The Hunt aka 27 (4 page)

He could no longer remember exactly where he was that night. Brandenburg, perhaps, or Münster. Days and places had become a jumbled nightmare in which every place looked the same. Littered rail yards with
feeble campfires to keep warm. Hands scabbed and blistered and encrusted with dirt. The endless sound of coughing. A wa
r
m summer night. Soft grass underneath them. And he looked up and saw the
faces, lined up and peering over the edge of the ravine. Grinning, tooth-rotten mouths and hollow eyes, lined up and peering from the darkness. H
i
s rage had been tumultuous. He had thrown pieces of coal at them, grabbed’ one by the hair and flogged him with a stick.

“We paid her to watch,” the feeble voice pleaded.

And turning back he saw her lying there, her dress around her waist, laughing at him.

“You want a show, I’ll give you a show,” he bellowed. He had mounted her as a bull mounts a cow, roaring
w
ith anger, striking her with his fist as he thrust himself into her until he
w
as spent and collapsed on tap of her and only then did he realize she
w
as dead.

His first instinct was to run. But the old men had seen him. So he dragged and carried her to a nearby overpass and waited until a train came, hoisting her limp body over the railing, dangling her at arm’s length until the train was almost on him, then dr
op
ping her in its path.

By morning he had hopped another freight and was miles away and the dead whore was an ugly dream. But it w
a
s a dream that would not die and so when he was obsessed, when the compu
ls
ion would not go away, he relived the nightmare. And when it was over there was no remorse, no guilt, no anger left in him. Only blessed relief and dreamless sleep.

He returned her to within a block of where he had picked her up, pulled up to the curb and turned off the car lights.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

She stared at the floor of the car for several seconds but the softness of his voice made her finally
lo
ok up at him. One side of her face was black and blue. Her eye was almost swollen shut. Her lips bulged.

He held up a sheaf of pound notes and wiggled them in front of her good eye.

“Two hundred pounds, luv. Now which do you want? Do you want this two hundred quid or do you want me to drive to the police station so you can turn me in
f
or whacking you about? Two hundred, luv, think about
it.
Couldn’t make that in a fortnight, could you?”

She looked at him
for
a long time before she slowly reached out and took the money.

“Get
out,”
he ordered.

The girl moved painfully out onto the sidewalk. Ingersoll pulled the door shut behind her and the tires squealed as he raced off into the darkness.

Ingersoll awoke at four
A.M..
The two
m
onths since the strange professor had visited him on the set lad flown by. They had worked feverishly editing the picture and he had seen the rough edit of
Der Nacht Hund
the night before. Everyone agreed that it was his best film to date. They had added simple titles so he could carry it with him to Berchtesgaden for a private showing to the Führer. It would be the first public showing. The premiere was set for late February at the Kroll Opera House and would be a gala event.

For two hours, he and Heinz worked on his makeup.
H
e had decided to go as a middle-aged businessman with latex masking that moved his hairline back, giving him a partially bald look. Heinz built up the bridge of his nose to give it a hard, almost hooked appearance; rubber fleshed o
u
t his cheeks and jowled his jaw line. Gray streaks in his thinned hair, a gray mustache and goatee and wire-rimmed glasses with clear lenses finished the process. He put on a tweed double-breasted suit and wore his fur-lined black trench coat.

He smiled in the mirror at the older man who looked back:

a forty-five-year-old, respectably affluent, slightly paunchy businessman.

At precisely six
A.M.,
a uniformed sergeant arrived at the door and whisked him in one of Hitler’s private cars to the airport for the two-hour flight to Munich. He was treated like royalty. By 8:30 he was having coffee and pastries at the old Barlow Palace facing Munich’s Konigsplatz, waiting to be picked up by Hitler’s personal chauffeur.

In the lobby, Ingersoll sensed Hitler’s presence everywhere. In January, the old palace had been opened as the headquarters for the Nazi party after months of renovations. It was now called the Brown House and had been redesigned by Hit
le
r’s personal architect, Albert Speer. The cost had been staggering although nobody knew what the changes had actually cost. “Blood flags” from the Beer Hall Putsch and other early Nazi Street battles snapped in the wind over the entrance and the place seemed to be a hive of activity. Dispatch riders wheeled up on motorcycles. Officers marched briskly in and out of the building, their riding boots clacking on marble floors. There was a constant ringing of telephones. The place was antiseptically clean, smelling of cold steel, leather, and boot polish.

