Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

“That’s up to you. Fortunately I don’t have to make that decision. About his letter or what to tell her.”

“Nevertheless, since you’re going to see her again — that’s the professional thing to do, isn’t it? That’s what you would do if you were a private detective? You would go and speak to the client?”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

“Then in view of that, your input would be greatly appreciated. We have to put our heads together and figure out what to do, for her sake. How we’re going to tell her what we’re going to tell her without further jeopardizing this movie.”

“All right, then. Try this hat on for size. I went to the monastery in Banja Luka to look for Antun Djurkovic, also known as Father Ladislaus. Dalia had already sent some letters there before. But they hadn’t been answered. So how about we say they hadn’t been answered because he’s dead? The Father Abbot I spoke to said as much. I don’t know what kind of priest he was but Father Ladislaus is now Colonel Dragan. And it might be kinder if she never knew that.”

“So, Captain Gunther, your advice is that we lie to the woman, about her own father?” Goebbels laughed. “In case you had forgotten, this is the Ministry of Truth.”

I hadn’t forgotten, of course; in his white summer suit Goebbels almost looked like someone you could trust; but given the number of lies cooked up in that place I didn’t think one more — one meant kindly — could possibly make a difference in the scheme of things. All the same I wasn’t about to tell him that. On the whole it’s not wise to remind the devil that he’s the devil, especially when we were getting on so well.

“And you think you can say this to Dalia without her guessing that it is a lie? It’s not everyone who can lie and get away with it. Once you lie you have to stick with it. You have to keep up the lie, even at the risk of looking ridiculous. Just as often you have to lie again to protect the one you told the first time. Lies are like rabbits. One lie gives birth to another. Believe me, Gunther, I know what I’m talking about. And she’s a smart woman. Are you sure you can convince her? Are you inventive enough?”

“Can I be honest, sir?”

“You can try.”

“The fact is, I’ve been lying my head off for the last ten years.”

Goebbels laughed. “I see what you mean. Since the Nazis came to power. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“It was easier to stay alive that way. At least it was for someone who used to be a social democrat. But then you must know that. It’s why you picked me for this job, after all. Because I’m not a Nazi. Like you said, it’s all in my file.”

He nodded. “You know, we still have too many philistines in the Party. I must say, I should prefer to have you on board as a colleague than some of the others I have to meet with. A little late in the day, perhaps, but I’m going to get you a membership in the National Socialist Party. Believe me, it will be to your advantage. And you can leave it all to me. I’m still the Berlin Gauleiter. You won’t have to do anything. Except sign the papers.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Goebbels laughed again. “Your gratitude overwhelms me. I like you, Gunther. I don’t know why, but I do.”

“And I like her, sir,” I said, quickly changing the subject. “I like her a lot. Enough to want to protect her from something like this. Because the alternative is that I tell her the truth and she has to live with that knowledge for the rest of her life. There’s no telling what that will do to a person.”

For a moment I wondered what Goebbels’s several children would think about their father’s crimes when, one day, the Nazis were history.

Goebbels nodded. “You’re right. No one should have to go through life bearing that kind of cross. The lie would certainly be kinder in this case. And it might be hard for her to play the leading role in this film knowing her father was a monster like this man you met.” He thought for a moment. “She’s in Zurich right now. With her useless fucking husband. You’ll have to go there and speak to her in person.”

“What’s he like?”

“Dr. Obrenovic? Rich. Very rich. Old. At least — much older than her. He’s everything you might expect of a Swiss lawyer, apart from the fact that he’s vaguely related to the former king of Serbia.” Goebbels snapped his fingers. “You know?”

“I know. Alexander the First. The one who got himself assassinated in Marseille.”

“No, actually that was another Alexander. Alexander of Yugoslavia. I’m talking about Alexander of Serbia. But as it happens, he also managed to get himself assassinated, by some army officers in 1903. What a people they are for assassinations, eh? Like something out of Italy under the Borgias.”

“You want me to go to Zurich?”

“Well, I can hardly go myself. I think the Swiss government might have something to say about that. Besides, it might be a nice break for you after Zagreb. Zurich has some fine hotels. That’s one thing the Swiss do very well. In all other respects they’re as much of a bloody nuisance as the Serbs and the Croats. But for the Swiss, we could have offered Mussolini and Kesselring our immediate support in the present crisis without a second thought. As it is, we’ll have to send troops the long way round through Austria and France.”

“I’ve never been to Switzerland,” I said. “But it’s got to be better than Croatia.”

“I’ll speak to the Foreign Ministry,” said Goebbels. “Have them fix it up for you to go there immediately. No, wait a minute. There’s none of them who strike me as particularly competent. I met the new undersecretary the other day — a man named Steengracht von Moyland. Another damned aristocrat. Utterly mediocre. No, I’ll speak to Walter Schellenberg, in SD Foreign Intelligence. After all, you’re SD, too. He’s smart. He’ll know the best way to get you into the country. And the best hotel, too, probably. I’ll say one thing for Schellenberg, he’s a well-traveled man, considering we’re at war.”

“Might be nice, at that,” I said.

“There’s just one problem, as I see it.” Goebbels grinned. “You’re going to have to get married.”

I heard myself swallow. “Married? I don’t think I understand.”

“Oh, it’s quite simple. The only way our government can make absolutely sure that any citizen will come back here from somewhere like Switzerland is if they have family in Germany. Which you don’t. At least not yet.”

“I don’t think that’s about to change very soon,” I said.

“Don’t say that, Gunther. Take it from me, the love of a sweet woman is one of the great pleasures of life.”

“Perhaps that’s true but there’s no woman who’s sweet enough to take me on right now.”

Goebbels stood up and almost disappeared as he limped behind his desk, where he began to turn the pages of a file. “What about this woman you’ve been seeing?” He pulled a page out of the folder and came around his desk again. “The schoolteacher at the Fichte Gymnasium on Emser Strasse. Kirsten Handlöser.”

“What about her?”

“Couldn’t you marry her? She’s single.”

“There’s the small matter of her not being in love with me. And my not being in love with her. Frankly, sir, I don’t want to be married.”

“Perhaps. But there’s this to consider. More importantly. For her, anyway. Which is that you’d be doing her a favor.”

“How’s that?”

“Quite apart from the fact that as a woman it’s her patriotic duty to be married and to have children — like my own wife, Magda — you’d also be keeping her out of trouble.”

I stiffened. Whatever was coming around the mountain clearly was going to be something I didn’t like. I was beginning to understand that in real life Goebbels operated in the same schizophrenic way he did in his public speaking: seductive and persuasive one minute, intimidating and coercive the next.