by Tony Bulmer
“Much improved, those pills you gave me they—”
“Enlivened you—but of course. They are a new formulation by the Reich chemists, you might have heard of a stimulant that goes by the name Pervitin. Well, this medication is even more potent, a special formulation devised for use by frontline combatants. It is designed to combat fatigue and lift the spirits.”
“I feel as though my feet are floating free of the floor,” said Eva.
“There are certain side effects, naturally,” replied the Reichsmarschall, “The symptoms you describe are common with such medications, but the side effects will soon pass, and you will be able to celebrate your first evening in Paris, without further discomfort.”
“I would much prefer to be at home in Germany, Herr Göring.”
The Reichsmarschall beamed, “Of course you would my dear, we all would, but there is much work to do, before that will be possible. We are here to assist in the shaping of the new Europe, a super continent centered around the strength of a greater Germany,” Göring paused, regarding her closely with his pinned pupils. “While France may, on the outside, have a certain cultural veneer, Fräulein Bergen, the French as a people are decadent and easily led. It is our duty, to guide their childish minds, and rid them of the insidious influences of the Bolshevik and the Jew.”
Eva tried to swallow, but found she couldn’t. Her mouth was so arid she could hardly speak and yet she wanted to cry out in horror—tell the Reichsmarschall of the legacy of their proud nations forefathers—of Frederick the Great and Goethe, of Albertus Magnus and Johann Sebastian Bach. Would these great Germans, men of insight, innovation and tolerance, subscribe to such ideas? A waiter cut suddenly between them, filling her glass with champagne. Eva regarded it with suspicion. She had only tasted alcohol on a very few occasions, and had never liked it when she did, but now, as the bright golden liquid sparkled and bubbled in her glass, she felt compelled to take it up. Raising the glass to her lips, she felt an explosion of delight run over her tongue. A taste so intensely pleasurable it sucked the breath out of her. She sat, holding her glass, as the alcohol raced though her system. Her confidence building, she stole a glance at the ghastly jabbering faces pressing in around her. Had the whole world gone mad? How could it be possible that they were here in France, what blurring insanity had led to this?
Eva gulped more champagne and found with surprise, that her glass was empty. She replaced it on the table with an unsteady hand—only to have it refilled immediately. She tried to protest, but it was no use. The glass was full once again—more full than it had been before. She contemplated the fizzing contents, her mind spinning faster, moving in wild euphoric circles, as she clutched the edge of her chair so tightly her fingers seemed to sink into the fragile wood.
A shambolic band suddenly struck up a Bavarian drinking song and the assembled company roared with approval. Many around her, rose to their feet, sloshing and staggering and slurring along, in time to the drunken beat.
As the band reached a crescendo, she felt a hand slide over her thigh. Eva turned with sharp fury and snatched the hand away, scrunching the fingers as she did so. Hofer grinned pinkly, his beady little eyes glistening in the velvet light. She flashed him a look of cold hatred.
“You have quite a grip Fräulein, I was only trying to be friendly. Perhaps you think friendship is beneath you?” Hofer gave Eva an unpleasant look, his copper hair glowing like molten bronze.
“Keep your hands to yourself, Herr Hofer.”
Hofer stared at her, a rivulet of sweat trickling down from under his hat. It ran over his pink flesh, then down, soaking into the top of a collar already black with perspiration.
“You surprise me Fräulein, so prim and condescending and yet you drink champagne as thirstily as any whore in Paris.”
“I have no doubt that you are an expert in such matters Herr Hofer,” said Eva.
Hofer gave a snarl. Getting ready to rise out of his seat and strike her, no doubt. His eyes flickered towards Reichsmarschall Göring, who was deeply engaged in conversation with Baron Von Behr. Hofer paused, before finally he sank back in his seat, his face burning with hate.
Eva said, “You are drunk Herr Hofer, perhaps when you are sober you will see the error of your ways, but I doubt it. Some who call themselves men are victims of their own primitive natures.”
