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She had finally had enough. She lowered her camera and turned and buried her head on Jacob’s shoulder. She wanted to run, but she had no strength and the crowds hemmed her in on every side.
Hatred and jubilation throbbed in the air, like the pulse of music.
She felt Jacob’s other arm close around her and for minutes that she could not count they stood in the bedlam of sound and heat and held each other, as if they would drown alone.
This, then, was hell, not physical pain—although that might come—but the knowledge of something that had once been human having lost itself.
And yet s
he must acknowledge it. This was the face of the future, and she must photograph it now, while it was naked and unmistakable. She pulled away from Jacob and raised her camera again. She frowned, held it steady, and went on taking portrait after portrait of unreason.
CHAPTER
20
Early in the morning following the book burning, Cordell received an unexpected invitation to take lunch with the Führer. It was not a public function, but apparently a private audience. He held the card in his hand and felt a sudden chill. His first reaction was the certain knowledge that he could not escape it. He had been sent for. However bad it was, to avoid it would make it worse.
The May sunlight filling his room seemed suddenly harsh, almost cutting. He told his secretary to accept, and to express the usual flattering comments that Cordell would be delighted to come. The message should be delivered by hand.
The secretary said of course he would deliver it personally, and then hesitated a moment or two, as if awaiting something further. When Cordell added nothing, but remained frozen in the center of the room, the secretary left, closing the door without a sound.
What did Hitler want? They knew Elena’s name. Her father had been British ambassador in Berlin years ago, when Cordell had been new to the embassy. Were they going to ask him if he had seen her? Instinct said to lie; intelligence said that to do so was incredibly stupid, almost suicidal.
And Margot? Did Hitler know she was here, too? Almost certainly, but Cordell had not told anyone except his own immediate staff. Did he employ anyone careless, loose-lipped? Or worse than that, a deliberate betrayer, a double agent? There was always that possibility. He knew that, but perhaps it had retreated to the back of his mind? It was at the front now, sharp, a tightening worry not only of personal danger, but of failure as well. He realized his job was the one area in his life in which he succeeded. It defined him, at least in any part that others saw.
He could not argue that. He could only admit it. It was humiliating to be called to explain himself to Hitler, aware all the time that he knew the answers, and he knew that Cordell knew it, too. It was like sticking a pin into a bug and watching it wriggle. There was no point in lying to protect Margot…or Elena. The only thing he could do to survive was tell the truth. To lie, and be instantly caught in it, would render him no use to anyone.
He changed into a clean shirt, put a brush through his hair again, examined his shave to ensure it was flawless, and prepared to leave, stomach churning.
He arrived at the hotel early by a quarter of an hour. It would be inexcusable to be late for the Führer. Wasn’t it Lord Nelson who said he owed his success in life to always being a quarter of an hour early? And his success had been phenomenal—“England expects…” and all that. Cordell found his “duty” a good deal less clear than Nelson’s had been. The enemy was not arrayed in battleships off Cape Trafalgar. No one knew who the enemy was exactly. It could be appalling ignorance, the crushing reparations demanded of Germany in the Treaty of Versailles. It could be merely a confused, hungry, and despairing people pushed too far, for too long.
He forced himself to sit down. He must not pace. It was a clear sign of nervousness that anyone could read. He must be well mannered, but not obsequious. He was a representative of Britain, and not a petitioner coming to ask for something. Britain was an ally, he hoped. It had been an enemy, and might be again, if governments were foolish enough to miss this chance for lasting peace.
An aide had been speaking to him and he had not heard. “Yes?” he asked.
“If you will come this way, sir, the Führer will see you now,” the man repeated.
“Thank you.” He followed the aide across the foyer and along a short passage. The man knocked on a door, and as soon as he heard the voice from inside, he opened it and ushered Cordell in.
Hitler was sitting in a comfortable chair, padded in leather with armrests. He looked exactly like his photographs, except that no camera had caught the luminous blue of his eyes. They were extraordinary, as if the light shone from inside. The rest of his face was perfectly ordinary, and, even sitting down, it was possible to tell he was certainly of no more than average height.
Cordell was not sure whether to salute or not. From an Englishman, it might look like sarcasm. Did Hitler have any sense of the absurd? Impossible. Cordell believed many of Hitler’s fears and even some of his ideals. But Cordell was an Englishman—his sense of the absurd was too strong to ignore. He bowed instead, just from the neck. It was a gesture of respect that could not be mistaken.
Hitler waved his hand toward a chair a couple of feet away. “Sit down, Mr. Cordell,” he invited.
Cordell obeyed, instinctively taking both arms of the chair to steady himself. It was only then that he looked at the third person in the room, and something inside him froze.
Joseph Goebbels was quite a small man, and scrawny, but once you had looked at him, his presence dominated that of Hitler. His nose was straight, his gash of a mouth thin-lipped, but his dark eyes would have been beautiful were it not for their expression of malevolence. He, too, was sitting. Cordell knew already that Goebbels had one leg different from the other: not exactly club-footed, but not normal.
Hitler signaled to the waiter that he might begin serving lunch. Cordell remembered that Hitler was vegetarian and wondered what they would be offered. He would eat it, whatever it was. Years of diplomacy had taught him how to eat almost anything and look as if he enjoyed it. He would remain silent until the Führer gave him leave to speak. He did not even look at Goebbels. He must remember to call him “Herr Doktor.”
“What is the latest news from London, Mr. Cordell?” Hitler inquired politely. “I hear more and more people are expressing respect for what we have accomplished here in Germany. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir, it is.” Cordell found his mouth dry. How long were they going to dance around? They were playing with him as a cat does with a mouse. When were they going to ask about Elena Standish? “It was said in Parliament quite recently…” He went on to describe some complimentary remarks regarding Hitler’s achievements.
Hitler nodded with apparent pleasure.
“And a previous ambassador, Mr. Standish?” Goebbels asked softly. He had a beautiful voice, deep for such a slight man, almost seductive. “Do you hear from him these days?”
