Mister Wolf

by Chris Petit

  Schlegel, impatient, said, ‘I’ll take the names down now if you have the time.’

  She remained polite, having little choice.

  He asked her to spell the more difficult names. Most were obvious top Party ones. There were no women. He asked Huber if she recognised any of them.

  She said she didn’t and there was no legend to say who anyone was. In that respect it was just another list.

  He said, ‘Two names are of interest to me. Anton Schlegel and Karl Zehnter. Perhaps you could try and find out more about them.’

  He sensed her hesitation and added, ‘It’s important.’

  He remembered her gesture of touching her throat and thought she had probably made the connection between him and Anton Schlegel. He had only given her his extension number earlier, but when he picked up her call he had answered with his name.

  *

  Schlegel passed Müller in the corridor and wondered later whether events would have unfolded as they did had he not. He had spotted him approaching down an endless and unfortunately empty corridor, walking fast and alone. Metal tips on Müller’s heels made his footsteps ring out on the stone floor in a commanding way.

  Schlegel decided on a sideways glance and curt nod of acknowledgement, and seemed to have got away with that when the footsteps stopped and his name was called.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Müller.

  Up wide shallow stairs, down more corridors, past offices with open doors, obviously used to Müller’s footfall as they revealed pictures of intense concentration, no childish office behaviour, no paper darts being thrown.

  Müller moved at a clip and Schlegel struggled to keep up.

  Müller took them into his small office, sat, with no offer of a seat to Schlegel, and blinked at him in surprise, as if to remind himself why he might be there. The eyes flickered.

  ‘Tell me about this business with the clinic. What exactly are you investigating?’

  Schlegel experienced a rush of dizziness. What a relief in some ways to be able to topple and fall.

  ‘Claims being made by a false anonymous letter.’

  Müller stared at the ceiling then produced a copy from a drawer.

  ‘You mean this?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Written by?’

  ‘We have a list of suspects.’

  Müller grunted. ‘Who will turn out to be just that.’

  Which was why Schlegel had done nothing about them.

  ‘Motive for writing?’ Müller went on.

  ‘It can only be mischief, sir.’

  Müller continued his eye flicker and banged the desk.

  Schlegel hurried on. ‘The clinic was cleared for an important visitor. The writer of the letter confused the visitor with the Führer, because we know—’

  ‘Yes, I know. What else do you know?’

  He had dreaded Müller taking an interest. Perhaps something really had gone on that Müller wanted exposed. Schlegel had seen this sort of feuding before. It acted like a suction pump.

  He offered an interpretation.

  ‘The letter is considered the work of a subversive, to discredit the Führer, obviously. But there may be another motive, if it was written by someone connected to the clinic, which is to distract from it being deliberately set ablaze for insurance purposes.’

  Müller tossed the letter aside. ‘What do you really think?’

  ‘We may be interfering with someone else’s operation.’

  ‘Pray, tell,’ said Müller with as close to an arch look as he probably ever gave.

  ‘Without meaning to,’ Schlegel added.

  He told how he had met two men in the vicinity on the night of the fire.

  ‘They were plainclothes and were clearly taking charge but refused to say who they were, other than Ministry of Works, which they obviously weren’t.’

  Müller pondered. The eye movement came into play as he reached for his stationery, unscrewed a fountain pen and started writing. He used a violet ink.

  Schlegel stared at the bent head, with its smarmed hair, and the aggressive pink line of the parting.

  Müller blotted the page, folded it, put it in an expensivelooking envelope and showed brown tongue as he sealed it. ‘Take this in person to Dr Goebbels. Deliver it in person. Wait in person for his immediate reply and return it in person to me.’

  Schlegel stood stunned. Did Müller suspect, as Schlegel had, that the bomb plot had been a stunt?

  ‘You do know who Dr Goebbels is?’ asked Müller sarcastically.

  As Schlegel left, Müller said, ‘I am taking this business of the clinic seriously and suggest you do too.’

