by Alex Gerlis
The Daimler headed south on Wilhelmstrasse and then west along Tiergarten Strasse. Steiner tried not to pay too much attention to the route, not least because that could mean very little these days. Berlin had been so badly damaged, it felt as if the city was being dismantled brick by brick – a neighbour had remarked to him that it seemed as if the roads were being pulled up like carpets, before he realised that he sounded disloyal and apologised profusely.
They carried on heading west, through the southern part of Charlottenburg, along Kanstrasse, before turning south, pausing by the roadside as the first Allied bombers of the night passed overhead. It didn’t surprise Steiner when they arrived at the Kleiner Wannsee, the smaller and more exclusive section of the lake. The whole area was dark, but he could tell where they were: a quiet stretch on the southern shore with some of the most expensive houses in Berlin. The Daimler pulled into the driveway of one of them, and the gates closed behind it.
* * *
It was a small villa, but perfectly appointed and decorated in exquisite taste. The walls were covered in a silk material with a modern print, and the rugs on the polished parquet flooring must have been worth a fortune. There was no doubt the design and decor were Bauhaus – that was apparent from the exterior, with its flat roof, bold curves and clean lines. Despite the regime’s disapproval, it was notable how the Bauhaus influence prevailed in Berlin. Steiner had little doubt this was one of the many Wannsee villas taken from Jewish owners; for a while he’d hoped he might be allocated one – looking out over the water would have been wonderful for his nerves – but was told they were reserved for families.
The Obersturmführer led him through the house to a lounge on the first floor that Steiner assumed looked over the lake. The large windows were covered in modern-looking blinds. Sprawled in a leather armchair was a beautiful girl in her early twenties wearing what appeared to be a cocktail dress with nothing underneath. She ignored Steiner but smiled sweetly at the young officer and waved her long cigarette holder in front of her like a conductor’s baton, appearing to beckon him towards her.
Martin Bormann bustled into the room and told the girl to go, patting her on the backside as she brushed past him. He ordered the officer to pour two cognacs – Not that bottle, you fool, that’s German brandy: I said cognac! – and then told him to leave and close the door behind him.
He’d already indicated that Steiner should take a seat on a large sofa; now he sat opposite him in the leather chair the young girl had been in. Over the years, Steiner had got to know most of Bormann’s mistresses, some of whom were quite sweet. They saw him as some kind of father figure, and he’d had to arrange abortions for most of them. He didn’t like Bormann’s main mistress very much but still felt obliged to ask after her.
‘And how is Manja, may I ask, Herr Reichsleiter?’
Bormann shrugged and pointed to the door through which the girl in the cocktail dress had recently left. ‘Not as lively as her.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘And Frau Bormann and the children?’
‘What do you think, Wolfgang, the whole fucking—’ He stood up shaking his head in despair, and brought the cognac bottle over. ‘I’m sorry, Wolfgang, I’ve hardly been in the Parteikanzlei in recent months. The Führer barely leaves the bunker these days and he relies on me more and more. With the way the war’s going, he doesn’t trust the generals any more. He hardly trusts anyone.’
‘I understand; in fact I—’
‘He was never the most trusting of people, which in many ways is one of his strengths, but now – you understand I’m speaking frankly with you, Wolfgang – now he’s not in a good state. Some would say he’s paranoid: he shouts and rants, and God knows what drugs he’s taking. He only listens to Eva, and she’s in a pretty bad state herself. The party won’t survive this. In fact,’ he leaned towards Steiner and a grin appeared on his face, ‘you could say the party’s over! Do you get it, the party’s over!’
He stood up and paced the room, laughing at his own joke until tears formed in his eyes. ‘The party’s over… I must remember that. I’d use it in the bunker if there was anyone there with a sense of humour, but it’s full of Bavarians and Austrians.’
Steiner stared at the floor. He’d never seen Bormann like this. He was normally a calm man, always in control; now he was bordering on the hysterical. And he’d aged, too. He was in his mid-forties and had always taken care over his appearance, but now he looked nearer sixty.
