The Lady from Zagreb

Thirteen

It was almost exactly a year after the crime conference at the Villa Minoux when I found myself summoned once more to the Ministry of Truth and Propaganda. This time, it was not to see State Secretary Leo Gutterer but to meet with the minister himself. The Mahatma Propagandhi. In truth we’d met once or twice before. I’d recently returned from Belarus where, at his personal request, I’d been his eyes and ears during the Katyn Forest investigation. The bodies of four thousand Polish officers and NCOs had been discovered in a mass grave near Smolensk and, as an officer working for the German War Crimes Bureau, I’d helped facilitate the international investigation, the propaganda value of which Goebbels was still busy exploiting in the hope that it might drive some sort of wedge between the Soviets — who had murdered the Poles — and their embarrassed British and American allies. It was a faint hope but, on the whole, Goebbels was pleased with what I’d helped to achieve. Me, less so, although that was becoming something of an occupational hazard. After working for Heydrich, on and off, over the course of three years, I had grown used to the feeling of being used to good advantage by people who were themselves not good. If I’d been a little more imaginative, perhaps I might have worked out a way of withdrawing my labor, or even disappearing; after all, there were plenty of other people in Nazi Germany who disappeared. The trick was discovering how not to do this permanently.

I’d been in Joey’s office before but I’d forgotten how large it was. Henry Morton Stanley would have thought twice about mounting an expedition to try to find the washroom. And in that vast expanse of thick carpet and dense soft furnishings it would have been easy to miss completely the diminutive minister who occupied a small corner of a country-sized sofa like some malign and understandably abandoned child. Goebbels was wearing an immaculate, summer-weight, three-piece suit with lapels as wide as a Swiss guard’s halberd; his white shirt was brighter than a sunrise from Mount Sapo, and instead of a tie he was wearing a striped ascot with a pearl pin. It made him look like a pimp. Then again maybe the knot in a tie felt too much like a noose. He put down the novel by Knut Hamsun he’d been reading and stood up. The minister might have lacked stature but he didn’t lack charm or manners. He was all smiles and compliments and gratitude for a job well done. He even shook my hand with one that was smaller and somewhat clammier than my own.

“Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

I sat at the opposite end of the sofa but I couldn’t have felt less comfortable in that vast office if there had been a Gaboon viper coiled on one of the silk cushions.

“Relax. Help yourself to a cigarette. To some coffee. I’ll fetch something to drink if you like.”

“Coffee’s fine, thank you.”

There was a silver pot with a saucepan handle and some Meissen cups on a small tray; I poured myself a black one but didn’t drink it. My bladder was already playing games with me and coffee wasn’t what it needed. I took a cigarette but just rolled it between my fingers. Relaxing was never so stressful. But then, my host was a man who counted himself an intimate of Adolf Hitler; not only that, but a clever man, too; a man who could have talked a flock of rock penguins into a sauna bath.

“When I gave you the job in Katyn I knew it wouldn’t be pleasant.”

It seemed that the doctor had a gift for understatement as well as for exaggeration. Every morning I woke up I could still smell those four thousand Polish corpses.

“And if you remember, I promised you that in return I would offer you an opportunity to work for me in a private capacity. Something that would be very much to your profit and advantage. This is why I asked you to come here and see me today. To offer you just such an opportunity.”

“Thank you, Herr Doctor. And don’t think I’m not grateful. Only, since I got back to Berlin from Smolensk my duties at the War Crimes Bureau have been keeping me very busy. I have a mountain of paperwork to complete and a couple of urgent investigations to undertake.”

This was true; it seemed that some top secret plans had gone missing from the army’s Strategic Planning Section in the Bendlerblock and, reluctant to involve the Gestapo, my boss, Judge Goldsche — who was friendly with the top bonzen — had asked me if I’d look into the matter. But the planning section had been hit by an RAF bomb and it was probable that these missing plans had been very likely destroyed.

“Nonsense. I’m sure they can spare you at the Bendlerblock for a few days on my account. I’ll speak to Judge Goldsche and ask him to lend you to me. There will be plenty of time to catch up with paperwork when you’ve performed this service for me. The job will not be without its pleasures but it’s a task that also requires some very special skills. In short, it requires the services of a real detective. No, it’s rather more than that. It requires the services of a detective with a proven reputation.”

By now I was starting to guess which one of the two people in the room to whose advantage this job really was; and it didn’t look like it was going to be me.

“It’s been a while since anyone described me like that.”

“Really? As I recall, it was only last year that you were being offered up to the various guests at an international criminal police conference as Berlin’s answer to Sherlock Holmes. Or had you forgotten that speech you gave at the Villa Minoux? The one State Secretary Gutterer helped you to write.”

“As a matter of fact I had forgotten about that. I’d also formed the impression that that would be the last place Dr. Gutterer’s exaggerations regarding my abilities as a policeman would actually be taken seriously.”

