by Chris Petit
Becher told Schlegel to put the papers on the table, ready for signing, then went off, leaving Schlegel and Morgen, who smoked with exaggerated show, as if to say the pleasure of the nicotine was all he cared about. Schlegel finally broke the silence by asking, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Not much,’ said Morgen, refusing to be drawn.
‘Did you know I was coming?’
Morgen said he was as surprised as Schlegel evidently was. Before they could continue Becher returned with an elderly aristocratic gentleman, immaculate in an English-style cravat and hunting jacket, to sign Schlegel’s documents. This was done with a certain froideur, using a Mont Blanc fountain pen presented ready for use by Becher, who watched with good-humoured detachment.
The elderly gentleman turned away with a look of contempt towards Becher, who missed it because he was blotting the ink.
‘Job done,’ Becher said cheerfully, as he returned the papers to Schlegel. As he replaced them in their folder he realised the family were Jews, of course, and in the process of buying a safe passage, probably in exchange for a pittance, hence the contract, otherwise they would have been shipped off like everyone else.
Morgen continued to give nothing away.
Schlegel asked him, ‘Do you want to catch up now or later?’
Morgen said, ‘That’s unlikely as I am busy.’
It was a rebuff. For a moment, Schlegel had thought Morgen might have been Nebe’s reason for sending him there.
Becher remained friendlier, asking as Schlegel left, ‘How long are you here?’
‘Just for the night.’
Schlegel wondered if Becher would extend some kind of invitation. It wasn’t as though he had anything specific to do for the rest of his stay, but Becher only said, ‘It’s still a good posting. The locals haven’t woken up to what’s happening. You can get a good lunch at the golf club, though it’s a bit late for that.’
It was already after two. Schlegel was tired after his early start and still thrown by that morning’s unexpected encounter with Christoph, and now on top of that, the shock of seeing Morgen.
Becher went on. ‘Well, enjoy your stay. Pleasant female companions, if you are interested in that sort of thing. But be careful with the women, however beguiling. One put industrial-strength itching powder in the rubber johnny of a general making use of her services.’
Becher clapped Schlegel lightly on the shoulder in an easy gesture of dismissal, leaving him standing on the steps.
*
Later, Schlegel decided his time there only made sense as a series of inconsequential ‘and thens’. Incidents made sense on their own but none appeared to join up. Moments of apparent significance soon blurred, leaving only a pile of random, pointless details, of the kind usually forgotten, stuck in his memory like dead flies on flypaper.
After leaving the big house he wandered through a smart part of town with wide streets and big detached houses. He brought a German street map from a news kiosk. His hotel looked about a twenty-minute walk. Only then did he realise that Nebe had set his itinerary without appearing to, by saying, ‘Stay at the Astoria. It’s where everyone is.’
Nebe had also given him the name of a café he ‘had to visit’.
After buying the map, Schlegel first spotted the Japanese. It was impossible not to when everyone else was Caucasian, despite their comic efforts to appear inconspicuous. Schlegel supposed there must be a Japanese embassy or legation in the neighbourhood. At first he treated them as a novelty and assumed they were going in the same direction, but when he crossed the road they did too, and when he changed his mind they crossed back. They weren’t threatening. They kept their distance. Nevertheless, he walked fast for a couple of blocks, doubled back, cut down side streets, jumped on a bus and quickly got off when he didn’t know how to pay, but at least he was rid of any Japanese watchers.
He found himself on a busy thoroughfare in a trading area with fruit and vegetable displays, and shops with awnings, which chopped up the street up into shafts of hard light and charcoal shade. Probably because he was inspecting his map and looking like a gormless tourist he attracted the attention of a young tough. Only because he happened to look up, Schlegel spotted him walking fast towards him, not deviating, with the intention of forcing him to step aside. His briefcase was obviously the target. Schlegel was more annoyed than afraid as he had no wish to waste time at the local police station, followed by the embarrassment of telephoning Berlin to say he had managed to lose important signed documents. He feinted left and moved right, keeping the case out of reach, and kept walking, cutting through the crowd. When he looked back the yob was gone. Two Japanese gentlemen and the putative thief; were they linked?
