Mister Wolf

by Chris Petit

  But she did, venting her frustration, leaning in to whisper, ‘Can’t she see he fucks anything that moves, including that bitch over there. Can’t she, really?’

  Schlegel shuffled to keep in step as he worked out she was talking about Fegelein and Anna Huber. Fräulein Braun tilted her chin up with the look of a supplicant, their lips almost touching, as she went on urgently. ‘Gretl only got married to spite me, so she could be be the adoring little wife when I never can, and now she thinks she is respectable just because she is hitched to a drunken philanderer. Can’t she see he married her for his career and nothing to do with her? He was fucking one of the bridesmaids on the morning of the wedding, that’s how much she means. Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can never be married. Tell me I haven’t been mad. I never doubted, until now. He won’t come back.’

  ‘Can’t you go to him?’

  Fräulein Braun gave a laugh of suppressed hysteria. ‘You’re so sweet. Nobody knows who I am. I am the little secret. I am not supposed to have a thought in my head. I am there to entertain and chatter on without a care in the world. Sometimes I think men understand nothing of women.’ She gave him a startled look, as though she had said too much, and asked what he would do when it was all over.

  ‘When everything’s back to normal,’ she prompted.

  Schlegel could not recollect ever being asked about the future and had no answer so he asked the question back, curious.

  ‘Have an exhibition of my photographs,’ she said. ‘I know I could earn a living from them but Hoffmann has always blocked me. Not any more. The man is out of favour and good riddance.’

  Schlegel was wondering how much influence Fräulein Braun really had when Fegelein cut in and said to him, ‘Emil and I want to show you around. A moonlight drive. Emil is rather enjoying reliving his chauffeuring days. Tells me you had tremendous fun on the way over.’

  Schlegel left Fräulein Braun looking like she had suddenly been switched off.

  Maurice, playing a noisy game of Snap with the two thugs and Bobby, saluted them with his glass, looking like he had broken the sound barrier in terms of drunkenness.

  Fegelein snapped his fingers. ‘Time to drive the Führer car!’

  Maurice eyes grew excited at the prospect. The sevenseater Mercedes!

  Fegelein, who had taken his gun belt off, strapped it back on. ‘Schnapps for the road,’ he said, taking a bottle.

  *

  The underground garage contained a whole pool of vehicles, the most conspicuous being the armour-plated convertible Mercedes. Maurice stared in awe, looking almost halfway sober at the prospect.

  Fegelein insisted on putting the roof down and complained when he was made to help, saying the Berlin one had a button that controlled it automatically.

  Fegelein told Schlegel to sit in the front and got in the back. Maurice fired the engine and reversed the purring machine out of its space, handling the vehicle as reverently as if he were conducting a sung Benediction: driving as a religious experience.

  The clear skies of the afternoon had been replaced by rolling mist and a chilly night.

  ‘All right to drive, Em?’ Fegelein asked cheerfully from the back. ‘Can’t see a thing. Pity. Magnificent views by day.’

  Like a tour guide, he described the superhuman feat of building seven kilometres of perilous mountain road taking them to the peak-top recreation house that had entertained heads of state. It been built by Bormann, he said, as a special gift for the Führer, who rarely visited because of his vertigo. Fegelein went on to tell them how he had taken advantage of the place to continue his own wedding celebrations the month before, and these had gone on for several days with them all as pissed as lords, which they couldn’t have been down in the Berghof with a disapproving Führer in attendance.

  They drove out of a tunnel into a grey blanket of mist that was like having one’s face pressed by a wet rag.

  The silence became too much for Fegelein, who announced, ‘We’ve all become so psychotic and steeled, don’t you think?’

  The car’s headlights seemed to reflect back on them, giving their faces a sickly glow as Maurice coaxed the Mercedes up the steep, winding road until they reached level ground. Through a break in the fog Schlegel could just make out the brooding silhouette of the mountaintop retreat.

  The road ended in another tunnel, like entering a fallopian tube, which delivered them spectacularly into a domed waiting hall where they got out and waited for an elevator whose doors opened to reveal a uniformed operator, who snapped a salute.

