commissioned at Wilhelmshaven, complete with nine eleven-inch guns, two catapults, and three planes. The new captains main claim to fame was his shelling of a Spanish seaside town in 1937, while commanding the pocket battleship
On a more positive note, the French were demonstrating their usual sound sense of priorities. Parisian cinemas had been closed for a week in protest against a new tax on receipts, but a compromise had now been agreed: The taxes would remain in force, but would not be collected.
Russell smiled and looked out of the window, just in time to see two young women walk by, their faces shining with pleasure over some shared secret. The sun was struggling to emerge. Hitler had probably ordered it for noon; a few shafts of light would show off the medieval perfection of his new castle. Russell wondered how far Speer and his mentor had gone. Would it be the usual Greco-Roman monstrosity, or something more ambitious? A Parthenon decked out in runes, perhaps.
Another coffee brought the time to 11:45. He walked to the top of Wilhelmstrasse, and headed down past the Hotel Adlon and serried government buildings to the new Chancellery. After showing his journalists pass and invitation to a security guard, Russell took a photo of the crowd already gathering behind the cordon. The security guard glared at him, but did nothing else.
Russell joined the knot of privileged journalists and photographers already gathered around the entrance, almost all of whom he recognized. Somewhat to his surprise, Tyler McKinley was among them. My editor was keen, the young American said resentfully, as if nothing else could have persuaded him to bless Hitlers new building with his presence. Russell gave him an oh yeah? look and walked over to Jack Slaney, one of the longer-serving American correspondents. Russell had been in Slaneys office when the latters invitation had arrived, complete with an unsolicitedand presumably accidentalextra. Slaney had been good enough to pass it on: He had been a freelance himself in the dim distant past, and knew what this sort of exclusive could be worth.
A one-man band, he muttered, looking at Russells camera.
I prefer to think of myself as a Renaissance man, Russell told him, just as the doors swung open.
The fifty or so journalists surged into the lobby, where a shiny-looking toady from the Propaganda Ministry was waiting for them. There would be a short tour of the new building, he announced, during which photographs could be taken. The ceremonial opening would take place in the Great Hall at precisely 1:00 PM, and would be followed by a workers lunch for the thousands of people who had worked on the project.
There might be some meat, then, one American journalist muttered.
The toady led them back outside, and around the corner into Vosstrasse. Huge square columns framed the double-gated main entrance, which led into a large court of honor. Russell hung back to take a couple of photos before following his colleagues up a flight of steps to the reception hall. From there, bronze eagles clutching swastikas guarded fifteen-foot doors to a bigger hall clad in gray and gold tiles. The Fuhrer was unavailable, so Russell used Slaneys shoulder to steady the Leica.
More steps led to a circular chamber, another door into a gallery lined with crimson marble pillars. This, their guide told them, was, at 146 meters, twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. And my mother told me size didn't matter, one journalist lamented in English. I expect your father had a whopper, another said, provoking an outburst of laughter. The ministry toady stamped his foot on the marble floor, and then took a quick look down to make sure he hadn't damaged it.
The next hall was big enough to build aircraft in. Several hundred people were already waiting for the official opening, but the space still seemed relatively empty, as if mere people were incapable of filling it. Though released by their ministry minder, the group of journalists stuck together in one corner, chatting among themselves as they waited for Hitlers entrance.
We used to have arms races, Slaney observed. Now we have hall races. Hitler had this built because he was so impressed by the size of Mussolinis office. And the moment Benito sees this hell have to have one in Rome thats even bigger. And theyll both keep outbidding each other until the world runs out of marble.
I have a feeling theyre building arms too, Dick Normanton said wryly, his Yorkshire accent sounding almost surreal in this setting. He was one of the veteran English correspondents, much pampered by the Propaganda Ministry. This was hardly his fault: Normanton had an acute understanding of where Nazi Germany was headed, and often said as much in his reporting. Unfortunately for him, his London proprietor admired Hitler, and made sure that his editor edited accordingly.
If youre interested in a horror show, he told Russell, try the University on Wednesday. Streichers inaugurating a new Chair of Anti-Jewish Propaganda and giving a speech. There should be some good Mad Hatter material.
Sounds suitably gruesome, Russell agreed.
What does? McKinley asked, joining them.
Normanton explained reluctantly: McKinley was not noted for his love of irony.
Why would anyone want to listen to Streicher? the American asked after Normanton had drifted away. Its not as if hes going to say anything interesting, is it?
I guess not, Russell agreed diplomatically, and changed the subject. What do you make of the building? he asked.
McKinley sighed. Its gross. In every meaning of the word, he added, looking round.
Russell found this hard to disagree with; the new Chancellery was indeed gross. But it was also impressive, in a disturbing sort of way. It might be a monument to Hitlers lack of aesthetic imagination, but it was also proof of intention. This was not the sort of building you could ignore. It meant business.
It was Russells turn to sigh. How was your weekend? he asked McKinley.
Oh, fine. I caught up on some work, saw a movie. And I went dancing at one of those halls off the Alexanderplatz. With one of the secretaries at the Embassy. He smiled in reminiscence, and looked about sixteen years old. And I saw a couple of people for that story I told you about, he added quickly, as if hed caught himself slacking.
You didn't actually tell me anything about it.
Ah. I will. In time. In fact I may need your help with. . . .
He was drowned out by an eruption of applause. Right arms shot toward the ceiling, as if some celestial puppeteer had suddenly flicked a finger. His Nibs had arrived.
Russell dutifully lined up the Leica and squeezed off a couple of shots. The Fuhrer was not in uniform and looked, as usual, like an unlikely candidate for leadership of a master race. One arm was stuck at half-mast to acknowledge the welcome, the mouth set in a selfsatisfied smirk. The eyes slowly worked their way around the room, placid as a lizards. This man will kill us all, Russell thought.
A builders mate in the traditional top hat of the German artisan his name, the toady had told them, was Max Hoffmanpresented Hitler with the keys to his new home. Flashbulbs popped; hands clapped. The Fuhrer volunteered a few words. He was, he said, the same person he had always been, and wished to be nothing more. Which means hes learned absolutely nothing, Slaney whispered in Russells ear.
And that was that. Moving like a formation dancing team, Hitler and his ring of bodyguards began mingling with the guests in the privileged section of the hall, the ring working like a choosy Venus flytrap, admitting chosen ones to the Presence and spitting them out again. Much to the interest of the watching journalists, the Soviet Ambassador was given by far the longest audience.
Fancy a drink? Slaney asked Russell. Two of the other Americans, Bill Peyton and Hal Manning, were standing behind him. Were headed over to that bar on Behrenstrasse.
Suits me, Russell agreed. He looked around for McKinley, but the youngster had disappeared.
The sun was still shining, but the temperature had dropped. The bar was dark, warm, and blessed with several empty tables. A huge bears head loomed over the one they chose, half-hidden in the dense layer of smoke which hung from the ceiling. Slaney went off to buy the first round.
Its hard to believe that Hitler got started in places like this, Manning said, lighting a cigarette and offering them round. He was a tall, thin man in his late forties with greying hair and thick black eyebrows in a cadaverous face. Like Slaney he was a veteran foreign correspondent, having worked his way up through Asian capitals and more obscure European postings to the eminence of 1939 Berlin. Peyton was youngersomewhere in his mid-thirties,
