“At once, Herr Reichsminister.”
Von Ribbentrop poured himself a glass of Fachinger water and waited, impatiently, for Schmidt to return with the retyped document. While he was waiting, there was a knock at the other door of the carriage and an aide opened it to admit a small, plain-looking SS-Standartenfuhrer, a man not dissimilar in appearance to that of his master, for this was Dr. Rudolf Brandt, Himmler’s personal assistant and the most industrious of the Reichsfuhrer’s entourage. Brandt clicked his heels and bowed stiffly to von Ribbentrop, who smiled back at him ingratiatingly.
“The Reichsfuhrer’s compliments, Herr General,” said Brandt. “He wonders if you are free to join him in his car.”
Schmidt returned with the new summary sheet, and von Ribbentrop received it without a word, then followed Brandt through the concertina gangway that joined the two coaches.
Himmler’s car was paneled with polished wood. A brass lamp stood on a little desk beside the window. The chairs were upholstered in green leather, which matched the color of the car’s thick velour. There was a gramophone and a radio, too, though Himmler had little time for such distractions. Even so, the Reichsfuhrer was hardly the monkish ascetic he projected to the public. To von Ribbentrop, who knew Himmler well, his reputation for ruthlessness seemed ill deserved; he was capable of being very generous to those who served him well. Indeed, Heinrich Himmler was not a man without charm, and his conversation was lively and more often than not laced with humor. It was true that, like the Fuhrer, he disliked people smoking cigarettes around him, but on occasion he himself enjoyed a good cigar; no more was he a teetotaler, and often drank a glass or two of red wine in the evening. Von Ribbentrop found Himmler with a bottle of Herrenberg-Honigsachel already open on the desk, and a large Cuban cigar burning in a crystal ashtray that lay on top of a Brockhaus atlas and a Morocco-bound copy of the Bhagavad Gita, a book that Himmler was seldom, if ever, without.
Seeing von Ribbentrop, Himmler put down his notorious green pencil and jumped to his feet.
“My dear von Ribbentrop,” he said in his quiet voice, with its light Bavarian twang that sometimes reminded von Ribbentrop of Hitler’s Austrian accent. There were even some who said that Himmler’s accent was consciously modeled on Hitler’s own voice in an attempt to ingratiate himself still further with the Fuhrer. “How nice to see you. I was just working on tomorrow’s speech.”
This was the purpose of their rail journey to Poland: the following day in Posen, the old Polish capital that was now the site of an intelligence school run by Colonel Gehlen for German military forces in Russia, Himmler would address all of the generals, or “troop leaders,” in the SS. Forty-eight hours later, he would give the same speech to all of Europe’s Reichsleiters and Gauleiters.
“And how is that coming along?”
Himmler showed the foreign minister the typewritten text on which he had been working all afternoon, covered as it was with his spidery green handwriting.
“A little long, perhaps,” admitted Himmler, “at three and a half hours.”
Von Ribbentrop groaned silently. Given by anyone else, Goebbels or Goring or even Hitler, he would have risked taking a nap, but Himmler was the kind of man who later asked you questions about his speech, and what in particular you thought had been its strongest points.
“That can’t be helped, of course,” Himmler said airily. “There’s a lot of ground to be covered.”
“I can imagine. Of course, I’ve been looking forward to this, since your new appointment.”
It was just two months since Himmler had taken over from Frank as minister of the interior, and the speech at Posen was meant to demonstrate that the change was not merely cosmetic: whereas previously the Fuhrer had counted on the support of the German people, Himmler intended to show that now he relied exclusively on the power of the SS.
“Thank you, my dear fellow. Some wine?”
“Yes, thanks.”
As Himmler poured the wine, he asked, “How is Annelies? And your son?”
“Well, thank you. And Haschen?”
Haschen was what Himmler called his bigamous wife, Hedwig. The Reichsfuhrer was not yet divorced from his wife, Marga. Twelve years younger than the forty-three-year-old Himmler, Haschen was his former secretary and the proud mother of his two-year-old son, Helge-try as he might, von Ribbentrop couldn’t get used to calling children by these new Aryan names.
“She is well, too.”
“Will she be joining us in Posen? It’s your birthday this week, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. But, no, we’re going to meet at Hochwald. The Fuhrer has invited us to the Wolfschanze.”
The Wolfschanze was Hitler’s field headquarters in East Prussia, and Hochwald was the house Himmler had built, twenty-five kilometers to the east of the Fuhrer’s sprawling compound in the forest.
“We don’t see you there very much anymore, von Ribbentrop.”
“There’s very little a diplomat can do at a military headquarters, Heinrich. So I prefer to stay in Berlin, where I can be of more use to the Fuhrer.”
“You’re quite right to avoid it, my dear fellow. It’s a terrible place. Stifling in summer and freezing in winter. Thank God I don’t have to stay there. My own house is in a considerably healthier part of the countryside. Sometimes I think the only reason the Fuhrer endures the place is so he can feel at one with the privations endured by the ordinary German soldier.”
“There’s that. And another reason, of course. So long as he stays there he doesn’t have to see the bomb damage in Berlin.”
“Perhaps. Either way, it’s Munich’s turn tonight.”
“Is it?”
“Some three hundred RAF bombers.”
“Christ!”
“I dread what is to come, Joachim. I don’t mind telling you. That is why we must do all we can to succeed with our diplomatic efforts. It is imperative that we make a peace with the Allies before they open a second front next year.” Himmler relit his cigar and puffed it carefully. “Let us hope that the Americans can yet be persuaded to put aside this insane business of unconditional surrender.”
“I still think you should have allowed the Foreign Ministry to speak to this man Hewitt. After all, I’ve lived in America.”
“Come now, Joachim. It was Canada, was it not?”
“No. New York, too. For a month or two, anyway.”
Himmler remained silent for a moment, studying the end of his cigar with diplomatic interest.
Von Ribbentrop smoothed his graying blond hair and tried to control the muscle twitching in his right cheek that seemed only too obviously a manifestation of his irritation with the Reichsfuhrer-SS. That Himmler should have sent Dr. Felix Kersten to Stockholm to conduct secret negotiations with Roosevelt’s special representative instead of him was a matter of no small exasperation to the foreign minister.
“Surely, you can see how ridiculous it is,” von Ribbentrop persisted, “that I, an experienced diplomat, should have to take a backseat to-to your chiropractor.”
“Not just mine. I seem to remember he treated you, too, Joachim. Successfully, I might add. But there were two reasons why I asked Felix to go to Stockholm. For one thing, he’s Scandinavian himself and able to conduct himself in the open. Unlike you. And, well, you’ve met Felix and you know how gifted he is and how persuasive he can be. I don’t think magnetic is too strong a word for the effect he can have on people. He even managed to persuade this American, Abram Hewitt, to let him treat him for back pain, which provided a very useful cover for their talks.” Himmler shook his head. “I confess I did think it was possible that under the circumstances Felix might actually achieve some influence on Hewitt. But so far, this has not proved to be the case.”