Authors: Jonathan Crown
Wünsche makes a note.
“On the stroke of 12 o’ clock, Julius Schaub will read out the schedule for the day. Schraub is the Führer’s chief adjutant and your immediate superior. The schedule, of course, is dependent on the Führer’s appointments. Essentially speaking, you are responsible for everything that moves. That’s easy enough to remember.”
“But,” Wünsche hesitates, “when you think about it everything moves, in a way.”
“Does it?” asks Kannenberg. He points at the chandelier. “Is that moving right now, in your eyes?”
“No,” admits Wünsche.
Kanneberg nods solemnly. “Correct. So you are not responsible for it. Five things move, generally speaking. Tyres, pictures, Blondi, breakfast and the Front.”
Wünsche makes a note.
“Tyres,” explains Kanneberg, “means the fleet of vehicles. Erich Kempka is the Führer’s chauffeur. Pictures. I mean moving pictures. The Führer likes to watch films in the evening. Blondi. The Führer’s dog. She needs a lot of movement.”
“Understood,” says Wünsche. “I have a dog myself.”
“No, no,” corrects Kannenberg, “the walking is taken care of by Paul Feni, Blondi’s keeper. You are the contact person. You coordinate. Vet appointments. Transport. To the Berghof, to the Wolf’s Lair. That kind of thing.”
Wünsche makes a note.
“So what’s left?” asks Kannenberg, checking the newcomer’s quick-wittedness.
“Breakfast and the Front!” calls Wünsche.
“Correct,” comes the answer. “Breakfast is taken to the Führer. It is the only meal which he likes to eat alone. For lunch and dinner he dines in company. Now, the Front…”
Wünsche interrupts, startled. “I hope I’m not responsible for the soldiers on the Front. I mean, they’re moving, after all.”
“Of course not,” Kanneberg reassures him. “The Führer himself takes care of that. Your job, as I already mentioned, is to iron the map of the world.”
“But I don’t see where the movement is,” says Wünsche assiduously. “In what way does the map of the world move?”
“It crinkles,” replies Kannenberg.
*
Air-raid siren. The English bombers are coming back. In the middle of the night, the sirens suddenly begin to wail.
The ear-piercing sound tears the Wünsches from a deep sleep. They lie in bed fully dressed at night, and have done so ever since the high alert was given on the radio. The suitcase stands packed and ready by the front door. So they are out on the street in a matter of moments and on their way to the nearest air-raid shelter.
The planes are already circling in the sky, dropping ‘Tannenbäume’, rocket flares designed to illuminate the targets for the bombers. Immediately in their wake follow the deadly fighter planes with explosives and fire bombs.
The bunker at Bahnhof Zoo can accommodate 18,000 people, and yet it is still a matter of luck that the Wünsches are able to find shelter at the last minute. The crush is intense and any space has long since been filled.
“No pets!” bellows the air-raid warden at the entrance. He means Sirius.
Erwin Wünsche protests – but in vain. The warden remains firm.
“No pets! No Jews! We don’t even have enough space for people!”
Sirius has to stay outside.
The fear in the bunker chokes throats shut. The heat is stifling. The stench of the burning city forces its way into the cellar through the air vents. Gertrud trembles with fear, clinging onto her husband. He is as pale as a corpse, staring at the concrete ceiling as it tremors more dangerously with every explosion. The bombs are falling right above them. Ulrich and Rudi cry, pressing their hands against their ears.
Sirius trots along the Kurfürstendamm. He could creep into a doorway, he could seek shelter under a bridge, he could flee into a cellar.
But no. He walks right in the middle of the street. The pyrotechnics of the phosphorus bombs illuminate the night sky. The glowing splinters set trees on fire. The theatre on Kurfürstendamm goes up in flames, the German Opera House on Bismarkstrasse, the university. The Deutschlandhalle arena is burning.
Sirius walks through the sea of flames. Proud and brave. He isn’t afraid of the Allies’ hailstorm of bombs.
And why would he be? After all, he is their ally.
*
In Stalingrad, the fate of the German Wehrmacht turns within a matter of days. The 6th Army has almost completely destroyed the city, and Hitler is already celebrating the victory of Operation Hubertus with a frenetic speech in the Löwenbräukeller beer hall in Munich.
