"I don't like the winter, Hans," he said. "When I first went to Vienna to study it was an endlessly bitter time . . . for two years my only mistress was sorrow and my only companion was hunger. But the thing I remember most was how cold it was."

He stopped and shivered, huddling deeper into his greatcoat before going on.

"In the winter I was never warm. It is beautiful here, looking out at the snow on the mountains, listening to it crunch underfoot, but the cold cuts me like a saber."

"Should we go back to the chalet?"

"Nein! It is a fear I must deal with. Someday I will overcome it. Perhaps I will get badly sunburned, eh, and then I will fear the warm more than the cold. Ha! Besides, I am sure you know what it is like to sleep on cold pavement."

"Not as bad as in the trenches when it rained," Ingersoll said. "My greatest fear was drowning in mud. When the rains came I was terrified the trench would slide in on me. After dark I would crawl out and sleep with the dead ones. And then in the morning I'd crawl back in the ditch. To prefer sleeping with the dead, now that's fear."

"You were a good soldier," Hitler said.

"So were you."

"We still are, Hans. The war is just beginning."

"The sooner the better."

"Spoken like a true Nazi."

"I have read Mein Kampf dozen times, memorized passages, spoken them aloud just to hear their power," Ingersoll said enthusiastically. "I've read all your works, mein Fhrer." And he recited:"Ohne Juda, ohne Rom,

Wird gebaut Germaniens Dom!

Heil!"

"My God," Hitler said, surprised, "I wrote that, let's see, that was in . . ."

"Nineteen-twelve."

"Ja, 1912," he said with surprise and repeated it:"Without Jews, without Rome,

We shall build Germany's cathedral!

Hail!"

"I was twenty-four years old at the time. People laughed at me, you know," Hitler said.

"A prophet must always endure scorn."

"You are a student of Nietzsche, too?"

"I am familiar with his works."

"You are quite the scholar, Hans Wolfe," Hitler said, impressed. "Do you like music? Wagner?"

"Very much."

They continued down the path toward the tea house.

"Do you know, when I was a boy in the Waldviertel my friend Gustl and I wrote an opera. An outrageous thing, filled with madness, violence, murder, miracles, mythology, magic, suicide. Oh, it was quite Wagnerian."

Suddenly Hitler's mood swung again, this time from nostalgia to petulance. His voice grew slightly louder, its pitch a shade higher.

"That is another thing about the fools down there," he went on. "They do not even understand Wagner. Only I understood the magnitude of Wagner's vision, Hans. Only I understand that the creation was an act of violence, and so all creation must continue on a path of violence. "

Just as suddenly his voice lowered, became almost a whisper. He leaned closer to Ingersoll.

"This is the beginning. Last Monday when that doddering, senile old fool made me chancellor, that was the start of it. First there was the Holy Roman Empire, then the Prussian Hohenzollerns and now the glorious Third Reich. We are going to change the world. We are going to obliterate Versailles. Obliterate the Jews and the Gypsies and the Communists. We are going to create a population of pure Aryans, smarter, stronger, better-looking than any other race in history. We are going to do all this." He stopped for a moment, his eyes blazing, his breath coming in short, wispy breaths. "Do you believe that, Hans? Do you believe that the Third Reich now exists?"

"Yes, mein Fhrer," said Ingersoll. He was staring transfixed by the simple power of Hitler's voice. He had heard or read all the words before, in various speeches and in books. But he had never heard them performed with such mastery. And he did believe it. There was no question in his mind.

"The Third Reich is you, mein Fhrer," he blurted passionately. And impulsively he stepped back and threw out his arm in the Nazi salute. "Heil Hitler," he said. "Hail the Chancellor."

A faint smile played on Hitler's lips. He lifted his hand in response. They walked on down the footpath.

The tea house looked like a large, enclosed gazebo on the edge of a cliff at the foot of the overlook walk. As they neared it Hitler picked up the pace, anxious to get out of the cold. They rushed inside and slammed the door against the freezing draft. A white-uniformed servant snapped to attention and saluted.

"You may go to the kitchen, Fritz, we can serve ourselves."

"Yes, mein Fhrer," the soldier said and vanished.

Outside, the wind whirled the snow into twisting devils that danced past the frosted windows. Inside, a giant fire snapped and sent glittering sparks twirling up the chimney.

"Ah," Hitler said, closing his eyes. He opened the coat and held it like a shield in front of the fire, gathering in its warmth. "Fire is a great cleanser," he said. Staring at the blazing logs, he saw instead that towering Reichstag ablaze. His mind conjured twinkling sparks floating over the city.

A table had been set in front of the fireplace. There were plates of homemade breads, pastries, cheeses, and thick sausages cooked until their skins had burst. A large china teapot squatted in the center of the table, the tea steeping in its own steam. Two bottles of wine had also been opened and were sitting on the table.

"The walk here is good discipline. Are you a disciplined man, Hans?"

"When it's necessary."

