by Therese Down
On the lawn, apparently oblivious to the statesman’s arrival, were two women dancing together – or trying to; they had linked arms, but one of them was having evident difficulty moving, and when she revolved to face the Reich officer, he was shocked by the swelling and bruising to her face. His eyes narrowed as he appeared to try and make sense of what he saw. Was this some grotesque scene of abuse, perverse amusement instigated by the Gestapo, forced upon these women?
On the grass were two children. One was clapping his hands and turning circles in that awkward, concentrated way young children have, lest they fall. The other, a girl, was laughing and moving her head in an attempt to keep track of the whirling, noisy women. The concern of the officer that the Gestapo officers were malefactors was soon relieved.
“Halt!” eventually cried out the one with the bayonet. “Stop it!” But when the women ignored him, he put his hand to his helmet in consternation, dropped his bayonet, lifted it again, looked anxiously towards the officer, gave up and stood to attention with his colleagues.
At last, the women stopped revolving, doubling over breathlessly, falling into each other’s arms. They quietened, stood separately, and faced the official, chests heaving from exertion.
Marguerite’s smile died completely, but Hedda’s did not. That she had been caught laughing and dancing the day after her husband’s death did not bother her. Even this harbinger of certain doom could not dampen her spirits, for at last, after almost eight months, Agnette had found the door out of the darkness. As if revived by the spring light, she had suddenly exclaimed, quite clearly, “Lovely sunshine!” and then “Mutti?” Ever since, she had been talking, asking where she was and what was wrong with her mother’s face and where was Anselm and hadn’t he grown! And how was Marguerite? For answer she had been kissed and kissed and hugged and cried over and kissed again. Marguerite had even linked arms with one of the policemen and swung him around, at which he could not resist laughing and had spun her a turn or two before remembering she might be a murderer.
“I am sorry for the chaos,” explained Hedda as well as she could through her swollen mouth and breathlessness, “but my child has just begun to speak after almost eight months of being in a coma.” She smiled and immediately brought her hand to her face in response to the pain it caused. The offical stared at her injuries, noted the tight, black slit in the swelling that was her left eye. His own eyes were brown and kind, and he smiled – warmly, it seemed to Hedda, though she knew better than to trust him.
“Am I addressing Frau Hedda Gunther?” he asked in that practised, pseudo-courteous manner the rank and file of the SS used to initiate conversations with people they intended to harm. Hedda sighed, looked at him as if to imply she was in no mood for his games; she knew what was coming. She nodded.
“Mutti?” Agnette’s voice was pleading. “What is happening?”
Hedda turned from her visitor and knelt beside her daughter, kissed her face, stroked her hair. “I just need to talk to this gentleman for a moment, darling. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
And Anselm, crouching down beside his sister, looked delightedly into Hedda’s face, then at his sister. “Shall I talk to you, ’nette?” he asked. “I can talk to you if you like.”
Hedda stood up again with some difficulty, looked at Marguerite. The maid appeared terrified, returning Hedda’s glance with an agonized expression.
“Shall we go inside?” said the officer. “I haven’t got much time.”
Dr Brandt was bringing to a close a difficult conversation with Dr Kaufman, who had phoned from his asylum in Leipzig. “Yes, yes. All very irritating, my dear Dr Kaufman.” He was soothing, while trying to carry on writing some clinical notes he needed to get shipshape before he left the office that evening. The Führer was in one of his foul tempers – so bad for his health. Brandt had warned him repeatedly that if he did not meditate more and fret less, he was setting himself up for some sort of coronary episode. And where would Germany be without the brilliant leadership and military expertise of its leader? The illustrious Führer must call him as soon as he felt any sort of agitation, and Brandt personally would come immediately and attend to him. Having received news that the Italian invasion of Greece was failing miserably, Hitler had lost his temper completely and spent a good deal of time on the telephone, screaming at Goering. Then he had turned his attention to the terrorizing of several land army generals, threatening them with court martial or worse if they did not instantly come up with fail-safe invasive strategies to take Greece by dawn on the 6th April, in Operation Marita.
