by Philip Kerr
A tall butler wearing a tailcoat and a wing collar glided silently into the hall and bowed, giving me time enough to get a good look at his hair, which, like the deferential expression on his face, seemed to have been painted on his head. The Iron Cross first class ribbon on his coat lapel was a nice touch, reminding everyone wearing a uniform that he, too, had done his bit in the trenches. He had a thick, jowly face and an even thicker beef-soup of a voice.
‘Welcome sir, to Jungfern-Breschan. I am Kritzinger, the butler. The General presents his compliments and asks you to join him for drinks on the terrace at twelve-thirty p.m.’ He lifted one arm in the direction of the French windows, as if he had been directing traffic on Potsdamer Platz. ‘Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay here more comfortable. Until then, if you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to your quarters.’
My room, in the north wing, was larger and better appointed than I’d been expecting. There was a good-sized bed, a secretaire desk with three ebonized drawers for the clothes I had brought from the Imperial, a table-chair and a leather armchair that stood next to a fireplace that was laid but not lit. In the window was a folding tray-table with a princely range of alcoholic drinks, chocolate, newspapers and American cigarettes, and as soon as Kritzinger had made himself scarce, I set about throwing away my Johnnies and filling my cigarette case. With a drink in my hand and a decent cigarette in my mouth I inspected my principality in more detail.
On the desk was a Brumberg table lamp with a parchment shade, and on the floor a dull maroon Turkish kilim. There were some towels on the end of my bed and the door had a key and a bolt, for which I was grateful. Absurdly so. When you’re in a house that’s already full of murderers it’s perhaps foolish to think that locking your door is going to keep you safe. There were bars on the lower-floor windows but not on those of the upper floor. The window in my room, which had some sturdy brass bolts, had a fixed windowpane and two casements that opened out onto the back garden. There was a roller blind for summer and some thick red curtains for when the weather turned colder, which, in that part of the world, it always does.
I poked my head outside. The ground was about five or six metres below the window ledge. In the centre of a circular bed of flowers a sprinkler was a whirling dervish of water and rhythm. Beyond that was a gravel path lined with neatly trimmed bushes and then a thick clump of trees. And on the lawn was another stone group of escaping deer that was perhaps a pair to the one in the front garden.
I lay on my bed and finished my drink and smoked my cigarette. These did little to calm me. To be under the same roof as Heydrich made me nervous. I got up and poured myself another drink, which helped, but only a little. Whatever he wanted, I knew it wouldn’t sit well with my conscience, which was already badly bruised, and I resolved that when eventually he got around to explaining what this was, I would tell him, as politely as I could, to go to hell. There was no way I was ever going back to the Ukraine to perform some loathsome act of genocide and it really didn’t matter if that meant being sent to a concentration camp. I wasn’t the same as any of those other bastards in uniform. I wasn’t even a Nazi. Perhaps they needed reminding of that. Perhaps it was time I repeated my allegiance to the old Republic. If they were looking for an excuse to throw me out of the SD then I would hand them one. Arianne was surely right: if more people stood up to Heydrich the way I’d stood up to the Labour leader on the train then, maybe, things would change. More people would be dead, too, including myself, but that couldn’t be helped. Lately that didn’t seem so bad. That’s what I told myself, anyway. It might have been the schnapps. And of course I wouldn’t know for sure until the time came. But I knew it was going to take some courage on my part because I was also afraid. That’s the only way I know that you can distinguish being brave from being stupid.
‘That’s rather beautiful, don’t you think?’
I was looking at a dazzling modern picture of a dark-haired femme fatale. She was wearing a fabulous long dress that seemed to be made of golden Argus eyes, all set against a radiantly primordial golden background. There was something terrifying about the woman herself. She looked like some remorseless Egyptian queen who had been made ready for eternity by a group of economists who were slaves to the gold standard.
‘Unfortunately it’s a copy. The original was stolen by that greedy fat bastard Herman Göring and is now in his private collection, where nobody but him can see it. More’s the pity.’
I was in the Lower Castle library. Through the window I could see the back garden where several SS and SD officers were already collected on the terrace. The officer speaking to me was about thirty, tall, thin, and rather effete. He had white blond hair and a duelling scar on his face. The three pips on his black collar-patch told me he was an SS-Hauptsturmführer – a captain, like me; and the monkey swing of silver braid on his tunic – properly called an aiguillette, but only by people who knew their way around a dictionary of military words – indicated he was an aide-de-camp, most likely Heydrich’s.
‘Are you Doctor Ploetz?’ I asked.
‘Good God, no.’ He clicked his heels. ‘Hauptsturmführer Albert Kuttner, fourth adjutant to General Heydrich, at your service. No, you’ll know when you meet Ploetz. It will feel like someone left a freezer door open.’
‘Cold, huh?’
‘I’ve met warmer glaciers.’
‘How many adjutants does he have?’
‘Oh, just the four. A man for each season. There’s myself. Captains Pomme and Kluckholn. And Major Ploetz, who’s the Chief Adjutant. You’ll have the great pleasure of meeting them all while you’re here.’
