Hitler's peace

“I suppose I have to tell someone.” Kersten shrugged and drained his cognac glass in one go. “Could I have another?”

Schellenberg fetched the bottle and refilled the Finn’s glass.

“I’ve warned Himmler of the consequences for the German people of doing nothing about this. That’s the real reason he’s making these peace overtures to the Americans. He’s known about this since the end of last year.”

“Hitler’s ill?”

“Worse than ill.”

“Dying?”

“Worse than that.”

“For Christ’s sake, Felix, what is it?”

“Last December, at Himmler’s castle near the Wolfschanze, Himmler took a thirty-page dossier from his safe and showed it to me. It was a top-secret file about Hitler’s health. He asked me to read the file with a view to my treating Hitler as a patient. I read it and wished I hadn’t. Dr. Morell had noted some loss of normal reflexes in Hitler that might have indicated some degeneration in the nerve fibers of the spinal cord, possibly even signs of progressive paralysis.”

“Go on.”

“It was Morell’s opinion that this was tabes dorsalis, also known as locomotor ataxia.” Kersten lit a cigarette and stared grimly at the glowing tip. “A tertiary syphilitic infection of the nerves.”

“Holy Christ!” exclaimed Schellenberg. “Are you saying that the Fuhrer has syphilis?”

“Not me, for God’s sake. Not me. Morell. And this was only a suspicion. Not a complete diagnosis. For that there would have to be blood tests and an examination of Hitler’s private parts.”

“But if it’s true?”

Kersten sighed loudly. “If it’s true, then it’s possible that, periodically at least, Germany may be led by someone suffering from acute paranoia.”

“Periodically.”

“Hitler might appear rational for most of the time, with bouts of insanity.”

“Just like Nietzsche.”

“Exactly so.”

“Except that Nietzsche was in an asylum.”

“Actually, no. He was committed to an asylum but was released into the care of his own family and eventually died at home.”

“Raving.”

“Yes. Raving.”

“That sounds familiar.”

Schellenberg collected his overnight bag off the bed and emptied the contents into the quilt. “Then let us hope that when he wrote these letters to each of the Big Three he was in a rational phase.”

“So that’s why you’re here.”

“Yes. Himmler wants you to deliver them to the appropriate government representatives.”

Kersten picked up one of the three letters and turned it over in his pudgy hands as if it had been something written in Goethe’s own handwriting. “To bear such a huge responsibility,” he muttered. “Incredible.”

Schellenberg shrugged and looked away. That Germany’s future should be entrusted to the hands of a forty-five-year-old Finnish masseur seemed no less incredible to him.

“Hewitt, I suppose, for the letter to Roosevelt,” said Kersten.

Schellenberg nodded vaguely; could any of the Big Three possibly treat such a bizarre overture with any seriousness?

“Madame de Kollontay, for the Soviets, of course.”

He liked Kersten and had the greatest respect for him as a therapist, and yet he could not help but think that this kind of back-door diplomacy-no, asylum-door diplomacy was more like it-was doomed to fail.

“I’m not sure about the British,” murmured Kersten. “I haven’t had a great deal to do with the British. Henry Denham, perhaps. Now, he is a spy, I think.”

All of which left Schellenberg angry with Himmler. What on earth was he thinking? Was Himmler any less insane than Hitler?

“I’ll ask Hewitt when I see him later this afternoon,” continued Kersten. “He’s a patient of mine, you know. His back pain provides a useful cover for our meetings.”

How dare he, thought Schellenberg. How dare Himmler charge this simple man, of limited intellectual ability, with a mission like this and describe Schellenberg’s own idea as sounding like something out of Der Pimpf?

Schellenberg could now see no alternative. He was going to have to try again to sell Himmler on his plan to assassinate the Big Three. And perhaps there was something in Nietzsche that might help. He was no philosopher, but he remembered enough of what he had read of Nietzsche to know that Himmler would appreciate his florid tone. There was a phrase in Nietzsche’s book about morals that seemed appropriate. About how only rare superior individuals-the noble ones, the Ubermenschen, yes, Himmler loved that particular word-could rise above all moral distinctions to achieve a heroic life of truly human worth. Something like that, perhaps, might help sell Himmler on his plan. And after Himmler, Hitler, too. Hitler would be easy. Himmler was the harder sell. After Himmler, Hitler would be a piece of cake.

VII

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1943,

WASHINGTON, D.C.