Free Winds of War by Herman Wouk Page B

of the window of the embassy car at the multitudinous gilded poles.
    “National Socialist German Workers Party,” said Pug.
    “Is that the name of the Nazis? How funny. Sounds sort of Commie when you spell it all out.”
    Pug said, “Sure. Hitler got in on a red-hot radical program.”
    “Did he? I never knew that. I thought he was against all that stuff. Well, it couldn’t be more confusing, I mean European politics, but I do think all this is terribly exciting. Makes Washington seem dull and tame, doesn’t it?”
    When Victor Henry first came into Hitler’s new chancellery, he was incongruously reminded of Radio City Music Hall in New York. The opulent stretch of carpet, the long line of waiting people, the high ceiling, the great expanses of shiny marble, the inordinate length and height of the huge space, the gaudily uniformed men ushering the guests along, all added up to much the same theatrical, vulgar, strained effort to be grand; but this was the seat of a major government, not a movie house. It seemed peculiar. An officer in blue took his name, and the slow-moving line carried the couple toward the Führer, far down the hall. The SS guards were alike as chorus boys with their black-and-silver uniforms, black boots, square shoulders, blond waved hair, white teeth, bronzed skin, and blue eyes. Some shepherded the guests with careful smiles, others stood along the walls, blank-faced and stiff.
    Hitler was no taller than Henry himself; a small man with a prison haircut, leaning forward and bowing as he shook hands, his head to one side, hair falling on his forehead. This was Henry’s flash impression, as he caught his first full-length look at the Führer beside the burly much-medalled Bulgarian, but in another moment it changed. Hitler had a remarkable smile. His downcurved mouth was rigid and tense, his eyes sternly self-confident, but when he smiled this fanatic look vanished; the whole face brightened up, showing a strong hint of humor, and a curious, almost boyish, shyness. Sometimes he held a guest’s hand and conversed. When he was particularly amused he laughed and made an odd sudden move with his right knee: he lifted it and jerked it a little inward.
    His greeting to the two American couples ahead of the Henrys was casual. He did not smile, and his restless eyes wandered away from them and back again as he shook hands.
    A protocol officer in a sky-blue, gold-crusted foreign service uniform intoned in German:
    “ The naval attaché to the embassy of the United States of America, Commander Victor Henry! ”
    The hand of the Führer was dry, rough, and it seemed a bit swollen. The clasp was firm as he scanned Henry’s face. Seen this close the deep-sunk eyes were pale blue, puffy, and somewhat glassy. Hitler appeared fatigued; his pasty face had streaks of sunburn on his forehead, nose and cheekbones, as though he had been persuaded to leave his desk in Berchtesgaden and come outside for a few hours. To be looking into this famous face with its hanging hair, thrusting nose, zealot’s remote eyes, and small moustache was the strangest sensation of Henry’s life.
    Hitler said, “Willkommen in Deutschland,” and dropped his hand.
    Surprised that Hitler should be aware of his recent arrival, Pug stammered, “ Danke, Herr Reichskanzler .”
    “ Frau Henry !” Rhoda, her eyes gleaming, shook hands with Adolf Hitler. He said, in German, “I hope you are comfortable in Berlin.” His voice was low, almost folksy; another surprise to Henry, who had only heard him shouting hoarsely on the radio or in the newsreels.
    “Well, Herr Reichskanzler, to tell the truth I’ve just begun looking for a house,” Rhoda said breathlessly, too overcome to make a polite reply and move on.
    “You will have no difficulty.” Hitler’s eyes softened and warmed at her clear German speech. Evidently he found Rhoda pretty. He kept her hand, faintly smiling.
    “But there are so many charming neighborhoods in Berlin that