[Inspired by true events.]
“Papers.”
An order, not a request.
Without
looking up, Müller reached inside his coat, withdrew a tattered identification
document and handed it to the official. Feet spread for balance in the swaying
railway carriage, the official studied the paper then peered down at the
household brush salesman with his frayed shirt collar, dowdy suit and large,
battered sample case tucked under the seat.
Müller
offered a small, tight smile. It wasn’t returned, his identification was.
Through the soot-spattered carriage windows, the Schöneberg district was a
blur. Ten minutes later, the train drew into the station servicing the Berlin Sportpalast arena.
Waving
away a porter, Müller lifted the sample case onto the platform and braced
himself before carrying it into the street – a beaten man, facing another day
explaining the merits of stiff coconut fibre bristles to disinterested hausfraus.
Excited,
chatty Berliners pressed around him as they made for the indoor arena. The lure
of Hitler, the nation’s 1930s matinée idol, drew them to the ornate, domed
building. Müller felt himself being swept along by a rush of men and women in
hats and youths in brown shirts.
Near
the Sportpalast’s main entrance, Müller
found the toilets. An odor, equal parts disinfectant and stale urine, rose to
meet him. Choosing the furthest cubicle, he placed the case on the toilet seat
and popped the latches. A SS uniform
was tucked neatly inside a false bottom. In the cramped cubicle, he struggled like
a contortionist to get out of his suit and into the uniform. The calf-hugging,
polished boots were tight, uncomfortable. Pistol checked, Müller left the case
on the seat and used a hairpin to lock the cubicle door.
As
he rejoined the crowd, he heard the command: “Papers, Oberleutnant.” Definitely not a request. The lieutenant flashes on
his uniform didn’t require deference. Two Wehrmacht
guards, both edgy, blocked his way. It wasn’t personal. Wearing a sidearm, he
expected to be stopped. This time he handed over two crisp documents, the first
his identification, the second on a white card giving him permission to stand
in the front ranks at the rally.
The
older guard handed back the documents together with a smile. “You’re with the SS-Standarte. Congratulations. Is my old
schoolfriend Dieter Schmidt still creating mischief there?”
A
trap. Tipping his head slightly to one side, Müller said: “There’s no Dieter
Schmidt in the SS-Standarte.” He met
the guard’s gaze. “Perhaps he left before I joined.”
“Perhaps.
Heil Hitler.”
Touching
his heels together with a casual click, Müller turned away. A calculated guess
and the white card allowed him to edge down the busy main aisle to reach the apron
of the stage just as the event host, Reich Minister of Propaganda Joseph
Goebbels, crossed to the podium.
Standing
with a handful of fellow officers, Müller looked up towards Goebbels’ pale face
and prepared to wait out the introductory speech.
Finally,
the Führer appeared. A wave of noise from the audience’s roar washed over Müller.
“Sieg Heil!”
Perspiration
ran down both sides of his body. Wiping his right palm on his jacket, he drew
in two breaths, pulled the Luger from its holster, aimed and began pulling the
trigger. He lost count of the number of times. Possibly three, no more. A blow from
the right knocked his pistol aside, the following punches sent him to the
floor. The rage was animalistic. Boots flailed, spittle showered down. Then he
felt himself being dragged away, his heels gouging parallel tracks in the
floorboards.
Lashed
to an ornate, upright chair – a stage prop, Müller decided, even through the
pain – he kept his head back to try to stop the bleeding from his nose. His
right eye was partly closed, puffy, pummelled red. Around the room, silent men watched, waited.
Goebbels
entered. Thin, neat, supremely confident, he looked at the men. “Get out.”
No-one
moved. “Are you disobeying orders?” Goebbels asked, his voice soft. Within
seconds, he and Müller were alone.
Goebbels
held his face close to Müller’s: “Do you know of H. L. Mencken?”
“The
American writer?”
“I’ll
forgive him his nationality for this one quote: ‘The whole aim of practical
politics is to keep the populace alarmed, and hence clamorous to be led to
safety, by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them
imaginary.’”
“Like
you and me, Reich Minister.”
“Precisely.
And I must congratulate you. Extraordinary shooting. But what else could I
expect from the marksman hero of Passchendaele, even if we lost that battle?
Indeed, if your aim had been two centimetres to the left today, we would have
lost the Führer too. All Germany rejoices that he was unharmed.”
Müller
felt a cigarette being pushed between his lips. A lighter flicked. Hands still
tied, he tried to draw in the smoke.
Goebbels
sounded almost apologetic. “Obviously I can’t untie you … yet. The crowd now needs
to see my men load you into a car. The message will be clear: a piano wire noose
awaits any traitor.”
Müller
opened his mouth, the cigarette falling to the floor. “When can I see my family?”
“Let’s
see. How many times have you created such wonderful assassin disguises? Three?”
“This
was the fourth.”
“A
threatened nation is an obedient nation, so I think one more attempt on the Führer’s
life this year should be sufficient.” There was a moment before a cold smile
appeared. “You can visit your family before that date.” Another pause. “To
encourage you.”
Müller
could feel the blood drying in his nostrils. Painfully, he closed both eyes,
picturing his wife and two sons. Goebbels had allowed him to see them once in the
last three years. The coming meeting would be different. In Müller’s apartment,
sown into the lining of his mattress, he had hidden fresh papers, beautifully
forged. His contact who created so many fake identification and travel papers in
the past had succumbed to that most elemental of emotions – greed. Finally, Müller’s
family would escape Germany. He would stay. At the next rally, the bullets
would fly two centimetres
to the left.
# # #
Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN
