Philip Kerr - The Lady from Zagreb

“What kind of trouble?” I asked.

Goebbels uttered a harsh sort of laugh.

“There is only one kind of trouble in Germany, Gunther. The serious kind. It seems that a week or two ago some SD men turned up at her school, to conduct a sort of survey. They were asking questions about why none of the girls in her school have chosen to be evacuated from Berlin to a KLV camp. To escape the bombing. The KLVs haven’t been as popular as might reasonably have been supposed. Anyway, it seems Fräulein Handlöser was less than complimentary about the sort of boys that are to be found in these camps. She even suggested that any decent parent would avoid sending their girls to a KLV at all costs. I’m afraid that she’s going to be questioned again about her whole general attitude. There are some who might regard what she had to say about the Hitler Youth as antisocial behavior, under the 1939 Decree Against National Pests. Under the War Offenders Decree, what she said might even count as undermining the war effort. She could easily find herself doing six months at Brandenburg Prison, to say nothing of losing her job at the school. Of course, it would certainly count in her favor if an SD man and a Party member — albeit a new Party member — were to marry her. Yes, even if the SD man were you, Gunther. It would demonstrate your good faith in her. Especially as I myself would certainly send a letter to the SD to tell them of my confidence in you, as well as to bless your union. Which would count as a reference for you both. And thereby remove any possibility of a prison sentence.”

“Suppose she doesn’t want to get married? Suppose she sees six months in prison as the lesser of two evils?”

“Did I say six months? It could even be worse than that. The war isn’t going so well right now. It might just be that some judge like Roland Freisler decides to make an example of her. He’s become rather severe of late. You heard what happened to those idiotic students in Munich. And to Max Sievers.”

I nodded.

“So, it’s up to you to convince her, isn’t it?”

I chose my next words carefully. “It’s kind of you to take an interest in my personal affairs. But there’s just one problem as far as I can see it. And it’s perhaps one reason why I haven’t married before. At the risk of a prosecution for antisocial remarks myself, there’s this stupid thing called the Bride School, which all SS and SD brides are obliged to attend, to prevent the men from marrying unsuitable women. Quite apart from the fact that unsuitable women are the only ones I’m ever really interested in, there’s the fact that the women attending the school have to study childcare, sewing, obedience in marriage, and, at the end of it, there’s a certificate issued without which the marriage is deemed invalid. Something like that, anyway. Apparently all that takes several months. I can’t see how I can get married in sufficient time to go to Switzerland as quickly as you want.”

Goebbels folded his arms and looked thoughtful, the way I’d seen him do when making a speech on the newsreels.

“Yes, I remember now. More of Himmler’s mad ideas about blood and matrimony. As always, he makes the master race sound like a matter of getting the right badges in the Boy Scouts. Look, I’ll speak to Schellenberg about this, too. I’m sure there’s a way around this nonsense.” He grinned. “Besides, Dalia’s husband — Dr. Obrenovic — will feel a lot more comfortable about a handsome fellow like you meeting with his wife knowing that you’re a happily married man. And so will I. Yes. I’ll make a respectable fellow of you yet, Captain Gunther. Nothing is impossible when you put your mind to it.” He laughed. “Nothing is impossible. Try to remember that when you’re in Zurich. Just make sure you bring Dalia back. Even if you have to kidnap her.”

The next day I caught the S-Bahn to Berlin West to see Walter Schellenberg. He sat behind his neatly arranged desk, smiling his sardonic smile, stroking his own smooth face or fiddling with the shiny Iron Cross on his breast pocket, and looking like a clever schoolboy who’d sneaked in the back door of the SD building on Berkaerstrasse, tried on a discarded uniform and discovered that, while it was very obviously a size too large, no one was about to challenge the general’s cauliflower on his lapels. Certainly not in Germany, where it was never much of a handicap to look like you were physically unsuited to high office. Goebbels was the living proof of that and no one looked more ridiculous in military uniform than him, except perhaps Fat Hermann, although that had more to do with his white peacock uniforms than the man himself. Schellenberg wasn’t a lot bigger than Goebbels but as befits a Foreign Intelligence chief, perhaps, much more quietly spoken than the Reich Minister, and handsome with it. Now that I knew him a little better I could see how he was probably just as cynical as Heydrich except that there was something in his character — perhaps it was French upbringing, Schellenberg having spent much of his early life in Luxembourg — that made you call it pragmatism.

Major Eggen was there, too, because of his extensive knowledge of Switzerland, which must certainly have included the best jewelry stores in Zurich and Geneva, given the presence of a handsome gold Rolex on his wrist. Altogether bigger than the general, Eggen had the look of a successful surgeon or a masseur — the one who treated both Himmler and Schellenberg, perhaps. The two men made a token effort not to enjoy my predicament, but it was no good. They were soon laughing and making jokes at my expense. This was fine by me; I always seemed to have a seemingly endless amount of acute discomfort to go around.

“I’ve heard of an arranged marriage,” Schellenberg said. “I’ve even heard of a marriage of convenience. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a marriage of inconvenience. Have you, Hans?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“You won’t say that when you see her,” I said, trying to make the best of it. “She’s actually quite a beauty. You can ask General Nebe. He’s met the girl. Besides, I’ve every confidence she’ll turn me down, and then I won’t be able to go to Switzerland on this fool’s errand.”

“Oh, please don’t say that,” said Schellenberg. “It turns out that I have an important mission for you in Switzerland, myself.”

“You know, Gunther, it’s normal for a man to take his bride along on the honeymoon,” said Eggen.

“But a lot cheaper if you don’t,” added Schellenberg. “And in this case, probably advisable. Besides, I’ve arranged everything. On my personal assurance that there’s a mission vital to the SD in Switzerland, the Reichsführer has agreed to waive the usual rigorous requirements for an SD man’s marriage. So you’re allowed to travel to a neutral country. Just as soon as you are married you’re to pick up a new Mercedes from the factory in Genshagen and deliver it to the château of Paul Meyer-Schwertenbach on the Swiss-German border.”

“It’s a gift,” said Eggen. “A sweetener in an important-export contract.”

“From Export Drives GMBH, I suppose,” I said. “To the Swiss Wood Syndicate, whatever that is.”

“What do you know about those two companies?” Eggen’s tone had a hard edge.

“Not much. I suspect Captain Meyer must have mentioned those names to me in passing, last summer. You know? When I was keeping him amused after the IKPK conference.”

“Of course,” said Eggen. “Yes, it must have been then.”

“You can deliver the car after you’ve met with this actress in Zurich,” said Schellenberg. “The Reich Minister’s mission as a movie-maker must come first. I’m sure we’re all dying to see the film version of Siebenkäs. But Meyer’s very much looking forward to meeting you again. And to talking to you some more about your detective work.”