Through the Eye of Time (6 page)

The only member of the Sanctum I should disassociate from this observation is Reichsminister Goebbels, head of Information and Propaganda, whose visits to the Führer are businesslike and without the ostentatious foolery of motorcycle escorts and fleets of cars and stamping salutes. He is a small, slim, dark-haired man, quietly-spoken, with a lean ascetic countenance. On the numerous occasions when I have been in conference with him he has always displayed an astute intelligence, a ready grasp of essentials, and occasionally a droll sense of humour, very welcome, which completely goes over the heads of the other dolts.

A good man to have on your side, I would have thought: loyal, a keen mind, well organized, and not one to suffer fools gladly, if at all.

*

My duties are not arduous but I think it wise to keep up the pretence of being fully involved and hard at work; it is easy enough to do: ordering supplies from the Clinic in the Ziegelstrasse, circulating minor queries to and fro between myself, Brandt and von Hasselbach, inspecting the medical orderlies and making sure they have enough adhesive plaster and clean bandages, supervising the Führer's meals and rest periods. He has been liverish for the past couple of days and I managed to obtain a large consignment (six gross packs each containing 100 tablets) of that old standby remedy Dr Koester's Antigas Pills, a compound of strychnine and belladonna. Two tablets after each meal, eight daily, seemed to do the trick. He is much settled.

I heard from my cousin Felix yesterday about our joint scheme to manufacture the nerve tonic. Felix has taken out a lease on some premises in Budapest and is already advertising for a small labour force of women to start production later this year. It was fortuitous to come across the complete description of the tonic (including chemical formula) in an American medical journal. One minor problem, as Felix has pointed out, is that some of the ingredients are difficult to come by and rather expensive, so I have written back recommending certain cheap substitutes which are easily obtained in bulk. The effects shouldn't be all that different; and in any case it's difficult to tell with nerve complaints whether or not an improvement has been made.

I spoke to Elisabeth Schroeder, one of the Führer's private secretaries (charming creature!) and we discussed the forthcoming visit of the British Fascist leader, Gerard Mandrake, in a few weeks' time. We both agreed that Goebbels has done a splendid job of propaganda in publicizing the meeting as one intended to promote peace and a lasting alliance between our two great nations and thus pave the way for a United Europe. The British newspapers have really gone to town on the affair, heralding it as ‘A New Era in European Solidarity'.

The French press, I notice, are sour and generally suspicious, talking about the ‘Anglo-German Conspiracy' and forecasting a build-up in militarization. As if we gave a fig for their opinions. Their pathetic Maginot Line has made them the laughing-stock
of Europe, and the Channel won't present much of a hazard, given the domination of British naval power.

When I suggested to Elisabeth that we go out to dinner one evening she blushed and pressed her head into her shoulder in a manner I found wholly enchanting. These strutting Rhine Maidens bore me, I must confess, with their loud voices and red cheeks and heavy bosoms. Elisabeth is dark, petite, and soft-spoken. Dare I say it – almost Jewish in appearance.

‘I would be very pleased and most honoured,' she said, ‘but perhaps you should know that I already have a young man. SS Sturmbannführer Heinz Mueller, a member of Himmler's intelligence staff. It would not be … proper for me to deceive him, Herr Doktor.'

‘Herr Doktor?' I chided her gently. ‘Surely you know me a little more intimately than that. After all these months. You must call me Theo.'

Elisabeth smiled shyly. ‘I hope I have not offended you … Theo. I am most grateful, indeed flattered, that you should invite me out. It is an honour.'

‘Nonsense. Just because I am of high rank. You are a very pretty young woman. Beautiful, I should say. And I am not offended, not in the least. But I do not take no for an answer that easily. If your young man, your Heinz, should be posted away from Berlin – beware!'

We laughed together at this, and I could see her narrow pointed pink tongue and her small white teeth inside her soft red mouth, and the desire and conviction grew together that I would have her. An army officer, of course, would have blundered in with both jackboots and frightened the poor creature and alerted her young man. But there are ways and ways. More than several ways, as the English say, of skinning a cat.