Hofer leaned in close and hissed, “You are some kind of cold little bitch—playing it sweet for the boss—is that right Fräulein Bergen? Are you keeping it tight for the Reichsmarschall tonight—because he is a married man, you know that don’t you?”
“You disgusting animal. Emmy Göring is a personal friend of mine,” said Eva, “and if you persist in your unpleasantness, I will be forced to report your repellant behavior.”
Hofer sneered, “You think that would do you any good Fräulein? I am betting the Reichsmarschall could get himself another pretty little bookkeeper tomorrow, if he wanted to. Maybe he thought he would do you a favor, because you look so like that pretty little Swedish bitch he married in the roaring twenties.” Hofer gave a nasty smile, “But you will never be able to live up to the memory of that saintly little socialite will you Fräulein?
“Such comparisons are pointless Herr Hofer. I have no wish to live up to anything.”
Hofer gave a cruel laugh. “You are a long way from home Fräulein, you will quickly realize that this city is a perilous place, full of intrigue of every description—it is a world where one should choose friendship when it is offered.”
“I suspect you have more than friendship in mind Herr Hofer—and you must remember I have plenty of friends already—important friends.”
Hofer gave her a smug look, “One must be careful Fräulein of the allegiances one makes. In times of war, one never knows who tomorrows friends may be.” He leaned back in his chair and opened an expensive cigarette case. He took one for himself then offered her the case, “An exclusive Turkish blend Fräulein, I think you will find it to your taste.”
As the cigarette case loomed towards her, the beer hall band ground their Bavarian drinking song to a chaotic and raucous conclusion. As the cacophony subsided, a svelte blonde, in a figure hugging evening gown and black opera gloves, moved out from behind the red velvet curtains, and took her place centre stage. Wolf-whistles and catcalls echoed around the room. The blonde, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Marlene Dietrich, adjusted her microphone, then posed and flaunted, as a high power spotlight cut onto the stage, picking out every curvaceous asset, every powdered flaw. The blonde didn’t care—she pouted and examined her nails as her band took their places. Then, all at once, as undulating haze of tobacco smoke twisted into the spotlight, the band launched into an exotic drum driven intro. The blonde began to move to the beat, her hands snaking over he microphone, sleazy and suggestive, like a street corner moll making ready for the game.
As the music oozed around them, Eva looked down into the cigarette case that Hofer held open. The cigarettes snuggled close and deadly, white bullets waiting for a victim. Every instinct told her to take one, but something held her back. As the sumptuous and exotic music swirled, she felt paralyzed by the moment.
As Eva looked into the cigarette case, contemplating a myriad futures, strong hands grasped her by the shoulders. She turned with a start. Standing above her was Rudolf Diels, his uncompromising face set with the faintest of smiles—in the harsh, animalistic light of the club, it was a look that seemed almost kind.
“Perhaps you would like to dance Fräulein Bergen?” asked Diels in a tone that offered little room for refusal.
Eva swallowed, and nodded, quickly.
Hofer’s beady eyes oozed hate. He snapped shut the cigarette case, as though closing a door of possibility that would be sealed for all eternity. Then he lounged back in his seat, feigning indifference as Eva moved out onto the dance floor with Diels.
The band moved quickly into a Latin beat, exotic and animalistic. Diels moved assertively, swinging into t
he Tango without pause. All around, the packed crowd roared out in approval. Eva, hardly had time to think, she wasn’t much of a dancer. In fact, she hadn’t taken the floor since her college days, but that hardly seemed to matter. Diels was an accomplished partner. He led crisply, allowing her to follow his lead—spinning her into moves she never imagined possible. As the room whirled past in a champagne blur, Diels moved close, one hand moving into the small of her back, the other leading high, guiding her into each move, with an almost clinical certainty. She hardly dared look at him, as his damaged face caught the light, but she knew that his dark eyes were upon her, assessing every nuanced move. And so they danced on, moving faster and faster now, with wheeling abandon, until Eva felt she would surely collapse under the pressure of her drumbeat pulse. What would her former colleagues from the library think? Such abandon was surely indecent—a primitive remnant of a tribal past—but there was no telling where her former colleagues had vanished to—it was almost as though those gray days of routine had never existed, replaced instead, by an interminable march towards a torrid and uncertain future. In the capricious, ever-changing structure of the Nazi Party anything could happen to anyone and frequently did. It was best not to think or ask questions, such actions could only bring misfortune.
