Zoo Station by David Downing

hundred people were already waiting for the official opening, but the space still seemed relatively empty, as if mere people were incapable of filling it. Though released by their ministry minder, the group of journalists stuck together in one corner, chatting among themselves as they waited for Hitlers entrance.

    We used to have arms races, Slaney observed. Now we have hall races. Hitler had this built because he was so impressed by the size of Mussolinis office. And the moment Benito sees this hell have to have one in Rome thats even bigger. And theyll both keep outbidding each other until the world runs out of marble.

    I have a feeling theyre building arms too, Dick Normanton said wryly, his Yorkshire accent sounding almost surreal in this setting. He was one of the veteran English correspondents, much pampered by the Propaganda Ministry. This was hardly his fault: Normanton had an acute understanding of where Nazi Germany was headed, and often said as much in his reporting. Unfortunately for him, his London proprietor admired Hitler, and made sure that his editor edited accordingly.

    If youre interested in a horror show, he told Russell, try the University on Wednesday. Streichers inaugurating a new Chair of Anti-Jewish Propaganda and giving a speech. There should be some good Mad Hatter material.

    Sounds suitably gruesome, Russell agreed.

    What does? McKinley asked, joining them.

    Normanton explained reluctantly: McKinley was not noted for his love of irony.

    Why would anyone want to listen to Streicher? the American asked after Normanton had drifted away. Its not as if hes going to say anything interesting, is it?

    I guess not, Russell agreed diplomatically, and changed the subject. What do you make of the building? he asked.

    McKinley sighed. Its gross. In every meaning of the word, he added, looking round.

    Russell found this hard to disagree with; the new Chancellery was indeed gross. But it was also impressive, in a disturbing sort of way. It might be a monument to Hitlers lack of aesthetic imagination, but it was also proof of intention. This was not the sort of building you could ignore. It meant business.

    It was Russells turn to sigh. How was your weekend? he asked McKinley.

    Oh, fine. I caught up on some work, saw a movie. And I went dancing at one of those halls off the Alexanderplatz. With one of the secretaries at the Embassy. He smiled in reminiscence, and looked about sixteen years old. And I saw a couple of people for that story I told you about, he added quickly, as if hed caught himself slacking.

    You didnt actually tell me anything about it.

    Ah. I will. In time. In fact I may need your help with. . . .

    He was drowned out by an eruption of applause. Right arms shot toward the ceiling, as if some celestial puppeteer had suddenly flicked a finger. His Nibs had arrived.

    Russell dutifully lined up the Leica and squeezed off a couple of shots. The Fuhrer was not in uniform and looked, as usual, like an unlikely candidate for leadership of a master race. One arm was stuck at half-mast to acknowledge the welcome, the mouth set in a selfsatisfied smirk. The eyes slowly worked their way around the room, placid as a lizards. This man will kill us all, Russell thought.

    A builders mate in the traditional top hat of the German artisan his name, the toady had told them, was Max Hoffmanpresented Hitler with the keys to his new home. Flashbulbs popped; hands clapped. The Fuhrer volunteered a few words. He was, he said, the same person he had always been, and wished to be nothing more. Which means hes learned absolutely nothing, Slaney whispered in Russells ear.

    And that was that. Moving like a formation dancing team, Hitler and his ring of bodyguards began mingling with the guests in the privileged section of the hall, the ring working like a choosy Venus flytrap, admitting chosen ones to the Presence and spitting them out again. Much to the interest of the watching journalists, the Soviet