The Hunt aka 27 (5 page)

“No. Sometimes my best ideas come in dreams.”

It was a clever response for it appealed to Hitler’s fascination with dreams, psychism and astrology, and Vierhaus knew it.

“Well, I will consider your Reichstag idea, Willie. Perhaps it is not as crazy as it sounded,” Hitler sa
id
. “Now let’s talk about the Twenty-seven project. Talk to me
about
der Schauspieler.”

Vierhaus leaned back in his chair
and
stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then he began to recite the information.

“A devout party member and an ardent supporter of the Führer. A war hero like yourself. He was still in his teens when he won the Iron Cross at Belleau Wood

“For what?”

Hitler interrupted whenever the mood served him; Vierhaus was accustomed to that. He also sensed a tinge of
jealousy in the question. Hitler had also won two Iron Crosses, a rare achievement for an enlisted man. It surprised him that the actor had also earned such a distinction.

“He destroyed a tank and two squads of American Marines before he was himself wounded. He returned to the front and was captured near the end of the war
a
t Cambrai, the day the wind shifted.”

“I hate to think about that day. A tragedy for us. Was he gassed then?”

“No, he managed to kill an
Englishman
and take his mask.”

“
Resourceful,
ja?”

“Very,” Vierhaus nodded. “He was born near Linz

“Ah, an Austrian.”

“Yes. And quite proud of
it. His born, name is Hans Wolfe.

“Wolfe, eh. A good name. A significant name.”

“
Yes,,
mein Führer.
His father
was a storekeeper. He died early on, when the boy was ten. The mother taught school. She died while he was in the army. He studied engineering at Berlin University but quit in the early twenties. He became one of the wanderers, a lost soul for almost two years

“Was he in the SA?”

Vierhaus shook his head.

“No. He joined the party in Nuremberg in 1927. A year later he auditioned for a small part in a film and ended up getting the leading part. That’s when this charade of his began. He lives in Berlin as Johann Ingrsol1 and has a summer place outside of Munich where he uses his real name. And
. . .
he contributes heavily to the party.”

“Excellent. Personality?”

“Arrogant, demanding, self-centered, explosive. Also
e
xtremely
intelligent
and well read. He can actually quote long passages
from
Mein Kampf”

“Really!” Hitler said, obviously pleased.

“Yes. He can also be quite outspoken, even insulting at times, and I hear he has quite a cynical sense of humor. On the other hand, those who know him as Hans Wolfe in Munich think he is a businessman. To them, he is charming and generous. A totally different personality when he is away from the studios.”

“So, he is two different people then?”

Vierhaus nodded. “And apparently he has no problem switching back and forth.”

“A
real
actor.”

“Yes, Führer. And quite an athlete, too. Expert skier and swimmer, did some boxing in the army. An avid mountain climber and hunter.”

“Women?”

“A bachelor, but he has frequent affairs.”

“Not homosexual?”

“Nein, nein,”
Vierhaus
said hurriedly.

“And he
knows
Mein Kampf
eh?”

“An obsession with him.”

“I hope he is not uncomfortable, being the odd card here this weekend. Everybody else knows each other.”

“I think that will appeal to him.”

“Oh?”

“It sets him apart from the rest of us. Reminds everyone he is the star.”

Hitler glanced at Vierhaus. “Not in
this
house,” he said.

Vierhaus laughed. “He is egocentric, Führer, not crazy.”

Hitler laughed and slapped his knee. “So, now the question is, will he do it?”

“I think,
mein Führer,
that will be largely up to you.”

Hitler nodded, then strolled back to the window. Far below he saw the Mercedes whisking up the narrow road, dust fluting out behind it.

“Ah,” he said, rubbing his hands together. His tone did not conceal his excitement. “The actor has arrived.”

“Excellent!” Vierhaus said. “The play begins.”

“Herr Ingersoll,” Vierhaus greeted the actor at the front door, “Welcome to the Eagle’s Nest.”

The hunchbacked professor stared intently at Ingersoll, who was surprisingly nonchalant. A cool Fellow, all right. He led the actor into the large foyer.

“And is this the real Ingersoll we’re meeting or another character you’ve created?” he asked with a smile.

Ingersoll shrugged off the question with a cryptic answer.

“Perhaps there
is
no real Ingersoll,’’ he replied, following Vierhaus into the main hallway of the chalet. Behind him, two servants followed with his luggage and five heavy reels of film.

“Ah, you brought the film!” Vie
r
haus cried. “Excellent. The Führer will be delighted. He has assigned you to the room opposite his, on the northwest corner. I think you will find the view breathtaking.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You may thank him personally.
He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

“And when will that be?”

“Not too long now. The Führer likes to keep business to a minimum when he’s here. He sleeps late and reviews the morning reports. He usually comes down abut lunchtime.”

“Herr Professor, shall I take the film to the projection room?” one of the servants asked.

