Just as Chantal’s library told me much about her, so Scarpaci’s tells me much about him.
‘I went to a Jesuit college,’ he says, bringing me a mug of coffee. ‘Studied classics. Wanted to be a teacher. How did I get sidetracked and end up a cop? That’s a long story.’
A story, I assure him, I’d like to hear one day.
‘When I retire I want to try writing crime fiction. Not puzzle mysteries or cases solved by forensics. Real hard-boiled stories, stories of the street.’
‘Told in the first person?’
‘Haven’t decided yet. But the lead character (I won’t call him “the hero”) will likely have my flaws and virtues, such as they are.’
‘What about sensitivity?’
‘Not sure how high I rate on that, but kind of you to mention it.’
‘Amorous skills?’
‘You are feeling kindly.’
‘Attraction and attractiveness to younger women.’
‘Please go on!’
‘I’ll think of more traits as I get to know you, Scarpaci. But I do think this detective character of yours should have a girlfriend. You don’t want him to come off as a loner.’
‘That how you see me, Tess?’
‘I see you as rueful. I’m not sure where all the regret’s coming from.’
He gazes at me. ‘I can see we’re going to have a lot to talk about,’ he says.
NINETEEN
Extract from the Unpublished Memoirs of Major Ernst Fleckstein
(AKA Dr Samuel Foigel)
Bormann’s question regarding Renate Müller was fa-cetious. Of course I had heard of her! I doubt there was anyone in Germany at the time who hadn’t. She was a huge star, a great beauty, the lead actress in the hit movie Viktor und Viktoria, and the equally popular The English Marriage. She was endlessly profiled in fan magazines. It was impossible in those days to pick up a newspaper and not find some mention of her.
Well … it seemed that this gorgeous blond, blue-eyed quintessential Aryan screen goddess now presented a serious problem. The Führer, it seemed, although ostensibly devoted to Fräulein Eva Braun, had been much taken by the actress, had invited her to his residence, and had there engaged her in a manner that had disgusted and appalled her.
‘Or so she claims,’ Bormann added with disdain. ‘She has, we’ve heard, made some vicious allegations. Now we can’t have some woman, no matter how popular, going around whispering falsehoods about our national leader. Slanders like hers not only impugn the Führer’s reputation but undermine the moral authority of the regime.’
Feigning shock, I asked: ‘What garbage has the bitch been spreading?’
‘That, my dear Fleckstein, is for you to find out. Undertake a full investigation. Find out what she’s saying about the alleged episode, and then if what we’ve heard is true, take care of the matter by any means necessary.’ At this Bormann stared at me sternly. ‘Am I clear?’
‘Clear indeed, Reichsleiter,’ I assured him.
I don’t want to dwell too long here on the Müller affair. Some of the details are unsavory and I’m not particularly proud of my role. But because much that has been written about it is incorrect, I shall take this opportunity to set the record straight. I also want to sketch it out because the unfortunate finale of the business marked a major turning point in my life.
As to Frau Müller, it didn’t take me long to assemble a list of unpleasant rumors, not unexpected regarding a celebrity of her magnitude. Among them: she was overly fond of alcohol; she was addicted to morphine; she had a Jewish lover, a certain Georg Deutsch, who had recently fled to Paris to escape persecution; and Reich Minister Joseph Goebbels had taken a special interest in her, offering her major roles in dramatic propaganda films, all of which, to Goebbels’ dismay, she’d turned down.
It was also rumored that Goebbels had set up her meeting with Hitler, that she’d gone to see him at the Chancellery Residence, and that there, after only brief conversation, the Führer disrobed and demanded she do the same. Then he flung himself naked upon the floor, proclaimed himself her slave, reviled himself with all sorts of insults, and begged her to beat and kick him to show her contempt. At first she refused, but upon his further insistence, and fearing for her safety, she met his demands, screamed obscenities at him, then savagely beat him with his own whip which lay conveniently on a nearby table. After he masturbated to climax, the Führer stood up, adjusted his clothing, poured them each a nightcap, engaged her in several minutes of small-talk, then thanked her for a pleasant encounter and summoned his personal chauffeur to drive her home.
