"Herr Hitler is holding another gathering at Das Kellnerhaus this evening," Storf said. "Big crowds are expected. Emotions will be high."

"The department fears another '23 putsch," Muller said. "The Nazis are taking their politics to the streets. Volker has assured Mayor Scharnagl and Polizeiprasident Mantel that he will keep things under control. If another riot breaks out, he can wave his job good-bye."

Berg sat up. "And it's tonight?"

"Yes, Axel, tonight," Storf said. "Don't worry. This time the police will not be caught with their pants down."

A political rally by a hot-tempered maniac, and he was in a hospital. He was trapped, confined, and caged, a mere spectator of life. Berg broke into a cold sweat. "My wife will be back any moment." He grabbed Muller's hand. "I'll get rid of her by lunchtime. Then you need to come back here. In a bag, bring in two pillows, and under them hide a long coat, a scarf, and a hat. If anyone asks you what you are carrying, simply say extra pillows for me."

The men appeared stupefied. Perhaps they couldn't understand him. Berg said, "I want you . . . to bring in-"

"We understood you," Storf said.

"Good. Then there is no problem-"

"Axel, you need to rest," Muller said.

"Don't argue with me, Georg. I don't need rest. What I need is you two helping to get me out of here!"

Georg sighed. "Axel, it's-"

"I'm giving you an order. You have no authority to countermand me."

"Volker does," Storf said.

"Volker does not need to know about this any more than he needs to know about the contents of Marlena Druer's strongbox."

Storf's eyes darkened. The binds of sin were stronger than the bonds of duty. Berg sank into his pillows. "You've got to help me. I order it."

Muller shrugged. "An order is an order. I will do it. Take care of yourself."

He and Storf hadn't gone more than a couple of feet when they heard Berg strain his vocal cords. His words were: "And bring a cane!"

BERG INSISTED that Britta go home to care for the children. They had been living at his side for two days and needed to eat properly and rest. Having rid his family from the hospital, his next tactic involved having Storf accompany him to the bathroom while Georg stuffed the pillows under his bedsheets. It was agony to walk and, just for a moment, Berg doubted his sanity. But as in every action, it was always the first step that was the hardest. Once he found his balance, he was able to move at an acceptable pace for the old man he was dressed up to be.

The cane really helped.

Storf was supporting him on his left. "This is lunacy."

"No," Berg countered, "this is stupidity. Hitler is lunacy." He was barely audible behind the scarf wrapped around his mouth.

Georg was at his right. "Careful . . ." A pause. "Exactly what do you hope to accomplish with this breakout? You're not in any position to go anywhere except to a bed."

In silence, Berg slowly shuffled down the stark white hallways until they reached the elevator. The doors parted; the operator gave them barely a glance. They rode down in silence. As soon as he stepped out of the hospital doors, Berg felt an exhilarating surge of newfound freedom-the sights, the sounds, the smells of life. Even Munich's dowdy skies seemed bright and hopeful. "Take me to your apartment, Muller. I'll rest there until the rally tonight."

"And who do you think your wife will run to when she finds out that you're gone?"

"Tell her you know nothing about my whereabouts."

"I'm not a good liar."

On the contrary, Muller was an excellent liar. Berg had learned how to handle a mistress from him. Never admit to anything.

"Then I'll check into a Wirtshaus. That way you really won't know where I am. I'll find my own way to the beer hall."

"This isn't a good idea," Muller told him. "You don't show up, we worry that you're lying on a street run over by a wagon."

"Such is life," Berg said. "Nothing is certain."

TWENTY-THREE.

The Brownshirts had chosen a spacious beer hall for their circus and filled it to capacity. Das Kellnerhaus was packed and ripe with body odor, but better to sniff at the smells of life than to fill the nostrils with the reek of hospital decay. There was not a chair to be had even if Berg had belonged to one of the Vereine, the clubs and unions that laid claim to most of the tables. He was sweating profusely under his coat and scarf but there was nowhere to stow them. The coatracks were sagging under the weight of wool, and many a jacket and bowler lay in a puddle of cloth on the floor. Besides, he didn't dare remove his scarf. He'd scare anyone who looked at his face.

The first time he had regarded himself in the mirror, he'd almost passed out. His face could have been a model for a Cubist painting. Although he couldn't change the asymmetry of his bones-only nature's healing would do that-he could, with deft use of powder and rouge, smooth out the blotches. His artistry had its practical applications.

Berg inched his way to the back of the establishment, sharing the rear wall with the coppers who lined the drinking hall. The police were all business, nightsticks in hand, hard eyes scanning the room for signs of disorder. The powers in Munich weren't taking any chances. The police had been given instructions to quell any social disturbance, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

The singing had started: rival unions declaring their superiority in verse. The metalworkers, waving their table flag, went first. A stocky, florid-complexioned man with thick arms held aloft a stein of beer. His voice was nasal, and his speech was slurred. He was more than a little drunk. He wore traditional Bavarian garb except that his lederhosen were long.

