The Hunt aka 27 (6 page)

“We still are, Hans. The war is just beginning.” “The sooner the better.”

“Spoken like a true Nazi.”

“1 have read
Mein Kampf
a dozen times, memorized passages, spoken them aloud just to hear their power,” Ingersoll said enthusiastically. “I’ve read all your works,
mein Führer.
“And he recited:

“Ohne Juda, ohne Rom,

Wird gebaut Germaniens Dom!

Heil!”

“My God,” Hitler said, surprised, “I wrote that, let’s see, that was in

“Nineteen-twelve.”

“Ja,
1912,” he said with surprise and repeated it:

“Without Jews, without Rome,

We shall build Germany’s cathedral!

Hail!”

“I was twenty-four years old at the time. People laughed at me, you know,” Hitler said.

“A prophet must always endure s corn.”

“You are a student of Nietzsche, too?”

“I am familiar with his works.”

“You are quite the scholar, Hans Wolfe,” Hitler said, impressed. “Do you like music?
Wagner
-?”

“Very much.”

They continued down the path toward the tea house.

“Do you know when I was a boy in the Waldviertel my friend Gustl and I wrote an opera. An outrageous thing, filled with madness, violence, murder, miracles, mythology, magic, suicide. Oh, it was quite Wagnerian.

Suddenly Hitler’s mood swung again, this time from nostalgia to petulance. His voice grew slightly louder, its pitch a shade higher.

“That is another thing about the fools down there,” he went on. “They do not even understand Wagner. Only I under
stood the magnitude of Wagner’s vision, Hans. Only
I
understand that the creation was an act of violence, and so all creation must continue on a path of violence.”

Just as suddenly his voice lowered, became almost a whisper. He leaned closer to Ingersoll.

“This is the beginning. Last Monday when that doddering, senile old fool made me chancellor, that was the start of it. First there was the Holy Roman Empire, then the Prussian Hohenzollerns and now the glorious Third Reich. We are going to change the world. We are going to obliterate Versailles. Obliterate the Jews and the Gypsies and the Communists. We are going to create a population of pure Aryans, smarter, stronger, better- looking than any other race in history. We are going to do all this.” He stopped for a moment, his eyes blazing, his breath coining in short, wispy breaths. “Do you believe that, Hans? Do you believe that the Third Reich now exists?”

“Yes, mein Führer,” said Ingersoll. He was staring transfixed by the simple power of Hitler’s voice. He had heard or read all the words before, in various speeches and in books. But he had never heard them performed with such mastery. And he did believe it. There was no question in his mind.

“The Third Reich is you, mein Führer,” he blurted passionately. And impulsively he stepped back and threw out his arm in the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler,” he said. “Hail the Chancellor.”

A faint smile played on Hitler’s lips. He lifted his hand in response. They walked on down the footpath.

The tea house looked like a large, enclosed gazebo on the edge of a cliff at the foot of the overlook walk. As they neared it Hitler picked up the pace, anxious to get out of the cold. They rushed inside and slammed the door against the freezing draft. A white-uniformed servant snapped to attention and saluted.

“You may go to the kitchen, Fritz, we can serve ourselves.”

“Yes, mein Fuhrer,” the soldier said and vanished.

Outside, the wind whirled the snow into twisting devils that danced past the frosted windows. Inside, a giant fire snapped and sent glittering sparks twirling up the chimney.

“Ah,” Hitler said, closing his eyes. He opened the coat and held it like a shield in front of the fire, gathering in its warmth. “Fire is a great cleanser,” he said. Staring at the blazing logs, he saw instead that towering Reichstag ablaze. His mind conjured twinkling sparks floating over the city.

A table had been set in front of the fireplace. There were plates of homemade breads, pastries, cheeses, and thick sausages cooked until their skin had burs
t.
A large china teapot squatted in the center of the table, the tea steeping in its own steam. Two bottles of wine had also been opened and were sitting on the table.

“The walk here is good discipline. Are you a disciplined man, Hans?”

“When it’s necessary.”

“Good point. One of the reasons I come to this place is to relax.” He placed a finger on one of the wine bottles.

“Red or white?”

“I think I prefer the red.”

Hitler poured them both a glass of the red, then took a knife and sliced off a bit of sausage and put ii in his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the spicy bit of meat before washing it down with a sip of wine.

“Forget the discipline for a day
OT
two, yes?”

“An absolute
necessity,
mein Fuhrer.”

“Exactly, exactly. Help yourself, Hans.”