Hitler’s dynamic charisma dominated the place even though Ingersoll knew he was in Berchtesgaden, one hundred miles away. This was the heart of the Nazi party, the nerve center of the New Germany. One could almost hear the Führer’s voice as he dictated Germany’s future from behind the walls of his vast first-floor suite of offices.

He had only to wait a few minutes before the chauffeur arrived in Hitler’s open Mercedes.

“Shall I put up the top?” the chauffeur asked. “It’s quite cold.”

Ingersoll shook his head. He knew the drive south to the Bavarian border in the Alpine foothills was one of the most beautiful in all Germany and he wanted to enjoy the scenery. A blanket and his heavy coat would suffice. The chauffeur gave him a hat with ear flaps and then raced off down the main highway toward the Führer’s hideaway.

Hitler, usually a late sleeper, had awakened as first light cast long red shadows into the bedroom. He lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling for several minutes before he slipped out of the bed he shared with Eva Braun and walked through the bathroom into his sitting room.

Four days earlier, Hindenburg had named him chancellor of the German Republic.

Chancellor!

He was Chancellor of Germany.

He held out a hand and stared at
it.
As the new president of the Reichstag, the nation’s parliament, Hitler had the laws of Germany in the palm of that hand.

Chancellor
Hitler.

He had strutted around the room in his bathrobe laughing aloud and repeating the two words
over and
over again before ordering up coffee and sweet rolls and drawing his bath.

Now Hitler stood at the window of his sitting room, as he often did, gazing north toward Braunau. am Inn, his birthplace, and then east toward Vienna, remembering with rage the words which had once torn at his heart.

N
i
cht zur Prufung zugelassen.

He tapped a forefinger on his cheek and chuckled with self-satisfaction. Ingersoll! One of the world’s most famous actors at his command, on his way to the Berghof, he thought. Now it was he who humiliated those miserable middle-class fools in the Wa
l
dviertel who had laughed at him when he was young, called him the “cemetery fool” b
e
cause he sometimes sat all night on the wall surrounding the medieval graveyard staring at the stars and dreaming. They had ridiculed his dreams of becoming another Rembrandt as had the stupid masters at the Vienna Academy whose words, even after twelve years, still stung.

Nich
t
zur Prufung
zugelassen.

“Not admitted to the examination”

Twice the Academy in Vienna had rejected him, twice they had humiliated him. The bastards had refused to even let him take the examination for admittance t
o
art school! He gazed across the foothills and forest toward the place he still hated. Wa
l
dviertel, “the wooded quarter,” that borderland of brutal soil, medieval architecture and narrow minds where he was born, that dreary and depressing corner of Austria which had rejected and humiliated him.

He had only bad memories of that hard land and its people who had once thought of him only as an argumentative, willful, arrogant and bad-tempered young ma
n
, so disliked that they ridiculed him behind his back. Even his one friend, August Kubizek—old Gustl—thought he was a bit strange.

None of them understood. Then.

But they did now.

He laughed aloud, pounding a fist into the palm of his other hand.

None of them knew his torments as a child. None of them understood his dreams.

“Imbeciles!” he said aloud as he paced the room. He frequently talked to himself in the privacy of his office.

In the dark corners of his mind, Hitler sometimes planned the most vicious kind of retaliation for the officials at the Vienna Academy who had smashed his early dreams, forcing him to sell his hand-painted postcards on the streets to earn enough to eat and pay the two kronen it cost to spend the week in the cold, filthy men’s home along the Danube. They had sentenced him to three years in the gutter, a derelict wandering Vienna in a mindless trance, cold and hungry. He still feared and hated the winter. And he hated the Jews who bought his postcards. He hated them because they had pitied him. Pity was a word that turned to ashes in his mouth.