The civil service worker sits in his cell, Stamping his papers and inking his well.

Enslaved by papers, the whistles, and his bell, He makes our lives a wreck.

But metaler's arms are forged in steel; The work is honest, tough but real.

At day's end, he deserves his hot meal, Having produced much more than dreck.

The hall broke into hoots and wails of laughter, the clinking of flagons, the yells of "Auf ihre Gesundheit." Berg looked at a red-faced Staatsbeamter, a civil servant, sneering and snorting and ready for the challenge. He was a short, slight man with a thin mustache, a bald head, and spectacles perched on the tip of his nose.

A man who forges metal and steel Using andirons and air pumps, Works by dint of muscle and zeal And has arms the size of log stumps.

Working and slaving all day and night To earn his family its bread, He must be strong in body and might For no brain has he in his head.

More hoots, more laughter, and so it went for about an hour, each union getting increasingly raucous, the police poised to strike when the inevitable drunken fistfights broke out. But tonight the rivalry was broken up before the tempers flared, interrupted by the entrance of the Schutzstaffel-Hitler's minions known familiarly as the SS in their brown uniforms bedecked with metals and stars, their knee-high boots, and military caps. Pushing their way into a room crammed with people, shoving bodies to the sidelines to make room for the Kampfbund-the elite from the NSDAP.

They came in one by one led by Hitler's favorite, the round, pudding-faced Ernst Rohm. They were all there: the thin-lipped Hermann Goring, Rudolf Hess, Heinrich Himmler, and Putzi Hanfstaengl, a head taller than his compatriots. In the shadows another man marched in with the Kampfbund-a new face but easily recognizable. Berg's eyes widened in surprise but of course, the logic was there: Kurt Haaf-Anna Gross's father-showing his solidarity with the Nazis by wearing a black-and-red swastika armband that clashed with his elegant blue silk suit. The troops pressed their way to the front while an out-of-tune brass band played Deutschland uber alles. Men leaped to their feet, their right arms stretched out from the shoulder.

Sieg Heil!

Sieg Heil!

Sieg Heil!

Berg was repulsed. Little men playing at war, dressed in their properly starched uniforms and their handsome leather boots. War was not so beautiful in actuality, the attire ruined by bullet holes and blood spatter of flying limbs from a grenade blast.

The noise grew deafening when Hitler entered, walking erect, his eyes forward and without expression. The Austrian had emerged armed with the sympathies of the people and an unstoppable ambition. He spoke the workingman's language of simplicity. There were rights and wrongs. The Germans were right and all others were wrong. All others were the devil. And the Jews were the worst devils of all. And so it went. Because it was easier to dismiss the success of the Jews than it was to explain the failure of the Germans.

On and on. He screamed. He yelled. He stabbed his fist into the air for punctuation. He crumbled pumpernickel rolls in his hands as he opined, letting the brown crumbs fall upon his shoes. One of his little boys crawled on all fours and periodically dusted his boots as Hitler spoke without interruption.

His demagoguery was all-encompassing and he stoked the crowd. He brought Kurt Haaf to the stage and, with tears in his eyes, Haaf spoke of his daughter, the beautiful German maiden raped and murdered by the horned, split-tailed, pitchforked Jew: the most evil type of Jew, the one masquerading as a good German citizen. He spoke about all that was vile in the city-the Jews, of course, along with the other Kosmopoliten-the depraved artists, actors, writers, and homosexuals. He segued into the Kommunisten, especially the Jewish Kommunisten, but all Kommunisten were bad. He spoke about the conniving Gypsies, the heinous Weimar government, the lawlessness in his own beloved Munich, even though he was Austrian.

A lowly Austrian.

Maybe that was the problem.

He ranted about the thieves, rapists, and murderers of the pure, German virgins on pure German soil. His oration was met with applause and approval. He was preaching to the converted. The pitch grew more hateful and more strident. A red-faced man with veins throbbing in his neck. Spittle spewing from his mouth. Eyes flashing lightning bolts as he shouted words of redemption for the German people while articulating axioms of hate. The police rocked on their feet, some of them uncomfortable with the exuberant zeal of the throng. But Berg felt an equal number were caught up in the rhetoric.

With each remark, the mob got increasingly restless, itching for windows to break and heads to bust.

Finally, Berg saw Volker get up from his chair and approach the dais. Although the Kommissar was a man of incomparable arrogance, could he possibly think that he could stifle Hitler in his moment of glory? Berg felt his heartbeat slam into his rib cage. It would have been wise to leave the scene before it erupted, but curiosity overcame him.

What would Volker say?

