The Hunt aka 27 by William Diehl Page A

them.
    He was dressed in a gray wool double- b reasted suit with the Wehrmacht insignia over the breast pocket, a smiling man, pleasant and friendly. The affable Hitler.
    “So,” said Hitler, “we finally meet. I am an ardent fan of yours, Herr Ingersoll. I’ve seen all your films, some more than once. You have brought great credit to Germany. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
    “I am flattered that you asked, mein Führer.”
    “I trust your room is satisfactory.”
    “Lovely.”
    “Good. Good! I usually take a noon stroll down to the tea house for lunch with my guests but since you and Willie are the first to arrive and he has a few things to do, perhaps just the two of us can go down together.”
    This man in an ordinary lounging s u it, projecting a patriarchal image of kindness and affability, is this the man who will change the world?
    Servants helped Hitler and Ingersoll on with their wraps. Hitler wore a heavy greatcoat. The chancellor wrapped a thick muffler around his neck and, flexing his shoulders, smiled at Ingersoll.
    “Sure you’re up to a walk in this weather?” Hitler asked.
    “Looking forward to it.”
    The wind sliced up the mountainside with an edge as sharp as a knife. Hitler was hunched down in the thick greatcoat, its tall collar wrapped around his ears. His gloved hands were tucked under his armpits. Two armed guards followed twenty or so feet behind them, just out of earshot. As they approached the overlook, the entire valley spread be lo w them. Snow glistened in the noonday sun.
    Ingersoll stopped at the overlook halfway to the tea house and pointed out over the mountains. “That’s where you were born, isn’t it? Over the mountains there in the Wa l dviertel?”
    “Yes. Braunau. A terrible place. Not as bad as Vienna but a terrible place.”
    “What’s so terrible about it?”
    “It’s known as the wooded place. Very harsh,” Hitler said, not hiding the bitterness in his voice. “Harsh land, harsh people, dreary, medieval. For centuries it was prey to every marauding army that invaded southern Germany. Sacked by the Huns, by the Bohemian Ottakar II. By the Swedes during the Thirty Years’ War. Even Napoleon marched through it in 1805 on the way to Vienna. The fools in the Waldviertel have a legacy of defeat. Defeatists all.”
    Hitler’s voice began to rise as anger took the place of bitterness.
    “We have too many people in Germany today who feel the same way,” he went on, slashing his fists against his thighs. “That’s why I must throw that damnable Versailles treaty back in the Allies’ faces. Pride, pride, Herr Ingersoll, that’s what I will give back to all my people. I must make defeat an alien word to all Germans.”
    “You have already started, sir,” Ingersoll said.
    “Danke, Herr Ingersoll,” Hitler said with genuine pleasure. He stamped his feet against the cold.
    Cajole and flatter.
    “What do they call you? Johann? John?”
    “Hans, actually,” Ingersoll said.
    “Ah, your proper name.” And Hitler smiled.
    So, they want something, Ingersoll thought. They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to check me out. Do they know every t hing? Do they know all the secrets of Johann Ingersoll? Was this to be some k in d of blackmail?
    He dispelled the notion as paranoia.
    “Don’t be alarmed,” Hitler said. “It’s Himm l er and his SS. They’re overly cautious. Security, you k n ow.”
    “Ah yes, security.”
    Hitler’s breath swirled from the folds of the collar.
    “I don’t like the winter, Hans,” he said. “When I first went to Vienna to study it was an endlessly bitter time . . . for two years my only mistress was sorrow and my only companion was hunger. But the thing I remember most -was how cold it was.”
    He stopped and shivered, huddling deeper into his great coat before going on.
    “In the winter I was never warm. It is beautiful here, looking out at the snow on the mountains, listeni n g to it crunch underfoot, but the cold cuts