Prussian Blue

SEVENTY

“In 1918, after briefly serving in the Fifty-fifth Field Artillery Regiment, my brother, who’d studied agriculture at high school, became the estate manager of a large farm in Mecklenburg where, as thousands like him did, he joined an anti-Semitic landowners association and the Freikorps. If you remember, food after the war was very short and many estates used to have Freikorps units stationed on them to guard the crops from pillagers. Also belonging to the local Freikorps was a man called Albert Schlageter, who—you may remember—led several sabotage operations against the French who were then occupying the Ruhr under the aegis of the Treaty of Versailles. One such operation involved the derailment of the train from Dortmund to Duisburg. Several people were killed. Following this, in April 1923, Albert Schlageter was denounced to the French and, on May 26, 1923, he was executed as a saboteur by firing squad. Of course, for this reason, he is generally regarded as a Nazi hero today; Hitler mentions Schlageter in Mein Kampf, and there’s even a memorial to him in Passau, although my own opinion is that he was an honorable but misguided figure.

“Immediately after Schlageter’s death the local Freikorps set out to discover the identity of the traitor who had denounced him. An investigation ensued and suspicion soon fell upon another member of the local Freikorps, a sixty-three-year-old local schoolteacher by the name of Walther Kadow, whose right-wing credentials were otherwise impeccable. He was also a dedicated anti-Semite. But importantly he was already known to and hated by two other members of the Freikorps—a twenty-three-year-old man called Rudolf Höss, and my twenty-four-year-old brother, Martin. Walther Kadow had taught the young Rudolf Höss at an elementary school in Baden-Baden and it’s my impression that the old man was, like many gymnasium teachers, a bit of a martinet and gave Höss a pretty hard time of it. Meanwhile, my brother was closely acquainted with Kadow’s underage daughter.

“Much too close for any father’s liking, and when my brother seduced and impregnated her, Kadow wrote several letters to the owner of the estate where Martin was employed as the manager, denouncing him as a statutory rapist and demanding his immediate dismissal. The estate owner showed the letters sent to Martin, who then alleged, quite outrageously that, thanks to the local police, he’d had sight of the letters to the French denouncing Schlageter and that the handwriting in them was identical. It seems to me, having reviewed all of the facts of the case, that my brother’s hatred and desire to get even was the one and only reason that suspicion ever fell on Kadow. But the logic of this hatred was simple: Albert Schlageter’s death had to be avenged and therefore Walther Kadow was to be killed. My brother asked Rudolf Höss and two others to help him carry out the murder and subsequently, Kadow was kidnapped, taken to a forest near Parchim, stripped, humiliated, and then beaten to death with shovels. It was not, perhaps, the most glorious moment in the history of the Freikorps.

“Soon afterwards, one of the other murderers, a man named Schmidt, keen to deflect any suspicion that it was really him who had denounced Albert Schlageter to the French, confessed to the killing of Walther Kadow. Kadow’s body was dug up by the local police, and Schmidt and Rudolf Höss were arrested, interrogated. In spite of Höss’s strenuous denials that my brother had had anything to do with the murder, so was Martin. All of them went to trial and were found guilty in May 1924. Höss and Schmidt were sentenced to ten years in Brandenburg Prison. But thanks to Höss’s willingness to take nearly all of the blame, my brother was sentenced to just one year in Leipzig Prison and, after nine months, was released. He promptly joined the Nazi Party and soon achieved an important position within the SS simply by virtue of the heroic status that was conferred by his act of politically motivated revenge against Kadow. Indeed, Adolf Hitler praised my brother so warmly for this action that Himmler conferred on him an early SS number to reflect his Old Fighter status. In other words, all of his current high standing within the Nazi Party rests on a lie told to the Leader himself. Kadow was murdered not because he had betrayed the Freikorps and informed upon a freedom fighter but because he objected to my brother’s rape of his only daughter. What could be more understandable than that? It probably wasn’t even Kadow who denounced Schlageter but Schmidt, the same man who had confessed to Kadow’s murder.