With all the nonsense that had gone on, it was well after three before he reached his hotel. Schlegel dismissed the attempted theft as one of those things, drove Morgen from his disgruntled mind and resolved to entertain himself for the rest of the trip. Compared to Berlin, Budapest still looked pleasantly normal.
The Astoria had been requisitioned for German use and it was easy to see why, being large, extravagantly marbled and a perfect hangover from the belle époque. Anyone parading through its well-proportioned spaces was bound to feel enhanced.
The reception desk spoke German. Lufthansa had a travel office in the lobby. Schlegel was given a very ordinary room on a high floor with no view and a dead atmosphere. Too much transit, he thought, as he sat on the bed, mildly depressed.
He went back downstairs. The uniformed lift operator wearing white gloves called out the floors, working the large brass lever as though he was a precision engineer.
On the ground floor, ushers, as extravagantly turned out as hussars, directed guests towards the next lift. The lobby extended into a smart café area with imperious waiters in long white aprons giving lessons in advanced superciliousness. Plenty of German uniforms and suits hung around, combining business with pleasure. The mood was relaxed. Good-looking women with an inviting air sat alone on banquettes. Schlegel, reminded of the street market, presumed the fruit was for sale.
He ordered a coffee and exclaimed aloud when he tasted it; not only real but excellent. A handsome woman, older, in her thirties, came over and asked if he was new in town.
Schlegel asked how she knew.
‘The coffee. Everyone does that with the first cup, looking like they are in an advertisement.’
She smiled easily, showing white teeth, attractively smudged with a smear of lipstick. The women all wore makeup, unlike at home. Mascara, eye shadow and face powder made them blurred and alluring. Again Schlegel was reminded of the market, with its inviting pools of shade.
His companion said she was an actress. She leaned forward revealing a hint of cleavage and smiled invitingly. Her German was fair. Her English turned out to be better. Schlegel explained that his mother was English, which was why he spoke it.
She told him she had done a spell in London in cabaret.
‘I was in a show called Going, Going – Gong! Have you heard of it?’
Schlegel said he had never been to England.
‘London is so big I sometimes felt quite overwhelmed,’ she said.
They prattled on in a stiff, relaxed way. It was strange to speak English. The woman assumed a pose of exaggerated interest.
‘It’s quite funny to land somewhere and find yourself being followed by two Japanese gentlemen,’ Schlegel observed, with the air of a man of the world.
The woman obliged by lightly brushing his sleeve.
‘Is there much street crime in Budapest?’ he asked, matter-of-factly.
‘Oh, no. The police are very strict. Well, there is some.’ She looked around and added, ‘They come here sometimes.’
‘Who?’
‘The Japanese. But they never mix. They do look so funny.’
Schlegel supposed he should invite her upstairs then thought he must be mad. Her approach was the third time he had been singled out that day. She continued to gaze at hi
m, seemingly with nothing but desire. He sat entranced, about to make a fool of himself.
The woman’s eyes flicked up and it was like watching a light being switched off as a voice asked angrily why they were speaking English.
Schlegel turned and was confronted not by the bulletheaded Nazi he was expecting but a suave man, not in uniform, with almost unfashionably long hair.
For all his smooth manner, the other man appeared genuinely affronted, especially as Schlegel was obviously German.
Schlegel explained about his mother. The man snapped back that it was his responsibility to be teaching his companion better German.
Schlegel looked at the woman and wondered if she knew the other man and some complication was going on between them.
That rather put the kibosh on the afternoon; probably just as well. The woman made her excuses, saying vaguely she might see him later.
After that other women were reluctant to approach him. Schlegel looked around ostentatiously, as if waiting for someone. He supposed he should check out Nebe’s recommended café so he could report that he had.
