Read Online The Hunt aka 27 by William Diehl - Free Book Online
Authors: William Diehl
Tags: Action & Adventure, Interpersonal relations, Germany, Europe, Nazis, Murder, Fascism, Jews, Fiction - Espionage, racism, Adventure fiction, spy stories, Irish Americans, 1918-1945, Espionage & spy thriller, international intrigue, Diplomats, Undercover operations - Fiction, Subversive activities, Intelligence service - United States - Fiction
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draft. A white-uniformed servant snapped to attention and saluted.
“You may go to the kitchen, Fritz, we can serve ourselves.”
“Yes, mein Fuhrer,” the soldier said and vanished.
Outside, the wind whirled the snow into twisting devils that danced past the frosted windows. Inside, a giant fire snapped and sent glittering sparks twirling up the chimney.
“Ah,” Hitler said, closing his eyes. He opened the coat and held it like a shield in front of the fire, gathering in its warmth. “Fire is a great cleanser,” he said. Staring at the blazing logs, he saw instead that towering Reichstag ablaze. His mind conjured twinkling sparks floating over the city.
A table had been set in front of the fireplace. There were plates of homemade breads, pastries, cheeses, and thick sausages cooked until their skin had burs t. A large china teapot squatted in the center of the table, the tea steeping in its own steam. Two bottles of wine had also been opened and were sitting on the table.
“The walk here is good discipline. Are you a disciplined man, Hans?”
“When it’s necessary.”
“Good point. One of the reasons I come to this place is to relax.” He placed a finger on one of the wine bottles.
“Red or white?”
“I think I prefer the red.”
Hitler poured them both a glass of the red, then took a knife and sliced off a bit of sausage and put ii in his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the spicy bit of meat before washing it down with a sip of wine.
“Forget the discipline for a day OT two, yes?”
“An absolute necessity, mein Fuhrer.”
“Exactly, exactly. Help yourself, Hans.”
Hitler fixed himself a plate of bread, cheese and sausage, poured more wine in the glass. Warmed by the fire, he took off his coat and threw it over a chair, pulled another one close to the hearth and sat with his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He sighed with contentment. Ingersoll drew up a chair and sat beside him. They both stared, almost transfixed, at the fire as they spoke.
“I never discuss politics here at the Eagle’s Nest,” Hitler said. “We come here to relax and forget the problems, hmm? However, Herr Ingersoll, I think it would be profitable for us to understand each other, eh?”
“If you wish, mein Führer.”
“I am curious about something,” Hitler said. “I know you had bad times for a year or two before you became an actor. Why didn’t you join the Sturmabteilung? A good Nazi like you, belonging to the brownshirts would have given you prestige.”
“I couldn’t do that,” Ingersoll answered.
“Why not?”
“It’s a personal matter,” he said with some hesitation.
“One you cannot share with your Führer?”
Ingersoll thought for a moment before answering.
“I didn’t come here to make enemies.”
“It will not go beyond this room, Hans.”
Ingersoll thought about that for a few moments. On the one hand he feared his own prejudice would infuriate Hitler, and yet his instincts told him that Hitler would respond favorably to honesty.
Besides, why was he really here, he wondered? Were these political questions merely curiosity? Or was there some darker motive behind the discussion? Ingersoll flipped the two options over and over in his mind, like spinning a coin. Finally he opted for candor. After all, he was a national idol. His popularity transcended politics or ideology.
“I am afraid my opinions are somewhat. . . snobbish,” he said finally.
“Snobbish?”
“The brownshirts are not my kind of people. I understand their function is necessary but . . . they are loudmouth bullies, boisterous and
“Yes? And?” Hitler’s eyes bored into his but Ingersoll did not look away.
“And then there’s Ernst Röhm. He is . . . there is something about him . . . Röhm is a lover of little boys,” Ingersoll said rather harshly. “A sadist. A drunkard
“You know Röhm?”
“I met him once. Back in ‘25, ‘26, in Berlin. He was making a speech.
“You may go to the kitchen, Fritz, we can serve ourselves.”
“Yes, mein Fuhrer,” the soldier said and vanished.
Outside, the wind whirled the snow into twisting devils that danced past the frosted windows. Inside, a giant fire snapped and sent glittering sparks twirling up the chimney.
“Ah,” Hitler said, closing his eyes. He opened the coat and held it like a shield in front of the fire, gathering in its warmth. “Fire is a great cleanser,” he said. Staring at the blazing logs, he saw instead that towering Reichstag ablaze. His mind conjured twinkling sparks floating over the city.
A table had been set in front of the fireplace. There were plates of homemade breads, pastries, cheeses, and thick sausages cooked until their skin had burs t. A large china teapot squatted in the center of the table, the tea steeping in its own steam. Two bottles of wine had also been opened and were sitting on the table.
“The walk here is good discipline. Are you a disciplined man, Hans?”
“When it’s necessary.”
“Good point. One of the reasons I come to this place is to relax.” He placed a finger on one of the wine bottles.
“Red or white?”
“I think I prefer the red.”
Hitler poured them both a glass of the red, then took a knife and sliced off a bit of sausage and put ii in his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the spicy bit of meat before washing it down with a sip of wine.
“Forget the discipline for a day OT two, yes?”
“An absolute necessity, mein Fuhrer.”
“Exactly, exactly. Help yourself, Hans.”
Hitler fixed himself a plate of bread, cheese and sausage, poured more wine in the glass. Warmed by the fire, he took off his coat and threw it over a chair, pulled another one close to the hearth and sat with his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He sighed with contentment. Ingersoll drew up a chair and sat beside him. They both stared, almost transfixed, at the fire as they spoke.
“I never discuss politics here at the Eagle’s Nest,” Hitler said. “We come here to relax and forget the problems, hmm? However, Herr Ingersoll, I think it would be profitable for us to understand each other, eh?”
“If you wish, mein Führer.”
“I am curious about something,” Hitler said. “I know you had bad times for a year or two before you became an actor. Why didn’t you join the Sturmabteilung? A good Nazi like you, belonging to the brownshirts would have given you prestige.”
“I couldn’t do that,” Ingersoll answered.
“Why not?”
“It’s a personal matter,” he said with some hesitation.
“One you cannot share with your Führer?”
Ingersoll thought for a moment before answering.
“I didn’t come here to make enemies.”
“It will not go beyond this room, Hans.”
Ingersoll thought about that for a few moments. On the one hand he feared his own prejudice would infuriate Hitler, and yet his instincts told him that Hitler would respond favorably to honesty.
Besides, why was he really here, he wondered? Were these political questions merely curiosity? Or was there some darker motive behind the discussion? Ingersoll flipped the two options over and over in his mind, like spinning a coin. Finally he opted for candor. After all, he was a national idol. His popularity transcended politics or ideology.
“I am afraid my opinions are somewhat. . . snobbish,” he said finally.
“Snobbish?”
“The brownshirts are not my kind of people. I understand their function is necessary but . . . they are loudmouth bullies, boisterous and
“Yes? And?” Hitler’s eyes bored into his but Ingersoll did not look away.
“And then there’s Ernst Röhm. He is . . . there is something about him . . . Röhm is a lover of little boys,” Ingersoll said rather harshly. “A sadist. A drunkard
“You know Röhm?”
“I met him once. Back in ‘25, ‘26, in Berlin. He was making a speech.
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