A Man Lies Dreaming (28 page)

His words penetrated my agonised consciousness. ‘A chance?’ I said, quietly.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘for you see, you are exceptional, Lance-Corporal; you are nothing short of an
Übermensch
! I believe in you, Lance-Corporal.’ I heard him move about the room. Heard a match being struck. He said, ‘I have lit a candle. All else is in darkness. Can you see the flame?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No!’

‘Yet I believe that you
can
see it!’ he cried. ‘Use the power of your mind, Lance-Corporal! Believe yourself great, greater than any who had ever stepped upon this earth. With the power of your mind alone, you can achieve anything! Do it for Germany, do it for the Fatherland, now under threat from its many enemies. Can you do it?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘no, I can’t!’

It was lunacy, surely! I had been blinded, physically blinded. How could I heal myself through the power of thought alone? But his voice kept at me, urging me, like a conductor facing an orchestra. ‘Prove yourself!’ he said. ‘If you can see the flame, then you are indeed a great man, an Over-Man. If you can see the light, then you could lead all of Germany, lead our nation to victory! Show me,’ he said, ‘the triumph of the will!’

I was roused by his speech, by his words. I had always thought myself special, not like the others. I always knew better. Secretly, I believed him. His words made me see the truth at last. I had tried to pass for normal when I was nothing of the sort! And as I thought this, as his words kept running through my mind, my eyes became acutely sensitive. I began to discern a dull flickering light.

Perhaps he could tell as much from the movements of my eyes. ‘You are doing it!’ he cried. I concentrated – could I really heal myself? Cause organic damage to be replaced by healthy tissue? Slowly, slowly the image resolved, grew in depth and detail. It was a flame! A bright flame in the dark room. I could see the candle now, the wax running down the shaft, its grooves and irregularities. Slowly, the room came into focus, shelves of books, the grand desk. The flame threw shadows on the walls. And there he was, too. Dr Forster.

He had a bespectacled, round face with receding dark hair. He had an intense expression. His eyes shone with fervour, or so it seemed to me in my state then. ‘You did it!’ he said. ‘You can see!’

‘I can see, doctor!’ I said, overwhelmed. But I was not overwhelmed for long. So many things had suddenly become clear to me then. The truth of who and what I was, and the destiny that lay before me. The boy I had been was dead, gone. A man – an
Übermensch
– had emerged in his place.

I don’t know why I recalled my sessions with Dr Forster as I walked back through the rain. I was in a fog of rage. For a moment I imagined myself an Übermensch again, leaping into the sky, soaring over the city as I sought out my enemies with my powerful vision. But events have proven me wrong. The Fall had crushed my dreams. Forster had restored my sight, but he had done so by trickery, by sleight of hand.

For I had seen the details of my file from that time: ‘A hysteric’, he had written. In those notes he claimed there had been nothing wrong with my sight. That I had merely suffered a nervous reaction, believing myself blind; but that there was no organic, no physical damage to the eyes.

The foul man had tricked me!

And in the process he had made me into an instrument of righteousness. The man who would lead Germany. Or so I thought, until the Fall; until I lost everything I had once believed in and became, once again, nothing but a man.

How I hated them all!

I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I did not notice the black car driving past me, slowly, too slowly, until it was too late. I heard the doors open and heavy footsteps and turned and saw the face of an old friend, Emil, the big barman from the Hofgarten. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wolf,’ he said. He held a lead pipe in one enormous hand. I was too slow in trying to avoid it. It connected with the back of my head with a dull echoing crack and a burst of blazing pain and then, mercifully, darkness.

‘Martini?’

She was a simpering old bitch and always had been, Wolf thought. She lusted after power the way other women lusted after movie stars or the milkman. He grimaced. His head felt raw in a terrible way. ‘No, thank you, Magda.’

They were in a drawing room having tea. He thought they were somewhere west of the city, Kensington perhaps. It seemed to make sense. His head hurt. He had woken up halfway there, in the back seat of the car, Emil on one side and another man he didn’t recognise on the other side of him. They drove without speaking, through the quiet night, arriving at this quiet residential house on a quiet residential street. Briefly Wolf imagined the whole place blown up, airplanes swooping low, dropping down bombs, air-raid sirens wailing, residents running for shelter, but all was quiet and peaceful and clear. Emil helped him out. ‘I’m really very sorry for hitting you, Herr Wolf,’ he said. ‘I was just following orders. You understand.’