“Excuse me for a moment while I make sure everything is done properly,” Vierhaus said to Ingers
o
ll and went off with the servants. Ingersoll was left alone in the hallway.

The actor was impressed by the cleanliness of the chalet. The wood floors were polished to a sheer and he saw not a speck of dust anywhere. Somewhere in the back of the house, a canary started warbling, then another joined i
n
from somewhere else, then a cockatoo answered shrilly and another. There seemed to be birds everywhere, the house echoe
d
with their chirping. Ingersoll strolled to the edge of the library and looked in. The books were all bound in leather. In the dining room, the table had been set for the evening meal. Ingersoll casually picked up a cup and looked at the bottom. The entire service was the finest Meissen china; each plate, saucer and up were engraved with Hitler’s initials and a swastika. The goblets and tea service were gold.

Nothing pedestrian about the Führer
’s
taste.

There were several valuable paintir.gs hanging in the downstairs rooms but one instantly galvanized Ingersoll’s stare. It was almost life size and framed in gold leaf. A shielded lamp ran the length of the top of the frame, casting s soft light down on the painting. The subject was dressed in a p
e
asant blouse and a pink skirt, the colors bright and cheerful b
u
t not garish. A striking woman, young and exquisitely beautiful, he thought. There was a disarming sense of innocence in her pale blue eyes, yet a boldness in the arrogant tilt of her chin. Ingersoll felt himself aroused by her impish innocence, a spectacularly sensuous combination.

Who was this woman whose picture- dominated the hallway?

As he stared up at it he suddenly felt as if he were being watched. He looked around but the hail was empty. He stared up the stairway and for an instant th
o
ught he saw someone moving in the shadows at the top of the stairs. Then he turned his gaze back to the portrait.

At the top of the staircase, Hitler sto
o
d in the deep shadows staring down at Ingersoll, watching the actor’s almost hypnotic attraction to the painting.

Look at the way he stares at her. There is hunger in that look.

There
was
sexual
ardor in his stare and Ingersoll made no attempt to hide it. Hitler was seized by a momentary rush of jealousy. He turned abruptly and went back down the hall to his sitting room. Once inside he sat on the edge of the chair as though perched there, his fist pressed
a
gainst his lips, fighting back an overwhelming sense of longing, anger and remorse.

Watching Ingersoll stare at the portrait he understood the actor’s sexual attraction to the subject. He too had stared at that picture with the same longing, the same desire. The same perverted fantasy.

He began to shake uncontrollably. First his knee began to bob, then his hands quivered. He
beat
on his legs with his fists and muffled the cry of anguish that heart his throat. He fought back the tears of rage that burned the corners of his eyes. Time had eradicated the need. Only resentment remained.

How dare she! How dare she defy and humiliate me. How dare she rob me in such a way.

It was a question he had asked himself many times in the eighteen months since Geli Raubal had killed herself. His maid, Annie Winter, had found Geli with Hitler’s
Wa
l
ther
6.35 wrapped in a towel, its muzzle still pressed against her chest.

I can’t live with your rage and your anger, sometimes I think it would be better to be dead.

She had said the same thing many times and in a variety of ways but he always scoffed at her, de
r
ided
her,
dared
her.

And then that awful night she had taken the dare and it had fallen to Rudolf Hess and Gregor Strasser to hush up the potential scandal, just as they had handled the blackmailers who had managed to acquire the obscene nude paintings he had done of Geli.

Just as they had subdued him and
w
atched over him for days because he, too, was raving on the edge of self-destruction.

September 18, 1931, a date that was scorched into his memory, like the date of the Putsch and the date Hindenburg had named him chancellor. Except that this date was a nightmare from which he could not escape.

Ingersoll was still staring at the pai
nt
ing when Vierhaus returned, walking with that curious kind of swagger he had affected to minimize the hump on his back.

“She’s exquisite,” Ingersoll said, still staring up at the face in the portrait. “Who is she?”

“Geli Raubal, the Führer’s niece. His favorite sister’s daughter. He adored her. She was killed a year and a half ago. A tragic accident. He still hasn’t fully recovered from the shock.”

“I can understand why,” Ingersoll said.

“Well, let me show you to your rooms,” Vierhaus said, leading Ingersoll up the stairs. “You can freshen up. The Führer should be down shortly. He usually takes lunch at the tea house down by the mountain overlook. By the
w
ay, there are a few rules you should be aware of. The Führer does not permit smoking in the house, he detests the odor. But he has no objection if you smoke outside. He also does not p
e
rmit the keeping of diaries or writing letters from here, either. And he can’t stand whistling.”

“Whistling?”

“Yes. Drives him crazy. Are you a whistler, Herr Ingersoll?”

“Sometimes. I find it a comforting diversion.”

“Not here. The Führer is a vegetarian although there may be meat dishes for the guests. Also he is a
t
eetotaler, but, again, there will be wine and champagne for his visitors.”

“He sounds quite tolerant of others,” Ingersoll said.

