Prussian Blue

FIFTEEN

It had stopped snowing and the night felt as if it were holding its breath. My own billowed in front of my face like a cloud over one of the mountaintops. Even at night it was a beautiful, magical place but as with all stories involving magic in Germany, there was always a sense that my lungs and liver were already on someone’s menu—that behind the lace curtains of one of these quaint little wooden houses, a local huntsman was sharpening his ax and preparing to carry out his orders to have me quietly killed. I shivered and, still holding the Leica, I pulled the collar of my coat up and wished that I’d also asked for a pair of warm gloves. I decided to add gloves to my list of requirements. Bormann—the Lord of the Obersalzberg, as Kaspel had called him—seemed willing to let me have almost everything else. Kaspel opened the car door for me politely, his attitude now entirely different from that of the man I’d met an hour or two before. It was already clear that he’d changed a lot since leaving the Berlin police. The Nazis could do that to a man, even if he was Nazi. I was almost starting to like him.

“What’s he like, Heydrich?” he asked.

“Haven’t you met him?”

“Briefly. But I don’t know him. I report direct to Neumann.”

“I’ve met the general several times. He’s smart and he’s dangerous, that’s what he’s like. I work for him because I have to. I think even Himmler’s afraid of him. I know I am. That is why I’m still alive.”

“It’s the same all over. If anything, it’s worse here than in Berlin.”

“So tell me how that works.”

He winced. “Hmm. I don’t know, Gunther. Bolle boys from Pankow and all that, yes. And I want to help you and the general. But I think we both know that there are things of which we cannot and should not speak. That’s why I’m alive, too. It’s not just P&Z workers who can end up having an accident. And if that doesn’t work, Dachau concentration camp is less than two hundred kilometers from here.”

“I’m glad you mentioned Dachau, Hermann. Three years ago Heydrich sent me there to look for a man who was a convict, a fellow named Kurt Mutschmann, which meant I had to pose as a camp inmate myself. But after several weeks the pose felt real enough. I was only able to get out of there by finding Mutschmann, and not until. Heydrich thought it was all very amusing. But I didn’t. Look, I think you know I’m no Nazi. I’m useful to him because I don’t put politics before common sense, that’s all. Because I’m good at what I do, although I wish I wasn’t.”

“All right. That’s fair enough.” Kaspel started the car. “So, then. This is not the harmonious rural idyll that Martin Bormann has described to you, Gunther. Nor is the Leader popular here, in spite of all those flags and Nazi wall murals. Far from it. The whole of Hitler’s mountain is riddled with disused tunnels and old salt mines. That’s where the mountain gets its name, of course. From the salt. But the local geology provides a very good metaphor for how things are in Obersalzberg and Berchtesgaden. Nothing is what it looks like on the surface. Nothing. And underneath—well, there’s nothing sweet going on here.”

Hermann Kaspel steered across the river and drove us back up the mountain to the Berghof. It was a winding road but in the moonlight we soon encountered a construction crew engaged in widening it to make things easier for anyone coming to see Hitler. Most of them were wearing traditional Tyrolean hats and thick jackets and one or two of them even gave the Hitler salute as we drove by, which Kaspel returned, but their expressions were churlish and wary.

“In the summer there are as many as three or four thousand workers like those around here,” explained Kaspel. “But right now there are probably only about half that number. Most of them are accommodated in local work camps at Alpenglühen, Teugelbrunn, and Remerfeld. Only, don’t make the mistake of thinking these men are forced into the work. Believe me, they’re not. It’s true that in the beginning the Austrian employment offices were ordered to refer all available workers to this site. The men they sent were wholly unsuitable to work in the Alps—hotel clerks, hairdressers, artists—and lots of them got sick, so now it’s just local Bavarians who are used, men with experience of working in the mountains. Even so, we’ve had a lot of trouble at the work camps. Drinking, drugs, gambling. Fights about money. The local SS has its work cut out keeping order with some of these fellows. Still, there is no problem getting workmen. These Obersalzberg Administration workers are all very well paid. In fact, they’re on triple time. And that’s not the only attraction. Construction work in this area has been declared by Bormann to be a reserved occupation. In other words, if you work on Hitler’s mountain, you won’t have to serve in the armed forces. That’s especially attractive right now, given that everyone thinks there’s going to be another war. So you can imagine there’s no shortage of volunteers. In spite of all that, the construction work up here is very dangerous. Even in the summer. Explosions—like the one you heard earlier—are often used to create tunnels through mountains and there have been lots of accidents. Fatal accidents. Men buried alive. Men who fall off mountaintops. Only three days ago there was a big avalanche that killed several men. Then there are the constant delays caused by Hitler’s regular presence in the area—he likes to sleep late and doesn’t care for the sound of construction work. That means the work, when it does take place, has, of necessity, been around the clock. God knows how many men were killed building that fucking tea house on the Kehlstein; considerable risks were taken to get it ready in time for his fiftieth birthday. So there are a lot more widows around here than there need have been. That’s caused a lot of resentment in Berchtesgaden and the surrounding area. Anyway, Flex worked for P&Z. And just to work for that company around here might provide someone with a pretty good motive for murder.

