circuit around the room. His eyes fell to a patch of wall where a replica of Alfred Bach’s golden party badge, the highest honor the Nazi party bestowed upon civilians, used to hang. In its place was a photograph of Alfred Bach with Edward VIII, the English monarch who had given up his throne to marry an American divorcée. Shocked, he took a closer look at the other pictures hanging nearby. The color photo of Adolf Hitler thanking Alfred Bach for the handmade armchair he’d been given for his fiftieth birthday had been replaced by one of the elder Bach in the company of Charles Lindbergh, the famed American flyer. Another showed Alfred Bach shaking hands with Winston Churchill, circa 1912.
“It’s not wise to wear your allegiance on your sleeve,” chimed Egon from across the room. “These days, it’s difficult to meet anyone who voluntarily joined the party, let alone someone who actually voted our Führer into power. We’re a nation of amnesiacs. National socialism is dead, Erich.”
But Seyss wasn’t interested in an apology for Bach’s cosmetic renunciation of the party. “And Germany?”
“The Fatherland will never die. You and I won’t allow it. What did Herder say about our country’s geist—its spirit?”
“‘It shall flourish so long as a single German lives,’ ” quoted Seyss from an ancient textbook.
“Exactly. Hurry up, then. We have a quarter of an hour until our guests arrive. I imagine you’re starving.”
As Seyss followed Egon Bach into the hallway, he paused for a last look at the drawing room. A spray of chrysanthemums decorated a nook previously reserved for a national socialist banner. The bronze bust of Hitler cast by Fritz Todt had been replaced by a replica of Michelangelo’s
David.
And, of course, there was the matter of the photographs.
The room had changed.
It was Erich Seyss who hadn’t.
CHAPTER
5
D OWN, DOWN, DOWN, THEY WALKED , through a white-tiled catacomb lit by stuttering bulbs in steel mesh cages, a passage so narrow and dank that Seyss nearly succumbed to his recently acquired claustrophobia. Now, three hundred thirty-seven stairs later, they had arrived. Barring their path was a gray steel door large enough to have locked down the boiler room of the battleship
Bismarck.
Above it, the words “Luftschutzbunker 50 Personen,” were painted in perfect black script. Air raid shelter. 50 persons.
Egon leaned his shoulder into the door and gave a shove. “A little dramatic, perhaps, but necessary. Hard for my colleagues to visit the main house.”
“You mean they couldn’t fit into the trunk of the Mercedes?” Seyss asked dryly.
Egon did not laugh. “Go on, then. These are not men one keeps waiting.”
Seyss’s first thought was that he’d never seen a shelter decorated so opulently. The underground refuge was done up like the lobby of the Adlon in Berlin: navy carpets, teak coffee tables, sleek sofas. All that was missing was the Babylonian fountain spewing water from an elephant’s trunk and an unctuous maître d’hôtel eager to show them to a table.
Two older men stood waiting in the center of the room. Greeting them, Egon turned to Erich and said, “I believe you know Mr. Weber and Mr. Schnitzel.”
“Good evening, gentlemen. It’s been some time.” Seyss delivered a firm handshake to each man, punctuated by a curt nod and crisp click of the heels. He had worked with both during the war and if they weren’t friends, they were certainly well acquainted. Robert Weber was vice chairman of North German Aluminum, the country’s largest metals company. Arthur Schnitzel, finance director of FEBA, a monolithic chemical concern.
“You’re looking well, Major,” said Weber. “May I offer my congratulations on your escape.”
“Yes, congratulations,” cawed Schnitzel, “though we could have done without the theatrics.”
Seyss answered with a clipped smile, staring daggers into the old man’s gray eyes until he averted his gaze.
“It’s not wise to wear your allegiance on your sleeve,” chimed Egon from across the room. “These days, it’s difficult to meet anyone who voluntarily joined the party, let alone someone who actually voted our Führer into power. We’re a nation of amnesiacs. National socialism is dead, Erich.”
But Seyss wasn’t interested in an apology for Bach’s cosmetic renunciation of the party. “And Germany?”
“The Fatherland will never die. You and I won’t allow it. What did Herder say about our country’s geist—its spirit?”
“‘It shall flourish so long as a single German lives,’ ” quoted Seyss from an ancient textbook.
“Exactly. Hurry up, then. We have a quarter of an hour until our guests arrive. I imagine you’re starving.”
As Seyss followed Egon Bach into the hallway, he paused for a last look at the drawing room. A spray of chrysanthemums decorated a nook previously reserved for a national socialist banner. The bronze bust of Hitler cast by Fritz Todt had been replaced by a replica of Michelangelo’s
David.
And, of course, there was the matter of the photographs.
The room had changed.
It was Erich Seyss who hadn’t.
CHAPTER
5
D OWN, DOWN, DOWN, THEY WALKED , through a white-tiled catacomb lit by stuttering bulbs in steel mesh cages, a passage so narrow and dank that Seyss nearly succumbed to his recently acquired claustrophobia. Now, three hundred thirty-seven stairs later, they had arrived. Barring their path was a gray steel door large enough to have locked down the boiler room of the battleship
Bismarck.
Above it, the words “Luftschutzbunker 50 Personen,” were painted in perfect black script. Air raid shelter. 50 persons.
Egon leaned his shoulder into the door and gave a shove. “A little dramatic, perhaps, but necessary. Hard for my colleagues to visit the main house.”
“You mean they couldn’t fit into the trunk of the Mercedes?” Seyss asked dryly.
Egon did not laugh. “Go on, then. These are not men one keeps waiting.”
Seyss’s first thought was that he’d never seen a shelter decorated so opulently. The underground refuge was done up like the lobby of the Adlon in Berlin: navy carpets, teak coffee tables, sleek sofas. All that was missing was the Babylonian fountain spewing water from an elephant’s trunk and an unctuous maître d’hôtel eager to show them to a table.
Two older men stood waiting in the center of the room. Greeting them, Egon turned to Erich and said, “I believe you know Mr. Weber and Mr. Schnitzel.”
“Good evening, gentlemen. It’s been some time.” Seyss delivered a firm handshake to each man, punctuated by a curt nod and crisp click of the heels. He had worked with both during the war and if they weren’t friends, they were certainly well acquainted. Robert Weber was vice chairman of North German Aluminum, the country’s largest metals company. Arthur Schnitzel, finance director of FEBA, a monolithic chemical concern.
“You’re looking well, Major,” said Weber. “May I offer my congratulations on your escape.”
“Yes, congratulations,” cawed Schnitzel, “though we could have done without the theatrics.”
Seyss answered with a clipped smile, staring daggers into the old man’s gray eyes until he averted his gaze.
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