On a more positive note, the French were demonstrating their usual sound sense of priorities. Parisian cinemas had been closed for a week in protest against a new tax on receipts, but a compromise had now been agreed: the taxes would remain in force, but would not be collected.
Russell smiled and looked out of the window, just in time to see two young women walk by, their faces shining with pleasure over some shared secret. The sun was struggling to emerge. Hitler had probably ordered it for noon; a few shafts of light would show up the medieval perfection of his new castle. Russell wondered how far Speer and his mentor had gone. Would it be the usual Graeco-Roman monstrosity, or something more ambitious? A Parthenon decked out in runes, perhaps.
Another coffee brought the time to 11.45. He walked to the top of Wilhelmstrasse, and headed down past the Hotel Adlon and serried government buildings to the new Chancellery. After showing his journalist’s pass and invitation to a security guard, Russell took a photo of the crowd already gathering behind the cordon. The security guard glared at him, but did nothing else.
Russell joined the knot of privileged journalists and photographers already gathered around the entrance, almost all of whom he recognised. Somewhat to his surprise, Tyler McKinley was among them. ‘My editor was keen,’ the young American said resentfully, as if nothing else could have persuaded him to bless Hitler’s new building with his presence. Russell gave him an ‘Oh yeah?’ look and walked over to Jack Slaney, one of the longer-serving American correspondents. Russell had been in Slaney’s office when the latter’s invitation had arrived, complete with an unsolicited – and presumably accidental – extra. Slaney had been good enough to pass it on – he had been a freelance himself in the dim distant past, and knew what this sort of exclusive could be worth.
‘A one-man band,’ he muttered, looking at Russell’s camera.
‘I prefer to think of myself as Renaissance Man,’ Russell told him, just as the doors swung open.
The fifty or so journalists surged into the lobby, where a shiny-looking toady from the Propaganda Ministry was waiting for them. There would be a short tour of the new building, he announced, during which photographs could be taken. The ceremonial opening would take place in the Great Hall at precisely 1 pm, and would be followed by a worker’s lunch for the thousands of people who had worked on the project.
‘There might be some meat, then,’ one American journalist muttered.
The toady led them back outside, and around the corner into Vosstrasse. Huge square columns framed the double-gated main entrance, which led into a spacious vestibule. Russell hung back to take a couple of photos before following his colleagues up a flight of steps to the reception hall. From there, bronze eagles clutching swastikas guarded fifteen foot doors to a bigger hall clad in grey and gold tiles. The Führer was unavailable, so Russell used Slaney’s shoulder to steady the Leica.
More steps led to a circular chamber, another door into a gallery lined with crimson marble pillars. This, their guide told them, was, at 146 metres, twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. ‘And my mother told me size didn’t matter,’ one journalist lamented in English. ‘I expect your father had a whopper,’ another said, provoking an outburst of laughter. The ministry toady stamped his foot on the marble floor, and then took a quick look down to make sure he hadn’t damaged it.
The next hall was big enough to build aircraft in. Several hundred people were already waiting for the official opening, but the space still seemed relatively empty, as if mere people were incapable of filling it. Though released by their Ministry minder, the group of journalists stuck together in one corner, chatting among themselves as they waited for Hitler’s entrance.
‘We used to have arms races,’ Slaney observed. ‘Now we have hall races. Hitler had this built because he was so impressed by the size of Mussolini’s office. And the moment Benito sees this he’ll have to have one in Rome that’s even bigger. And they’ll both keep outbidding each other until the world runs out of marble.’
‘I have a feeling they’re building arms too,’ Dick Normanton said wryly, his Yorkshire accent sounding almost surreal in this setting. He was one of the veteran English correspondents, much pampered by the Propaganda Ministry. This was hardly his fault: Normanton had an acute understanding of where Nazi Germany was headed, and often said as much in his reporting. Unfortunately for him, his London proprietor admired Hitler, and made sure that his editor edited accordingly.