  Schlegel walked out dazed, trying to work out if he was now reporting directly to Müller.

  15

  Dr Goebbels sat behind a giant desk at the end of a long room overlooking the square. He made a show of quiet, contemplative work as Schlegel was led forward by a male secretary who silently withdrew. Goebbels worked on, letting Schlegel sweat.

  ‘You know what they say about young men with prematurely white hair?’ asked Goebbels, still not looking up.

  Schlegel, self-conscious, touched his without meaning to.

  Goebbels went on. ‘A sign of insincerity. I am sure that is not so in your case.’

  The combination of slight and compliment seemed typical, Schlegel thought. Goebbels at last looked up with a smile that said: Of all people, the one standing in front of me is the one I most desire to see.

  It was an outrageously insincere performance and Schlegel was flattered despite himself.

  There was even time to chat. No mention was made of their previous encounter, though Goebbels made a show of remembering him. The talent for false rapport – discussing whatever was on his mind, seemingly sharing confidences and appearing fascinated by what the other person might think – was, Schlegel realised, just another form of showing off.

  This time it was the foreign press.

  ‘It publishes such lies, so do I tell the Führer, who likes to kept informed? Do I show him, knowing it will only unnecessarily upset him, or not, because their pernicious lies are waste of time? Then of course I can be accused of withholding information. What would you do?’

  ‘I think these foreign lies must always be exposed,’ Schlegel said carefully.

  Goebbels stood, arms akimbo, and smiled broadly.

  ‘Of course, you are right.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Schlegel? I remember now. Your mother, of course.’

  Schlegel groaned inwardly. Not another of the woman’s conquests. The little doctor was notorious for putting it about with starlets on the casting couch, and was known to extol the virtues of older women too.

  The old joke, less heard these days, was that the man was so sexually demented he would fuck a corpse. Schlegel remembered general hilarity in a cinema showing one of the doctor’s personally supervised features, when the heroine died in the hero’s arms and he, heartbroken, asked what he should do, and a male voice from the darkened auditorium shouted in good-natured encouragement that he should fuck her while she was still warm. Waves of knowing laughter had been directed as much at Goebbels – because most of them knew the corpse joke – as at his silly film.

  Goebbels folded his arms and stroked his chin. ‘English, your mother. So sad what happened.’

  Schlegel said yes to both, presuming Goebbels was aware that she had been carted off to a concentration camp.

  Schlegel marvelled at the frightening ridiculousness of sharing confidences with a minister. Were they all like this and so eager for intimacy, once past the cordon sanitaire?

  The moment passed. Goebbels looked at Schlegel haughtily and asked, ‘What does Müller want?’

  His tone made clear his distaste for the man. How they all loathed each other at the top.

  Schlegel produced the envelope. Goebbels snatched it, no longer polite, took a paper knife to open it, read the letter and tutted.

  The answer took all of ten seconds. Goebbels
used green ink to write his reply on Müller’s note, replaced it back in the envelope, which he returned to Schlegel with a terse smile.

  The envelope was not sealed. Schlegel wondered if it was an unspoken invitation for him to read it later.

  He stood waiting to be dismissed. Goebbels sat lost in thought. Schlegel coughed discreetly. Goebbels glanced up and went back to brooding.

  ‘Tell me,’ he eventually asked, ‘did your mother teach you English?’

  ‘Yes, we speak it together.’

  ‘Then you are capable of more than a literal translation in terms of nuance.’

  ‘I would hope so.’

  ‘Do me a favour and look at something before you go trotting back to Müller. Let him wait!’

  Goebbels grinned. Schlegel presumed such corralling was typical, as well as making a point about spontaneity, in marked contrast to Müller’s desk-bound orthodoxy.

  Schlegel had heard it said Goebbels sought power because he didn’t want anyone else to have it, and worked hard to make it fun, whereas for Müller it seemed more like a private narcotic.

