Mister Wolf

by Chris Petit

  Tieck’s quarters were one of three narrow sleeping berths for railway personnel in the baggage car, with a bunk, a small basin and a WC in the corridor. Fegelein and Anna Huber had separate compartments – Tieck wondered for how long – in the radio car, luxury by comparison.

  He suspected that Fegelein had wangled the Führer train partly to impress Anna Huber, in hope of wheedling his way back into favour. Tieck knew Fegelein for what he was: cad, opportunist and bounder, a conventional and feckless villain.

  Tieck inspected himself in the vanity mirror over the basin. Part of him wanted to rip off his face and cast aside Toni Tieck to reveal his old self underneath. He told the mirror from now on he would go back to being Anton Schlegel.

  Anton cursed his son, who had locked himself in his compartment and refused to answer.

  He had managed to speak to him briefly before leaving for the station to be told that Schlegel had on returning to the Berghof burned the book in the kitchen stove as an act of filial revenge for being shown Anton’s letter. Anton had raised his stick in anger, realising how naive he had been in thinking he understood anything of the running sores of family resentment. The intention always had been to lead the boy blind, so he never learned the real identity of Toni Tieck, until bloody Hermann Fegelein spoke out of turn.

  *

  Morgen knew he could make life difficult for Toni Tieck, aka Anton Schlegel, as the receiver of stolen goods for Hermann Fegelein, and anyway Tieck stood to be exposed as others learned his real identity.

  He found the man in his compartment looking crushed and willing to talk. They started with Hermann Fegelein. Anton Schlegel admitted that he had been living as Toni Tieck on Fegelein’s isolated stud farm outside Munich, in exchange for ‘continuing financial services’.

  ‘Hermann had two great loves, horses and dirty money, with women coming a poor third. When I was still Anton Schlegel, Hermann sucked up to me because I knew how money worked, which he didn’t, being a spendthrift. After I became Tieck, Hermann couldn’t care that I was supposed to be dead. I asked him to teach me about bloodstock and came to appreciate animal grace in contrast to my recent lameness. In return I educated Hermann in alternative tactics of appropriation as it was evident that loot and its fencing would become the main game following conquest.’

  So, thought Morgen, Fegelein was just the puppet.

  The other man went on. ‘When Hermann went to Warsaw in 1942, I spent long hours on the telephone teaching him how to asset strip a company as daintily as disrobing a seduction. But Hermann was a show pony, and I came to prefer his sidekick—’

  ‘Kurt Becher,’ Morgen interrupted.

  ‘Quite so. Buccaneering Kurt had more élan and a talent for pirate business and it was he who cooked up a grand plan that had nothing to do with Fegelein.’

  ‘Appropriation of art?’

  ‘No, that was my son’s old friend Christoph. I believe you were after Becher in Budapest.’

  Even Morgen, who regarded himself as something of a connoisseur of hidden connections, was surprised by how everything joined up.

  ‘I never got close,’ he admitted.

  ‘What was he really doing there, do you know?’

  ‘Jews. Appropriation, wheeling and dealing, allowing some to buy their way out.’

  ‘The real reason.’

  Morgen admitted he had no idea.

  ‘It was the gee-gees. Horses.’ The man laughed wearily at Morgen’s bafflement. ‘Among his other enterprises, Becher bought horses for the SS cavalry. It was he who came up with a grand vision to use that as an opportunity to breed the finest racehorses, which would win a clean sweep of international trophies after the war. Kurt was always far sighted.’

  ‘So he plundered the cream of Europe’s bloodstock for Hermann’s stud.’

  ‘In a nutshell, and I consulted with the finest veterinary scientists on how to perfect the stock.’ The man sniggered. ‘So you could say it was all about animal genetics.’

  Knowing that Schlegel’s stepfather kept racehorses too made Morgen’s next question obvious. The answer was that in such a narrow field the two men inevitably ran into each other at meetings around the country, and even as far away as Longchamp in Paris.

  ‘Of course, he had no idea who I really was. At Longchamp I once saw him with my wife whom I was unaware at the time he had married. A sad moment. She looked ravishing. I was much changed by then, having decided physical ugliness was the best chance of survival because people avoid looking, as did my wife, who anyway wouldn’t have glanced twice at the vulgarian I had become. So, there you have it, a pure moment of beauty and the beast.’