Well,
nobody,
nobody
laughed
at him anymore. Five nights before he had stood in the window of the Chancellery for four hours while thousands marched by under torchlight, screaming his name and singing the “Horst Wessel” song, the Nazi anthem. The excitement of that night still clung to him. Now they threw flowers at his feet, exhibited his early architectural paintings in a special section of the Vienna museum, raised their arms in stiff salute and howled
Hell Hitler
when he drove through the city. And in the Wa
l
dviertel they pointed to the place where he was born, now a cheap, pink-plastered inn, and bragged that the life of the new savior of Germany had begun in that very house. Perhaps that was retribution enough.

He stood at the window, smiling, his groin throbbing with excitement, and incanted softly to himself:

“Heil Hitler, Hell Hitler, Heil Hitler.”
And giggled.

The 150-kilometer drive to Berchtesgaden had taken two hours and by midmorning they were on the way up the dirt road toward the mountain stronghold. As they drove through the eight-foot wire fence with its top strands of electrified wire, past the guard dogs and the sentries, and up the dirt road that led to Hitler’s retreat, Ingersoll could see the Berghof, Hitler’s mountainside chalet, etched against a thick forest of pine trees. The house itself was smaller and simpler than he expected, but the setting, perched as it was 3,300 feet above the village in the Bavarian Alps, was stunning.

Staring at the chalet, Ingersoll recalled a recurring theme from Hitler’s speeches:

“Absolute authority comes from God, absolute obedience comes from the Devil.”

It was one of Hitler’s favorite aphorisms for it justified what he called
Machtergreifung,
his seizure of power in Germany.

Was this the hideaway of God or the Devil, Ingersoll wondered? Was Hitler’s vision for Germany ordained or Mephistophelian?

Not that it made any difference. For Germany now had a leader who scoffed at the Allies and trampled the miserable Versailles treaty underfoot. His was a divine vision, regardless of its roots.

Ingersoll was an avid student of neo-German history, knew that much was based on lies or, rather, “propaganda.” He knew that the “Horst Wessel” song was named after a miserable pimp who had been elevated to martyrdom by Nazi lies, that even the
Machtergre
i
fung
was a lie. Hitler had not seized power, he had bought and bartered it. But Ingersoll accepted Hitler’s manipulations as the actions of a political genius who had to resort to sordid intrigues to win; to sellouts in smoke-filled rooms, to millions of marks in graft from the Ruhr’s wealthy industrialists like Krupp and bankers like von Schroeder, to his use of the brownshirt storm troopers who terrorized the population, to lies about the power the Jews never had. Hitler wove fantasies around them, blamed them for the rise of Marxism and Communism in Germany and for the desperate depression that by now had twenty million Germans unemployed and near starvation.

Ingersoll accepted that, too, since his hatred of
Jews was as virulent as was Hitler’s, just as he recognized that misery and destitution had become Hitler’s strongest allies. The more helplessly the Germans were mired in poverty, the more they turned to this strange political agitator who sometimes made five or six speeches in a single day, orchestrated by goose-stepping storm troopers waving swastikas, and who proclaimed that he would single-handedly rid Germany of her debts and her enemies, grant land to farmers, socialism to workers and anticommunism to the wealthy, although he never explained how he planned to accomplish any of this. And while he had never actually won an election, he had won enough votes to manipulate the aging and senile Hindenburg into naming him chancellor of Germany, the new head of the Reichstag.

Hitler was a mere step away from becoming dictator.

Ingersoll accepted that inevitability as a small price to pay. If chicanery and lies were the road to success, Ingersoll earnestly believed that in Hitler Germany had found the perfect leader to exploit them. And he felt a kindred link to him since Ingersoll’s own good fortune had paralleled Hitler’s.

Now he was to be the personal guest of Germany’s new chancellor. His nerves hummed with the electricity of expectation as they approached the chalet.

Professor Vierhaus knocked softly on the door to the sitting room, usually a forbidden place to everyone but Eva Braun. But on this morning he had been invited to have coffee with the Führer and talk about
der Schauspieler
—
the
Actor—which is how Hitler referred to Ingersoll. Vierhaus was flattered. Hitler, a late sleeper, usually arose around eleven
A.M.
looked over the morning reports, and didn’t appear until noon.