I have a new concoction. Like many of my ideas it came to me in the middle of the night. I had woken with the need to relieve myself and on returning to bed had lit a cigarette, one of the special brand made to my personal requirements.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, there popped into my head an idea for vitamin tablets. He's been babbling on for days now about supplementing soldiers' diets and it occurred to me – why not make them into sweets? Or better still, chocolate! Vitamin
chocolate in each soldier's pack, what could be simpler, or easier to take?

I haven't so far mentioned this to anyone, not even the Führer, because ideas have a habit in the Chancellery of walking off and ending up on someone else's desk. Goering's, for example, that fat slothful beast. The idea I had for curing vertigo in trainee pilots was one day Item 9 on the conference agenda – proposed, it said, by the Reich Marshal himself! I racked my brains trying to recall who I'd discussed the idea with, but to no avail. And then I had to watch in silence as the fat pig positively swelled up with pride as he put forward ‘his' idea and saw the raised eyebrows and approving nods.

So this time I will talk to Felix first and ask his advice. If he assures me that the idea is practicable (and I don't see why it shouldn't be) we can go ahead and produce a trial batch in the factory. Then will be the moment to announce it to the jabbering apes.

Had a quiet word with Goebbels during the afternoon. He was passing by my office – deliberately going out of his way it seemed to me – and stopped to inquire after the Führer's health. I assured him that he was well and in good spirits, whereupon Goebbels lowered his voice and asked had I noticed the slight trembling in the Führer's left hand. As a matter of fact I had, and told him so, remarking that in my professional opinion it was nothing serious, probably nervous strain due to overwork.

‘We are in the Führer's hands,' Goebbels said in his quiet, even tone, always the mark of an educated man. ‘And the Führer is in yours. Never forget that. I wish you to know that you have my fullest confidence.'

‘Thank you, Herr Reichsminister,' I replied. ‘If I can perform my duties with the same zeal and expertise as your good self none of us need have any worries.'

A brief bleak smile passed across his face, and not being a man ready with his smiles it was reward enough. We understand and respect each other; that is my abiding impression.

I congratulated him on the birth of a son – his third or fourth I think it is – and he said, ‘There are many ways of making Germany strong. Frau Goebbels and I believe we have a sacred
duty to build for the future. Young German manhood – our finest investment.' Then his lean sallow face took on a humorous aspect and he said in a teasing manner:

‘I trust you are investing in the future, Morell, even though you are a bachelor.'

I assured him in the same jocular fashion that I was doing my utmost to ensure the potency and longevity of the Reich in an unofficial capacity.

‘You do not have a regular ladyfriend?'

‘Not as such,' I answered carefully. ‘I would rather spread my investment. There is a particular young lady, Eva – I do not think you know her, Herr Reichsminister, a mutual friend of Hoffman—'

Goebbels narrowed his eyes. ‘The photographer?' He has an astounding memory for faces and names, even those he has met once and only briefly.

‘That is correct. She works as a photographic model for fashion plates and the like. She is a good friend and companion. I will introduce her to you, if that is permitted. She would be thrilled to meet you.'

‘It is always
my
pleasure to meet charming young ladies,' said Goebbels.

While he was in this relaxed frame of mind I thought it a suitable moment to ask his opinion of the imminent visit by the British Fascist leader. Did he share the Führer's hopes that the meeting would set the seal on our plans for the next three years?

Goebbels considered for a moment. He is never one to utter rash pronouncements, without due thought. ‘A great deal depends on the attitude of the British Press. If there is the merest hint of warmongering I think the meeting could prove detrimental to our purposes. Mandrake is a clever man but sometimes his cleverness oversteps the boundary of plain common sense. He is not a pragmatist; he wants results now, quickly, without the bother of discrete and calculated moves in the right direction. We must send him home with something to crow about – but it must be the right thing, eminently sensible and praiseworthy in the eyes of the British people.'

‘You have discussed this with the Führer?' I inquired.

