Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“You were there? In the woods?”

“I commanded the search detail. You wouldn’t get Rattenhuber or Högl getting their boots dirty. No, that was me and my men.”

“I’m going back there. Now that I’ve seen the body I want to read all the witness statements in my new office — supposing that I do have an office — and then take a closer look at that terrace.”

“I don’t know what you expect to find. But I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t you want to go home, Kaspel? It’s three thirty in the morning.”

“I do. But I’m flying now, since I snorted the magic potion. Like I was in an Me 109. It’ll be ages before I can even close my eyelids, let alone get some sleep. Besides, we’re Bolle boys, right? From Pankow. We keep going until one of us collapses or gets thrown in jail. That’s the way this thing works now. I’ll drive you back up the mountain to the Berghof and along the way I’ll give you a few hard lumps of truth about this place.”

It had stopped snowing and the night felt as if it were holding its breath. My own billowed in front of my face like a cloud over one of the mountaintops. Even at night it was a beautiful, magical place but as with all stories involving magic in Germany, there was always a sense that my lungs and liver were already on someone’s menu — that behind the lace curtains of one of these quaint little wooden houses, a local huntsman was sharpening his ax and preparing to carry out his orders to have me quietly killed. I shivered and, still holding the Leica, I pulled the collar of my coat up and wished that I’d also asked for a pair of warm gloves. I decided to add gloves to my list of requirements. Bormann — the Lord of the Obersalzberg, as Kaspel had called him — seemed willing to let me have almost everything else. Kaspel opened the car door for me politely, his attitude now entirely different from that of the man I’d met an hour or two before. It was already clear that he’d changed a lot since leaving the Berlin police. The Nazis could do that to a man, even if he was Nazi. I was almost starting to like him.

“What’s he like, Heydrich?” he asked.

“Haven’t you met him?”

“Briefly. But I don’t know him. I report direct to Neumann.”

“I’ve met the general several times. He’s smart and he’s dangerous, that’s what he’s like. I work for him because I have to. I think even Himmler’s afraid of him. I know I am. That is why I’m still alive.”

“It’s the same all over. If anything, it’s worse here than in Berlin.”

“So tell me how that works.”

He winced. “Hmm. I don’t know, Gunther. Bolle boys from Pankow and all that, yes. And I want to help you and the general. But I think we both know that there are things of which we cannot and should not speak. That’s why I’m alive, too. It’s not just P&Z workers who can end up having an accident. And if that doesn’t work, Dachau concentration camp is less than two hundred kilometers from here.”

“I’m glad you mentioned Dachau, Hermann. Three years ago Heydrich sent me there to look for a man who was a convict, a fellow named Kurt Mutschmann, which meant I had to pose as a camp inmate myself. But after several weeks the pose felt real enough. I was only able to get out of there by finding Mutschmann, and not until. Heydrich thought it was all very amusing. But I didn’t. Look, I think you know I’m no Nazi. I’m useful to him because I don’t put politics before common sense, that’s all. Because I’m good at what I do, although I wish I wasn’t.”

“All right. That’s fair enough.” Kaspel started the car. “So, then. This is not the harmonious rural idyll that Martin Bormann has described to you, Gunther. Nor is the Leader popular here, in spite of all those flags and Nazi wall murals. Far from it. The whole of Hitler’s mountain is riddled with disused tunnels and old salt mines. That’s where the mountain gets its name, of course. From the salt. But the local geology provides a very good metaphor for how things are in Obersalzberg and Berchtesgaden. Nothing is what it looks like on the surface. Nothing. And underneath — well, there’s nothing sweet going on here.”

Hermann Kaspel steered across the river and drove us back up the mountain to the Berghof. It was a winding road but in the moonlight we soon encountered a construction crew engaged in widening it to make things easier for anyone coming to see Hitler. Most of them were wearing traditional Tyrolean hats and thick jackets and one or two of them even gave the Hitler salute as we drove by, which Kaspel returned, but their expressions were churlish and wary.

“In the summer there are as many as three or four thousand workers like those around here,” explained Kaspel. “But right now there are probably only about half that number. Most of them are accommodated in local work camps at Alpenglühen, Teugelbrunn, and Remerfeld. Only, don’t make the mistake of thinking these men are forced into the work. Believe me, they’re not. It’s true that in the beginning the Austrian employment offices were ordered to refer all available workers to this site. The men they sent were wholly unsuitable to work in the Alps — hotel clerks, hairdressers, artists — and lots of them got sick, so now it’s just local Bavarians who are used, men with experience of working in the mountains. Even so, we’ve had a lot of trouble at the work camps. Drinking, drugs, gambling. Fights about money. The local SS has its work cut out keeping order with some of these fellows. Still, there is no problem getting workmen. These Obersalzberg Administration workers are all very well paid. In fact, they’re on triple time. And that’s not the only attraction. Construction work in this area has been declared by Bormann to be a reserved occupation. In other words, if you work on Hitler’s mountain, you won’t have to serve in the armed forces. That’s especially attractive right now, given that everyone thinks there’s going to be another war. So you can imagine there’s no shortage of volunteers. In spite of all that, the construction work up here is very dangerous. Even in the summer. Explosions — like the one you heard earlier — are often used to create tunnels through mountains and there have been lots of accidents. Fatal accidents. Men buried alive. Men who fall off mountaintops. Only three days ago there was a big avalanche that killed several men. Then there are the constant delays caused by Hitler’s regular presence in the area — he likes to sleep late and doesn’t care for the sound of construction work. That means the work, when it does take place, has, of necessity, been around the clock. God knows how many men were killed building that fucking tea house on the Kehlstein; considerable risks were taken to get it ready in time for his fiftieth birthday. So there are a lot more widows around here than there need have been. That’s caused a lot of resentment in Berchtesgaden and the surrounding area. Anyway, Flex worked for P&Z. And just to work for that company around here might provide someone with a pretty good motive for murder.

“But here’s another. Nearly all of the houses and farms you see up on the mountain have been the subject of government compulsory purchase orders. Göring’s house. His adjutant’s house. Bormann’s house. The Türken Inn. Speer’s house. Bormann’s farm. You name it. In 1933 all of the houses on the mountain were in private hands. Today there’s hardly one that isn’t owned by the German government. It’s what you might call real estate fascism and it works like this. Someone in the government now favored by Hitler or Bormann needs a nice house to be near to the Leader. So Bormann offers to buy such a house from its Bavarian owner; and you might imagine, with so few houses left in private hands, that it’s a seller’s market and a high price for such a house could be obtained. Not a bit of it. Bormann always offers well below the market rate, and God forbid you should ever refuse his first offer, but if you do, here’s what happens. The SS turn up out of the blue, block off your drive, and remove your roof. That is not an exaggeration. And if you still won’t sell to the government, then you might easily find yourself sent to Dachau on some trumped-up charge, at least until you change your mind.