“Oh yes, the Führer is a most tolerant gentleman

He came downstairs precisely at noon. Ingersoll was surprised at how small Hitler was in person. And he wasn’t sure what to expect. Would this be the serious, stormy
H
itler he had seen so many times, speaking in Berlin, Nuremberg and Munich, the forceful leader, demanding and getting the adoration of thousands, berating the British and French, damning the Jews and Communists? Or would it be the more affable Hitler he had seen in crowds, often speaking in low car
e
ssing tones, bowing low from the waist and kissing the hands of the
young
Frauleins,
kissing
the foreheads of the children, making jokes with them.

He was dressed in a gray wool double-
b
reasted suit with the Wehrmacht insignia over the breast pocket, a smiling man, pleasant and friendly. The affable Hitler.

“So,” said Hitler, “we finally meet. I am an ardent fan of yours, Herr Ingersoll. I’ve seen all your films, some more than once. You have brought great credit to Germany. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“I am flattered that you
asked,
mein Führer.”

“I trust your room is satisfactory.”

“Lovely.”

“Good. Good! I usually take a noon stroll down to the tea house
for
lunch with my guests but since you and Willie are the first to arrive and he has a few things to do, perhaps just the two of us can go down together.”

This man in an ordinary lounging s
u
it, projecting a patriarchal image of kindness and affability, is this the man who will change the world?

Servants helped Hitler and Ingersoll on with their wraps. Hitler wore a heavy greatcoat. The chancellor wrapped a thick muffler around his neck and, flexing his shoulders, smiled at Ingersoll.

“Sure you’re up to a walk in this weather?” Hitler asked.

“Looking forward to it.”

The wind sliced up the mountainside with an edge as sharp as a knife. Hitler was hunched down in the thick greatcoat, its tall collar wrapped around his ears. His gloved hands were tucked under his armpits. Two armed guards followed twenty or so feet behind them,
just out of earshot. As they approached the overlook, the entire valley spread be
lo
w them. Snow glistened in the noonday sun.

Ingersoll stopped at the overlook halfway to the tea house and pointed out over the mountains. “That’s where you were born, isn’t it? Over the mountains there in the Wa
l
dviertel?”

“Yes. Braunau. A terrible place. Not as bad as Vienna but a terrible place.”

“What’s so terrible about it?”

“It’s known as the wooded place. Very harsh,” Hitler said, not hiding the bitterness in his voice. “Harsh land, harsh people, dreary, medieval. For centuries it was prey to every marauding army that invaded southern Germany. Sacked by the Huns, by the Bohemian Ottakar II. By the Swedes during the Thirty Years’ War. Even Napoleon marched through it in 1805 on the way to Vienna. The fools in the Waldviertel have a legacy of defeat. Defeatists all.”

Hitler’s voice began to rise as anger took the place of bitterness.

“We have too many people in Germany today who feel the same way,” he went on, slashing his fists against his thighs. “That’s why I must throw that damnable Versailles treaty back in the Allies’ faces. Pride,
pride, Herr Ingersoll, that’s what
I
will give back to all my people. I must make defeat an alien word to all Germans.”

“You have already started, sir,” Ingersoll said.

“Danke,
Herr
Ingersoll,” Hitler said with genuine pleasure. He stamped his feet against the cold.

Cajole and flatter.

“What do they call you? Johann? John?”

“Hans, actually,” Ingersoll said.

“Ah, your proper name.” And Hitler smiled.

So, they want something,
Ingersoll thought.
They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to check me out. Do they know every
t
hing? Do they know all the secrets of Johann Ingersoll? Was this to be some k
in
d of blackmail?

He dispelled the notion as paranoia.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Hitler said. “It’s Himm
l
er and his SS. They’re overly cautious. Security, you k
n
ow.”

“Ah yes, security.”

Hitler’s breath swirled from the folds of the collar.

“I don’t like the winter, Hans,” he said. “When I first went to Vienna to study it was an endlessly bitter time
. . .
for two years my only mistress was sorrow and
my
only companion was hunger. But the thing I remember most -was how cold it was.”

He stopped and shivered, huddling deeper into his great coat before going on.

“In the winter I was never warm. It is beautiful here, looking out at the snow on the mountains, listeni
n
g to it crunch underfoot, but the cold cuts me like a saber.”

“Should we go back to the chalet?”

“Nein!
It
is a fear I must deal with. Someday I will overcome it. Perhaps I will get badly sunburned, e
h
, and then I will fear the warm more than the cold. Ha! Besides, I am sure you know what it is like to sleep on cold pavement.”

“Not as bad as in the trenches wher
e
it rained,” Ingersoll said. “My greatest fear was drowning in mud. When the rains came I was terrified the trench would slide in on me. After dark I would crawl out and sleep with the dead ones. And then in the morning I’d crawl back in the ditch. To prefer sleeping with the dead, now that’s fear.”

“You were a good soldier,” Hitler said.

“So were you.”