Prussian Blue

FIFTY-TWO

In a civilization ruled by cruelty and blind obedience, ignorance and bigotry, intelligence shines out like the Lindau Lighthouse, casting its beam for miles in all directions. The famous old Lindau Lighthouse, situated on the northeastern shore of Lake Constance, is perhaps unusual in that it also boasts a massive clock that can easily be viewed from the city. Thus it was with Gerdy Troost. Not only was she extremely bright, she was also perceptive and informative and I seriously doubt I would have made any real progress with my investigation without her help. It was easy to see why Adolf Hitler had made this elfin-faced woman a professor and kept her around the Berghof; it wasn’t only for her ideas on architecture. Famously, she had designed and supervised the construction of the Leader’s new buildings on Munich’s Königsplatz. Gerdy Troost was ferociously smart and from what she herself had said to me, I gathered that she was probably able to tell him a few home truths where no one else would have dared. When the most wicked and mendacious are in charge, truth is the one commodity that is the most valuable of all. To that extent, Gerdy Troost reminded me of me. But which of us would remain alive for longer in Nazi Germany remained to be seen. Truth nearly always outstays its welcome.

After reading aloud almost fifty names from Karl Flex’s ledger, she and I had discovered only that none of them related to a specific personnel file that was in the OA filing cabinets for Polensky & Zöllner, or for Sager & Woerner. The names appearing in the ledger were in a single file on one master list of all OA employees—this amounted to more than four thousand men—but that was all. For none of Flex’s B-list names did we find any individual personnel files with the kind of cross referencing of numbers for employment identification books, identity cards, labor service passbooks, craftsman’s guild certificate numbers, NSDAP personal identity documents, racial declarations, family books, Aryan family tree records, and paybooks that appeared on the files of those employees who were not on the ledger’s B list and which were entirely typical of the bureaucratically minded Nazis.

And as I closed one drawer and opened another, Gerdy said: “I have a question. A fundamental question.”

“Go ahead and ask it.”

“You seem to have a great deal of faith that this ledger provides solid evidence of criminality. But why would someone record and keep evidence that could put him in prison? Or worse. You’d think he would want to keep this kind of thing a secret.”

“It’s a good question. For one thing, Bormann doesn’t trust anyone. Certainly not these people he uses for his dirty work—Flex and Schenk and Zander. They’re criminals. I’m quite convinced of that. But they’re also bureaucrats. Record-keeping is second nature to men like this. It’s almost as if the keeping of detailed records makes what they’re doing less criminal. They can even convince themselves that they were only doing what they were told. Besides, the ledger was a secret. I had to break into a hidden safe in order to find it.”

“Maybe so. But I’m looking at it now, and there’s nothing in these OA files that corroborates any actual evidence of criminality. Either Karl Flex wasn’t doing anything wrong in the first place, or the people running Obersalzberg Administration are just plain incompetent.”

“Did they previously strike you as incompetent? Careless?”

“Not in the least. If anything they’re meticulous in OA. I happened to catch sight of the interior decorating expenses for the tea house the other day. Everything was noted. And I mean everything. The tablecloths from Deisz, the deck chairs from Julius Mosler, and the Savonnerie rug from Kurt Goebel.”

“As a matter of interest, how much does one of those rugs cost anyway?” I shrugged. “I’ve been thinking of redecorating my apartment in Berlin.”

“Forty-eight thousand reichsmarks.”

“For a rug? That’s more than my whole building cost.”

Gerdy looked sheepish. “Everything used by the Leader is of the very best quality.”

“You don’t say. By the way, and not that it’s any of my business—I’m just a taxpayer—but how much in total has been spent on this vitally important project?”

“I can’t tell you that. This is a very sensitive subject.”

“Tea houses usually are.”

“This one certainly is.”

“Come on. Who am I going to tell? The newspapers? The International Tea Association? The Emperor of Japan? Humor me.”

I opened another drawer to look for a file in the name of someone on Flex’s list; but there was nothing. Gerdy let out a sigh and folded her arms, defensively.

“All right. And the numbers are, I admit, inherently unbelievable. But all this had to be done in time for Hitler’s fiftieth birthday. So I think Polensky & Zöllner’s costs are something in the region of fifteen million. Sager’s, maybe half that. The fact of the matter is that the tea house on the Kehlstein has cost at least thirty million reichsmarks.”

