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Leila’s excitement was due, in part, to her relief at getting a pass to attend. The journalists at theMunich Posthad been on tenterhooks waiting to see if they would get an allocation. They knew how much the right-wing judiciary hated their newspaper.
‘Three hundred journalists have applied for passes,’ Martin Gruber told his team at the morning meeting, ‘but only sixty will be granted – we’ll be lucky to get any at all.’
The day before the trial began, Leila arrived in the newsroom to find Gruber in consultation with his political editor, Edmund Goldschagg, and the cultural editor Julius Zerfass. On the desk between them lay just two passes for the courtroom.
‘Ah, Leila,’ said Martin, ‘there you are. We’ve got our allocation for tomorrow – just two passes, I’m afraid.’
‘You might have to sit this one out, for the first few days, Leila,’ said Edmund. ‘Martin wants me there as political editor, of course, and either he or Julius should attend every day. But as the trial progresses, we’ll apply for more passes. I’m sure you’ll get your chance.’
Leila did her best to hide her disappointment.
‘I’ve got two passes,’ Peter Fischer interrupted. ‘She can have one of mine…’
Leila smiled appreciatively at Peter, then glanced questioningly at Goldschagg.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘And thank you, Peter. It would be really helpful to have Leila there – to take notes and share them with me at the end of the day.’
‘I won’t let you down,’ Leila said earnestly.
The trial was taking place at a military academy – an impressive red-brick building. Outside, mounted state police formed a protective cordon. Leila approached nervously.
‘Pass,’ demanded one of the policemen, his horse rearing slightly.
Leila handed up her blue press pass and was relieved when the policeman returned it to her, nodded and, pulling on the reins, moved his horse slightly, allowing her through. Inside the cordon, she saw a long line of people queuing to get into the building. She soon spotted herPostcolleagues near the front of the queue, together with Peter. She raced to join them.
‘My goodness,’ said Leila, ‘what a crowd!’
‘Only to be expected,’ said Edmund.
As they waited for the doors to be opened, Leila looked around anxiously.
‘Is something the matter?’ asked Peter.
‘My friend Minki…I thought she would be here by now. She rang me last night and asked me to keep her a seat.’
‘Is she a journalist?’ asked Peter.
‘Yes…of a kind,’ replied Leila quietly. ‘She works for a paper in Nuremberg.’ Leila wondered what Peter would make of Minki working forDer Stürmer. He would doubtless consider it beneath contempt.
Many of the queuing crowd were ordinary members of the public, keen to witness the trial. Passes were issued on a daily basis, and the lead judge, Georg Neithardt – a prominent right-winger – had personally vetted the attendees, stacking the public gallery with Hitler supporters.
Finally, the journalists were admitted and directed up two flights of stairs and along a corridor lined with armed state police.
At the entrance to the press gallery, which overlooked the courtroom, Leila and her three colleagues were subjected to a search. Leila, who had never been searched before, felt shocked by this invasion of her privacy, but her excitement overcame any shyness. Edmund led the way to the front of the raked seating, and the group took up their places. Eager to imprint every last detail on her memory, Leila glanced eagerly around. One half of the gallery had been set aside for journalists, the other for the spectators. Once the journalists had taken their seats, members of the public excitedly rushed in, clambering over one another to get the best view. Leila was surprised by how many well-dressed women had turned out to support Hitler. They craned their necks peering into the hall below, touching up their make-up and chattering to one another excitedly, like a theatre audience at a first night. The atmosphere was electric.
From her vantage point in the front row Leila had a perfect view of the courtroom below. Two-thirds of this converted dining hall had been arranged with seating, presumably for the many witnesses, families of the defendants, and important guests. At the far end of the hall stood a long baize-covered table, behind which were five impressive chairs.
‘Are those for the judges?’ whispered Leila to Edmund.
‘Yes…and the verdict of the judges is final. There’s no appeal.’
By eight o’clock the viewing gallery was almost full. Leila looked around anxiously for Minki. She had saved her a seat – fighting off several irritated journalists in the process – so was relieved when she heard Minki’s unmistakeable voice from the back of the gallery.
‘What do you mean you want to search me?’
Turning, she saw her friend standing with her arms above her head as a state policeman patted her body, searching for weapons.
Finally released, Minki strode into the gallery, like an actress making her entrance on the stage. She wore a suit of cream wool crepe, and a matching coat with a fox fur collar. Sixty pairs of eyes in the press gallery turned in her direction and watched as she walked down the aisle towards the front row and slid into her seat next to Leila. At the same moment, the judges entered the courtroom, led by Georg Neithardt, in his distinctive black robe and cap.
