Fatherland

preparations. They moved quietly around the apartment without speaking. At ten past eight she was ready. March got the radio from the bathroom, placed it on the table in the sitting room and turned up the volume. "From the pictures sent in for exhibition, it is clear that the eye of some men shows them things other than as they are—that there really are men who on principle feel meadows to be blue, the heavens green, the clouds sulfur yellow..." It was the custom at this time to rebroadcast the Führer's most historic speeches. They replayed this one every year—the attack on modern painters, delivered at the inauguration of the House of German Art in 1937.
    Ignoring her silent protests, March picked up her suitcase as well as his own. She donned her blue coat. From one shoulder she hung a leather bag. Her camera dangled from the other. On the threshold, she turned for a final look.
    "Either these 'artists' do really see things in this way and believe in that which they represent—then one has but to ask how the defect in vision arose, and if it is hereditary the Minister of the Interior will have to see to it that so ghastly a defect shall not be allowed to perpetuate itself—or, if they do not believe in the reality of such impressions but seek on other grounds to impose them upon the nation, then it is a matter for a criminal court."
    They closed the door on a storm of laughter and applause.
    As they went downstairs, Charlie whispered, "How long does this go on?"
    "All weekend."
    "That will please the neighbors."
    "Ah, but will anyone dare ask you to turn it down?"
    At the foot of the stairs, as still as a sentry, stood the concierge—a bottle of milk in one hand, a copy of the Völkischer Beobachter tucked under her arm. She spoke to Charlie but stared at March: "Good morning, Fräulein."
    "Good morning, Frau Schustermann. This is my cousin from Aachen. We are going to record the images of spontaneous celebration on the streets." She patted her camera. "Come on, Harald, or we'll miss the beginning."
    The old woman continued to scowl at March, and he wondered if she recognized him from the other night. He doubted it: she would remember only the uniform. After a few moments she grunted and waddled back into her apartment.
    "You lie very plausibly," said March when they were out on the street.
    "A journalist's training." They walked quickly toward the Volkswagen. "It was lucky you weren't wearing your uniform. Then she really would have had some questions."
    "There's no possibility of Luther getting into a car driven by a man in the uniform of an SS-Sturmbannführer. Tell me: do I look like an embassy chauffeur?"
    "Only a very distinguished one."
    He stowed the suitcases in the trunk of the car. When he was settled in the front seat, before he switched on the engine, he said, "You can never go back, you realize that? Whether this works or not. Assisting a defector—they'll think you're a spy. It won't be a question of deporting you. It's much more serious than that."
    She waved her hand dismissively. "I never cared for that place anyway."
    He turned the key in the ignition and they pulled out into the morning traffic.
    Driving carefully, checking every thirty seconds to make sure they were not being followed, they reached Adolf-Hitler-Platz at twenty to nine. March executed one circuit of the square. Reich Chancellery, Great Hall, Wehrmacht High Command building—all seemed as it should be: masonry gleaming, guards marching; everything was as crazily out of scale as ever.
    A dozen tour buses were already disgorging their awed cargoes. A crocodile file of children made its way up the snowy steps of the Great Hall, toward the red granite pillars, like a line of ants. In the center of the Platz, beneath the great fountains, were piles of crush barriers, ready to be put into position on Monday morning, when the Führer was due to drive from the chancellery to the hall for the annual ceremony of thanksgiving. Afterward he would return to his residence to appear on the balcony. German television had erected a scaffolding tower directly opposite. Live broadcast vans clustered around its base.
    March pulled into a parking space close to the tour buses. From here he had a clear view across the lanes of traffic to the center of the hall.
    "Walk up the steps," he said. "Go inside, buy a guidebook, look as natural as you can. When Nightingale appears, bump into him: you're old friends, isn't it marvelous, you stop and