The Hour of the Cat (7 page)

Outside, away from the others, he sits on a bench to enjoy his pipe and muses about the changes that have occurred since the National Socialists came to power. “When times were bad and there was no work to be found, I thought about joining the Communists. But today I'm satisfied with matters as they are.” He is happy also to see Germany's rightful return to its status as a great nation. From inside the tavern comes the sound of an accordion. Voices sing the anthem written by Horst Wessel, hero and martyr of the movement's street-fighting days (thug and pimp in the eyes of the opposition):

“Our pride and prosperity have been restored, and all without a single shot being fired!” he says and taps his foot in time with the music.

—IAN ANDERSON,
Travels in the New Germany

A distant voice, a gentle nudge.

He listened first: drone of traffic, faint but reassuring sound of Berlin going about its business, then opened his eyes. The ceiling came into focus, followed by the broad, empty expanse of Corporal Gresser's East Prussian face, his hair as pale as Vistula sand. Behind him was the mantelpiece with clock and ship's model of the
Dresden
. The solid, reliable world.

“Gresser, I was dreaming, wasn't I?”

“Herr Admiral, you are the judge of that.”

“Did I say anything?”

“You muttered, Herr Admiral, the way sleeping men do.” Gresser moved to the window and pulled open the curtain. In the bathroom next to his office, Admiral Canaris ran cold water and splashed his face. He tried to recall his dream but couldn't. In the mirror, Gresser stood slightly to the rear, towel on his arm.

“I'll have a fresh shirt for you after lunch, Herr Admiral.”

Canaris felt beneath his arms. Perspiration had soaked through. “I'll need a fresh undergarment as well.” He took the towel from Gresser's arms and dried his hands and face. On his desk was a tray with a silver coffeepot, a plate laden with smoked herring, boiled beets, butter-slathered slice of bread.

Gresser poured the cup full, then retreated toward the door.

“Leave the pot,” Canaris said.

“I've typed out your schedule, Herr Admiral. It's beside the phone.”

Lifting the cup with one hand, Canaris slipped on his glasses with the other.
Conference at 3 on the situation in Spain. Meeting with the new British naval attaché at 4. Dr. Arnheim at 5:30.

“Gresser, I didn't ask for an appointment with Arnheim, did I?”

“He requested it with you, Herr Admiral.”

“Didn't you think to check with me first?”

“He was here in person during your nap, Herr Admiral. Said it was urgent that he have a few minutes with you. I checked your schedule. The time is available.”

“Well, call him back. Tell him you were mistaken. Tell him I'm otherwise engaged or been called away on an emergency. Anything.”

A once-a-year obligatory physical was more than enough of Arnheim's ashen face, sharp snout, and sour mouth better suited to an undertaker than a doctor. A high-ranking officer in the National Socialist Physicians League, an old Party man, noted expert in the field of racial hygiene and friend of Dr. Karl Brandt, the Führer's personal physician, Arnheim had lost no time in assuming the practices of first one, then several Jewish doctors who'd been forced to leave the country by the anti-Semitic provisions of the Reich Physicians Ordinance and the Nuremberg Race Laws. He liked to talk. A vexing habit in many doctors, chattering away when they should be quietly focused on their duties. Worse, he gave the same speech at the end of every annual examination.

Good health is part of our duty to the nation and the race. That's why over half the doctors in this country have joined the party! No other profession can make such a boast! Not even lawyers! The Führer is a model for us all. Never smokes. A vegetarian. Refrains from coffee and tea. A living testament to the venerable truth of
mens sana in corpore sano
. A sound mind in a sound body.

The metal dish of Arnheim's stethoscope slid across Canaris's hairless chest, a cold sensation that made him shiver.
You need more exercise, Herr Admiral, and stop drinking so much coffee. Caffeine is ruinous to the stomach. If your bowels bother you, here's the culprit: coffee! The German people look to its leadership for example, Herr Admiral. The Führer's put us in the vanguard of racial health and eugenical progress. We've overtaken the United States in these areas. We must not falter!

