Mister Wolf

by Chris Petit

  Fräulein Braun shook her head. ‘Certainly not. Or we wouldn’t be drinking it.’ She explained for his benefit. ‘We’re no great fans of Heini. Nobody is, from what we can see.’

  The sisters laughed at that. Fräulein Braun asked, ‘Anyway, what’s that all about, going round buying up all the bottled water?’

  Morgen said he thought it was because the Reichsführer wanted to reduce alcoholic consumption by acquiring enough of the soft-drinks market to achieve price leverage.

  Fräulein Braun said, ‘Spare us the economics. We leave that to the boys.’

  They were joined by Fegelein.

  Morgen said, ‘Fräulein Braun wishes us to leave.’ Fegelein put on an expression of fake surprise. ‘The party’s only just started!’

  The others came in. Morgen thought Schlegel looked like he had woken to find himself on a rocket to the moon; Tieck was like a man holding cards up his sleeve; and Anna Huber stared at the sisters with no love lost.

  He thought of his own strange interlude with her, back in the hotel room. Huber had asked him to massage her feet which he had, inexpertly. The experience wasn’t as pleasant as it might have been as she hadn’t washed them recently. Nothing happened. They slept chastely on the separate beds. Morgen had wondered what Schlegel would make of it when he came back. Where was the bloody boy? he remembered thinking before drifting off, and when he woke Anna Huber was gone. Morgen felt the indentation of her body on the bedcovers to check he hadn’t been dreaming, then saw the message on the table, telling him to join her at the races that afternoon.

  Morgen was told off by the officious little hotel concierge for ‘having a woman in his room’ and informed if it happened again he would be reported.

  *

  Fegelein looked at his watch and up at his sister-in-law. ‘Just need a short chinwag with this lot then we’ll be out of your hair, or shall you be coming back with us?’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind,’ Fräulein Braun said coolly.

  ‘Let us know when you do,’ Fegelein replied equably.

  He wanted to use the Great Hall for the meeting. ‘Showing off,’ he said, grinning. He was overruled by Fräulein Braun saying it was not to be used in the Führer’s absence.

  ‘Bobby will do,’ suggested Fegelein hopefully but Fräulein Braun held firm. Fegelein shrugged. ‘Let’s do it in the kitchen then.’ He said he needed Tieck, Anna Huber and Schlegel, then pointed at Morgen. ‘You too. May as well. And Bobby. All of you, come.’

  *

  Fegelein took the head of the table and told them to sit where they liked. Everyone took seats well away from him. Morgen caught Anna Huber’s eye. She stared back, composed, her poker face on.

  Fegelein put the envelope on the table and said to Tieck, ‘Shall I be the one to break the seal?’

  Without waiting for an answer, Fegelein did so and flipped the opened envelope down towards Bobby, saying, ‘You read it.’

  Bobby took his time, being monumentally hungover, fumbling to remove its contents, a single page at which he stared as though he were looking at Sanskrit.

  Fegelein prompted, ‘Führer spectacles.’

  Bobby did as he was told, hooking the sides behind one ear first then the other. Morgen, watching the man, thought it was obviously not the Führer, though anyone looking through the window might think he was. The fake was like a bad painting, until he opened his mouth and the illusion fell away as he read, ‘ “This is the confession of Anton Schlegel to Adolf Hitler, given on 20 September, 1931.” ’

  Fegelein interrupted to say, ‘Hang on. What are you talking about, man?’

  Bobby stopped and said, ‘I’m just reading what it says.’

  Fegelein looked to Tieck and asked, ‘What is this? “Confession of Anton Schlegel”?’ Tieck stared back inscrutable until Fegelein told Bobby, ‘Oh, just read the bloody thing!’

  Bobby began and Fegelein interrupted again. ‘It doesn’t have to be the Führer voice. We’re beyond ventriloquism.’

  Bobby read flatly while everyone looked surprised by the nasal whine of his normal delivery: ‘ “On the afternoon of Friday, 18 September, I received an urgent call from Fräulein Raubal who was alone and asked me to come to her because of what she called a terrible accident. I found the girl gushing blood, begging to be put out of her misery. She said she was pregnant – and devastated by the prospect of banishment, should anyone learn of her condition, she had in a fit of despair tried to abort herself with a coat hanger and made a mess of it. She announced she was at death’s door and feared going to hell. She begged I hear her Last Confession. As I am not a priest, I told her to recite a Perfect Act of Contrition and trust in the Lord. She beseeched me to help her end it and told me to fetch her uncle’s gun, requesting I do it with that. She said if she lived she would be unable to bear the shame of his disapproval. She was fading before my eyes so, to foreshorten her agony, I shot her as she asked and she died instantly.

