Nolte picked up a dossier and flicked through it. “January 1937 you walked 215 km to get a job at the Dornier Aircraft Company at Friedrichshafen. 215 km in the middle of winter, Joan of Arc couldn’t have done it better.”
Something about that seemed to amuse Nebe. “What happened just before you took that long walk, Georg? Another woman?”
Georg raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Well, yes, actually that’s why I needed a job.”
Nebe stifled a chuckle. “And you said you’d send for her, but you never did, am I right?”
Georg shrugged and swiveled his head violently. “Pretty soon, you’re going to torture me. Can we do it now?”
“No, Georg, thinking about it is much worse, that’s why we save it for last.” Nebe was smiling sadly, but Nolte was on his feet and shouting. It was so sudden it took seconds to understand what he was talking about.
“Did you hear that? He’s a hero. At some point we allowed him to play the role of The Hero. This is totally fucked.” That part sounded true.
Nebe took a slow, careful breath. “That was your idea. You told him he was a hero, tried to get him to brag about it, Napoleon and Waterloo and all that, remember?”
“It was your fucking idea, and it’s your fucking responsibility!” Nolte was having a Führer-style rage fit.
Nebe’s tone held more menace than he may have intended, then again maybe not: “Those words aren’t necessary for expression, you gibbering bucket of shit.”
Georg’s eyes went wide, something was happening, something that made him extremely nervous. “It was two Englishmen,” Georg said. “They offered me 40,000 Swiss francs to assassinate the Führer.”
Silence. No one was breathing.
Then Nebe said, very quietly, “What were their names?”
Georg’s eyes widened. “The Lion and the Unicorn.” The words hung in the air like smoke.
More silence.
Everyone was waiting for something, but nothing happened. Nebe leaned forward speaking softly, not kind, not unkind, not anything. “Those were their code names, fine. That’s all you would know. What did they look like?”
Georg looked from one detective to another then stared into the middle distance. Even the noise in the street seemed to have stopped. The entire world was still, waiting for Georg Elser to speak. He shook his head sadly and said, “This isn’t going to work. Why don’t you just write out what you want me to say and I’ll sign it.”
Nebe got up and started walking around his desk in a circle, gave up, and collapsed back into his chair. “I wish. But it isn’t that easy. It would satisfy the court, but not the Gestapo. They’d know. They’d say it was a frame up to protect the real conspirators and then we’d all be executed. Do you want to kill us, Georg? Aside from this Untermensch,” he pointed to Nolte, “we’ve treated you with every courtesy. Do you really want to kill us?”
Georg looked embarrassed. “No,” said Georg, “you’re harmless.”
Nebe was transfixed. His world was ending, but if Georg thought they were harmless, that meant he’d open up. It was a new and better line of attack. Nebe heaved himself out of his chair and walked to the door of the interrogation room. He threw the door open and looked out the window at the end of the corridor. It was dawn and the gray light was coming in like fog around the tweaked medieval rooftops. The light was still too faint to be colored by the roof tiles and the city was as black and white as a photograph. There was the gigantic baby carriage shape of the Frauenkirche and the intricate gothic wedding cake of the Rathaus-Glockenspiel, the new town hall trying hard to look like a cathedral. There were rows of fake gothic apartment blocks, boring as any other dormitory suburb except that this was in the center of the old city and the pattern of the streets made no sense. All the Hansel and Gretel gingerbread offended him. He preferred fascist architecture, it was an idea made real. But the silence was beautiful. He thought of a black-booted, black-corseted prostitute, her hair sleek and shiny as her boots. He owed himself a treat. All he had to do was dance his way out of this.
“It’s dawn …,” said Nebe, “or is it sunset?” He looked at his watch. He had forgotten to wind it again. He looked at the clocks set into the twin towers of the Frauenkirsche. “6:30, it could be either one.” He closed the door and walked back. “What time is sunrise?”
“I don’t know,” said Georg.
“Torture him until he confesses,” Nolte said helpfully.
“That’s all right, Georg, don’t pay him any attention,” said Nebe.
