Mister Wolf

by Chris Petit

  Heini, not a physical specimen, envied Fegelein’s springheeled athleticism. Show jumping. Gymkhana. Dressage. Flat racing. The finest horseman in South Germany many said.

  ‘I won the German Spring Derby in 1938,’ Fegelein announced to Morgen over lunch. Gracious about Morgen’s late arrival, he decided to bore him into the ground with tales of his riding exploits. Also in 1938, first past the winning post for the German Brown Ribbon.

  ‘It’s being run tomorrow, as a matter of fact. Not competing, sadly. Too much on.’

  Fegelein quoted Xenophon at the dowdy and unprepossessing Morgen: how the horse in its essence has something very gracious and appealing and attracts all eyes under the command of a skilled rider. ‘ “Honour to him who knows how to master one.” Do you ride?’

  Of course he didn’t.

  Morgen suspected his resistance to Fegelein’s winning ways when others fell for it was what offended the man. It wasn’t the usual charm offensive. There was deprecation and the diplomatic skills of a first-class liaison officer, no easy job when it came to communication between the Führer, Reichsführer-SS Himmler and Party Secretary Bormann. As for Gestapo Müller, Morgen suspected his antipathy was based on a local boy’s resentment and the slow business of climbing the ranks compared to the short cuts offered to Fegelein, so famously good at games.

  The depressing thing was Morgen suspected he might yet like Fegelein: the despicable man who knows he is despicable and makes no effort to hide it. The lunch was excellent, local river trout, the service impeccable, the wine exceptional. But what was the point?

  It wasn’t confession. It wasn’t about coming clean. It was more than showing off. Morgen decided it was because Fegelein wanted to be taken seriously and for all his glory he was still considered a lightweight whose job in the end was to grease the wheels. The point was Morgen knew Fegelein’s record better than most, and with the man’s greatest triumphs being recidivist he could not boast too openly about them. It probably explained why Fegelein made a point of expressing his admiration for the gentleman thief Raffles, played by the English actor David Niven in the film from before the war.

  ‘Niven could play me rather well. He rides because he was in The Charge of the Light Brigade.’

  Morgen said he didn’t go to the cinema much.

  ‘That’s your choice,’ said Fegelein magnanimously. ‘I have to admit to being spoiled as I can take my pick of private viewings. The Führer is a big movie fan. He screens most evenings.’

  Fegelein had read his own file. ‘It pays to know what people are saying about you. Was that you who wrote up the Warsaw affair in ’42?’

  Morgen said neither yes nor no. ‘I thought so. It was an intelligence operation all along, a point which you—sorry, the report was very reluctant to concede or acknowledge.’

  ‘And the furs?’

  ‘Used to fund the operation of course.’ Fegelein smirked. ‘Didn’t Heini pack you off to the Russian front just after that?’

  ‘For six months.’

  ‘Reason?’

  Morgen thought Fegelein was bound to know, having read his file and probably everyone else’s.

  ‘Refusing to prosecute a case.’

  ‘Well, there’s a change from the usual. You probably deserved it. Jankers before that?’

  ‘Six months’ detention. Prussian exercises, so-called.’

  ‘Well, there you are. You’re the one who has been the jailbird and I haven’t. What does that tell us about the world?’ Morgen was beguiled watching Fegelein at close quarters. The man lied most of the time but had the rare quality of believing whatever he was saying.

  They swapped military experiences. ‘You first,’ said Fegelein.

  Morgen cared not to remember. ‘Wiking Division.’

  ‘Enough said.’

  Morgen added that he had watched his company being wiped out several times over and he had been more than lucky to have survived.

  Fegelein’s uniform displayed his raft of medals, including Iron Crosses first and second class.

  ‘Death’s Head Cavalry,’ he said nonchalantly.

  The man was shown to be brave, which made him harder to dislike. Morgen wasn’t greatly up on his medals so asked, knowing Fegelein would be entertained. Fegelein showed off well, in the same way he probably did as the gracious winner. Morgen suspected plenty of tantrums when he lost.

  Morgen remembered from Fegelein’s record that the man had failed to qualify for the 1936 Olympic riding team and to see what the answer was he asked, ‘Didn’t you ride in the Olympics?’