  ‘And your son’s friend Christoph?’ Morgen asked, still thrown by that connection.

  ‘Ah, Christoph was what you might call the unseen thread. Here’s a story. A young man arrives in Munich in the spring of 1934, still a boy really, in search of himself, a process accelerated by his abrupt seduction by an older man. A pleasurable month is spent as that man’s poulet. First names only, until Christoph is tempted to go through his lover’s desk and realises he has been seduced by his best friend’s father, whom everyone believes is in South America.’

  ‘And now?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘Christoph remains pliable and biddable, and deeply discreet through fear of exposure. Four years later he returned to Munich, on the bottom rung of the art ladder, and in one of those cellar dives that still functioned in the deeper underground he fell in with a man whom he gradually came to think, but could not quite believe, might be his former lover, but the name had changed and the appearance so transformed that the man might indeed be a different person. The matter of previous identity was never brought up. As Tieck, I cultivated two worlds – bloodstock and the archive – and Christoph became my eyes and ears in dealing with that latter.’

  As for the original list with ‘Schlegel. A’ that started it all, it had been acquired by the archive as part of a job-lot purchase, obviously a death list that should have been destroyed. On that occasion, Christoph was asked to make the delivery.

  Anton looked at Morgen and said, ‘I would rather you did not tell my son about this conversation. He doesn’t need to know. I have already hurt him enough.’

  Morgen wondered about that. The man did not strike him as someone of sentiment or sympathy. He asked if there was anything else.

  The other man cast around, giggled and finally said, ‘As we’re here. The train manager.’

  Morgen said he had hardly noticed the man and was told that was the point.

  ‘Perhaps in a normal world it would seem far-fetched for Anna Huber’s father to turn out to be the train manager of the Führer express. Yet he is and has been for years.’

  He explained how Fredi Huber, apparently a notorious opponent of the Party, was spared death because of secret services rendered but was forced nevertheless to go underground.

  ‘The thing about Fredi was that although he was a name, he was not a face. No one really knew what he looked like and I recommended to Hermann that it might be to his advantage to have someone on the inside of such an enclosed, highly charged world.’ He looked around the carriage. ‘Not so much now – the train is hardly used any more – but in its day it was a hive of secrets. Telecommunications left lying around, gossip, dining-car conversations. So Fredi Huber became a vital source to Fegelein as his master Himmler was more and more excluded by Bormann.’

  So that was that, thought Morgen, there wasn’t a loose end he could think of. He stood to go and was left with a footnote to take away: it was Fredi Huber who had been indirectly responsible for Anna Huber’s post at the Ministry of Propaganda, arranged on Fegelein’s say-so after a word to the tiny doctor.

  The other man looked at him and said, ‘Whether the predatory Dr Goebbels added her to his conquests is neither here nor there, though Hermann thinks he probably did – as female availability is understood to be part of the contract.’

  Morgen left quietly, certain that he had
been told this last story in an act of almost casual, reflex cruelty because Anton Schlegel had guessed that he carried a torch for Anna Huber.

  *

  Fredi Huber, in his role of train manager, knocked on Tieck’s door and asked if he wanted a whisky nightcap. Tieck, with no wink or aside, said yes he would. No ice, Fredi Huber apologised.

  ‘As it comes is fine, with a splash of water.’

  ‘Fachinger?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Fredi Huber regretted the lack of a dining car or kitchen. All he could offer was some biscuits, which were declined.

  When Fredi Huber returned with the whisky, he said, ‘I trust you are keeping well, sir?’

  It was still the train manager and Tieck talking.

  ‘As well as can be expected in difficult times,’ Tieck said, still keeping to his part.

  Fredi Huber turned to bid him good night.

  ‘We’re both lucky to be alive,’ Tieck said, speaking for himself and Anton Schlegel.

  ‘Indeed we all are, sir. I bid you both good night,’ said Fredi Huber with a wink.

  Clever devil. He wondered what Fredi did now about chasing boys. Anton Schlegel would have made quick work of the ack-ack lads.

  Sleep would not come to Toni Tieck or Anton Schlegel. He got up, raised the narrow blind and sat watching the benighted land rush by. Not a single light to be seen: a gone world.