‘I can’t wait.’
Kuttner smiled a knowing smile, as if he and I were already occupying the same forbidden radio frequency. ‘And you, I assume, must be Captain Gunther.’ He shook his head. ‘The Berlin accent. It’s quite unmistakable. By the way, the General doesn’t go in for the Hitler salute very much, while we’re here at the castle.’
‘That suits me. I don’t go in for Hitler salutes much myself.’
‘Yes. The General likes to keep things very informal. So mess rules apply. No belts worn.’ He nodded at my crossbelts. ‘That kind of thing.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, unbuckling the crossbelt I was wearing.
‘Also, it’s fine to introduce yourself with your SS rank but, after that, do try not to use SS ranks when describing yourself or a brother officer. Army ranks or surnames save time. The General’s very keen on saving time. He often says that while we delay time does not and that lost time is never found again. Very true, what?’
‘He’s always been very quotable, the General. You must try to write some of these sayings down. For the sake of posterity.’
Kuttner shook his head. It seemed he wasn’t quite on my own frequency after all.
‘That wouldn’t do at all. The General hates people writing down what he says. It’s an idiosyncrasy he has.’
I smiled. ‘It’s evidence, that’s what it is.’
Kuttner smiled back. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Very good. Very good.’
‘I guess that’s why he has four adjutants,’ I added. ‘To help keep everything off the record.’
‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. But you could be right.’
I turned back to the golden picture in front of us. ‘Who is she, anyway?’
‘Her name is Adele Bloch-Bauer and her husband, Ferdinand, used to own this house. A Jew, which makes you wonder why Göring likes her so much. But there it is. Consistency not his strong suit, I’d say. It’s a nice copy of course but I think it a great pity that the original isn’t in the house, where it truly belongs. We’re trying to persuade the Reichsmarshal to give it back, but so far without much success. He’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to paintings, I believe. Anyway, one can easily see why he likes it so much. To say that Frau Bloch-Bauer looked like a million marks hardly seems to do her portrait justice. Wouldn’t you agree?’
&
nbsp; I nodded and allowed myself another look, not at the painting but at Captain Kuttner. For a man who was Heydrich’s adjutant, his free and frank opinions seemed to veer toward the dangerous. A bit like my own. It was clear we had more in common than just a uniform and a keen appreciation of modern art.
‘It’s different,’ I allowed.
‘Superficially stylish, perhaps. But somehow even a copy is deeper than the gold paint, which seems almost to have been spilled onto the canvas. Eh?’
‘You sound like Bernard Berenson, Captain Kuttner.’
‘Lord, don’t say that. At least not within earshot of the General. Berenson’s a Jew.’
‘What happened to her anyway?’ I lit a cigarette. ‘To the golden lady in the picture?’
‘Sad to say, and rather ingloriously given how she looks in this painting, the poor woman died of meningitis in 1925. Still, that might turn out to be just as well, when one considers what is happening to Jews in this country. And in her native Austria.’
‘And Ferdinand? Her husband?’
‘Oh, I’ve no idea what happened to him. And I don’t much care, quite frankly. He sounds like your typical grasping Jewish merchant and he quite wisely cleared off the minute we walked into the Sudetenland. But I do know that the artist – another Austrian named Gustav Klimt – died at the beginning of the influenza epidemic in 1918, poor fellow. But he was a frequent guest here, I believe. Adele was rather fond of old Klimt, by all accounts. Perhaps a bit too fond. Funny to think of them all here, isn’t it? Especially now that General Heydrich owns the house. O quam cito transit gloria mundi.’
I nodded but said nothing. While the eccentric young adjutant seemed to be a cut above the average SD automaton, I wasn’t in the mood to mention the loss of my own wife to the influenza epidemic: if Klimt had been an early victim, my wife had been one of the very last to die of flu, in December 1920. Besides, there was something just a bit unpredictable about Captain Kuttner that made me wonder how someone like Heydrich could tolerate him. Then again, the General also managed, somehow, to tolerate me, and that spoke either of his enormous toleration – which seemed improbable – or his enormous cynicism.
Kuttner tried and failed to stifle a yawn.
‘The General working you late, is he?’
‘Sorry. No, actually I’m just not sleeping very well. Hardly at all, if I’m honest.’
‘He has the same effect on me. I’ve hardly slept a wink since I received his kind invitation to Prague. And it’s not from excitement, either.’
‘Really?’ Kuttner sounded surprised.
‘Really.’
‘You surprise me. Actually he’s been very understanding of my situation. Very understanding. He even referred me to his own doctor. He gave me something called Veronal, which is quite effective. For sleeping. Although you have to be careful not to mix it with alcohol.’
‘Then I’d better make sure I never take any.’ I grinned. ‘I’m usually very careful never to let anything stand in the way of my drinking. But what I meant was that the General’s reputation goes before him. He’s not exactly Mohandas K. Gandhi, is he? And I might sleep a little better knowing exactly why the hell I’m here. I don’t suppose you can shed any light on that, can you? In the same thoughtful and well-informed way that you have illuminated this picture for me.’
