Prussian Blue

FIFTY

Gerdy Troost was reading Hitler’s book in her comfortable upstairs rooms at the Berghof when I turned up.

“My, but you’re a sight, aren’t you?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m practicing to be a ventriloquist. This is the best way to learn, according to the instruction manual.”

“I think you’ve been reading the one for the dummy.”

I smiled and regretted it immediately.

“What happened, anyway? And don’t tell me you slipped on the ice. Nobody slips around here unless they’re meant to.”

“Someone hit me.”

“Now, why would they do that?”

“The usual reason.”

“Is there just the one?”

“There is where I’m concerned.”

The room was dimly lit and now she switched on another lamp to take a closer look at me, which was when I noticed the German shepherd lying in the corner. The dog growled as Frau Troost touched my face solicitously. Her fingers were cool and gentle and caring and her fingernails were unvarnished, as if she wasn’t much interested in that kind of thing. Maybe Hitler didn’t like women who looked too much like women.

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when I laugh, so really not at all.”

The dog kept on growling but this time it stood up.

“Quiet, Harras,” she said. “Just ignore him, Commissar. He’s jealous. But he certainly wouldn’t do anything about it. Which is more than can be said for whoever clobbered you. They caught you a good one, didn’t they?”

“Being hit is an occupational hazard for someone like me. I’ve got that kind of a face, I think. People just seem to want to punch it. Nazis, mostly.”

“Well, that certainly narrows it down. It’s probably too late to put something cold on it, but I could do that, if you like. It might still help to take the swelling down.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“I hope you’re right. Because Obersalzberg has no shortage of Nazis. Me included, in case you’d forgotten.”

“I hadn’t; not in this house. But you’ll forgive me if I say that you don’t look like the kind of Nazi who hits people in the face. Not without a very good reason.”

“Don’t be too sure, Gunther. I can get pretty worked up about a lot of things.”

“You don’t have to worry about me upsetting you, Professor. My opinion on design and architecture counts for absolutely nothing. I don’t know a pediment from a pedicure. And when it comes to art, I’m a complete philistine.”

“Then it seems to me you’re a lot nearer to being a Nazi than you might think, Gunther.”

“You know, you certainly don’t sound like the Leader’s girlfriend.”

“Whatever gave you the idea I was?”

“You, maybe.”

“I like him. I like him a lot. But not like that. Besides, he already has a girlfriend. Her name is Eva Braun.”

“Does she know much about art?”

Gerdy smiled. “Eva doesn’t know much about anything. Which is the way the Leader seems to like it. Except for me and the Leader, this whole administration is run by complete philistines.”

“If you say so. You see? I’m not disposed to disagree with you about anything very much. But if you do feel like hitting me, then maybe you’d be kind enough to ask the dog to bite me instead. I can probably spare a leg more than my face right now. And not because it’s so handsome but because my face has my mouth in it. I figure I’m going to need that if I am going to solve this case in the allotted time.”

“Like that, is it?”

I said it was.

“Bormann putting on the pressure?”

I nodded again. “Like I was the prime minister of Czechoslovakia.”

“He’s good at that.” She picked up the telephone. “Still, I think you’d better eat something. Keep your strength up. I was about to request dinner service. I suggest you have some scrambled eggs. You’ll have no problem with that. And a Moselle to take the edge off the pain. And what about a hot banana cooked in cream and sugar? The Leader’s very fond of that himself.”

“Did someone smack him, too?”

While Professor Troost gave my dinner order to someone in the Berghof kitchens I walked around her rooms looking at the paintings, the architectural models, and the bronze sculptures. I don’t have much of an eye for art, but I can usually recognize a good picture when I see one. Mostly it’s the frame that gives it away and helps to distinguish it from what’s happening on the wallpaper. After she had replaced the cream-colored receiver in its cradle she came and stood beside me in front of a rather nicely rendered watercolor of mad King Ludwig’s famous castle in Bavaria. After all the cheap cologne I’d been smelling, her own Chanel No. 5 was a breath of fresh air.

“Recognize it?”

“Of course. It’s Neuschwanstein. I’ve got one just like it tattooed on my chest.”

“Adolf Hitler painted that.”

“I knew he painted houses,” I said, “but I didn’t know he did whole castles, too.”

“How do you like it?” she asked, ignoring both my attempts at humor.

“I like it,” I said, nodding appreciatively and thinking better of making another joke. Besides, I had to admit, it was a good painting. A little predictable for some, perhaps, but there’s nothing wrong with that kind of thing in my book; I like a proper madman’s castle to look like a madman’s castle, not just a chaotic collection of cubes.

“He painted this in 1914.”

“It certainly doesn’t look like something anyone would have painted in 1918.” I shrugged. “But it’s nice. You see? As I already told you, I’m a philistine. Was it a gift?”

“No. Actually I bought it from Hitler’s old frame maker in Vienna. Cost me quite a bit, too. I’m planning to give it to him for his fiftieth birthday. The dog is a gift from Hitler. He and I are hoping that eventually his own dog Blondi and Harras will mate and have puppies. But right now, they don’t seem to like each other very much.”