“Now, while Martin was still serving his sentence in prison, the estate owner in Mecklenberg, understandably anxious not to fall foul of the Freikorps who’d been guarding his crops, sent the letters of complaint he’d received from Walther Kadow to Martin, care of my parents in Wegeleben, which is how I come to have them now. And my brother Martin isn’t the only man with a safety-deposit box in Switzerland. They’re part of my own insurance policy. These days everyone needs such a thing. Especially here in Berchtesgaden. Those letters from Kadow and certain other items the foreign press would love to publish are one reason that Martin doesn’t dare to try to get me sacked. Because if he did, he knows I would show them to the Leader, and my brother would be revealed for the rapist and murderer he is. And now you know everything. Almost everything. This is what I would like you to tell Heydrich. That I will put the considerable resources of the Reichs Chancellery at his disposal in this respect.”

“But I don’t understand, Albert,” said Gerdy. “Why don’t you do just that? You don’t need Flex’s ledger or those blue bankbooks to bring him down. You don’t need Heydrich. Surely those letters are enough to destroy Martin’s reputation on their own. Your brother isn’t just a rapist, he’s also a murderer. All you have to do is show those letters to Hitler.”

“You would think so,” admitted Bormann. “And I might have done just that, but the plain fact of the matter is that murder is hardly uncommon in the higher reaches of the Party hierarchy. I’m sorry to say, several members of the present government have committed murder. Not just my brother. And I don’t mean they killed someone in the war. Although there are some among us who would argue that Germany was in a state of near anarchy, not to say civil war, in the early years of the Weimar Republic. And that some murders were justifiable. Isn’t that right, Gunther?”

“I’m not one of those,” I said. “For all its faults, the Weimar Republic was at least democratic. But yes, you’re right. Political murder, like that of Kurt Eisner, was common. Especially in Munich.”

“Bravely spoken.”

“What happened to Eisner was regrettable,” said Gerdy. “But the man who shot him was an extremist, wasn’t he?”

“Indeed he was,” said Bormann. “But I’m afraid what happened to Eisner was not atypical. Those were extremely difficult times and it’s almost impossible to say now with any degree of certainty which murders were justified and which were not. Indeed, it would be pointless even to try. Which is why I’d be wasting my time showing those letters to the Leader. He knows very well who has blood on his hands and who does not. For example, Julius Streicher murdered a man in Nuremberg, in 1920.”

“Oh well, Streicher—Streicher’s mad,” said Gerdy. “Even the Leader says so. And thankfully, there are now moves to remove him from office.”

“Then there’s our present Reich sports leader, Hans von Tschammer und Osten,” Bormann continued, smoothly. “He murdered a thirteen-year-old boy in Dessau, did he not, Commissar? Beat him to death in a gym with his bare hands.”

“Hans? I don’t believe it.”

“General Bormann is right,” I said. “Von Tschammer und Osten is also a murderer.”

“But why would he do such a thing?”

“Because the boy was a Jew,” I said.

“And I’m afraid that Julius Streicher and von Tschammer und Osten are hardly unusual in this respect,” said Bormann. “There are others. Significant others. Powerful men whose previous homicides give a smaller man like me, intent on accusing his own brother of committing a serious crime like murder, some serious pause for thought. The fact is, I’m not sure anyone in Germany apart from the commissar cares very much about murder these days. Least of all the Leader. Presently he has other things on his mind. Avoiding another European war, for one thing.”

“Nonsense,” said Gerdy. “Murder is the most serious crime there is, everyone knows that.”

“Not anymore,” said Bormann. “Not in Germany.”

“What do you think, Commissar?” asked Gerdy. “That can’t be right. You’re a policeman. Tell him it’s not true.”

“He’s right, Gerdy. Eisner’s murderer got just five years in prison. Murder’s just not the serious crime it used to be.”

“But who are you talking about, Albert?” demanded Gerdy. “Who are these people—these murderers among us?”

“I couldn’t say,” said Bormann. “But the fact remains that I do need Heydrich’s help to have my brother removed from office. It will have to be something else. Some greater disloyalty. Espionage, perhaps. The crime of murder just isn’t enough anymore.”

“Oh come on, Albert, don’t be so mysterious. Who? Göring? Himmler? Tell us. I can believe anything of Himmler. He’s such a nasty little man. He at least looks like a murderer.”

“No, really, Gerdy, this isn’t a game. Look, it’s best I don’t say anything. For all our sakes. I may be a general but I’m of no real importance. Yes, the Leader listens to me, but only because I don’t tell him anything he doesn’t want to hear. I’m afraid I wouldn’t last very long if I started dragging up some of the Party’s inglorious past. A past from which no one—no one—comes out very well.” Bormann shook his head. “I suspect none of this is news to Gunther. But look, Gerdy, all I’m trying to do is tell you why things are not nearly as black and white as you seem to imagine they are. Why I can’t act on my own. Why I do need Heydrich’s help.”