Canaris blew on the coffee and took a gulp. Liquid in, liquid out. Chronic diarrhea. He snapped open the gold lighter on his desk and puffed alive the cigarette.
We who are about to shit, salute you!
He walked quickly to the bathroom. The third time today. As soon as he sat, there was a hesitant knock.

“What is it, Gresser?”

“Herr Admiral, while you were asleep, you had a call you may wish to return before too long.” The thick mahogany door made Gresser's voice sound distant and insignificant.

“Speak up, Gresser. Who called?”

“General Heydrich.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” The knot in his stomach seemed to momentarily tighten.

“His secretary said that the General was sorry you couldn't join him for a morning ride. The General is concerned for your health. He wishes you to call.”

“Assuredly, Gresser.” There was little Heydrich needed to be told. He probably read Arnheim's reports before they were typed. Knew better than the patients themselves the condition of heart, brain, liver. Search for some lever. Syphilis. Epilepsy. Alcoholism. Peer at blood specimens through the lens of a microscope to spot any tiny, telltale swarms of Mogen Davids.

Again the knock, the muffled voice.

“What is it now?”

“Your wife, Herr Admiral. She also telephoned. You're meeting her at six-thirty at the Capitol Cinema. She was quite firm. You're not to be late!”

Erika had the Berliner's passion for moviegoing. He rarely went except on occasions like tonight, her birthday, or when she grew sullen and withdrawn, feeling he was neglecting her. Most times they went to American films, especially the romantic comedies, which were her favorite. He found them predictable and boring. He stopped paying attention after a few minutes. He liked the American cartoons, which sometimes preceded the movie, anthropomorphic ducks and rodents in their inevitable melee, a Walpurgisnacht of frenetic
thwacks
and
bonks
from which everyone emerged unscathed.

Once, before the newsreels had acquired their present level of hysteria and bombast, he had seen himself in one. Erika jabbed her elbow into his ribs, “Willi, that's you on the screen!” He was among the dignitaries and officials bidding
bon voyage
to the airship
Graf Zeppelin
as it left from Tempelhof Airport on a mission of polar exploration. Aboard was a company of distinguished scientists and a small group of naval intelligence officers who were undertaking a journey of 8,000 miles that was to be covered in just nine days. The excitement was manifest, the spectators scooting this way and that, waving, saluting. He was on and off the screen in an instant. A casual observer might not have noticed his awkward discomfort at being caught by the camera, but he did, every bit of it, clumsy gestures, half salute, his inane, unnatural smile.

“You're a movie star!” Erika said as they exited the theater.

 

 

He dropped the cigarette butt in the toilet and flushed. It spun around like a ship caught in a maelstrom and vanished down the pipe. He washed his hands. The face in the mirror had black circles beneath the eyes; yellow nicotine stains on the upper and lower teeth. He pushed the hair back from his forehead. A line in a slow retreat. Premature gray giving way to white. Some movie star.

Arnheim was right. He needed more exercise. Once he had been rigorous in his devotion to physical fitness. It was particularly important for sailors who spent months at sea. He'd seen enough officers trussed up in corsets so they'd look suitably trim in their dress uniforms to know the dangers of idleness. He'd walked the decks and went up and down ladders till his legs hurt. On land, he'd been a faithful visitor to the officer's gymnasium. Now, given the demands on his time, the best he managed was horseback riding or the strolls with Lieutenant Colonel Hans Oster, his deputy at the Office of Military Intelligence. But it would be untrue, he knew, to ascribe the strolls to a desire to stay fit. It was Oster's outspokenness—more and more venturing beyond frankness to recklessness—which drove him outdoors, away from the casual eavesdropping of co-workers or subordinates or passersby.

Canaris was barely back at his desk when Oster entered in his usual manner, sauntering past Gresser and not bothering to knock. He'd ignored complaints about his unannounced entries for so long that Canaris stopped making them. Oster fell onto the couch, sprawling rather than sitting.

