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When they were outside in the open air, each man lifting his coat collar on a cold, gloomy day, Bauer felt freer to speak. “So what did you make of that letter from Hitler in the Post?”

“I thought it was very defensive,” said Helldorff. “And it left out a lot.” He looked over at Bauer. “What did you make of it?”

“That he’s worried,” said Bauer. “Which means there’s something out there that worries him. Something or someone. And that, my good kriminalassistent, is what we have to find.”

25

Gerlich residence

Haidhausen

Richard-Wagner-Straße 21

“SOPHIE! SOPHIE! YOU HAVE to see this!” Fritz Gerlich came in through the front door of his house, holding groceries from a shop two blocks away, and a newspaper under his arm. “He responded!”

Sophie, on her knees with a hand sweeper, still searching for tiny shards of glass, looked up with an exhausted expression. “Who responded?”

“Who? Hitler, that’s who! In the Post. He wrote a letter to the Munich Post. You know what that means?”

“No. What does it mean?” she said with no enthusiasm, struggling to her feet with a moan, a hand on her back. She hadn’t slept; neither of them had. It had taken until dawn to board up all the broken windows, nailing pieces of wood over the openings, and right the upended furniture, though the cushions had all been torn open.

The dining room table had collapsed in the middle from the axe hacking by the brownshirts. The wood floor near the table was destroyed from the fire, leaving a dark black scorch. It would almost surely have to be replaced. Thank God for the brandblusser—fire extinguisher—to contain the fire, or they might not have had a house left.

At least the small kitchen table remained intact. Gerlich put the food there. “It means we’re making a mark,” he said. “We have him on the run.”

Sophie reached into the bag. “I’d dare say the Nazis have us on the run, love. Wouldn’t you?” She glared at him. “They nearly killed you. They nearly destroyed our home. And you’re declaring victory? Have you completely lost your senses?”

Gerlich bowed his head. “I understand, Soph. If this weren’t important—”

“Am I important, Fritz?” she cried. “Are we important?”

“Of course—”

“Because if you don’t stop, they won’t stop. And the more you threaten them, the more harshly they’ll respond.” She pulled him toward her by the lapels of his coat. “They’ll kill you, Fritz. And if that isn’t enough to scare you, if you’re so damn committed to some ill-fated journalistic ethic that you’re willing to die for the cause, then how about the fact that they’ll kill me, too? Does your wife factor in anywhere in this calculus?”

“Sophie, my dearest.” He put his hands on her cheeks. “This is just what they want. They want to cow us into submiss—”

“Well, then consider me cowed.” She removed his hands and walked back toward the dining room. Then she stopped and turned. “I love you, Fritz, but don’t ask me to stand by and watch you put a gun to your head.”

26

Wirtshaus tavern

Au

THE TAVERN WAS LOCATED in the proletariat Au neighborhood. The clientele was working class, which ordinarily was the kind of tavern Thomas Bauer preferred—dark wood, dim lighting, no nonsense, strong beer, breezy conversation.

But Bauer wasn’t here for pleasure and he wasn’t here to debate local or even national politics. He wasn’t even especially thirsty.

He found a place at the bar and sat next to a man drinking alone, nursing a dark beer. The man was large and burly, with dark wavy hair and a trim mustache. He carried a generally menacing scowl, seemingly content to keep to himself.

Bauer ordered a beer, too. After it arrived, he raised his glass. “Heil Hitler,” he said to the man.

The man glared at him. “You don’t say that as a toast. You say it as a salute.”

“Yeah, but my arm’s tired.”

Bauer’s new friend shifted in his seat, eyes narrowed. “Do we know each other?”