“I think it’s very unfair of you,” she said petulantly. “Leading us on like that. And then telling us you won’t say who among us is a murderer. Do you mean people who are at the Berghof now?”

Of course, I was thinking about Wilhelm Zander and Dr. Brandt and the murders they’d committed, and how they would almost certainly get away with it, too; but I had already guessed that Albert Bormann wasn’t talking about them. He didn’t even know about the murders of Johann Diesbach and Hermann Kaspel, and nor did she. I hadn’t told her.

“Most certainly,” said Bormann, answering Gerdy’s question.

“Well, I for one should like to know with whom it’s safe to go for a cigarette. No, really, I would, Albert. Your brother is one thing—I never liked him and it doesn’t surprise me at all that he’s a murderer. But really, this is too much.”

“I can’t say,” said Bormann. “Because sometimes words aren’t enough and sometimes they’re too much. But since a picture is worth a thousand words, there is this.” And after a long pause he opened his desk drawer, pulled out a manila file, and handed it to me.

“What’s that?” asked Gerdy.

“It’s a copy of a report from the Munich police,” said Bormann. “The original is in the same safety-deposit box as those letters about my brother. The report concerns the murder of a Jew that took place at Stadelheim Prison in July 1919, following the short-lived Bavarian Soviet Republic. The Jew’s name was Gustav Landauer, and apart from his left-wing politics and the historical event that brought about his death, he is perhaps best known for his translations of Shakespeare into German. Let me add also that I don’t personally question the killing of this man, merely the wisdom of the photograph that was taken of it and which the report includes. Landauer was a communist agitator and a dedicated Bolshevik who would have had no compunction in murdering his own right-wing enemies. As I said, these were extremely violent times. My aim here is merely to point out the complete futility of making any noises at the Berghof concerning who’s a murderer and who isn’t.”

As I moved to open the file, Albert Bormann laid his hand firmly on mine and added, “It’s not pretty, Commissar: the man was kicked and stamped to death. However—”

“I’ve seen worse, I can assure you.”

“In your line of work, I’m quite sure you have, Commissar. But I was about to add that, in life, sometimes it’s best not to know what we know. Don’t you agree? Gerdy? Certainly it’s not the sort of thing that the electorate would ever be allowed to see, for obvious reasons. Which is why this particular photograph has been so carefully suppressed.”

“Now I really am intrigued,” said Gerdy.

“Gerdy. Please take a moment to think about this very carefully. Once you’ve seen what’s in that file, I promise you won’t ever be able to forget it. Neither of you will.”

But when he took away his hand I opened the file. You can call it a cop’s curiosity if you like, or something else. Maybe it was curiosity that made me a cop in the first place, and maybe it’s curiosity that would one day get me killed, but he was right of course—as soon as I saw the contents of the file, I wished, like Pandora, I’d left it closed.

Attached to the typewritten police report were three photographs. Two were autopsy pictures of a bearded man in his forties or fifties. And I had seen worse, much worse. For every cop, the sight of violent death is the carpenter’s plane that shaves away our ordinary human feelings until we’re almost desensitized and close to becoming unfeeling planks of wood. In the third photograph a group of four grinning Freikorps were standing beside the same man’s lifeless body; they looked like a group of big-game hunters on safari, posing proudly with a trophy animal they had bagged. One of the men, who appeared to be the leader, I recognized immediately: he was wearing a short leather coat, a tin hat, and puttees and he had one boot resting on the dead man’s badly contused face. I hadn’t seen a photograph like that before; no one had. And of course I was lost for words, as Albert Bormann had predicted. I heard a distant voice from my own past that seemed to say I told you so. For a moment, a sentence took shape in my buzzing head and I felt my lips start to move like a ventriloquist’s dummy, but all that came out of my gaping mouth were a few syllables of startled surprise and horror as though I’d lost the power of speech. And after what seemed an eternity, I closed the file and handed it back to Bormann before it could contaminate me, and it was probably just as well that what I’d almost said to Martin Bormann’s brother, Albert, and Hitler’s close friend Gerdy Troost was left unsaid forever.