“SA?”
“Sturmabteilung. Hitler’s storm troopers. They—” He stopped as Helga, still singing, leaned forward and glared at him. He blanched, then immediately and halfheartedly joined in the chorus.
When the song ended, the crowd, who still largely had their arms forward in their salute, cried “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” again and again as Hitler and his party climbed to the dignitaries’ enclosure. Reaching it, Hitler turned, took the adulation for a moment, then with a short wave commanded silence. One last cry echoed around the stadium, and he was obeyed.
Remarkable, Roxy thought. She and Helga were less than fifty yards from the leaders and she could see Hitler quite clearly—smaller than she imagined, his moustache bushy and narrow. His skin was waxy, but his protuberant eyes gleamed, and glancing about, Roxy saw it was a flame caught and held by the majority around her. Helga’s were afire.
To another fanfare of trumpets, the athletes came.
If she didn’t recognize the first flag, the guy walking beside it gave it away, with his kilt-like dress, embroidered jacket, white shirt with puffed sleeves and his red beret.
“The Greeks lead the parade, as is their right,” Helga shouted above the blare. “But you may guess who will conclude it.” Helga had fully taken on the role of guide and interpreter. “And see! See! The Greeks adopt our salute too! I hope all nations are as courteous.”
As she shouted this, Helga also thrust her arm out in the same gesture she’d used during the songs, which Roxy had seen people using everywhere. Though it predated him, apparently everyone now called it the Hitler Salute.
While people cheered the Greeks and their courtesy, the man who’d sheltered her leaned down and said, “The Fräulein is mistaken. This is not the Hitler salute. See, the angle of the arm is lower? This is the Olympic salute.”
Helga overheard and an argument began in German so rapid Roxy only caught some of it. She focused instead on the teams. Some gave the salute; some didn’t. Some angled it skyward; some paralleled the ground. The crowd responded loudest to those who looked most Germanic—or to those from whom the gesture was least expected. Though they were recent enemies, the French team’s angles were impeccably Nazi and got a huge cheer. While those other adversaries, the British, kept their arms to the side and so were greeted with notably less enthusiasm. The Italians not only saluted but also goose-stepped, drawing the biggest acclaim yet. Roxy only just restrained herself from spitting. Several of the Italians were in uniform—no doubt recently returned from their rape of Abyssinia.
Fuckers, Roxy thought. She hoped her own nation would not disgrace itself.
When at last the USA team appeared, they didn’t—the only salute they made was for the men to reach up and sweep their quaint straw boaters from their heads.
Not all the heads were white. “You have African athletes in your team?”
“Not African. American.” Roxy turned to Helga. “Don’t you?”
The German snorted. “There are very few Negroes in Germany. And if there were, none could get into the team. They could never beat our native athletes.”
Roxy couldn’t help it. “Same with the Jews?”
Helga opened her mouth to reply—but her words were lost in the roar that greeted the arrival of the final team: Germany.
There were soldiers preceding them—but the athletes also marched like warriors. In step; arms raised in that salute; eyes fixed on their leader, who stood, as he had for the entire parade, right arm straight out, acknowledging the acclaim, receiving the adoration.
The noise, the cries of “Sieg Heil,” the trumpets’ blast, the thunder roll of drums. It was pretty overwhelming. She had to give Hitler and his managers that—they knew how to put on a show. Which continued, for even as the last athlete of the German contingent swept into his place behind their flag in the centre of the field, a great gasp came.
“Oh, wonderful,” sighed the man beside her.
She looked at him. He was looking up. So she did too—and watched as a giant airship nosed into the air above the arena. It moved over, towing behind it a banner with the five Olympic rings. Though for Roxy what stood out even more clearly were the vast swastikas on its fin.
“The Hindenburg!” Helga cried. “Is it not fantastic? Would you not like to pilot that, Fräulein Loewen?”
“Wouldn’t if you paid me.”
“Oh, but why?”
“How much control does the pilot have? Can he loop-de-loop? Do a falling leaf?”
“It is much safer than a plane. Hardly any accidents.”