*
The Hungarians were extravagant about their cafés. The Gerbeaud was like a salon, with its formal layout of separate tables and heavy brocade. Schlegel drank another coffee better than the last. His waiter approached and said in passable German he was wanted on the telephone. Schlegel asked how he knew it was for him.
The waiter said, ‘There are no other young men here with white hair.’
The whole episode felt unreal as Schlegel crossed the floor, wondering if he was being watched.
A woman on the telephone told him to go to the Café Central and hung up before he could ask. Schlegel paid for his coffee and suspected he had over-tipped when he was given fulsome directions to the Central, a ten-minute walk.
The Central was a lavish art nouveau establishment and like the Gerbeaud did a good trade. Schlegel thought: It could be before the war.
Eventually, he was approached by a short, shabby man with carroty hair who looked all wrong in such elegant surroundings. He bowed, revealing a big gap between his front upper teeth when he asked in German, ‘Are you the one with the violin for repair?’
Schlegel couldn’t place the accent. It didn’t sound Hungarian. In keeping with the otherworldly feeling to everything since his arrival, Schlegel ignored the question and asked where the man was from.
‘Bucharest.’ The man smiled, showing an expanse of gum.
Schlegel didn’t know what to say, other than the man must be mistaken as he had nothing for repair.
The man doffed his hat, apologised and withdrew. Schlegel sat there perplexed. Nebe had said nothing about being approached. He looked around, fearing a trap. He knew nothing about Hungarian secret police but if it were the Gestapo, that was when they would make their move. Schlegel had been careful to note whether anyone was watching, but could not be sure.
Later on, with Nebe and his stepfather both wanted men, Schlegel supposed that his hidden role had been passive, as some sort of harbinger. He decided he had been sent to Budapest simply to be seen – the young man noticeable for his white hair – as a sign of momentous events to come.
*
Free of obligation until his return to Berlin, Schlegel supposed he would take advantage of the hotel, see if the actress was around, treat himself or both of them to a decent dinner and sleep in late. The luxury of such idleness was unheard of for as long as he could remember.
He spent a lazy evening in the hotel lobby, watching the parade. Unlike in Berlin, the party went on. Women were fragrant. Men of confident gesture ordered from superior waiters. What looked like real cream cakes were being guzzled. No wake-up call yet.
The actress was now sitting with the suave complainer from earlier. She ignored Schlegel. The marbled lobby was crowded and buzzing with gossip. The galleried balcony overlooking the reception area was full too. The Japanese were up there, their heads together, showing no sign of having spotted him.
Schlegel looked around. The location and its cosmopolitan air reminded him of his stepfather, a man of international connections and he wondered if they had anything to do with him being sent there. His mood deteriorated. He felt like he had somehow been used. His spirits lifted momentarily when he saw Morgen come through the revolving entrance. From the way he glanced about he appeared to be looking for someone. Schlegel, supposing it might be him, half-rose and waved, only to be stared through. He watched Morgen march across the lobby, head deliberately down, and disappear into a lift. Schlegel sat back, deflated.
Some minutes later Becher strolled in looking relaxed and smart in a tailored double-breasted suit. Unlike Morgen, he gave Schlegel an easy wave before he too disappeared into a lift.
Schlegel thought it was like one of those mystery stories his mother used to read where the cast assembled for the denouement. All that was missing were the Hungarian gentleman being fleeced by Becher and the street thug. Schlegel looked to check if the latter was disguised as a bellboy.
Drifting through the hubbub came the sound of a cocktail piano playing bittersweet tunes easy on the ear. Schlegel experienced a sudden spasm of disgust, realising he was as much a part of the problem as the rest of them. He thought about Berlin and realised he was homesick for a shit hole.
Staring at the hotel’s garish opulence, he decided the day’s events were more like watching cards being flicked down in a game. The cabaret artist a Queen of Hearts, playing herself onto the table; Becher a Jack of Spades, or was he a Joker? Morgen, it was hard to say what he was, but he was clearly playing a hand.
