The Hunt

by William Diehl

  “And you fired her anyway, as good as she is?”

  “Good has nothing to do with it. You think that bunch knows what good is?”

  “Why the hell did you hire her in the first place?”

  “An error in judgment. I thought she might give the place some class. But if she had continued here I would have had a riot on my hands every night. All someone in the crowd has to do is yell Jude’ to create a riot.”

  “Whether it’s true or not?”

  “Truth is immaterial, dear Francis. In Germany, it has become the ultimate insult. And before you get too hot under the collar, Ire, I found her another job making the same money.”

  “Where?”

  “A few blocks away, at the Kit Kat Club. It is more suited to her singing anyway. A very sophisticated audience goes there to hear American jazz. There are a lot of American tourists. At the Kit Kat there will be no trouble. Brownshirts do not frequent it.”

  “It’s a dive!” Keegan said sourly.

  ‘Ja, but a very nice dive. You think the Stier is a symphony hall?”

  “All this because they accuse her of being Jewish,” Keegan said, shaking his head.

  “Come, come, Francis, you know it is a sin to be a Jew in Germany nowadays. Or a Communist, a Social Democrat, a Gypsy or an artist. Any minority, anyone who disagrees. There is no such thing as dissent. I could be arrested for even talking about this. How have you managed to ignore it?”

  “I didn’t ignore it, it wasn’t any of my business before.”

  “Ah, and now suddenly you make it your business, ja?”

  “I’m only interested in the girl.”

  Conrad shook his head. He sat beside Keegan on the sofa, legs crossed and his snifter poised on one knee. He leaned close to Keegan, speaking almost in a whisper.

  “You are a charming rascal, Francis. Here suddenly you are having an attack of conscience over this young woman. Suddenly you are outraged, ja?

  “That’s right, suddenly I’m outraged.”

  “Don’t you understand, my friend, their outrage is far greater than yours. Theirs is inspired hate. Acceptable hate. Racism is the accepted order of things here. In Germany it is unpopular not to hate. Not to hate is nonconformity. We are a closed society and conformity is required. Our leaders repeat the same lies over and over and over until they become a kind of national truth.”

  Conrad stood up, wandering around the room as he spoke.

  “You know what I did before I became a he waved his hand around the room, “saloon keeper? Hmm? I was a schoolteacher., Ja, a teacher of history at the University in Heidelberg. I quit because a teacher by nature is a nonconformist, a rebellious creature, likely to disagree simply to stimulate an argument. The war made that impossible.”

  “What did the war have to do with it?”

  “‘I fear the real danger in war is that conformity becomes the only virtue and those who refuse to conform will pay the penalty.’ Do you know who said that?”

  “Nope.”

  “Your own Woodrow Wilson, on the same day he urged your Reichstag to declare war on Germany. He understood that conformity is essential during a war because patriotism demands conformity and since conservatives are usually conformists, it follows that you must be conservative to be patriotic. Say it enough, it becomes the truth.”

  “I can’t believe the whole country buys that. Hitler won’t last.”

  “You are wrong, Francis, Hitler will last because he is at war already.” Conrad tapped his head as he said it. “He burns books if the ideas do not conform to his, closes newspapers down if they disagree with him, attacks artists because they are unreliable, because they think. And the irony is t1at it is all done in the name of freedom and patriotism. Understand this, to be a German today, you must be a fascist, otherwise you are a traitor. To be a fascist you must hate Jews. What do you do when you hate something? Eh? You get rid of it.”

  “And you support this?” Keegan said.

  “Come, come, my friend, why so surprised?” Well held his hands out at his sides. “Have I ever in the year or so we have been friends, have I ever shown you any pretenses? I am not a hero or a revolutionary. I am a devout coward. I run the most degenerate saloon in Europe. I have become rich pandering to the basest of human frailties. Do I think it is right, what Hitler is doing? Nein. Do I oppose it? Nein. Do I support this Nazi party?” He shrugged. “I am like a blade of grass, I sway with the winds of the times. For that reason, I say save yourself a lot of grief, forget this girl. Sooner or later she will have trouble again. It is the way of things.”