I nodded and tried to look sympathetic to their plight but I was thinking that if Hitler’s dog was the one I’d seen sitting behind him in the photograph on Bormann’s bookshelves, then I could easily understand Harras’s problem. I’d seen friendlier dogs with rabies.

“Like I always say, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it have sex with a mare against her will. There are laws prohibiting that sort of thing. Even in Germany. Especially when the mare turns out to be a different breed.”

“Oh, they’re the same breed, all right. They just don’t get along.”

“Sure, I get it. Like me and the Nazis.”

The dog seemed to realize it was being discussed and, sitting down, it raised its right paw in the air.

“That’s another problem,” she explained. “Harras sits down and gives a paw when people give the Hitler salute. It’s like—it’s like he’s saluting back. It looks disrespectful.”

I tried it and when the dog gave me a stiff right arm, I grinned. “Clever dog. I like him better already.”

Gerdy Troost smiled an awkward smile.

“Are you always this outspoken?”

“Only when I think I can get away with it.”

“And you think you can get away with it with me, is that it?”

“I think so.”

“If I were you I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I’ve been a loyal Party member since 1932. I may not hit you in the face. But I probably know a man who will.”

“I don’t doubt it. But isn’t that why you agreed to help me? Because there’s been a bit too much of that on Hitler’s mountain? Because Bormann is a bully and corrupt? Because he’s been getting away with murder?”

Gerdy Troost was silent for a minute.

“That’s right, isn’t it? You did agree to help me. Not to volunteer anything. Just to answer a few specific questions? Me telling you what I know, and then you confirming it, if it’s true. Just like my own Ouija board. Right?”

Professor Troost sat down and clasped her hands tight.

“You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I told you the last time we spoke and I realize I feel very awkward about this. So I’ve decided I don’t want to say any more, okay? I think you’re an honest man just trying to do his duty but—” She shrugged. “I don’t know, I can’t see how it’s a very good idea for me to help you. I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “I understand. It must be very difficult for you to talk about this at all.”

“It is. Especially now. So close to Hitler’s birthday. He’s done so much for me and for this country. I wouldn’t ever do anything to harm the Leader.”

“Of course not,” I said patiently. “No one would. He’s a great man.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Listen, any leader needs good advice. It’s just some of these people around him are not what they should be. Isn’t that right?”

“It’s getting worse, too.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“The fact remains that I can’t see how you could bring down Martin Bormann without damaging the Leader. So it’s probably best I say nothing at all.”

I took out a cigarette, remembered where I was, and returned it unsmoked to the pack. “Can you tell me anything, Professor? Anything at all. I’ve got a ledger here in my briefcase that was in Karl Flex’s possession, which might be evidence that Martin Bormann is corrupt but I’m not sure. Perhaps I could show it to you.”

She stayed silent. But she was twisting the ring on her finger uncomfortably, as if what it signified might be troubling her at last.

“I could show the ledger to Albert Bormann, perhaps. Well, maybe he would talk to me if you won’t.”

Gerdy Troost stared silently at the gold signet ring on her bony finger as if trying to remind herself of where her true allegiance lay, which was hardly surprising as the ring bore some Nazi Party insignia. In her white two-piece suit she looked like Hitler’s reluctant bride. It was probably him or Frankenstein’s monster.

“But I don’t want you to feel in a difficult position,” I said.

“And I don’t want to say any more, okay?”

“I guess I’ll just have to take my chances with Albert Bormann.”

“You’ll be wasting your time,” she said. “He might agree to see you but he won’t trust you. Not with this. Not without a word from me.”

“Still, I have to try, I think. Someone has to try and save the life of Johann Brandner.”

“Who’s he?”

“Local man. Used to be a photographer in Obersalzberg until Martin Bormann forced him to leave the mountain. They’re planning to pin Flex’s murder on the man and have him in front of a firing squad before the Leader’s birthday if I don’t find the real killer.”

“I don’t believe that. They wouldn’t do that. Surely.” She shook her head firmly. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“To reassure the Leader. Someone has to pay the price for this, even if it’s the wrong man. For appearances’ sake.”

“No, that can’t be. They wouldn’t shoot an innocent man.”

“They would and they do. And much more often than you think.”

I let that nail go in before I spoke again.

“Look, maybe I should leave now.” But I stayed seated. It was time I played my highest card. The ace I’d been saving for just such a moment. It was dealt off the bottom of the deck, perhaps, but I was tired of trying to play fair with these damned people. The Nazis didn’t ever play by the rules, and by her own admission Gerdy Troost was a Nazi, so what did I care if I upset her? My cruelty was nothing beside the cruelty that had been visited on German Jews. That kind of institutional cruelty didn’t seem to count for anything. I hardened my heart and prepared to inflict some mental anguish on Adolf Hitler’s houseguest.

“Hey, I nearly forgot. Which is no disrespect to you or to your friend, only I have a million things in my mind at present. Maybe that’s the real reason for the swelling on the side of my head. It’s all the stuff I’m trying to keep in there. Anyway, look, I’ve got some bad news for you, Professor.”

“About what?”

“About Dr. Wasserstein. You asked me if I could find out what happened to him? I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“Dead? Oh my goodness. How?”