  ‘Come, tell me what you think. Be honest.’

  *

  Schlegel found himself in a small viewing theatre with Goebbels in the row behind and a couple of hangers-on in attendance. At a sign from Goebbels, the lights dimmed and the curtains parted.

  Urgent music swelled. ‘Hitler Bomb Plot’ read a caption in English. The film was an allied Pathé newsreel. A cartoon drawing of a joke bomb, like in a comic strip, already suggested it wasn’t taking the story seriously.

  The film footage was the same as he had seen with Gerda. How the British had got hold of it wasn’t clear, but they used it to poke fun. The veracity of the whole episode was questioned, the Führer mocked, his survival laughed at.

  ‘A staged publicity stunt or cover-up,’ the commentary sneered, ‘to dispel rumour in the Reich as to whether the Führer had escaped or succumbed later to his injuries. Rumour which if anything has grown.’

  Schlegel sat rigid as he listened to his own deeply guarded, unvoiced thoughts being amplified around the room in such a rollicking way.

  Goebbels clearly knew the material and had had it translated because he leaned forward to speak in Schlegel’s ear. ‘If the war were being fought with sarcasm the British might be in with a chance!’

  He blew a raspberry when Himmler was described as the present virtual dictator of Germany.

  The newsreel’s tone grew even more incredulous, as it questioned if it was even the real Führer on show, or whether fanciful notions about the doubles the man was supposed to use were being put to the test.

  Of a blank-looking Führer, the commentator, barely able to contain his mirth, asked: ‘Is this Mr Schicklgruber or a stooge?’

  The casual insolence was breathtaking, but for Schlegel not as disconcerting as being bombarded with the very speculation he had been wrestling with, for which he had no outlet.

  Light was thrown into the room as someone entered and came down to hand something to Dr Goebbels. Schlegel half turned and thought he saw Anna Huber leaving, just as his attention was drawn to a man on screen, a short, stout figure, in profile, standing with hands clasped behind his back, on the edge of a small group listening attentively to the Führer. The plain uniform without insignia said he was not army.

  Schlegel was prepared to bet it was an older, fatter version of the third man in the photograph of his stepfather and the professorial man with a pipe.

  A brief closer shot of the same group showed the fingers of the man’s clasped hands in a frenzy of agitation.

  *

  It was heretical. There was no getting away from it. No wonder Goebbels was concerned. The film questioned the very existence of the Führer.

  Schlegel was bound to ask if the stiff celluloid figures were just acting for the camera. In terms of any comparison, it wasn’t as though the Führer had been an accessible figure for years.

  Goebbels halted the screening several times to question Schlegel on points of translation and to ask how serious the film was about the man on show not being the Führer.

  Schlegel said, ‘The film refers to the idea of doubles in a fanciful manner.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It is making a joke against the Führer, rather than accusing him of having an actual impersonator,’ Schlegel said carefully.

  ‘Is it that English upper-class rudeness, the way they look down on others? Your mother is very aristocratic in that respect.’

  ‘No, it’s just rude in a philistine way.’

  Goebbels looked pleased. ‘Philistine?’

  ‘Being uncultured lets them be rude about most things.’

  The point was proved as the newsreel moved on to disparage the highly decorated young Major whom Schlegel had watched being told over the telephone in Goebbels’ office to quash the coup. Goebbels sniggered when the commentary talked of how the Major out-Hollywooded every screen Nazi.

  ‘That’s very good. “Out-Hollywoods!” So they are obtusely rude because they fear us.’

  No, Schlegel thought: They are rude because they despise everything we stand for.

  He was starting to feel as though he had been kidnapped by this persistent little man and transported into another dimension in which different strands of his life converged . . . Whatever he had been expecting from this stage-managed interlude, it wasn’t the uncomfortable coalescing of so many elements, with the Minister of Propaganda looking over his shoulder.