Roxy shuddered. “I wouldn’t even go as a passenger.”
Helga was about to reply, when another fanfare sounded. Previously it had brought crowds. Now only a solitary runner came.
He was dressed in white, a singlet and shorts. A fair-haired young man, early twenties, with the lean torso and muscular legs of a distance runner. He ran in from the far end of the stadium, turned left onto the track, swept around it in long, graceful strides. He carried the Olympic flame.
Everyone was cheering, applauding. Helga resumed her role as guide. “Runners have brought it all the way from Olympia, in Greece, the cradle of the games.”
“Is that usual?”
“No. It was our Führer’s idea.”
Roxy’s snort was lost to more roaring as the athlete reached the bottom of the great staircase at one end of the stadium and ran up them. There was a part of her that wanted him to trip. It was all so…flawless. It didn’t seem human, this relentless display—the parades, the music, the cheering crowd. All wore the same look that Helga did: part ecstasy, part worship. That’s what this is, she thought. A religious ceremony.
And the god stood fifty yards away, arm still out, still saluting. It was as if he was connected to the runner who had successfully run up the stairs and now stood beside the cauldron, torch held to the side. He stared at the leader for a long moment. The leader stared back. In the pause lay the power and it brought an awed silence—like elevating the Host in a cathedral at Mass, she thought. A second passed, then two and three. And then the runner reached and laid the torch in the cauldron. Flames shot up, white smoke stark against the grey sky.
I was wrong before, Roxy thought, as cheers erupted again. Sport and politics are not separate, not at all. This display is all about power.
The crowd quieted for a white-haired dignitary who made a short speech of welcome mainly in German, some French and a little English. Yet he was just a warm-up act. For when he finished, another yearning silence came, as the man next to him stepped up to the microphone.
Adolf Hitler spoke slowly, clearly, simply: “I proclaim the games of Berlin, celebrating the eleventh Olympiad of the modern era, to be open.”
That was it—though she’d have thought from the roar that greeted the words that it was an extract from the Sermon on the Mount. Immediately the full orchestra began to play the Olympic anthem, to accompany the rising of the flags behind the flames, swastika banners on either side of the five rings.
“Look!” cried the ecstatic Helga, seizing Roxy’s arm.
Roxy obeyed. A huge flock of pigeons, had to be five thousand strong, rose in one great mass, wheeling in instant avian harmony over the athletes and the crowd. Perfectly timed to react to the next moment of the carefully structured program: the firing of a single cannon.
At which sudden noise, five thousand pigeons did what pigeons do when startled.
They crapped.
“Scheisse!”
It was a near universal cry, description and cuss both. The pattering that came was like the raindrops earlier, though this had a more immediate, visible effect. People flinched as if under gunfire, with time to do nothing else. It was Shit’s Lottery, though, and not everyone was hit. Roxy felt her hair, checked her dress. All clear. Helga had not been so lucky. A large white-and-yellow dollop sat on her forehead, like someone had cracked an egg there. Choking back her laughter—and they say God doesn’t have a sense of hu
mour, Roxy thought—she got out her handkerchief, licked an end, began dabbing. As she did, she glanced at the special enclosure. No one in there seemed to be engaged in cleanup—perhaps even pigeons feared the wrath of the Führer and had aimed elsewhere.
But wrathful he was, berating some functionary who cringed before him. A space had cleared around the pair, others avoiding the fallout of fury. And Roxy noticed that the man in blue, the man she most wanted to meet, had moved down to the edge of the enclosure to talk with one of the young guards there who, like, Göring, sported the winged insignia of the Luftwaffe.
He was about thirty feet away. “The Reichsmarschall,” Roxy said, grabbing Helga’s arm. “Now’s our chance.”
“Oh.” Helga dabbed at herself with her own handkerchief. “But I am covered in this—”
“All gone,” replied Roxy. In truth there was still an arrowhead of white shot through one eyebrow. But she didn’t want to waste this moment.