  *

  The train moved through the suburbs of Berlin, revealing themselves in the morning light, showing how badly the city had aged.

  Thanks to the train’s teleprinter, Anton was able to inform Bormann of their arrival and asked to meet, signing himself off as Schlegel. Bormann wired back to say he would come to the station. Anton was joined in the radio room by Fegelein, looking both tired and refreshed after a no doubt invigorating bout with Anna Huber, who he said was breakfasting on biscuits with her father.

  Anton explained about Bormann and said he needed a place where they could talk. If Fegelein was surprised at this he gave no sign. He suggested the kitchen in the baggage car. ‘More of a storeroom really, but it has folding tables and chairs. I presume you want to speak in private.’ He was back to being the impeccable liaison officer.

  ‘A last favour,’ said Anton. ‘Perhaps you could fetch my son.’

  He had decided after all there might be an advantage to be gained from producing the boy for Bormann, but he couldn’t face going himself.

  Fegelein went and returned to say, ‘He chooses not to come,’ and Anton realised he had been stupid and undiplomatic to have sent Fegelein, thinking perhaps there was such a thing as shame after all.

  The train had its own private platform away from the station. The blinds were up as the train glided to a halt, opposite a high security wall. No reason to lower them, Anton thought: Let’s have a little light on the matter.

  Bormann bustled in moments later. The same but different: fatter, coarser, less hair, and infinitely more power, worn lightly. If one person could see through Tieck it would be Bormann, Anton Schlegel thought. Bormann sat leaning forward on the table with his hands clasped, and Anton realised Bormann had no idea who he was and he, Anton, had nothing to say in return because Bormann had blanked him.

  ‘Well?’ asked Bormann still curious but impatient.

  Anton stood clumsily and asked to be excused for a moment. He hobbled down to Schlegel’s compartment where he was sitting on the bed, staring into space.

  Anton said, ‘I need you to come.’

  He had to say please, and add that it was his son’s help he wanted. He watched him calculate, then to his surprise Schlegel agreed and followed him back down the compartment to where Bormann was waiting, looking like his time was being wasted.

  Apart from a double take at the dyed hair, Bormann gave little sign of recognising Schlegel, who said he was there to represent Anton Schlegel.

  Bormann threw him a quizzical look and said, ‘Anton Schlegel is dead.’

  Schlegel said, ‘I thought so, too.’

  ‘Why are we here then?’ asked Bormann, sounding less certain.

  Schlegel slowly reached into his pocket and laid the copy of The Adventures of Pinocchio on the table between them.

  Bormann looked at it and said, ‘Do we have a need for children’s stories?’

  Anton turned to Schlegel. ‘You said—’ he began and stopped, silenced by his son’s contempt.

  Anton Schlegel picked up the book and riffled urgently through the pages. He threw it down and said to Bormann, ‘There is supposed to be more.’

  Schlegel remained silent, letting Anton see how much he was enjoying the other’s discomfort.

  Bormann picked up the book and flipped through it, finding nothing either. He paused to note Anton’s name on the fly leaf, then looked more closely at the strange man sitting opposite him.

  Anton said, ‘I had intended my namesake here to act as my messenger, but I see no point in pretending now. We both know it is too late for that, given the dire state of things. I am Anton Schlegel.’

  Bormann’s first reaction was to laugh in disbelief; his second to say, ‘Well, you have made a God Almighty mess of yourself since I last saw you! And your messenger here, what was he supposed to bring?’

  ‘The Hitler confession.’

  ‘We both know he didn’t do it.’

  Schlegel spoke up to ask, ‘Which one of you brought in Emil Maurice to shoot the niece?’

  They stared at him, united in their hostile silence and Schlegel knew from Anton’s reaction that he was the one that hadn’t known. Bormann finally said, ‘A dangerous question to ask, boy.’

  Schlegel was beyond caring. ‘Having survived your two thugs and Fegelein, it doesn’t matter a fig to me what I say.’

  Since the previous morning he had acquired the indifference of the dead.

  Bormann sat back. Perhaps it was a relief to be asked. ‘Clear the air then.’