“Did you, by God?” Goebbels laughed harshly. “Well, you’d be wrong. Any lingering doubts we might have had about your unique talents were removed when you managed to unfuck things so well at Katyn. I wasn’t wrong about you, Gunther. I realize we might have had one or two differences back there. I may even have left you in an awkward situation. But you’re a good man in a tight spot. And that’s what I’m in right now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said with very little sincerity. Too little for a man with ears that were so carefully tuned to meaning, like the Mahatma’s.

He picked a tiny piece of thread off the trouser of his suit and dropped it onto the thick carpet, as if it had been me.

“Oh, I know you’re not a Nazi. I’ve read your Gestapo file — which, by the way, is as thick as a DeMille screenplay and probably just as entertaining. Frankly, if you were a Nazi you’d be held in rather better odor at RSHA headquarters and then you’d be no fucking good to me. The fact is I want this matter handled off the books. Which means to say I certainly don’t want bastards like Himmler and Kaltenbrunner finding out about it. This is a private matter. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite clear.”

“Nevertheless they will try to find out what we’re doing. They can tell themselves all they like that it’s in the country’s best interests to know the private affairs of everyone in government. But it’s not. It’s in their best interest to get the dirt on everyone so they can use that to cement their own positions with the leader. Not that there’s any actual wrongdoing here, you understand. It’s just that they might easily imply that there is. Insinuation. Rumor. Gossip. Blackmail. That’s second nature to people like Müller and Kaltenbrunner. You may not be able to tell them to go to hell, exactly, but I’m confident that you’re the kind of fellow who can outfox them. With total discretion. Which is also why I’m prepared to pay you, out of my own pocket. How does a hundred reichsmarks a day sound?”

“Frankly? It sounds much too good to be true. Which is a habit of yours, after all.”

Goebbels frowned, as if he were unable to decide if I was being insolent or not. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. You’ll forgive me, sir, but in the event that I do end up working for you, then I have to be straight. Believe me, if this job does require the discretion you say it does, then you wouldn’t want it any other way. I never yet met a client who wanted me to put some syrup on top of a piece of hard cheese.”

“Yes,” he said uncertainly. And then with greater certainty, he added, “Yes, you’re right. I’m not used to people being straight with me, that’s all. Truth is in rather short supply in this day and age — when you have to rely on German civil servants. But then even the British have become experts in twisting the facts. Their reports of a night raid on the city of Dresden were a triumph of lies and obfuscation. You would think that there had been not one civilian casualty, that they bombed this city without a single civilian casualty. But that’s another matter. Thank you for the lesson in pragmatism. And since they do say that money talks, then perhaps it might be best if I were to pay you in advance.”

Goebbels put his hand inside his jacket and removed a soft leather wallet from which he proceeded to count five one-hundred-mark notes onto the table in front of us. I left the money there, for the moment. I was going to take the money, of course, but I still had my pride to take care of first; this residual feeling of my own dignity — which was not much more than a small shard of self-respect — was going to need some careful last-minute handling.

“Why don’t you tell me what the problem is and then I’ll tell you what can be done?”

Goebbels shrugged. “As you wish.” He paused and then lit a cigarette. “I take it you’ve heard of Dalia Dresner.”

I nodded. Everyone in Germany had heard of Dalia Dresner. And if they hadn’t they’d certainly heard of The Saint That Never Was, one of the more sensational films in which she’d starred. Dalia Dresner was one of UFA-Babelsberg’s biggest film stars.

“I want her to be in Siebenkäs, my next picture for UFA. Based on the classic novel by Jean Paul, Married Life, Death, and Wedding of Siebenkäs, Poor Man’s Lawyer. Have you read it?”

“I haven’t, no. But I can see why you felt you had to change the title.”

“She’s perfect for the leading role of Natalie. I know it, she knows it, the director — Veit Harlan — knows it. The trouble is she won’t do it. At least she won’t until her mind has been put at rest about her father, with whom she appears to have lost contact. I believe they’ve been estranged for a long time, but her mother died quite recently and she’s decided she wants to make contact with him again. It’s a fairly typical story of our age, really. Anyway, she insists she needs a detective to help her find him. And since it’s Dalia Dresner, it can’t be just any detective. He has to be the best. And until she speaks to such a man and he does whatever it is that she wants him to do, it’s clear that her mind is going to be on other things than the making of this motion picture.”

“And you don’t want the Gestapo doing it.”

“Correct.”

“May I ask why?”

“I really don’t see that it’s any of your damn business.”

“And it can certainly stay that way. Frankly the less I know about your personal affairs the better I’ll feel. I certainly didn’t ask for this job. I didn’t ask to come here and be offered an opportunity for profit and advantage. If I was interested in either of those things, then by your own admission I wouldn’t be sitting beside you on this sofa. But I won’t work for you with a patch over one eye and one hand tied behind my back. If I am going to outfox the likes of Kaltenbrunner and Müller, then I can’t be treated like your poodle, Herr Doctor. That’s not how foxes operate.”