‘If you’re interested in a horror show,’ he told Russell, ‘try the University on Wednesday. Streicher’s inaugurating a new Chair of Anti-Jewish Propaganda and giving a speech. There should be some good Mad Hatter material.’
‘Sounds suitably gruesome,’ Russell agreed.
‘What does?’ McKinley asked, joining them
Normanton explained reluctantly – McKinley was not noted for his love of irony.
‘Why would anyone want to listen to Streicher?’ the American asked after Normanton had drifted away. ‘It’s not as if he’s going to say anything interesting, is it?’
‘I guess not,’ Russell agreed diplomatically, and changed the subject. ‘What do you make of the building?’ he asked.
McKinley sighed. ‘It’s gross. In every meaning of the word,’ he added, looking round.
Russell found this hard to disagree with – the new Chancellery was indeed gross. But it was also impressive, in a disturbing sort of way. It might be a monument to Hitler’s lack of aesthetic imagination, but it was also proof of intention. This was not the sort of building you could ignore. It meant business.
It was Russell’s turn to sigh. ‘How was your weekend?’ he asked McKinley.
‘Oh, fine. I caught up on some work, saw a movie. And I went dancing at one of those halls off the Alexanderplatz. With one of the secretaries at the Embassy.’ He smiled in reminiscence, and looked about sixteen years old. ‘And I saw a couple of people for that story I told you about,’ he added quickly, as if he’d caught himself slacking.
‘You didn’t actually tell me anything about it.’
‘Ah. I will. In time. In fact I may need your help with…’
He was drowned out by an eruption of applause. Right arms shot towards the ceiling, as if some celestial puppeteer had suddenly flicked a finger. His Nibs had arrived.
Russell dutifully lined up the Leica and squeezed off a couple of shots. The Führer was not in uniform, and looked, as usual, like an unlikely candidate for leadership of a master race. One arm was stuck at half-mast to acknowledge the welcome, the mouth set in a self-satisfied smirk. The eyes slowly worked their way round the room, placid as a lizard’s. This man will kill us all, Russell thought.
A builder’s mate in the traditional top hat of the German artisan – his name, the toady had told them, was Max Hoffman – presented Hitler with the keys to his new home. Flashbulbs popped, hands clapped. The Führer volunteered a few words. He was, he said, the same person he had always been, and wished to be nothing more. ‘Which means he’s learnt absolutely nothing,’ Slaney whispered in Russell’s ear.
And that was that. Moving like a formation dancing team, Hitler and his ring of bodyguards began mingling with the guests in the privileged section of the hall, the ring working like a choosy Venus Fly-trap, admitting chosen ones to the Presence and spitting them out again. Much to the interest of the watching journalists, the Soviet Ambassador was given by far the longest audience.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Slaney asked Russell. Two of the other Americans, Bill Peyton and Hal Manning, were standing behind him. ‘We’re headed over to that bar on Behrenstrasse.’
‘Suits me,’ Russell agreed. He looked round for McKinley, but the youngster had disappeared.
The sun was still shining, but the temperature had dropped. The bar was dark, warm and blessed with several empty tables. A huge bear’s head, half-hidden in the dense layer of smoke which hung from the ceiling, loomed over the one they chose. Slaney went off to buy the first round.
Russell found Peyton irritatingly sure of himself, but he had soft spots for both Manning and Slaney. If Americans remained ignorant about Nazi Germany, it wouldn’t be their fault.
‘So how do we tell this one, boys?’ Slaney asked once the beers had been passed round. ‘Just another grand building? Or megalomania run riot?’
‘New Lair For Monster,’ Manning suggested.
‘I like it,’ Slaney said, wiping froth off his nose. ‘Adolf was getting chummy with Astakhov, wasn’t he?’
Manning agreed. ‘And Astakhov was lapping it up. Looks as if Stalin’s given up on the Brits and the French.’
Russell remembered what Shchepkin had said on the subject. ‘You can hardly blame him after Munich.’