  The commentary roused itself for one last sally, declaring: ‘This time there must be no comeback for Germany! Who was it who said if an ass goes travelling it will not come back a horse?’

  The lights came up and Goebbels gripped Schlegel’s shoulder.

  ‘What is that business about an ass?’

  Schlegel looked at Goebbels, his mind blank. The man indulged only to a point. The whole screening now seemed to take on the form of a test from which Schlegel would be allowed to return depending on the satisfactoriness of his performance.

  ‘The bit about the ass, man! Don’t the British call a fool an ass?’

  Perhaps the man understood English after all. Schlegel ploughed on.

  ‘The ass is also known as the beast of burden. What is being said here is like a leopard not changing its spots. It means we can’t and won’t be made to change, however hard anyone tries to.’

  Goebbels looked around at his acolytes. ‘This man is wasted in the Gestapo.’

  The hangers-on stared at the floor. Schlegel suspected they understood perfectly what the business with the ass meant and perhaps even Goebbels did too, but it amused him to watch others squirm. Schlegel seemed to have passed his test.

  ‘Most illuminating!’ said Goebbels. With that, he and his acolytes swept out, leaving Schlegel thinking about whether he had in fact seen Anna Huber slipping in and out of the dark.

  *

  As Schlegel was in the building, it made sense to speak to Anna Huber. He had been impressed by how quickly she had come up with the list of dedicatees and he wanted to see her again, though he wasn’t aware of any special attraction.

  She did not sound pleased when he called to say he was downstairs and needed ten minutes. As she could not be seen to be uncooperative, she reluctantly agreed to meet in the square outside.

  He watched her approach. She wore a red suede jacket that had seen better days and looked like it had been expensive. To judge from her preoccupied walk, Schlegel guessed she was used to keeping her thoughts to herself.

  ‘I don’t have long,’ she said.

  ‘Was that you I saw coming into the cinema earlier?’

  She gave him a quizzical look and asked, ‘What is it you want?’

  She could see he wasn’t going to satisfy her with an answer. It must sound like he was trying to spy on her. What he was about to say wouldn’t sound any less clumsy.

  The square was so enormous it isolated everyone on it. If Dr Goebbels looked out of his w
indow he might even see them talking.

  Huber, cautious, asked, ‘Are you investigating me?’

  He took a long time answering. ‘No. I’m more investigating myself.’

  She looked mystified as he explained badly about wanting to find out more about his father.

  Huber said, ‘Surely your office has the means to come up with the answer.’

  True. He could call the Munich Gestapo. Such transactions were made every day. One advantage of a police state was being able to request information on almost anyone. Schlegel knew he was being tiresome. No one solicited the company of the Gestapo.

  He said, ‘Regardless of where I work, my mother is in a camp for harbouring a Jew. My stepfather is in hiding and now I am being told my real father, whom I wrote off as dead years ago, was close enough to the Führer to have been included among his most dedicated followers. Wouldn’t you be curious?’

  Huber shrugged and asked, ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘You have a journalistic background.’

  ‘I am a proofreader.’

  ‘You come from a family of reporters. Is you father still alive?’

  ‘I told you, he disappeared years ago.’

  ‘Was he ever arrested?’

  ‘No record of it. Usually they are only too happy to tell the family. It keeps them in line.’

  ‘Do you think he is still alive?’

  Huber stared at the ground. ‘I doubt it. They got everyone in the end. I must go back now.’

  Schlegel stared at the pulsing blue vein in her long white throat.

  ‘We have a missing father in common,’ she eventually said. ‘I suggest I find out what I can about yours from my brother and you can use all the discretionary powers of your organisation to find out what happened to mine.’

  Schlegel held out his hand until she shook it, her grip firm.

  ‘One last thing,’ he said.

  She looked around as if aware of being watched.

  ‘Do you remember the Bratwurst Glöckl?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it was a common meeting place, favoured by the Führer’s crowd in its day.’

  Schlegel explained how its proprietor was among the names she had just given him.