  ‘ “I subsequently confessed this to Herr Wolf (as he chooses to be addressed by me) because he blamed himself for the girl’s death. I related these facts as they happened, to spare him further guilt. Herr Wolf is a sentimental man and wept copiously, seeking confirmation that she died at once, which I assured him she had.

  ‘ “The matter of the child’s paternity was never discussed between myself and Fräulein Raubal and I have no idea who the father was.’

  ‘ “Signed, Anton Schlegel.” ’

  *

  Fegelein glared at Tieck to ask, ‘Is that the best you’re giving us? “The Hitler Confession”? Don’t play me for an idiot. Where is the real one?’

  Tieck raised his hands and said, ‘That’s it. I can only assume people mistook it to mean a confession by the man rather than one given to him.’

  Tieck appeared amused by the distinction, as if he was taunting Fegelein, who obliged by losing his temper.

  ‘You could have bloody well said instead of wasting everyone’s time! What’s the point of this Anton Schlegel nonsense? Is it true?’

  ‘True in that it happened. In terms of content, no,’ said Tieck.

  ‘Then what’s the bloody point?’

  ‘The Führer could not accept that the girl had shot herself.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she could only have done it to spite him.’

  ‘To get back at him, you mean,’ insisted Fegelein.

  Tieck said, ‘If you want to state the obvious. The man was beside himself. The only way to persuade him otherwise was to show it wasn’t his fault.’

  Fegelein grunted. ‘So it was a psychological trick to save the man from himself. Quite good, I suppose.’

  Schlegel saw how clever the ploy had been in retrieving the Führer from his suicidal state: the introduction of an unwelcome third party (the embryo); the nightmare of the botched abortion; a squeamish Führer bound to distance himself from the whole bloody mess; and the idea of a mercy killing, which precluded motives of blame or revenge on the part of the niece. Quite brilliant, in fact.

  From what Schlegel could see, no one had got what they wanted, except perhaps Tieck. Fegelein and Anna Huber had been after something else.

  At the same time, Schlegel realised Tieck and Fegelein – whatever their present differences – were in fact as thick as thieves, with proof of that possibly contained in Fegelein’s file, reporting stolen goods found at the family riding academy where the receiver was listed as . . . T.T.

  Toni Tieck?

  Schlegel stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, hitching his jacket back, hoping the book didn’t show.

  ‘Do you have something for me?’ asked Tieck, taking Schlegel aside.

  Schlegel thought to himself: Not that you’re getting.

  ‘Well?’ insisted Tieck.

  Schlegel disliked the man’s manner as much as he did Fegelein’s. Both involved the blunt expectation of those used to getting their way.

  Thinking he perhaps didn’t need lessons in how to
lie, Schlegel held Tieck’s eye as he said, ‘The book wasn’t there. You must have misremembered.’

  Tieck’s eruption expressed itself first as a rising purple flush, travelling up from his neck until he was shaking. He hissed, ‘It must be there!’

  ‘Well, it isn’t,’ Schlegel said flatly, meaning that it wasn’t there now.

  Having managed without a proper father for so long, he wondered if he could somehow undo Tieck. What really stuck in his throat was how the man expected him to do his unquestioned bidding.

  They were joined by Fegelein who told Schlegel to join him on the terrace. Schlegel left Tieck looking thunderous.

  Outside the fog was lifting, from the sky down, leaving below a field of white. Schlegel was struck by the incongruous sight of what was obviously the Führer’s cap on the balustrade.

  ‘I need a hand.’ Fegelein sounded dangerously friendly.

  ‘Our two friends from breakfast need to test whether it would be technically possible – only technically, you understand—’

  ‘To shoot the Führer on his morning walk,’ Schlegel finished for him.

  ‘Did I say that already? It’s essential for security.’

  Schlegel looked around, trying to sound reasonable. ‘The place is more or less closed down. The Führer isn’t coming back, so on whose orders?’

  Fegelein fingered his bruise thoughtfully.

