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When the shooting began, Hitler hit the ground immediately and crawled to a waiting car to escape. Some say he was protectively thrown down by his bodyguard; others say he hit the ground cowardly while others fought. Guess which version was the Nazis’ official account of events? We know this much—the man who stepped in front of Hitler died after taking eleven bullets. How different might history have gone if even one of those bullets had hit der Führer.

I continue onward, past the Feldherrnhalle on the Odeonsplatz and down the way to the other end of the plaza, to an Italian restaurant called Tambosi, situated in the yellow-stucco Annast-Haus. Having just eaten lunch, the last thing I want is food, but my instructions are to enter the restaurant, go to the bathroom, and remain there for ten minutes.

I walk inside to the smell of strong Italian coffee and tomato sauce. The restaurant is ornate—stained glass, gold chandeliers, checkered floor—but was once a simple coffeehouse called the Café Heck, which Hitler and his cronies frequented in the years between his incarceration and when he became chancellor. Hitler would hold court here at his reserved table, his various minions and admirers joining him for coffee and cake.

I spend my ten minutes in the bathroom, using the facilities and checking my phone, before I walk back out of the restaurant and retrace my steps toward the south end of Odeonsplatz and the Feldherrnhalle (loosely translated, the Field Marshal’s Hall). Built in the 1840s to honor the Bavarian Army, in the 1930s the granite memorial became the site of annual Nazi rallies to honor the fifteen fallen “patriots” who died in the Beer Hall Putsch. Fifteen torches would adorn the stage, as uniformed Nazi soldiers lined up in formation on the Odeonsplatz and saluted. On the east side of the Feldherrnhalle where the shootout occurred was once a memorial called Mahnmal der Bewegung—a stone tablet bearing the names of the “martyrs” under the Nazi crest, with three wreaths hanging below them.

I stop and touch the wall, where the nail holes for the wreaths remain today. When the Nazis assumed power and erected this memorial, they placed it under ceremonial guard and required citizens to give the Nazi salute as they passed.

Not everyone loved that idea. Those who wished to avoid having to pass the memorial and give the salute would duck down a small alley known derisively by some at the time as Drückebergergasse—“shirker’s alley” or “dodger’s alley.” The narrow, cobblestone pedestrian walk became a subtle symbol of resistance.

Today, a series of gold stones creates a meandering path through the alley to celebrate the “shirkers” of that time. I follow that path and find a stooped, elderly man dressed in a long black coat and muffler awaiting me at the end. He has a walrus mustache, long sideburns, and tiny spectacles.

“Professor,” he says to me. “Pardon the precautions.”

“I essentially walked up and back, the same route,” I say. “I assume that was to ensure I wasn’t followed?”

“Who would take such a nonsensical route but someone instructed to do so?” he says. “Or someone tailing that very person? But you were not followed, Professor.”

I can’t deny a sense of relief.

He hands me an envelope. “Instructions for tomorrow,” he says. “You did not book the trip yet, correct?”

“Correct,” I say. “I’ll buy the ticket at the station when I go. That feels like overkill, I must say. You really think anyone would bother to track my credit card purchases? But I’ll do as you ask.”

“Very well. Please follow the instructions in that envelope to the word.” He gives a slight bow, an old-fashioned gesture. “Safe travels to Vienna.”

I return to my hotel near the Isar River, feeling the need to lie down with a cold washcloth on my forehead.

This is all a bit more drama than I prefer in one morning.

I exit the elevator and pull out my key card. But when I reach the room, the door is ajar.

Housekeeping? But there is no cart anywhere in sight. A wave of dread sinks through me. I push the door open and step back.

My room is in shambles. My suitcase has been overturned. The mattress has been removed from the bed. Artwork has been taken from the walls.

I take a step inside. The room is small. It’s obvious that whoever was here is gone. I use the room phone to call security. Then I see a number spray-painted on the wall: 8 8

I drop into an armchair and let the adrenaline wash over me. What have I gotten myself into?

“Hotel Security! Frau Robbins?” A very young man in a suit and tie sticks his head into the hotel room. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—I’m fine,” I say, finding words difficult.

“I will call the police at once.” The man talks into a radio, then asks me, “Was anything taken?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t think so. My computer?” I rush out of the chair and go to my work bag. My laptop is gone.

“You must make a list, please.” The man walks over to the wall. “Do you understand this? Why would they spray eighty-eight on the wall?”

“It’s not eighty-eight,” I tell him. “It’s the number eight twice.”

“Ah.” The man nods but still doesn’t understand.

“For the eighth letter of the alphabet,” I say. “H H. It stands for Heil Hitler.”

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