Swirling endlessly around the dance floor, the music reached an unholy crescendo, as it did, Eva knew now she had made a terrible mistake. Her dance with Diels would start rumors—raise questions—malicious, judgmental questions, for which no answer would be deemed acceptable.
As they danced, she could see ghastly faces pressing in all around her, staring, judging—questioning her commitment to propriety and the new Germany. And the voices—She could hear the voices now, ringing cold and judgmental—how malicious they were, spreading the word of her terrible indiscretion—there would be consequences. There were always consequences in the new Reich.
Why had she not listened to her instincts—better to stay small and quiet, hide away and refrain from displays of indulgent expression, but it was too late for that. She had stepped into the spotlight with Rudolph Diels, the Reich’s greatest outcast. He might be the Reichsmarschall’s favorite, but he was an outcast nonetheless and in a world where outsiders could vanish without trace, Rudolph Diels was a dangerous man to know.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 37
Eva awoke, to the sound of rain lashing hard against her bedroom window. For a slow minute she imagined she was home in Germany, in her tiny one bedroom apartment on Friedrich Strasse. But today, there was something alien about the soft-filtered dawn—the looming darkness of strange furniture; the sharp angled cut of the drapes falling away precipitously into the gloom.
A quick thrill of panic ran through her—
How on earth had she ended up in bed, wearing only her underwear?
Had someone removed her clothes without her knowledge? She tried to think through her predicament, but her throbbing head prevented it.
Eva tried without success to recall the series of events that had led to this moment
No doubt she was in a hotel—but how had she arrived here? Eva remembered that Reichsmarschall Göring always stayed at the Ritz, could this be the strange destination to which she had been mysteriously transported?
Eva lay silent for a long time, casting her eyes upwards, watching, as the rain dappled morning trickled down across the window, casting reluctant shapes on the ceiling. The shapes crawled and oozed, She stared blankly at this gloomy picture show as grand details—cornices and decorative molding began slowly to emerge from the encroaching gloom. This was the Ritz, no doubt about it, but how had she got here? What events had transpired after the blackness had descended?
Dark scenarios flashed before her.
She lifted her head with a sudden, fearful start.
It was then that the nausea hit, a sharp pitiless spasm, reaching up from the very depths of her being.
She sank back, wondering how such feelings were possible. Engulfed now by the soft pillow, blurred memories ascended—crystallizing slowly, reluctantly, in her pulsing mind—the dark train-ride from Germany, a journey by car, then a hellish place full of swirling faces, spinning round and around, then nothing.
Eva closed her eyes. Pressed the tips of her fingers to her temples.
Slowly, the face of Rudolph Diels emerged from the migraine haze, his horrific scars, his icy flesh, and tiny, malformed teeth grinning up at her, through the swirling dawn. Feeling suddenly nauseous, Eva leapt out of bed and hopped across the icy floor to the first door she could find. A shock of white porcelain rose up to greet her. She vomited and vomited again, her hair hanging down limp and ragged across her face. She tried to stand, but her weakened limbs shuddered under the pressure of her affliction. She held her head down, retching and choking—hoping, praying that each wave of nausea would be the last. But as she willed the sickness away, it grew ever more powerful, denuding her spirit—again she tried to stand, but as she rose, the grey world folded in around her—dark, unending, permanent.
Swirling darkness. Flashes of uniform, and black iron medals, swinging like stars from a hangman’s gibbet. A plate of food standing uneaten, on gold-rimmed china; raw blood-drenched meat, swimming in black oil; wilted greenery floating on the periphery, shriveling and decomposing in the fetid air. Memories coming faster now, stabbing through the ether like dagger blows. Angry words on a cold wet pavement; hard judgmental eyes pressing in, then rain—cold, unrelenting, blowing in across a darkened landscape.
