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“It worked when a British brigadier general was laying out field operations for the counteroffensive at the Somme.” Von der Haas waved a hand. “Yes, it’ll work.”

“This clock looks pretty expensive,” said Gerlich. “Where’d you get this, Erich? How did you afford it?”

Von der Haas pushed up his glasses on his nose, his eyes meandering about the room.

Bauer burst into laughter. He knew several intelligence officers in the war. They were all the same, whether their covert work was in person or, like von der Haas, behind-the-scenes signals technology: they specialized in vagueness, never letting themselves be pinned down to anything, as evasive as smoke.

“I don’t think you want the answers to those questions, Fritzie,” Bauer said. “It might offend your delicate churchgoing sensibilities.”

Gerlich looked at Bauer, then at von der Haas. “You stole this clock?”

Bauer raised a hand. “Just swear to me it works, Erich.”

“You get that clock as close to them as possible, and as close to a window as possible.” Von der Haas pointed at Bauer. “It will work.”

57

Prinzregentenplatz 16

BAUER FELT A BIZARRE sense of déjà vu when he entered Hitler’s flat at Prinzregentenplatz 16, this time with a camera around his neck and leather bag in hand in his role as Herr Berger from Photoplay. The last time he’d come here, he was a kriminalinspektor investigating a suspicious death, held up by SA guards before fighting his way in. Now he took the stairs as an invited guest.

His inside man—Emil Maurice, the Führer’s disgruntled former chauffeur who had loved Geli—told him that Hitler was in Berlin for the week and that his housekeeper, Anni Winter, whom Bauer had grilled at the police station, had been given the week off with her husband to visit family. Bauer figured that there would be no one else here who might recognize him from a year ago. Still, the shaved head and thick beard provided a measure of insurance.

“Hello, Herr Berger.” Eva Braun was in the parlor near the front door, dressed in a red floral dress and holding a champagne flute in one hand, a bottle of Moët in the other. Her eyes had the glassiness of intoxication, the curve of her mouth the hint of mischief.

“So glad to join you, Fräulein Braun.” He extended his hand, but she opted for the alternating cheek kisses. Her floral perfume could not hide the smell of booze and cigarettes.

“Let me show you around,” she said, looping her arm through his like a natural hostess. She guided him through the parlor, the elaborate study and library, the simple dining room, and various bedrooms. When they reached the corner room—Geli’s room—Braun said, “That one is locked. Nobody uses it.” Bauer didn’t press the point.

“How did you and the Führer meet, Fräulein Braun?” he asked as they walked, though he already knew.

“It’s Eva, silly,” she said, squeezing Bauer’s arm. “We met five years ago, when I was working in Heinrich Hoffmann’s studio. You know Heinrich, the photographer? The Führer came in. Heinrich introduced him as Herr Wolf. He was so imposing. He had a force of will about him, you know? But he’s always had a soft spot for me. Even back then, when I was seventeen. I have no doubt that we’ll marry one day soon, once he settles these political matters.”

Bauer thought otherwise—the word was that, for political purposes, Hitler deemed it advantageous to remain single—but assured his hostess that she was surely correct.

“The parlor will be the most comfortable place to chat,” she said. “We’ll get some champagne and sit.”

One hour and one bottle of champagne later, Bauer and Braun remained in the parlor, still not a photograph taken, with Braun sinking deeper and deeper within herself as the alcohol worked through her. She talked about her parents (Fritz, a schoolteacher, and Fanny, a seamstress), her sisters (Ilse and Margarete, or Gretl, with whom she remained close), her schooling (Catholic secondary school in Munich, then a year of business school at the Convent of the English Sisters), and her favorite activities (swimming and skiing and, more recently, photography).

Through it all, Eva Braun continued to press Bauer as to whether he was bored, if he found her interesting, if it was all right for her to continue, if she was prattling on too much. It took little time for Bauer to recognize that, beneath her elaborate makeup, her long lashes and rosy cheeks and dyed blond curls, her cheerful banter and coy flirtation, Braun was incredibly lonely, unaccustomed to people showing any particular interest in her, constantly seeking validation. She was Hitler’s hostess but nothing more, never given a status of any substance, never allowed to be seen with the Führer in public.

“His public image is political,” she explained. “He says that his bride is Germany. He can’t be seen with a woman. Not romantically, at least.”

Bauer nodded and ignored the obvious—that the Führer had routinely been seen in public with Geli before her death.

Braun touched Bauer’s arm. “That will all change, obviously, when we marry, which should be very soon now, once the politics are sorted out.” It was the second time that, without solicitation, she had predicted soon becoming Hitler’s wife.

A second bottle of champagne was summoned. As Braun drank—more than Bauer would have believed possible, given her petite size—her words grew more slurred, her thoughts more scattered, her mood considerably darker.

“I hope I have not bored you to tears,” she said as she lit a cigarette.

“Not at all,” said Bauer.

“It’s just that…” She turned to him. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be defined completely by your relation to someone else? To have no identity of your own?”

“I cannot imagine. But I am sure the Führer realizes how lucky he is to have you.”

It was a rather standard compliment, though it seemed to trigger something. A sheen of emotion came over her eyes. “Sometimes he needs a reminder,” she whispered.