  “I don’t think I want to do that.”

  “You have heard her sing once, met her for thirty seconds, you do not even know where she lives. And already you cannot tear yourself away from her.”

  “Very funny.”

  ‘But true.”

  “I don’t want anybody telling me what I can and can’t do.” Conrad shrugged. “Very altruistic. Unfortunately, not very

  practical in Germany these days.”

  “What’s her address, Conrad?”

  Weil heaved a sigh. “She lives at 236 Albertstrasse and she starts tonight at the Kit Kat. Two shows, nine and eleven.”

  “Thanks,” Keegan said and, polishing off the brandy in the snifter, stood up.

  “You are a man who has always avoided trouble, Francis. At least since I have known you. Why start now?”

  “Maybe you just haven’t known me long enough, my friend.”

  When he got back to the hotel, Keegan went to the flower shop and sent Jenny Gould two dozen roses. No card.

  Willie Vierhaus hurried up the steps of the Brown House and down the long marble hallway to the Führer’s office. Every Tuesday morning at precisely 11:45 A.M., Vierhaus reported to Hitler to provide him with party gossip and other news of interest. The meeting always lasted twelve to fifteen minutes, until Hitler went to lunch.

  When he entered the anteroom, Hitler’s secretary held her finger to her lips, her brow furrowed and troubled. Hitler’s voice, high-pitched and furious, echoed through the paneled doors.

  “I don’t want to hear that, you understand? Not one more word. That’s hogwash, hogwash! You are a stupid man, Plausen. I thought you were a smart man but you are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Get out. You are relieved of your duties. Pack up your things and get out.”

  “Yes, mein Führer. Heil Hitler.”

  “Out!”

  The door flew open and Plausen, a tiny mouse of a man who worked in the procurement office, rushed past, his face as white as chalk. From inside his office, Hitler saw Vierhaus waiting and waved him in.

  Vierhaus entered and raised his arm in a salute. “Heil Hitler.” Hitler waved a half-hearted salute in return but his mood changed immediately. Hitler’s mood always improved when Vierhaus arrived. He adored intrigue and gossip and Willie Vierhaus provided him with both.

  “So, Willie, what is the news? Brighten my day. So far it has been dismal. A morning dealing with idiots like He waved vaguely toward the door.

  “I am sorry, mein Führer.”

  “Tell me some juicy news, eh.” He smiled fleetingly in expectation.

  “Well, sir, you know General Romsdorf?”

  “Third Division. Of course, of course.”

  “His wife Fredie is having an affair with a dancer in the Berlin Ballet Company.”

  “A ballet dancer!” Hitler cried out, clasping his hands together and pressing them to his lips.

  ‘Ja. Not even a featured dancer. He is on the chorus.”

  Hitler stifled a giggle. Then his face grew serious.

  “That could present a problem. Romsdorf has a very important post.”

  “Yes, mein Führer.”

  “Not to mention that Romsdorf is extremely proud of his manliness.” Hitler stifled another giggle.

  “Yes, mein Führer.”

  “In fact,” and he giggled out loud, “he fancies himself somewhat of a ladies’ man.”

&
nbsp; Vierhaus felt comfortable enough to laugh along with Hitler.

  “Poor old Romsdorf,” said Hitler. “I pity the poor dancer. When our general finds out, the young man will be off to Dachau. Any other news?”

  “A rather dull week, I’m afraid. There are the usual rumors about Röhm. He is becoming more of an embarrassment. Outrageous stories about his preference for young boys. He seems to be more brazen about it than ever. And I hear he is drinking more heavily than usual.”

