equal
among equals. Prosperity returned, though slowly, step by step, wages meant something again,
food was a thing one had every day, and once more the children laughed in the streets. Lehmann
was not altogether happy, he disliked heartily many of his colleagues and distrusted their
methods and their motives. Hitler he regarded not so much as a leader but as a useful tool for the
regeneration of the country; it did not matter who led so long as the right road was taken and the
people followed. Lehmann was trusted and relied upon, but not always confided in, not when the
action proposed was morally dubious, for there was a sturdy uprightness in him which abashed
villainy. He looked with cold distaste upon Goebbels’ poisonous invective, Goering’s
unscrupulous violence and Rosenberg’s sham mythology; at present these men served their turn,
if they became too much of a good thing steps would have to be taken in the matter and he,
Klaus Lehmann, would attend to it in person. He was still a sufferer from headaches and still
could not remember who he had been, but he had acquired another personality long ago, and was
much too busy to bother.
By 1933 he was a deputy of the Reichstag, high in the more reputable councils of the
Party, and living in a flat in Berlin with Fräulein Rademeyer to look after him. She had been
greatly aged by the hard years, but was now comfortably stout, increasingly forgetful, and
completely wrapped up in Klaus. They sat over the fire one night in late February, and Ludmilla
told him the news of the day.
“I saw Christine this morning,” she said. “She has been staying with her daughter in
Mainz, and who do you think she met?”
“Heaven knows,” said Klaus sleepily. “Von Hindenburg?”
“Mathilde. My excellent sister-in-law.”
“What, the lady who examined me for birth-marks or something at Haspe? Still as
incisive as ever?”
“More so. Christine says she is more like a weasel than ever. She asked after me, it
appears.”
“Nice of her. I hope Frau Christine told her you are getting younger every day and dance
at the Adlon every night?”
“She told her I was living with you in Berlin, and Mathilde was most indignant.”
“Why?”
“She said it wasn’t respectable.”
“The foul-minded old harridan!” exploded Klaus. “How dare she?”
“My dear, if you lose your temper like that you will make your head ache.”
“I won’t have you insulted,” stormed Klaus. “Why—what are you laughing at?”
“It is very depraved of me, Klaus, but—oh, dear—it is such a long time since I was
considered a danger to morality!”
“You awful woman,” began the horrified Klaus, but at that moment the door opened and
the servant Franz came hurriedly in.
“Fräulein—mein Herr—the Reichstag—”
“What about it?”
“It is all in flames. They say the Communists have fired it.”
“Great heavens, I must go. My coat, Franz. Don’t worry, Aunt Ludmilla, there is no
danger. Go to bed, I shall not be out long. Yes, I will come and speak to you when I come in.
Yes, Franz, you may go out provided Agathe does not, I will not have the Fräulein left alone.”
He found the trams were not working, so he ran through the streets till he was stopped by
the police cordon in Behren Strasse, and had to show his card. Even from there the glare of the
burning building lit up the sky, he ran down the Wilhelmstrasse to avoid the crowds he expected
to find in the Konigsgratzer Strasse and turned into the Dorotheen Strasse. Here the press was so
great that it was not until he had passed the President’s house that he was able to force his way to
the front of the excited crowd, and for the first time the great fire became a visible reality. He
could feel the heat upon his face. He turned suddenly faint, staggered, and clutched at the arm of
the man standing next to him.
“Lean on me,” said the man, who recognized him. “You have hurried too
among equals. Prosperity returned, though slowly, step by step, wages meant something again,
food was a thing one had every day, and once more the children laughed in the streets. Lehmann
was not altogether happy, he disliked heartily many of his colleagues and distrusted their
methods and their motives. Hitler he regarded not so much as a leader but as a useful tool for the
regeneration of the country; it did not matter who led so long as the right road was taken and the
people followed. Lehmann was trusted and relied upon, but not always confided in, not when the
action proposed was morally dubious, for there was a sturdy uprightness in him which abashed
villainy. He looked with cold distaste upon Goebbels’ poisonous invective, Goering’s
unscrupulous violence and Rosenberg’s sham mythology; at present these men served their turn,
if they became too much of a good thing steps would have to be taken in the matter and he,
Klaus Lehmann, would attend to it in person. He was still a sufferer from headaches and still
could not remember who he had been, but he had acquired another personality long ago, and was
much too busy to bother.
By 1933 he was a deputy of the Reichstag, high in the more reputable councils of the
Party, and living in a flat in Berlin with Fräulein Rademeyer to look after him. She had been
greatly aged by the hard years, but was now comfortably stout, increasingly forgetful, and
completely wrapped up in Klaus. They sat over the fire one night in late February, and Ludmilla
told him the news of the day.
“I saw Christine this morning,” she said. “She has been staying with her daughter in
Mainz, and who do you think she met?”
“Heaven knows,” said Klaus sleepily. “Von Hindenburg?”
“Mathilde. My excellent sister-in-law.”
“What, the lady who examined me for birth-marks or something at Haspe? Still as
incisive as ever?”
“More so. Christine says she is more like a weasel than ever. She asked after me, it
appears.”
“Nice of her. I hope Frau Christine told her you are getting younger every day and dance
at the Adlon every night?”
“She told her I was living with you in Berlin, and Mathilde was most indignant.”
“Why?”
“She said it wasn’t respectable.”
“The foul-minded old harridan!” exploded Klaus. “How dare she?”
“My dear, if you lose your temper like that you will make your head ache.”
“I won’t have you insulted,” stormed Klaus. “Why—what are you laughing at?”
“It is very depraved of me, Klaus, but—oh, dear—it is such a long time since I was
considered a danger to morality!”
“You awful woman,” began the horrified Klaus, but at that moment the door opened and
the servant Franz came hurriedly in.
“Fräulein—mein Herr—the Reichstag—”
“What about it?”
“It is all in flames. They say the Communists have fired it.”
“Great heavens, I must go. My coat, Franz. Don’t worry, Aunt Ludmilla, there is no
danger. Go to bed, I shall not be out long. Yes, I will come and speak to you when I come in.
Yes, Franz, you may go out provided Agathe does not, I will not have the Fräulein left alone.”
He found the trams were not working, so he ran through the streets till he was stopped by
the police cordon in Behren Strasse, and had to show his card. Even from there the glare of the
burning building lit up the sky, he ran down the Wilhelmstrasse to avoid the crowds he expected
to find in the Konigsgratzer Strasse and turned into the Dorotheen Strasse. Here the press was so
great that it was not until he had passed the President’s house that he was able to force his way to
the front of the excited crowd, and for the first time the great fire became a visible reality. He
could feel the heat upon his face. He turned suddenly faint, staggered, and clutched at the arm of
the man standing next to him.
“Lean on me,” said the man, who recognized him. “You have hurried too
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