  Schlegel found it all very Jules Verne, this strange marble and concrete hideaway. The crazy tunnelling and dynamite needed to construct the road alone seemed like an act of willed hubris: nature will be conquered! Then there was the gadgetry of the lift with its telephone and clock and a flashing indicator showing the height of ascent: more than a hundred metres, leaving Schlegel wondering at the cost of it all.

  They exited the lift and Fegelein led the way, turning on lights, saying there was no need for blackout in the fog. He took them up a short flight, revealing a room that came as a surprise after all the engineering. Schlegel’s impression was of overwhelming Alpine kitsch, a salon with pine panelling, dominated by a huge, quite ghastly tapestry of an al fresco medieval courtly scene. Anything that wasn’t brown was green, apart from an oriental carpet. The effect was expensively sickly.

  ‘Shame the Führer hardly ever comes,’ said Fegelein. ‘My sister-in-law makes up for that.’

  Schlegel supposed the view by day compensated for the indifferent taste. Quite out of keeping with the style of the rest of the room was a set of bronze doors. These led out on to a small terrace.

  ‘Come and admire the non-existent view,’ said Fegelein, gesturing for Maurice to remain behind.

  *

  They stepped out into the cold night. The door shut behind them. Enshrouded in mist, all Schlegel could see was the glowing tip of Fegelein’s cigarette. He inched his way forward until he felt a low balustrade that didn’t even reach his waist. They could be on the edge of a precipice for all he knew.

  Fegelein’s free hand came to rest on Schlegel’s neck. ‘Fabulous views during the day and this terrace is a suntrap. My wife and sister-in-law like to sunbathe au naturel. Now, you must have something I am interested in.’

  Schlegel said, ‘I don’t, as a matter of fact, so I don’t quite know what to say.’

  The grip on his neck tightened.

  ‘Let’s not try and be clever.’

  ‘I was supposed to be given something this afternoon but that didn’t happen.’

  Fegelein swore and ordered Schlegel to explain himself.

  ‘Tieck asked me to make a delivery to Party Secretary Bormann, he didn’t say what and I wasn’t given it.’

  He didn’t say he suspected Anna Huber of having it.

  ‘Is Tieck running you because you’re his son?’

  The sneer reminded Schlegel how much he had wanted to hit Fegelein earlier, for the way he had announced that Tieck was his father.

  ‘I can’t think why he chose you,’ Fegelein went on, petulant now. ‘He could have asked me. I work with Bormann, so why not?’

  Schlegel decided to speak his mind for once. ‘Because he doesn’t trust you.’

  He sensed Fegelein didn’t know how to react to that. Do it now, he thought, balling his fist to smash Fegelein in the face, doubting he had the guts. Fegelein gave a nasty squirt of a laugh as he prodded Schlegel in the chest and took a step forward to say, ‘I’ve had people shot for less.’ With no room to swing a punch, Schlegel head-butted him instead. His forehead met cheekbone with a satisfying crack and he was surprised by how easily Fegelein went down, until he heard him squealing, begging not to be hit again, and realised the man was a complete coward. Schlegel turned away in disgust, just as the bronze doors opened to reveal Maurice squinting in a pool of yellow light, trying to make out what was going on.

  Fege
lein sprang to his feet, saying, ‘Suddenly indisposed. Feeling better now.’

  Schlegel had to admire the man’s speed of recovery, acting as though nothing had happened.

  ‘What have you got there, Em?’ Fegelein asked, in a show of friendliness.

  Maurice had found a guitar. ‘In the music room,’ he explained and played a complicated arpeggio, badly.

  Fegelein stuck his hands in his pockets, dangerously relaxed already, and said, ‘My wife’s favourite position is kneeling against the balustrade there, being taken from behind, telling me, “Fuck the view, Hermann.” ’

  They all laughed, even Schlegel, possessed by the spellbound mood and dreamlike switches.

  Fegelein rested his hand on Schlegel’s shoulder and murmured, ‘Shan’t forget that.’

  After that everything grew more bizarre, as though the reason to be sitting on top of a mountain in the middle of the night was to listen to a recital of Emil Maurice’s clumsy music skills.

  ‘Who has the confession, do you think?’ Fegelein asked in an easy way. Schlegel didn’t say, wondering why he was protecting Anna Huber. Fegelein’s cheek was smarting; soon he would have quite a shiner.