“Come, come,” was the impatient response.

He had only been in Hitler’s private sitting room once before. Entering it now, he remembered how surprised he had been the first time he had seen it. The sitting room was small and rather bleak with high ceilings, a simple chandelier and thick double doors. Two French windows overlooked the valley, their heavy drapes and cotton curtains pulled back. His desk was angled in one corner near the windows. T1iere was an easy chair, a bookcase and a sofa with three hand-sewn throw pillows. That was it. Two expensive but worn Oriental rugs partially covered the brilliantly waxed dark oak floors. There was a rather dreary landscape over the sofa. A wolf painting near the desk. A photograph of Hitler addressing a meeting somewhere hung on the wall beside the desk. A coffee service was set on the corner of the desk. Nothing more.

Hitler was seated at his desk writing.

“I’m working on my acceptance speech,” Hitler said without looking up. “Give me just a moment, I don’t want to lose the thought.”

“Shall I leave and come back later?”

“No. Just a moment.”

Vierhaus stood as straight as possible, lifting one shoulder to balance the hump on the other side of his back, trying to minimize the grotesque posture caused by his deformity. Hitler looked over at him.

“Sit, sit, Willie.”

“Yes sir.”

Vierhaus sat down. Hitler continued writing, his scratching pen the only sound in the room except for the wind which moaned through the eaves outside. He stopped, the pen poised at his lips, then scribbled out another sentence.

“This will be the most important speech of my life,” he said, staring at the paper. “I must challenge them as never before.”

“Yes
,
mein Führer”

The little man finally put his pen down and leaned back in his chair, reading what he had written.

“Listen to this, Professor. ‘We must raise the German people by their own labor, their own industry, their own determination and daring, their own perseverance, so they will perceive Germany, not as a gift, but a nation created by themselves.’ What do you think?”

Vierhaus thought for several moments before answering.

“Excellent, Führer, excellent. Powerful. I would consider only one small suggestion.”

Hitler glowered but said nothing.

“Where you say ‘they will perceive Germany,’ perhaps ‘perceive’ is a bit too intellectual. Accept might be more understandable to the public.”

“Humph,” Hitler snorted. “Seems a bit weak, that word accept.” He did not take criticism well but even as he disagreed he drew a line through the word “perceive” and wrote “accept” over it.

As a clinical psychologist, Vierhaus knew and understood Hitler’s contradictions far better than did most of his henchmen. He encouraged them and used them to fuel Hitler’s most outrageous schemes, many of which he himself had subtly planted in the Führer’s mind. Here was a man whose personal sanctuary was modest at best but who had spent millions on the renovation of Brown House. A man who decried the use of alcohol yet drank beer, champagne and
wine; who loved sausage but de
cried eating meat; who hated hunting but eagerly encouraged the murder of his political enemies and Jews; who could coo like a dove one moment and go into fits of rage an instant later, driven out of control by rampant paranoia; who ate meagerly in public but whose cook, a grossly fat man named Willy Kannenberg, produced exquisite seven- and eight-course meals for him; who demanded radical self-discipline yet indulged himself in sweets, fruit and cream cakes and literally drowned his tea and coffee in sugar and cream; who publicly encouraged and rewarded the marriage of purer Aryans yet kept a mistress.

“It is wiser to have a mistress than to be married,” Hitler had told Vierhaus once, then added with a wink, “Of course, this only holds true of an exceptional man.”

Psychotic behavior patterns all, yet Vierhaus accepted them, even encouraged them, for he also saw the other Hitler. Pale, slight, his thin brown hair draped over one eye, here was a man so common he should have been easy to ignore but who was, instead, a man who could not be overlooked in
any
company. Self-assured, confident, dignified, his flashing, cold-steel eyes signaled the fanatic within and the cutting-edge mind that lurked behind the spurious smile. People were awed in his presence without knowing why.

