Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

But I could restrain myself no longer and to this I replied: “That such a beautiful woman as Dragica could have a father like you simply beggars belief.”

At which point Geiger hustled me back to the car and we drove quickly away before the mad Croatian colonel could say or do anything.

Now, as I sat there in the cathedral, the confessional door opened and a young officer of the SS stepped out of the booth, and I wondered to what it was he had just confessed. Murder, perhaps? And could absolution ever be given for what we Germans had set into motion in that country? The Roman Catholics probably thought it could. That was the belief they lived by. Me, I rather doubted it. Later on, I walked to a jewel of a park, lay down, and stared numbly at the shiny grass and thought the ants and the bees were more deserving of God’s mercy than me. For was I not German? And had not we Germans put dreadful monsters like the Ustaše and Colonel Dragan into power? Then again, maybe Geiger was right after all. Maybe all men were somehow at fault. The Belgians had done some dreadful things in the Congo, as had the British in India and Australia. The Spanish had little to feel proud of in the way they had raped South America. Would the Armenians ever forgive the Turks? And the Russians — well, you could hardly leave them out of the evil equation, either. How many millions of deaths had Lenin and Stalin ordered? I had seen the evidence of that at Katyn. Were the Germans so very different from everyone else? And would an apology ever be enough? Only time would tell. One day in the future the dead would speak from the past about what was being done here in the present.

Goebbels listened carefully to what I was saying.

It was just the two of us, in his vast office at the ministry again. Given who he was, it was hard to imagine me talking and him just listening, but that’s how it was. The monkey instructing the organ-grinder. I wondered if anyone had ever told him of some of the terrible things that were being done in Germany’s name. While I seemed to be talking only about what was happening in the former Yugoslavia, I was also indirectly referring to what was happening on our Eastern Front. I certainly wouldn’t and couldn’t have mentioned this in any more of a direct way. And Goebbels was much too intelligent not to realize this. If anyone knew when words could mean more than they appeared to mean, it was him. With a PhD from Heidelberg, Goebbels was perhaps the most intelligent Nazi I’d ever met; certainly more intelligent than Heydrich, and that was saying something. I suppose he must have let me talk like this for ten or fifteen minutes without interruption. The head of the film studio had given me this supporting role, and now he was obliged to see and hear what I’d made of it. But finally he sat forward on the sofa and lifted one of his delicate, womanly hands to say something:

“There’s no doubt that some terrible things are being done in this war, on both sides. Let’s be clear about that. Last night there was an exceptionally heavy raid on Hamburg with most serious consequences for the civilian population. Five hundred British planes attacked and bombed the city indiscriminately. For the moment no one can estimate how many German women and children were killed. But I can tell you it’s hundreds, perhaps thousands. Not only that, but almost two hundred thousand people have just been made homeless, and I don’t know how we’re going to solve that problem. Altona was especially hard hit. That’s a real catastrophe, just as what’s happening in Croatia is a catastrophe, too. I’ll admit that. But this stupid historic enmity between Slavs is a complete sideshow to the real war. Germany’s war. So our first thoughts have to be about what’s happening here, at home. If our people ever lose their will to resist, I don’t have to tell you what will happen. The most serious crisis this country has ever faced. The Russians will do to this country and to our people what the Ustaše are doing now in Croatia. There can be no doubt about that. I know you don’t want that, Gunther. No one does.”

As Goebbels moved his head in an avian sort of way I realized that with his black hair and beaky nose he reminded me most of a carrion crow.

“I agree with you,” he continued. “This fellow Colonel Dragan sounds like an absolute monster. A murderous beast from the deepest pit in hell. I must confess I had no idea that something like this might happen. He used to be a priest, after all. You don’t expect priests to become murderers, do you? Although of course Stalin trained for the priesthood before becoming a bank robber. No, if I’d known that such a thing was even possible, I’d never have sent you down there. And I can see you’ve had an awful time of it, Gunther. I’m sorry about that. But you’re back home now and the present question is, what are we going to tell poor Dalia? After all, we — you, probably — will have to tell her something. But what? Like most actresses, she’s sensitive. Temperamental. Emotional. Well, you know that already. By the way, she spoke very highly of you. Very highly indeed. You seem to have made quite an impression on her. Considering yours was such a short acquaintance.”

I lit a cigarette and wondered how much Goebbels knew about what had happened between his star and me. I didn’t for a minute think that Dalia would have told him that we’d slept together; but he was smart, and even a suspicion on his part that there was something between us would have been disastrous for me. Just because there weren’t any thugs in the ministry didn’t mean Goebbels couldn’t pick up the phone to Prinz Albrechtstrasse and have me in a Gestapo cell in the time it took for him to unlace his surgical boot.

“I thought that you wanted me to impress her, sir. Someone with special skills, you said. A detective with a proven reputation, you said.”

“Did I say that?”

“You’re not someone who’s in the habit of being vague about what he says. Or not remembering it. I think we both know that the lady needs a lot of very careful handling. I had the idea that you wanted me to make her believe that I wasn’t just some ministry stooge sent by you to smooth things over so you could get her back to work on this picture. That I really was a proper detective and that I stood a genuine chance of tracing this fellow. Which I did. Against considerable odds, and no small danger to myself, I might add.”

“The garden was actually decorated with human heads?”

“Like it was landscaped by Salome and Bluebeard. Just to be there made my neck itch.”

“I don’t think there can be any possibility of inviting such a man here to Berlin. That’s the substance of his letter to her, apparently. He wants to come and visit her at the studio.”

“You’ve read it?”

“I had it translated from Croat. Yes, I’ve read it. Colonel Dragan says he wants to come and visit her as soon as possible. Well, you can hardly blame a man for wanting to see his estranged daughter, I suppose. Especially when she’s a famous movie actress.”

I pulled a face.

“What?” he asked.

“The man is a homicidal maniac. I don’t think that I would welcome the news that my father was the most unspeakable war criminal who takes pleasure in cutting hundreds of throats in one day. Let alone him turning up on my doorstep.”

“No,” said Goebbels. “Neither would I. There’s also the publicity value to consider. If it got out that her father was a mass murderer, it might easily affect her career as an actress, not to mention the current picture. Germans like their leading ladies to appear virtuous, spotless, pure. I know I do. They don’t want them to have an Igor figure in the top tower. All of which persuades me that perhaps we shouldn’t give her his letter, either.”