The specificity of this tale gave it credibility, and it was consistent with what I already knew concerning unsavory aspects of the Führer’s personal life. It was clear that Frau Müller had to be the source, as there was no other witness. Moreover, it was said that she’d been badly shaken by the encounter. As an actress she was accustomed to playing roles that differed greatly from her actual persona, but in this instance, in which there was no director, camera, lighting crew, or film set, the reality of what she’d felt forced to do had overwhelmed her. Describing the incident to friends she stated that not only had she been disgusted by Hitler’s demands, but she felt she’d been badly used. She told several people she was especially angry at Goebbels and would have nothing further to do with him. She also hinted to friends that she was seriously considering following in the footsteps of Marlene Dietrich, leaving Germany, moving to France to live with Georg Deutsch, and from there denouncing the regime.
As far as I could tell these rumors were being widely discussed in cinema circles in Berlin. At the time Frau Müller’s most recent film, Togger, had recently opened. I went to a well-attended matinee at the Kino Universum on the Kurfürstendamm. In this fairly ridiculous propagandistic story, Müller played a columnist writing exposés of an evil foreign-owned conglomerate. I found her performance over-done. It was clear she hadn’t taken any pleasure in the role, probably because, as I’d heard, she’d been forced to accept it.
How to handle the situation? The rumors of her encounter with Hitler were starting to spread through the upper stratum of Berlin society, and, I assumed, were exaggerated at each retelling. There was no practical way to shut the rumor mill down. The cat, so to speak, was out of the bag. I could think of only three solutions: induce Frau Müller to vehemently denounce the story and all who were spreading it; have her declared insane and confined to a mental institution where she could rave all she liked and no one would care; or make an example of her by arranging the kind of ‘accident’ Bormann hinted at when he handed me the assignment.
If she’d been an ordinary woman any of these solutions could work. But she was a major movie star who moved in elite artistic circles and hobnobbed with highly placed officials. I decided my best next step would be to have a little chat with her.
I met her at her villa in Berlin-Dahlem on the morning of September 23, 1937. It was not difficult to get in to see her. She’d been under close Gestapo surveillance for weeks. Bormann’s secretary contacted Goebbels’ office and arranged my appointment. When I rang the doorbell, I was greeted by a female servant who led me to a small sitting room on the second floor. Here Frau Müller, dressed in a slinky pale-pink silk dressing gown, awaited me.
My first impression was that she was indeed very beautiful, and also that she appeared nervous and shockingly thin. Her eyes were magnetic and yet I saw in them desperation akin to that of a gorgeous bird with a broken wing. It was difficult for me to connect the woman before me to the high-spirited actress who had sung the sprightly ‘Ich Bin Ja Heut’ So Glücklich,’1 and on account of that had become Germany’s sweetheart.
I spoke softly to her and her responses were softer still, so much so that I had to lean close to hear her. I told her that, as she no doubt knew, wild tales of an encounter she’d allegedly had with the Führer were currently making the rounds, and these tales were dangerously slanderous. I told her I had no interest in hearing what
had happened between them, or indeed whether anything at all had occurred. My point was that the tales, whether true or not, were causing grave concern to certain highly placed people. I then outlined the first two remedies mentioned above, leaving the third to her imagination. I suggested that since it would be understandably difficult for her to denounce people to whom I’d traced back the origin of these tales, people such as her close friends, the actress Gabriele Schwartz and the American-born producer Alfred Zeisler (I wanted to impress upon her that I knew the names of her confidants), perhaps a voluntary commitment to a psychiatric clinic would offer the best solution. A believable cover-story would be circulated regarding exhaustion and ill-health, and in, say, nine months or a year, she could re-emerge and again take up her illustrious career.
I don’t believe I’ll ever forget the sadness that transfixed her face. ‘You’re saying I must go to the loony bin for a year?’ she whispered, tears forming in her beautiful eyes.
