through the scratched dirty windows of the train. The rickety carriages should long ago have been assigned to scrap. Schlegel found the view from the elevated track endlessly depressing. For years the city had held together. Now even the grass looked like it had given up.

  At the local police station, the three boys from the night of the fire were being held. The initial interviews took five or six minutes. Forms to be filled in, signed and witnessed in lieu of parental supervision. They didn’t look so cocky now. A Hermann and two Martins; dark Martin and fair Martin.

  Schlegel showed each the letter and asked what they knew, resulting in uniform shock and a quick shake of the head, then silence during which the detainee tried to stop his galloping imagination from running away with itself.

  He brought the middle boy back first. Dark Martin looked like he possessed a shred more intelligence than his companions.

  ‘Maybe you saw something, Martin, you can tell me about,’ Schlegel said.

  With younger offenders, first-naming was used as a form of belittling.

  He saw Martin starti
ng to cry on the inside. Spit it out, Schlegel thought. The boy had the makings of a young tough, with the war and his father away, and only a diet of violence to look forward to.

  Dark Martin turned out to be a good little informer, once he had worked out his lifeline. After denying he had written the letter Schlegel asked him to suggest who might have.

  The room was small, taller than wide, with a tiny window high up. Schlegel thought about all the words that had been spilled in it, questions and answers. If every word were represented by a nail paring, how high up the wall would it reach?

  Martin delivered up three suspects without trying.

  Schlegel was depressed by how casually the names were given. Before the afternoon was done, one of the boy’s weasel friends would no doubt be naming one of his companions.

  ‘What do you know about the women who worked at the clinic, Martin?’ Schlegel asked.

  Martin reacted as though he had been poked. From starting to look halfway confident, he grew furtive. It was obvious the boys spied on the women. Schlegel would have done the same at their age.

  Martin licked his lips. A pustule on his chin needed squeezing. Schlegel looked away, faintly disgusted by the false intimacy of the process.

  ‘Tell me about the nurses, Martin.’

  ‘We know the smokers. They’re not allowed to indoors so they come out the back.’

  Martin went silent, looking like he couldn’t think of any more.

  Schlegel said, ‘That’s the problem with going first. You don’t know what the others might say.’

  Martin grew convoluted and mumbled. Schlegel told him to speak up.

  What had happened was two of the domestic staff were persuaded to take their clothes off in exchange for small presents. This striptease was performed in the window of the laundry room while Martin and his friends watched from the garden backing onto the clinic, from more or less where Schlegel had been standing on the night of the fire. The boy’s face contained a trace of a smirk that made Schlegel want to hit him.

  ‘These girls undressing for you were foreign.’

  Martin spoke up, trying to sound reasoned and grownup. ‘We decided it wasn’t racial defilement if no direct physical contact took place.’