Hitler fixed himself a plate of bread, cheese and sausage, poured more wine in the glass. Warmed by the fire, he took off his coat and threw it over a chair, pulled another one close to the hearth and sat with his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He sighed with contentment. Ingersoll drew up a chair and sat beside him. They both stared, almost transfixed, at the fire as they spoke.

“I never discuss politics here at the Eagle’s Nest,” Hitler said. “We come here to relax and forget the problems, hmm? However, Herr Ingersoll, I think it would be profitable for us to understand each other, eh?”

“If you
wish,
mein Führer.”

“I am curious about something,” Hitler said. “I know you had bad times for a year or two before you became an actor. Why didn’t you
join the
Sturmabteilung?
A
good Nazi like you, belonging to the brownshirts would have given you prestige.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Ingersoll answered.

“Why not?”

“It’s a personal matter,” he said with some hesitation.

“One you cannot share with your Führer?”

Ingersoll thought for a moment before answering.

“I didn’t come here to make enemies.”

“It will not go beyond this room, Hans.”

Ingersoll thought about that for a few moments. On the one hand he feared his own prejudice would infuriate Hitler, and yet his instincts told him that Hitler would respond favorably to honesty.

Besides, why was he really here, he wondered? Were these political questions merely curiosity? Or was there some darker motive behind the discussion? Ingersoll flipped the two options over and over in his mind, like spinning a coin. Finally he opted for candor. After all, he was a national idol. His popularity transcended politics or ideology.

“I am afraid my opinions are somewhat.
. .
snobbish,” he said finally.

“Snobbish?”

“The brownshirts are not my kind of people. I understand their function is necessary but
. . .
they are loudmouth bullies, boisterous and

“Yes? And?” Hitler’s eyes bored into his but Ingersoll did not look away.

“And then there’s Ernst Röhm. He is
. . .
there is something about him
. . .
Röhm is a lover of little boys,” Ingersoll said rather harshly. “A sadist. A drunkard

“You know Röhm?”

“I met him once. Back in ‘25, ‘26, in Berlin. He was making a speech. Cold sober he was incoherent.”

“He was not picked for his oratorical skills—or his good manners, for that matter.”

“
Yes,
mein Führer,
but
. .

“Your instincts about Ernst are correct,” Hitler said. “He has failed to give the SA a soul of its own.” Hitler stood up with his back to the fire and shrugged his shoulders. “It has no pride or direction.” He thought for a moment more, then added enigmatically, “These things eventually outlive their purpose.”

He paused again.

“Besides, Röhm has pig eyes,” Hitler said, changing the mood again and chuckling at his own insult.

“I wouldn’t want to spend the evening with Attila the Hun either, but he was very effective.”

“Precisely. I see you understand that even rats can serve a useful purpose. He serves a purpose, a very necessary purpose. But I assure you, he will have no voice in the future of Germany. He is uncouth,” Hitler said abruptly.

“Exactly!”

Ingersoll was obviously a student o
f
politics, his observations were accurate
.
Die Sturmabteilung,
the
SA, were Hitler’s personal storm troopers. Ruffians and thugs, most of the brown- shirts had originally been recruited from prisons or from beer halls where they were bouncers. They had become an undisciplined paramilitary force. Marching
t
hr
o
ugh the streets, smashing windows, beating up Jews, guarding political meetings and privately engaging in blackmail and extortion, the SA had become dangerously out of control and so Hitler had brought Ernst Röhm, a compatriot from the old Putsch days, back from a diplomatic post in Bolivia to head it. Hitler still needed this private police force of his, but he had his own plan for dealing with them. He had created the SS,
the
Schutzstaffel,
putting one of his closest friends, Heinrich Himmler, in charge. It also had a satellite, the SD, a security service e
n
gaged in counterintelligence in Germany and abroad. It was the SD in which Wilhelm Vierhaus played a vague but obviously important role. Hitler’s plan was to build the SS into the most fearful organization in the Nazi party, shifting its power until it w
a
s stronger than the SA and then...

But each thing in its time.

“I realize I probably seem like an elitist Ingersoll started to say.

“
You
are
an elitist
,” Hitler said matter-of-factly. “There is nothing wrong with that. It’s one reas
o
n you are here.”

“I have little in common with Rö
h
m and his brownshirts other than politics. I prefer to support the National Socialist movement in other ways.”

Hitler’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward slightly.

“Such as?” he asked.

