The Hunt

Who was this woman whose picture- dominated the hallway?

As he stared up at it he suddenly felt as if he were being watched. He looked around but the hail was empty. He stared up the stairway and for an instant thought he saw someone moving in the shadows at the top of the stairs. Then he turned his gaze back to the portrait.

At the top of the staircase, Hitler stood in the deep shadows staring down at Ingersoll, watching the actor’s almost hypnotic attraction to the painting.

Look at the way he stares at her. There is hunger in that look.

There was sexual ardor in his stare and Ingersoll made no attempt to hide it. Hitler was seized by a momentary rush of jealousy. He turned abruptly and went back down the hall to his sitting room. Once inside he sat on the edge of the chair as though perched there, his fist pressed against his lips, fighting back an overwhelming sense of longing, anger and remorse.

Watching Ingersoll stare at the portrait he understood the actor’s sexual attraction to the subject. He too had stared at that picture with the same longing, the same desire. The same perverted fantasy.

He began to shake uncontrollably. First his knee began to bob, then his hands quivered. He beat on his legs with his fists and muffled the cry of anguish that heart his throat. He fought back the tears of rage that burned the corners of his eyes. Time had eradicated the need. Only resentment remained.

How dare she! How dare she defy and humiliate me. How dare she rob me in such a way.

It was a question he had asked himself many times in the eighteen months since Geli Raubal had killed herself. His maid, Annie Winter, had found Geli with Hitler’s Walther 6.35 wrapped in a towel, its muzzle still pressed against her chest.

I can’t live with your rage and your anger, sometimes I think it would be better to be dead.

She had said the same thing many times and in a variety of ways but he always scoffed at her, derided her, dared her.

And then that awful night she had taken the dare and it had fallen to Rudolf Hess and Gregor Strasser to hush up the potential scandal, just as they had handled the blackmailers who had managed to acquire the obscene nude paintings he had done of Geli.

Just as they had subdued him and watched over him for days because he, too, was raving on the edge of self- destruction.

September 18, 1931, a date that was scorched into his memory, like the date of the Putsch and the date Hindenburg had named him chancellor. Except that this date was a nightmare from which he could not escape.

Ingersoll was still staring at the painting when Vierhaus returned, walking with that curious kind of swagger he had affected to minimize the hump on his back.

“She’s exquisite,” Ingersoll said, still staring up at the face in the portrait. “Who is she?”

“Geli Raubal, the Fuhrer’s niece. His favorite sister’s daughter. He adored her. She was killed a year and a half ago. A tragic accident. He still hasn’t fully recovered from the shock.”

“I can understand why,” Ingersoll said.

“Well, let me show you to your rooms,” Vierhaus said, leading Ingersoll up the stairs. “You can freshen up. The Fuhrer should be down shortly. He usually takes lunch at the tea house down by the mountain overlook. By the way, there are a few rules you should be aware of. The Fuhrer does not permit smoking in the house, he detests the odor. But he has no objection if you smoke outside. He also does not permit the keeping of diaries or writing letters from here, either. And he can’t stand whistling.”

“Whistling?”

“Yes. Drives him crazy. Are you a whistler, Herr Ingersoll?”

“Sometimes. I find it a comforting diversion.”

“Not here. The Fuhrer is a vegetarian although there may be meat dishes for the guests. Also he is a teetotaler, but, again, there will be wine and champagne for his visitors.”

“He sounds quite tolerant of others,” Ingersoll said.

“Oh yes, the Fuhrer is a most tolerant gentleman

He came downstairs precisely at noon. Ingersoll was surprised at how small Hitler was in person. And he wasn’t sure what to expect. Would this be the serious, stormy Hitler he had seen so many times, speaking in Berlin, Nuremberg and Munich, the forceful leader, demanding and getting the adoration of thousands, berating the British and French, damning the Jews and Communists? Or would it be the more affable Hitler he had seen in crowds, often speaking in low caressing tones, bowing low from the waist and kissing the hands of the young Frauleins, kissing the foreheads of the children, making jokes with them.

He was dressed in a gray wool double-breasted suit with the Wehrmacht insignia over the breast pocket, a smiling man, pleasant and friendly. The affable Hitler.

“So,” said Hitler, “we finally meet. I am an ardent fan of yours, Herr Ingersoll. I’ve seen all your films, some more than once. You have brought great credit to Germany. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“I am flattered that you asked, mein Fuhrer.”

“I trust your room is satisfactory.”

“Lovely.”

“Good. Good! I usually take a noon stroll down to the tea house for lunch with my guests but since you and Willie are the first to arrive and he has a few things to do, perhaps just the two of us can go down together.”

This man in an ordinary lounging suit, projecting a patriarchal image of kindness and affability, is this the man who will change the world?