“Don’t people fall over the sides?” Audrey said, peering uneasily over the edge.
“Mountain people, such as myself, grow up with this environment. It’s like any hostile place—the desert, the sea. You learn to conform to it, to live with it and respect it at all times. City dwellers are too scared to go near the edge. They creep along slowly in their cars. There are, of course, those half-breeds, the urban types who seek adventure, try their hand at mountaineering or high alpine skiing. They sometimes plunge to their deaths or get lost in the wilderness. There is a ski patrol that goes out to find them. I am an honorary member.”
“Tell me about Reinhardt.”
“That old codger? He is what we call ein Bergmann, a true mountain man. He was my father’s favourite brother; there were six of them. All gone now, except for Reinhardt. He is the last link I have to a world, a life, that’s gone as well. Gone forever.”
“You mean after the war?”
“Yes. The war was terrible. I fought in it, flew fighter planes against the British Sopwiths and the French SPADs. I shot down twenty-three planes, then got shot down myself over enemy lines.”
“You were captured?”
“I spent the last six months of the war in a prison camp. I was well treated, but I would rather have been killed.”
“Don’t say that, Helmut.”
“It’s true. To watch your country come to an end while you sit in isolation, to read about it, to hear it told to you by your captors while you await repatriation... Words cannot describe that type of anxiety.”
She whispered now, conscious of the other customers. They’d turned their heads briefly when they’d heard the two newcomers speaking English, but now were back to eating and drinking their incredibly tall steins of foamy draft. Helmut insisted she try one, and now a waitress with an impossibly big bosom placed a heavy mug of beer in front of her. It was good, as ice-cold as the mountain slopes.
“Your country has certainly changed,” she said. “For the better?”
“It’s complicated. Has the Führer done things for us, brought us out of the doldrums of the Weimar Republic with all its sinful excesses and turmoil? Ja. I have to agree with that.”
“Some would say freedoms, not excesses.”
“Well, regardless of what word you use, he’s brought stability to the country. He has ambition, and we’re caught up in it. It is exhilarating, but...”
“But what?”
“He is a man with ambition. A plan. Have you read his book? No, I don’t suppose you have. It’s required reading here in Germany. Every house must have a copy. There are simple copies for the poor people and more elaborate gold-leaf versions for the likes of me.”
“What’s it called?”
“Mein Kampf— ‘My Struggle,’” Helmut said. “It is a horrible book.” He giggled and lowered his head, then looked around sheepishly. “Most people when they are alone will tell you that. If they are convinced you aren’t an informer, that is.”
“What’s it about? What struggle?”
“It’s the story of a man who sees his destiny laid out before him, and how the beatings and the hardships he had to take made that vision become clearer. And it lays out what he has in store for the future.”
“War.”
“Precisely. Tell me, how would one of your American presidents be received if he basically laid out in print a strategy and desire to conquer the entire world? How would he be received?”
“We’re isolationists. We don’t want to get involved in anybody else’s war, especially Europe’s. And we don’t want to start one, either.”
“Ah, yes. The Atlantic and Pacific Oceans are your buffers from such entanglements, I suppose. But your country has interests elsewhere. And those interests are growing. How long can you remain isolated?”
“Depends. If someone picks a fight with us, don’t worry; we’ll stand up.”
“I know. We picked one, stupidly, and you can see the result.”
Aubrey indicated her mug of beer. “My father always said ‘Never discuss politics or religion while you’re drinking.’”
“A sound policy. I would love to meet your father. He is still alive?”
“Yes.” She felt a sudden pang of guilt; she had meant to write him, if only a postcard from Germany, a place he had helped defeat but had never visited. “He is alive and well.” Again, more guilt; she remembered the revolver she’d snuck away from him. That reminded her: the hotel might become worried if she didn’t show up for a while. They might clean out her room, put her things in storage, strip the bed and find the big heavy American-made pistol lying there.
“Helmut, my things are still at my hotel in Berlin.”
“Yes, I know. Don’t worry, I’ve informed them that you have left the city and that your things should remain where they are. The bill is covered by me.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You have some pull in this country. Reinhardt said your title was in name only, but it doesn’t sound like it.”
“It’s not that. But I do have pull. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Okay. Great beer, by the way.”
“It is. Let’s have another.”
As they were leaving, Aubrey spied a large brass telescope affixed to a post.
Helmut explained, “That’s the Führer scope.”
“What?”
“Come take a look—we might see him.” Helmut took hold of the telescope and moved it back and forth slightly.
“Ahh, there he is. Come see for yourself. Our dear leader is taking his afternoon stroll.”
Aubrey felt a rush of excitement. “Really?” She peered through the scope and saw two tiny figures moving along a path cut into the side of a mountain a mile away.
“That’s Adolf Hitler, right there?”
“Yes. Walking with someone of great importance, no doubt. Two walks a day: one in the morning and one in the afternoon.”
Aubrey pulled away from the scope. There was a line
