William Dietrich - Ice Reich

Leni poked her companion. "I'm not a decoration," the actress objected. "Hermann is simply a wonderful man," she said smugly to Hart. "Funny, enthusiastic. A child, really. You must let him show you his trains."

The pilot looked quizzical at this.

"Model railroad," Kohl said. "The biggest I've ever seen. But he's no child. He was an ace in the Great War."

"Well, Hermann makes me laugh."

"Leni, he shot down more than twenty men."

She laughed herself. "As I said, boyish charm. Have you looked at the pictures at Karinhall? He was really quite handsome back then. Still is, in a way."

"Well, the Reich Minister is a great man," Kohl grumped, somehow annoyed by this lighthearted affection he clearly deemed inappropriate. "Second only to Hitler. He runs not only the Luftwaffe but the Prussian Interior Ministry, the Forestry Commission, and the Hunt. He's President of the Reichstag and founded the Gestapo. A truly superhuman energy."

"They say he draws six salaries." Leni winked.

Kohl chose to ignore this gossip. "It's too bad about the wound he suffered at the Munich Putsch. The reliance on pain relievers. Hart, don't let the burdens that the Reich Minister shoulders deflect your honor to him. Your presence on this voyage as a foreigner is important to its image but sensitive. I've been working hard to assure the authorities you'll not be a problem. Goring is key. You must be certain to satisfy him. Keep your curiosity within limits. Be ready to do as instructed. Restrain your American… casualness."

"Oh, Otto," Leni scolded with a grin. "I think Mr. Hart will muster the proper respect."

Hart had only seen Goring in newsreels and thought the man looked clownish, but he kept that opinion to himself. "I'll do my best," he told Kohl, determined to be polite but not a toady. He was irritated that the German was treating him like a rube in front of the woman. "He'll have to take me as I am."

Leni nodded. "Good for you! That's the kind of attitude Hermann enjoys!"

The car raced through the suburbs, the trim German homes getting larger and farther apart as they journeyed into the forest surrounding the city. It seemed to Hart that all of Germany was like a model railroad: too tidy to be a place people really lived in. Litter was absent, cars were washed, and the forest itself seemed groomed, its floor picked clean of branches and leaf litter. He had a sense of having entered onto a stage set, and the company of a movie star reinforced the notion. She drew Kohl into gossiping about Nazis whom Hart had never heard of. He half listened, watching the scenery.

It took nearly an hour to reach the gates of Goring's estate. An unmarked road departed from the main highway and the car turned down the oak-shaded lane. Then it slowed to weave around concrete pylons and approach a guard station. A white-painted pole blocked the road and gray-uniformed soldiers with strapped submachine guns dangling from their necks sauntered out as the limousine came to a halt. They barely glanced at the driver, clearly recognizing him, but they peered inside intently- first to Kohl, then Hart, and then with appreciation to Miss Stauffenberg. "Papers, please!" a handsome lieutenant barked, keeping his eyes on the actress. She ignored him.

The guards studied their passes as if this was the first time they'd seen writing. Then, with elaborate slowness, they handed them back. "American," the lieutenant remarked. The wings on his uniform showed him to be a member of the Luftwaffe, the German air arm that Goring had reportedly made into the most powerful in the world. "New York, perhaps?"

"Alaska," Hart replied.

"Ah, yes." Clearly the place didn't register. "Soon we'll have planes that reach New York. Perhaps I'll see it one day, from the air." His smile was cold.

"Mr. Hart is an employee of the German government!" Kohl snapped with unmistakable authority.

The lieutenant stiffened. "Of course. You are free to proceed! Heil Hitler!" He snapped his salute.

"Heil Hitler," Kohl grunted, dismissing the sentry. The pole was raised and the limousine jumped forward.

Goring's estate was a vast park of forest, lake, and meadow, the car following a winding drive to a final vast lawn. Its crown was Karinhall, a feudal half-timbered chateau modeled on a rural retreat of Goring's former in-laws in Sweden: an edifice of leaded glass and soaring towers and steep, slate-gray roofs. It reminded Hart of a gingerbread fantasy.

"Where's Hansel and Gretel?" he murmured, both impressed and uneasy at this proximity to power.

Kohl gave him a warning glance. Leni smiled slightly.

The light was quickly fading from the brief November day and the mansion's windows glowed a welcoming yellow. Two more guards, these in black uniforms, flanked a massive oaken door. A German shepherd stood alertly as the limo pulled up but did not growl or bark.

An orderly trotted officiously down the stone stairs to meet them, moving to Leni's door first. She took his arm, stood expertly in her heels in the pea gravel, and then ascended the steps as if floating, the silk of her dress lightly kissing stone. How does she do that? Hart wondered, following. The massive entryway seemed to open of its own accord and then they were in a large flagstone foyer hung with medieval tapestries. Two suits of black armor stood guard. There were no swastikas or Nazi regalia in sight.

"Welcome to Karinhall," the orderly said. "Mr. Kohl." He gave a nod of acknowledgment. "So good to have you with us again, Miss Stauffenberg." A smile this time. Then, more appraising: "And yes, Mr. Hart. The Reich Minister is of course especially fond of pilots. You're actually the second American pilot to visit. You know of Mr. Lindbergh?"

"I know of him," Hart replied dryly. Was there anyone in the flying profession who didn't?

"A great man," the orderly enthused. "A great man."

Servants materialized to take their coats and then they moved to the Great Hall, a soaring, timbered cathedral of a room. Its walls were studded with game heads, a fire roared in a vast fireplace, and a table as long as a bowling alley occupied its center. The feeling of a stage set was sustained, as if Karinhall was designed not just as a home but as a kind of artificial realm, trying to couple Germanic charm with overbearing power. For Hart the power was there but the charm was not.

"Clearly, Herr Goring's politics have paid off," he noted mildly, his head rotating back to eye the timbered ceiling.

"The Reich Minister stood by the Fuhrer in the dark days after the Putsch," Kohl said. "He went broke trying to represent the party while Hitler was in prison. He's exhibited the economic vision to remake Germany. Vision enough to reach all the way to the bottom of the world."

"A great man," Hart said, trying to estimate the length of the table. Fifty feet? It was bizarre to find himself here after Anaktuvuk Pass.

Suddenly, unannounced, a figure strode through the doorway. Not just a man but a presence. Goring was big, for one thing, almost decadently fat, and his girth was clothed in a snow-white uniform with gold epaulets at the shoulders and buttons and braid accenting them below. The belt was black and its buckle silver, a Nazi eagle at rigid attention in gold relief. The clothes were ornate but to Hart he looked faintly ridiculous, like a New York doorman. It was certainly disconcerting that instead of jackboots the Reich Minister wore slippers lined with fur. His complexion was healthy but too pink at the cheeks, as if he used rouge, and the fat of his jowls softened the military bearing. Yet Goring's air of authority remained unmistakable. There was a sense of arrogant proprietorship. The habit of command.

"Gentlemen, Leni!" Goring reached out with fingers that were short and fat and studded with rings. Kohl shook and then Hart followed, surprised by a pumping grip both energetic and soft. There was a slight sense of decay in the touch and yet Goring's eyes were iron-hard, black and judging- quite disconcerting, really. The entire effect was strange, and despite his determination not to seem obsequious, Hart felt off balance.