“Yeah,” said Nolte, “I was just bullshitting a little.”
Nebe looked at Nolte. He looked at Brandt at the typewriter. They all looked at each other. Nobody had any ideas. They looked at Georg. He didn’t have any ideas either. Nebe reached under his desk and pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened.
“The entire floor is empty,” said Nolte. “They’re all downstairs.”
Nebe needed a break. Going to the men’s room would be a perfect excuse, but he couldn’t do that. It would look like he had ordered a Wachtmeister to take a dump for him and, if that were possible, it would be mandatory. And that would be bad. Driving to work and shitting were the only times of the day he got to be alone. He needed to be alone right now. He started pacing, the next best thing.
“All right, you had just realized that you were going to kill the Führer. What happened next?”
The confession jerked along like a hand-cranked silent movie. He was obviously lying, but why was it obvious? There was more office politics in the storeroom.
Georg continued. …
“Ulrich and I were rearranging shelves in the storeroom trying to create more space. I was preoccupied and Ulrich seemed to have a bad hangover. He turned his head slowly, squinting against the pain and said, ‘You have a good time last night?’ I ignored him but he went on. ‘I shouldn’t have asked, though I don’t know why not. I was pretty drunk. Did I say anything stupid?’
“‘I was too drunk to remember,’ I said and that seemed to relax him. ‘Good.’ It was noon and we quit for lunch. Ulrich smiled shyly as he walked away, he never came back from lunch.
“About 3 p.m. I was with Fritz at the loading gate. We were rolling in a hand truck loaded with cartons labeled: DONORIT/ DANGER HIGH EXPLOSIVE/ 12 GROSS. I was pushing and Fritz was steering, we followed with two hand trucks of cordite. I just had to ask, ‘Where’s Ulrich, did he go home sick?’
“Fritz smiled like a camel. ‘I persuaded him to join the Reicharbeitdienst.’ I was hurt, but Fritz seemed to find that threatening. ‘I’m sorry about Ulrich, but you must know it was necessary.’
“‘It’s digging ditches,’ I said. ‘He’s a clerk, he can’t handle the work.’ Fritz drew himself up, pointing his Adam’s apple at my left eye. ‘The discipline will do him a world of good. And it was his choice. The alternative was to be fired without a letter of recommendation; that would have made him unemployable, an indigent and an honorary Jew. It would have meant forced labor in a detention camp—a death sentence.’ Fritz was proud of himself. When among wolves, howl! I didn’t trust my voice so I just nodded emphatically.
“Fritz quickly stepped off, leaving me with a quarter ton of explosive. I rolled the dolly to the storeroom, unlocked the door, turned on the light and rolled the dolly in. I relocked the door before I began to unpack the cordite and put it on the selves. It was slow work. The explosives themselves were safe enough, but the air seals were bad. Sometimes the explosives would form nitrates from metal particles in the air and then the slightest jar would set them off.
“I didn’t really know about cordite, it was gunpowder and supposed to be stable. I willed myself to relax and slow down with no sharp corners on my movements. When my muscle memory told me that I had the routine I sped up and had the cordite shelved in under an hour.
“Fritz was at the desk playing some game with the numbers in the ledgers. I wondered if the only function of it was to look busy. I walked up and stood at attention wi
th my thighs pressed against the desk. ‘The cordite shipment is eight units short.’
“‘That’s their problem,’ said Fritz and returned to his ledgers. Time passed and he noticed that I was still standing there. Fritz looked up. ‘Look, we reorder when we’re down to three gross, verstanden? The shortage won’t be noticed unless you call attention to it. Don’t create problems.’
“‘Yes, sir, but what if there’s an inventory check?’ The tension was out of my throat and my voice was an octave lower, but Fritz just didn’t seem to get it.
“‘There hasn’t been one in 12 years.’
“I persisted. ‘But what if there is?’
“Fritz was getting annoyed. ‘Then tell them that I told you to ignore the shortages. Now, do something useful.’
“‘Yes … sir!’ And I actually found myself bowing. It was like he was slowly fading before my eyes. A sacrificial victim is always slightly holy.”