Death, such a cold sensation—glistening, dripping, pooling, like the endless rain filled spring. Could such feelings be possible in the great beyond? A heavenly light enveloping now, growing brighter and brighter until—
Eva stirred on the bathroom floor, her face bathed in water. The water had a dark, metallic chill that made her shiver with revulsion. Light flooded in upon her now, a golden benediction, reaching into the darkened bathroom. The slow drip-drip of water echoed. She moved her fingers experimentally—reaching out, grasping slowly, desperately, for reality. Water everywhere, all over the bathroom floor. Eva opened her eyes, allowing the soft-focus world to filter in. The towering sink was a surprise. She looked up at the rim, to see sparkling droplets of water falling down from the basin; the sunlight caught their glittering, slow motion descent, before they exploded into the rippling floor.
She had left the faucet running.
She had flooded the bathroom.
Eva struggled to her feet, so that she might stem the flow of water. Dry-mouthed and bewildered, she tightened off the taps and released the plug, watching as the water gurgled away into the swirling drain. The bathroom floor was swamped—water everywhere. As she moved, the lake rippled underfoot, sending a high rising tide towards the bedroom door, where it sucked greedily at the blackened carpet.
How could this have happened?
She stood bewildered, assessing the damage.
Then, finally, she pulled wide the bathroom curtains, as she did so, a shocking view rose up to greet her—the Place Vendôme—the most exclusive square in Paris—laid out before her, bright and exquisite in fresh falling gold. The scene looked unreal, preserved in the manner of a distant age. The buildings so old, unchanged for hundreds of years. Staring out at the golden cobblestones and Palladian buildings, Eva felt time slip away from her as she imagined a past filled with wide skirted women in glamorous bonnets, escorted by gentlemen of taste and distinction—men who held etiquette and manners as sacred. Eva peered around the lace curtains at the grand monument rising up, from the very centre of the great square. She had seen it many times in books, but never imagined it would be as impressive as this—a towering column in weathered bronze, on top of which a statue of Napoleon Bonaparte posed menacingly, surveying all from his vantage point, as he made ready with hand on sword, for yet another bloody conquest.
A column of Wehrmacht trucks thundered past, breaking the spell.
Eva gave a sigh, and paddled across the bathroom floor
to the linen cupboard. She began spreading towels over the lake, in the hope that she might mitigate the water damage. She had no doubt that the water was already striking through gaps in the marble floor, penetrating into the walls and trickling down into the rooms below. Any damages would have to be explained, and such inquiries were bound to cause embarrassment. So, she spread towels like a housemaid, mopping and wiping and wringing and dabbing, until at length the unholy mess she had created, through her carelessness was under control. The dry-mouthed fatigue that her labors caused made her long for a languorous and introspective soak in a tub of hot water. She imagined this treat would mitigate the trauma of the morning—if indeed it still was morning. No doubt the Reichsmarschall would be rising from his slumbers soon, roaring and grumbling like a cantankerous sea lion. Eva hung out the towels over a heavy iron radiator and turned it on. Water grumbled through the pipe work and the ruined towels quickly began to steam.
As the hot bathwater swirled restfully, with revitalizing salts, Eva sank into the comfort of the deep, creamy water, for what seemed like a blissful eternity. As she lay relaxing, she contemplated how nice it would be, to leave this strange little country behind, and return to the familiar comfort of Berlin, a place where safe, familiar surroundings mixed pleasingly, with the gentle hum of routine. How rapturous the return to Germany would be, thought Eva, the cheering crowds, the joyful faces, the endless tree lined streets filled with hope and industry and the pride of emerging confidence.
A sharp rap at the door—perhaps the maid, or room service—making busy with their day. No doubt they would field a perfunctory question about making up the room or resupplying her with linens, then off they would go.
“I am in the bathroom, comeback later,” called Eva, her ears straining for some clue as to who the caller might be. Instead, she heard the sound of the room door being opened by a cautious hand. A silent pause—so long it seemed unnatural—like someone was taking stock of her room, perhaps picking her things up—her private things, and examining them.
