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Cordell’s mind raced. He could feel the sweat break out on his body. He tried to read Goebbels’s expression, and knew he could not. He was cleverer than Hitler, subtler. He understood emotions as an animal does, by instinct, by smell.
“I think perhaps he’s one of those who see what they want to see,” Cordell replied. “Like us, he has no taste for another war. He can see the wisdom of what you are saying.”
Goebbels nodded slowly, but his face was still unreadable. “It was an Englishwoman who killed Scharnhorst the other day, right here in Berlin,” he observed, then watched Cordell to see his reaction.
Cordell’s mind raced. Were they going to ask him if he had known about it? And see if he tried to deny having seen her? How much did they actually know? Better to think they knew everything. He must appear sincere, speaking from his own feelings. Hitler might believe flattery, Goebbels would not. Nor must he be seen to hesitate.
“I heard about it,” Cordell admitted. “It was only rumor then, and I hoped it was not true. I apologize deeply if it is.”
Goebbels leaned forward very slightly. “You know this young woman, Herr Cordell? This Elena Standish?”
Cordell was cold, in spite of the pleasantness of the day. He was absolutely certain that Goebbels knew the answer to that. He very probably knew that Elena had been to see Cordell the day before the assassination. One lie would be enough to ruin him.
“Yes, Herr Doktor,” he replied without hesitation. “I knew her reasonably well as a child, when her father was ambassador here. As well as one knows a girl still in her teenage years! But she came to see me the day she arrived in Berlin, briefly. Of course, I had no idea she intended such a terrible act. But then she would be aware that I would have had her arrested immediately if I had even suspected such a thing. She was in my office a matter of moments. She was tired from a very long train journey, all the way from Naples. And it was the end of the day.” He must not tell too much. That was always a sign of nervousness.
Goebbels sat back in his chair again. “Of course.”
That could have meant anything and Cordell did not reply.
The silence hung heavily over the table. Both Cordell and Goebbels were waiting for Hitler to speak.
Cordell wished wine had been served. He could use a long glass of a good white. But it was known that Hitler rarely ever drank alcohol, and when he did he put sugar in it! Cordell had needed all his diplomatic skills not to let his disgust show when he first heard this.
It was Hitler who spoke. “We will find her. Not that it matters a great deal. I am sure it was the last thing she intended, but she has done us a service. Is that not so, Herr Doktor?”
Goebbels had a sharper intellect than Hitler, and was more instinctive at judging others. And yet watching him, Cordell was certain that he was afraid of something. Perhaps of his place in Hitler’s esteem. There was nothing heroic about him, yet there was some vulnerability, as even a snake has.
Hitler flew into near hysterical rages. But Goebbels’s eye could strip a man’s soul and read in him what should never be revealed in anyone: the secret hopes and fears, the wounds that still bled, too deep to stanch.
“But Scharnhorst had some good ideas, don’t you think?” Goebbels spoke suddenly, and it was a moment before Cordell realized he was addressing him. His mind raced, trying desperately to recall what Scharnhorst had said, specifically. Ideas, not passion or hatred, not worship of Hitler, and of himself.
Goebbels was waiting, watching as if he could see through Cordell’s eyes into his brain. Was this what they had invited him for? To startle him into revealing his true ideas, not merely the diplomatically correct, carefully rehearsed ones?
“You need more than ideas, sir,” Cordell began. “You need to have specific plans as to how you will carry them out. You are efficient, that is beyond question. But you are not blind ideologues. You think, you plan.”
Hitler nodded very slowly, then turned to Goebbels.
Goebbels was smiling, his lips parted. “Yes, Mein Führer,” he said very softly. “You were perfectly correct. Too soon. Scharnhorst was right, but too soon.”
Cordell looked from one to the other of them. He was beginning to understand. Could it be that they were quite happy that Scharnhorst was dead? And was it worth the risk to let them perceive that he knew?
The silence prickled with tension. Dare he speak? He had earlier. It was the most dangerous time to chance. He must learn what they were referring to…exactly.
“I think we might be wiser to act first,” he said, dropping each word carefully. “When we are certain exactly what works or what might be better…kept…”
“Discreet,” Goebbels finished for him. “Once it is accomplished, then all the arguments are…different.” He looked across the table at Hitler.
Hitler nodded very slightly.
Goebbels was looking at Cordell again. “A final solution,” he said softly. “We are beginning, but it is a long road yet. I think there are those in England who perceive very well. You understand the need to progress slowly, like a man walking across the ice. You test each step before you put your weight on it.”
“Of course,” Cordell agreed, his heart pounding. Bits and pieces of memory came back to him. Scharnhorst standing in a beer garden with a stein in his hand, singing. He talked a lot, afterward, his words slurred with excitement. Ideas about getting rid of the Jews entirely.
Some people had looked startled. Others had agreed.
But that had been a while ago. Like testing the water. Scharnhorst had developed it a bit further since then. Trade unionists were a problem. Communists were a growing menace, and most of them were Jews anyway.
Hitler and Goebbels were waiting for him to express an opinion, commit himself. He scrambled for memory of the terrible events of the previous night. What had Goebbels said at the book burning?