I whistled. “That’s a lot of money for a cup of tea and a nice view. It might have been cheaper to buy Ceylon. It makes you wonder what the Berghof cost. And the rest of the houses here in Asgard. Not to mention all the roads and tunnels, the railway station, the Platterhof, the local Reichs Chancellery, the theater, the youth hostel, and the Landlerwald.” I whistled some more. A figure like thirty million reichsmarks is worth a good deal of whistling. “How much do you think Bormann makes in kickbacks on a figure like that?”

“It’s only a guess, mind—but at least ten percent. Not that you could ever prove it.”

“And Hitler? What about his end? Or is Bormann taking care of the Leader out of his share?”

“Hitler’s not interested in money. That’s one of the things that makes him different.”

“Look, I hate to sound penny-pinching regarding the Leader’s comfort and relaxation but doesn’t any of this strike as you just a little bit insane?”

“I can only say this,” she said. “That Hitler is no ordinary man.”

“That much is obvious. There’s nothing very ordinary about a man who owns a rug that costs fifty thousand reichsmarks. But this is the only thing that’s obvious right now. This and the fact that Flex was clearly taking money from people listed in his ledger as employed by P&Z and Sager, who don’t actually seem to have been employed by P&Z and Sager. At least none who can show any normal employment record. And the trouble with this is that when someone has a job that doesn’t exist it’s only a racket if they’re being paid for that job. According to these files they’re not. I hate to say this but on the face of things, you’re right. There’s no obvious sign of criminality in these records. Clearly we’re missing something. But I don’t know what it is.”

“Let’s take a break,” said Gerdy. “I’m tired. I don’t have the stamina for this that you do. I’m just a designer, not a cop. I think you need an accountant.”

I followed her into the kitchen, where she filled a glass Silex with coffee and water and put it on the big gas stove. On the wall was a print of one of those awful fruit and vegetable portraits that make apples and grapes look like grotesque, erupting skin conditions. This one made me believe it was quite possible I had a marrow for a head and a tomato for a brain. But none of it looked any more ridiculous than having your jaw tied up with a necktie. I was a natural for a picture by one of those artists.

“You’re hoping I’m wrong about all this,” I said. “I can understand that.”

“Look, are you absolutely sure that Johann Brandner is innocent?”

“You have my word on it. When Karl Flex was shot, Brandner was three hundred kilometers away, in a hospital in Nuremberg. He went there suffering from the effects of malnutrition after spending six months in Dachau. Courtesy of Martin Bormann for obstructing the sale of his business premises in Obersalzberg to OA.”

“I remember him,” she said sadly. “When I first came here, I tried to support some of the local businesses by giving them work. He printed some films for me. Pictures my late husband, Paul, took that had never been processed. He certainly didn’t strike me back then as a man capable of murder.”

“I don’t know that he’s capable of anything now that the RSD have knocked him around. They made him sign a confession.”

“Who did that?”

“Rattenhuber. Högl.”

“Yes, they would.” Gerdy Troost frowned. “Look, there is one thing that might be relevant. I don’t know.”

“What?”

“Something Wilhelm Brückner once told me. Something he was a bit angry about—that Martin Bormann had arranged a while back. I’m afraid I’ve only just remembered it.”

“Which was?”

“Brückner’s the kind of man who believes in the army as an idea. Serving in the army and then the Freikorps was the best thing that ever happened to him until he met Hitler. You’ve got to remember that during the war he served in the Bavarian Army with great distinction.”

“And?”

“Well, about a year ago Brückner heard that any kind of work for the Obersalzberg Administration was to be classed as a reserved occupation. It was Bormann’s idea to make sure that all of the OA works proceeded as quickly as possible. It’s what he calls a Leader Priority. In other words, if you work for P&Z, or Sager, or Danneberg, or any of these other local construction companies, this work is classed as being as important as being a coal miner or a worker in a factory making airplanes, and you don’t have to serve in the army. At least for as long as you’re employed by the OA. Of course, Brückner thought that was outrageous and unpatriotic. That it was the duty of every good German to serve his country in the army, and not with a pick and shovel.”

