Hitler's Angel (12 page)

F
ritz was exhausted when he arrived at his own apartment. The scarred door, with its twisted ‘No 3’, never looked so inviting. He shifted the duffel over his shoulder, and crouched to pick up the morning’s
Münchner Post
. He was not too tired to note the headline,
A Mysterious Affair: Hitler’s Niece Commits Suicide
, nor to realise its implications for him. He tucked the paper under his arm and let himself inside, no longer relieved to be home.

On the trip back he had replayed the conversation with Hess over and over again. Fritz hadn’t wanted Geli’s death to be murder. He had wanted a suicide, something he could confirm. Now, not only did he have to examine Hitler’s household, he had to examine the NSDAP, something which made him decidedly uneasy.

He pressed the button on the wall switch, turning on the overhead light. His apartment was small – a single room with a shared bath in the hall – but neat. The dishes from his breakfast on Saturday morning dried in the rack beside the small sink, the apartment’s only luxury. His cot rested beneath the window, the frayed army blanket that he had
somehow managed to keep through all the tribulations after the war was folded carefully on top of the crisp white sheets. A small shelf of books covered the wall beside the wobbly wooden table, and the closet door was open, revealing his only vice, a passion for nice clothing. He had lost his faith in currency in the Great Inflation, but could not bring himself to part with his money. Instead, he invested it in gold when he could, and undeveloped land north of Munich. He would never put his faith in paper again.

He set his duffel inside the closet, then sat on the couch, sinking into the thick cushions. With the flick of a switch he turned on the lamp on the end-table he bought with his first Kripo paycheck. It had cigarette burns now, and a coffee stain that would not come out, but he was still proud of it. The end table was a symbol of his ability to survive, no matter what the world threw at him. He had to remember that, throughout this case.

Carefully, he unfolded the
Post
and read the article:

Engaged? No one had mentioned that. And the only unattached young man at the funeral was Geli’s brother, Leo. How odd that a man who would be planning to marry the girl would not show up to honour her in death.

Frau Reichert had said they quarrelled, and Frau Winter had implied it. Frau Reichert had said that Geli wanted to go to Vienna, which was why they fought, but Frau Winter said Geli had discovered a letter from another woman in Hitler’s pocket, and the jealousy had driven Geli to suicide. A young woman about to marry another man did not kill herself with jealousy over the man she was leaving.

Fritz stared at the paragraph. He had had to go to Vienna himself to get that information, yet the
Post
had it right here. The
Post
was known for its anti-Nazi sympathies. They had to have had a source in NSDAP headquarters, the Brown House. They certainly didn’t get the information from the women, and the body left Munich too quickly. Or had it? He had never checked what train Hess took, nor its arrival time.

He made mental note of that, then continued reading.

The men at the Brown House then deliberated over what should be announced as the cause of the suicide. They agreed to give the reason for Geli’s death as ‘unsatisfied artistic
achievement’. They also discussed the question of who, if something were to happen, should be Hitler’s successor. Gregor Strasser was named…

‘A successor?’ the girl says. ‘They chose a successor to Hitler? Is this true?’

Fritz raises his chin, much as Hess had done at the funeral. Old soldiers had the same reflexes. ‘Everything I tell you is true,’ he says.

‘But the papers, even now not everything they print is true.’

‘This was.’

‘A successor. So that’s why Hess told you about Strasser, because Strasser was the one with something to gain.’ She shakes her head, then breathes out, almost a sigh. ‘Imagine it. A world without Hitler.’

He gazes at her. The dreamy look on her face, so familiar –

He shakes himself, and forces himself to continue.

The
Post
did have a source in the Brown House. There would be no way they would have known this information other-wise. Damn the Chief Inspector. Fritz needed more men. He had needed more men on Saturday. He might have got to Max Amann and Franz Xavier Schwarz before they were able to make up a complete story. He might have been able to break the coalition.

But now he was working behind them, and they knew it. This article showed him that he could not rest. He had to resolve this case quickly. First, he would get Henrich Felke’s help. Then he would cover as much ground as he
could. Someone had murdered Geli Raubal, and the murder was considered important enough by one of Germany’s political parties to instigate a cover-up. They smuggled the body out of the country and then made up a story to hide the facts of her death. The NSDAP was frightened – and with reason.

One of their members might have killed Geli Raubal.

He had to find out who had done so – and soon.

H
e pauses there and pulls his cigar box from under his chair. He opens it and removes the wrapped newspaper clippings from the bottom. The newsprint is yellow and fragile. He must unfold the articles carefully before handing them, one by one, to the girl.

She studies them as if she will be quizzed on them. Absently, she reaches beside her and shuts off the tape. Then she grabs her notepad and writes down the dates.