“The poor man committed suicide. I guess someone was determined to stop Dr. Wasserstein from practicing medicine after all. Look, I know you tried to help him get his license back. It was a nice gesture. Everyone’s pet Jew, right? I get that. So there’s no reason for you to feel in the least bit responsible for what others did. It’s really not your fault he dead-ended. Not a bit.”

“What happened?”

“He Hermann Storked off Maximilian’s Bridge in Munich and drowned in the Isar River. He was wearing his best suit and his Military Merit Cross at the time. I’m afraid it’s not uncommon for Jews to do something like that when they want to emphasize their German identity. When they want to make people feel guilty. It doesn’t make me feel guilty. But then, I never knew this Fritz. Not like you, Professor.”

“Did he explain why?”

“Yes, he did. He left a suicide note on the desk in his empty surgery. It’s not young Werther but still, I thought you might like to see a copy that was provided for me by the Munich police. Most Jews who kill themselves these days write longish notes in the hope of making their situation public. They’ve read too much Goethe, probably. I think they rather imagine that the authorities will be more shocked than they ever are.” I shrugged. “They never are. The fact is, nobody gives a damn about this kind of thing. At least not the people who are in authority.”

I handed her the evidence envelope from the Munich police that Friedrich Korsch had given me and watched as she fetched her handbag and found some reading glasses. She read the doctor’s letter once, to herself, and then she read it again, only this time she read it aloud. Perhaps she thought it appropriate that a dead Jew’s voice should be heard in that particular house and in this I think she was right. It was a hell of a letter.

To the “German” police who may or who may not—as seems more likely—investigate the circumstances of my death.

I have decided to kill myself and if you’re reading this then I’m very probably dead. I certainly hope so. I had planned to kill myself with pills but today I went to my local pharmacy and was told that as a Jew I could no longer write myself the prescription that would enable me to take my own life quietly at home. So I have decided to drown myself in the Isar River, which is nicely in spate at the present moment. I am not and never have been a praying man but I do ask almighty God that I succeed in killing myself and that someone who knows me will perhaps write to my family to tell them I am dead, and to ask them to forgive and condone what I felt obliged to do, but still to think of me with love nevertheless. I greet them and at the same time I say farewell to them forever, with all the love that any father ever had for his children. For fifty years I have been a loyal, hardworking German citizen. First as a soldier in the Prussian Army and then as a dedicated eye specialist in Berlin and Munich, treating Aryans and non-Aryans alike. The Military Merit Cross I am wearing on my jacket today I wear with as much pride as I did the day I received it, in 1916. It was the greatest moment of my life when the Kaiser himself pinned it to my tunic. In spite of everything that has happened I still believe in Germany and in the goodness of ordinary Germans. But I have stopped believing in any kind of a future for myself. I fear for all Jews in Germany and strongly suspect that for them at least the future will be even worse than the present, although that seems hardly possible. For fifteen years I was married to a non-Aryan who died not long after our last child was born. Since then I have had little or no contact with other Jews, brought my children up in the Aryan way, and exercised no Jewish influence on them. It really didn’t seem that important. I even brought my children up in the Protestant faith. But none of this counts for anything these days and because the present Nazi government and its anti-Jewish laws class them as Jewish I sent them away to England several years ago, for which I now thank God and the kind English family who took them in. I myself stayed on in Germany because I have only ever wanted to serve my country and my patients. Some good German friends were able to help me keep my license to practice medicine but this was overtaken by recent events I now suspect were stage-managed by others determined to prevent this from ever happening. The fact is that I am informed by the police that one of my patients now accuses me of having libeled the Leader for which I have been ordered to appear at the local police station next week. It’s a put-up job of course and I imagine the chances of my receiving a fair hearing are almost nil and that I am facing deportation or worse. But I don’t want to live without a profession, a Fatherland, a people, without citizenship, while being outlawed and defamed. I don’t want to carry the name Israel, only the name my dear parents gave me. Even the worst murderer gets to keep his own name in this country, but not, it seems, a Jew. I am so weary of life in Germany and have been through so much that I cannot now dissuade myself from this present course of action. I am the fourth person in my extended family who has killed themselves in as many years. But only when I am dead will I feel truly safe.

Karl Wasserstein, Doctor of Medicine, Munich, March 1939

When she’d finished reading, Gerdy Troost bowed her head as if she couldn’t bear to meet my cold blue eyes. I let her take my hand and that was all right; I didn’t have a drink or a smoke so I wasn’t using it. Her grip was surprisingly strong. I didn’t say anything. After a letter like that, what could I say except that the Nazis were bastards, and for obvious reasons I didn’t want to say that. I still wanted her help. She was an intelligent woman, a lot smarter than me and she probably knew what I was thinking. It was time for Gunther to give his silver tongue a rest and let the silence turn to gold, perhaps. All the same I twisted the ring on her finger for good measure, as if tightening the nut on a bolt, trying to remind her that she was part of a vicious tyranny that persuaded German Jews to kill themselves, and perhaps threatened the fragile peace of Europe.

It was Gerdy who broke the silence.

“What do you want to know?” she asked tearfully.