IN DEAD SILENCE, AND IN MOVEMENTS so lithe he seemed to flow like oil, Christian Semmler roamed up and down a stairwell concealed in the center of the Imperial Building. The hidden shaft let him enter every floor from the subcellar to the roof. He could watch, unseen, seeing everything. On the penthouse story, he pressed his eye to a spy hole. The cinematography stage camera operator was photographing a scene of a couple kissing good-bye in their parlor as the man went off to war.
Semmler descended three floors to watch Irina Viorets busy at her desk, female stenographers on either side, a runner hurrying notes to a telegrapher tapping in a far corner, and the telephone pressed to her ear. Though the walls that encased his secret stairwell were thick, he fancied he smelled her perfume.
Floor by floor he descended, peering through spy holes at scene shops, carpenters, and seamstresses, ranks of darkroom chemists laboring under red lights, films being loaded into canisters. He stopped to watch an entire ten-minute reel of film being presented to Imperial Company salesmen, who would take it to the exhibitors and distributors around America. All was up-to-date, all the latest way of doing things, with one glaring exception: the sound-recording studio on the fourth floor.
Christian Semmler surveyed the recording studio with a knowledgeable eye. It was antiquated—even though the equipment was the latest available—because words and music were recorded here as feebly as they had been when Edison and his competitors first tinkered with phonographs and gramophones thirty years ago. Grim proof of how antiquated was the makeup of the band of trumpets, clarinets, and saxophones playing into an acoustical horn. Where were the violins? Where was the double bass? Where was the piano? Where was the tympani? Nowhere! None of those instruments could be recorded faithfully. The saxophone played for the string bass. The clarinet was supposed to fill in for the violins. Banjos attempted to keep the beat. The untutored listener of the recorded wax disc would assume that the piano had never been invented.
General Major Semmler climbed back up to the eighth floor for another look at the one man who could change that. He watched through the spy hole as Clyde Lynds’s eager assistants scurried. He saw that Lynds had had a cot moved in so he could work long nights. Semmler grunted approval at the sight. The scientist who was key to surmounting the shortcomings on the fourth floor was what Fritz Wunderlich’s drummer friends applauded as a “live wire.” Lynds was working, Semmler thought with a cold smile, just as hard as if he were locked in a Prussian dungeon with a gun to his head.
Semmler glided up the stairs to his lair on the ninth floor, confident that he had Clyde Lynds exactly where he needed him to save Germany from the fatal flaw of Der Tag. And, despite Isaac Bell’s repeated interference, the grand scheme of the Donar Plan was unfolding as it was destined to.
General Major Christian Semmler had soldiered abroad. Fighting in China and Africa, he had seen firsthand foreigners’ weaknesses and their strengths, and he knew better than any other officer in the kaiser’s army that Germany could never survive a war against all the world at once.
The Donar Plan—Semmler’s strategy to save Germany—had sprung to life in a rainstorm at Katrinahall, the hunting lodge on the Rominter Heath that was the jewel of his wife’s dowry. Kaiser Wilhelm II had come to shoot wild boar. A royal visit was a singular honor that aristocrats vied for at court. Semmler had stocked the estate with that in mind, but in fact the kaiser had always cast a warm eye on his youngest general major. He called Semmler a man’s man and a soldier’s soldier, and he chortled over rumors of deadly duels at school and reports of savage battles in Peking and with the Boers behind the English lines.
Semmler suspected another reason for His Majesty’s favor. He was acutely aware of his long arms and simian brows. He knew that “gorilla” or “monkey” looks would have doomed an ordinary soldier to a stagnant career in an army that revered the handsome features that epitomized superior races and ridiculed the ugly. But the kaiser’s own appearance was blighted by a birth defect—a withered arm that hung from his shoulder like a toy doll’s. Perhaps two refugees from the mirror felt a kinship?
When they were driven indoors by the rain, Semmler invited the kaiser into his library and entertained him by projecting films of galloping cavalry, armored trains, the new flying machines, and the ocean-churning dreadnoughts of Wilhelm’s beloved High Seas Fleet.
“Behold, Your Majesty, the newest weapon of all.”
The kaiser squinted at the screen. “Where is it?”
“The movies are a weapon, Your Majesty.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You know that the superior classes have always enjoyed theater and opera.”
“As they should.”
“The movies are an even bigger event in the lives of the workers. Millions crowd into Kintopps and tenement cinemas. They watch whatever appears on the screen. Mesmerized. Imagine millions upon millions assembled daily to watch the same thing—wanting to be mesmerized; hoping to be mesmerized. They are ripe for propaganda.”
“Propaganda?” The kaiser had frowned. “They boast in England that movies are a propaganda of democracy.”
“Movies are even better propaganda for love and hate, Your Majesty. Friendship and war. There are millions watching. They could watch