And all this was before Schlegel went upstairs to find one of the Japanese gentlemen searching his room; not that it had amounted to anything because the man ran off like a scalded cat; then there was the subsequent bad-tempered exchange with Becher the following morning, leaving Schlegel wondering at the real point of the trip, and all of it for what? A set of so-called binding legal documents that probably amounted to daylight robbery. It made no sense. Even the episode with the intruder, which should have been frightening or dramatic, was more like mistimed farce. Schlegel remembered switching on the light, thinking as the man ran off that it was he, Schlegel, who had been mistakenly given the wrong key and was in the wrong room. Whatever the man had been doing, he hadn’t got very far because nothing was undisturbed. Schlegel went to bed thinking the Japanese must have mistaken him for someone else as there was no earthly reason he could think of for attracting their attention.
On the flight home, his recollections of Budapest were of a mischievous, wilful confusion, a back-to-front world too encrypted for him to decipher, surrounded by high drama. Budapest was a play – intensely self-regarding – and he an extra; or Budapest was one of those dreams where you find yourself onstage in the wrong scene.
23
What a wild goose chase Budapest had turned out to be, thought Bormann, and all for some dirty drawings of the Führer’s dead niece, done years ago.
‘Excuse me?’ asked Bormann when Fegelein first raised the matter at the end of June. Bormann equipped himself to deal with every eventuality, but never could he have come up with this.
Word had been passed through reliable back channels that General Secretary Stalin in Moscow was keen to acquire certain drawings executed by the Führer.
Fegelein recited all this as though it were a perfectly normal request while doing his best not to look confounded.
‘How and what the fuck does he know about them?’ Bormann asked.
He suspected Fegelein knew quite a lot about them too, being married to the sister of the Führer’s mistress, who had led the charge to trample what was left of the dead niece’s reputation. The Braun sisters believed the obscene drawings were proof of the diabolical hold the girl had once had over her uncle.
Munich in the old days before power was full of gossip the size of a huge floating dirigible, most of it gaseous, all of it leaky. The kept secret was unheard of. The well-placed lie
became worth more than real currency, with inflation through the roof. If the drawings hadn’t existed the Führer’s enemies would have invented them.
The spies Bormann had been sending out for years into the café-bars and fairy haunts reported back the various scandalous stories about the Führer that were circulating. The latest – by then it was the summer of 1931 – was that dirty drawings of the niece executed by the Führer, ‘an artist in his own right’, had been ‘stolen’ and were doing the rounds. Real or fake didn’t matter; they existed.
Bormann, in an exercise in damage limitation, put out that they were fakes by a scurrilous Jew. The Führer then queered that pitch by privately claiming them as his. Why so eager? Appropriation, Bormann decided. The man wished he had done them and was willing to play along so he could acquire them for his private collection and pretend they were his when, frankly, he couldn’t draw a cunt to save his life.
Bormann put the squeeze on the usual suspects. Money exchanged hands, not for the first time, and silence was bought. The drawings were returned. Bormann was more trusting then. He told himself he was not a prurient man. He had no need to see the actual drawings and back in the Führer’s safe they were of no negotiable value. And that was the end of the story, until now.
*
That the drawings acquired a new life in that turbulent summer of 1944 was the unanticipated consequence of a Führer initiative. For some time now the Führer had been privately aware that he did not stand to gain from continuing war in the East, and he told Bormann it was time for their Nippon friends to play an active role in mediating talks with the Ivans. Bormann, who had the facts at his fingertips, was able to confirm that the omens were good. The Soviets were exhausted from war fatigue. The Japanese approach was then condoned by the Führer pretending to turn a deaf ear. Deaf ears and blind eyes were increasing ailments that summer.
Fegelein boasted of a back channel to neutral Istanbul via his old chum Becher in Budapest. Bormann opted for that rather than Military Intelligence, which had so many leaks it may as well have published a newspaper advertising its activities. Fegelein also had contacts in the Japanese embassy in Berlin, thanks to the strategic dishing out of honorary SS memberships.