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“Possibly,” I say. “If so, that film reel surely contains something highly incriminating. And I’ll bet that Francis Linderman’s grandfather has it.”
“That’s the proof,” Monica says. “That must be the proof he wants to give you.”
“Right,” I say. “So you have to put me back in touch with him. You have to get me face-to-face with Peter Helldorff’s son.”
87
May 10, 1933
Opernplatz, the Opera Square
Berlin
BOOKS HAD ARRIVED BY the truckload, as many as twenty-five thousand. Works of poets and novelists, essayists and philosophers, scientists and scholars—penned by Jews and foreigners, by leftists and pacifists, sharing the trait only of being decidedly “un-German.”
The light rain falling in Berlin did not dissuade the crowd of fifty thousand from dancing and chanting around the pyre, though they’d been forced to bring in the fire department to douse the books with gasoline. At midnight, the crowd roared at the arrival of Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels, who stood at a lectern on a small set of risers near the bonfire.
“The era of extreme Jewish intellectualism is now at an end!” he bellowed to the delight of the crowd. “The future German man will not just be a man of books, but a man of character. It is to this end that we want to educate you.”
Students and Hitler Youth members, along with SA troopers, tossed heaps of books into the bonfire while giving the Hitler salute and chanting Nazi anthems.
“You do well in this midnight hour,” Goebbels cried, “to commit to the flames the evil spirit of the past!”
Across the street, on the roof of the university library building, Thomas Bauer lowered his Gewehr 98 bolt-action rifle. “He didn’t come,” he mumbled. “He was supposed to be here. You said he would be here.”
“That was the intelligence I received.” Lying next to him on the roof, Erich von der Haas lowered his binoculars. “Hitler’s elusive. He’s paranoid. He gives out misinformation about his schedule. But his propaganda minister isn’t a bad consolation prize, if you have a clear shot.”
“I don’t.” Bauer rolled over, facing the dark sky. “Too much smoke. And too many young people around him. It might be worth the chance if it were Hitler, but not this guy.”
“Sorry, Bauer. I only have so many sources.”
“I know.” Bauer slung the rifle over his shoulder and slunk away from the roof’s edge, where they were visible. “Killing Hitler won’t be easy, Erich. We’ll have to get creative. And we might need some help.”
88
May 1934
Berchtesgaden, the Berghof
Bavarian Alps
“IT’S NOT ENOUGH!”
Chancellor Adolf Hitler looked out over the Bavarian Alps from his vacation home, which he had recently purchased after renting it for years. The majestic view typically brought him peace, a momentary distraction from his rage. But not today.
He held in his hands copies of The New York Times, The London Times, and Le Figaro. “These attacks from these foreign so-called journalists are merciless! They are never-ending! They are patently unfair! What have I done to deserve this, I ask you, other than try to restore pride and greatness to my country?”
“You’re quite right, mein Führer,” said Hermann Göring.
“Patently unfair,” agreed Martin Bormann.
“Is there nothing we can do?” Hitler cried, throwing the newspapers down on the veranda. “No other law we can pass?”
Five months earlier, they’d put into effect a law that placed the German press under the direct control of Joseph Goebbels. The so-called Editor’s Law barred all “non-Aryans” from journalism, required journalists to be licensed, and forbade the publication of any information that “tends to weaken the strength of the German Reich, outwardly or inwardly.” Whether newspapers followed that directive was entirely at the discretion of Goebbels, who could pull a journalist’s license at any time.
“Unfortunately, we cannot control the foreign press,” said Goebbels. “They are free to print this rubbish.”
“Excuse me, mein Führer.” One of Hitler’s house servants stood with his hands together on the veranda. “Fräulein Braun was hoping you’d accompany her on a walk.”
