flame to the cigarette and inhales, enjoying the cool burn as it travels down his throat into his chest. ‘Especially after 1923,’ he says.
SIXTEEN
F ritz was exhausted when he arrived at his own apartment. The scarred door, with its twisted ‘No 3’, never looked so inviting. He shifted the duffel over his shoulder, and crouched to pick up the morning’s Münchner Post . He was not too tired to note the headline, A Mysterious Affair: Hitler’s Niece Commits Suicide , nor to realise its implications for him. He tucked the paper under his arm and let himself inside, no longer relieved to be home.
On the trip back he had replayed the conversation with Hess over and over again. Fritz hadn’t wanted Geli’s death to be murder. He had wanted a suicide, something he could confirm. Now, not only did he have to examine Hitler’s household, he had to examine the NSDAP, something which made him decidedly uneasy.
He pressed the button on the wall switch, turning on the overhead light. His apartment was small – a single room with a shared bath in the hall – but neat. The dishes from his breakfast on Saturday morning dried in the rack beside the small sink, the apartment’s only luxury. His cot rested beneath the window, the frayed army blanket that he hadsomehow managed to keep through all the tribulations after the war was folded carefully on top of the crisp white sheets. A small shelf of books covered the wall beside the wobbly wooden table, and the closet door was open, revealing his only vice, a passion for nice clothing. He had lost his faith in currency in the Great Inflation, but could not bring himself to part with his money. Instead, he invested it in gold when he could, and undeveloped land north of Munich. He would never put his faith in paper again.
He set his duffel inside the closet, then sat on the couch, sinking into the thick cushions. With the flick of a switch he turned on the lamp on the end-table he bought with his first Kripo paycheck. It had cigarette burns now, and a coffee stain that would not come out, but he was still proud of it. The end table was a symbol of his ability to survive, no matter what the world threw at him. He had to remember that, throughout this case.
Carefully, he unfolded the Post and read the article:
Regarding this mysterious affair, informed sources tell us that on Friday, September 18, Herr Hitler and his niece had yet another fierce quarrel. What was the cause? Geli, a vivacious twenty-three year-old music student, wanted to go to Vienna, where she intended to become engaged.…
Engaged? No one had mentioned that. And the only unattached young man at the funeral was Geli’s brother, Leo. How odd that a man who would be planning to marry the girl would not show up to honour her in death.
…Hitler was decidedly against this. That is why they werequarrelling repeatedly. After a fierce row, Hitler left his apartment on Prinzregentenplaz.
Frau Reichert had said they quarrelled, and Frau Winter had implied it. Frau Reichert had said that Geli wanted to go to Vienna, which was why they fought, but Frau Winter said Geli had discovered a letter from another woman in Hitler’s pocket, and the jealousy had driven Geli to suicide. A young woman about to marry another man did not kill herself with jealousy over the man she was leaving.
On Saturday, September 19, it became known that Geli had been found shot in the apartment with Hitler’s gun in her hand. The nose bone of the deceased was shattered and the corpse evidenced other serious injuries. From a letter to a girlfriend living in Vienna, it appeared that Geli intended to go to Vienna…
Fritz stared at the paragraph. He had had to go to Vienna himself to get that information, yet the Post had it right here. The Post was known for its anti-Nazi sympathies. They had to have had a source in NSDAP headquarters, the Brown House. They certainly didn’t get the information from the women, and the body left Munich too
SIXTEEN
F ritz was exhausted when he arrived at his own apartment. The scarred door, with its twisted ‘No 3’, never looked so inviting. He shifted the duffel over his shoulder, and crouched to pick up the morning’s Münchner Post . He was not too tired to note the headline, A Mysterious Affair: Hitler’s Niece Commits Suicide , nor to realise its implications for him. He tucked the paper under his arm and let himself inside, no longer relieved to be home.
On the trip back he had replayed the conversation with Hess over and over again. Fritz hadn’t wanted Geli’s death to be murder. He had wanted a suicide, something he could confirm. Now, not only did he have to examine Hitler’s household, he had to examine the NSDAP, something which made him decidedly uneasy.
He pressed the button on the wall switch, turning on the overhead light. His apartment was small – a single room with a shared bath in the hall – but neat. The dishes from his breakfast on Saturday morning dried in the rack beside the small sink, the apartment’s only luxury. His cot rested beneath the window, the frayed army blanket that he hadsomehow managed to keep through all the tribulations after the war was folded carefully on top of the crisp white sheets. A small shelf of books covered the wall beside the wobbly wooden table, and the closet door was open, revealing his only vice, a passion for nice clothing. He had lost his faith in currency in the Great Inflation, but could not bring himself to part with his money. Instead, he invested it in gold when he could, and undeveloped land north of Munich. He would never put his faith in paper again.
He set his duffel inside the closet, then sat on the couch, sinking into the thick cushions. With the flick of a switch he turned on the lamp on the end-table he bought with his first Kripo paycheck. It had cigarette burns now, and a coffee stain that would not come out, but he was still proud of it. The end table was a symbol of his ability to survive, no matter what the world threw at him. He had to remember that, throughout this case.
Carefully, he unfolded the Post and read the article:
Regarding this mysterious affair, informed sources tell us that on Friday, September 18, Herr Hitler and his niece had yet another fierce quarrel. What was the cause? Geli, a vivacious twenty-three year-old music student, wanted to go to Vienna, where she intended to become engaged.…
Engaged? No one had mentioned that. And the only unattached young man at the funeral was Geli’s brother, Leo. How odd that a man who would be planning to marry the girl would not show up to honour her in death.
…Hitler was decidedly against this. That is why they werequarrelling repeatedly. After a fierce row, Hitler left his apartment on Prinzregentenplaz.
Frau Reichert had said they quarrelled, and Frau Winter had implied it. Frau Reichert had said that Geli wanted to go to Vienna, which was why they fought, but Frau Winter said Geli had discovered a letter from another woman in Hitler’s pocket, and the jealousy had driven Geli to suicide. A young woman about to marry another man did not kill herself with jealousy over the man she was leaving.
On Saturday, September 19, it became known that Geli had been found shot in the apartment with Hitler’s gun in her hand. The nose bone of the deceased was shattered and the corpse evidenced other serious injuries. From a letter to a girlfriend living in Vienna, it appeared that Geli intended to go to Vienna…
Fritz stared at the paragraph. He had had to go to Vienna himself to get that information, yet the Post had it right here. The Post was known for its anti-Nazi sympathies. They had to have had a source in NSDAP headquarters, the Brown House. They certainly didn’t get the information from the women, and the body left Munich too
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