absolute attention, utter subservience, and panting eagerness.
"Here." Hitler peeled off his gloves, juggling the leash between his hands. "Can you catch these?"
"Yes, my Führer." Patzer lowered his rifle.
Hitler tossed the calf gloves skyward. Patzer could catch only one of them. The other fluttered back down to the snow. Blood rushed to the guard's face.
Hitler stepped off the path into the mud to retrieve the glove. "We Germans don't play cricket like our enemies. So you can't blame me for a lame toss."
"No, sir."
Hitler reared back again and launched the glove. Patzer snatched it easily.
"Put them on your hands," Hitler lectured lightly. "Don't stick them into your pocket to keep them for a museum somewhere."
"Thank you, my Führer." Patzer shoved his fingers into the gloves. The rabbit-fur lining still radiated Hitler's warmth. Patzer was giddy with the intimacy.
"And thank you, SS-Private." Hitler tottered off, following his dog, the gravel snapping under them.
Patzer lifted his rifle up again. He breathed deeply of the sweet moment. He had taken his SS oath in the presence of his leader. Now he took another one, in silence, to the Führer's back as Hitler hobbled away. The end of the struggle was coming. If the Führer stayed in Berlin at the Chancellery, Patzer swore he would stay with him to the end, to the very end.
8
THE FARMHOUSE was fifty yards off the road, down a dirt drive. Cray walked toward the house, avoiding ruts and potholes. An apple orchard was to the north, the trees new in their spring leaves. Poles for supporting the apple-laden branches in autumn were stacked alongside the driveway. On the other side of the drive was a moss-covered stone wall that might have been two centuries old.
Cray surveyed the farm as he approached. To one side of the house stood a goat shed and an open machine shed in which there were a two- bladed plow and stacks of apple boxes. Leather rigging hung on pegs behind the plow. Grass along the stone wall was long, wooden planks had fallen from the goat shed, shingles were missing from the farmhouse's roof, and ivy had grown up and over the porch. The farm was in decline.
Cray neared the house. No automobile in the driveway. No one at a window looking at him. No farm animals. The house was made of clapboard, with a stone chimney. The porch creaked when he stepped onto it, then he leaned to his right to peer into a sitting room. Empty. He walked to the rear of the house, where a garden contained a row of bean stakes and a torn bird net that was hung over small pear trees. A potato patch had been turned over, perhaps again and again, though the potato harvest would have been last year. A shovel was still in the ground, planted rather feebly. He searched the goat and machine sheds.
Cray moved to the back door. The knob turned easily. When he stepped into the kitchen, he was met by the smell of fresh baking, a fruit pastry of some sort. Tendrils of scent wrapped around Cray, making him feel lightheaded. Shrunken and ill used, his stomach loudly rolled over at the prospect of being filled. A Strudel and several old newspapers were on a sideboard near a woodstove.
Cray gazed at the pastry. A flaky crust around apple halves. He wiped a corner of his mouth. A table and two chairs were in the kitchen. He looked into a pantry. Near it was an open cupboard containing pots and pans. A wooden box held a dozen small potatoes and two cabbages with brown leaves.
Cray stepped into the sitting room. An overstuffed chair, a wall clock. He opened a closet near the front door. Empty but for two coats and an umbrella. Then he walked across a hooked rug past a fireplace to the bedroom. A poster bed, a hat on a wooden rack, a dresser and a mirror. Leather boots were on the floor in a corner. A farmer's Spartan home. Cray was satisfied no one was home. The house was cold. Cray could still see his breath.
He rifled through the dresser. In one drawer he found a man's clothing.
"Here." Hitler peeled off his gloves, juggling the leash between his hands. "Can you catch these?"
"Yes, my Führer." Patzer lowered his rifle.
Hitler tossed the calf gloves skyward. Patzer could catch only one of them. The other fluttered back down to the snow. Blood rushed to the guard's face.
Hitler stepped off the path into the mud to retrieve the glove. "We Germans don't play cricket like our enemies. So you can't blame me for a lame toss."
"No, sir."
Hitler reared back again and launched the glove. Patzer snatched it easily.
"Put them on your hands," Hitler lectured lightly. "Don't stick them into your pocket to keep them for a museum somewhere."
"Thank you, my Führer." Patzer shoved his fingers into the gloves. The rabbit-fur lining still radiated Hitler's warmth. Patzer was giddy with the intimacy.
"And thank you, SS-Private." Hitler tottered off, following his dog, the gravel snapping under them.
Patzer lifted his rifle up again. He breathed deeply of the sweet moment. He had taken his SS oath in the presence of his leader. Now he took another one, in silence, to the Führer's back as Hitler hobbled away. The end of the struggle was coming. If the Führer stayed in Berlin at the Chancellery, Patzer swore he would stay with him to the end, to the very end.
8
THE FARMHOUSE was fifty yards off the road, down a dirt drive. Cray walked toward the house, avoiding ruts and potholes. An apple orchard was to the north, the trees new in their spring leaves. Poles for supporting the apple-laden branches in autumn were stacked alongside the driveway. On the other side of the drive was a moss-covered stone wall that might have been two centuries old.
Cray surveyed the farm as he approached. To one side of the house stood a goat shed and an open machine shed in which there were a two- bladed plow and stacks of apple boxes. Leather rigging hung on pegs behind the plow. Grass along the stone wall was long, wooden planks had fallen from the goat shed, shingles were missing from the farmhouse's roof, and ivy had grown up and over the porch. The farm was in decline.
Cray neared the house. No automobile in the driveway. No one at a window looking at him. No farm animals. The house was made of clapboard, with a stone chimney. The porch creaked when he stepped onto it, then he leaned to his right to peer into a sitting room. Empty. He walked to the rear of the house, where a garden contained a row of bean stakes and a torn bird net that was hung over small pear trees. A potato patch had been turned over, perhaps again and again, though the potato harvest would have been last year. A shovel was still in the ground, planted rather feebly. He searched the goat and machine sheds.
Cray moved to the back door. The knob turned easily. When he stepped into the kitchen, he was met by the smell of fresh baking, a fruit pastry of some sort. Tendrils of scent wrapped around Cray, making him feel lightheaded. Shrunken and ill used, his stomach loudly rolled over at the prospect of being filled. A Strudel and several old newspapers were on a sideboard near a woodstove.
Cray gazed at the pastry. A flaky crust around apple halves. He wiped a corner of his mouth. A table and two chairs were in the kitchen. He looked into a pantry. Near it was an open cupboard containing pots and pans. A wooden box held a dozen small potatoes and two cabbages with brown leaves.
Cray stepped into the sitting room. An overstuffed chair, a wall clock. He opened a closet near the front door. Empty but for two coats and an umbrella. Then he walked across a hooked rug past a fireplace to the bedroom. A poster bed, a hat on a wooden rack, a dresser and a mirror. Leather boots were on the floor in a corner. A farmer's Spartan home. Cray was satisfied no one was home. The house was cold. Cray could still see his breath.
He rifled through the dresser. In one drawer he found a man's clothing.
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