7
Berchtesgaden, the Berghof
Bavarian Alps
“I AM RUINED. YOU know this, don’t you? I am ruined. I have nothing left. There is nothing. Nothing!”
Adolf Hitler, dressed in a robe, his hair mussed and fallen into his face, his eyes deep-set from lack of sleep, stood at the window of the cottage, looking out over picturesque Lake Tegernsee nestled in a rolling wooded hillside.
A number of Nazi flags hung from the docks; several NSDAP officials also had homes on the lake.
“Nonsense, mein Führer.” Hess stood a distance from Hitler.
It had been years since he’d seen him like this, despondent and disheveled.
Hess had smuggled Hitler to this house, owned by the publisher of Mein Kampf, roughly an hour south of Munich, to shield him from both the police and press.
“We will navigate this problem and move forward. You will be back campaigning in no time—”
“Campaigning? Do you not see, Rudolf?” He turned to Hess, fists clenched.
“This scandal is exactly what my enemies have been waiting for!” Hitler reentered the cottage and began to pace now, striding across the main room, with its dark wood paneling and rustic furniture.
“Oh, how they will rejoice! How they will positively marvel at my fall! Why, I can imagine the look on Fritz Gerlich’s face when he hears of this.
It will not matter,” he added, “that this was not my fault. Such questions will not even enter the conversation. Oh, no. All that will matter are the salacious headlines! The things they will say!”
At once the Führer stopped his pacing and collapsed onto a sofa. His head dropped into his hands. “Do you not see that it’s over, Rudolf? Are you the only one who does not see?”
Hess squatted down beside the Führer. “I believe in mein Führer, as do the others. Look out over the lake. Look at those flags. Think of all the people who only think of you when they think of the National Socialists. We are nothing without you.”
The Führer laughed, a bitter chuckle that sounded more like a hiccup.
“You need sleep, mein Führer. You need to eat. Let me have them prepare some liver dumplings, your fav—”
“No. No!” He sprang off the couch. “No meat! Not ever again! I cannot fathom the thought of eating the flesh of animals, not after seeing—no. Leave me, Rudolf. Leave me to my misery.”
Hess watched the Führer head back out onto the patio, the wind lifting his hair and flapping his robe.
“His name is Bauer,” said Hess, back in the cottage’s kitchen. “Thomas Bauer. A high-ranking inspector, a kriminalkommissar.”
Joseph Goebbels lit a cigarette and blew out smoke. “What do we know about him?”
Hess reviewed the paper he’d received from the boys at the Brown House.
“Born in Munich. Signed up for the war when he turned eighteen. Served with the 11th Infantry Division on the western front. Promoted to deputy battalion commander. Received the Iron Cross First and Second Class for bravery and the Military Merit Order—”
“All right, so he served faithfully. What else?”
“He has a wife and two children. The wife is a Jew.”
“That may be useful.” Goebbels pointed his cigarette at Hess. “Go on.”
“We were told the senior inspector would be a man named Brecht. Brecht, we were assured, would be pliable, manageable. But it so happened that this Bauer, a more senior inspector, was working that day and took this assignment.”
“And we know all this from the police chief?”
“Yes,” said Hess. “Heinrich Müller.”
“The Munich police have not been a friend to the National Socialists. My understanding is that this Müller, in particular, has been hostile. Why is he suddenly now willing to help?”
“Because he’s a pragmatic man.” Martin Bormann, Hess’s pudgy and dark-eyed assistant, entered the room. “And an ambitious one. He is not stupid. He knows that the National Socialists will soon take power. He wants to be on the right side of that outcome.”
“Now, that,” said Goebbels, pointing at Bormann, “is a man I can work with. Speaking of men we can work with, Martin, what can you tell us about Gürtner?”
Franz Gürtner, he meant, the Bavarian minister of justice, a fervent nationalist with long and solid ties to Hitler and NSDAP.
“I’ve just come from speaking with him,” said Bormann. “He is quite sympathetic to our predicament. He will not be our problem. Nor will Chief Müller. No, our only obstacle will be Bauer.”
“And the press.” Goebbels stubbed out his cigarette.
“We must work on our message.” He got to his feet gingerly, given his club foot, and arched his back.
“Surely a frivolous young girl cannot be expected to behave in a rational manner. Perhaps, for example, she was on medication. Or she suffered from depression of some sort.”
“She wasn’t on medication,” said Hess. “And did she seem depressed to you?”
“Rule nothing out, Rudolf. Perhaps she was nervous about an upcoming musical recital.”
“Nobody would believe that,” said Hess. “You were there, Joseph. You saw Geli’s performance. She was magnificent. Who would believe that she suffered from nerves?”
Goebbels let out a long sigh and slapped a hand down on Hess’s shoulder. “Oh, my good Rudolf, you still think that truth matters. I have so much to teach you.”