Brandt needed to get to the Führer’s side where he paced and ranted along the splendid gallery of the Reich chancellery, no doubt in a state of near apoplexy by now. It had been at least fifteen minutes since he had called.
“Well, is this Schmidt fellow right? Is the patient much better since you saw her last?” Brandt’s secretary had come in, offered to hold the papers still and present them to him for signing while he spoke on the phone. Brandt nodded and indicated his gratitude to her, widening his eyes and smiling. “Well, Kaufman, if the patient is talking and acting reasonably, then the depression must have lifted, surely? I understand your frustra– Yes, quite. I know, bu–” Brandt rolled his eyes, changed the telephone to the other ear and lifted his left shoulder to trap it, leaving his hands free to continue his paperwork.
His secretary stepped back, taking with her the papers he pushed across the desk towards her. “I know. If I may finish? There’s a couple of things you need to know. Firstly, I did not authorize Oberführer Gunther to readmit this woman to the asylum. He took that upon himself… Yes… he had told me about the circumstances… Yes, I did know Muller had taken her out in a most irregular manner…” He finished writing, put down his pen, took back the telephone in his right hand and gave the call his complete attention. He had to end it and get to the Führer. “Dr Kaufman, I’m afraid Oberführer Gunther is dead, so we cannot rely on his assistance. Yes, most unfortunate. We found out today. Yes, tragic; can’t discuss the circumstances. He worked for me, you understand? You need to defer to my judgment on this, Dr Kaufman. I am also a medical practitioner, of course, and although not a psychiatrist, I have a little understanding of the nature and prognoses of a range of mental illnesses.”
Kaufman was shocked at the news of Gunther’s death. This, plus the assertion from Brandt that he had not authorized Greta Muller’s readmission to the asylum, had significantly weakened his case. His fury was, in any case, simply blowing itself out since that smug, interfering Schmidt from Leipzig hospital had shown up again on Sunday morning and ruined Kaufman’s breakfast by presenting him – in his own home – with a report that stated Greta Muller was well. He insisted Kaufman’s diagnosis and treatment had been in error. Kaufman could only repeat to Dr Brandt how affronted and insulted he was by it all.
“Yes, yes, dear chap. Well, if she’s better, then she is better. I think you should just let this one go, old man. After all, we have a great deal more… rewarding work for you to do. We are most impressed with your work down there… Yes, yes, absolutely…” Brandt rolled his eyes as his secretary returned to the office. He indicated to her the remaining papers on the desk. She smiled and took them away. “Well, you know what the Romans used to say, Kaufman: ‘aquila non captat muscas’… Don’t you? Well, let me translate for you then: ‘the eagle does not catch flies’. We have bigger prey for you, Kaufman. I’ll be in touch, OK?” There was another pause while Kaufman asked him what should happen about Greta’s notes, as Schmidt still had them. Brandt lost patience. He had started to rise from his chair, was trying to put his jacket on while still talking. “Look, Dr Kaufman, my esteemed colleague, just let it go. What does it matter, in the end, if he has her notes? After all, I’m sorry to say it, but she is now his patient. The procurement of her case was unorthodox, but he seems to have cured her, so it would be –” he wanted to say petty – “beneath your professional dignity to pursue this. A waste of your
valuable time, dear chap.”
Finally, having wriggled into his jacket, closed his briefcase, which had been open on his desk, and put his pen into a top jacket pocket, Brandt ended the conversation with a sweetener. “I tell you what. I’ll get my secretary to make an appointment for me to visit your place personally. How’s that? We’ll discuss business and have some dinner. Yes. Yes, call my secretary. Goodbye… yes, goodbye, Dr Kaufman… Yes, quite… No, no, my pleasure. Till we meet…” And he rolled his eyes again, replaced the telephone. “I never want to meet that man,” he pronounced to his secretary in a tone that made it clear this was an instruction, and he rushed for the door.
“Please, Frau Gunther, sit down.”
