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“Yes, mein Führer.”

“I must be chancellor within days, not months,” said Hitler. “At which time, we will remember those who tried to stop us. And in that vein, Hermann?”

“Yes, mein Führer.” Göring sat up straight.

“Strasser? Schleicher? I want to add them.”

“Add them, mein Führer?”

Hitler leveled his coldest stare on Göring.

“Add them to the list,” he said.

54

Prinzregentenplatz 16

ADOLF HITLER CLOSED HIS eyes, at peace in his embroidered chair in the parlor of his flat, as the phonograph blared Wagner’s masterpiece, Götterdämmerung, the last of the four operas in his acclaimed Ring cycle. With his hands the Führer conducted the music, stilling the horns and inviting the strings’ dramatic introduction with his fingers.

He heard Anni Winter, his housekeeper, approach but stop short. She knew better than to interrupt him while he listened to his favorite composer. But the scent of peppermint was enough to make him open his eyes and summon her.

“Your tea, mein Führer, and a bit of cake.” Anni set down the Nymphenburg porcelain teacup and plate on the round walnut table.

“Thank you, my dear. Please tell Julius that he may send Father Stempfle up with his guest. But I should like to first speak privately with the father.”

“Yes, mein Führer.”

“And please retire for the night, Anni—you and Georg. I am in the mood for privacy.”

She nodded. “Good night, then, mein Führer.”

Hitler quickly devoured the apple cake baked with raisins and nuts, and took a sip of hot tea before rising from his chair. He lifted the needle from the record spinning on the phonograph, bidding good night to Wagner. A moment later, after a knock on the door, Father Stempfle appeared, dressed in a suit but with no tie.

“Good evening, mein Führer.”

“Good of you to come, Bernie. She is here, I take it?”

“Indeed, mein Führer.” Stempfle bowed slightly. “She is outside the door. I think you will agree she looks the part.”

“Where did you find her?”

“Near a shelter in Alter Hof,” said Stempfle.

“She is clean, I hope.”

“Oh, yes, mein Führer. I made sure of it.”

“You’ll be reimbursed by Franz.” Hitler placed a hand on Stempfle’s shoulder. “I appreciate your discretion, Bernie. I depend on it.”

“Always, mein Führer. You can trust me unconditionally.”

Father Stempfle left out the door. A girl walked in. She had the look of a homeless child, the mismatched clothes and torn shoes, but otherwise she was perfect: cherubic face, long frame, dirty-blond curls, and large blue eyes.

“Hello, my dear.” Hitler bowed and extended his hand. “What is your name?”

“Helga,” she said quietly.

“How lovely. I should like to call you by a different name. Would that be all right?”