  ‘The Führer asked me to check in the event of his return. Nowhere in the world he loves more than here. Come to that, and God forbid, he would rather make his last stand here than in Berlin. So we are bound to check. Bobby is the obvious stand-in but Bobby unfortunately is in a state of post-performance collapse, having drunk the best part of a bottle of brandy, so legless Bobby is not up to the job.’

  ‘Don’t you have other Führers at your disposal?’ Schlegel asked, in a poor attempt at sarcasm.

  ‘Ha-ha! Very funny. None available. So put on the cap and do as you’re told. The mist’s lifting. It will be gone by the time we get down. See how beautiful it is.’

  Up to a point, thought Schlegel; to him one mountain looked much like another.

  47

  Morgen found himself cornered by Frau Fegelein, who insisted on giving him and Anna Huber a guided tour. They started with the formal entrance hall, which contained an exotic collection of cacti; a strange display, thought Morgen, given the relentless Teutonic nature of the rest.

  Frau Fegelein called the Führer the Chief and told them that all the interiors had been done by his favourite designer, a woman with the ability to combine statesmanship with the personal touch. Showing them around was her way of being proprietorial, Morgen thought. She struck him as a pleasant but silly woman and as insecure as her sister. He suspected rivalry.

  In the Great Hall, everything was covered in dust sheets, giving the impression of a ghosted space. It was the culmination of huge rooms with oversized windows and big statements. The only item not covered was a massive globe, suggesting world domination at least. The vast window was a size of a tennis court. Fine if you wanted a mountain sitting in your lap, thought Morgen. The view was still more milky than picture postcard, though the mist was rising.

  The Braun dogs appeared and took turns to hump Anna Huber’s leg. Frau Fegelein took that badly and looked like she couldn’t decide between slapping Huber or breaking down in tears.

  Morgen heard the tapping of a stick, announcing Tieck’s arrival. Watching him approach from a distance, Morgen thought he looked like a badly assembled Frankenstein experiment.

  Tieck joined them, asking unctuously, ‘May I?’

  He stood sweating, leaning with both hands on his stick. The two women appeared disconcerted by his presence. Morgen suspected whatever Tieck’s business, it wasn’t done.

  Next they were shown the projection booth, which enabled the Great Hall to be turned into a cinema. The booth was as big as any commercial one, Frau Fegelein told them, with two projectors allowing for continuous screening without breaks for reel changes. She recited tales of happy nights watching Laurel and Hardy.

  Then it was the gymnasium, with what looked like medieval torture machines.

  Frau Fegelein stared at Anna Huber and said, ‘Hermann’s getting a bit of a paunch.’

  Anna Huber replied meaningfully, ‘He still seems in pretty good shape to me.’

  They went upstairs in silence. Tieck could manage only one step at a time and they had to wait for him at the top. The bedrooms were private, Frau Fegelein said, but she could show them the Führer’s study.

  Tieck said, ‘That would be an honour.’

  They were shown into what Morgen thought looked more like a vast hotel lobby, with lots of chintz and cut flowers. With the windows dominated by such a commanding landscape he found it hard to imagine any actual work being done. They dutifully admired the mountains emerging through the fog.

  Morgen noticed Tieck standing apart, making a show of studying the paintings hanging on the wooden panelling while the rest of them made polite noises about the spectacular view. Morgen decided he was rather enjoying the preposterous tour. Both Frau Fegelein and Anna Huber were in tremendous sulks. He watched Tieck move round to inspect the library with what appeared to be more than idle curiosity.

  Morgen joined him. ‘A good collection?’ he asked.

  ‘Average,’ muttered Tieck, continuing to pass along the shelves until they got to the end and were standing by the window overlooking the terrace. Tieck gave a sharp intake of breath. Morgen noticed but was distracted by the sight of Fegelein conversing below with Schlegel, and what looked like the Führer’s cap on the balustrade between them. They were joined by the two thugs carrying rifles.

  Tieck grabbed Morgen’s sleeve and asked urgently, ‘Did Schlegel say anything to you about a book?’

  Morgen saw Fegelein and the others were leaving.

  Tieck insisted, ‘Did he? My plan is wrecked if he refuses to cooperate.’

  ‘Too late for that now,’ Morgen said, pointing to the path below.