  They watched Maurice perform some complex finger work then, carrying on, Maurice asked, ‘What confession?’

  ‘Shall we tell?’ Fegelein turned to Schlegel. ‘Go on, let’s hear your version.’

  Schlegel looked at Maurice and said, ‘There is supposed to be a document in which Hitler confesses to killing his niece.’

  ‘Whether he did or didn’t,’ offered Fegelein.

  Maurice carried on playing, ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘We know he probably didn’t,’ Fegelein said, getting exasperated. ‘That’s not the point.’

  Maurice repeated, ‘He didn’t. What is the point?’

  ‘The point is the document,’ said Fegelein testily.

  As Fegelein seemed amenable to explaining in the grand manner of villains willing to share with lesser mortals, Schlegel asked why.

  ‘Tactical reasons.’ What these were, he wouldn’t say. He dabbed his cheek with a silk handkerchief. Schlegel noted the malevolent look as Fegelein asked, ‘Who would you rather be, Schlegel, you or me?’

  ‘I would rather be a rat than you, Hermann,’ Maurice answered for Schlegel.

  ‘Ha-ha! You already are, Emil.’ Fegelein turned back to Schlegel. ‘Oh, go on, then, if you really must know. Reichsführer-SS Himmler—‘

  ‘Your boss,’ Maurice interrupted sourly.

  ‘Poor Em here has hard feelings,’ Fegelein explained to Schlegel. ‘He thinks he should have been head of the SS, but Em got shafted. Anyway, “my boss” has taken an interest in the case of the niece for years.’

  Maurice was still plugging away, a polka now, sounding less rusty.

  Fegelein said, ‘The Reichsführer-SS has always been keen to know who spread the rumour of his involvement in her death. According to that particular story, he was supposed to have bamboozled the kid into becoming the suicide equivalent of a kamikaze pilot.’ Fegelein sniggered. ‘With so much scheming, in any given plot everyone’s name is bound to come up.’

  ‘What would having the confession add?’ Schlegel asked. Fegelein looked at Schlegel as though the answer were self-evident. ‘Heini’s a completist in terms of information.’ Schlegel supposed it was more a matter of not wanting anyone else to have it. It wouldn’t be long before those closest to their master turned on him. Just as they spied on each other as a matter of course, they would all have files stacked up on the Führer.

  ‘Back in the day . . .’ Maurice began.

  ‘Oh, let’s hear no more of your “back in the day” and “old fighters” nonsense,’ Fegelein interjected. He explained to Schlegel, ‘Emil rode shotgun for the Führer, and he was even engaged to the niece.’ He asked Maurice, ‘Good fuck was she? Never had the honour myself but heard she rode like a steeplechaser.’

  Maurice put down the guitar, looking like he wanted to square up to Fegelein, who taunted, ‘Poor Emil, the heartless thug with a broken heart.’

  Maurice looked crushed. With Fegelein’s mask firmly back in place, Schlegel found it impossible to recall him collapsed in a funk on the balcony.

  ‘Well, Emil,’ said Fegelein, standing. ‘All very interesting. How your service has been rewarded, with the chair of the Munich Chamber of fucking Commerce. Bravo, old sport!’

  ‘Don’t be a cunt, Hermann,’ said Maurice with cheerful unconcern and Schlegel was shocked to realise they were more or less friends after all, whatever dirt they had on each other.

  Schlegel asked, ‘Did you shoot Anton Schlegel?’

  Maurice didn’t even have to think to answer. ‘In the end, no.’

  Fegelein goggled. ‘I didn’t know that. Come on, Em, you do get around. But if the man was down to be done why disobey orders?’

  ‘A religious visitation.’

  ‘Oh, come now!’ said Fegelein. ‘Pull the other one.’

  Fegelein rolled his eyes as Maurice related an improbable vision of Raubal appearing to him in the woods, telling him to spare Anton because, after his betrayal of her, he should be saved for a fate far worse, perhaps many years hence.

  ‘What betrayal?’ asked Schlegel, but Maurice only shrugged and Fegelein said, ‘Time to go.’

  Life’s only constant, thought Schlegel: betrayal.

