“She’s dead,” said Hitler.
“Yes.”
Hitler leaned his right shoulder against the doorjamb, closed his eyes, and folded his arms across his chest. “My hands tremble, Wolff.” He opened his eyes, glanced at the corpse, and faced Kurt. “My hands tremble, she is dead, the Russian is at my doorstep.” Another sad smile. “But I see the ventilators are working.”
“Yes sir.”
“I must congratulate you on being one of the few in the Reich’s employ today who actually accomplished what he set out to do. I usually don’t allow the ventilator to operate when I am in a room. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Gas. In the end they will come at me with gas. Bullets, bombs, nothing works. Gas, Wolff. That’s how they’ll try if they get the chance.”
“The ventilator is on now.”
Hitler shrugged. “I’m not concerned. This is a special day.” Again he waved his hand at Eva Hitler née Braun. “Look at her, Wolff. I’ve dictated my political testament, had the cyanide capsules tested on my dog, said goodbye to my staff, I’ve given instructions to my personal adjutant what to do with our remains—everything figured out down to the very last detail.” He lowered his hand and dropped his gaze to the deep red carpet. “You see how she sits, Wolff. Like a little girl, her feet on the couch. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen her sit this way. Drop on the couch or a chair, pull her legs up at the same time, and every so often tap her chin with her knees. She’d even hurt herself at times. Bite a lip or her tongue. ‘Slow down,’ I’d tell her, ‘and you won’t hurt yourself.’ You know what she’d say to me, Wolff ?”
“What?”
“ ‘Hooey. Hooey phooey, Herr Wolff’—Herr Wolff was her nickname for me, you know. Code name leftover from my party days. You didn’t know we were named the same, did you, Wolff ?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“ ‘Hooey’ and she’d laugh. Next time she sat she’d make an even bigger show of pulling up her knees.” He chuckled ironically. “Such rebelliousness.”
“And this time when she tapped her chin,” said Kurt, “she had a little glass capsule held between her teeth.”
“Indeed.” Hitler moistened his lips, blinked, and nodded. “Getting ready for me, I suppose,” he said. “Did you talk with her before this happened?”
“No. I was up in the crawlspace repairing the fan motor. When I came down she was like this.”
Hitler turned abruptly to his right, pulled out a chair before a small blond wooden desk, and sat down. He looked at what was on his desk. Its surface had a few papers neatly stacked in a corner beneath a magnifying glass. In the center of the desk were two white china plates side by side, each one containing a piece of chocolate cake. Next to each plate was a white linen napkin and a silver dessert fork.
“Chocolate cake,” said Adolf Hitler. “Before you go I have a favor to ask of you, my friend.” He nodded with his head toward a chair to the side of the desk. “But first, sit. Have some cake. The army is starving and we shall eat chocolate cake.”
As he sat in the chair, Kurt burst out with a nervous laugh.
The Fuhrer frowned. “You think that’s funny? The army starving?”
“No. Of course not. It was a joke of my grandfather’s. The way you said that reminded me.”
“A joke.”
“Yes.”
Hitler leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands together in his lap, and said, “Tell me your grandfather’s joke about the German army starving, Wolff.”
Kurt looked at the corpse of the Fuhrer’s wife, realizing as he did so that telling Grandpa Mathe’s joke to Adolf Hitler would reveal all that he had been trying to hide for the past twelve years. He tried to think of another, but there simply wasn’t any other joke to replace it. “Sir, with your new wife—”
Hitler nodded and tapped an impatient fingertip against the edge of the desktop. “I am a man who could use a laugh, Wolff. Tell me your grandfather’s joke.”
Kurt remembered the old man with his wide eyes, wild gray beard, and sweeping hand gestures as he would tell the joke about the Jew and the chicken. And if you’re going to perform, boy, perform.
“Very well.” Kurt stood and said, “A Jew is walking down a country lane and he is leading a skinny little chicken by a piece of string he has tied around the bird’s neck. Along comes this German soldier. The soldier stops the Jew and says, ‘Jew, is that your chicken?’
“ ‘Yes sir, this is my chicken,’ answers the Jew.
“ ‘Jew, what do you feed your chicken?’ demands the soldier.
“ ‘I feed my chicken corn, sir,’ the Jew answers.
“ ‘So, you feed your chicken corn while the German army is starving?’ bellows the soldier, and he beats the Jew within an inch of his life.”
Like Grandpa Mathe used to, Kurt bent over, placed one hand to his back, the other holding the imaginary piece of string. “So the Jew continues down the road leading his chicken until he chances to meet another soldier coming the other way. ‘Jew,’ says the soldier, ‘is that your chicken?’
“ ‘Yes, sir,’ answers the Jew nodding sadly, ‘this is my chicken.’
“ ‘Jew, what do you feed your chicken?’ demands the soldier.
“ ‘Sir, I feed my chicken . . . barley,’ the Jew answers.
“ ‘You feed your chicken barley while the German army is starving?’ bellows the soldier, and he beats the Jew within an inch of his life.”
Kurt bent over even further, his knees bent, one hand still to his back, the other still holding the imaginary piece of string. “So the Jew picks himself up again and continues down the lane leading his chicken until he chances to meet still another soldier coming the other way. ‘Jew,’ says the third soldier, ‘is that your chicken?’ “
Kurt looked about, his eyes rolling, where-oh-where to hide this damnable bird. Hitler chuckled, then laughed out loud. “ ‘Yes, sir,’ answers the Jew, ‘this is my chicken.’
“ ‘Jew, what do you feed your chicken?’ demands the soldier.
Kurt stood upright and shrugged. “ ‘Eh, I give him two pfennigs and let him buy what he wants.’ “
“Haw!” roared Hitler. “Haw!” he roared again. He chuckled twice more, his eyes staring at the plates of cake, his shoulders shaking. “Buy what he wants,” he repeated. He shook his head and stared into an unfathomable distance.
“Wolff,” he said at last, looking up at him. “You are something of a mystery. Always have been. I worked out of regimental headquarters. No secrets from the runner. I knew when you got your Iron Cross Second Class, your fiftieth kill. I knew when we got our Iron Cross First Class awards together. That was for your two hundredth kill. You were quite a hero of mine.” He looked from the cake to Kurt’s face. “And it was right there in your record: You were a Jew.”
“There were a great many Jews fighting for Germany in the last war.” Kurt shrugged, arched his brows, and sat back in the chair, a hand on each knee. “But my grandfather would disagree with you.”
“Disagree?”
“About me being a Jew. ‘Policeman,’ he used to call me like it had a bad taste. ‘Policeman.’ He addressed my father the same. My father was a police inspector in Munich. I followed him into the department.”