‘There are luxurious sanatoria,’ I assured her, ‘far from anything that could be described as a loony bin.’
‘How about “nuthouse”?’ she asked. ‘Or “booby hatch”? Are those better descriptions?’
‘I think “rest home” would be the way I’d describe such a place, something akin to a luxury hotel in a restful Alpine environment.’
Suddenly she raised her voice. ‘Restful! Ha! I haven’t had a good night’s rest in weeks. Not since that awful evening—’
‘Please, Frau Müller,’ I begged. ‘I implore you not to speak of that.’
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Because you’re scared to hear the truth?’
‘Because,’ I countered, ‘it’s none of my business.’
‘So what exactly is your business, Herr Fleckstein?’ she asked combatively.
‘I came here to offer you counsel.’
‘I see! Earlier you spoke to me of a voluntary commitment. Since these people you mention are so anxious to be rid of me, why don’t they just have me bound up in a straitjacket and hauled away to one of their awful dungeons?’ She started to cry. ‘I did not bring this upon myself, sir. Something terrible was done to me. Did I not have the right to confide my distress to my friends?’
At this point, seeing how upset she’d become, I began to worry I’d overstepped.
‘I think it would have been better,’ I suggested in the softest tone I could muster, ‘if you had taken your story to a psychoanalyst, one bound by an oath of confidentiality.’
‘But they’re all Jews!’ she said, suddenly exploding in hysterical laughter. ‘And you think Goebbels wouldn’t have found out what I said? That he doesn’t have spies everywhere even among the Jews? If you believe that, sir, then, as the Americans like to say, I have a bridge over the Rhine to sell you!’
Addiction, depression, hysteria, and now paranoia – the famous film star was exhibiting a full range of symptoms. Indeed, I thought, a good long rest at an Alpine clinic would do her the world of good. Resolving to suggest this in my report to Bormann, I thanked her for her time, wished her well, and took my leave.
According to the story later bandied about, that same day four Gestapo men went into her house, confronted her, then threw her off her balcony. In another version the four agents pressured her into taking her own life, and, minutes after they left, she jumped from her terrace. The reality is that she jumped just minutes after I left her. I know this because at the time I was sitting in my car in front of her villa writing up my notes when I heard the servants’ screams. At this I and the four Gestapo men who’d been watching the house rushed inside.
I was distraught to find the beautiful woman I’d been speaking with just moments before lying in a pool of blood beneath her balcony. There could be no doubt she had voluntarily jumped. I found the sight of her, this time broken not just in spirit but also in body, utterly devastating. Discovering she was still alive, one of the agents called for an ambulance. She was transported to a nearby hospital, lay there in a coma for fourteen days, then passed away. Her death was attributed to an epileptic seizure. She was cremated and buried, and despite the protestations of her family, her jewelry and other possessions were sold at public auction to satisfy her debts.
Over the next few weeks guilt over my role in her death became increasingly corrosive. Why, I asked myself, do I continue to accept these clean-up missions having to do with the Führer’s unsavory proclivities? Such missions were highly taxing on a personal level and also extremely risky since the more I learned the more dangerous my position should doubts ever arise as to my loyalty or willingness to stay silent.
It was then, recalling my brief encounter with Frau Lou Salomé and her analytic couch, that I had a vision of a new career for myself. About a month after the death of Renate Müller I went to Bormann to inform him I’d decided to make a major life change.
Fixing me with his hard narrow eyes, Bormann appeared amused. ‘And what, dear Fleckstein, do you have in mind?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘I’ve decided to take up the study of psychoanalysis,’ I told him. ‘I think it could be an important tool with which to extract information from our enemies. Because, Reichsleiter, as we both know, generally speaking torture does not get us good results.’
He chuckled, but when I went on to explain my theory, I could see he was intrigued.
‘Fleckstein, you may be on to something,’ he said.
He then mentioned that Dr Matthias Göring, Reich Minister Hermann Göring’s older cousin, now headed the Institute for Psychological Research and Psychotherapy in Berlin.