  Schlegel spoke fluently and without hesitation. ‘The girl had become a liability to Herr Wolf and the Party, putting the whole project in jeopardy. There was the domestic beating, hushed up but noted by Fredi Huber.’ He looked at Anton Schlegel. ‘Though who told him I suppose we will never know.’ He turned back to Bormann. ‘Hoffmann accused you of beating the girl.’

  Bormann started to protest and Schlegel cut him short. ‘The point is, whoever did, the incident threatened to undo everything.’ He turned to Anton Schlegel and said, ‘Hoffmann also reported someone else being there that night who did not reveal himself and that was you, I am sure of it.’ Anton conceded with a turn of the wrist as Schlegel went on.

  ‘The logical outcome was the girl had to go to save the leadership. Herr Wolf was then got out of the way so she could be disposed of behind his back, decided jointly between the two of you.’

  He looked at Bormann, who didn’t appear in the least threatened by what he was being told. Schlegel continued. ‘You brought in Emil Maurice. It was an a gangster-style rub-out and Maurice was the hit man.’

  ‘Why Maurice?’ asked Bormann, curious to know how Schlegel had arrived at that.

  ‘A dumb soul, definitely stupid and an After Schlegel was finished, Bormann, the great loyal executioner of orders, without guilt or guile. The little man with the gun. It’s so obvious it’s almost an anticlimax, in keeping with such a dirty, fast and squalid ending. So Maurice turned up, the familiar friendly face, old chums with the girl, and did she for a second think about the man’s body count, going back years? Maurice was the perfect example of the discrepancy between the Party’s grandiose image of itself and the reality of a cheap killing.’ He addressed Anton. ‘Of course the real value of the Huber scoop to Maurice was that it didn’t name him.’

  *

  On that last afternoon of her life, Geli Raubal wandered through the different rooms of her uncle’s apartment, inspecting her memories: the laughter and tears, giggling discoveries, shocking admissions, reconciliations, rows and tearful forgiveness. ‘You have un
leashed a storm of unbridled passion in me.’ Had he really said that? Hard to imagine now. His bedroom. Single bed! Their bathroom. Her room. Single bed! Poor Hansi. He had told her how canaries were kept in mines for their ability to detect any advance warning of danger beyond human perception. She had wept at the thought of those poor birds in the dark. Taking her hands, he had said, ‘We are caged creatures but I will show it is possible to be free.’

  Reception room and library, books given by her as gifts: at first, ‘Your ever loving niece’; then, over time: ‘G xxx’. Outside, the square turning to autumn, still bright before the start of winter cold. Nothing cosy about the place. Try as she might, she could never make a nest of her room in the way she had in the mountains. The staff quarters mysteriously empty, even the deaf crone, Frau Drachs, who usually couldn’t be prised away, gone, as though everyone had said goodbye without doing so. Had the crone been her protector after all, and not the sinister presence she believed her to be? Any sense of ‘his’ imminent coming shifted with the slow movement of light around the apartment into a growing acceptance of her abandonment. Perhaps he had never intended what he promised. Perhaps he had buckled under the pressure, temporarily, and would come nevertheless. She forgave him for beating her, putting it down to a volcanic tempestuousness, the inevitable result of the risk being run as they braced themselves for the operatic scandal about to erupt and the triumph of their love. The press would soon be on board, Anton had promised, to write up their story in all sorts of favourable ways. Bormann had been her penultimate visitor, calling unexpectedly after all the others were gone, seemingly to check on her wellbeing, saying as he left, ‘I must go now. No rest for the wicked. I am sending someone over to take care of you.’ She watched him depart, knowing then. In an effort to banish all negative thoughts, she sat down and wrote to a girlfriend, saying how much she was looking forward to visiting: ‘When I come to Vienna – I hope very soon – we’ll drive to Semmering—’ She broke off in the middle of writing as the doorbell rang.

  *

  After Schlegel was finished, Bormann, the great dissembler, said he above all respected honesty. Speaking eloquently for a change, he said, ‘It was a psychologically critical time. The Raubal death is now seen as an aberration, as intended. Perhaps only we know that it was a moment of great spiritual crisis.’ Bormann ruminated, again unlike him. ‘You’re right. She would have ruined him. He was losing his mojo as it was. She wouldn’t be bought off, because I tried, so she paid the price. Regrettable, but there it is.’