Hedda paused before complying, taking in the immaculate uniform, the polished boots, the leather gloves the Reich officer held in his right hand more as an accessory than a necessity, given the weather. He removed his cap. He seemed instantly smaller. He was balding and quite angular, but his dark eyes were remarkable, their kindness incongruous with his station. He reminded her of Karl Muller.
“I didn’t kill my husband, Officer…?” she began.
“Goering,” he said. “Today, I am Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering.”
Hedda stood up, too quickly. Her head spun and she had to sit down again. She lifted her hand to her face. The pain was remarkable. “You are not Hermann Goering!” she stated emphatically, though the effort of expressing her indignation increased her pain. “You look nothing like him. I have met him.”
“You may have met him,” answered the man, “but I can assure you those clowns have not.” He nodded in the direction of the Gestapo officers in the garden.
Hedda looked at him, incredulity and confusion fighting for dominance of her expression. She put a hand over her swollen left eye to focus better the right one. “What is this?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
“Frau Gunther, I had no idea your husband was dead, but from what I have heard – and from what I observed when I arrived – I think this may not be a bad thing?” He sat forward on his chair, undid a top button. “God alone knows how they wear these stupid things; it’s strangling me!” he declared, screwing up his face as he fought with the collar of his uniform. “Actually, this is quite a good fit, don’t you think?” He winked at her. “Borrowed from my big brother.” Then he remembered the seriousness of her plight and that of her daughter, and realized he may have less time than he thought, under the circumstances. “I am Albert Goering, Hermann Goering’s brother. The man driving my car? He’s a worker at my factory in Pilsen. He’s also, by the way, a member of the Czech Resistance, so we must not be caught.” He winked again and tapped his nose as if to elicit her complicity and discretion.
“Why are you here?” asked Hedda, wholly unable to make sense of anything. The last twenty-four hours seemed a roller-coaster of surreal events. She wished she had some painkillers.
“I can see you are in pain. Did your husband do this to you?”
She nodded. “Yes, last night.”
“And how did he die? Did you kill him? I wouldn’t blame you.”
“No! I told you I did not. He was shot, but I… I don’t know how it happened. I am pretty sure it was an accident.”
“The maid?” Goering indicated the direction of the garden again. “Defending you perhaps?”
“Why are you here?”
“I got a letter from Karl Muller. You know him, yes?”
“From Karl? I don’t understand.” Hedda felt light-headed. The pain in her jaw from talking, her intense headache, made thinking very difficult. She desperately needed to sleep. She had not slept properly since the night before Walter had been shot.
“I will explain everything to you, but not now. In brief? He told me your daughter was in terrible danger – that your husband had agreed to have her killed.”
“He told you that?” Hedda was struggling to make the connections.
“Is it true?”
“Yes. It is… it was true.”
“He asked me to help you, if I could. I could, so I am here. I planned to pick you up from your house, take you to the hospital and use these papers.” He produced some folded papers from his breast pocket and handed them to Hedda. She struggled to read them, so he took them back. “Here, allow me. They are release papers for one Agnette Gunther, signed by the illustrious Hermann Goering. That is a very fine forgery, let me tell you. I cannot tell the difference myself!” He smiled at her again, folded the papers and put them back in his pocket. “Anyhow, then I was going to ask you where you wanted to go. I hoped I was not too late. It has not been easy to arrange all this.” He indicated his uniform, nodded towards the front garden again, meaning the car.
“I see!” Hedda was impressed, her heart softening once more towards Karl. He was, it seemed, a good man after all.
“My husband knew about Karl,” she remembered suddenly, becoming alarmed. “Where is Karl?”
“I have no idea,” responded Goering. “I can make enquiries later, but if you want to get away from here, and take your daughter, it seems now might be a very good time to go, don’t you think?”
“You can do that? Just get us out of here?”
“If we move fast. I’ll tell them I am Hermann Goering, Reichsmarshall, and I have been informed of the murder of my colleague, Officer Gunther. I shall say I am taking you personally into custody, along with your murdering maid and your brats – lay it on thick, SS-style, you know? – and I shall insist you get into the car, just as you are.”