  ‘Did, as a matter of fact.’

  The lie was so throwaway that Morgen ended up questioning his memory.

  A rueful smile and pout of the cherry lips. ‘Well, not quite. I injured myself before I could compete. Didn’t look where I was going, tripped and twisted an ankle.’ A moue of regret. Fegelein’s massaged version of getting knocked out in the selection qualifying rounds. ‘Are you sporting?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Fegelein all but said: Didn’t think so.

  Morgen decided there was probably some deep correlation between Fegelein’s bent for fraudulent practice and private feelings of inadequacy – hence the lie about Olympic disqualification – before he glumly concluded Fegelein was just another highly evolved psychopath. Morgen went back to the medals.

  ‘What’s that one for?’

  ‘Infantry Assault Badge. To be fair, they were handing out gongs like nobody’s business.’

  Morgen laughed at the thought of Schlegel and his strange sighting of the Führer. Fegelein thought Morgen was laughing at him. Morgen explained that Schlegel had got it into his head that the Führer had been using a stand-in.

  ‘Know anything about that?’

  ‘Not supposed to,’ Fegelein said, making clear that he did, before offering the throwaway line, ‘Polyps of the rectum, is what I heard.’

  ‘Why not say the Führer is indisposed?’

  ‘Goebbels is my guess. These days the Führer can’t be seen to be anything but infallible. I was in that room when the bomb went off.’

  Morgen thought: A pity the bomb didn’t do a better job.

  ‘And was it the actual Führer?’ he asked lightly. ‘In the room?’

  Fegelein, sharing the joke, smoothly said, ‘Never thought for a moment it wasn’t.’ Morgen couldn’t tell if the man was lying. ‘Mind you, he was being kept on a very short leash.’

  ‘You must be able to spot the difference.’

  Fegelein shrugged. ‘The Führer is a rather withdrawn figure these days.’

  Morgen wondered at the real reason for an assassination attempt, if a double was being used. Was he supposed to have gone in the explosion, as part of the bigger political picture?

  ‘Have you met any of these doubles?’ Morgen asked.

  ‘Seen them around. They’re quite good actually but bored to sobs most of the time. There’s one at the Berghof at the moment, flying the flag.’

  ‘Flying the flag?’

  ‘Raised flag when the Führer is in residence. Decoy for enemy intelligence.’

  ‘So he rattles around on his own all day?’

  ‘Inspects the guard, I expect, not that the Führer bothers.’

  Fegelein surprised Morgen with his next question. ‘Is it right to kill civilians, do you think?’

  ‘Depends on the circumstances.’

  ‘Anti-partisan duties. Whole villages put to the sword. Pripet Marshes. Summer of ’41.’

  Morgen suspected the man’s only objection was aesthetic, using an elite force to dispatch peasants.

  ‘How did your men take it?’ he asked.

  ‘Lot of grumbling. Not proper action. Dirty work but someone has to do it. Ever kill anyone?’

  ‘Only Ivans.’

  ‘Close enough to see the whites of their eyes?’

  ‘Bayonet in the stomach.’

  ‘Well done you. Did they give you a medal?’

  ‘No.’r />
  ‘Any wounds?’

  ‘Only frostbite.’

  ‘Three times, me. Twice in two days. Snipers on the River Don, 21 and 22 December ’42. Again in September last year. Shipped home and cushy jobs ever since. I want to put you straight about one thing.’

  Morgen wondered if they were approaching the point of the meeting. Did the man have something to sell? No, he merely wanted to complain about his file.

  ‘Remember my court martial a couple of years ago? That had quite a lot to do with you.’

  ‘Stealing money and luxury goods from Warsaw, and found right here in your stables if I recall.’

  ‘You bet you do,’ Fegelein snarled, showing teeth. ‘ “Murder motivated by greed.” “Unlawful sex.” Others – not you – said I made her have an abortion. Incorrect. She miscarried, but with the number of men she was carrying on with it could have been anyone’s. And the so-called murder was a man shooting himself. All charges dismissed, as you know.’

  He poured the last of the wine and ordered another bottle.

