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Fräulein Schermann was a not unattractive woman of, he guessed, thirty or thirty-two. Her calves and ankles were a little thick—another Hessian peasant characteristic, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought—but she was not fat and really didn’t need the “foundation garment” that encased her body from just above her knees to just below her neck.
It was difficult for von Heurten-Mitnitz to imagine Fräulein Schermann in the throes of carnal passion, although he had caught himself more than once thinking about her breasts. As a young man, he had once had a fling with a peasant girl, a Silesian, whose breasts had been nearly as firm as her tail.
He suspected that in the unlikely event some young man got his hands on Fräulein Schermann’s breasts, he would find much the same thing.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz had not chosen Fräulein Schermann; she was thrust upon him.
“And I have just the girl for you, Helmut,” the Chief of the Foreign Responsibilities Division had told him. “Very efficient. Very dedicated.”
There were three reasons why Fräulein Schermann was assigned to von Heurten-Mitnitz. The first was innocent coincidence: She was available for assignment when his need came up. Second, Fräulein Schermann’s dedication translated to mean she was an informer for the Gestapo or the SD. There was no reason he should be under suspicion, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being watched on general principles. Third, Fräulein Schermann had made someone else in the Foreign Ministry as uncomfortable as she made him, and she had been gotten rid of as tactfully as possible.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz looked up from his carefully hidden behind paperwork novel while Fräulein Schermann delivered in the tones of a Feldwebel (Sergeant) with two long service medals the announcement that “Obersturmbannführer SS-SD Johann Müller wishes to see the Herr Minister.”
“Would you ask the Obersturmbannführer to come in, please, Fräulein Schermann?”
Fräulein Schermann nodded her head, just once, an almost mechanical movement.
“Jawohl, Herr Minister,” she said.
Müller marched into the office. He was wearing a black overcoat that reached almost to his ankles. There was a leather belt around the coat, from which hung a closed pistol holster.
“Heil H
itler!” Müller barked and gave the straight-armed salute.
“Heil Hitler!” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “I’m pleased that you could fit me into your schedule, Obersturmbannführer.”
“It is my honor, Herr Minister,” Müller said.
“I have taken the liberty of reserving a table at the Adlon,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “Is that all right with you?”
“The Herr Minister is most kind,” Müller said.
“It was good of you to give me a ride,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “Just let me get my coat and hat.”
He had not quite reached the bentwood coat rack when Fräulein Schermann appeared, snatched the coat from the hook, and held it out for him. As he was shrugging into it, she handed him his hat.
“Obersturmbannführer Müller and I will be taking lunch at the Adlon, Fräulein Schermann,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “If there are any important calls for the Obersturmbannführer or myself, please be good enough to transfer them.”
“Jawohl, Herr Minister.”
Müller’s car, an unmarked Opel Kapitän, was parked in front of the Foreign Ministry. There were both uniformed Berlin municipal policemen and plainclothes SD men stationed there, walking slowly back and forth in front of the sandbags stacked against the building. None was willing to remind an Obersturmbannführer SS-SD that parking was prohibited in front of the Foreign Ministry.
Müller got behind the wheel, and they drove off.
“Drive by my house, will you, Müller?” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “I have to go inside for a moment.”
Müller nodded.
Going to Zehlendorf and then back downtown would give them a few minutes to talk in privacy. There was nothing suspicious in a man going home on his way to lunch to pick up something he had forgotten.
Müller drove past the Zoological Gardens and then down the Kurfürstendamm to Brandenburgischestrasse. Two blocks into it, the street was blocked by a mountain of rubble and two wholly unnecessary policemen waving directional signs to order them onto a detour. Von Heurten-Mitnitz saw the shell of a department store where he had once bought underwear.
A lane just a car wide had been cleared through the rubble on the side street, and Müller’s Opel bounced over loose bricks and masonry. And then, as suddenly as it began, the destroyed area gave way to a neighborhood that, save for blacked-out windows and signs indicating air-raid shelters, seemed untouched by the war.
They’ll be back, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought, sooner or later, but inevitably. And this neighborhood, too, will be a mound of smoldering rubble.
“The Russians have stopped von Manstein,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.