‘True, but you can hardly blame Chamberlain and Daladier for not trusting Stalin,’ Peyton said.
‘Bastards all,’ Slaney summed up. ‘I see Chamberlain’s on his way to see the Duce’ – he pronounced it ‘Dootch’ – ‘in Rome. On some train called the Silver Bullet.’
Russell laughed. ‘It’s the Golden Arrow.’
‘Whatever. A week with Mussolini. I hope he likes parades.’
‘Why’s he going?’ Peyton asked.
‘God knows. You’d think that by now someone in London would have noticed that the Duce is a man of moods. If he’s feeling good he’ll promise the world, set their Limey minds at rest. If he isn’t, he’ll try and scare the pants off’em. Whichever he does, he’ll be doing the opposite before the week’s out.’
‘Pity his German chum isn’t a bit more mercurial,’ Manning said. ‘Once he gets his teeth into something, it stays bitten.’
‘Or swallowed, in the Jew’s case,’ Russell added. ‘Why the hell isn’t Roosevelt doing more to help the Jews here?’
‘He’s building up the air force,’ Peyton said. ‘There was another announcement over the weekend.’
‘Yes, but that won’t help the Jews.’
‘He can’t,’ Slaney said. ‘Too much domestic opposition.’
Russell wasn’t convinced. ‘The British are doing something. Nothing like enough, I know. But something.’
‘Two reasons,’ Manning said. ‘One, and most important – they just don’t get it back in Washington. Or out in the Boonies. When Americans think about German Jews having a hard time, the first thing they think about is what American Jews have to put up with – restricted golf clubs, stuff like that. When they realise that Hitler doesn’t play golf, they still find it hard to imagine anything worse than the way we treat our negroes. Sure, the negroes are condemned to segregation and poverty, but lynchings are pretty rare these days, and the vast majority get a life that’s just about livable. Americans assume it’s the same for the German Jews.’
‘But what about the concentration camps?’ Russell asked.
‘They just think of them as German prisons. A bit harsh, maybe, but lots of Americans think our prisons should be harsher.’ He shrugged and took a gulp of beer.
‘And the second reason,’ Russell prompted.
‘That’s easy. A lot of Americans just don’t like Jews. They think they’re getting their comeuppance. If they had any idea just how harsh that comeuppance is, some of them might – might – have second thoughts, but they don’t.’
‘I guess that’s down to us.’
‘Us and our editors,’ Slaney said. ‘We’ve told the story often enough. People just don’t want to hear it. And if you keep on and on about it they just turn off.’
‘Europe’s far away,’ Manning said.
‘And getting farther,’ Slaney said. ‘Jesus, let’s think about something pleasant for a change.’ He turned to Russell. ‘John, I’m organizing a poker night for next Tuesday. How about it?’
The foursome emerged into the daylight soon after three, and went their separate ways – Peyton to his mistress, Slaney and Manning to write their copy for the morning editions. Walking south down Wilhelmstrasse, Russell decided on impulse to drop in on Sturmbannführer Kleist. A small voice in his head protested that the Sicherheitsdienst was best encountered stone-cold sober, but was promptly drowned out by a louder one insisting that there was nothing to be afraid of. The meeting was just a formality. So why not get it over with?
The fresh-faced blonde receptionist seemed pleased enough to see him, gesturing him through to an ante-room with the sort of friendly smile that could soften up any man. Sunk into one of the leather chairs, Russell found himself staring at the latest creation of the Propaganda Ministry’s poster artists, Hitler complete with visionary stare and catchy slogan – ‘ein volk, ein Reich, ein Führer’. On the opposite wall a more colourful poster showed apple-cheeked youth frolicking in the Alps. That was the thing about these people, he thought: they never surprised you.
The minutes dragged by; the later pints of beer pressed ever more urgently for release. He went back out to the receptionist, who pointed him in the direction of a toilet with the same sunny smile. The toilet was spotless and smelt as if it had just been hosed down with Alpine flowers. One of the cubicles was occupied, and Russell imagined Heydrich sitting with his breeches round his ankles, reading something Jewish.
