The Hunt (aka 27) Read online

  "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 of politics, his observations were accurate. Die Sturmabteilung, the SA, were Hitler's personal storm troopers. Ruffians and thugs, most of the brownshirts had originally been recruited from prisons or from beer halls where they were bouncers. They had become an undisciplined paramilitary force. Marching through 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 engaged 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 was 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 reason you are here."

  "I have little in common with Röhm 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 hate 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?" He 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 enemies. 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 other 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 to be speaking to all the unseen hordes of disenfranchised Germans out there somewhere. And his fervor was hypnotic. Ingersoll's heart began to race. Then just as quickly the voice became quiet again. He turned back to Ingersoll, his eyes still burning with the fever of power.

&nbs
p; "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 and 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, mein 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.

  SIX

  As cold as Vierhaus obviously was, he stood outside the tea house and knocked. Hitler waved him in.

  "My God it's cold out there," he complained as he burst through the door. "That trooper out there says it's ten below freezing!"

  He scrambled to the fire and immediately stood with his back to it, hiding the mound on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and shivered as the crackling flames warmed him.

  "We'll have to start a war in Africa, Willie, just so you can be comfortable," Hitler said.

  "Worse, much worse," Vierhaus answered. "Dust. I think dust is worse than the cold."

  "Everybody to their own discomfort," Hitler said. "Hans hates mud worse than cold. You hate dust worse than cold."

  "And you, mein Führer, what do you hate worse than cold?"

  "Failure," Hitler said.

  "Sometimes they go together," Vierhaus said. "Napoleon met both in Russia."

  "The trouble with the French is they always put more on their plate than they can eat," Ingersoll said, fixing a sandwich.

  "The trouble with the French is that they have no stomach for fighting," Hitler added. "They'd rather make love than win a battle."

  "At the Somme I saw a whole battalion of infantry turn their backs on us and run," Ingersoll said, nibbling on the sandwich and washing it down with a swallow of wine. "As far as the eye could see, nothing but French behinds."

  "A lovely sight, I'll bet," Vierhaus said and laughed.

  "Absolutely beautiful," Ingersoll answered.

  "Probably running back to Paris to find a bottle of wine and a Fräulein for the night," Hitler said, chuckling. "Can you believe they actually think their Maginot line will stop us? Ha! A concrete cow fence is going to stop the Wehrmacht? I can hardly wait for that day."

  He snipped off another piece of sausage and chewed it passionately, rolling the meat around on his tongue, sucking every gram of juice from it before swallowing.

  "It's beginning to snow, Führer," Vierhaus said. "The plane from Berlin may have a problem landing in Linz."

  "I'm sure Hermann will not let his pilot turn back. The head of the Luftwaffe will not be denied by a little snow."

  "Well, there is good news. Albert's plane has landed. He is on his way up from the village at this very moment."

  "Splendid!"

  "I left a message for him to come on down when he arrives. I trust that's all right?" Vierhaus said.

  "Yes, yes," Hitler quickly agreed. "I am anxious for Speer and Hans here to get together. Two creative geniuses matching wits, that should be stimulating."

  He stood up and joined Vierhaus in front of the fireplace, his back to the flames, his hands clasped behind his back.

  "I had hoped Leni Riefenstahl could be here but she is finishing a film. When Leni is finishing a film she is as if . . . in a trance."

  "Fritz Lang thinks she's one of the greatest cinematographers alive today," Ingersoll said.

  "One of?" said Hitler. "She is the greatest cinematographer alive today. That is why she is the official cameraman of the Third Reich. Take Speer, for instance. Speer has majestic vision. It is impossible for him to think small. If I asked for a pebble he would deliver me a mountain."

  "I saw the Brown House this morning," Ingersoll said. "It's magnificent."

  "Tell him," Hitler said. "He loves to be flattered, although he tries not to show it."

  "I hope he brings the Nuremberg model," Vierhaus said.

  "Everything Albert does soars," Hitler said. "He is my architect because he lifts Germany's spirits. But the stadium at Nuremberg, it will be a symbol. I will promise you this, when we hold the rally to celebrate its completion, every German will know that the Third Reich is their destiny."

  He stood in front of Ingersoll and clenched his fists tightly against his chest.

  "You see, what I am talking about is pride, Schauspieler. Hitler is pride. Speer is pride. Wagner is pride." He paused for effect, leaned an inch closer to Ingersoll. "Johann Ingersoll is pride."

