very ordinary man like me. Thank you and Heil Hitler.”
The men seated in front of me started to clap; they were probably relieved that they could get out of that stifling, smoke-filled room and have a coffee on the terrace. Some of the other speakers who were yet to follow—Albert Widmann, Paul Werner, and Friedrich Panzinger—eyed me with a mixture of envy and contempt. The contempt I was used to, of course. As Nebe had reminded me, my own career was stalled, permanently; I was just air and a threat to no one; but they still had their own speaking ordeals ahead of them, and it wasn’t long before I learned that I’d managed to set the bar quite high. As I sat down, Nebe made some long-winded appreciative noises at the lectern and told everyone how I’d modestly neglected to mention the police decoration I’d received for apprehending Gormann and what an asset I was to everyone in Kripo at Werderscher Markt. This was news to me as I hadn’t ever been through the door of the smart, new police building on Werderscher Markt and, other than Nebe himself, knew hardly anyone who worked there. It sounded a lot like praise but he might as well have been giving Ebert’s eulogy on the steps of the Reichstag. Still, it was nice of him to bother; after all, there were some, like Panzinger and Widmann, who would happily have seen me on my way to Buchenwald concentration camp.
Eight
G eneral Schellenberg presents his compliments and asks if you might join him outside on the terrace. There’s someone very keen to meet you.”
I was lurking in the conservatory by the marble fountain, enjoying a quiet cigarette away from all the cauliflower outside; the man who addressed me now was a major, but the majors working for Walter Schellenberg were usually destined for higher things, and I didn’t doubt that some cauliflower of his own would soon replace the four pips that were on his gray tunic’s collar tabs. He was about thirty and—I later learned—an ex-lawyer from somewhere near Hannover. His name was Hans Wilhelm Eggen and he was the officer I’d seen coming out of the Stiftung Nordhav office on the first floor.
I glanced at the cigarette smoking in my hand. A Manoli, it tasted even better than the ones I’d stolen before. Doubtless someone had thought it important to make a good impression on all our foreign guests and, in my experience, there is no more effective way of doing this in wartime than providing good smokes for the cigarette boxes. My own cigarette case was full again. Things were looking up. At this rate I was going to get my smoker’s cough back in no time at all. I took another puff and crushed the end onto a slab of crystal that passed for an ashtray.
“Of course, sir,” I lied. “I’d be delighted.”
As I followed Major Eggen onto the villa terrace I prayed I wasn’t about to be introduced to one of what were jokingly known as the big three: Himmler, Kaltenbrunner, and Müller. I didn’t think my nerves were up to the task of a conversation with any of them, not without a silver crucifix in my pocket. But I needn’t have worried. When I got outside I saw that Schellenberg was with the same Swiss army officer I’d seen coming out of the Nordhav office with Major Eggen. I’d met Schellenberg before at Prinz Albrechtstrasse when he’d been working closely with Heydrich. He was good-looking and as smooth as an English butler’s silk underwear and, since Heydrich’s demise, in charge of the SD’s Foreign Intelligence department. Most people had believed Schellenberg would take over from Heydrich when he was assassinated, including Schellenberg himself. He was able enough. But the splash in the RSHA’s men’s room was that Himmler thought Schellenberg was too smart for Heydrich’s job; and if the Reichsführer had preferred Kaltenbrunner it was only because he wanted someone who was easier to control, especially with good brandy in such short supply.
The Swiss was taller by a head than the
The men seated in front of me started to clap; they were probably relieved that they could get out of that stifling, smoke-filled room and have a coffee on the terrace. Some of the other speakers who were yet to follow—Albert Widmann, Paul Werner, and Friedrich Panzinger—eyed me with a mixture of envy and contempt. The contempt I was used to, of course. As Nebe had reminded me, my own career was stalled, permanently; I was just air and a threat to no one; but they still had their own speaking ordeals ahead of them, and it wasn’t long before I learned that I’d managed to set the bar quite high. As I sat down, Nebe made some long-winded appreciative noises at the lectern and told everyone how I’d modestly neglected to mention the police decoration I’d received for apprehending Gormann and what an asset I was to everyone in Kripo at Werderscher Markt. This was news to me as I hadn’t ever been through the door of the smart, new police building on Werderscher Markt and, other than Nebe himself, knew hardly anyone who worked there. It sounded a lot like praise but he might as well have been giving Ebert’s eulogy on the steps of the Reichstag. Still, it was nice of him to bother; after all, there were some, like Panzinger and Widmann, who would happily have seen me on my way to Buchenwald concentration camp.
Eight
G eneral Schellenberg presents his compliments and asks if you might join him outside on the terrace. There’s someone very keen to meet you.”
I was lurking in the conservatory by the marble fountain, enjoying a quiet cigarette away from all the cauliflower outside; the man who addressed me now was a major, but the majors working for Walter Schellenberg were usually destined for higher things, and I didn’t doubt that some cauliflower of his own would soon replace the four pips that were on his gray tunic’s collar tabs. He was about thirty and—I later learned—an ex-lawyer from somewhere near Hannover. His name was Hans Wilhelm Eggen and he was the officer I’d seen coming out of the Stiftung Nordhav office on the first floor.
I glanced at the cigarette smoking in my hand. A Manoli, it tasted even better than the ones I’d stolen before. Doubtless someone had thought it important to make a good impression on all our foreign guests and, in my experience, there is no more effective way of doing this in wartime than providing good smokes for the cigarette boxes. My own cigarette case was full again. Things were looking up. At this rate I was going to get my smoker’s cough back in no time at all. I took another puff and crushed the end onto a slab of crystal that passed for an ashtray.
“Of course, sir,” I lied. “I’d be delighted.”
As I followed Major Eggen onto the villa terrace I prayed I wasn’t about to be introduced to one of what were jokingly known as the big three: Himmler, Kaltenbrunner, and Müller. I didn’t think my nerves were up to the task of a conversation with any of them, not without a silver crucifix in my pocket. But I needn’t have worried. When I got outside I saw that Schellenberg was with the same Swiss army officer I’d seen coming out of the Nordhav office with Major Eggen. I’d met Schellenberg before at Prinz Albrechtstrasse when he’d been working closely with Heydrich. He was good-looking and as smooth as an English butler’s silk underwear and, since Heydrich’s demise, in charge of the SD’s Foreign Intelligence department. Most people had believed Schellenberg would take over from Heydrich when he was assassinated, including Schellenberg himself. He was able enough. But the splash in the RSHA’s men’s room was that Himmler thought Schellenberg was too smart for Heydrich’s job; and if the Reichsführer had preferred Kaltenbrunner it was only because he wanted someone who was easier to control, especially with good brandy in such short supply.
The Swiss was taller by a head than the
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