They moved—and they were not the only ones. Like a movie star, Göring drew a crowd of admirers and they were stalled by backs about a dozen paces away. “Herr Reichsmarschall! Herr Reichsmarschall!” Helga called, but she was one of several. The man couldn’t hear her.
So, Roxy curled a thumb and forefinger into her mouth and blew.
Her dad had taught her how when she was a kid. She’d once stopped a departing train in Colombia. It had as arresting a result here. People directly before her cried out and clutched their ears. Others turned—and a small passage opened through the crowd. “Go,” commanded Roxy, giving a startled Helga a shove.
She moved, and repeated her cry. “Herr Reichsmarschall!”
He’d looked up on Roxy’s whistle. She’d kept her eyes on his—and now saw them narrow in recognition. “Fräulein Schlurre!” he called. Then added, “Let her through.”
The crowd parted. The two women advanced, till they were pressed against the barrier that divided the special enclosure from the rest. “Fräulein Schlurre. Helga,” Göring said. “How nice to see you again.”
His words were for her. His eyes were for Roxy. Especially one part of her anatomy, artfully enhanced by Herr Bochner and friends. Helga swallowed, and made the introduction. “Herr Reichsmarschall, may I present Fräulein Roxy Loewen.”
She’d said it in English and he replied in the same. His accent was thick, while the timbre was soft for such a large man—he had to weigh three hundred pounds and stand six feet.
“Charmed to make the acquaintance, Fräulein.”
He stretched out a huge hand, took hers. His fingers were like white sausages, several sporting elaborate gold rings. He managed to lift his eyes to her face—and she saw that they were lightly lined, subtly shaded.
She wasn’t sure whether to kiss his hand or shake it; his gesture seemed bishop-like. She opted for the latter, and received a limp return—though his grip tightened when she tried to withdraw her hand.
“English?” he asked.
“American, sir.”
“Ah yes. The stuffy British would never name a child Roxy.” His pale eyes narrowed. “But Loewen? Jewish?”
“Hell no, sir. Lutheran born and raised.” She smiled. “But the only church I attend these days is the annual meeting of the Ninety-Nines.”
“The female flyers’ association?” He squeezed her hand. “You are a member? You know Amelia Earhart?”
“Sure do. It was Amelia taught me how to do a dead-stick landing in a crosswind.”
“A fellow flyer, eh?”
One eyebrow—also, she noted, shaded—rose, even as his eyes returned to her cleavage.
“Helga, you must bring your delightful friend to my party. Do say you will come, Fräulein Loewen. It would give me great pleasure.”
“As it would me, sir.”
“Herr Reichsmarschall.” An officer had come up behind Göring. Now he simply added the words “Der Führer.”
All looked. Hitler was glaring down at them. “Duty calls, my dear,” Göring said, giving her hand, which he’d not given up, a final little squeeze. “But we will reacquaint tomorrow, yes? We will then discuss…your flying career, yes?”
He ran his gaze over her body again before he released her, muttering a few words into his adjutant’s ear, then moving off to where Hitler waited. The officer reached into a satchel, pulled out a creamy envelope, handed it to her. When he turned and left, she opened it, took out the stiff board card within. Rimmed in gold, it had that thick Germanic lettering she always found so hard to decipher. Two words stood out: Einladung and Luftfahrtministerium.
Helga translated, though it was pretty clear. “So now you have your invitation to the Air Ministry. And, I think, the appreciation of the Reichsmarschall.”
She sounded less than happy about the last part. But Roxy could not care less. Tapping one gold corner against her teeth, she smiled.
When she got back to the Hotel Superior at six that day, Jocco and Ferency were sitting at a table in the dining room, a full ashtray and a deck of cards before them.
Jocco stood. “Well?” he asked.
She tossed the invitation onto the table. “So, Master Forger,” she said, addressing Ferency, “show us how good you really are.”
EIGHT
THE PARTY
FERENCY SNEEZED WITH HIS USUAL STYLE.
“Gesundheit,” she said automatically. “Bad cold you got there.”
“Is not cold. I am allergic to—” he waved to the trees “—these. How you call them?”
