LESLIE EPSTEIN
117
"No, Mr. Granite," I responded. "This is not a mirage."
EMIL JANNINGS flashed on and off. Beside it, the name of his costar:
MAGDALENA MEZARAY.
Ten minutes later the limousine moved slowly down the Prinz–
regentenstrasse, with its mall of dark poplars and lindens, and came to a
stop in front of number 16. Party Headquarters. On the top floor, der
Fuhrer Residenz. A squad of SS, all in black, stood guard at the curbstone
and on either side of the double doors. A corporal, a Rottenftihrer, opened
the limousine for Goering. No one opened the door in the rear. I got out
on my own and, moving about the automobile, pulled Granite - how thin
his arms, his bones! - from the frame . Our little party ofJews and Gentiles
started toward the entrance. Suddenly I heard a far- off voice. It seemed to
be drifting down from above. It wasn't speaking so much as - could this
be possible? - sobbing. The others, including the black-shirted SS, heard it
too. Everyone froze . Then someone, it was the cadet - hardly more than a
boy - heaved a sigh.
"Ach,"
he said. "The poor Fuhrer."
Goering waved us toward the double doors. "Come," he said. " Why
such sad faces? Today we have had a great victory. Yes, at Kiev'"
Granite hesitated. "But what was that noise? That wailing? The boy
said it was the Fuhrer."
Goering: "You are mistaken. Do you see the cornice of the building?
There the wind whistles by. It makes this mournful sound."
Ahead, both doors sprang open, tripped by an electrical circuit. The
Germans started forward .
It
occurred to me that with their slow gait, their
grim expressions, they could have been pallbearers in a funeral procession.
And that weeping, that unearthly moan : it might have been the sobbing of
the mourners. One thing was certain, it was not the wind. There was no
disguising this pitiful wail that floated down from the eaves; rising and
falling, now full-voiced, now fading, it was the echo of the rant and roar
that the whole world had heard on the shortwave bands of their radios.
Inside the building a marble lobby, high-ceilinged and austere, took
up much of the ground floor. I realized at once that this is where we were
to conclude our business. Two tables had been set up opposi te each other,
beneath red and black banners. On one were the agreements to be signed.
The other was laden with food. The skull-like Goebbels already stood at
the latter, along with Gunsche, Hitler's personal adjutant. Goering walked
over. That left Granite and me by ourselves, not far from the smooth
soapstone of the staircase. The atmosphere about us remained hushed and
funereal. The only sound was the click of the boots of the SS men as they
moved across the polished stone floor.
Then everyone stiffened. There was a new sound, a whirring, followed
by a soft thud and a clank. Someone shouted
Heil Hitler,
and the Germans
