Free The Arms Maker of Berlin by Dan Fesperman Page B

anything, he found the girl’s comments bracingly scandalous, the sort of remarks that might have caused a more seasoned listener to employ the precautionary tactic now known as the Berliner Blick —an over-the-shoulder glance for eavesdroppers.
    But at age sixteen Kurt was too young and inexperienced, not to mention spellbound.
    The girl’s boldness was especially remarkable considering the setting—a Christmas party at the elegant home of Wilhelm Stuckart, second in command at the Interior Ministry. The many various uniforms of the Reich were indeed in abundance on this icy winter evening. Already Kurt had spotted the fussy getups of the Ministries of Interior, Armaments, Economy, and Propaganda. One Luftwaffe staff officer wore a god-awful white jacket as silly as Goring’s, and with almost as many bogus ribbons. The only members of the uniformed class not strutting like peacocks were two Gestapo wraiths dressed in the black of the SS. They lurked amid the holiday greenery like tall, somber elves.
    Otherwise the scene was festive enough, with a bounty and opulence rare to behold in this year of rationing and restrictions. Brisk servants toted trays of champagne and foie gras across the Oriental rugs and floors of Italian marble. A long, sturdy buffet table made of Black Forest walnut held a huge silver platter of smoked ham and an icy bed of oysters on the half shell. There were also overflowing bowls of potatoes, beans, salads, and baskets of bread, plus more chocolates and pastries than Kurt had seen in ages. He had already spotted a magnificent butter stollen for later sampling.
    The pleasant surprises were not limited to the buffet. The Stuckart washroom offered real toilet paper and scented bars of genuine soap.
    But the evening’s most interesting fare was the talk. This was some of the best-informed gossip in Berlin. Even seemingly frivolous blab offered tasty morsels. Moments earlier Kurt had overheard two spangled women debating which hotels in occupied Paris would offer the most stylish accommodations for visiting Germans come springtime.
    The hottest topic was the Americans, who had just entered the war. From what Kurt could gather, the consensus from the corridors of power on Wilhelmstrasse seemed to be that the Yanks wouldn’t make much of an impact for at least a year, and by then the war would be over.
    One of the few topics he hadn’t heard discussed was why the German advance on Moscow had suddenly stalled. Too risky, he supposed. Yet here was this slip of a girl named Liesl daring to proclaim that she was sick of uniforms and then openly questioning the nation’s war fever. Kurt was enchanted. Then again, he was predisposed to enchantment, having just spent ten minutes maneuvering himself into position to speak with her.
    And on at least one count he genuinely agreed with her: These sorts of parties weren’t to his liking. Coming here had been his father’s idea. It was yet another session in Reinhard Bauer’s crash course in the social dynamics of wartime commerce, a tutelage that had begun just after Kurt’s sixteenth birthday. Already he had endured weeks of formal introductions, factory visits, and ministry auditions.
    This week had been typical: Monday, coffee at the Bosch Works in Kleinmachnow. Tuesday, lunch at the Ministry of Armaments. Then a Wednesday train ride to the city’s northwest reaches for a tour of the Rheinmetall-Borsig factory, followed by Thursday’s engineering tutorial on metallurgy and Friday’s luncheon with accountants at the Red-White Tennis Club, where his father was appalled to discover that the ballroom had been commandeered as a barracks for the crew of an antiaircraft battery, newly positioned on the back lawn.
    To close out the week they had come to the Stuckart party, where Kurt was expected to feign a politely casual air and exude holiday cheer even as he strived to make an impression. The Stuckarts lived only a few blocks from the Bauers’ home in