Chapter Text
“Schellenberg!”
At the sound of that familiar roar I straightened instinctively, one hand creeping up to check the angle of my tie, even though I knew it was positioned perfectly. When Heydrich was on the warpath, even Yours Truly could be forgiven a momentary nervousness.
Moments later he was in front of my desk, all 6’ 2’’ of him, long of limb, lean of muscle and with those merciless grey eyes that seemed to penetrate right through you. My hand may have trembled slightly as I raised it in greeting. I had done no wrong, as far as I knew - on the contrary, I had recently covered myself with a modest portion of glory for my work in acquiring the Wannsee Villa for his charitable foundation - but with Heydrich one never knew what forgotten error he might have uncovered. He liked nothing better than digging up a juicy bit of dirt on his colleagues to add to his ever-fattening files.
“Schellenberg,” he said, without preamble - he had a masterful way of taking the lead in conversations - “you’re a clever chap and you know about women. Can I ask your advice?”
“Fire away,” I said, feeling rather flattered by the request. I was, in my own modest way, not unpopular with the fair sex, but Heydrich was a hunter, ruthless in pursuit and glorying in conquest. There was no need to access his little black book to discover who he was dallying with. Rumours of his resemblance to a donkey may have been greatly exaggerated - I couldn't possibly comment - but he undoubtedly brayed like one. It occurred to me that he might want my advice on how to achieve a greater discretion in his extra-marital activities, and I was about to furnish forth a few suggestions (“Stop banging on about your sex life” being the obvious approach), when Heydrich said, “I need a Christmas present for Lina, one she’ll actually like. Things aren’t going too well at home right now,” - I could imagine, given the rumor currently circulating through the offices, just how much of an understatement this was - “and I daren’t risk another cock-up like her birthday. She was less thrilled by the portrait of the Führer than I thought she would be. Wouldn’t open the bedroom door for three nights. So sort it out for me, there’s a good fellow.”
Lina Heydrich was a beautiful, intelligent, cultivated woman, whose life with Heydrich was sadly lacking in the finer touches that the gentle sex so appreciate. She was as ardent an admirer of the Führer as any of us, but I could see nonetheless that she might have hoped for a more personal gift from her handsome husband. I turned my not inconsiderable brainpower to the task for all of five seconds and immediately realised that peace on the Heydrich domestic front could best be achieved by the purchase of some fine French lingerie a book of Goethe’s poems. Luckily I happened to know Lina’s taste very well from my visits to the Heydrich country estate. The purchase was made, the gift elaborately but tastefully wrapped - no SS insignia appeared anywhere on the paper; Lina was no Magda Goebbels - and I knew my mission had been accomplished when Heydrich prowled into work after the Christmas holiday, looking as smug as a cat who has found the key to the dairy, and announced that I was in line for promotion to chief of Amt VI.
Unfortunately it all backfired a few days later when Heydrich began to ask himself how I had been able to guess Lina’s taste in classical poetry so accurately.
“Don’t tell me, Schellenberg, that you have a file on my wife,” he said, his hard grey eyes boring into me with that ruthless authority that has reduced many a lesser man to a quivering heap.
“Oh no, Chief, absolutely not,” I hastened to assure him. “I would no more doubt Frau Heydrich’s loyalty than I would your own.”
“That doesn’t sound as reassuring as you intend it to be,” said Heydrich. “But assuming for the moment that you don’t have a file on Lina - and if you did, I’m sure you won’t five minutes after this meeting - how is it that you chose a gift so exactly calculated to inspire perfect gratitude?”
I thought fast.
“Lina is a woman,” I said - when buying time in dealing with superiors, it is always best to begin by stating the bleeding obvious - “An exceptional woman, undoubtedly, but a woman nonetheless. As you know, Obergruppenführer, the ladies love to confide in me. Fine French editions of Goethe’s poetry will make any woman feel desirable.”
“I see,” said Heydrich. “And I suppose the size was a lucky guess?”
“On the contrary. As an experienced - and may I say not unsucessful - espionage agent, I questioned the domestic staff. They have extensive knowledge of the contents of Frau Heydrich’s bookshelves.”
“All right,” said Heydrich, through narrowed eyes. “I believe you. This time.”
The file in my hands quivered as I put it away. I resolved to be more careful should any such missions be entrusted to me in future. A man in my position frequently finds himself tasked by his superiors with duties which are a case of “damned if you do, damned if you don’t”, and the trick of not foundering on either the Scylla of success or the Charybdis of outright failure is simple: find someone else to take the blame. Next time I was asked to play Father Christmas, I would make sure I had a little helper.