  45

  Fog rolled down off the mountains until there was neither night nor road. Tieck lowered his window, saying he could see enough of the kerb to guide them. Quicker to walk, protested Morgen, who had neither the skill nor stomach for blind driving.

  They crawled on upwards into the soft white wall, until a distant clattering came from up ahead that Morgen couldn’t identify, then became thundering hooves coming down the road and a scream of pure terror that seemed to last forever. Morgen stamped on the brake as the huge shape flew out of the fog: a horse, or perhaps even the devil himself, Morgen thought as the windscreen shattered, followed by a second scream so terrifying he knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life. An enormous spasm gave way to a deathly still, broken by the sound of dripping blood. Morgen felt antlers penetrating the space on either side of his seat when they could easily have impaled him. He had matches but had no wish to see the stag’s dead eyes staring at him. He shoved. Nothing budged. He told Tieck to take the antler nearest him and it took an age of gruesome wrestling before the dead beast slid away off the bonnet. Morgen’s hands shook as he lit up. His front was blood-spattered, his lap full of broken crystals of glass. Tieck’s reaction was not shock but rage at having his journey interrupted. Morgen listened to him swear until he decided enough and got out, the scatter of glass falling from him.

  The stag had taken out one headlight. The other just about illuminated the shape lying in the road. It took all Morgen’s strength to pull it to one side. The beast convulsed hugely as he held its legs, sending him reeling like a man hit by an electric shock. He picked himself up and put a bullet in the animal’s head, more out of fright than mercy.

  46

  ‘Does anyone know if dogs can die from eating peanuts?’ the Braun sister was asking as Schlegel, Fegelein and Maurice returned to the Berghof where the atmosphere remained rancid.

  The party had moved on to a more formal salon, what Fräulein Braun described as the original living room, dating from before the expansion. A huge glazed stove stood in the corner. Long banquettes ran along two walls, with a dining table, sofas and armchairs designed more for statement than comfort. Führer Bobby lay passed out on one, with drink down his jacket. The Braun sisters were curled up on sofas. The two thugs prowled like caged animals. Anna Huber seemed nervous and Schlegel wondered if more was at stake than she was letting on. They had been joined by Negus and Stasi, Eva Braun’s Scotch terriers, who were being fed titbits. Emil Maurice, who had driven them back in what Schlegel could describe only as a state of suicidal concentration, looked gone. Fegelein was highly strung and continued to kno
ck it back.

  One by one they nodded off, the sprawled bodies looking like a bloodless massacre in a departure lounge. The two thugs took turns by the door. Schlegel thought it was like being stuck in hell or waiting for the end with no prospect of leaving.

  Emil Maurice started to play a game of patience, a complicated double-pack affair which he was too drunk to follow. Schlegel drifted over and said, ‘Red queen on black king.’ Maurice dithered until Schlegel moved the cards for him.

  Looking at the fiendish complexity of the emerging ladders and their refusal to play out, Schlegel was rather reminded of the Raubal case. The cards made it easier to ask, ‘That business of the vision in the woods.’

  Maurice snorted. ‘Stranger things have happened.’ Red seven and black six across to black eight. ‘Bloody hot weekend, too many jobs on,’ he continued.

  The lists, Schlegel supposed. ‘Why were some carted off and others not?’

  ‘You mean shot.’ Maurice seemed almost relieved to talk. ‘Special treatment. The way it worked. Those that were disappeared and those that were made an example of.’

  ‘Why Anton Schlegel?’

  ‘Orders. We weren’t told why. Harlaching, Saturday, 1 July 1934. We were all sweating from the heat.’

  ‘Did you know Anton Schlegel?’

  ‘Are you really his son?’

  Yes and no, thought Schlegel. He asked, ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’

  He moved the two of diamonds out of the game onto the ace. Jack of hearts ladder down to black six across to black queen.

  Maurice said, ‘See her.’ He meant Anna Huber. ‘Your father had a bargaining tool.’

  ‘Fredi Huber’s scoop,’ ventured Schlegel.

  Maurice nodded. ‘Anton said Fredi owed him his life, in exchange for the secret dossier Fredi had been compiling since the niece’s death.’