  “He has always been a drunk and a queer,” snapped Hitler. Ernst Röhm was more than an embarrassment, he represented a deep, personal hurt to Hitler. He had brought his friend from the Beer Hall Putsch days back from South America and made him head of the brownshirts, one of the most powerful posts in Germany, giving him carte blanche to deal with the Reds and the Jews. But Röhm wanted more. Now he was actually challenging Hitler’s authority and talking about running for president of Germany, a traitorous affront to his mentor.

  “The problem is Vierhaus began.

  “The problem is, the SA has six hundred thousand members!” Hitler roared, his voice rising to a near scream. He snapped his head angrily, took a deep breath, and began pacing. When he spoke again his voice was almost a whisper.

  “The only way I can deal with this problem is with my own personal guards, Willie, but it will be another year before the Schutzstaffel has the proper strength for that.” He waved his hand again. “I know, I know. Another year and he grows that much stronger.” He stopped pacing and leaned toward Vierhaus, his eyes narrowing. “We cannot destroy the SA until my SS is stronger than they are. And that is the only way to deal with Röhm and his bullies. Destroy them.”

  “Yes, mein Führer.”

  “But thank you for telling me. I must keep up with his

  his perversions.” His expression changed radically again, becoming more relaxed. He had said what he had to say about the SA.

  “So,” he said pleasantly. “I understand it was your man in the American Embassy who turned in Reinhardt.”

  “Yes, mein Führer. A porter. A Judenhascher, actually, but very reliable.”

  “Heinrich is a little put out,” Hitler said, strolling around his desk, his hands clasped behind his back. “He would like to take credit for the whole affair. It annoys him that you have these Judenhaschers and special agents working For you.”

  “Did he complain, mein Führer?”

  “No, no, no, no, of course not,” Hitler answered, waving off the suggestion. “Heinrich is no fool. He knows it was my idea to set up your little unit.”

  Actually Vierhaus had come to Hitler with the idea for an elite unit within the SS but all of Hitler’s close associates were accustomed to having the Führer take credit for good ideas. Hitler had treated the suggestion as a joke at first but finally he had given Vierhaus a small budget and permission to train five men. Vierhaus had managed, by conscripting stool pigeons and menial workers, to expand his unit to twenty-five or thirty.

  He had begun the practice of using Germans of mixed blood, usually an eighth or sixteenth Jewish, as agents, promising them freedom from persecution as long as they were effective. Known as Judenhascher, Jewhunters, they were frequently used to gather information on other Jews, often spending weeks poring over family records, looking for a great-grandmother or second cousin who might have a trace of Jewish blood. Vierhaus turned the reports over to Himmler’s SS and the files of information grew thicker every day, waiting for Himmler to put them to whatever dark use his mind might contrive.

  Hitler laughed and slapped his hand on the table.

  “You know what I like about you, Willie? You are a practical man. So, tell me more. Were you there when they interrogated Reinhardt?”

  Vierhaus nodded.

  “What did he tell us? What about the Black Lily?”

  “He claimed he never heard of it.”

  The phone rang and Hitler whirled and snatched it off the hook. “No, no, no!” he yelled and slammed it back down. He spun back toward Vierhaus.

  “He’s a liar!” Hitler bellowed, his face turning red. His fist slammed down on the table. “Of course he knows about it! He helped start it!” He composed himself, taking a deep breath, then he began tapping his cheek with his forefinger. “It is important to crush these organizations quickly, Willie. These fanatics. Fanaticism is contagious. I want that to be your first priority. Break them. Break the Black Lily.”

  “Isn’t that the job of the Gestapo, mein Führer?”

  Hitler waved his hand frenetically in front of his face, shaking his head as he spoke. “Goring has other things to worry about. Do not concern yourself with politics.”

  “Yes, mein Führer. Reinhardt also told me something else interesting. The American I told you about, Keegan?”

  “The Ire?”

  “Irish-American. Apparently the deputy ambassador, Wallingford, tried to borrow Keegan’s plane for Reinhardt’s escape and Keegan refused.”

  “Ah, perhaps your instincts about him are correct.”