Although only a year older, Canaris felt far senior, like a professor indulging a bright but undisciplined undergraduate. He recognized in Oster one of a type: the veterans forever changed by the
fronterlebnis
, the shared experience of the Western Front. They were marked by the same insouciance and cynicism; the same adolescent impatience with rank and routine; the same spirit that helped drive the Freikorps, the soldiers and sailors who'd joined together at the war's end to put down the Reds. It had also been on display in the Brown Shirts, or SA, the Storm Troopers who'd spearheaded the rise of the National Socialists. Like the vast majority of the officer corps, Oster had been in sympathy with them at the start. But, unlike most, he'd soured rapidly on what he saw as a regime incurably poisoned by thuggery, corruption, and overreaching ambition. To one degree or another, there were other officers with similar opinions, a relatively small percentage to be sure, but few as poor at masking their contempt as Oster.

“Have you seen Piekenbrock's report?” Oster said.

“You know my feelings on the matter.” Canaris initialed a stack of requisition forms. He would not be drawn in. He had stated his views on the subject emphatically, so no one could infer a different interpretation, or leap from a criticism of particular acts to an attack on the regime.

“You've read it?”

“Of course.” The actions that had followed the annexation of Austria in March, the orgy of SS confiscation and violence directed primarily at the Jews, had become a constant theme of Oster's visits. He had underscored parts of Colonel Hans Piekenbrock's confidential summary so Canaris couldn't miss them.
SS Officers Kaltenbrunner, Globocnik, and Eichmann were particularly odious and brutal in their behavior. The regular army made no attempt to stop or mitigate their conduct, and in many ways abetted it. The SS and Gestapo proceeded with impunity.

“A vile bunch.”

“I have said all I'm going to say on the matter.” Canaris said it publicly, glass in hand, at the Naval Ball held a few days after the annexation, into a microphone:
All of us are still dazzled by the experience of the great German consolidation. It exalts every heart!

The audience answered in a single unanimous shout:
Heil Hitler!

From his first days with Military Intelligence, Oster had made it clear that he would say what was on his mind and if Canaris didn't like it, he was welcome to dismiss or arrest him, whatever he pleased. Occasionally, he warned Oster about the tone of his remarks and the ease with which they could be misconstrued as treasonous, especially his acerbic asides on the regime's leading personalities. It did little good. Several weeks before, he'd taken Oster with him to attend a reception for a visiting delegation of Japanese military officers in the new Reichschancellery, on the Wilhelm-strasse. It was Oster's first visit inside the still-unfinished building, and he seemed on his best behavior, as reserved and stiffly formal as the other members of the officer corps present.

On the way out, they walked beside the building's architect, Albert Speer, who didn't lose a moment in underlining how close he was to the Führer and how the Reichschancellery was just a small foretaste of their plans for rebuilding Berlin on a truly heroic scale. Oster stopped to gaze at Arno Breker's towering bronze nudes,
The Party
and
The Army.
He pointed at their genitals. “Here we have a perfect recapitulation of your architecture, Herr Speer. Oversized but flaccid.” Oster strolled ahead and left Canaris standing with the flustered architect.

Oster rose from the couch and prowled the room. “Sooner or later, our Austrian corporal will push too far,” Oster said. “There are no restraints. We'll be plunged into a war we cannot win. It's only a matter of time. Mark my words.”

Outside, Gresser was at his desk. Figures moved past in the corridor: secretaries, orderlies, officers. Was it only a matter of time before someone overheard and repeated it to those whose business it was to nose out such sentiments? “Come,” said Canaris. “Let's go for a stroll on the Embankment. My doctor advises I need more fresh air and exercise.” They walked to the main entrance of the War Ministry, past the busts of Moltke and Blücher, Prussia's two great vanquishers of the French, out along the Tirpitz Embankment, beside the canal. Across the hall, stuck in a corner, was a small bust of Baron von der Goltz, Prussia's original spymaster. He had formed what was among Europe's first professional intelligence services at the behest of Frederick the Great, the king who'd abolished torture as an instrument of state.