Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

“But there’s a war on,” I objected. “Who the hell is going to come, Arthur?”

“You’d be surprised. The French Sûreté, of course. They love a good feast and any chance to air their opinions. The Swedes. The Danes. The Spanish. The Italians. The Romanians. Even the Swiss are coming. And the Gestapo, of course. We mustn’t forget them. Frankly, it’s almost everyone except the British. Oh, there’s no shortage of delegates, I can assure you. The trouble is that I’ve been given the task of organizing a program of speakers. And I’m scratching around for some names.”

“Oh, no. You don’t mean—”

“I do mean. It’s all hands on deck for this one, I’m afraid. I thought you might talk about how you caught Gormann, the strangler. Even outside Germany that’s a famous case. Forty minutes, if you can manage it.”

“That’s not scratching, Arthur. That’s scraping. Gormann was almost fifteen years ago. Look, there must be someone else in your new police building on Werderscher Markt.”

“Of course there is. Commissioner Lüdtke is already drafted in. And before you suggest them, so are Kurt Daluege and Bernhard Wehner. But we’re still a couple of speakers short for a conference that lasts for two whole days.”

“What about Otto Steinäusl? He used to be the IKPK president, didn’t he?”

“Died of TB, in Vienna, year before last.”

“That other fellow in Prague. Heinz Pannwitz.”

“He’s a thug, Bernie. I doubt he could speak for five minutes before he used a swearword or started beating the lectern with a cosh.”

“Schellenberg.”

“Too secretive. And much too aloof.”

“All right, what about that fellow who caught Ogorzow — the S-Bahn murderer? That was only last year. Heuser, Georg. That’s the fellow you should get.”

“Heuser is the head of Gestapo, in Minsk,” said Nebe. “Besides, since Heuser caught Ogorzow, Lüdtke is terribly jealous of him. That’s why he’s going to stay in Minsk for the time being. No, you’re it, I’m afraid.”

“Stopgap Lüdtke’s not exactly fond of me, either. You are aware of that.”

“He’ll damn well do what I tell him. Besides, there’s no one who’s jealous of you, Bernie. Least of all Lüdtke. You’re no threat to anyone. Not anymore. Your career is going nowhere. You could have been a general now, like me, if you’d played your cards right.”

I shrugged. “Believe me, I’m a disappointment to myself most of all. But I’m not a speaker, Arthur. Sure, I’ve handled a few press conferences in my time, however, they were nothing like what you’re asking. I’ll be terrible. My idea of public speaking is to shout for a beer from the back of the bar.”

Nebe grinned and tried to puff his Havana back into life; it took a bit of doing but he finally managed to get the cigar going. I could tell he was thinking of me while he went about it.

“I’m counting on you being crap,” he said. “In fact, I expect every one of our speakers will be bloody awful. I’m hoping the whole IKPK conference is so fucking boring that we’ll never have to do another one again. It’s ridiculous talking about international crime while the Nazis are busy committing the international crime of the century.”

“First time I’ve ever heard you call it that, Arthur.”

“I said it to you, so it doesn’t count.”

“Suppose I say something out of turn? Something to embarrass you. I mean, just think who’ll be there. The last time I met Himmler, he kicked me on the shin.”

“I remember that.” Nebe grinned. “It was priceless.” He shook his head. “No, you needn’t worry about putting your foot in the German butter. When you’ve written your speech you’ll have to submit the whole text to the Ministry for Propaganda and National Enlightenment. They’ll put it into proper, politically correct German. State Secretary Gutterer has agreed to cast his eye over everyone’s speeches. He’s SS anyway so there shouldn’t be a problem between our departments. It’s in his interest if everyone sounds even duller than him.”

“I feel reassured already. Jesus, what a farce. Is Chaplin speaking, too?”

Nebe shook his head. “You know, one day I think someone really will shoot you. And that will be goodbye, Bernie Gunther.”

“Nothing says goodbye quite like a bullet from a nine-millimeter Walther.”

In the distance, at the shimmering edge of the lake, I could just about make out the schoolteacher, Kirsten. She and her shapely friends were now disembarking at the jetty in front of the Swedish Pavilion. I collected the oars and started to row again, only this time I was putting my back into it. Nebe hadn’t asked and I didn’t tell him, but I like pretty girls. That’s my worldview.

Ever since the Second Reich, Berlin’s city architects have been trying to make its citizens feel small and insignificant, and the new wing of the Reich Ministry of Propaganda and National Enlightenment was no exception. Located on Wilhelmplatz, and just a stone’s throw from the Reich Chancellery, it looked very much like the Ministry of Aviation on the corner of Leipziger Strasse. Looking at them side by side it would have been easy to imagine that the architect, Albert Speer, had managed to mix up his drawings of these two gray stone buildings, so closely did they resemble each other. Since February, Speer was the minister of Armaments and War, and I hoped he was going to make a better job of doing that than he had of being Hitler’s court architect. It’s said that Giotto could draw a perfect circle with just one turn of his hand; Speer could draw a perfectly straight line — at least he could with a ruler — and not much else. Straight lines were what he was obviously good at drawing. I used to sketch quite a good elephant, myself, but there’s not much call for that when you’re an architect. Unless the elephant is white, of course.

I’d read in the Volkischer Beobachter that the Nazis didn’t much like German modernism — buildings like the technical university in Weimar, and a trade union building in Bernau. They thought modernism was un-German and cosmopolitan, whatever that meant. Actually, I think it probably meant that the Nazis didn’t feel comfortable living and working in city offices designed by Jews that were mostly made of glass, in case they suddenly had to fight off a revolution. It would have been a lot easier defending a stone building like the Ministry of Propaganda and National Enlightenment than it would have been defending the Bauhaus in Dessau. A German art historian — probably another Jew — once said that God was in the details. I like details, but for the Nazis a soldier positioned in a high window with a loaded machine gun looked like it offered more comfort than anything as capricious and unreliable as a god. From any one of the new ministry’s small, regular windows a man with an MP40 commanded a clear field of fire across the whole of Wilhelmplatz and could comfortably have held an intoxicated Berlin mob at bay for as long as our handsome new minister of Armaments and War could keep him supplied with ammunition. All the same, it was a contest I should have enjoyed watching. There’s nothing quite like a Berlin mob at play.

Inside the ministry things were a little less rusticated and more like a sleek, modern ocean liner; everything was burred walnut, cream walls, and thick fawn carpets. In the ballroom-sized entrance hall, underneath an enormous portrait of Hitler — without which no German ministry could possibly do its work — was an outsized scalloped vase of white gardenias that perfumed the whole building and doubtless helped conceal the prevailing smell of billy goat shit that’s an inevitable corollary of national enlightenment in Nazi Germany, and which otherwise might have offended the nostrils of our glorious leader.