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Bauer lifted his glass to his mouth but didn’t drink. “Topic?”
“I don’t know. All I know is Himmler and Goebbels are arguing.”
“Is that unusual?”
“The minions always argue among themselves. Hitler prefers it that way. But this must be important, because the Führer is getting involved.” The beer arrived. Maurice nodded and grabbed it. “Fröhliche Weihnachten,” he said, wishing Bauer a Merry Christmas.
Bauer gave it ten minutes, long after Maurice had retreated to the corner with his beer. He finished up his drink and set down five marks. Then he headed to the telephone booth down the street. The windows had been busted, so it provided no relief from the frigid temperatures. “Wednesday, seven o’clock,” he said into the phone.
Wednesday at 7:00 p.m., in a flat across the street from Hitler’s place on Prinzregentenplatz, Fritz Gerlich greeted Bauer as he entered. “I trust you had a pleasant Christmas?” he said.
“My family is Jewish, Fritzie.”
“Ah, of course.”
“Shh.” Erich von der Haas was huddled over a beat-up wooden contraption the size of a toaster, with a small antenna protruding from the back and a glass face. Von der Haas was screwing back in one of the knobs.
“That’s your transmitter?” Bauer got a closer look. “Can we listen to jazz on the Reich Broadcasting Network?”
“This is short-wave only,” said von der Haas. “Unless you have an extra amplifier tube and capacitive tuner lying around.”
Bauer patted his pockets. “Sorry, fresh out.”
“He’s a comedian, too.” Von der Haas nodded toward the wall. “Plug it in.”
Bauer plugged in the power cord. A large hissing sound shot through the speaker. “Hang on, hang on.” Von der Haas worked a dial. The hiss changed to fuzz, then to the sound of human voices, albeit crackling with static:
“—question is premature, mein Führer.”
“That’s Goebbels,” said Bauer. “You did it, Erich!” He slapped him on the back.
Gerlich and Bauer huddled over the makeshift radio, Gerlich with a notepad.
“I say it is not premature. The purity of the German race is at stake.”
Bauer didn’t recognize the voice. “Is that—”
“That’s Himmler,” said Gerlich. “That race-baiting sociopath.”
Goebbels and Himmler talked over each other, arguing, shouting, their words incomprehensible through the speaker. And then, in the snap of a finger, the men stopped talking. Utter silence. The quiet was so pronounced that Bauer was sure they’d lost the signal.
“I will decide if it’s premature. Let me hear the details.”
Bauer and Gerlich looked at each other. They both recognized that voice.
“Hermann,” the Führer continued, “tell me the plan in full.”
59
December 28, 1932
Prinzregentenplatz 16
AT THE ROUND TABLE in his library, Adolf Hitler awaited Hermann Göring’s explanation of the proposal as his fingers mined a dish of pralines on the table, popping them into his mouth one at a time. Though recently turned vegetarian, he still tended to gorge himself on sweets and salty snacks.
“Yes, mein Führer,” said Hermann Göring, the heavyset war pilot, opening a file before him. “I will be happy to explain the proposal.”
The other men sitting around the table—Rudolf Hess, Martin Bormann, Joseph Goebbels, and Heinrich Himmler—sat quietly, friction in particular between Himmler, the true believer, and Goebbels, the strategist.
