Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

Knowing that further questions were useless until her grandfather was

ready to speak, she opened a cupboard and began preparing tea.

Perhaps Hans would get back in time to have some, she hoped; he'd been

gone too long already. Ilse had told her grandfather as little as

possible on the telephone, and by doing so she had failed to communicate

the depth of her anxiety. Professor Natterman lived only twelve blocks

away, but it had taken him over an hour to arrive. He understood the

gravity of the situation now. He hadn't spoken a word since first

seeing the Spandau papers and brusquely questioning Ilse as to how they

came into her possession. As she poured the tea, he stood stiddenly,

pulled off his reading glasses, and locked the nine pages into his

ancient briefcase.

"My dear," he said, "this is simply unbelievable. That this ...

this document should have come into my hands after all these years.

It's a miracle." He wiped his spectacles with a handkerchief.

"You were quite right to call me. 'Dangerous' does not even begin to

describe this find:' "But what is it, Opa? What is it really?"

Natterman shook his head. "In terms of World War Two history, it's the

Rosetta stone."

Ilse's eyes widened. "What? Are you saying that the papers are real?"

"Given what I've seen so far, I would have to say yes."

Ilse looked incredulous. "What did you mean, the papers are like the

Rosetta stone?"

"I mean," Natterman sniffed, "that they are likely to change profoundly

the way we view the world." He squinted his eyes, and a road map of

lines crinkled his forehead.

"How much do you know about Rudolf Hess, Ilse?"

She shrugged. "I've read the recent newspaper stories. I looked him up

in your book, but you hardly even mentioned his flight."

The professor glanced over to the countertop, where a copy of his

acclaimed Germany: From Bismarck to the Bunker lay open. "I didn't feel

the facts were complete," he explained, "so I omitted that part of the

story altogether."

"Was I right about the papers? Do they claim that Prisoner Number Seven

was not really Hess?"

"Oh, yes, yes indeed. Very little doubt about that now. It looks as

though the newspapers have got it right for once.

The wrong man in prison for nearly fifty years ... very embarrassing for

a lot of people."

Ilse watched her grandfather for any hint of a smile, but she saw none.

"You're joking with me, aren't you? How could that even be possible?"

"Oh, it's quite possible. The use of lookalikes was standard procedure

during the war, on both sides. Patton had one.

Erwin Rommel also. Field Marshal Montgomery used an actor who could

even imitate his voice to perfection. That's the easiest part of this

story to accept."

Ilse looked skeptical. "Maybe during* the war," she conceded.

"From a distance. But what about the years in Spandau? What about

Hess's family?"

Natterman smiled impishly. "What about them? Prisoner Number Seven

refused to see Hess's wife and son for the first twenty-eight years of

his captivity." He savored Ilse's perplexed expression. "The factual

discrepancies o on and 9

on. Hess was a fastidious vegetarian, Prisoner Number Seven devoured

meat like a tiger. Number Seven failed to recognize Hess's secretaries

at Nuremberg. He twice gave the British wrong birth dates for Hess, and

he missed by two years. And on and on ad nauseam."

Ilse sat quietly, trying to take it all in. Beneath her thoughts, her

anxiety for Hans buzzed like a low-grade fever.

"Why don't I let Number Seven speak for himself?"

Natterman suggested. "Would you like to hear my translation?"

Ilse forced herself not to look at the kitchen clock. He's I "Yes, all

right, she told herself. Just wait a ittle longer please," she said.

Putting his reading glasses back on, the professor opened his briefcase,

cleared his throat, and began to read in the resonant tones of the born

teacher: I, Prisoner Number Seven, write this testament in the language

of the Caesars for one reason: I know with certainty that Rudolf Hess

could not do so. I learned Latin and Greek at university in Munich from

1920 to 1923, but I learned that Hess did not know Latin at the most

exclusive "school" in the world-Reinhard Heydrich's Institute for

Practical Deception-in 1936. At this "institute"@n isolated barracks

compound outside Dessau-I also learned every other known fact about

Hess: his childhood; military service; Party record; relationship with

the Fuhrer; and, most importantly, his personal idiosyncrasies.

Ironically, one of the first facts I learned was that Hess had attended

university in Munich at the same time I had, though I do not remember

meeting him.

I did not serve as a pilot in the First world War, but I joined one of

Hermann Gdring's "flying clubs" between the wars. It was during an

aerial demonstration in 1935 that the Reichsmarschall _first noticed my

remarkable resemblance to Deputy-Fuhrer Hess. At the time I did not

make much of the encounter-comrades had often remarked on this

resemblance-but seven months later I was visited at the factory where I

worked by two officers of Heydrich's SD. They requested me to accompany

them on a mission of special importance to the Reich- From Munich I was

flown to the "Practical School" building outside Dessau.

I never saw my wife and daughter again.

During the first week at the school I was completely isOlated from my

fellow students. I received my "orientation" from Standartenfiihrer

Ritter Graf headmaster of the Institute.

He informed me that I had been selected to fulfill a mission of the

highest importance to the Fuhrer My period of training-which would be

lengthy and arduous, he saidwas to be carried out in total secrecy.

I soon learned that this meant total separation from my family. To

alleviate the stress of this separation, Graf showed me proof that my

salary from the factory had been doubled, and that the money was being

forwarded to my wife.

After one week I met the other students. I cannot express the shock I

felt. In one room in one night I saw the faces of not only famous Party

Gauleiters and Wehrmacht generals, but also the most celebrated

personalities of the Reich. At last I knew what my mission was. Hermann

Gdring had not forgotten my resemblance to Rudolf Hess; it was Goring

who had given my name to Reinhard Heydrich, the SD commender responsible

for the program.

There were many students at the Institute. Some completed the program,

others did not. The unlucky ones paid for their failure in blood. We

were constantly reminded of this "incentive. " One of the most common

causes for "dismissal" from the school was the use of one's real name.

Two slip-ups were forgiven. The third guaranteed erschlessen

(execution). We were known by our "role " names, or, in situations

where these were not practical, by our farmer ranks-in my case

Hauptmann.

I trained in an elite group. There were eight of us: "Hitler" (3

"students" studied him); "Gdring"; "Himmler"; " Goebbels "; "Stretcher

"; and myself- "Hess. " The training for our group lasted one year

During that year I had four personal interviews with Deputy-Fuhrer Hess.

The rest of my training was accomplished through study of newsreels and

written records. During our training, several of the "doubles "for the

Party Gauleiters left the school to begin their duties. Apparently