They walked in through the gate and the lights in the house came on and the door opened and a shadow stood in the doorway. A neat but rat-like man came forward with a limp, his arms extended, his face plastered with a smile Wolf knew only too well.

‘Joseph?’ he said. ‘Joseph
Goebbels
?’

‘Wolf! Wolf, Wolf,
Wolf
!’

They stopped and stood facing each other. Goebbels was small, skinny, lame and dangerous. He had been their propaganda man, before the Fall. His smile turned into concern. ‘Are you hurt?’ he said. ‘What did they do to you! Emil?’

‘I’m sorry, Herr Goebbels,’ the large barman muttered. He shifted on his feet as though afraid of the much smaller man. ‘You said to—’

‘I know what I said! Nincompoop! My dear Wolf, I am so, so sorry. Please, come in, come in! It is so good to see you again!’

‘You live here?’ Wolf said.

‘This old place?’ Goebbels said, shrugging, as if to say it was nothing, really it was nothing at all.

‘You’ve lived here all this time? In England?’

‘I wanted to seek you out,’ Goebbels said. ‘But Hess told me you no longer wanted to associate with your old friends … I did not wish to intrude.’

‘I thought the communists had got you!’

Goebbels shrugged again. He led Wolf into the house. The wallpaper was ghastly. ‘I survived,’ Goebbels said. ‘You know how it is, Wolf. The things we do to survive.’

Wolf stopped. He felt the back of his head. His hair was matted with blood. He was tired and hurting. Slowly, he said, ‘You cut yourself a deal.’

Goebbels was silent. Outside, Wolf heard nothing. Even the birds were asleep. He felt cold inside. ‘You cut a deal with the communists, in exchange for your release. What did you do, Joseph? What did you
give
them?’

‘It was all gone, Wolf. We lost. We had to be practical. I only gave them that which they would have already got, sooner or later. Some names, some details. What does it matter, now? Some S.A. beer boys? Streicher?’

‘You gave them
Julius Streicher
?’

‘His usefulness had come to an end. And the man was a pig, a veritable pig, Wolf!’

‘He was,’ Wolf said. He began to laugh. ‘Joseph, you haven’t changed one bit.’

‘Wolf.’ The gimp-legged man turned to him, and Wolf could have sworn there were genuine tears in his eyes. ‘I have missed you. So much have I missed you.’

‘It’s good to see you, too, Joseph. But you could have just sent a card.’

‘I did not mean for them to harm you! Emil, come here.’

‘Sir?’

‘Close the door behind you, Emil.’

‘Yes, Herr Goebbels.’

‘Good.’

Goebbels took out a gun from his pocket. He waved it carelessly in the air. ‘American made,’ he said. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s wonderful. You have been talking to the Americans?’

‘We have cause to do business together, sometimes. Why not? It is good to have friends. Again, I am terribly sorry, Wolf.’ He raised the gun levelly at the puzzled Emil and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening in the small hallway. From upstairs there came a woman’s shriek. Emil collapsed to the floor, half his head now smeared on the wall behind him. His blood soaked into the carpet. Wolf stared down at the corpse.

‘I liked Emil,’ he said.

‘So did I,’ Goebbels said. ‘But discipline has to be maintained.’

‘Are you just going to leave him there?’

‘Franz will clean it up. Come. Magda is just
dying
to see you.’

Wolf’s ears were ringing. He followed Wolf to the drawing room.

‘Magda? Where the hell are you, woman?’

Wolf heard footsteps come down the stairs and halt for a moment. Then a long beat as she stepped over Emil’s corpse, before resuming her progress towards the drawing room. She wore a black evening dress and a veil and gloves and high-heeled shoes. ‘Wolf!’ She ran to him, hugged him. Her hand squeezed his buttock covertly. ‘It is so good to see you again,’ she whispered, her breath soft in his ear. He pushed her away, but gently. She had always been like a minx in heat around him. ‘It is good to see you too, Magda.’

‘How long has it
been
?’

‘Too long,’ Wolf said. But he felt tired, depressed. This was not a social call. The balance of power between them had changed. He no longer commanded the Goebbelses. They had grown apart from him, had changed. He was cautious.

