The Hunt

“Herr Ingersoll,” Vierhaus greeted the actor at the front door, “Welcome to the Eagle’s Nest.”

The hunchbacked professor stared intently at Ingersoll, who was surprisingly nonchalant. A cool Fellow, all right. He led the actor into the large foyer.

“And is this the real Ingersoll we’re meeting or another character you’ve created?” he asked with a smile.

Ingersoll shrugged off the question with a cryptic answer.

“Perhaps there is no real Ingersoll,’’ he replied, following Vierhaus into the main hallway of the chalet. Behind him, two servants followed with his luggage and five heavy reels of film.

“Ah, you brought the film!” Vierhaus cried. “Excellent. The Führer will be delighted. He has assigned you to the room opposite his, on the northwest corner. I think you will find the view breathtaking.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You may thank him personally. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

“And when will that be?”

“Not too long now. The Führer likes to keep business to a minimum when he’s here. He sleeps late and reviews the morning reports. He usually comes down abut lunchtime.”

“Herr Professor, shall I take the film to the projection room?” one of the servants asked.

“Excuse me for a moment while I make sure everything is done properly,” Vierhaus said to Ingersoll and went off with the servants. Ingersoll was left alone in the hallway.

The actor was impressed by the cleanliness of the chalet. The wood floors were polished to a sheer and he saw not a speck of dust anywhere. Somewhere in the back of the house, a canary started warbling, then another joined in from somewhere else, then a cockatoo answered shrilly and another. There seemed to be birds everywhere, the house echoed with their chirping. Ingersoll strolled to the edge of the library and looked in. The books were all bound in leather. In the dining room, the table had been set for the evening meal. Ingersoll casually picked up a cup and looked at the bottom. The entire service was the finest Meissen china; each plate, saucer and up were engraved with Hitler’s initials and a swastika. The goblets and tea service were gold.

Nothing pedestrian about the Führer’s taste.

There were several valuable paintir.gs hanging in the downstairs rooms but one instantly galvanized Ingersoll’s stare. It was almost life size and framed in gold leaf. A shielded lamp ran the length of the top of the frame, casting s soft light down on the painting. The subject was dressed in a peasant blouse and a pink skirt, the colors bright and cheerful but not garish. A striking woman, young and exquisitely beautiful, he thought. There was a disarming sense of innocence in her pale blue eyes, yet a boldness in the arrogant tilt of her chin. Ingersoll felt himself aroused by her impish innocence, a spectacularly sensuous combination.

Who was this woman whose picture- dominated the hallway?

As he stared up at it he suddenly felt as if he were being watched. He looked around but the hail was empty. He stared up the stairway and for an instant thought he saw someone moving in the shadows at the top of the stairs. Then he turned his gaze back to the portrait.

At the top of the staircase, Hitler stood in the deep shadows staring down at Ingersoll, watching the actor’s almost hypnotic attraction to the painting.

Look at the way he stares at her. There is hunger in that look.

There was sexual ardor in his stare and Ingersoll made no attempt to hide it. Hitler was seized by a momentary rush of jealousy. He turned abruptly and went back down the hall to his sitting room. Once inside he sat on the edge of the chair as though perched there, his fist pressed against his lips, fighting back an overwhelming sense of longing, anger and remorse.

Watching Ingersoll stare at the portrait he understood the actor’s sexual attraction to the subject. He too had stared at that picture with the same longing, the same desire. The same perverted fantasy.

He began to shake uncontrollably. First his knee began to bob, then his hands quivered. He beat on his legs with his fists and muffled the cry of anguish that heart his throat. He fought back the tears of rage that burned the corners of his eyes. Time had eradicated the need. Only resentment remained.

How dare she! How dare she defy and humiliate me. How dare she rob me in such a way.

It was a question he had asked himself many times in the eighteen months since Geli Raubal had killed herself. His maid, Annie Winter, had found Geli with Hitler’s Walther 6.35 wrapped in a towel, its muzzle still pressed against her chest.