‘The Führer, I think, appreciates the need for caution; his excesses will be held in check. But yes, to answer your original question, I believe the meeting to be absolutely crucial. Which is why the Führer's health concerns me. Everything possible must be done to safeguard his stamina and performance. I think you understand me.'

‘I do indeed, Herr Reichsminister. May I repeat that you need have no qualms in that direction. The Führer will be well cared for in every conceivable respect.'

This chat enlivened my spirits considerably. Within the Chancellery it is easy to become secretive to the point of paranoia, believing everyone to be plotting against you in one way or another. Now I feel that my work has not gone unappreciated: Goebbels has tremendous influence and to count him as an ally in the maelstrom of inter-departmental intrigues is reassuring to me privately and prestigious in the day-to-day politicking which is such a wearisome feature of public office.

It has also been useful, I will not deny, in encouraging me to experiment with other preparations. One I have in mind is a sulphonamide compound which was injected into rats to increase their resistance to influenza and was by all accounts a great success. It hasn't been tested on human beings yet, though I don't see why it shouldn't have a similar prophylactic effect: In any case I can begin with small amounts and, all being well, increase the dosage over a period.

One fly in the ointment (felicitous phrase, ha-ha) is the constant interference by von Hasselbach, who just because he has treated the Führer in the past thinks he has sole authority to decide what medication should be prescribed. I will not tolerate this busybodying, and already I have a little plan hatching to put von Hasselbach's nose out of joint. If he isn't careful he'll find himself as junior medical intern in one of the camps Himmler is constructing in the Eastern Province. If the truth be told he's afraid that he's lost the confidence of the Führer and is now trying to stir up trouble at the slightest opportunity. He said to me the other day: ‘How can you prescribe those devilish Antigas Pills for stomach cramp? Heaven knows what foul poisons they contain.'

My answer was that they did the trick: the Führer reported
an immediate improvement – in a matter of hours, I told him – and was able to perform his ablutions without discomfort. These old-fashioned practitioners are really laughable in the way they cling to so-called ‘simple and natural' methods of treatment. Give me chemicals any day. ‘What are drugs for,' I asked him, ‘if not to be used to treat patients? Next you'll be telling me to bleed him with leeches.'

At this his face turned purple and the veins in his neck swelled up. ‘The question is one of diagnosis,' he blustered. ‘Stomach cramps could have any one of a dozen causes, some of them serious. How do we know that the condition isn't operable?'

There I had him. The Führer, as is well known, cannot stand the sight of blood; the mere thought of it makes him feel faint and sickly, and so I said, ‘Are you, my dear Hans, proposing that we butcher the Führer? Are you going to open him up and poke around inside? And are you going to be the one to tell him?'

His face had lost some of its colour and his eyes went very small in his head. The idea of broaching the subject of surgery to the Führer had a tranquillizing, one might almost say (hee-hee) paralysing, effect. Von Hasselbach licked his lips and then blathered on for a while about ‘symptoms' and ‘diagnoses' and the dangers of what he termed ‘untried remedies'.

‘Then by all means put your point of view forward,' I encouraged him. ‘You have my permission. I'm sure the Führer will listen to what you have to say in his usual calm and receptive manner.'

I was smiling as I said this, and judging from von Hasselbach's expression he gathered from my kindly suggestion the inference intended. There was nothing more to be said. But any more pigheaded meddling from that quarter and I shall spike his career once and for all. In the Eastern Province he can meddle to his heart's content.

Returning from luncheon I saw Elisabeth and her young man eating their sandwiches in the Tiergarten. He is tall and blond and, I suppose, handsome in a brutal sort of way. All shoulders, arse and boots. I have never understood the mesmerizing effect that uniforms have on women. She was looking
at him like a helpless young fawn, obviously totally entranced by his blond hair and black uniform and large red ears. He holds a lowly position in Himmler's circle of depravity but no doubt his true Aryan characteristics will guarantee a swift rise through the ranks.

Of that we shall see.

Berlin, August 1938

Mandrake made a splendid first impression on the Proletariat.