“Tell that to the German Labor Front.”

“Not that he ever said any of this to Martin Bormann. Or Hitler, for that matter. I mean, he couldn’t. Wilhelm may be an SS general and the chief adjutant at the Berghof, but that’s still not enough cauliflower on his lapel to take on Bormann. Besides, ever since his car accident and the affair with Sophie Stork, things haven’t been going that well for poor Wilhelm. Bormann is just looking for an excuse to persuade Hitler to get rid of him. Crossing his lordship is simply not an option. Which reminds me, Gunther. If anything does come of your investigation, would you please make sure that you leave my name out of this? If Hitler finds out that I was behind the fall of his most trusted servant, I’ll be on the first train back to Munich.”

“That isn’t going to be much of a problem. Right now my investigation seems to be turning up absolutely nothing. I feel like the dumbest Fritz in the regiment. When I was in the army that was always the chaplain. In the trenches only the chaplain was dumb enough to believe in the existence of God. Today, well, I suppose it would be anyone who believes there isn’t going to be a war. I sometimes wonder what’s going to happen to all those naïve young men who put on an army uniform with such alacrity. I fear they’re in for a very rude shock. I did my bit, but you know, things were different then. Back in 1914, I think Germany was probably no worse than the Tommies or the Franzis. Now, if there is going to be another war there won’t be any doubt who started it. Not this time.”

“Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look,” she said, tugging playfully at the tie underneath my chin.

“That’s always possible. But I’m feeling a lot dumber than I expected to feel. I was quite sure that I’d have some answers by now. It’s beginning to look as though poor Johann Brandner is doomed to become a lead paperweight after all.”

“Bernie, you can’t allow that to happen.”

“I’m trying my best but I can’t see how even Bormann can take a cut from people for a job they’re not actually paid for.”

“Maybe the pay for the job isn’t the point.”

“That’s what I always tell myself when the Ministry of the Interior sends me my wages every month, but people won’t pay out for what they haven’t had. Even to Nazis.”

“Maybe they will. If there’s something else they’re getting instead of money.”

“Like what? A cup of tea with Hitler once a year?”

“Listen, Gunther, this might sound crazy—”

“Here, in Berchtesgaden? Nothing sounds crazy in a place where they spend thirty million on a lousy tea house. Nietzsche and Mad King Ludwig would feel right at home in this town.”

“You don’t suppose it’s possible that Karl Flex decided to take advantage of this reserved occupation status for OA employees, do you? On Bormann’s instructions, perhaps? To offer young men and their parents a way of avoiding military service in return for money. Could the B next to all these names stand for befreit? Exempt?”

I thought about this for a moment and smoked another cigarette while she made the coffee. Surely it would have been courting disaster to operate such a scheme. Because it wasn’t just Wilhelm Brückner who regarded being in the army as something almost holy, it was Adolf Hitler, too. He was always running off at the mouth about how the German army had shaped his life and destiny.

“It could,” I said. “But Bormann would be running a hell of a risk, wouldn’t he? If Hitler found out about it.”

Gerdy shook her head. “Hitler isn’t the Lord of Obersalzberg, that’s Martin Bormann. Bormann’s like Cardinal Richelieu, Bernie. And Hitler is like King Louis XIII. The Leader isn’t a man who’s at all interested in details. He’s quite happy to leave everything like that to Bormann. Administration bores him. And Bormann takes advantage of that. The man has a genius for administration. Hitler appreciates that. In which case Bormann might easily feel sufficiently omnipotent on Hitler’s mountain that he could get away with a scheme like this, especially when it’s operated at arm’s length.”

“And even if Hitler did ever complain about it, then he could blame everything on Flex and the other men running these schemes at one remove.” The more I thought about Gerdy’s idea, the more I realized it wasn’t just possible, it was probable. “Yes, that might work. In fact, that might work very well.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, this is what I call a proper racket,” I said. “Let’s face it. Only the most fanatical Nazi actually wants to go and fight in Poland. Not with the possibility of the Soviet Union and the French coming in on the Polish side. That would put us right back to 1914. A war on two fronts. Stay out of the army, stay alive—you don’t have to be Leibniz to understand that kind of equation.”