‘I will make drinks! Martini?’

‘No, thank you,’ Wolf said, politely. He turned to Goebbels. ‘Where are your children?’ he said. The Goebbelses had bred like rabbits, as though almost single-handedly they could populate the Earth with their Aryan offspring. Goebbels had been loyal; a gifted orator; an ardent Jew-hater; and, though he didn’t like people to know it, a failed novelist.

‘Upstairs,’ Goebbels said.

‘Asleep,’ Magda said.

Wolf thought of the gunshot. They must be some children to sleep through the sound of a shot in their own hallway. But then, for all Wolf knew, such things were not so uncommon in the Goebbels household. He said, ‘Speaking of Hess.’

‘Were we speaking of Hess?’

But he saw Goebbels and Magda exchange glances, and Magda got up. On her way to the kitchen she looked back. ‘Chocolate cake?’ she said.

‘That sounds lovely, Magda, dearest,’ Goebbels said. She disappeared through the door and the two men were left alone.

‘Hess is dead,’ Wolf said, without preamble. ‘I saw him floating face-down in the duck pond in Hyde Park.’

‘What a way to go, eh?’ Goebbels said. It wasn’t exactly a smile. It wasn’t exactly a smirk. But it was unpleasant and oily and rat-like all the same.

‘Did you kill him, Joseph?’

‘Me?’ Goebbels said, looking shocked. ‘Of course not, Wolf!’

‘So who did?’

‘Must we speak of Hess?’ Goebbels said.

‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’ Wolf said.

‘You wound me. Is this what you think?’

‘I know you, Joseph. All of you. You were mine. You were children I had let run wild. And when the Fall came you ran, and some of you came here, and now you do – what? Pimp out girls? Run numbers? You’ve become nothing, Joseph. Nothing but common criminals.’

‘Some would say that is all we ever were,’ Goebbels said, still with that faint, mocking smile. ‘You lost your power, Wolf. You lost!’

‘I was betrayed!’

They stared at each other. Goebbels was no longer smiling. ‘I love you, Wolf,’ he said. ‘But you have not wanted to get involved. You prefer to play at being a private eye like some grotesquery out of a Fritz Lang movie. Hess was a good man, but he was weak. Weak, and he talked too much. In this business, it’s not healthy to talk too much.’

Wolf regarded him without expression. The silence sat between the two men, the threat still hanging in the air. ‘Hess talked to
me
,’ Wolf said, softly.

It was Goebbels’s turn not to reply.

‘Who is behind it, Joseph?’ Wolf said. ‘Behind the smuggling, the whores, the white slavery? It’s not you. You’re not smart enough, Joseph. You’re not ruthless enough. You talk a good talk, and I have to admit you impressed me just now with the gun and that little show of yours, and poor Emil. But it was a waste. It’s not – it can’t be – you. Then who?’

‘Wolf,’ Goebbles said. And his eyes were filled with sorrow.

‘Yes,’ Wolf said.

‘It’s not good to ask too many questions,’ Goebbles said, softly. ‘Do you understand?’

And Wolf did. Truly, he did. He knew better than anyone, for had he not written the rules of this dangerous game himself? And he began to say yes; to nod; to say that he did understand. He saw Magda come in through the door with a chocolate cake on a silver tray in her hands. And he saw Goebbels’s eyes flicker upwards, to a point behind Wolf’s head. And Wolf remembered the second man, the one who was going to clean up the dead Emil; Franz, he thought Goebbels had called him.

Wolf half-parted his lips, began to form a syllable, noticed the look, began to turn his head. Again he was too late. There was a bright explosion of pain in the back of his already tender head and, for a moment, Wolf saw spiral galaxies and interstellar clouds, suns and planets and moons, all drifting past at inexorable speed, growing brighter, converging to become the faces of departed comrades: of Hess and Streicher and Göring and Goebbels, Himmler and Bormann and Speer. And he knew that one of them was behind it all; one of them pulled the strings behind the scenes. The galactic vista sped all about him until his field of vision became the bright light of a supernova, of a dying star, and it suffused him, incinerating every cell and atom in his body, and he was once more swallowed up by the cool and blessed darkness of deep space, of a place entirely outside of time.