“But here’s another. Nearly all of the houses and farms you see up on the mountain have been the subject of government compulsory purchase orders. Göring’s house. His adjutant’s house. Bormann’s house. The Türken Inn. Speer’s house. Bormann’s farm. You name it. In 1933 all of the houses on the mountain were in private hands. Today there’s hardly one that isn’t owned by the German government. It’s what you might call real estate fascism and it works like this. Someone in the government now favored by Hitler or Bormann needs a nice house to be near to the Leader. So Bormann offers to buy such a house from its Bavarian owner; and you might imagine, with so few houses left in private hands, that it’s a seller’s market and a high price for such a house could be obtained. Not a bit of it. Bormann always offers well below the market rate, and God forbid you should ever refuse his first offer, but if you do, here’s what happens. The SS turn up out of the blue, block off your drive, and remove your roof. That is not an exaggeration. And if you still won’t sell to the government, then you might easily find yourself sent to Dachau on some trumped-up charge, at least until you change your mind.

“Take the Villa Bechstein, where you’re staying, Gunther. It was formerly owned by a woman who was a keen supporter of Hitler. She gave him a new car when he came out of Landsberg Prison, not to mention a nice new piano for his house, and probably quite a bit of money on top. But none of this mattered when the Lord of Obersalzberg decided he wanted her house for Nazi VIPs. She was obliged to sell just like everyone else. And for a knocked-down price. That’s how Hitler rewards his friends. It’s a similar story for the Türken Inn. The fact is, the town of Berchtesgaden is full of small houses occupied by local Bavarians who used to own bigger houses on Hitler’s mountain. And all of those people hate Martin Bormann’s guts. In an effort to distance himself from this ill feeling, Bormann sometimes uses a man called Bruno Schenk to deliver his compulsory purchase orders. Or more often Bruno Schenk’s man Karl Flex. You want a motive for murder? There’s another one for you. An excellent one. Bruno Schenk and Karl Flex were two of the most hated men in the area. If anyone deserved a bullet in the head it was them, or Bormann’s adjutant, Wilhelm Zander, whom you’ve already met at the Kehlstein. Which means you’re going to have a hell of a problem solving this case without stepping on Martin Bormann’s corns. It’s my private opinion that the corruption here goes even deeper than that. Perhaps all the way through the mountain, if you see what I mean. Maybe as far as Hitler himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Leader is getting his ten percent of everything, because Bormann certainly does. Even from the Türken shop where the SS buy their smokes and their postcards. Seriously. Bormann always takes his lead from Hitler and my guess is that it was Hitler put him up to this little moneymaking game.

“But that’s not just idle speculation. Let me tell you a little-known story about the house that Hitler bought. The Haus Wachenfeld. Now called the Berghof, on which many more millions have been spent. Of course, he’s been coming here since 1923, after the putsch, when he couldn’t afford to do much more than rent a room at the Haus Wachenfeld. But in 1928, as his situation started to improve, he was able to rent the whole house from the owner—a widow in Hamburg by the name of Margarete Winter. By 1932, Hitler was rich from the sale of his book, and so he decided to make the widow an offer to buy the place. Because she was living in Hamburg there was very little pressure he could apply to make her sell and, by all accounts, she didn’t want to sell. But she was short of cash. Her husband had lost most of his money in the crash of ’29, and they’d been obliged to sell his leather factory. Some local Jews bought it for a knockdown price. The widow hated those Jews even more than she disliked the idea of Hitler forcing her out of her house in Obersalzberg. So she offered him a deal. She’d sell the house to Hitler for 175,000 reichsmarks if he also did her a favor. The very next day, that same leather factory was struck by lightning and it burned to the ground, although it seems much more likely that it wasn’t Mother Nature who destroyed it but some local SA men. On Hitler’s personal orders. That’s a true story, Gunther. So you see, Hitler always gets what he wants, by hook or by crook. And Martin Bormann does much the same.”