  Now for the pièce de résistance.

  He leaned closer to Ingersoll, glancing for a moment at Vierhaus, then settling his hard, almost fevered stare on Johann Ingersoll.

  "I am sure you are familiar with the Schutzstaffel, the SS, my personal elite corps. More powerful than the army, the SA, and the police all put together. Himmler is in charge. You have seen the uniform?"

  "The black is very impressive," Ingersoll said.

  "You have brought great credit to the Fatherland," Hitler went on. "It would be to my advantage, and I think to yours, if you would accept a commission in the Schutzstaffel."

  Ingersoll was stunned. "A commission? For doing what?"

  "You will be my personal representative in the world of the arts. Wearing the uniform at official events will give the SS added prestige and respect. I was thinking perhaps . . . Colonel Hans Wolfe."

  A colonell Ingersoll said to himself. My God, a colonel in Hitler's own elite corps.

  "I am flattered, mein Führer."

  "You will accept then?"

  "With honor, sir!"

  "Excellent! Willie, get me the Bible from that table over there. I will administer the oath personally."

  "Yes, mein Führer."

  Vierhaus got the Bible and handed it to Ingersoll.

  "Raise your right hand and repeat after me," said Hitler.

  Ingersoll held the Bible in his left hand and raised his right.

  Hitler repeated the oath of the SS:"I swear to thee Adolf Hitler,

  As Führer and Chancellor of the German Reich,

  Loyalty and bravery.

  I vow to thee and to the superiors

  Whom thou shalt appoint

  Obedience unto death,

  So help me God."

  Ingersoll repeated the entire oath verbatim.

  Hitler smiled and held out his hand.

  "Congratulations, Colonel. I will put you in touch with my personal tailor in Berlin. Your uniform will be my gift. Along with this."

  Hitler held his hand out. Vierhaus took a package from his coat pocket and gave it to him. It was wrapped as a present, a long slender box, about a foot long, four or five inches wide. Hitler offered it to Ingersoll.

  "Congratulations," he said with a smile. Yet, as Ingersoll met his gaze, he saw more than a smile. He saw pride. And he saw anticipation.

  The actor slowly took the package in both hands and stared at it a moment. Subconsciously he hefted it once or twice, a throwback to his childhood when the heaviest gifts were always the best. It was heavy enough.

  "Open it, open it," Hitler said impatiently.

  Ingersoll put it on the edge of the table and took off
the wrapping paper. It was a mahogany box. Inside was a dagger, the official SS long knife, ebony handled with a gleaming double-edged blade almost a foot long scabbarded in black leather. On the hilt was the official SS insignia, two jagged lightning streaks in gold. He turned it over and on the opposite side of the handle was a golden eagle perched on a wreath which encircled a diamond-studded swastika. He drew the dagger from its scabbard. Just below the hilt, pressed into the steel, were the initials "A.H."

  Ingersoll was struck dumb. In a matter of moments he had been commissioned a colonel in the SS and presented with a personal gift signed by the Führer.

  He looked at Hitler with adoration.

  "I can tell you this now," he stammered. "Although we have been keeping it a very guarded secret. I've made five horror films in less than two years and frankly, I want to get away from these thrillers, play a dramatic part. Stretch my talent. We plan to have the world premiere of Der Nacht Hund on February twenty-seventh in the Kroll. On that night I plan to appear as myself and end this publicity charade. It's become a terrible burden. Now I can go as Colonel Hans Wolfe. The publicity impact will be even greater!"

  Hitler looked at Vierhaus for a moment and pursed his lips.

  Now is the time, Hitler thought. He is ready.

  Hitler began to stride the room, hands behind his back, slapping a fist into the palm of his other hand. He stared at the ceiling of the room as he spoke.

  "You have a unique combination of talents, my friend. You are a superb actor. You speak four languages fluently, you are a master of dialects and accents. You are a master of disguise, a soldier and a survivalist, an acrobat. You believe in the Third Reich. And . . . you are a killer. Two squads of American Marines in one encounter, correct?"

  He stopped and looked down at Ingersoll.

  "Yes, Führer, that is correct."

  "Was it difficult? The killing, I mean?"

  Ingersoll stared at him for a few seconds and smiled. "On the contrary, Führer, it was very satisfying," he said.

  "There, you see," Hitler said, spreading his arms to his sides. "Unique talents. One of a kind. Did I tell you, Willie?"