I can’t live with your rage and your anger, sometimes I think it would be better to be dead.

She had said the same thing many times and in a variety of ways but he always scoffed at her, derided her, dared her.

And then that awful night she had taken the dare and it had fallen to Rudolf Hess and Gregor Strasser to hush up the potential scandal, just as they had handled the blackmailers who had managed to acquire the obscene nude paintings he had done of Geli.

Just as they had subdued him and watched over him for days because he, too, was raving on the edge of self-destruction.

September 18, 1931, a date that was scorched into his memory, like the date of the Putsch and the date Hindenburg had named him chancellor. Except that this date was a nightmare from which he could not escape.

Ingersoll was still staring at the painting when Vierhaus returned, walking with that curious kind of swagger he had affected to minimize the hump on his back.

“She’s exquisite,” Ingersoll said, still staring up at the face in the portrait. “Who is she?”

“Geli Raubal, the Führer’s niece. His favorite sister’s daughter. He adored her. She was killed a year and a half ago. A tragic accident. He still hasn’t fully recovered from the shock.”

“I can understand why,” Ingersoll said.

“Well, let me show you to your rooms,” Vierhaus said, leading Ingersoll up the stairs. “You can freshen up. The Führer should be down shortly. He usually takes lunch at the tea house down by the mountain overlook. By the way, there are a few rules you should be aware of. The Führer does not permit smoking in the house, he detests the odor. But he has no objection if you smoke outside. He also does not permit the keeping of diaries or writing letters from here, either. And he can’t stand whistling.”

“Whistling?”

“Yes. Drives him crazy. Are you a whistler, Herr Ingersoll?”

“Sometimes. I find it a comforting diversion.”

“Not here. The Führer is a vegetarian although there may be meat dishes for the guests. Also he is a teetotaler, but, again, there will be wine and champagne for his visitors.”

“He sounds quite tolerant of others,” Ingersoll said.

“Oh yes, the Führer is a most tolerant gentleman

He came downstairs precisely at noon. Ingersoll was surprised at how small Hitler was in person. And he wasn’t sure what to expect. Would this be the serious, stormy Hitler he had seen so many times, speaking in Berlin, Nuremberg and Munich, the forceful leader, demanding and getting the adoration of thousands, berating the British and French, damning the Jews and Communists? Or would it be the more affable Hitler he had seen in crowds, often speaking in low caressing tones, bowing low from the waist and kissing the hands of the young Frauleins, kissing the foreheads of the children, making jokes with them.

He was dressed in a gray wool double-breasted suit with the Wehrmacht insignia over the breast pocket, a smiling man, pleasant and friendly. The affable Hitler.

“So,” said Hitler, “we finally meet. I am an ardent fan of yours, Herr Ingersoll. I’ve seen all your films, some more than once. You have brought great credit to Germany. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“I am flattered that you asked, mein Führer.”

“I trust your room is satisfactory.”

“Lovely.”

“Good. Good! I usually take a noon stroll down to the tea house for lunch with my guests but since you and Willie are the first to arrive and he has a few things to do, perhaps just the two of us can go down together.”

This man in an ordinary lounging suit, projecting a patriarchal image of kindness and affability, is this the man who will change the world?

Servants helped Hitler and Ingersoll on with their wraps. Hitler wore a heavy greatcoat. The chancellor wrapped a thick muffler around his neck and, flexing his shoulders, smiled at Ingersoll.

“Sure you’re up to a walk in this weather?” Hitler asked.

“Looking forward to it.”

The wind sliced up the mountainside with an edge as sharp as a knife. Hitler was hunched down in the thick greatcoat, its tall collar wrapped around his ears. His gloved hands were tucked under his armpits. Two armed guards followed twenty or so feet behind them, just out of earshot. As they approached the overlook, the entire valley spread below them. Snow glistened in the noonday sun.

