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“Joseph—”
“Here.” Goebbels set down his drink and ashtray. His hands free, he framed them as headlines. “Unsatisfied artistic achievement,” he said.
12
Der Illustrierte Sonntag newsroom
Munich
“THE MINISTER OF JUSTICE could not be reached for comment, comma, though credible sources indicate that a JM vehicle known to transport corpses was seen leaving the police inspectorate for the Bogenhausen District in the wee hours of Sunday morning, period.” Fritz Gerlich paced his office while dictating to one of his assistants, who scribbled in shorthand on a small pad of paper. “I think that’s all for now. Type that up and I’ll have a look.”
“Thank you, sir.” The assistant stood to leave.
“Oh, wait. How is your father?”
The young assistant bowed her head. “He’s home now. It’s been a slower recovery than we expected, sir.”
“And still unable to work, then?” Gerlich reached into a drawer and removed an envelope. “Take this, dear.”
“Oh, no, sir—”
“An advance on your wages. That’s all. I’m praying for your family.”
The young woman took the envelope as her eyes watered. “Thank you, sir.”
Gerlich’s deputy editor, Gunther, popped his head into Gerlich’s office. “I’m getting dinner down the street. Do you want to join me?”
“I’m not hungry.” Gerlich removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Did you find out where the body was moved?”
“Not yet. We’ve checked every morgue in Munich. We’ve used all our sources.”
“Even our source at the Justice Ministry?”
“Even her.” Gunther pulled down on his tie. “I think she knew something but was too scared to tell me. Everyone’s scared, Fritz.”
“Herr Gerlich.” His secretary walked in. “I have Martin Gruber from the Post on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”
Gerlich drew back. The editor in chief of the Munich Post was calling him? “Okay, well, put him through.” He waited a moment until his black rotary-dial phone rang, then punched a button. “Martin? What can I do for you?”
“Fritz, are you okay?” Gruber spit out, sounding frantic.
“Am I—well, of course—”
“—give you fair warning—”
“Slow down, Martin. What are you talking—”
“—any minute, I assume—”
“Martin, my old friend, what in the name—”
A loud crash, the sound of glass breaking, came from the pressroom. Gerlich dropped the phone and got to his feet, just in time to see a number of brown-clad, jackbooted, uniformed Nazis march directly toward his office. SS guards.
“Excuse me! You can’t just come in here!”
The guards did not break stride. The first one shoved Gerlich in the chest, knocking him to the floor, narrowly missing the corner of his desk. Another threw Gunther against the door and ordered him out.
“This is… a press… office!” Gerlich gasped, struggling to keep his breath as the SS guards started kicking him in the midsection with their sharp-pointed boots.