Brandt suddenly stood up from the typewriter. “Sir, am I expected to type this metaphysical tripe?”
Nebe stood as well, his ass was getting numb and his head heavy. He picked up his cigarettes and nodded to Nolte. “Let’s all take five, except for you of course, Georg. You just stay there and think your story through.”
Nolte and Nebe went out to smoke in defiance of the Führer’s regulations. Brandt cracked his fingers and stretched his neck while Georg glanced at him apologetically.
In the corridor Nolte leaned against the wall. “I love detective stories because the motives never make sense, just like in reality.”
Nebe released a cloud of smoke, swirling from his nostrils. “You’re complaining that his story makes sense?”
“This isn’t a confession, it is sedation!” Nolte wasn’t known for his delicate sense of aesthetics, but he had a point. Nebe could grant him that much.
“So, what do you suggest?”
Nolte’s face lit up. “How about I shoot myself in the foot practicing fast draw? It’s a PPK and the safety doesn’t hold. It would be a legitimate accident.”
Apparently this case was going to drive them all round the bend. Nebe had to scold. “Hush, I was serious.”
Nolte snubbed out his cigarette in exasperation. “You know the worst part? He’s the only man I’ve ever met with no talent for telling a story. Everyone’s got some talent at it, everyone except him. He’s the only completely untalented man on earth and we’re begging him to tell us a story!”
“Let’s get back to it.” Nebe dropped his cigarette on the floor, grinding it out with a pivot of his toe. He nodded to Nolte to pick up the butts.
They entered to find Georg dozing, chin nearly on his chest, while Brandt seemed to be contemplating the ceiling. Nebe clapped, jarring both guard and captive back to alertness. “Naptime’s over, boys. Georg, you’ve got a confession to finish.” Georg nodded dutifully, it was his only chance of ever getting anything to eat.
“The next day on our half-hour lunch break I finished assembling the artillery fuse. Fritz had watched me sourly, munching on his sandwich and drinking a beer. ‘Alright, you solved it. Now take it apart and put the pieces back.’
“ ‘Of course,’ I said, but I put the fuse in my pocket instead.
“That night I took the wooden chest out from under my bed. I’d built it years earlier, and it included a false bottom to protect my valuables in the event I ever had any. It had been an ambitious project for an apprentice cabinet maker. The joins were undetectable even to my finger tips. There was a button near the right front corner that looked like merely a whirl in the wood, it popped open the lid of the secret compartment. I took the artillery fuse out of my pocket and placed it inside next to the eight packets of cordite. That’s the way things went for weeks, it had become a routine so I no longer needed to think about it.
“The next thing I remember was that Schulz, the office manager, had walked in unexpectedly one day. Schulz gave the Nazi salute and Fritz and I Heil Hitlered with enthusiasm. Then Fritz put his arm around me and started talking energetically. A fork lift rumbled by, it was carrying a turret lathe and under the strain it made a noise like mountains walking. It drowned out the words but Fritz was obviously praising me and Schulz was smiling proudly. I tried to look shy and grateful. The pose came with an ease that surprised me.
“That afternoon I stole the percussion caps for the artillery fuse out of a box labeled: MERCURY FULMINATE/ DETONATORS/ DANGER: HIGH EXPLOSIVE. I’d put off taking them for weeks. It was dangerous stuff to have around and I treated it with respect, wrapping each one in a separate cotton rag so they wouldn’t knock against each other. I now had over a hundred packets of cordite inside the chest, along with three 155 mm artillery fuses. I put the fulminate caps at the opposite end of the chest from the cordite, each cap tucked inside a neatly rolled pair of socks. Then I wedged a pillow between them and the cordite and hoped for the best. The lid of the compartment wouldn’t quite close, but I had stopped worrying about it. Any serious search would have found them anyway.”
“And when was that?” Nebe knew that time continuity would be essential to appease the Gestapo. Not surprisingly Georg’s reply was vague.
“It could have been months later. I don’t remember exactly”.