Kuttner scratched the duelling scar on his cheek. He seemed to do it when he was nervous, which was often.
‘It was my understanding that you and the General were friends.’
‘If you mean like a friend in need is a friend to be avoided, then yes we’re friends. But I guess the friends we have are probably the friends we deserve.’
‘You do surprise me, Commissar Gunther.’
‘Well, maybe you’ve put your finger on it, Captain. Maybe I’m supposed to be the licensed jester here, to make everyone else but the General feel uncomfortable. Knowing Heydrich as I do, I can easily see how that might amuse him.’
‘I can assure you that what you say simply cannot be the case. Most of the people here this weekend are the General’s most intimate friends. And he’s gone to considerable trouble to make sure that everyone enjoys themselves. Good food, excellent wine, fine brandies, the best cigars. Perhaps it’s just you who is supposed to feel uncomfortable, Commissar.’
‘That is always possible. The General always did like what the English call a Roman holiday. Where one man suffers for the pleasure of others.’
Kuttner was shaking his head. ‘Please let me reassure you, Gunther. I was joking, just now. Your fears are entirely without foundation. The General was most anxious that you should be comfortable. He chose your quarters himself. He chose everyone’s quarters. Including my own. I’ve known the General for quite a while now, off and on, and I can attest to his generosity and thoughtfulness. He’s not at all the capricious cruel man that you seem to know. Really.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right, captain.’ I nodded at the femme fatale in gold. ‘All the same, I wonder if the unfortunate sugar merchant’s wife would agree with you.’
It was one of those early October afternoons that made you think winter was just a word and that there was no earthly reason why the sun should ever stop shining. The flowers in the Lower Castle’s well-tended beds were mostly pink dahlias, white asters and red marigolds, providing a riot of autumn colour – which was the only kind of riot that the SS was likely to tolerate. The lawn was as green and smooth as a python’s eyeball. Crystal glasses clinked, heels clicked, and somewhere someone was playing a piano. A soft breeze in the trees sounded like an enormous silk dress. They had turned off the sprinklers but there was strawberry cup with real strawberries and delicious Sekt so I managed to get nicely wet all the same.
About eighteen of us went in for lunch. With only another four we could have tossed a coin for kick-off. The white tablecloth was as stiff as a sail on a frozen schooner and there was enough silver on it for an army of conquistadores. Otherwise things were informal, as Captain Kuttner had promised, and I was glad we had abandoned crossbelts as the food was as spectacular as it was plentiful: pea soup with real peas and bacon, liver dumplings with real liver and real onions, Holstein Schnitzel with real veal, a real egg and real anchovies served with a real Leipziger Everything. I hardly had room for the real strudel and the real cheese that followed. The wines were equally impressive. There was a box on the table for food coupons, but no one was paying any attention to that and I figured it was just for show. I looked at it and wondered about the two Fridmann sisters in the apartment beneath mine back in Berlin and how they were getting on with the canned food I’d given them, but mostly I just kept on filling the hole in my face with food and wine and cigarette smoke. I didn’t say much. There wasn’t much need to say anything very much. Everyone paid close attention to Heydrich’s table talk, which was the usual Nazi twaddle, and it was only when he started talking about the stupidity of trying to turn Czechs into Germans that I gave my jaws a rest and let my ears take over:
‘People of good race and good intentions, they will be Germanized. Those we can’t Germanize and educate to think differently from the way they think now, we’ll have to put up against the wall. The rest – that’s potentially at least half the population of Bohemia and Moravia – they will have to be moved out and resettled in the East where they can live out their miserable days in Arctic labour camps. However, whenever we can we must act with fairness. When all is said and done, the Czechs should be made to see the advantages of cooperation over opposition. And when the current state of emergency has ended, I will increase the local food ration and do everything in my power to hunt down black-market profiteers.’
There was a lot more of this guff, and I looked at the fat faces of my fellow officers to see if anyone felt the same way about it that I did, but I saw only consent and agreement. Probably they looked at me and thought the same thing.
Among these faces there was only one, apart from Heydrich’s long, thin witch-doctor’s m
ask, that I recognized and this was the former Foreign Minister and ex-Reichsprotector, Konstantin von Neurath. At almost seventy, he was the oldest person at the table and easily the most deserving of respect. Not that his ambitious young successor, Heydrich, accorded him much of this. From time to time he would pat the old man on the hand like a pet dog and speak to him in a louder voice, as if the Baron were deaf, although it was quite plain to anyone who had talked to him that there was nothing at all wrong with his hearing. I suspected that von Neurath was only present to make the new Reichsprotector’s triumph complete.
Heydrich avoided conversation with me until well after we had risen from the table and were out on the terrace again with brandies and cigars – or in my case, coffee and cigarettes. It was there that he caught my eye and, having walked me down the Upper Castle’s back garden, finally explained the point of my being there.