“You’re right. And I have to trust someone. Recent events have taken their toll on my health and I was obliged to cancel a badly needed holiday. This whole affair isn’t helping me, either. I should get myself in shape but I can see no possibility of that happening. Frankly it’s all left me feeling rather depressed.”

He crossed his legs and then nervously hugged his right knee toward him so that I had a good view of his famously deformed right foot.

“Do you have a sweetheart, Herr Gunther?”

“There’s a girl I see, sometimes.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Her name is Kirsten Handlöser and she’s a schoolteacher at the Fichte Gymnasium on Emser Strasse.”

“And are you in love with her?”

“No. I don’t think so. But lately we’ve become quite close.”

“But you’ve been in love, Herr Gunther?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And what was your opinion of being in love?”

“Being in love is like being on a cruise, I think. It’s not so bad if you’re sailing on a smooth sea. But when things start to get rough, it’s easy to start feeling lousy. In fact it’s amazing how quickly that can happen.”

Goebbels nodded. “You put it very well. Most of the policemen I’ve met have been blunt instruments. But I see you have a subtler side. I like that. The fact is, I am in love. This is not an unusual situation for me. I like women. Always have. And they seem to like me. I’m married, of course, with several children. Sometimes I forget how many. But, before the war, there was another actress. Her name was Lída Baarová. You’ve probably heard of her, too.”

I nodded and finally lit the cigarette in my fingers. It’s not every day that the Reich Minister of Propaganda opens up to you about his love life, and I wanted to give this my full concentration.

“I wanted to leave my wife and live with her but the leader wouldn’t hear of it. Lída is a Slav, you see, and considered to be racially inferior. So is Dalia Dresner.” He nodded. “For Dalia’s sake, I have tried not to become too involved with her. Himmler and Kaltenbrunner would dearly love to cause trouble for me by being able to tell the leader that I’m involved with another Slavic woman. And of course he’d be furious. The leader takes a very dim view of anything but total monogamy. So I’ve tried to keep a distance. But I am in love with her. And the plain fact of the matter is that she very much reminds me of Lída.”

“Now you come to mention it, there is a certain similarity.”

“Exactly. I’ve even tried to sell her as the German Garbo just to make Hitler forget about that. The similarity between her and Baarová, I mean. Just to deflect any hint of suspicion that this is why I’m advancing Dalia’s career.”

“And are you? Is that the reason you’re building her up into a star?”

“Perhaps a little, yes. You see, when I’m with Dalia I find that I don’t really need a holiday. And right now all I want to do is to make her happy.”

“I can understand something like that.”

“Good. Because you should also understand that I would take a very dim view of anything that happened to embarrass her, or me.”

“I can keep my mouth shut, if that’s what you mean, Herr Doctor.”

“It is. I want this case handled as quietly as possible.”

“That’s just the way I was planning to handle it.”

“So then. What I want you to do is meet with her, find out what the problem is, and put a smile back on her face. I need that smile. And the picture needs it, too. We need it so that we can start production on this picture before the summer is over. I’ve got Veit Harlan and Werner Krauss under contract and it’s costing the studio a fortune. Not only that but this good weather is perfect for us, only we can’t shoot a damn thing until she’s got what she wants.”

I shook my head. “There’s still something you’re not telling me. Which really doesn’t surprise me.”

Goebbels laughed. “My God, but you’re an impudent fellow.”

“I expect that’s in my file, too. So why act so surprised about it? Like you said yourself, if I was a good national socialist I’d have already made something of myself in the RSHA and then I’d be no good to you.”

Goebbels nodded patiently. I’d pushed him just about as far as I could go and then a bit further. That’s the one thing I know about people with power and money; when you’ve got something they want, they’ll take almost anything in the ear in order to make sure they get it.

“You’re right. But I’d rather she told you herself. So, will you please go and see her? At least listen to what she’s got to say?”

I picked up his money off the table. It seemed the least I could do was see his girl. Like I said, it’s not every day the Reich Minister of Propaganda opens his heart and, more importantly, his wallet to you. And it’s not every day you get a chance to meet a film star.

“All right. Where can I find her?”

“In Potsdam. On Griebnitzsee, close to the film studios. There’s a house that’s recently come into my possession on Kaiser-Strasse. My secretary will give you all of the details. Address, telephone number, everything. When shall I tell her that you’re coming?”

I shrugged and glanced at my watch. “This afternoon? I don’t know. Is there an S-Bahn station near there? I don’t know Potsdam all that well.”

“Neu-Babelsberg,” said Goebbels. “I believe it’s quite a hike from the station. But you could go now and be there before lunch if you were to borrow my car.”

“Sure.”

He tossed me a set of keys. “One thing about the car,” he added, as if he already regretted letting me borrow it. “The supercharger whines a bit on start-up. And you have to let the oil heat up before you let out the clutch.”

I walked toward the door. “I’m trusting you with the two things I love most in this life. My car. And my leading lady. I hope that’s clear enough.”

“Crystal clear, Herr Doctor. Crystal clear.”