‘I’m sorry, Wolfgang, I forget you’re Austrian.’
‘Don’t worry, sir, I wasn’t offended.’
‘And how are you keeping?’
Steiner felt relaxed and allowed Bormann to fill his glass. It was clear this was a social occasion and his concerns had been misplaced. He muttered something about these being difficult times for everyone, but hopefully… He stopped because he could tell Bormann was staring at him but no longer smiling.
‘I understand you’ve been making arrangements, Wolfgang?’
Steiner hesitated, puzzled at what Bormann was getting at, and at the sudden change in mood.
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘I said I understand you’ve been making arrangements.’
He realised he must have looked as shocked as he felt. This was clearly no longer the social occasion he’d thought it was. There was an undoubted air of menace in the room, as if one of the windows had been opened and the wind was blowing in from the Wannsee.
‘What kind of arrangements do you mean, sir?’
‘That is what I very much hope you are going to tell me.’
The room was so quiet he could hear the crump crump of artillery in the distance. Just a few weeks ago he’d been impressed at people who could tell the difference between incoming and outgoing artillery fire – it all sounded the same to him. Now even he could tell this was incoming. Most of it was these days.
‘I really… I really don’t know what you…’
‘Let me help you, perhaps, eh? What I mean is that I understand you have made arrangements to escape from Berlin. That is correct, is it not?’
Steiner hesitated, unsure how to reply. ‘No, sir – I intend to remain at my post until the last possible moment, at which point of course it would be improper for me to remain in Berlin and surrender or be captured or…’
Bormann held his forefinger to his lips. ‘Let’s not beat about the bush: I know you’re making plans to leave Berlin well before the battle for the city is over. Don’t forget, I have eyes and ears everywhere; how else do you think I’ve got to the position I’m in now in this nest of vipers? I know everything. I know you’re smart and I know you’ve been photographing documents at the Parteikanzlei and taking the film home, and I’ve picked up reports of you being seen in the Rott Valley. So don’t treat me like a fool, Wolfgang.’
Steiner found himself unable to respond. It was as if he was hypnotised, but was brought round by a heavy slap to his thigh.
‘But it is no more than one would expect of you, you crafty Austrian bastard, eh?’ Bormann was smiling. ‘Not only do I want you to continue with your arrangements, I want to be part of them!’
‘I’m not sure I understand…’ Steiner was convinced he’d stepped into a trap.
‘For so many years, anyone who was anyone wanted to be in Berlin. In a matter of weeks, anyone who’s anyone will want to be anywhere but here.’
‘But, sir, I—’
‘Stop, Wolfgang, please. Anyone not making arrangements to leave the city is a fool, as long as they’re being discreet about it, of course. Who wants to hang around for the Russians, or to be arrested by the Allies? There are escape lines being set up, some of them quite sophisticated, I’m told. My problem is who to book my passage with: I don’t trust anyone.’
Bormann leaned back in the leather armchair and smiled at Steiner.
‘Apart from you, of course, Wolfgang: I’m counting on you.’
Chapter 4
Germany, July 1945
When Wolfgang Steiner realised he had no choice but to take his son to a psychiatrist, he was careful to choose one of the few in Vienna who didn’t appear to be Jewish. The last thing a prominent Nazi needed in 1935 was to have a Jew analysing his son’s problems.
Steiner had been most reluctant to admit that twenty-one-year-old Friedrich had a problem. For years he’d attributed his behaviour to adolescence, and then to the excesses of youth: girls seemed attracted to him, and he liked a drink, and Wolfgang Steiner couldn’t see what the problem was with that. If Friedrich did sometimes go a bit too far, Wolfgang blamed himself: his own low moods and frequent absences had probably been the cause of his wife’s alcoholism, which in turn had led to her death when Friedrich – their only child – was just fourteen.