  “I made it my business to have a talk with Keegan early this morning. He is quite the cynic and I get the definite feeling that he is unhappy with things in America. He particularly distrusts bankers and businessmen, says they were the only winners in the war.”

  “True, quite true,” Hitler said, his head bobbing in agreement. “What did you have in mind for Keegan?”

  “I am not sure. He is very rich and quite independent.

  Knows everybody—in the embassies, the military, government people, most of the royal families here and in England. A man like that, if he is sympathetic with your vision, mein Führer, could have many uses. He knows court secrets—who might be vulnerable to blackmail: homosexuals, bankrupts, influential people whose taste exceeds their bank account.”

  “I agree. Just be careful dealing with him,” said Hitler. “Never trust Americans. Too idealistic.”

  “Yes, mein Führer.’

  “What of Siebenundzwanzig?”

  “His training goes very well. Ludwig reports that he is an excellent student. He learns quickly. Incidentally, I am trying something—it is a bit devious.”

  “Of course,” Hitler leered. “What else would I expect from you?”

  “I have introduced another student in the training course with Swan. Swan is not aware of this, of course, but the man will be his replacement if there should be an accident or if he gets caught. Swan thinks the new man is training for a totally different assignment. It is a good opportunity to compare them.”

  “I needn’t tell you to be cautious in dealing with Twenty- seven,” Hitler said, his face hardening into stern lines again. “He is a great catch but we could lose him if he becomes disillusioned—or if he thinks we do not have complete faith in him.”

  “I will keep that in mind, mein Führer. I am going down to visit the camp in person.”

  “Very good. I will be anxious to hear your report. Have you worked out the details of the operation?”

  “I’ll be ready when he is.”

  “Excellent. I’m proud of you, Willie.”

  “Thank you, mein Führer.”

  “And, Willie, don’t forget,” He held up a single finger. “The Black Lily.”

  “Yes, mein Führer. Hell Hitler.”

  “He i l Hitler.

  Swan plunged down the steep side of the mountain, the wind thundering in his ears. He was in total control of his downward pitch, his course so steep it was almost like leaping off a cliff. He ignored the danger of the drop run just as he ignored the beauty of the Alps surrounding him and the pain of the effort in calf, thigh and shoulder. He was totally concentrated, his eyes focused one hundred feet in front of him, scanning back and forth to check for boulders, small trees or other obstructions hidden by the deep snow. If he perceived any threat he altered his course as little as necessary to avoid it, never sacrificing speed as his skis skimmed the snow beneath him. He was racing against the stopwatch in his mind.

 
A mile away, near the base of the mountain, a tall, muscular man in white snow camouflage stood shin-deep in the snow, sweeping the side of Hummel Peak with his binoculars. He was nearly six-five and in excellent physical shape, deeply tanned from hours on the slopes. He was bald as a mountaintop with a long, triangular face and pale, analytical eyes. His only insignia was the silver SS eagle on his cap. Suddenly he stopped and backtracked an inch or two. The skier was a mere speck streaking down the side of the mountain.

  “There he is,” he said. “About halfway down. Good God, he must be doing seventy miles an hour.”

  Vierhaus watched the speck as it plunged down the steep, clean side of the tall Dolomite peak, then raised his binoculars. Through the glasses, he watched the black-clad sportsman as he sped down the slope without veering, snow showering in his wake.

  “I hope he does not injure himself,” Vierhaus said.

  “That will not happen,” the tall SS officer said. “Swan will never injure himself. Swan will never have an accident. He would not permit it.”

  “You don’t like him, do you, Ludwig?” Vierhaus said.

  “There is not much to like or dislike, actually,” Ludwig answered. “He is very much a loner, never joins us for a beer at night. He’s civil to his teachers and the other students but that is as far as he goes. He is totally dedicated to perfection.”

  Ludwig lowered his glasses for a moment.

  “On the other hand, he is quite the actor. He actually outwitted the entire staff three or four times by disguising himself.”

  “Is that so?” Vierhaus said.

  Ludwig raised the glasses again.