I sipped the coffee and nodded. Now that she’d mentioned it, the racket seemed blindingly obvious. Who wouldn’t want to pay money to keep their eldest son or a beloved nephew out of the army?

“Clever girl.” I grinned at her. “You know, I really think you’ve put your finger on it, Professor. There are hundreds of names on Karl Flex’s list. And not just here in Berchtesgaden, but also in every town between here and Munich. This racket is being operated right across Bavaria.”

“Almost fifteen hundred,” said Gerdy. “I counted them.”

“Given the strong possibility of a war in Europe this year, a racket like this one would be worth a lot of money. According to the ledger, each of them is paying the equivalent of almost a hundred reichsmarks a year, so that’s a hundred and fifty thousand reichsmarks. And all of it going into the accounts of Martin Bormann and his collectors.”

“But what’s the point of it if you can just charge a new Savonnerie carpet to the government?”

“Because at any moment the whole gravy train might just come off the rails. Even the Lord of Obersalzberg has to prepare for a rainy day. To have some cash salted away for his possible exile. And on the basis of these numbers, there’s plenty of cash to be made from this particular cow.”

“If it’s true, then you should certainly take this to Albert Bormann,” said Gerdy.

“If it’s true? It has to be true.”

“I suppose so.”

“There’s no other possible explanation. You don’t think it is true?”

“It certainly looks that way, yes, but—look, you’ve got a persuasive argument. But proof needs more than that. It needs real evidence. Hard evidence.”

“You’re right. It’s been so long since we bothered with that kind of thing in the police that I’d almost forgotten how it works. To prove this to Albert Bormann’s satisfaction I need to lean on someone who will go on the record. A witness. One of the names on Flex’s B list.” I ran my forefinger down the names in the ledger. “This fellow, for example. Hubert Waechter, from Maximilianstrasse, here in Berchtesgaden. There’s a local Nazi lawyer with the same surname at this address. I imagine it means that the father has paid to keep his son out of the army. Very sensible of him. And rather loathsome. I had dealings with him on another matter. But I’d still like to find out what these other lists mean. The P list and the Ag list. What are those rackets about?

“One of these names appears on all three lists in this ledger. The B list, the P list, and the Ag list. What’s more, it’s a name I’ve come across before. On a bogus suicide note. Something in my bones makes me fancy him for the murder of Karl Flex. I don’t think the B list gives me a clear motive for murder. But maybe the P list and the Ag list will provide me with one. Who knows? It’s just possible that I might hit two rabbits with one bullet. That I can nail Flex’s murderer and Martin Bormann at the same time.”

I finished my coffee and rubbed my hands.

“So let’s go and see if we can persuade this particular Fritz to spill his guts.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I told you. I’ll lean on him. Bormann’s not the only man who can throw his weight around the trench.”

“In which case you really don’t need me, Gunther. I’m not so heavy around this time of night. Not in these shoes.”

I took her little hand and explored it for a moment before I fetched it to my lips. Gerdy blushed a little but didn’t snatch her hand away. She just let me kiss it, fondly, as if she knew how much I appreciated her help and knew what it was costing her to help me like this. Maybe she wasn’t the kind of woman I thought she was. Women never are what you think they are. It’s one of the things that makes them interesting. Either way, I liked her. Admired her, even. I wasn’t about to do anything about that, though. With so many Nazis on the scene, courting her would have been courting disaster. Like wooing a nun in the Sistine Chapel. Besides, Gerdy Troost was in love with someone else, that much was clear. I was just mad enough to think I stood a quarter of a chance of bringing down Martin Bormann, but not mad enough to think I could compete with Adolf Hitler in the affections of a woman who still clearly believed he was a demigod.

She smiled. “I’ll drive you back to the Villa Bechstein, where you can pick up your friend Korsch and your car. But when you’re ready to speak to Albert, come and fetch me. Any time. I’ll only be reading, probably.”

For a moment I pictured her reading Hitler’s book again, and winced.

“I don’t sleep much when I’m here in Obersalzberg,” she added. “No one does. Only Barbarossa.”

“Maybe I should speak to him, too.”

“You can try.”

“Take him for a drive in your car. That should wake him up a bit. In fact, I’d be surprised if he ever slept again.”