As usual, the Kommissar was dressed in finery-a three-piece suit with a white shirt and broad red ascot. His collar and cuffs were starched to rigidity, diamonds winking at his wrists. His face was shaved smooth and red, his blue eyes as equally intense as those of Hitler.

What would Volker say?

At first, Hitler didn't notice the interloper. And when he did, his eyes shot out from his face, bubbles of spit brewing in his mouth and leaking over his lower lip.

His expression was a frieze of horror and indignation: Who dares to interrupt me?

What would Volker say?

"Herr Hitler," Volker said. "Interesting as your comments may be, closing time approaches. Soon it will be necessary to disperse and I'd advise you strongly to give instruction to all your good people to behave themselves. "

Hitler swept an arm over the crowd.

"You come up here . . . and interrupt me . . . to tell me this!"

No one spoke.

"It is not up to me to tell the good people of Munich how to behave!" Hitler screamed. "It is up to their conscience for that! They have bigger things to consider than petty laws instilled by weak men who seek to sell a birthright that is legally ours!"

The crowd broke into roars of jubilation.

Sieg Heil.

"You will not stop the movement!"

Sieg Heil!

"You will not stop the will of the people!"

Sieg Heil!

A man of lesser ego would have backed down, but Volker was no such man. Still, he had a brain in his head. There looked to be hundreds of bodies stuffed into the beer hall, twice as many spilling out onto the streets. Volker had about one hundred police officers at his disposal. The odds weren't good and Volker, though a betting man, wouldn't play with marked cards.

It was time for appeasement.

"Herr Hitler," Volker spoke in his most soothing voice. "You command such well-deserved respect. You must tell your followers that the law is supreme above all, that a civilization cannot exist without law and order."

"Not when the law is evil!"

"We are all listening, Herr Hitler. Do not necessitate a war of German against German. Do not force us to do something that would be injurious to all, including yourself."

"If you mean prison, I am not afraid of imprisonment!"

The crowd cheered with delight.

Sieg Heil!

Sieg Heil!

Of course, the man wasn't afraid of imprisonment. Not the way he had been imprisoned, with food and wine and women, his followers visiting him as often as he pleased. It had been eighteen months of free room and board.

"You are not afraid of anything, Herr Hitler," Volker said mildly. "Everyone knows that. Your bravery and fortitude are beyond reproach. All I'm asking is for you to use your talents and ensure that this gathering of our fine people ends quietly and peacefully. We do not want any other good citizens of Munich to end up in a hospital."

"The Jews don't belong in hospitals!" Hitler screamed. "They belong in graveyards!"

Another thunderous clamor erupted.

Sieg Heil!

Volker managed to remain outwardly calm-except for his overworked jaw bulging out of his cheek. "Unfortunately, Herr Hitler, it is hard to tell Jew from non-Jew. And unless you choose to paint a Star of David on their foreheads, it will continue to be hard to tell Jew from non-Jew. God forbid one of our good citizens is mistaken for a Jew and is beaten up as a result."

"It is the price one pays for ridding the city of its vermin."

"Interesting," Volker said. "Perhaps you can drop by the police station tomorrow and we can further discuss the issue. In the meantime, it is late. I'm asking you personally, as a favor to the police and as a favor to Munich, to tell your followers-who are many-to disperse quietly and in an orderly fashion. Do not stress the police force beyond its limits."

Hitler regarded Volker with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. Slowly, he looked around the room. Many unarmed followers; fewer police, but they held billy clubs. Tomorrow would be another day. With this minor concession, perhaps he could build even more support among the police. To have a respected man like Volker on one's side could be very, very good.

The demagogue faced his audience. "We have met today to buttress ourselves against a slowly invading and pervasive evil-the bloodsucking Jews, the lawless Gypsies, the debased Kommunisten, the libertine homosexuals, the corrupted artists and writers who seek insidiously to erode our morals into chaos and depravity! Yet, out of respect for you"-in a magnanimous gesture, he swept his arm across the crowd-"the citizens of our beautiful and fair city, and out of respect for the police"-he pointed to the back wall-"who continually deal with the vermin that pollute our city, I ask all of you to disperse quietly and peacefully. So that we may come together again and again . . ."

His voice grew in volume: "And again and again and again until the sewer rats of our Munich have been eradicated."

Louder still: "We will not be stopped, we will not be placated, we will not rest a minute until our Fatherland is once again in pure German hands!"

He clicked his heels and headed for the door, the crowd parting for him as if he were Moses splitting the Red Sea. Berg was repulsed by Hitler but furious with his immediate superior. Though walking was painful, he fought his way through the throng of flesh until he was face-to-face with Volker. On seeing Berg, the Kommissar raised an eyebrow.

"Do my eyes deceive or is that the hidden face of Axel Berg?"