Roxy looked up. “Horse chestnuts?” They were in full bloom all over Berlin. More words were mumbled. “What did you say?” Ferency’s voice was muffled not only because of his allergies. His wolf mask helped.
“What do we try now, Fräulein Loewen?”
“I have no idea.”
She chewed at her lower lip. She’d assumed that the Air Ministry would be one building, filled with offices and maybe one hall for a party. Göring’s headquarters was built more along palace lines, with vast grounds—now occupied by a combination of Bavarian village and fun fair. The theme of the extravaganza was taken from German fairy tales, mainly the work of the Brothers Grimm. So all the staff were in costume, as were a majority of the guests. Snow Whites served foaming tankards of beer to stags and foxes. From a castle turret, seven singing Rapunzels let down their hair, a blond backdrop to the firepits, where whole boars were being roasted. Hansels and Gretels offered gingerbread and other dainties from tables piled high with food.
Many people were dressed like fashionable peasants. Well-tailored lederhosen for ham-thighed guys, while beautifully cut frilly blouses accentuated the deep cleavages of their sturdy German Frauen. At the main entrance spare costumes and props had been laid out for those who wished to borrow them. Ferency had opted for the wolf. She had opted for a simple domino that covered only her upper face but had gone back to grab a Red Riding Hood cloak because within twenty yards of the front gate at least three drunken Herren had propositioned her. She’d save her charms for the Reichsmarschall.
That was their plan, beyond getting through the gate—get Göring to give her a private tour with her new Hungarian pal, and flirt with him aside while Ferency made his study of the artwork. What they hadn’t reckoned on was the size of the turnout. If the host was present, they hadn’t seen him. At least a thousand people were there. Between their inebriated yelling, the shrieks of riders on the six fun-fair rides and the continuous playing of the oompah band, it was hard to think.
“One more time?” she said.
Their revised plan was somehow to sneak into the only place they figured the painting could be. So now they circled the main building again. But the rear still had no unlocked doors; the windows were still closed and bolted. Back at its front entrance, the same eight black-clad guards were standing at attention.
“SS,” Ferency murmured. “Hitler’s elite. No way past them.”
“There’s gotta be a way.”
They stood, watched. A Cinderella
and her prince swayed up the stairs, laughing—to be hustled swiftly down them again and firmly ejected back into the whirligig of people.
“Shit.” Roxy took Ferency’s arm to steer him away. “Let’s try and bluff our way in there again.”
She pointed. Right in front of the Air Ministry was the most luxurious of the beer gardens. A further invitation was needed to get into it—as they’d found out when they’d tried to gain admittance and been refused. Most of the people in there weren’t speaking German; it was the enclosure for the foreign press. She felt sure that the central table, a microphone before it, was where Göring would eventually show up. What was all this but an opportunity to show the smiling face of the Third Reich to the world? Find him, charm him, maybe get that private tour. But all tickets were still being scrupulously vetted.
They stood before the gate, uncertain, until they were shoved aside by four soldiers in field-grey overcoats. “Hey! Watch it!” she called, but they paid her no attention, passing fast through the gate; past the ticket checkers, who could not delay them. It was strange, overcoats on a hot summer night. None of the other guards wore them. Then she saw that they didn’t carry weapons but a rolled-up six-foot cylinder of cloth. They ran with it up to the small stage, threw off their coats—they wore simple civilian clothes underneath. They unfurled the cloth. It was a banner and on it, painted in red, were words in English:
“Let the world know: Hitler murders all who oppose him. Help us.”
The oompah sagged like a punctured bladder. People shouted in fury. The men began to chant, again in English: “Hitler…Killer. Göring…Killer. Goebbels…Killer.”
They got out three renditions before men rushed them. Men in black uniforms. She swivelled—they’d come from the ministry. The entrance was unguarded. “Come on!” She grabbed Ferency’s arm and ran.
They took the stairs fast, pushed open the heavy oak doors, halted in the entrance hall. Outside, the chants had changed to screams. She had no doubt who was winning that fight.