“So if I understand you correctly, Hermann, half of the people I speak to are going to tell me nothing because they’re afraid of Bormann. And the other half aren’t going to tell me anything because they’re hoping the murderer is going to get away with it. Because they think that Karl Flex had it coming. In spades.”

Kaspel grinned. “That’s a pretty fair description of your investigative task, yes. You’re going to need to keep your cards so close to your chest, you’ll be lucky to see what suit they are.”

“Heydrich wanted me to find some dirt on Bormann. It sounds like this could be what he wanted. Have you told him any of this?”

“No. But none of this will come as a big surprise to Heydrich. It was Bormann who helped Himmler to buy his house. That’s not in Obersalzberg but in Schönau, about fifteen minutes from here. The Schneewinkellehen. The place used to be owned by Sigmund Freud. Figure that one out. Anyway, Heydrich is certainly not going to try and take Bormann to task for doing something his own boss has done, too.”

“Good point. He did ask me to see if there’s any truth in a rumor that Bormann’s being blackmailed by his own brother. I imagine Heydrich wants to know what Albert has on his brother so he can blackmail him as well.”

“Now, what that might be, I don’t know. All I know is that Albert Bormann has the other ear of Adolf Hitler, which means he is almost as powerful down here as Martin Bormann. You have to hand it to Hitler. He certainly knows how to divide and rule.”

We stopped at a checkpoint and once again presented our credentials to the frozen SS guard. A searchlight illuminating our car also showed me the size of the security fence.

“It wouldn’t be easy to get over that,” I said. “Even with a rifle in your hand.”

“There’s ten kilometers of that fence,” said Kaspel. “With thirty separate gates, each with Zeiss-Ikon security locks. But the fence is often damaged by rock slides and avalanches and—well, sabotage. Even when it’s undamaged this perimeter fence doesn’t mean shit. Oh, it looks good and it makes the road secure enough and I expect it makes Hitler feel safe, but everyone in the RSD is well aware that all those tunnels and private salt mines mean there are plenty of locals who can come and go as they please inside the perimeter. And what’s more, they do. It’s like Swiss cheese inside this mountain, Gunther. Hitler banned all hunting behind the perimeter wire fence because he’s fond of little furry animals but that doesn’t stop people hunting there with total impunity. The best game to be had around here is in the Leader’s Territory and the chances are that your shooter is some local peasant who accessed the area through an old salt mine tunnel that his fucked-up, inbred family has been using for hundreds of years. He was probably looking to pot a couple of rabbits or a deer but he settled for a rat instead.”

“Thanks for telling me all that, Hermann. I appreciate your honesty.” I grinned. “Some beautiful scenery, a dead body, a lot of lies, and a dumbhead of a cop. You know, all we need is a pretty girl and a fat man and I think it’s safe to say that we have the ingredients for a Mack Sennett comedy. That’s why I’m here in Obersalzberg, I guess. Because the Almighty enjoys a damn good laugh. Believe me, I should know. They say there’s a grace in this world and forgiveness, only I don’t see it, because my own fucked-up, falling-over, full-of-shit life has been keeping my dear Father in heaven amused since January 1933. To be honest, I’m beginning to hope he chokes on it.”

Kaspel pursed his lips and shook his head. “You know, I’ve been twisting my brain for the reason General Heydrich should have sent you down here to Obersalzberg, Gunther. And maybe I’m starting to get a glimpse of his reason. You might just be in possession of a darker spirit than any of us.”

“Hermann? You’ve been away from Berlin for too long. You ever wonder why we have a black bear on our coat of arms? Because he’s got a sore head, that’s why. Everyone in Berlin is like me. That’s why everyone else in Germany loves the place so much.”