The Second Son

Still later, as Hoffner stirred from a remarkably deep sleep (retirement and robust late-night exertions will do that), an honor guard from the Wehrmacht, along with various uniformed Hitler Youth detachments, looked on from Unter den Linden as the Belgian delegate-a Monsieur Baillet-Latour-laid a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier; so nice to have all the hostilities between the two countries long forgotten, even better to see military sacrifice as the prelude to amateur sport.

By mid-morning, it was Herma

Hoist up our flags in the wind of the morning!

To those who are idle, let them flutter a warning!

No one was even remotely idle as the dashing Baldur von Schirach-twenty-nine and leader of the Youth-stepped to the podium and addressed the crowds with the truly inspirational words, “We, the youth of Germany, we, the youth of Adolf Hitler, greet you, the youth of the world.” Unter den Linden erupted in applause and cheering as the torchbearer finally appeared.

There was a quiet intensity along the avenue as the white-clad young man jogged slowly to the museum, lit the flame, and then jogged back across the square, where another pyre awaited him. The “flames of peace,” so Goring had promised, would burn throughout the games. No one had mentioned Berlin’s good fortune to have several libraries and bookstores in the immediate vicinity, should the flames need feeding.

Lotte was at the kitchen table reading through the Tageblatt when Hoffner finally appeared at the door. She kept her eyes on the paper. “You’ll be joining us for lunch?” she said.

He was still feeling the whiskey at the back of his throat; it was enough just to nod. He noticed Elena by the sink, washing and peeling something. Mendy was under the table with a train.

Lotte continued to read. “Yes or no?”

Hoffner managed a croaked, “Yes.”

Lotte looked up and said, “If you could fix another plate, Elena, that would be very nice.”

Elena dried her hands and moved to the stove. “Bit of a cold, Herr Chief Inspector?” she said.

“No,” he said. “Just getting old.”

“You’ve a long way to go there, Herr Chief Inspector,” she said. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Hoffner caught Lotte staring at him for a moment. Just as quickly she leaned under the table. “Lunch, Mendy.” She looked back at Hoffner. “We’re all done playing.”

It was nearly half past one before Hoffner made it to the middle of town. The crowds were already out at the stadium, the athletes due to arrive within the hour, Hitler by four. To keep them all entertained, the Olympic Committee had enlisted the services of the Berlin Philharmonic, the National Orchestra, and-how could they go on without them? — the Bayreuth Wagner Festival choir, all three en masse with soaring renditions of the Meistersinger overture, Liszt’s Les Preludes, and anything else with lots of trumpets and trombones. The stadium had yet to open its beer and wine concessions, so the louder the better.

Hoffner stepped down from the tram, crossed Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse, and pushed through the door at number 17.

The Berlin office of the British Pathe Gazette Company was three rooms at the top of a rather sweet if old five-floor walk-up: one secretary, four filmmakers, and all of them with the singular task of covering Germans in the news. Hoffner had stopped in twice before: the first time three years ago, to see Georg’s new digs; the second last month, when Mendy had been rushed to the hospital after falling down the stairs. The telephones at Georg’s had somehow gone out. Luckily, Hoffner had been at the Alex, only a fifteen-minute walk-or ten-minute run-depending on the traffic. Papi and Opa had arrived at the hospital to find Mendy unbroken and utterly delighted to be sporting a very long bandage on his leg. He had limped for two days after-each day a different leg-until Lotte had told him to knock it off.

Anthony Wilson was leaning out an open window behind his desk, peering off into the distance, when Hoffner stepped into the office. Hoffner shut the door, and Wilson ducked his head under his arm to see who it was.

“Hallo there, Inspector.”

Wilson was a young thirty-two, with too much enthusiasm for a man his age. He continued to peer back in this odd position before saying, “Join me?” Wilson returned to his viewing, and Hoffner had no choice but to step over, remove his hat, and inch his head out. The damp was oddly thick up here.

Wilson said, “A fellow across the way on four says that when the street’s clear, you can actually hear the music.” He was straining his ear westward. “Out at the stadium, I mean.”

Even his German sounded like public school English. Hoffner imagined all those years Wilson had spent working on the “Bosch” while his friends had been struggling through Horace and Sappho. Not much newsreel work, though, in ancient Rome and Athens.

The wind picked up, and Hoffner said, “You know that’s not really possible, Herr Wilson.”

“Oh, I know,” he said. “But they get a nice kick out of seeing the Englishman stick his head out the window. They’re placing bets on it. How long I can go. They don’t think I know about it. They’ll be wondering who you are in a minute or two.”

“So we’ll be out here that long?”

Wilson looked over, then smiled. “Fair enough.” He ducked under, and Hoffner followed. Immediately, Wilson began to smooth back what little hair he had. He was tall like Georg, but with an inordinately narrow head. “Someone on the fourth floor’s just won a bit of money.” He smiled again, motioned Hoffner to a chair, and took his own behind the desk.

Hoffner stepped over and sat. He was trying to convince himself that Wilson’s airy mood was a good sign. Then again, the man might just have been an idiot.

“Any word?” asked Hoffner.

Wilson’s face did its best with a look of seriousness: the mouth remained closed even as the jaw dropped a bit. Was it possible for the face to grow longer?

“ ‘Any word,’ ” Wilson repeated pensively. He looked across at Hoffner. “No. No word, Inspector. But I shouldn’t be too concerned.”

The English were always so good with an empty phrase. Hoffner waited and then said, “The trouble is, Herr Wilson, I am.”

There was some quick nodding from Wilson as he retreated. “Yes, yes, of course you are. I am as well. Naturally. I just mean it’s still early days. Everyone involved with POG was moved to a safe-”

“Pog?” Hoffner interrupted.

Wilson seemed surprised by the question. “POG-People’s Olympic Games?” When Hoffner said nothing, Wilson added, “Why Georg went?”

Another favorite of the English: the meaningless acronym.

Georg’s reason for going to Spain was, of course, not news to Hoffner. In fact, it had been impossible to be in Berlin over the past few months and not hear all the updates on the highly controversial, if equally pointless, Protestspiele. Barcelona for the people. Barcelona for the Games of Protest. Ludicrous.

“No,” Hoffner said. “I know why Georg went, Herr Wilson. I just didn’t know the games were called”-he hesitated-“POG.”

Wilson flipped open a cigarette box on his desk and offered one to Hoffner. “Well, technically, it’s just a few of us here at Pathe Gazette, Inspector. Makes it so much easier in wires and the like. POG this. POG that. You understand.” He lit Hoffner’s cigarette and took one for himself. “No point in using it now, though, is there? Still, as I said, everyone was moved to a safe spot once the trouble began.” He lit up.

“And where exactly do you find a safe spot in Spain these days, Herr Wilson?”