‘Yes.’
‘Streicher has written a lot of poisonous nonsense about medicine as a Jewish conspiracy, and psychotherapy in particular. For a while the future of mental health in this country was in jeopardy because of him. Consequently Dr Goering has good reason to wish Streicher out of the way, and has already prepared a psychological evaluation of him at the prime minister’s orders. I’m sure that I could guarantee the cooperation of this institute in any investigation involving Streicher.’
I nodded slowly.
‘Are you investigating Streicher?’
‘In confidence?’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t honestly know. Right now let’s just say that I’m curious about him.’
‘Do you want me to ask Dr Goering for help?’
I shook my head. ‘Not at this stage. But thanks for the offer. I’ll certainly bear it in mind.’ I stood up, and went to the door. ‘I’ll bet you probably think quite highly of the prime minister, him being the patron of this institute. Am I right?’
‘He’s been good to us, it’s true. Without his help I doubt there would be an institute. Naturally we think highly of him for that.’
‘Please don’t think I’m blaming you, I’m not. But hasn’t it ever occurred to you that your beneficent patron is just as likely to go and shit in someone else’s garden, as Streicher is in yours? Have you ever thought about that? It stikes me as how it’s a dirty neighbourhood we’re living in, and that we’re all going to keep finding crap on our shoes until someone has the sense to put all the stray dogs in the public kennel.’ I touched the brim of my hat to her. ‘Think about it.’
Korsch twisted his moustache absently as he continued reading his newspaper. I supposed that he had grown it in an effort to look more of a character, in the same way as some men will grow a beard: not because they dislike shaving — a beard requires just as much grooming as a clean-shaven face — but because they think it will make them seem like someone to be taken seriously. But with Korsch the moustache, little more than the stroke of an eyebrow-pencil, merely served to underscore his shifty mien. It made him look like a pimp, an effect at odds with his character however, which in a period of less than two weeks, I had discovered to be a willing and reliable one.
Noticing my attention, he was moved to inform me that the Polish foreign minister, Josef Beck, had demanded a solution to the problem of the Polish minority in the Olsa region of Czechoslovakia.
‘Just like a bunch of gangsters, isn’t it, sir?’ he said. ‘Everyone wants his cut.’
‘Korsch,’ I said, ‘you missed your vocation. You should have been a newsreader on the radio.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, folding away his paper. ‘Have you been to Nuremberg before?’
‘Once. Just after the war. I can’t say I like Bavarians much, though. How about you?’
‘First time. But I know what you mean about Bavarians. All that quaint conservatism. It’s a lot of nonsense, isn’t it?’ He looked out of the window for a minute at the moving picture that was the German countryside. Facing me again he said: ‘Do you really think Streicher could have something to do with these killings, sir?’
‘We’re not exactly tripping over the leads in this case, are we? Nor would it appear that the Gauleiter of Franconia is what you would call popular. Arthur Nebe even went so far as to tell me that Julius Streicher is one of the Reich’s greatest criminals, and that there are already several investigations pending against him. He was keen that we should speak to the Nuremberg Police President personally. Apparently there’s no love lost between him and Streicher. But at the same time we have to be extremely careful. Streicher runs his district like a Chinese warlord. Not to mention the fact that he’s on first-name terms with the Fuhrer.’
When the train reached Leipzig a young SA naval company leader joined our compartment, and Korsch and I went in search of the dining car. By the time we had finished eating the train was in Gera, close to the Czech border, but despite the fact that our SA travelling companion got off at that stop, there was no sign of the troop concentrations we had heard about. Korsch suggested that the naval SA man’s presence there meant that there was going to be an amphibious attack, and this, we both agreed, would be the best thing for everyone, given that the border was largely mountainous.
It was early evening by the time that the train got into the Haupt Station in central Nuremberg. Outside, by the equestrian statue of some unknown aristocrat, we caught a taxi which drove us eastwards along Frauentorgraben and parallel to the walls of the old city. These are as high as seven or eight metres, and dominated at intervals by big square towers. This huge medieval wall, and a great, dry, grassy moat that is as wide as thirty metres, help to distinguish the old Nuremberg from the new, which, with a singular lack of obtrusion, surrounds it.
Our hotel was the Deutscher Hof, one of the city’s oldest and best, and our rooms commanded excellent views across the wall to the steep, pitched rooftops and regiments of chimney-pots which lay beyond.
At the beginning of the eighteenth century, Nuremberg was the largest city in the ancient kingdom of Franconia, as well as one of the principal marts of trade between Germany, Venice and the East. It was still the chief commercial and manufacturing city of southern Germany, but now it had a new importance, as the capital of National Socialism. Every year, Nuremberg played host to the great Party rallies which were the brainchild of Hitler’s architect, Speer.
As thoughtful as the Nazis were, naturally you didn’t have to go to Nuremberg to see one of these over-orchestrated events, and in September people stayed away from cinemas in droves for fear of having to sit through the newsreels which would be made up of virtually nothing else.
By all accounts, sometimes there were as many as a hundred thousand people at the Zeppelin Field to wave their flags. Nuremberg, like any city in Bavaria as I recall, never did offer much in the way of real amusement.
Since we weren’t appointed to meet Martin, the Nuremberg Chief of Police, until ten o’clock the following morning, Korsch and I felt obliged to spend the evening in search of whatever entertainment there was. Especially because Kripo Executive was footing the bill. It was a thought that had particular appeal for Korch.
‘This isn’t bad at all,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Not only is the Alex paying for me to stay in a cock-smart hotel, but I’m also getting the overtime.’
‘Make the most of it,’ I said. ‘It’s not often that fellows like you and me get to play the Party bigshot. And if Hitler gets his war, we may have to live on this little memory for quite a while.’
A lot of bars in Nuremberg had the look of places which might have been the headquarters of smaller trade guilds. These were filled with militaria and other relics of the past, and the walls were often adorned with old pictures and curious souvenirs collected by generations of proprietors, which were of no more interest to us than a set of logarithm tables. But at least the beer was good, you could always say that about Bavaria, and at the Blaue Flasche on Hall Platz, where we ended up for dinner, the food was even better.
Back at the Deutscher Hof we called in at the hotel’s café restaurant for a brandy and were met by an astonishing sight. Sitting at a corner table, loudly drunk, was a party of three that included a couple of brainless-looking blondes and, wearing the single-breasted light-brown tunic of an NSDAP political leader, the Gauleiter of Franconia, Julius Streicher himself.
The waiter returning with our drinks smiled nervously when we asked him to confirm that it was indeed Julius Streicher sitting in the corner of the café. He said that it was, and quickly left as Streicher started to shout for another bottle of champagne.