But recently matters had become increasingly hard to ignore. The boy had sexually assaulted two maids at the Steiner family home in Alsergrund, the city’s smart 9th District. In the case of the second girl – a sweet young thing from Carinthia – Wolfgang had had to arrange an abortion and then pay a considerable sum to her family to keep matters quiet. Then there’d been an incident in a bar in the 4th District that resulted in Friedrich beating up a man; again Wolfgang had had to pay a large sum in compensation to avoid a criminal case. Inevitably the police had become involved, and the sympathetic senior officer who agreed to drop the case warned him that unless he did something about it, his son was bound to end up in prison.
Christian Gruber might have had a decidedly Austrian name, but as far as Wolfgang Steiner was concerned, the psychiatrist looked suspiciously Jewish, with his dark complexion, black hair with eyes to match, and a nose that while not classically Jewish could certainly not be described as typically Aryan either. He was also extremely perceptive, perhaps almost too much so. After two sessions with young Friedrich, he asked to see the boy’s father alone. It was with some reluctance that Wolfgang went to Dr Gruber’s consulting rooms on Burg Ring, with the Parliament building framed through its neat window.
‘You have heard of manic depression, Herr Steiner?’
He replied that he had, but wasn’t too sure of what it meant. Dr Gruber explained that manic depressives typically suffered from extremes of mood: excitable mania on the one hand – which could present as a form of psychosis – and periods of depression, sometimes very severe, on the other.
‘So are you saying Friedrich is a manic depressive?’
‘Actually, no – in fact I’m struggling to make an accurate diagnosis, to be frank with you, Herr Steiner. He certainly suffers from very elevated moods, which would explain the psychotic behaviour you describe – the attacks on women, for example, his temper. He told me about his mother.’
Wolfgang nodded but shifted uncomfortably. The more he saw of the man, the more he believed Dr Gruber could well have Jewish blood, and the last thing he wanted to do was discuss his family with a Jew. He made a mental note to have Dr Gruber’s background checked.
‘Friedrich described your moods and believes they may have contributed to his mother’s drinking. Is it true you suffer from low mood, depression perhaps?’
It was as if Dr Gruber had put him in a state of hypnosis, because against his better judgement, Steiner found himself opening up to the psychiatrist. He told him how he’d always suffered from anxiety – depression, indeed – and at times felt overwhelmed by it. He’d never experienced the manic episodes Dr Gruber had described, and he felt his moods were just something he had to live with. Early on in his life he’d found that if he kept busy, then he could cope. He’d studied hard as a student and made a successful career as a lawyer. He decided not to mention his political activities.
‘Are you and Friedrich very close?’
‘We are, yes. We only have each other.’
‘It seems to me, Herr Steiner – and this is hardly even a hypothesis yet – that your combined behaviour is a good example of manic depression: you suffer from the depressive side of that behaviour, while your son suffers from the manic side. I may be completely wrong about this – it’s just a thought – but I would be interested to have more sessions with both of you; together you present as fascinating subjects.’
Steiner replied that he really wasn’t sure about this; he was more interested in what could be done to help his son – to control his behaviour. He most certainly didn’t want to be analysed himself.
Dr Gruber replied that he needed to realise that his son suffered from a potentially serious psychiatric condition, one that could certainly not be cured by medication. He needed more sessions of analysis and then a course of therapy; perhaps a period in a residential clinic he often used in the Vienna Woods, one where discretion and privacy could be assured.
Wolfgang Steiner became quite angry at this point, bitterly regretting having revealed matters about himself to the psychiatrist. He told him his son was not that ill and he certainly didn’t need to be locked up. It wasn’t as if he was mad.
He ended the consultation and went to the secretary’s office to pay. As he prepared to leave, Dr Gruber came of out his room. ‘I apologise if I upset you in any way,’ he said. ‘It is often the case that patients, and their families in particular, find what psychiatrists have to say very difficult, sometimes too difficult.’
Steiner nodded. He continued to put on his gloves, anxious to leave.
‘However, Herr Steiner, as unpleasant as it is for you to hear this, I would be negligent if I didn’t tell you that I consider your son to be quite unwell. Unless he is treated, I think his tendency towards psychotic behaviour could escalate and have very serious consequences.’