He has quoted to her the only article he remembers, and he remembers it because it shocked him. The other articles, which he gathered later, are more explicit, given to wild speculations. Each paper had its own idea of what happened. Some were lurid accounts of assassins who arrived planning to kill Hitler, and getting Geli instead. Others speculated that Hitler had shot the girl himself. Still others claimed that Geli was pregnant by a Jew and had to be killed to protect Hitler. She was alternately beautiful in death, beaten to unrecognisability, shot through the head or the heart, and wearing nothing, or a brown robe, or a blue nightgown.

The most accurate report was the one he read first, and the one he concentrated on. But the girl reads them all, that small frown furrowing her brow. Finally, she looks at him and hands him a
brittle clipping. It too is from the
Münchner Post
, although he has a matching one that first appeared in the
Völkischer Beobachter.
It is a letter, signed by Adolf Hitler, which reads:

1) It is not true that I was having fights again and again with my niece Geli Raubal and that we had a substantial quarrel on Friday or any time before that.

2) It is not true that I was decidedly against her going to Vienna. I was never against her planned trip to Vienna.

3) It is not true she was going to get engaged in Vienna or that I was against the engagement. It is true that my niece was tormented with worry that she was not yet fit for her public appearance. She wanted to go to Vienna to have her voice checked once again by a voice teacher.

4) It is not true that I left my apartment on September 18 after a fierce row. There was no row, no excitement, when I left my apartment on that day.

‘It is so defensive,’ the girl says.

‘Yes.’ Fritz stares at the clipping. To this day he is not certain if Hitler actually wrote the document, if one of his cronies did, or if one of his enemies did to discredit him. The statement’s very existence shows the divisions within the NSDAP.

She hands the rest of the clippings back to him, and stands. ‘I want to make you lunch,’ she says. ‘An American lunch.’

For the first time, he notices that she left one bag on the counter when she brought in breakfast. When she had entered, he had been thinking of his dream, of Geli’s brutalised body, and had not watched the girl very closely.

‘Do you miss your American food?’ he asks.

‘A little,’ she says. ‘The meals are so heavy here. I feel as if I have gained eighty pounds.’

She is trim, almost too thin. German women are not that thin. Such thinness, here, is a sign of poverty – at least to men like him. Fat is a sign that a man can afford to feed his family, and feed them well. But Americans have never suffered. They do not understand these matters and try to maintain an unnatural look at all times.

She goes into the kitchen and begins to unload items from the bag. He recognises many of them as canned goods from the American-style supermarket built near the autobahn.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘It looks like a lot, but it won’t take very long.’

‘That’s fine.’ He needs to rest anyway. His throat is dry, has been dry and sore for days. He is not used to talking to anyone. He goes through his days wandering through the English Garden, reading books he buys – often American now – and going to movies of all kinds. When he goes to a beer hall, he speaks to the others at the tables, but he is usually alone. The Chief Inspector died last year of a liver ailment, and Henrich moved to Nuremberg, too sick to care for himself, an invalid in the hands of a daughter he barely knew. Fritz called him once or twice, but to hear hearty Henrich filled with such despair depressed him even farther. Perhaps because they had nothing when they were young, the men of his generation did not believe what they had when they were old. After retirement, life became a simple waiting game, waiting for death, for more tragedy to strike.

Fritz’s life has contracted, even though he has not worked for decades. His resurgent celebrity brought some promotional
appearances, a false camaraderie among the fashionable in Munich and West Berlin, a sense of purpose he had lacked. But that faded, and with it his interest in the world around him. The interest on his money feeds and clothes him, but he has no one to leave the money to. No one will remember Fritz the man after the Fritz the famous Kripo officer is completely and officially dead.

The girl is searching through cupboards in his kitchen, finally removing thin soup bowls he barely remembers he owns. Then she takes his metal ladle and two spoons, and ladles liquid from the stewpot. His stomach growls. He has not been watching her cook. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was.

Finally she brings him a bowl filled with carrots, onions, broccoli, green beans, tomatoes and macaroni in a thick tomato broth. No meat, although he searches for it as he spoons his first bite. Only beans and macaroni. A poor man’s dinner. Still, he smiles and thanks her, and then tastes, surprised at the flavourings she has used.

She watches him like an expectant mother – no one has cared about what he has eaten for decades. He smiles and nods, approving, although he feels vaguely odd about the absent meat. The soup eases his dry, sore throat, and restores him. He hopes she will leave it on the burner all afternoon so that he may refill his bowl whenever his voice gets tired.

She eats her own meal at the table, away from her recorder, staring at his pictures. So far, she has not asked him about them, but it will only be a matter of time. When she does, he is not certain how much he will tell her.