Ingersoll stopped at the overlook halfway to the tea house and pointed out over the mountains. “That’s where you were born, isn’t it? Over the mountains there in the Waldviertel?”

“Yes. Braunau. A terrible place. Not as bad as Vienna but a terrible place.”

“What’s so terrible about it?”

“It’s known as the wooded place. Very harsh,” Hitler said, not hiding the bitterness in his voice. “Harsh land, harsh people, dreary, medieval. For centuries it was prey to every marauding army that invaded southern Germany. Sacked by the Huns, by the Bohemian Ottakar II. By the Swedes during the Thirty Years’ War. Even Napoleon marched through it in 1805 on the way to Vienna. The fools in the Waldviertel have a legacy of defeat. Defeatists all.”

Hitler’s voice began to rise as anger took the place of bitterness.

“We have too many people in Germany today who feel the same way,” he went on, slashing his fists against his thighs. “That’s why I must throw that damnable Versailles treaty back in the Allies’ faces. Pride, pride, Herr Ingersoll, that’s what I will give back to all my people. I must make defeat an alien word to all Germans.”

“You have already started, sir,” Ingersoll said.

“Danke, Herr Ingersoll,” Hitler said with genuine pleasure. He stamped his feet against the cold.

Cajole and flatter.

“What do they call you? Johann? John?”

“Hans, actually,” Ingersoll said.

“Ah, your proper name.” And Hitler smiled.

So, they want something, Ingersoll thought. They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to check me out. Do they know everything? Do they know all the secrets of Johann Ingersoll? Was this to be some kind of blackmail?

He dispelled the notion as paranoia.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Hitler said. “It’s Himmler and his SS. They’re overly cautious. Security, you know.”

“Ah yes, security.”

Hitler’s breath swirled from the folds of the collar.

“I don’t like the winter, Hans,” he said. “When I first went to Vienna to study it was an endlessly bitter time . . . for two years my only mistress was sorrow and my only companion was hunger. But the thing I remember most -was how cold it was.”

He stopped and shivered, huddling deeper into his great coat before going on.

“In the winter I was never warm. It is beautiful here, looking out at the snow on the mountains, listening to it crunch underfoot, but the cold cuts me like a saber.”

“Should we go back to the chalet?”

“Nein! It is a fear I must deal with. Someday I will overcome it. Perhaps I will get badly sunburned, eh, and then I will fear the warm more than the cold. Ha! Besides, I am sure you know what it is like to sleep on cold pavement.”

“Not as bad as in the trenches where it rained,” Ingersoll said. “My greatest fear was drowning in mud. When the rains came I was terrified the trench would slide in on me. After dark I would crawl out and sleep with the dead ones. And then in the morning I’d crawl back in the ditch. To prefer sleeping with the dead, now that’s fear.”

“You were a good soldier,” Hitler said.

“So were you.”

“We still are, Hans. The war is just beginning.” “The sooner the better.”

“Spoken like a true Nazi.”

“1 have read Mein Kampf a dozen times, memorized passages, spoken them aloud just to hear their power,” Ingersoll said enthusiastically. “I’ve read all your works, mein Führer. “And he recited:

“Ohne Juda, ohne Rom,

Wird gebaut Germaniens Dom!

Heil!”

“My God,” Hitler said, surprised, “I wrote that, let’s see, that was in

“Nineteen-twelve.”

“Ja, 1912,” he said with surprise and repeated it:

“Without Jews, without Rome,

We shall build Germany’s cathedral!

Hail!”

“I was twenty-four years old at the time. People laughed at me, you know,” Hitler said.

“A prophet must always endure s corn.”

“You are a student of Nietzsche, too?”

“I am familiar with his works.”

“You are quite the scholar, Hans Wolfe,” Hitler said, impressed. “Do you like music? Wagner-?”

“Very much.”

They continued down the path toward the tea house.

“Do you know when I was a boy in the Waldviertel my friend Gustl and I wrote an opera. An outrageous thing, filled with madness, violence, murder, miracles, mythology, magic, suicide. Oh, it was quite Wagnerian.