Nebe wasn’t satisfied, something just didn’t fit. “OK, let’s go back a minute. Why were you working as a shipping clerk?”
“I had started out on the assembly floor, sandblasting rough castings and within a few months I was moved up to a responsible position.”
“But still not one where you could use your skills; that was 1937, yes? The country had recovered. You could have earned more as a carpenter.”
“Anything I make over 24 marks per week goes for child support anyway, so it doesn’t matter. The important thing for me is that the job be interesting.”
Nebe thought: if this had been a movie, he’d have walked out. “Interesting. Sandblasting? It’s a dirty job, a disgusting job. You get sand and metal particles in your lungs. You spend all your time coughing up black phlegm and then you die. Coughing up your lungs is not interesting. It fully occupies the mind, but it is not interesting. You’re lying, Georg.”
Georg had no reply. Nebe wondered why he was asking these questions. No one would read it. When the record of the interrogation was finally read this nonsense would be skipped over. Georg still had no reply.
“You’re lying, Georg. You took the job because you knew it would give you the opportunity to steal high explosives. You had already decided to assassinate the Führer, a year before the Munich Agreement.”
Georg still had no reply. This wasn’t working even as intimidation. It was completely pointless. Nebe was getting edgy. “Well go on, Georg!”
“From there?”
“Yes, from there.”
So he continued.
“I remember that I had gone into work early, like I always did, but this time Fritz was already there. He was wide-eyed and breathing in gulps. He jumped up and Heil Hitlered like it was the answer to a question. ‘Heil Hitler! There was an inventory check. We’re a gross of cordite short among other things. … I don’t know either. Twelve years. … New rules have been imposed on high explosives. They checked the inventory. Why now?’
“‘But who? What are we going to do?’ I tried to act baffled. It was easier than it should have been. My mother had always told me that I was a lousy liar, but the situation had changed lots of things.
“‘What could I do? I changed the numbers on the requisition slips.’ Fritz was becoming even dimmer and I found nothing to say. I knew that he had just killed himself, actually he was already dead, but he still kept talking, extenuating. ‘I talked to my wife. She told me to blame you, to say you stole it. She said they’d believe me but I told her, no. I couldn’t blame you because you were the one who told me about it but she kept on. She screeched at me to think of my family. I tried to explain that you didn’t do it so it wouldn’t stop the thefts, it would only make things worse, but she d
idn’t listen.’”
“Fritz fell silent a moment before continuing. ‘My son, he’s in the Hitler Youth. I hadn’t thought of that. He must have told them. My own son turned me in.’ His face slipped out of gear, not like he was trying to think of something to say, but like he was trying to remember it differently, as though that would change something. He looked at me questioningly, his eyes asking if it were true that he was dead. I nodded slowly.
“‘Thank you.’ Fritz jumped up, straightened his tie and buttoned his coat. ‘Herr Schulz has asked me to his office,’ he said it and walked out, stiff legged and fast. The corridor lights weren’t on yet and in the gloom the metal taps on his heels struck sparks from the concrete floor. I watched him go, trying to memorize him. I knew I’d probably never see him again. When Fritz went out of sight around a corner of the building I picked up the broom and began to sweep the floor. I’d be having visitors soon.
“They didn’t come though until after lunch. Schulz walked in with a Hitler Youth type. Their faces were set. I gave the Nazi salute casually, as though it were an old habit. ‘Heil Hitler, Herr Schulz.’
“‘Heil Hitler, Georg. This is your new assistant, Herr Dieter Boltzmann. You’ve been promoted. You are now the new supervisor of inventory.’ I don’t know if I was supposed to be surprised. I just sort of responded automatically.
“‘I am honored, Herr Schulz. I am grateful for your trust, but what about Fritz?’ I should have used his last name, but discovered that I didn’t remember it.
“‘He has been detained. By … the police.’ The pause meant it was really the Gestapo, but no one liked to mention them by name. ‘It seems he was stealing explosives.’ My expression must have passed for astonishment, I can’t be sure, but apparently whatever my face was registering Schulz considered appropriate.
The Führer Must Die Page 7