But at the last moment, the Red Army makes a success of Operation Uranus, the counter-offensive. They encircle the enemy, and suddenly the German army is trapped. The Russian winter rages. The soldiers freeze and starve.
Hermann Göring, the supreme commander of the Luftwaffe, has announced Operation Winter Storm, the aerial rescue mission. But he is unable to make good on his promise. The Stalingrad cauldron becomes a deadly trap. A German soldier dies every seven seconds.
While this is happening, Erwin Wünsche irons around the Volga on the map of the world with particular precision. Under no circumstances can the front line be allowed to crumple.
Krause, the valet, tiptoes over and gives the signal for breakfast. Lange, the cook, has laid out crispbreads, butter, honey and cocoa on the tray. The door opens, and out steps the Führer.
Erwin Wünsche finds himself standing right before Hitler for the first time. He stands to attention.
The Führer is a man whose side parting doesn’t sit quite right first thing in the morning, his hair is dishevelled, and even his famous moustache doesn’t have its distinctive shape until after his shave. He is wearing a dressing gown, and his feet are encased in slippers with the swastika emblem. For breakfast, he puts on his peaked cap with its wreath of oak leaves. He yawns.
“Is this the young man we have Göring to thank for?” he asks.
Wünsche salutes. “
Ja, mein Führer
!”
The Führer looks exhausted. The previous evening, he held one of his frequent monologues on the international situation deep into the night. His guests, fed with overcooked vegetables and unable to get a word in edgeways, are witnesses of the so-called “Table Talk.” As always at these events, the Führer’s thoughts are captured for posterity by a stenographer.
The evenings usually come to an end in the at-home cinema, where the Führer likes to unwind by watching Hollywood movies. Yesterday it was Walt Disney’s
Snow White
, his favourite.
“What do we have today?” he asks, pointing his crispbread at the man who is responsible for moving pictures. Wünsche, already familiar with the Führer’s tastes, suggests Laurel and Hardy.
“Very good,” approves the Führer.
The red light on the telephone illuminates, which means there is a call for the Führer. A highly unusual occurrence at this time of the morning. Everyone knows that the Führer’s official working day begins only once he has taken up residence, fresh and alert, at his desk in the Reich Chancellery. Right now, he is still sat at breakfast in his robe.
“Colonel-General Paulus,” whispers Rochus Misch, the bodyguard, and hands over the receiver.
Bad news on the Stalingrad cauldron. The Führer rolls his eyes. “
Jaja
,” he says, now and again. Then he bellows: “Retreat? That’s not an option. Persevere, and that’s an order!” Then he hangs up.
“Herr Wollenhaupt is here,” announces the valet. The Führer’s barber has arrived to trim his moustache.
*
Every Wednesday, Sirius goes to Benno Fritsche’s house. The Circle has realised that the dog’s appearance in their lives was a great stroke of luck. His master is the Führer’s personal adjutant and brings home the latest news from the Reich Chancellery each evening – and the dog listens in.
Now the bearer of this sensitive information just needs to learn how to divulge his knowledge. They remember Kurwenal, the famous dachshund who was able to read and write.
Why not? Professor Wundt, the expert within the Circle, offers himself as a teacher. As chance would have it, he even once met the founder of
New Animal Psychology
, Mathilde Freiin von Freytag-Loringhoven. She was the one who taught Kurwenal how to speak via barked Morse code.
But that won’t work in this case. “Too loud,” Count von Studnitz points out. The neighbours might get suspicious.
Ted Bloomfield, the American, suggests the construction of an enormous typewriter, with each key large enough for the dog to press with his paw. “Like a piano.” He says.
“Why not an actual piano?” ponders Wundt. “With every key representing a letter.”
“Just imagine the clatter it would make,” shudders Count von Studnitz. “An absolute cacophony.”
“So what?” says Benno Fritsche. “Surely practising the piano is still allowed around here.”
“Not if it sounds like Arnold Schönberg,” says Bloomfield in amusement. “He had to go into exile after his piano concerto.”
The Circle decides to give it a go with the instrument. Professor Wundt will train Sirius, on the piano, to be a spy.
By the time of their next meeting, there is already a black piano in the house. The keys are marked with letters, the hammers fitted with a mute. Sirius is to play con sordino.
The concert sounds rather strange, admittedly. The professor explains the basic rules of phonetics by uttering drawn-out vocals, and Sirius accompanies him on the piano.