Suddenly Hitler’s mood swung again, this time from nostalgia to petulance. His voice grew slightly louder, its pitch a shade higher.

“That is another thing about the fools down there,” he went on. “They do not even understand Wagner. Only I understood the magnitude of Wagner’s vision, Hans. Only I understand that the creation was an act of violence, and so all creation must continue on a path of violence.”

Just as suddenly his voice lowered, became almost a whisper. He leaned closer to Ingersoll.

“This is the beginning. Last Monday when that doddering, senile old fool made me chancellor, that was the start of it. First there was the Holy Roman Empire, then the Prussian Hohenzollerns and now the glorious Third Reich. We are going to change the world. We are going to obliterate Versailles. Obliterate the Jews and the Gypsies and the Communists. We are going to create a population of pure Aryans, smarter, stronger, better- looking than any other race in history. We are going to do all this.” He stopped for a moment, his eyes blazing, his breath coining in short, wispy breaths. “Do you believe that, Hans? Do you believe that the Third Reich now exists?”

“Yes, mein Führer,” said Ingersoll. He was staring transfixed by the simple power of Hitler’s voice. He had heard or read all the words before, in various speeches and in books. But he had never heard them performed with such mastery. And he did believe it. There was no question in his mind.

“The Third Reich is you, mein Führer,” he blurted passionately. And impulsively he stepped back and threw out his arm in the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler,” he said. “Hail the Chancellor.”

A faint smile played on Hitler’s lips. He lifted his hand in response. They walked on down the footpath.

The tea house looked like a large, enclosed gazebo on the edge of a cliff at the foot of the overlook walk. As they neared it Hitler picked up the pace, anxious to get out of the cold. They rushed inside and slammed the door against the freezing draft. A white-uniformed servant snapped to attention and saluted.

“You may go to the kitchen, Fritz, we can serve ourselves.”

“Yes, mein Fuhrer,” the soldier said and vanished.

Outside, the wind whirled the snow into twisting devils that danced past the frosted windows. Inside, a giant fire snapped and sent glittering sparks twirling up the chimney.

“Ah,” Hitler said, closing his eyes. He opened the coat and held it like a shield in front of the fire, gathering in its warmth. “Fire is a great cleanser,” he said. Staring at the blazing logs, he saw instead that towering Reichstag ablaze. His mind conjured twinkling sparks floating over the city.

A table had been set in front of the fireplace. There were plates of homemade breads, pastries, cheeses, and thick sausages cooked until their skin had burs t. A large china teapot squatted in the center of the table, the tea steeping in its own steam. Two bottles of wine had also been opened and were sitting on the table.

“The walk here is good discipline. Are you a disciplined man, Hans?”

“When it’s necessary.”

“Good point. One of the reasons I come to this place is to relax.” He placed a finger on one of the wine bottles.

“Red or white?”

“I think I prefer the red.”

Hitler poured them both a glass of the red, then took a knife and sliced off a bit of sausage and put ii in his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the spicy bit of meat before washing it down with a sip of wine.

“Forget the discipline for a day OT two, yes?”

“An absolute necessity, mein Fuhrer.”

“Exactly, exactly. Help yourself, Hans.”

Hitler fixed himself a plate of bread, cheese and sausage, poured more wine in the glass. Warmed by the fire, he took off his coat and threw it over a chair, pulled another one close to the hearth and sat with his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He sighed with contentment. Ingersoll drew up a chair and sat beside him. They both stared, almost transfixed, at the fire as they spoke.

“I never discuss politics here at the Eagle’s Nest,” Hitler said. “We come here to relax and forget the problems, hmm? However, Herr Ingersoll, I think it would be profitable for us to understand each other, eh?”

“If you wish, mein Führer.”

“I am curious about something,” Hitler said. “I know you had bad times for a year or two before you became an actor. Why didn’t you join the Sturmabteilung? A good Nazi like you, belonging to the brownshirts would have given you prestige.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Ingersoll answered.