‘He’s gotten rid of all the Jews,’ Bormann told me, ‘and is now developing purely Aryan techniques. If this is truly what you want to do, I can call him and put in a good word.’
‘That would be very kind, Reichsleiter.’
He grinned at me. ‘I shall miss you, Fleckstein. You’re an amusing fellow and you do excellent work. If in future delicate matters require special handling, I know I can count on you.’
I assured him that he could.
And thus, not long after the demise of the great film star Frau Renate Müller, and inspired by the example of the exemplary Frau Lou Salomé, I moved from Munich to Berlin to embark upon the study of and later to become a full-time practitioner of the ‘black art,’ the one people call therapeutic psychoanalysis …
TWENTY
Dr Maude smiles when I tell her I spent the night with Scarpaci.
‘It was pretty fucking terrific too if you want to know,’ I tell her.
‘Glad to hear it. We all need good sex in our lives.’ She settles back. ‘Two sessions ago you told me you sometimes felt lost. Still feel that way?’
I shrug. ‘Internalizing so many characters makes it hard for me to see myself. I do a Vertigo for Rex and suddenly I’m reveling in being submissive. Then I see photos of Chantal wielding a whip and I want to try my hand at dominance.’
‘Our minds are theaters, Tess, where we construct dramas out of our conflicts. I think you’re suffering from a problem many performers face, confusing the roles you play on stage with your roles in your internal dramas. I think that’s why you’re asking yourself who you are.’
‘Actually I’m asking you.’
‘Oh, Tess, only you can figure that out. We grow and change. We take on one persona and then another. Think of Lou Salomé, the many roles she played – muse, author, psychoanalyst. You’re an actress. For you these transformations are frequent, intense, and often extreme. But I believe you have a strong core. By playing all these roles – the connoisseur of perversity, the aesthete in pursuit of decadence – you never have to show the world your true self. But someone astute, say an experienced shrink,’ she smiles, ‘or an experienced detective can see the fine courageous woman behind the mask.’
‘So am I a fraud?’
She shakes her head vigorously. ‘Not at all! You’re a wearer of disguises. Your father was a fraud.’
I’m in the ring at San Pablo Martial Arts. Ros
ita is coming after me. She’s so quick I can’t block her strikes. Her blows connect and they hurt. She’s not coming on full force, rather toying with me, trying to show me up. I retreat, glance quickly at Kurt. He meets my eyes with a blank stare.
I drop my gloves. ‘I’m done.’ Rosita nods, drops hers, glances at Kurt, bumps gloves with me, and climbs out of the ring.
I go over to Kurt. ‘What’re you trying to do? See me get pummeled? You know I’m not ready for her.’
‘I wanted to see if you really had fighting spirit. Watching you today I’m not so sure.’
‘I’m not so sure either. Overmatching – what kind of training is that?’
‘If you’re not happy here don’t train here. There’re plenty of other gyms.’
‘You’re saying you want me to go?’
‘Up to you,’ he says.
I stare hard at him. ‘Is this because I know about you and Chantal?’
‘You know nothing about that. Anyway Chantal’s dead.’
‘I notice you don’t call her Marie anymore.’
‘A detective’s been around asking questions. Are you his mole?’
‘Do you know how absurd that is?’ I gaze at him, but he doesn’t respond. I shake my head. ‘OK, I get it. You don’t want me here. Fine. I’ll clean out my locker.’
He shrugs and turns away.
Back out on the street, I phone Scarpaci, tell him what just happened and how incredibly pissed I am.
‘I never mentioned you,’ he tells me. ‘But since that’s what he thinks, you’re probably better off training someplace else. There’re lots of martial-arts gyms.’
‘Sure, but it hurts to get kicked out. Is Kurt a person of interest?’
‘He owned up to having been Chantal’s client. Said he liked working out with her at his gym and also at hers. Kinda strange way to define her sessions, but, bottom line, I don’t think he frightened or harmed her.’
The Luzern Photograph Page 21