"Good point. One of the reasons I come to this place is to relax." He placed a finger on one of the wine bottles.

"Red or white?"

"I think I prefer the red."

Hitler poured them both a glass of the red, then took a knife and sliced off a bit of sausage and put it in his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the spicy bit of meat before washing it down with a sip of wine.

"Forget the discipline for a day or two, yes?"

"An absolute necessity, mein Fhrer."

"Exactly, exactly. Help yourself, Hans."

Hitler fixed himself a plate of bread, cheese and sausage, poured more wine in the glass. Warmed by the fire, he took off his coat and threw it over a chair, pulled another one close to the hearth and sat with his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He sighed with contentment. Ingersoll drew up a chair and sat beside him. They both stared, almost transfixed, at the fire as they spoke.

"I never discuss politics here at the Eagle's Nest," Hitler said. "We come here to relax and forget the problems, hmm? However, Herr Ingersoll, I think it would be profitable for us to understand each other, eh?"

"If you wish, mein Fhrer."

"I am curious about something," Hitler said. "I know you had bad times for a year or two before you became an actor. Why didn't you join the Sturmabteilung? A good Nazi like you, belonging to the brownshirts would have given you prestige."

"I couldn't do that," Ingersoll answered.

"Why not?"

"It's a personal matter," he said with some hesitation.

"One you cannot share with your Fhrer?"

Ingersoll thought for a moment before answering.

"I didn't come here to make enemies."

"It will not go beyond this room, Hans."

Ingersoll thought about that for a few moments. On the one hand he feared his own prejudice would infuriate Hitler, and yet his instincts told him that Hitler would respond favorably to honesty.

Besides, why was he really here, he wondered? Were these political questions merely curiosity? Or was there some darker motive behind the discussion? Ingersoll flipped the two options over and over in his mind, like spinning a coin. Finally he opted for candor. After all, he was a national idol. His popularity transcended politics or ideology.

"I am afraid my opinions are somewhat . . . snobbish," he said finally.

"Snobbish?"

"The brownshirts are not my kind of people. I understand their function is necessary but . . . they are loudmouth bullies, boisterous and . . ."

"Yes? And?" Hitler's eyes bored into his but Ingersoll did not look away.

"And then there's Ernst Rhm. He is . . . there is something about him . . . Rhm is a lover of little boys," Ingersoll said rather harshly. "A sadist. A drunkard . . ."

"You know Rhm?"

"I met him once. Back in '25, '26, in Berlin. He was making a speech. Cold sober he was incoherent."

"He was not picked for his oratorical skills-or his good manners, for that matter."

"Yes, mein Fhrer, but . . ."

"Your instincts about Ernst are correct," Hitler said. "He has failed to give the SA a soul of its own." Hitler stood up with his back to the fire and shrugged his shoulders. "It has no pride or direction." He thought for a moment more, then added enigmatically, "These things eventually outlive their purpose."

He paused again.

"Besides, Rhm has pig eyes," Hitler said, changing the mood again and chuckling at his own insult.

"I wouldn't want to spend the evening with Attila the Hun either, but he was very effective."

"Precisely. I see you understand that even rats can serve a useful purpose. He serves a purpose, a very necessary purpose. But I assure you, he will have no voice in the future of Germany. He is uncouth," Hitler said abruptly.

"Exactly!"

Ingersoll was obviously a student of politics, his observations were accurate. Die Sturmabteilung, the SA, were Hitler's personal storm troopers. Ruffians and thugs, most of the brownshirts had originally been recruited from prisons or from beer halls where they were bouncers. They had become an undisciplined paramilitary force. Marching through the streets, smashing windows, beating up Jews, guarding political meetings and privately engaging in blackmail and extortion, the SA had become dangerously out of control and so Hitler had brought Ernst Rhm, a compatriot from the old Putsch days, back from a diplomatic post in Bolivia to head it. Hitler still needed this private police force of his, but he had his own plan for dealing with them. He had created the SS, the Schutzstaffel, putting one of his closest friends, Heinrich Himmler, in charge. It also had a satellite, the SD, a security service engaged in counterintelligence in Germany and abroad. It was the SD in which Wilhelm Vierhaus played a vague but obviously important role. Hitler's plan was to build the SS into the most fearful organization in the Nazi party, shifting its power until it was stronger than the SA and then . . .

But each thing in its time.

"I realize I probably seem like an elitist . . ." Ingersoll started to say.

"You are an elitist," Hitler said matter-of-factly. "There is nothing wrong with that. It's one reason you are here."

"I have little in common with Rhm and his brownshirts other than politics. I prefer to support the National Socialist movement in other ways."

Hitler's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward slightly.

"Such as?" he asked.

"Financial contributions. Encourage my associates to join the party. Defend your ideas to those who, uh . . . don't fully understand them."

"So, you are a good Nazi then?" Hitler asked.

Ingersoll thought for a moment before he answered.

"Perhaps I am a good Hitlerite, mein Fhrer. That might be a more accurate way of putting it."