Vierhaus understood it all. Unlike Goebbels, Goring, Himmler and the rest of the sycophants who agreed blindly with everything Hitler said, Vierhaus recognized both the genius and the madness of the man. He had recognized it nine years before when he had first seen Hitler at Landsberg prison. Here was a political prisoner who was living in relative splendor, his cell decorated with flowers and pictures, a special cot in the corner, his meals specially prepared for him, writing a book which outlined his plan to overthrow the government. Amazing, Vierhaus had thought, this little man with incredible self-assurance around whom power seemed to energize. if they did not put him in a madhouse or assassinate him, he could become a very da
n
gerous man.

Now he marveled at the understatement. What was it Nietzsche had said?
All greatness is tinged with madness.
How accurate.

Hitler was standing with his back to the door, staring out the window.

“My father never understood the world,” Hitler said with- out turning around. “He accepted everything that was handed to him.” He turned and glared at Vierhaus. “That is what has been wrong with Germany. They have accepted what was handed to them. But they are learning. Yes, Willie?”

“Yes
,
mein Führer,
they
are
learning..”

Hitler smiled and stamped his foot on the floor.

“Chancellor, Willie. I
am
Chancellor
of Germany
.”

Vierhaus bowed slightly. “And I salute you, Chancellor Hitler.”

“Chancellor Hitler,” Hitler echoed..

He poured himself a cup of coffee, d
o
used it with cream and sugar and gestured to Vierhaus to join him.

“I have a thought to share with you,” Vierhaus said very softly as he fixed his coffee.

“Not this morning,” Hitler said quickly. “You know the rule, Willie, no business at the Berghof. It can wait until we are back in Munich on Monday.”

“Of course, of course,” the mind d
o
ctor answered quickly. “I just thought it would be something For you to mull over. I admit it is a rather daring plan but
. . .“
and then he sank the hook for he knew just how to lure the little man into his net, “it could resolve the Communist problem.’’

Hitler sat down at his desk and stared at Vierhaus.

“By God, you are a devious one, Willie,” he said. “Perhaps that is why we get along so well.”

“Danke,
me
in Fuhre
r
”
Vierhaus
said with a grin.

“And what do you suggest
,
Herr
Doctor
,
that
we kill all the seventy-seven communists in Parliament? Hmm?” He chuckled and sipped his coffee.

“Yes,” Vierhaus said, leaning forward and speaking almost in a whisper. “But first we must have u reason to get rid of them.”

Hitler stopped smiling. His jaw tightened and his eyes turned snakelike.

“And what would that reason be?”

Vierhaus stared straight into his eyes.

“Burn the Reichstag,” he said.

Hitler looked perplexed for several moments, then his lips curved into a smile.

“You are a mad one, Willie,” he said.

“I am deadly serious.”

“Burn
the
Reichstag
!
”

“Think about it,
mein Fuhrer,
“Vierhaus continued, his voice still almost a whisper. “It
is
to all Germans
the most
sacred building in Germany. Right now, the Communists are the strongest party in the country. If the Reichstag were put to the torch and the Communists were blamed for it, the people would be outraged. Excuse enough to bring the party down once and for all. Then focus attention on the Brown House as the new seat of government. You rid yourself of the Reds, throw the parliament into chaos

“And use parliamentary decree to take over once and for all,” Hitler interceded.

“You are a step ahead of me.”

“A dangerous move, my friend,” Hitler said, his eyes narrowing.

“I have heard Hermann talk about a secret passageway from the residence to the Reichstag. Easy enough to arrange the fire. Then all you need is a scapegoat. I am sure Himmler or Goring can arrange that.”

At first Hitler was astounded but as he listened, the plot began to take shape in his own mind. Daring? Yes. Audacious? Yes. Possible? He tapped his cheek nervously with a finger.

“Just a thought, Herr Chancellor. Something to mull over. But if it is to be done, it must done quickly.”

The plot turned Hitler’s mood. He had been jocular, now he became dark and brooding. Vierhaus realized he had to change the mood back.

“It’s a disma
l
old building anyway,” he said lightly, pouring himself another coffee. He looked at the Führer and smiled.

Hitler stared back for a moment
m
ore, then his face softened and he leaned back and laughed.

“So, Willie, you have stirred the pot again. Does that mind of yours ever rest?”

“Occasionally.”

“When you are asleep, eh?”