The brothers glanced at each other and nodded.

“Jewish to any degree?”

“No.”

“And you have done Labor Service?”

Kurt said, “My brother has. I was too old.”

“As to the matter at hand,” Professor Keitel said, “we are here to offer you a choice.” He seemed impatient.

“Choice?”

Ernst’s voice lowered and he continued. “It is the thinking of some people in our government that particular individuals should not participate in our military. Perhaps they are of a certain race or nationality, perhaps they are intellectuals, perhaps they tend to question decisions of our government. I, however, believe that a nation is only as great as its army, and that for an army to be great it must be representative of all its citizens. Professor Keitel and I are doing a study that we think will support some shifts in how the government views the German armed forces.” He glanced back into the hall and said to the SA guard, “You can leave us.”

“But, sir-”

“You can leave us,” Ernst repeated in a calm voice and yet it seemed to Kurt as strong as Krupp steel.

The man glanced again at Kurt and Hans and then receded down the hall.

Ernst continued. “And this study may very well ultimately determine how the government values its citizens in general. We have been looking for men in your circumstances to help us.”

The professor said, “We need healthy young men who would otherwise be excluded from military service for political or other reasons.”

“And what would we do?”

Ernst gave a brief laugh. “Why, you’d become soldiers, of course. You would serve in the German army, navy or air force for one year, regular duty.”

He glanced at the professor, who continued. “Your service will be as any other soldier’s. The only difference is that we will monitor your performance. Your commanding officers will keep notes on your record. The information will be compiled and we will analyze it.”

Ernst said, “If you serve the year, your criminal record will be erased.” A nod at the court’s sentencing list. “You will be free to emigrate if you wish. But the currency regulations will remain in place. You can only take a limited number of marks and you will not be allowed back into the country.”

Kurt was thinking about something he’d heard a moment ago. Perhaps they are of a certain race or nationality… Did Ernst foresee that Jews or other non-Aryans would someday be in the German army?

And, if so, what did that mean for the country in general? What changes did these men have in mind?

“You are pacifists,” Ernst said. “Our other volunteers who’ve agreed to help us have had less of a difficult choice than you. Can a pacifist morally join a military organization? That’s a hard decision to make. But we would like you to participate. You are Nordic in appearance, are in excellent health and have the bearing of soldiers. With people like you involved, I believe certain elements in the government would be more inclined to accept our theories.”

“Regarding these beliefs of yours,” Keitel added, “I will say this: Being a professor at a war college and a military historian, I find them naive. But we will take your sentiments into account, and your duties in the service would be commensurate with your views. We would hardly make a flier out of a man terrified of heights or put a claustrophobic in an undersea boat. There are many jobs in the military that a pacifist could hold. Medical service comes to mind.”

Ernst said, “And, as I said, after some time you may find that your feelings about peace and war become more realistic. There is no better crucible for becoming a man than the army, I feel.”

Impossible, Kurt thought. He said nothing.

“But if your beliefs dictate that you cannot serve,” Ernst said, “you have another option.” A gesture toward the sentencing document.

Kurt glanced at his brother. “May we discuss this between ourselves?”

Ernst said, “Certainly. But you only have a few hours. There is a group being inducted late this afternoon, with basic training to start tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting now. I’ll be back here by two or three to learn your decision.”

Kurt handed the sentencing document to Ernst.

But the colonel shook his head. “Keep that. It might help you make up your mind.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Twenty minutes from downtown Berlin, just past Charlottenburg, the white van turned north at Adolf Hitler Plaza, Reggie Morgan behind the wheel. He and Paul Schumann, beside him, gazed at the stadium to the left. Two massive rectangular columns stood at the front, the five Olympic rings floating between them.

As they turned left onto Olympic Street, Paul again noted the massive size of the complex. According to the directional signs, in addition to the stadium itself were a swimming facility, a hockey rink, a theater, a sports field and many outbuildings and parking areas. The stadium was white, toweringly high and long; it didn’t remind Paul of a building as much as an impregnable battleship.

The grounds were crowded: mostly workmen and provisioners but also many gray-and black-uniformed soldiers and guards, security for the National Socialist leaders attending the photography session. If Bull Gordon and the Senator wanted Ernst to die in public, then this was the place for it.

It appeared that one could drive right up to the front plaza of the stadium. But for an SS lieutenant (the commission was courtesy of Otto Webber, no extra cost) to climb out of a private van would be suspicious, of course. So they decided to skirt the stadium. Morgan would drop Paul off in some trees near a parking lot, which he would “patrol,” examining trucks and workmen as he slowly made his way to the shed overlooking the press office on the south side of the stadium.

The van now pulled off the road onto a grassy patch and rocked to a stop, invisible from the stadium. Paul climbed out and assembled the Mauser. He took the telescopic sight off the rifle – it was not the sort of accessory a guard would have – and slipped it into his pocket. He slung the gun over his shoulder and put his black helmet on his head.

“How do I look?” Paul asked.

“Authentic enough to scare me. Good luck to you.”

I’ll need it, Paul thought grimly, peering through the trees at the scores of workmen on the grounds, ready and able to point out an intruder, and at the hundreds of guards who’d be happy to gun him down.

Six to five against…

Brother. He glanced at Morgan and felt an impulse to lift his hand in an American salute, one veteran to another, but of course Paul Schumann was fully aware of his role. “Hail.” And lifted his arm. Morgan repressed a smile and reciprocated.

As Paul turned to leave, Morgan said softly, “Oh, wait, Paul. When I spoke to Bull Gordon and the Senator this morning, they wished you luck. And the commander said to tell you you can print his daughter’s wedding invitations as your first job. You know what he means?”

Paul gave a nod and, gripping the sling of the Mauser, started toward the stadium. He stepped through the line of trees and into a huge parking lot, which must have had room for twenty thousand cars. He strode with authority and determination, glancing sharply toward the vehicles parked here, every inch the diligent guard.

Ten minutes later Paul had made his way through the lot and was at the soaring entrance to the stadium. There were soldiers on duty here, carefully checking papers and searching anyone who wanted to enter, but on the surrounding grounds, Paul was merely another soldier and no one paid him any attention. With an occasional “Hail Hitler” and nods, he skirted the building, heading toward the shed. He passed a huge iron bell, on the side of which was an inscription: “I Summon the Youth of the World.”