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“I wouldn’t say ‘like.’ In the world of commerce, we have to keep our friends close and our enemies closer. He’s spoken to the leading businessmen in the city. He and Göring. The war hero?”

“I know who Hermann Göring is.”

“Hitler, he’s full of rhetoric on the campaign trail, but he’s assured us that he understands that a robust nation requires a robust economy. He’ll be fine.”

“He’ll be fine?” Bauer sat forward in his chair. “Hitler is a rabid anti-Semite, Selig. Have you heard the things he says about the Jews? He calls you swine. He calls you vermin. He’s talking about you. He’s talking about Marina. He’s talking about Amalie.”

“Yes, of course. I don’t like it, obviously.”

“You don’t like it? Selig, a guy like Adolf Hitler should never be anywhere near the presidency.”

Selig let out a long sigh. “Tom, let me explain something to you.”

Bauer drained his glass and poured another.

I love my wife. I love my wife.

“Hitler is just a politician,” Selig said. “Now, here in Germany, we’re not accustomed to politicians. We’ve had kaisers and now this—this sorry Weimar government forced down our throats by a war treaty. We’re not accustomed to people like Hitler. But if you work in business, you need an international perspective. Look at other democracies in Europe. Look at America. These countries are accustomed to these politicians. They say whatever they have to say to get elected. They have to appeal to their constituents for support. But they don’t actually do most of the things they promise. Hitler’s a blowhard, Tom—a carnival barker. His bark will be much worse than his bite, trust me.”

“You’re wrong, Selig.”

“For people like us,” said his father-in-law, motioning around the room, all the trappings of wealth, “it doesn’t matter who’s in power.”

“I can’t listen to this anymore.” Bauer popped out of his chair. “Selig, you’re deluding yourself. It’s people like you looking the other way that will allow this to happen. What, Hitler and Göring whisper sweet nothings to you and you think you’re safe? You’re not. And you know why? One reason and one reason only—you are Jewish. When that man takes power, that will be the only thing that matters. If you want to tell yourself otherwise, be my guest. But my wife is Jewish. My children are Jewish. And I’m not going to sit around and just hope for the best. So while you’re counting your money and redecorating your mansion, I’m going to fight for my country.”

“Really, you’re being naive.”

Bauer stopped at the door. “I’m being naive? Read your history books, Selig.” Bauer pointed at his father-in-law. “When a politician spews hate, believe him. Because by the time you realize he wasn’t kidding, it will be too late.”

Bauer slammed the door behind him.

21

Gerlich residence

Haidhausen

“EVEN DURING HIS TIME serving faithfully in the List Regiment of the Imperial Army on the Belgium front, comma, Hitler was known to be at odds with most of the other officers, period. He was aloof, intense, judgmental, puritanical, even unwilling to undress around the other soldiers. Period, with commas between the adjectives.”

“I know where to put commas, Fritz,” said Sophie, Gerlich’s wife of eleven years, looking up at her husband, her fingers poised over the keys of the portable Underwood typewriter on their circular oak kitchen table. Since the attack, Gerlich had been reluctant to spend much time at his office at the Illustrierte Sonntag, preferring instead to work out of a vacant flat owned by a landlord friend or, in the evenings, at home with Sophie in their small bungalow near the city center in Haidhausen.

“Hitler doesn’t like to undress in front of others?” Sophie asked him now. “Why?”

“Hard to be sure. The soldiers I interviewed said his genitalia were ‘freakishly underdeveloped,’ that he only had one testicle. He won’t even let doctors examine him.”

“Oh, my.”

“Or maybe his modesty owed to his unnatural affection for his mother, whose death appeared to be the end of him until the war came along and gave him some direction. All I know for certain is that his personal life is bizarre, and his sexual appetites run to the extreme, if not Oedipal.”

“If not pedophilic,” agreed Sophie. “And your theory is that these sexual oddities are a window into his character?”

“Wouldn’t Freud say so? But he wants the public to see only a serious, patriotic man committed to a cause, not the sadistic, twisted, manipulative savage beneath.”

Sophie scooted her chair to face him. “Fritz, you’re worrying me.”

“I’m worrying you?” He put a hand on his heart. “Hitler should be worrying you.”

“He is, love. He worries me a great deal.” She walked over to him and put her hands on his chest. “My serious journalist, with the pen that’s mightier than the sword.”