The others encircle the two musicians, as is befitting of a group called
the Circle
. They listen eagerly to see how Sirius will take to his new task.
Will it work? Who knows. In any case, it will be a little while before the dog is even able to spell the word “Hitler” using music.
When Benno Fritsche bumps into Frau Zinke a few days later, she asks curiously: “Have you taken up the piano recently?”
Benno Fritsche bows humbly. “One does what one can. Or can’t, as the case may be.”
“I thought you were playing jazz,” says Frau Zinke. “That would be forbidden.”
“Jazz?” says Fritsche with theatrical outrage. “No, I only play Beethoven.”
Frau Zinke has learnt something new again. “Ah, is that how it sounds? I imagined it to be different.”
Fritsche takes off his hat in farewell, then raises his index finger and says: “Every line etched by sorrow wanes, as long as music’s enchantment reigns. Schiller.”
*
“Christmas trees! Christmas trees!” cries the seller in front of the drugstore in Hollywood. “Make you happy. Better than any drug.”
Rahel pauses and looks at the man. He gives her a friendly nod. She shakes her head, her eyes filling with tears. Without a word, she continues on her way.
Happiness is a thing of yesterday. Carl and Rahel have lost everything. They stand there empty-handed, just like when they first arrived in Hollywood. Are they at the end? Or the beginning? Who knows?
Else and Andreas have taken the two of them into their home. Their apartment is really only just big enough for their young happiness. But now the misfortune of the old has to fit in too. The poor parents sleep in the child’s room that was intended for Johnny. His bed is in the living room.
There is no space left for a Christmas tree. Only for a sprig of fir in a vase at the very most.
Christmas Eve in the smallest of spaces, in the greatest adversity.
Georg and Electra come too. They have become inseparable. Andreas fetches another two chairs from the kitchen.
“Lovely apartment,” says Electra politely.
“But small,” apologises Else.
“Space is relative,” comforts Electra. An insight that she hasn’t just picked up from the seminars of Bertrand Russell. Her father is Conrad Nicholson Hilton, the hotel mogul. There is always plenty of room at the Hiltons’.
Carl defiantly launches into a rendition of
O Christmas Tree
. He puts the emphasis on the word “tree”, not without an undertone of bitterness. Johnny hears his grandfather singing for the first time, it scares him, and he cries.
The family is together. If not beneath a Christmas tree, then at least next to the sprig of fir, upon which a candle is valiantly trying to cast a festive ambience. The only thing missing is Sirius.
They remember him with a minute of silence. May God protect him. May his light always shine, wherever he is. The candle flickers, as though their whispered prayer has been heard.
As it happens, Sirius really is thinking of his far-away family at this very moment. Merry Christmas, he wishes them. Is the sheriff with them again, he wonders?
No, not the sheriff as well in that tiny apartment, please.
“Hansi!” calls the stern voice of the Hauptsturmführer, tearing the dog from his thoughts.
The Wünsches have a Christmas tree, of course. It’s in the garden, and flourishes not only in the summertime, but in the winter too, when it snows. The family pull on their boots and stomp outside. The white finery is the most beautiful decoration the branches can have.
“Merry Christmas!” commands the patriarch.
Then they have roast duck. Another one of the privileges that come with being the Führer’s adjutant.
The special Christmas programme is on the Volksempfänger radio. It begins with the festive bell ringing of the German cathedrals, then connects the soldiers on the Front and the people back at home in a reverent celebration of Christmas Eve.
“Attention everyone!” crackles the moderator’s static voice. “I will now hand over to our comrades, who will speak to you from the most far-flung of locations. I am now calling the Arctic harbour of Liinahamari.”
The soldiers in the Arctic Circle come onto the air, their teeth chattering with cold, and greet their families back home.
“Attention,” announces the static voice of the moderator once more, “I am now calling Stalingrad!”
The soldiers in the cauldron wish everyone a merry Christmas.
The programme continues with greetings from Tunis, Catania, Crete, Marseille, Zakopane and the Bay of Biscay.
“From all over the world!” marvels Ulrich.
“You see,” replies his mother proudly. “That’s why it’s called a World War.”
Next up are the soldiers in the Crimean Peninsula. As if on command, the men strike up the Christmas song,
Silent Night
.