Back in the ante-room he found company. A man in his sixties, smartly-dressed, probably German. They exchanged nods, but nothing more. The man shifted nervously in his seat, causing the leather to squeak. Hitler stared at them both.
After about twenty minutes the sound of clicking heels seeped out of the silence, and another young blonde appeared in the doorway. ‘Herr John Russell?’ she enquired. ‘Follow me, please.’
They went down one long corridor, up some steps, down another corridor. All Russell could hear was the rhythmic click of the blonde’s shoes – no sounds escaped through the numerous doors they passed, no talk, no laughter, no typewriters. There was no sense that the building was empty, though, more a feeling of intense concentration, as if everyone was thinking fit to burst. Which, Russell realised, was absurd. Maybe the SD had a half-term break, like British schools.
Through the window on a second flight of stairs he caught a glimpse of a large lawn and the huge swastika flying over Hitler’s new home. At the end of the next corridor the heels swung right through an open doorway.
Room 48 was not so much a room as a suite. The secretary led him through her high-ceilinged ante-room, opened the inner door and ushered him in.
Sturmbannführer Gottfried Kleist – as the nameboard on the desk announced – looked up, gestured him to the leather-bound seat on the near side of his leather-bound desk, and carried on writing. He was a stout man in denial, his black uniform just a little too tight for what it had to contain. He had a florid face, thinning hair and rather prominent red lips. He did have blue eyes, though, and his handwriting was exquisite. Russell watched the fountain pen scrape across the page, forming elegant whorls and loops from the dark green ink.
After what seemed like several minutes, Kleist carefully replaced the pen in its holder, almost daintily blotted his work and, after one last admiring look, moved it to the right hand side of his desk. From the left he picked up a folder, opened it, and raised his eyes to Russell’s. ‘John Russell,’ he said. It wasn’t a question.
‘You asked to see me,’ Russell said, with as much bonhomie as he could muster.
The Sturmbannführer ran a hand through his hair, straightening a few rebellious wisps with his fingers. ‘You are an English national.’
‘With resident
status in the Reich.’
‘Yes, yes. I know. And a current journalistic accreditation.’
‘Yes.
‘Could I see it please?’
Russell removed it from his inside jacket pocket and passed it over.
Kleist noticed the invitation card. ‘Ah, the opening,’ he said. ‘A success, I assume. Were you impressed?’
‘Very much so. The building is a credit to the Fuhrer.’
Kleist looked sharply at Russell, as if doubtful of his sincerity.
‘So much modern architecture seems insubstantial,’ Russell added.
‘Indeed,’ Kleist agreed, handing back the press pass. Apparently satisfied, he sat back in his seat, both hands grasping the edge of his desk. ‘Now, it has come to our attention that the Soviet newspaper Pravda has commissioned you to write a series of articles about the Fatherland.’ He paused for a moment, as if daring Russell to ask how it had come to their attention. ‘This was at your suggestion, I believe.’
‘It was.’
‘Why did you suggest these articles, Mr Russell?’
Russell shrugged. ‘Several reasons. All freelance journalists are always looking to place stories with whoever will buy them. And it occurred to me that the Soviets might be interested in a fresh look at National Socialist Germany, one that concentrates on what the two societies have in common, rather than what divides them. What I…’
Kleist stopped him with a raised hand. ‘Why did you think this would interest the Soviets?’
Russell took his time. ‘Soviet propaganda has generally been very hostile towards the Reich,’ he began. ‘And by taking this course, they have backed themselves into a corner. There’s no doubt that Germany is the rising power in Europe, and the Soviets – like everyone else – will sooner or later have to deal with that reality. But as things stand at the moment, their own people would not understand a more… a more accommodating attitude towards the Reich. The articles I propose would prepare the ground, so to speak. They would help restore the Soviet government’s freedom of movement, allow them to act in concert with the Reich if and when the two states’ interests coincide.’
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