“Why not?”

“It’s a personal matter,” he said with some hesitation.

“One you cannot share with your Führer?”

Ingersoll thought for a moment before answering.

“I didn’t come here to make enemies.”

“It will not go beyond this room, Hans.”

Ingersoll thought about that for a few moments. On the one hand he feared his own prejudice would infuriate Hitler, and yet his instincts told him that Hitler would respond favorably to honesty.

Besides, why was he really here, he wondered? Were these political questions merely curiosity? Or was there some darker motive behind the discussion? Ingersoll flipped the two options over and over in his mind, like spinning a coin. Finally he opted for candor. After all, he was a national idol. His popularity transcended politics or ideology.

“I am afraid my opinions are somewhat. . . snobbish,” he said finally.

“Snobbish?”

“The brownshirts are not my kind of people. I understand their function is necessary but . . . they are loudmouth bullies, boisterous and

“Yes? And?” Hitler’s eyes bored into his but Ingersoll did not look away.

“And then there’s Ernst Röhm. He is . . . there is something about him . . . Röhm is a lover of little boys,” Ingersoll said rather harshly. “A sadist. A drunkard

“You know Röhm?”

“I met him once. Back in ‘25, ‘26, in Berlin. He was making a speech. Cold sober he was incoherent.”

“He was not picked for his oratorical skills—or his good manners, for that matter.”

“Yes, mein Führer, but . .

“Your instincts about Ernst are correct,” Hitler said. “He has failed to give the SA a soul of its own.” Hitler stood up with his back to the fire and shrugged his shoulders. “It has no pride or direction.” He thought for a moment more, then added enigmatically, “These things eventually outlive their purpose.”

He paused again.

“Besides, Röhm has pig eyes,” Hitler said, changing the mood again and chuckling at his own insult.

“I wouldn’t want to spend the evening with Attila the Hun either, but he was very effective.”

“Precisely. I see you understand that even rats can serve a useful purpose. He serves a purpose, a very necessary purpose. But I assure you, he will have no voice in the future of Germany. He is uncouth,” Hitler said abruptly.

“Exactly!”

Ingersoll was obviously a student of politics, his observations were accurate. Die Sturmabteilung, the SA, were Hitler’s personal storm troopers. Ruffians and thugs, most of the brown- shirts had originally been recruited from prisons or from beer halls where they were bouncers. They had become an undisciplined paramilitary force. Marching through the streets, smashing windows, beating up Jews, guarding political meetings and privately engaging in blackmail and extortion, the SA had become dangerously out of control and so Hitler had brought Ernst Röhm, a compatriot from the old Putsch days, back from a diplomatic post in Bolivia to head it. Hitler still needed this private police force of his, but he had his own plan for dealing with them. He had created the SS, the Schutzstaffel, putting one of his closest friends, Heinrich Himmler, in charge. It also had a satellite, the SD, a security service engaged in counterintelligence in Germany and abroad. It was the SD in which Wilhelm Vierhaus played a vague but obviously important role. Hitler’s plan was to build the SS into the most fearful organization in the Nazi party, shifting its power until it was stronger than the SA and then...

But each thing in its time.

“I realize I probably seem like an elitist Ingersoll started to say.

“You are an elitist,” Hitler said matter-of-factly. “There is nothing wrong with that. It’s one reason you are here.”

“I have little in common with Röhm and his brownshirts other than politics. I prefer to support the National Socialist movement in other ways.”

Hitler’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward slightly.

“Such as?” he asked.

“Financial contributions. Encourage my associates to join the party. Defend your ideas to those who, uh . . . don’t fully understand them.”

“So, you are a good Nazi then?” Hitler asked.

Ingersoll thought for a moment before he answered.

“Perhaps I am a good Hitlerite, mein Führer. That might be a more accurate way of putting it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see the party as a means to the end. To me, it’s a necessary glory show. There are too many buffoons and hooligans.”