“Will we all fit?” Hedda could hardly think straight at all. “What about luggage? What about… things?”
“Sorry. Just you. I have some money. Have you?”
“Yes… Yes, I have a few thousand marks in notes and I have a chequebook which gives me access to a housekeeping account. My husband has several accounts, but they are in his name.”
“I have some very close banker contacts in Berlin who can perhaps help with all that, but not for a while. The authorities will be watching your husband’s accounts very closely. For now, let us go. There is no time to waste. If anybody more senior than those goons outside turns up, Frau Gunther, the game will be up. Shall we go?”
Hedda got to her feet. “I must get the money – upstairs.” Albert nodded, adding that she should proceed with all haste. Hedda went as fast as she could to her bedroom, retrieved the cash, a handbag and a coat. This reminded her that the children and Marguerite might need coats. Who knew where they were going? It was only April and the weather could be very cold. She grabbed an extra jacket from her wardrobe for Marguerite, hastened to Anselm’s room, then Agnette’s, yanked coats from hangers. In Agnette’s room, she paused briefly before Steen’s portrayal of the Iphigenia sacrifice, framed and hanging on Agnette’s wall. She eyed anew the little boy with his broken crossbow, fleeing from the scene in tears. He had not before struck her in such relief. Neither, for that matter, had the ghostly female figure who sat upon a balustrade in the background, clearly presiding, waiting in some way.
Albert called her from downstairs. “Frau Gunther? We really must go.”
“Where are we going?” she asked as she rejoined him in the hall.
“Well,” replied Albert, standing up and putting on his cap, “the hell out of Germany for starters!” And he flashed her a brilliant smile. “First, top speed to Prague, and you and the children and the maid will stay in a convent there. It is all set up. When you are all ready to travel again, I will have papers and false ID for you, and you will travel by rail to Switzerland. You may have to split up – the maid and the boy, you and your daughter – I don’t know yet. Your little girl is conspicuous. We shall see later. For now? Let’s get away from Berlin and the Gestapo. Agreed?” Hedda nodded in terse compliance.
Just before they emerged into the late afternoon sunlight, Goering warned her in a quiet voice: “Look the part, now; serious, OK?” She looked into his dark eyes and watched them harden, nodded again. It would not be dif
ficult to look terrified. He grabbed her arm, led her into the garden.
“You!” He signalled to one of the guards. “Pick up that child and put her in my car, back seat.” The officer ran to comply.
“May I please see your identification, sir?” The closest officer looked at the insignia on Goering’s sleeve and coloured immediately, saluted. “Mein Reichsmarschall, sir!”
“I am Hermann Goering, second only to the Führer himself, my brave officer,” declared Albert Goering. “And I am taking these treacherous, murderous women and their brats to the Reich chancellery, where they will pay – directly, if you understand me – for what they have done to my esteemed friend and comrade, Oberführer Gunther. Now, officer, if you please, get that woman into the car and that boy also. This one –” and he shook Hedda by the arm he held – “will sit in the front with me.”
The children cried out in alarm, Marguerite wept anew and soon, all were bundled into the car. The stony-faced chauffeur looked on with an expression of disgust and slammed the door shut once Goering had climbed into the leather-covered front bench with Hedda. He tipped his cap at the Gestapo officers, who saluted in return before assuming his position in the driver’s seat, and then they drove away from the house in Brandenburg, never to return. The three policemen watched until the car had disappeared. All of them looked very sad indeed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cardinal von Preysing could not get Karl Muller out of his head. Karl’s letter had greatly disturbed him. His close friend Cardinal von Galen of Munster, and fearless opponent of National Socialism, had replied immediately when he received a forwarded copy of the letter in which Karl had detailed the activities of T4. Did von Preysing think this letter was genuine Cardinal von Galen had wanted to know. Could such heinous destruction of innocents be taking place under their very noses, throughout Germany?
