Free Zoo Station by David Downing Page B

Niemollers brother Wilhelm had delivered a sermon attacking government policy toward the churches. He had read a list from the pulpit of all those churchmenincluding his brothercurrently enjoying the states hospitality. The newspaper was not sure whether this constituted a crime: It has recently been established in certain cases, the editor wrote, that to read the names of persons in custody may itself be an offense.

    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 didnt 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 hadnt damaged it.

    The next hall was big enough to build aircraft in. Several