* * *
After an uncertain start, Wolfgang Steiner ended up having a good if unspectacular war. Apart from a few favourable mentions in the Nazi Party newspaper, the Völkischer Beobachter, he kept a low profile, which he had determined best served his own interests.
He was on the fringes of the influential Österreichisches Clique, whose members occupied so many important positions in Berlin and throughout the regime: fellow Austrians like Ernst Kaltenbrunner, Arthur Seyss-Inquart, Odilo Globocnik, Adolf Eichmann and of course Adolf Hitler himself.
He’d moved to Berlin in the spring of 1938 after the Anschluss. Part of the idea had been to give a fresh start to Friedrich, who’d predictably continued to get into trouble in Vienna and only stayed out of prison thanks to his father’s growing influence once the Nazis came to power. Soon after arriving in Berlin, he met Martin Bormann, Hitler’s personal secretary, and when in 1941 Bormann became head of the Parteikanzlei – the Party Chancellery – he asked Steiner to join him. It suited him perfectly: an important job with a lot of influence but not necessarily a high profile, and one fitting his capacity for hard work. He began to develop an influential circle of acquaintances, people he was assiduous at keeping in touch with and doing favours for. He’d hesitate to call them friends; few people in Berlin were trusting enough of others to regard anyone as such. But Bormann had shown faith in him and afforded him status and respect, and he worked hard to repay that. Bormann was often described – though not to his face – as Hitler’s shadow, and soon Wolfgang Steiner became known as Bormann’s shadow. He recognised that as the fortunes of war began to turn against the Reich, being seen as the shadow’s shadow was a good reputation to have.
The enduring unfortunate aspect of Wolfgang Steiner’s life was his son, Friedrich. No one knew of his reputation when they arrived in Berlin, and he was sufficiently in awe of his surroundings at first to behave in an acceptable way. In 1939, he joined the SS; though he had failed the initial selection, his father knew who to speak to and he was given a second chance.
He only lasted a few months. A senior officer – a fellow Austrian, naturally – had a quiet word with Wolfgang: Friedrich was selective about which orders he chose to obey. Indeed, he even occasionally tried to give orders to his superiors. The officer suggested it would be less embarra
ssing all round if he left the SS before he inevitably faced a court martial.
Fortunately, Wolfgang had done a number of favours for the head of the Gestapo, Heinrich Müller, and he was persuaded to recruit Friedrich. After a spell at the Gestapo headquarters in Prinz-Albrecht Strasse, the young man was sent to Norway, a move engineered by his father, who felt it was a posting where he could do least damage.
It turned out to be a disaster. After a brawl with a local policeman, Friedrich was transferred – again thanks to his father’s intervention – to Denmark, where he served for just over a year and didn’t blot his copybook, assuming one ignored the unsolved murder of a fifteen-year-old girl found in an alley close to his apartment in Copenhagen.
Next Wolfgang managed to arrange for him to be transferred to Paris, the most desirable posting for any German officer. It wouldn’t be enough to stay out of trouble there; he’d also have to impress the Gestapo bosses, and that meant catching Allied spies and breaking up resistance groups.
From what Wolfgang Steiner could gather, his son was better behaved in Paris, but as a Gestapo agent he was useless, failing to solve any of his own cases and annoying colleagues by muscling in on theirs and trying to take the credit for them. One task entrusted to him was to recruit a network of informers; he was given funds to help him with that, but as far as his bosses could tell, he spent all the money in the brothels and bars around Boulevard de Clichy. Prostitutes and their pimps, he was told, made notoriously unreliable informers.
Matters reached a nadir when a resistance cell in Dijon was broken and a British agent arrested. Friedrich hurried to the city, where he insisted on conducting the interrogation of the British woman. He raped her so brutally she had to be taken to the prison infirmary, from where he took her out and shot her dead. What most bothered the Gestapo was that he’d failed to extract any useful intelligence from her.
