With Schultz, of Race and Resettlement, Uncle Martin was trying to find a workable definition of the Mischlinge, or the ethnic hybrids. Having defined them, they would decide what to do about them. That December he and Schultz were ‘costing’ sterilisation for an estimated seventy thousand men and women, all of whom, prohibitively, would need ten days in hospital.
It was different with Racial Researcher Mayer. With Amman and Schultz, the Reichsleiter was applying himself, was enthusiastically putting himself about; with Mayer, though, he could not disguise a faint impatience with his destiny.
Uncle Martin might have been occasionally piqued by his offspring; but he was chronically tormented by his forebears. An official of his rank needed to be provably Aryan to a depth of four generations; and they kept running up against the void of his great-grandfather.
The inquisition about the Bormann genealogy had begun in January 1932.
‘And it won’t end,’ he said (presciently). ‘Even if the Russians cross the Oder and the Americans cross the Rhine — it won’t end.’
Uncle Martin’s great-grandfather, Joachim, was illegitimate. And Uncle Martin’s great-great-grandmother, as he put it, was the town pump — so Joachim’s paternal origin was anybody’s guess.
‘Wear full fig tonight, Neffe. To intimidate Mayer. I’m wearing mine.’
He had never raised a hand in anger, except at home, and he was not an Old Fighter, originally, but just a paymaster of Old Fighters. All the same, Uncle Martin had just received another promotion, and came to dinner dressed as an SS-Obergruppenfuhrer — a lieutenant general.
‘I’m paying for my bit. Out of my own pocket, too. But I’ve offered Mayer’s people “proportional support” from state funds. That might do it. As long as I keep plugging away.’
‘You work too hard, Onkel.’
‘That’s what I’m forever telling him, Neffe. I’m forever telling him, “Papi, you work too hard!”’
‘See? That’s all she ever says. You work too hard. Now run along, Gerda. I’ve certain matters to discuss with Golo.’
‘Of course, Papi. Can I get you gentlemen anything?’
‘Just bend over and sling in another log on your way out. Enjoy the view, Neffe. Ah. Now isn’t that a good little girl?’
‘What am I up to? Off my own bat you mean? Oh, not a lot. Wasted a few days covering myself with dust at the Gestapa. Red tabs, blue tabs. I’m trying to trace someone. It’s nothing to me personally. I’m just obliging a lady friend.’
‘That’s what you’re good at. You brute.’
‘I’m fairly anxious to get back to Buna. Meanwhile, though, I’m entirely at your service. As always, Onkel.’
‘… What do you know about the Ahnenerbe?’
‘Not much. Cultural research, isn’t it? Sort of a brains’ trust. Pretty third-tier, I gather.’
‘Here. Take it. Don’t read the thing now. Just note the title.’
‘“The Theory of the Cosmic Ice.” What’s that?’
‘Mm. Well, here we’re dealing with the Quack’ — Himmler (der Kurpfuscher). ‘Between you and me and the gatepost, I’ve never set much store by all that anthropology of his. Can’t see the point in it. And the herbalism. Laxatives and yogurts. Don’t hold with it. Can’t see the point in it.’
‘The oat-straw baths and so on.’
‘Don’t believe in it. Still, this is different, Golo. Now hear this. At the Ahnenerbe there’s a meteorology department. Where they’re supposedly working on long-term forecasts. But that’s just a blind. What they’re really working on is the cosmic-ice theory.’
‘You’d better explain, Onkel.’
‘It’s a bit hot in here, isn’t it? Give us your glass. There. Get that down you.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers. Well. The theory is that the Aryans, the theory is that the Aryans aren’t… Wait. Yes, and there’s this business with the lost continent. It’s pretty technical, and I don’t want to elaborate now. Here. It’s all in here. I want you to mug up on it, Neffe. And tell me the state of play at the Ahnenerbe.’
‘The state of play on the cosmic-ice theory.’
‘Now look, I’m not defending the idea on its merits. Obviously. How could I?’
‘Of course you couldn’t. You’re no scientist.’
‘I’m not scientifically qualified. On the other hand, I do know my politics, Neffe. And it isn’t the theory that counts. It’s who believes in it. The Quack’s very sympathetic, and so by the way is the Transvestite — not that we listen to him any more. Thanks to me. But the Chief, Golo, the Chief. The Chief insists that if the cosmic-ice theory holds up—’
‘Hang on, Onkel. Excuse me, but I thought the Chief had no time for any of that.’
‘Oh, he’s getting keener on it all the time. Runes, and so forth. And he lets the Cripple do his horoscope… See, the Chief maintains that if the cosmic-ice theory’s sound, if we can substantiate it and make it stick — well. According to him, our enemies will simply down arms and apologise. And the Thousand Year Reich will have its mandate — its mandate from heaven is what the Chief said. So you see, Golo. I can’t afford to be on the wrong side of this one. It would look very bad. So find out about the cosmic ice. Klar?’
‘Oh, perfectly clear, Onkel.’
‘Just a gulp. Go on, boy. Help you sleep.’
‘… I was thinking. Now I’m down here I may as well look in at the Brown House.’
‘What for? It’s one big cobweb.’
‘Mm. But they’ve got the SA stuff for ’33 and ’34. You never know.’
‘Who are you after exactly?’
‘Oh. Some Communist.’
‘Name?… Wait. Don’t tell me. Dieter Kruger.’
I was sharply surprised, but I went on languidly, ‘Yes. Kruger. How odd. And why’s it so funny, Onkel?’
‘Dear oh dear. Oh, dear oh dear oh dear. I’m sorry.’ He coughed, and hawked into the fire. ‘Well. In the first place the whole Kruger business is an absolute hoot. It always sets me off. And now, Neffe, to add to the gaiety of nations, you my boy, unless I’m very much mistaken, you my boy are stuffing Frau Doll.’
‘Not so, Onkel. In the Kat Zet? It’s hardly the place.’
‘Mm. A bit on the grim side, I imagine.’
‘Yes. A bit on the grim side. Now hang on, sir. You’re too far ahead of me. I’m lost.’
‘All right. All right,’ he said and wiped his eyes. ‘In early November I got a teletype from the Commandant. About Kruger. Haven’t answered yet, but I’ll have to. See, the thing is, Neffe, he and I have a sacred bond.’
‘What a one you are for surprises tonight, Onkel.’
‘The most sacred bond there is. More hallowed than the marriage vow. Complicity in murder.’
‘Oh. Do tell.’
‘Finish this, Golo,’ he said, handing me the cognac. ‘There. Early ’23, Neffe. Doll’s paramilitary unit identified a “traitor” in its midst. In Parchim. I was innocent, your honour! All I did was pass on permission for a beating. But Doll and his boys stayed too long in the pub, and then overdid it in the woods. I served a year. Don’t you remember — no camping that summer? Doll got ten. You could say he took the fall for me, a bit. Served five. Anyway, why’s he bothered about Kruger? At this stage in the game? Because Kruger fucked her first?’