by James Lepore
“Shroeder is working on something on direct orders from Himmler. We’d like you to help us find out what it is.”
“Who is Himmler?”
“The head of the SS, Hitler’s political police. A nasty bunch. The Gestapo comes under his command. You’ve heard of them of course.”
“I have. Difficult to avoid hearing of them from time to time. How would I do this – discover what Shroeder is working on?”
“The Hobbit is popular in Germany, among those who read English. It appears the German-only readers are clamoring for a translation. Shroeder is something of a celebrity there at the moment because of the Nazis’ obsession with runic symbols and all that Aryan nonsense. We’ve arranged for you to meet with Professor Shroeder. Famous Dons Discuss The Norse Gods and Middle-Earth.”
“I see. Are you wincing, Arlie?”
“Inwardly, yes.”
“You should be.” Tolkien retrieved his pipe and tobacco from his jacket pocket and proceeded to fire up. It was a comfort to him, this ritual, and also an excuse to think. Who is Himmler? indeed. Where have you been, John Ronald? “It’s a children’s book,” he said, finally.
“Perhaps,” his former student answered. “But there are certain…the Nazis seem to like it.”
The Professor, drawing on his pipe, raised his eyebrows and then lowered them slowly. Bloody Nazis, he thought, surprising himself. He had, he realized, been so miserable over his writer’s block and his London publisher’s failure to see reason that he had forgotten to pay attention to the real world, which was obviously careening toward disaster. Cease the self-indulgence, John, he said quietly to himself. Cease and desist. “Go on,” he said out loud.
“There will be stories written,” Cavanagh continued, “for UK and German consumption. The Reuters man will be working with you. The Nazi Propaganda Ministry is all in.”
“All in?”
“Yes, it’s a gambling term.”
“Ah, are you a gambler, Arlie?”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“What Reuters man?”
“His name is Ian Fleming. He’s in Germany now, covering Munich, the annexation.”
“How will we accomplish our objective?”
“We have a simple plan.”
“As simple as there and back again, I suppose.”
This time Arlie Cavanaugh did not get the reference. So much for an author’s pride. Or did he? He was hunching forward now, his blue eyes twinkling again, ready to explain.