  ‘May as well. What you need to appreciate is it’s not about unmotivated greed or lining my pockets. There is always a point but the police here have it in for me.’

  Morgen didn’t follow.

  ‘I always wanted to be a policeman, did officer’s training until I got caught stealing exam paper answers and was kicked out. Hands up, I admit that, but they’ve gone for me ever since, no idea why. The place was full of cheats and men on the take; and tell your pal Gestapo Müller, I was never any kind of toff just because my father ran a riding school. I spent most of my youth shovelling shit, barely able to read.’

  Poor Hermann – keen that Morgen understood it was all his own effort, no short cuts.

  ‘When the war came I arranged for the state police stable to transfer to the riding academy, to stop the Army mobilising it, and got accused of theft!’

  Morgen added ‘misunderstood’ Hermann to ‘poor’ Hermann.

  ‘Do you know how much it costs to run a riding school?’ Morgen supposed a lot.

  ‘And a whole lot more. After the ’36 Olympics, Heini thought the SS should have its own academy and asked me to set it up but funding was never enough to match his ambitions and by 1940 we were struggling. I tried to bring the matter to his attention but he had other things on his plate. The academy – a state institution – had debts it couldn’t cover, leaving Hermann with three choices.’

  Morgen for a moment couldn’t think who Fegelein was talking about when he started referring to himself in the third person.

  ‘Apply for a fucking grant,’ Fegelein went on, ‘which takes months. Get Heini’s approval on a nod and a wink for a bit of under-the-table, or exercise initiative and get on with it. And as you well know, what didn’t one find lying around in Warsaw?’

  The bottle arrived. Fegelein told the waiter tasting wasn’t necessary.

  ‘Do you know, in the marshes we had orders to drive the women and children into the swamps so they drowned. They don’t give you a medal for that. So we charged them into the middle and they ended standing in water that didn’t even cover their fucking knees.’

  Fegelein struggled not to laugh.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Had to hack them down, like something out of Cowboys and Indians. No budget for bullets. Bloodbath. What would you have done?’

  ‘I was never asked.’

  ‘Smart sidestep.’ Fegelein gave Morgen a level stare. ‘Not something you would wish on anyone.’

  ‘Least of all the dead.’

  Fegelein ignored the jibe. ‘My men were a fighting unit who found it demeaning to be mopping up.’

  He looked at his glass, making a show of regret. Morgen suspected Fegelein’s men had had the time of their lives, at last able to use their sabres, which had long ceased to have any function in modern warfare.

  ‘Actually, I am a complete fraud,’ Fegelein announced with a disarming smile, leaving Morgen unable to detect the lie. Fegelein flicked dismissively at the medals on his chest. ‘All of them flukes. I am an absolute coward and all of these were for a knack of looking heroic. In fact, I was terrified, so there you are.’

  Morgen thought it a confession of sorts. Perhaps the man was sympathetic after all.

  ‘Anyway, I was saying about costs,’ Fegelein went on. ‘I wasn’t best pleased when as a result of your investigation a search of the premises here revealed what were described as goods looted in Warsaw. From what I remember, a lorry, and a six-cylinder Mercedes—’

  ‘Two. One trimmed in black and another trimmed in brown.’

  ‘Good memory or are you still harbouring a grudge?’

  ‘I’ll have you yet,’ Morgen said equably.

  ‘Bet on it?’

  ‘Not for money.’

  ‘Didn’t have you down as a gambling man. I once broke the bank in Deauville.’

  It was clearly offered as an example of ‘This is me telling a lie’. He went on: ‘Two-seater Skoda cabriolet, twenty-five kilos of coffee, fourteen packets of cocoa – all right, they were an exception; my mother has a sweet tooth. Chest of tea, two chests of chocolate, clothes, fur coats and what were listed as sundry items. All to finance the ailing riding academy, on my initiative. Things were dire for a while. I even sold on the bloody police horses when I probably shouldn’t have. For a few months it was touch and go.’

  ‘Am I supposed to care?’

  ‘Just telling you. When I explained all this to Heini he understood, which is why the charge was quashed.’

  Fegelein asked Morgen what he was doing in Munich.

