But nothing the adjutant had said prepared Bormann for Heinz Kuby.
'The likeness is incredible,' he whispered. 'I thought you said he made fun of the Fuhrer…'
'Well, doing that on a stage..'
The adjutant was lost for words. He had also lost Bormann who was staring fixedly as Kuby proceeded with his act. He noticed the uneasy hush which had descended on the small audience, uncomfortably seated at the closely packed tables.
Heinz Kuby was not caricaturing the Fuhrer – he was giving an impersonation of the German leader which was so life-like it was quite uncanny. Had he not known, had the surroundings not been so unsuitable, Bormann would have been convinced he was staring at the Fuhrer himself. He was very thoughtful as Kuby completed his performance.
'We'll go backstage and see him at once,' he announced.
'We arrest him, of course. The charge will be.. 'Perhaps you will remember it is I who give the orders,' Bormann snapped.
His interview with Kuby in a cramped room hardly larger than two 'phone kiosks and smelling of stale face powder and grease paint was brief. He had been born in Linz, quite close to Hitler's birth-place – which accounted for the Austrian accent so uncannily like that of the Fuhrer.
'Any relatives?' Bormann demanded.
'No, sir.. Kuby was frightened, recognizing his visitor who had not taken the trouble to introduce himself. 'Both my parents died in a car crash when I was..'
'How old are you?'
'Forty-seven…'
More and more remarkable. Kuby was only two years younger than the Fuhrer. The manager of the club opened the flimsy plywood door and peered inside, gazing at Bormann in disbelief.
'Is anything wrong? We can always cancel Kuby's act..'
'Already cancelled,' the small fat Nazi told him. 'And if you value your life you have never seen me. Heinz Kuby is leaving with us. Now, get out of my way..'
'Will he be coming back?' the manager enquired. 'The playbill for next week has to be prepared.. 'You will never see him again.'
One week later when Hitler arrived at the Berghof from Berlin his secretary, Bormann, was careful to choose the right moment to raise the subject. It was ten o'clock at night. The Fuhrer had finished his evening meal of spaghetti and apple rind tea and was settling himself in front of a great blazing log fire made up of small tree trunks. Bormann began tentatively.
'I am always searching for new methods to protect you from the attack of a madman..'
'Very commendable,' Hitler agreed affably, staring into the leaping flames. He seemed to find some comfort in the destruction of the massive trunks.
'I found someone in Salzburg the other day who could provide a novel form of protection. May I bring him in?'
'By all means, my dear Bormann..'
With a dramatic flourish he opened a door and ushered in Heinz Kuby who was now wearing a suit of the Fuhrer's – earlier Bormann had been astonished to find it was a perfect fit – with an armband carrying the swastika symbol. Hitler rose slowly to his feet, staring at the apparition, his face expressionless.
' What is this?' he asked after staring for a whole minute.
'Your double, mein Fuhrer…' He hurried on, sensing that something very serious had gone wrong. 'On occasions when you have to expose your presence when there might be danger we could instead substitute..'
Bormann got no further. Still gazing at Heinz Kuby as though he were afflicted with some loathsome disease Hitler pronounced his verdict.
'T-a-k-e i-t a-w-a-y. Never let me see it again. You hear! '
The last words were spoken in a shriek. Bormann hastily took the terrified Kuby to another room and equally hastily returned to try and repair the damage. As he came into the room Hitler was walking up and down in a characteristic pose, hands clasped behind his back. He gave Bormann no chance to speak first.
'Where did you find that hideous freak? No one else has seen it, I hope? Thank God for that. You must get rid of it. You think I want someone just like me hanging round the place? The next thing we know General von Brauchitsch will arrive, see it, and mistake it for me!'
'We all have our doubles somewhere, mein Fuhrer..'
'I am unique!'
Ten minutes later Bormann had a brainwave. He felt sure the idea would appeal to the Fuhrer's devious mind.
'There is one advantage in keeping him in a back cupboard – if you want to appear to be in one place while secretly you are in another. Kuby would have been useful during the Rohm crisis..
'Bormann, you are right!' Hitler, who revelled in tricks, was delighted. He had just one observation – inside which back cupboard should the 'dummy' be kept?
'Why, here at the Berghof,' Bormann replied confidently. 'I will allocate him quarters and personally guarantee he never leaves them when you or anyone from the outside world is here.'
'In any case he must never leave Berchtesgaden, I insist.'
'That, also, I will guarantee. The only other problem is the adjutant who found him. I suggest we post him immediately to a minor post at a Far East embassy..
'Excellent! He can stay there forever – until his skin turns yellow!'.
Bormann inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. The crisis was over. The Fuhrer had even switched from referring to Kuby as it in favour of he. He really wished he'd never brought the blasted actor anywhere near the place, but now Hitler had agreed, Kuby must be kept in a 'back cupboard'.
In October 1938 Bormann can never have foreseen the earthquake-making proportions of the minor episode which was now forgotten as Hitler, settled again in front of the log fire, welcomed Eva Braun as she came into, the room, and began one of his endless monologues on the story of his youth in the bad old days.
Chapter Five
12 March 1943. The pilot of the British Mosquito, wearing the German uniform of a colonel in the SS, swept across the Obersalzberg. He saw the jagged tip of a snow-covered mountain sheer up immediately ahead, climbed and missed the tip by feet.
The timing of Wing Commander Ian Lindsay's long flight had been perfect. Dawn was now spreading an eery light over summits which. stood like sentinels guarding the Fuhrer's refuge at the Berghof. He turned the aircraft – made of wood to boost speed – in a wide circle, searching for a suitable drop point.
He was crammed into the small cockpit, his parachute attached to his back, making movement difficult. Then he saw his objective far below. The rooftops of the Berghof heavy with snow. The tracks of a vehicle which had recently made its way up the curving read to the refuge showed up clearly.
Ian Lindsay had taken off from Malta – after being flown to the island from Algiers in a Dakota – in the early hours. His course had taken him up the centre of the Adriatic Sea, across a small area of northern Italy where he had then turned north-east over the Alps.
Even up to the last minute, permission to undertake his mission had been in doubt. The argument had gone as high as General Alexander who had asked to see Lindsay personally at Allied Forces Headquarters in Algiers. Inside his villa the General had returned Lindsay's salute casually and asked him to sit down.
'What is all this pother about – your flying to meet Hitler?' he asked amiably.
'Just how many people do know about this mission?' demanded the Wing Commander. 'Two in London and one here who flew out with me to arrange liaison was supposed to be the limit..'
'And now you get me babbling on about it?'
Alexander pulled at his trim moustache, his expression amused. He heard that Ian Lindsay ranked high in the field of insubordination and clearly he was not intimidated by a mere Deputy Commander-in-Chief of Allied Forces. Alexander rather liked that as he studied the man on the other side of the simple trestle table.
Twenty-six years old, Lindsay had thick blond hair, a nose like that seen on coins of Roman emperors, a good jaw and firm mouth. Five feet nine inches tall, he exuded an, aura of strength of character.