“Financial contributions. Encourage my associates to join the party. Defend your ideas to those who, uh
. . .
don’t fully understand them.”

“So, you are a good Nazi then?” Hitler asked.

Ingersoll thought for a moment before he answered.

“Perhaps I am a good
Hitlerite,
mein Führer.
That might be a more
accurate way of putting it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see the party as a means to the end. To me, it’s a necessary glory show. There are too many buffoons and hooligans.”

“Buffoons and hooligans?” Hitler echoed with surprise. Vierhaus was right, Ingersoll was certainly outspoken. Ingersoll could sense Hitler’s growing irritation.

“I would follow you into
fire,
mein Führer,”
he quickly added, “But there are some I’d prefer to shove into the flames.”

Cajole and flatter. Hear him out.

“As I told you, I’ve read
Mein Kampf
cover to cover many times. It is always on my nightstand. It is a great book, greater than the Bible. I agree with everything you say, particularly regarding the Jewish problem.”

“Herr Schauspieler,
tell me the truth. How do you really feel about
the Jews?”

“I hate them,” Ingersoll said, his voice taut and low. “I bate their Marxist tricks. Their whining

“
Ja. Ja
! Very
good. They
are
whiners. And you’re right, they are the backbone of the Marxist movement. They’ve had fourteen
years,
fourteen years
to show us what they can do and all they have produced is rubble. Look around you.
Rubble!
The secret to our success, Hans, is that we are honest. We deal honestly. We seek only what is fair, what is proper. What is right for Germany.”

He smiled, an understated smile, a momentary manipulation of the corners of his mouth that was almost a smirk. He sat down again, perched on the edge of his chair and leaned toward Ingersoll with fists clenched.

“We
must
take the Jews out of the marketplace, out of the banks, out of our industries. Perhaps even
. . .
rid Germany totally of this
Jude
scourge. Would you agree?”

Ingersoll smiled in return and nodded. “Yes, but how? And how will you justify what we do to the rest of the world?”

Hitler’s mood changed radically. His face turned red. His voice rose fervently and rage simmered deep inside him, He glared out the window.

“Justify? We
justify
nothing!
The rest
of the world? Who in the rest of the world? The French?” lie snorted indignantly. “How can you have an understanding with a man who is choking you as you speak? The Americans with their Monroe Doctrine? My God! The ultimate hypocrisy. They exclude would-be immigrants if
they are
undesirable.
Regulate their numbers. Demand certain physical standards, insist they bring in a certain amount of money, interrogate them about their political beliefs. Listen, my friend, one learns from one’s ene
m
ies. Anyway, there is a way we can deal with the Americans. The Communists say that power comes from the barrel of a gun. Well, I’ll show them power, all right. I’ll show them the barrel of our gun.” He smashed his fist into his open palm and stamped his foot on the floor. “How can they blame us for doing the same things, eh? I don’t give a damn about the Jews in ot
h
er countries. But here, this is
Germany’s
business. This is
our
business
.”

For a moment it seemed to Ingersoll as if Hitler had forgotten he was in the room. He seemed
t
o
be speaking to all the unseen hordes of disenfranchised Germans out there somewhere. And his fervor was hypnotic. Ingersoll’s
h
eart began to race. Then just as quickly the voice became quiet again. He turned back to Ingersoll, his eyes still b
u
rning with the fever of power.

“As for the British? Compromisers, that’s their style. The Britishers are tough and proud. And they are exploiters. England is a psychological force embracing the entire world. They are protected by a great navy and a very courageous air service. But these things will be dealt with in their time.

“I say the hell with the rest of the world,” he whispered, leaning over Ingersoll. “Another year a.id ours will be the most powerful political party in history and all Europe will be on its knees before us.
Tomorrow we will
be
the world, my young friend.”

So, Hitler’s mind was already
preparing
for
war,
thought Ingersoll.
To him it is an inevitability.

Hitler paused, saw the unconcealed excitement in Ingersoll’s face.

“You believe that, don’t you, Ingersoll?”

Entranced, Ingersoll nodded.

He is hooked,
Hitler said to himself.
Der Schauspieler is ours.

“And you want to be an important player in this crusade, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“More than just making contributions to the party, yes?”

“Yes,
me
i
n Führer!”

“And so you shall, Herr Ingersoll,” Hitler said, patting Ingersoll’s knee, “so you shall.”

Looking over Hitler’s shoulder through the frosty window, Ingersoll saw Willie Vierhaus scurrying awkwardly down the icy footpath toward the tea house.