Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

“That’s right, isn’t it? You did agree to help me. Not to volunteer anything. Just to answer a few specific questions? Me telling you what I know, and then you confirming it, if it’s true. Just like my own Ouija board. Right?”

Professor Troost sat down and clasped her hands tight.

“You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I told you the last time we spoke and I realize I feel very awkward about this. So I’ve decided I don’t want to say any more, okay? I think you’re an honest man just trying to do his duty but—” She shrugged. “I don’t know, I can’t see how it’s a very good idea for me to help you. I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “I understand. It must be very difficult for you to talk about this at all.”

“It is. Especially now. So close to Hitler’s birthday. He’s done so much for me and for this country. I wouldn’t ever do anything to harm the Leader.”

“Of course not,” I said patiently. “No one would. He’s a great man.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Listen, any leader needs good advice. It’s just some of these people around him are not what they should be. Isn’t that right?”

“It’s getting worse, too.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“The fact remains that I can’t see how you could bring down Martin Bormann without damaging the Leader. So it’s probably best I say nothing at all.”

I took out a cigarette, remembered where I was, and returned it unsmoked to the pack. “Can you tell me anything, Professor? Anything at all. I’ve got a ledger here in my briefcase that was in Karl Flex’s possession, which might be evidence that Martin Bormann is corrupt but I’m not sure. Perhaps I could show it to you.”

She stayed silent. But she was twisting the ring on her finger uncomfortably, as if what it signified might be troubling her at last.

“I could show the ledger to Albert Bormann, perhaps. Well, maybe he would talk to me if you won’t.”

Gerdy Troost stared silently at the gold signet ring on her bony finger as if trying to remind herself of where her true allegiance lay, which was hardly surprising as the ring bore some Nazi Party insignia. In her white two-piece suit she looked like Hitler’s reluctant bride. It was probably him or Frankenstein’s monster.

“But I don’t want you to feel in a difficult position,” I said.

“And I don’t want to say any more, okay?”

“I guess I’ll just have to take my chances with Albert Bormann.”

“You’ll be wasting your time,” she said. “He might agree to see you but he won’t trust you. Not with this. Not without a word from me.”

“Still, I have to try, I think. Someone has to try and save the life of Johann Brandner.”

“Who’s he?”

“Local man. Used to be a photographer in Obersalzberg until Martin Bormann forced him to leave the mountain. They’re planning to pin Flex’s murder on the man and have him in front of a firing squad before the Leader’s birthday if I don’t find the real killer.”

“I don’t believe that. They wouldn’t do that. Surely.” She shook her head firmly. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“To reassure the Leader. Someone has to pay the price for this, even if it’s the wrong man. For appearances’ sake.”

“No, that can’t be. They wouldn’t shoot an innocent man.”

“They would and they do. And much more often than you think.”

I let that nail go in before I spoke again.

“Look, maybe I should leave now.” But I stayed seated. It was time I played my highest card. The ace I’d been saving for just such a moment. It was dealt off the bottom of the deck, perhaps, but I was tired of trying to play fair with these damned people. The Nazis didn’t ever play by the rules, and by her own admission Gerdy Troost was a Nazi, so what did I care if I upset her? My cruelty was nothing beside the cruelty that had been visited on German Jews. That kind of institutional cruelty didn’t seem to count for anything. I hardened my heart and prepared to inflict some mental anguish on Adolf Hitler’s houseguest.

“Hey, I nearly forgot. Which is no disrespect to you or to your friend, only I have a million things in my mind at present. Maybe that’s the real reason for the swelling on the side of my head. It’s all the stuff I’m trying to keep in there. Anyway, look, I’ve got some bad news for you, Professor.”

“About what?”

“About Dr. Wasserstein. You asked me if I could find out what happened to him? I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“Dead? Oh my goodness. How?”

“The poor man committed suicide. I guess someone was determined to stop Dr. Wasserstein from practicing medicine after all. Look, I know you tried to help him get his license back. It was a nice gesture. Everyone’s pet Jew, right? I get that. So there’s no reason for you to feel in the least bit responsible for what others did. It’s really not your fault he dead-ended. Not a bit.”