“Buffoons and hooligans?” Hitler echoed with surprise. Vierhaus was right, Ingersoll was certainly outspoken. Ingersoll could sense Hitler’s growing irritation.

“I would follow you into fire, mein Führer,” he quickly added, “But there are some I’d prefer to shove into the flames.”

Cajole and flatter. Hear him out.

“As I told you, I’ve read Mein Kampf cover to cover many times. It is always on my nightstand. It is a great book, greater than the Bible. I agree with everything you say, particularly regarding the Jewish problem.”

“Herr Schauspieler, tell me the truth. How do you really feel about the Jews?”

“I hate them,” Ingersoll said, his voice taut and low. “I bate their Marxist tricks. Their whining

“Ja. Ja! Very good. They are whiners. And you’re right, they are the backbone of the Marxist movement. They’ve had fourteen years, fourteen years to show us what they can do and all they have produced is rubble. Look around you. Rubble! The secret to our success, Hans, is that we are honest. We deal honestly. We seek only what is fair, what is proper. What is right for Germany.”

He smiled, an understated smile, a momentary manipulation of the corners of his mouth that was almost a smirk. He sat down again, perched on the edge of his chair and leaned toward Ingersoll with fists clenched.

“We must take the Jews out of the marketplace, out of the banks, out of our industries. Perhaps even . . . rid Germany totally of this Jude scourge. Would you agree?”

Ingersoll smiled in return and nodded. “Yes, but how? And how will you justify what we do to the rest of the world?”

Hitler’s mood changed radically. His face turned red. His voice rose fervently and rage simmered deep inside him, He glared out the window.

“Justify? We justify nothing! The rest of the world? Who in the rest of the world? The French?” lie snorted indignantly. “How can you have an understanding with a man who is choking you as you speak? The Americans with their Monroe Doctrine? My God! The ultimate hypocrisy. They exclude would-be immigrants if they are undesirable. Regulate their numbers. Demand certain physical standards, insist they bring in a certain amount of money, interrogate them about their political beliefs. Listen, my friend, one learns from one’s enemies. Anyway, there is a way we can deal with the Americans. The Communists say that power comes from the barrel of a gun. Well, I’ll show them power, all right. I’ll show them the barrel of our gun.” He smashed his fist into his open palm and stamped his foot on the floor. “How can they blame us for doing the same things, eh? I don’t give a damn about the Jews in other countries. But here, this is Germany’s business. This is our business.”

For a moment it seemed to Ingersoll as if Hitler had forgotten he was in the room. He seemed to be speaking to all the unseen hordes of disenfranchised Germans out there somewhere. And his fervor was hypnotic. Ingersoll’s heart began to race. Then just as quickly the voice became quiet again. He turned back to Ingersoll, his eyes still burning with the fever of power.

“As for the British? Compromisers, that’s their style. The Britishers are tough and proud. And they are exploiters. England is a psychological force embracing the entire world. They are protected by a great navy and a very courageous air service. But these things will be dealt with in their time.

“I say the hell with the rest of the world,” he whispered, leaning over Ingersoll. “Another year a.id ours will be the most powerful political party in history and all Europe will be on its knees before us. Tomorrow we will be the world, my young friend.”

So, Hitler’s mind was already preparing for war, thought Ingersoll. To him it is an inevitability.

Hitler paused, saw the unconcealed excitement in Ingersoll’s face.

“You believe that, don’t you, Ingersoll?”

Entranced, Ingersoll nodded.

He is hooked, Hitler said to himself. Der Schauspieler is ours.

“And you want to be an important player in this crusade, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“More than just making contributions to the party, yes?”

“Yes, mein Führer!”

“And so you shall, Herr Ingersoll,” Hitler said, patting Ingersoll’s knee, “so you shall.”

Looking over Hitler’s shoulder through the frosty window, Ingersoll saw Willie Vierhaus scurrying awkwardly down the icy footpath toward the tea house.