  48

  Feglein led on horseback. Schlegel walked between the two thugs, casual but sinister with their rifles. Fegelein stopped and turned to rehearse them. Schlegel was made to put on the Führer cap and take it off. Fegelein had a whistle, on which he gave a short blast. The two thugs had whistles too, giving fussy peeps in return.

  *

  Schlegel was in no doubt Fegelein had it in mind to shoot him once he had extracted maximum humiliation.

  The mountains were bathed in light. Schlegel recalled the brutally hot summer’s day three years before – a result of plans probably dreamt up in this very valley – when far away in the endless plains of the East he had stood in a ditch, knee-deep in bodies, administering the coup de grâce to those the executioners had failed to kill. He was told afterwards it wasn’t necessary. The pit would be filled in anyway.

  *

  Morgen marched past Frau Fegelein and Anna Huber, asking if there was a gun cupboard. There was but the sister didn’t know who had the key.

  ‘Would Fräulein Braun know?’ Morgen called back.

  ‘She doesn’t bother with that side of things. There are men for that.’

  Morgen’s sidearm had been removed on arrival. All he could do was go down and try and talk sense into them.

  *

  Fegelein’s sabre rested over his shoulder, with the Führer cap stuck jauntily on the end, as they ambled slowly down the path, no one in any hurry, like they were on a stroll. Fegelein rolled comfortably with the horse’s walk. ‘Clip, clop,’ he said echoing the sound of its hooves, leaning forward to give it an affectionate pat. He extended his arm towards the sparkling mountains and said what a beautiful day.

  ‘Fancy your chances?’ he asked Schlegel and turned to the two thugs. ‘Okay, boys, take up your position. Blast of the whistle when you’re ready.’

  Schlegel watched them peel off into the trees.

  *

  Morgen ran down past a couple of lou
nging guards who paid him no attention. They both carried rifles. Morgen considered ordering them to come with him but they were blank-faced robots and clearly non-negotiable.

  He ran, coughing, out of shape, through bright sun and shining dew. Fegelein and the rest were out of sight. Morgen stopped, breath heaving. He ran on. The excruciating physical effort made his glasses steam up.

  A distant whistle came from up ahead.

  *

  ‘Put it on,’ said Fegelein. Schlegel was holding the Führer cap, refusing to wear it.

  ‘I am not the Führer,’ he said.

  ‘You are now,’ snarled Fegelein.

  Schlegel gripped the cap, unmoving. Fegelein shrugged, as if to say, have it your way, then whacked him across the head with the flat of his sabre, leaving Schlegel sprawled. Fegelein told him to get up. And if I lie here? Schlegel thought. Fegelein gave a blast on his whistle. Two more whistles came in reply, followed by a shot, close enough to kick dirt in Schlegel’s face. He scrambled to his feet without meaning to.

  ‘Stand to attention, soldier, and stop behaving like a snivelling coward,’ Fegelein barked. The man’s glazed eyes said he was back in the killing fields.

  ‘Are you the one that complained about being splattered with blood and pieces of brain and asked to be excused duties?’ Fegelein demanded. ‘Or the one that begged not to be assigned to the firing squad, so we made him hold my horse for the duration of the executions? Nearly two and a half thousand that morning. That’s a lot of horse holding, soldier.’

  Schlegel still refused to put the cap on. The point of Fegelein’s sabre jabbed into his neck.

  ‘We had them dancing in the street. Hippity hop. Go on or I cut your tendon. Excruciating agony, I believe.’

  The tip of the sabre remained resting against his throat until Schlegel felt it pierce the flesh. He put on the cap.

  *

  Morgen left the road and ran through woods trying to make up ground. He could see Fegelein on an open stretch, the horse strutting arrogantly as though Fegelein were conducting an exercise in dressage. Schlegel stood in the middle of the path, an abject sight, with the cap on. Morgen couldn’t see the two thugs. Fegelein stopped and looked up at the far hillside as if calculating angles. He moved Schlegel twenty metres back, prodding him with his sabre. Schlegel stood in his new position. Fegelein fussed over the details then rode a short distance off, turned and Morgen saw him raise his hand to his mouth. Another blast, answered by two more, then another rifle shot. Schlegel stood unflinching. Morgen saw the bullet fall short. Either they were finding their range or playing with him. Fegelein’s horse reared and he brought it back under control with insolent ease and gave its flank a slap.