“What happened?”

“He Hermann Storked off Maximilian’s Bridge in Munich and drowned in the Isar River. He was wearing his best suit and his Military Merit Cross at the time. I’m afraid it’s not uncommon for Jews to do something like that when they want to emphasize their German identity. When they want to make people feel guilty. It doesn’t make me feel guilty. But then, I never knew this Fritz. Not like you, Professor.”

“Did he explain why?”

“Yes, he did. He left a suicide note on the desk in his empty surgery. It’s not young Werther but still, I thought you might like to see a copy that was provided for me by the Munich police. Most Jews who kill themselves these days write longish notes in the hope of making their situation public. They’ve read too much Goethe, probably. I think they rather imagine that the authorities will be more shocked than they ever are.” I shrugged. “They never are. The fact is, nobody gives a damn about this kind of thing. At least not the people who are in authority.”

I handed her the evidence envelope from the Munich police that Friedrich Korsch had given me and watched as she fetched her handbag and found some reading glasses. She read the doctor’s letter once, to herself, and then she read it again, only this time she read it aloud. Perhaps she thought it appropriate that a dead Jew’s voice should be heard in that particular house and in this I think she was right. It was a hell of a letter.

To the “German” police who may or who may not — as seems more likely — investigate the circumstances of my death.

I have decided to kill myself and if you’re reading this then I’m very probably dead. I certainly hope so. I had planned to kill myself with pills but today I went to my local pharmacy and was told that as a Jew I could no longer write myself the prescription that would enable me to take my own life quietly at home. So I have decided to drown myself in the Isar River, which is nicely in spate at the present moment. I am not and never have been a praying man but I do ask almighty God that I succeed in killing myself and that someone who knows me will perhaps write to my family to tell them I am dead, and to ask them to forgive and condone what I felt obliged to do, but still to think of me with love nevertheless. I greet them and at the same time I say farewell to them forever, with all the love that any father ever had for his children. For fifty years I have been a loyal, hardworking German citizen. First as a soldier in the Prussian Army and then as a dedicated eye specialist in Berlin and Munich, treating Aryans and non-Aryans alike. The Military Merit Cross I am wearing on my jacket today I wear with as much pride as I did the day I received it, in 1916. It was the greatest moment of my life when the Kaiser himself pinned it to my tunic. In spite of everything that has happened I still believe in Germany and in the goodness of ordinary Germans. But I have stopped believing in any kind of a future for myself. I fear for all Jews in Germany and strongly suspect that for them at least the future will be even worse than the present, although that seems hardly possible. For fifteen years I was married to a non-Aryan who died not long after our last child was born. Since then I have had little or no contact with other Jews, brought my children up in the Aryan way, and exercised no Jewish influence on them. It really didn’t seem that important. I even brought my children up in the Protestant faith. But none of this counts for anything these days and because the present Nazi government and its anti-Jewish laws class them as Jewish I sent them away to England several years ago, for which I now thank God and the kind English family who took them in. I myself stayed on in Germany because I have only ever wanted to serve my country and my patients. Some good German friends were able to help me keep my license to practice medicine but this was overtaken by recent events I now suspect were stage-managed by others determined to prevent this from ever happening. The fact is that I am informed by the police that one of my patients now accuses me of having libeled the Leader for which I have been ordered to appear at the local police station next week. It’s a put-up job of course and I imagine the chances of my receiving a fair hearing are almost nil and that I am facing deportation or worse. But I don’t want to live without a profession, a Fatherland, a people, without citizenship, while being outlawed and defamed. I don’t want to carry the name Israel, only the name my dear parents gave me. Even the worst murderer gets to keep his own name in this country, but not, it seems, a Jew. I am so weary of life in Germany and have been through so much that I cannot now dissuade myself from this present course of action. I am the fourth person in my extended family who has killed themselves in as many years. But only when I am dead will I feel truly safe.