Стив Берри - The Kaiser's Web--A Novel

“Could Pohl understand that?”

“Heavens, no. He loved the concept. Bormann said he would, and on that he was right. Legends kept the boy’s interest.”

“Did you ever try and tell him the truth about Bormann?”

“Twice. Both efforts failed. Theodor adored him. Looked up to him. Which is perplexing, since the man never contributed a single thing to the Nazi Party. He was simply a navigator. For him, there were those to dominate and those to fear. Deeds were far more important than ideas.” The old man’s eyes went cold. “Bormann’s father-in-law said it best, after the war. ‘He simply could not stand the thin air at the pinnacle of power. It drove him insane.’ I did tell the boy about his mother, though.”

“You may know her better than anybody, too.”

“Hitler mistreated her. He would say that an intelligent man should possess only a stupid woman, so she could never influence his decisions. But she still loved him. God knows why, but she truly loved Hitler. The only reason she fled the bunker and aligned with Bormann was because her husband told her to. She was a caring person who wished ill on no one, though she was surrounded by monsters.” Schüb pointed to a colorful chest against the far wall. “Like the furniture in this room. Pretty to be seen, never to be heard, and powerless to affect anything.”

“When did you realize you loved her?”

He was wondering if his hunch was correct.

“I have often considered that question. I was so young then. She was a beautiful woman. I was lonely, in a strange country.”

He studied the old man. Twelve years as a field agent had taught him many things that years of retirement had not erased. One in particular was knowing when somebody had something to say.

“Tell me what it is you brought me here to learn.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

S chüb lay naked next to E va B raun, satisfied after he spent himself inside her for a second time. Outside, rain continued to pour from the African sky with the intensity of a waterfall.

“I’m so grateful you are here,” she whispered in his ear, cuddling close.

“And I for you.”

“Is Martin still due back tomorrow?”

“He was delayed at the mines in Kimberley.”

“That means his latest concubine wanted another night with him.”

He smiled. She knew Bormann well. But then she should, after six years together. “I do not get involved in his affairs.”

She giggled. “Oh, Gerhard. You truly are a loyal servant. Martin chose well when he selected you. He does not realize that fact, but he chose well.”

“I do as he asks, nothing more.”

“Does he ask you to bed me?”

“That was my choice.”

“He does not think me worthy of sex. He comes only sparingly. When it suits him.”

The thought turned his stomach, but he said nothing. He couldn’t. What he was doing was wrong. He’d known that from the first time a year ago, and each time thereafter he told himself there would be no more.

But he always returned.

Maybe Bormann knew. Probably not, though.

He was fanatical about his things, and Eva Braun was his most prized possession. They were careful, coming together only when Bormann was far away. Thankfully, only the three of them lived on the farm, and the help was not allowed to stay past dark.

Another of Bormann’s many rules.

They lay still. He liked being naked in bed while it rained. Many times he’d lain in his own bed and listened to the night, wondering if she was with Bormann.

“Be grateful he stays away,” he finally said.

“I am.”

“He is not to be angered. There is a great fire inside him.”

“He is a fool who would have been nothing, except for my Adolf.”

She always referred to Hitler by his first name. Whether that was her habit while the Führer was in her life, he never asked. He wanted to know nothing of her other lovers.

“Bormann is a determined man. Do not dismiss him easily.”

“I despise him,” she said. “I am here because where else am I to go?”

“We are all in that situation.”

“You can never go back to Chile,” she declared, as if reading his mind. “Just as I can never go back to Germany. We are both prisoners, history our keeper, in a strange perverse way.”

She nestled tight and wrapped her legs around his. “I am glad to have you.”

He felt the same. Though Braun was older by eleven years she always allowed him to take charge. It was what she needed. Physically she was a grown woman, emotionally she was still an adolescent. Dependency was her greatest flaw, but it was also what had brought them together.

The rain continued to assault the tin roof.

Against his better judgment, he started responding to her presence.

She seemed to sense his anticipation.

“Good, Gerhard. I, too, want you.”

Cotton listened as Schüb finished telling him about his relationship with Eva Braun, recalling how the old man’s voice had cracked a few days ago when he’d related the story of her death, how Bormann paid her corpse no mind, concentrating on the two infants and trying to decide on which boy to keep.

“That’s why you buried her with such pomp,” he said, understanding finally.

“My way of honoring her. She was my häschen. ”

His bunny.

“We needed each other.”

“How long did the relationship last?”

“For the last two years of her life.”

“Bormann never knew?”

“If he did, he never mentioned a word to me. In fact, after her death he never spoke of her again. She was nothing to him. Just a tool. Used, then discarded. The truth was so hard for him. He many times would say truth is only needed when sufficient reasons make it necessary. ” Schüb paused, a smile on his lips. “She loved to mock him. He was a short man, and conscious of the fact. She was taller, so he would never stand right beside her. But she would maneuver close, especially when others were around. She could be quite a devil. Loved to dance. Smoked with a fervor. And high-heeled shoes, my how they brought her joy. I brought her a pair back once from Johannesburg.”

“Is this why we are here?”

Schüb seemed to return from the past and, in apparent answer to the question, brushed past him and descended the stairs. On the ground floor he followed the old man to the kitchen, and a pine cupboard, its shelves lined with pewter cups and dishes.

“We did little cooking here, but I would occasionally bake bread,” Schüb said.

The old man reached into the cupboard.

A click permeated the silence and the shelves started to rotate, the entire assembly apparently set onto a center post.

“The previous owner added this modification. I am told he hid family valuables here as war approached. Unfortunately, they were found.”

Schüb reached inside the dark space and yanked the chain for a bare bulb. The room beyond was little more than a closet, the width of the cupboard, about four feet deep, its back wall wooden shelves from ceiling to floor.

All of which were empty.

“Oh, dear,” Schüb said.

Cotton waited for an explanation.

“I stored the Widow’s diaries here. It was my desire to one day share them with Theodor. I thought perhaps he would want to know his mother. She wrote a great deal down. Loving thoughts. Her feelings. A boy should know those things about his mother.”