  ‘Security checks.’

  ‘Not what I heard.’

  The teasing silence was typical of the man, thought Morgen: the unsettling moment of destabilisation.

  ‘And your lanky friend?’ Fegelein looked contemptuous. There was nothing for Morgen to say other than signal he was ready to leave. He was feeling disgusted with himself for being half won over.

  ‘Apropos of,’ said Fegelein, ‘you may remember my dossier starts with a reference to an unnamed man receiving stolen goods traced back to here. The obvious reason for not naming a man is that he is a police informer, no? I thought you might be interested, all things considered. Your lanky lad’s dad.’

  ‘Anton Schlegel?’ asked Morgen in surprise. ‘Do you know him?’

  Fegelein wouldn’t say.

  What was more, thought Morgen, Fegelein was indicating that Anton was alive as recently as 1942, working in a criminal capacity.

  ‘Isn’t Anton Schlegel why you are really here?’ Fegelein asked. ‘I am told you are looking for certain documents connected to him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

  ‘The difference between us, my dear Morgen, is that you couldn’t tell a lie to save your life.’ He paused, considering. ‘I rather fancy getting my hands on one of these documents myself.’

  ‘Which one would that be?’ asked Morgen, supposing they were getting to the real point of the meeting.

  ‘The confession everyone is talking about, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t know they were.’

  ‘Well, not at your level. The thing is, it must be found to stop it falling into the wrong hands.’

  ‘Are you the one to do that?’ Morgen asked in disbelief.

  ‘Would you trust Gestapo Müller with it? Isn’t that who you are answering to? Or Bormann? Whereas I am almost part of the Führer’s family now!’

  Basing his credentials on being Fräulein Braun’s brother-in-law was a bit of a stretch, thought Morgen, but typical. He presumed Fegelein was referring to the Hitler confession.

  ‘Now here’s the deal,’ Fegelein went on. ‘Find it and bring it to me and we’ll destroy it, and that’ll be the end of that. If I find it first I’ll do the same and bring it to you. In fact, race you for it!’

  The man was making a game of it, thought Morgen, to distract from his real purpose. If he had to bet, it would be on Fegelein
secretly acting for Heini Himmler. Heini was rumoured to have his eye on the leadership and, according to Schlegel, Heini and Fegelein had known about the bomb plot and done nothing about it, which could be taken for Heini biding his time, waiting in the wings to take over.

  With Heini being a stickler for doing things ‘by the book’, Morgen could just as easily picture him in discussion with top SS law yers about finding legal loopholes to bring about a possible overthrow of the Führer. What better way to demystify the man than reveal him as the self-confessed murderer of his own niece? Would anyone even come forward to defend the Führer? The man’s pig-headedness and military incompetence were obvious, whatever the newspapers were not telling. Everyone was sick of the war. All but the diehards were starting to fear the end, which would see them all dragged into the abyss by a madman who listened to too much Wagner. Morgen thought he would almost prefer Heini.

  *

  The school’s corridors served as galleries for photographs of former events. Many inevitably featured Fegelein, smartly turned out and mounted, horse and rider lazily photogenic, or caught in mid-air, equally composed, scaling an enormous jump, or racing flat out.

  Other photographs showed children, top-hatted women and men. There were cups and prizes and ribbons galore. A grinning Fegelein holding a silver trophy. Oil paintings celebrated his biggest wins. Morgen wondered whether in the man’s mind’s eye this parade of triumph was interrupted by flashes of the Pripet Marshes and the exhilaration of hacking down screaming villagers. A photograph of a woman alone on a horse made Morgen look twice: a young woman, perhaps still adolescent, in hat and gleaming boots looking down with the air of one who knows the photographer and is easy around cameras and horses. Morgen looked again, thinking, where do I know you from?

  ‘Who is that?’ he asked Fegelein, who had screwed a monocle to his eye to inspect the photographs.

  Fegelein made a point of remembering: dressage, 1934 or ’35; very good; career cut tragically short after a fall.

  ‘Huber,’ said Fegelein. ‘That’s Anna Huber.’ He looked at Morgen. ‘D’you know her?’