Read Online The Second Son: A Novel by Jonathan Rabb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Rabb
Ads: Link
Olympic spirit,” said Radek. “Everyone’s been asked to sacrifice.”
“And in your pocket?”
Radek smiled. “Isn’t there a little pride somewhere in there, Nikolai? Something for the German greater good?”
“Tremendous amounts,” said Hoffner. “How much?”
Radek’s smile grew as he bobbed his head from side to side, calculating. “A hundred thousand seats in the stadium … Maifeld—that’s over twenty-eight acres of open ground—the practice facilities … Maybe”—he shot a glance at Franz—“what do you say, Franz? Twelve, fifteen million?”
“Twenty-seven,” Franz said blandly, as he continued to stare out.
“Twenty-seven million?” Radek’s disbelief was matched only by his cynicism. “Really? That much? Just imagine getting a cut of that.”
“Yah,” said Hoffner. “Just imagine.”
“They want to throw away the city’s money on this, Nikolai, I’m happy to help them.” Hoffner tossed his cigarette out and Radek said, “So you didn’t think of pulling out the old saber? Helping the great German cause?”
The thought of dragging his ancient legs onto the strip forced a dismissive snort from Hoffner. “I think Fräulein Mayer rounds out the token half-Jews on the team, don’t you?”
It had been in all the papers, the girl’s “special dispensation” from the Reich’s Committee. Mayer, a former world champion now living in America—and a Jew only in name—had been made an “honorary Aryan.” It seemed demeaning, no matter which way one leaned.
“She’s not doing them any favors,” said Radek.
“Who,” said Hoffner, “the Jews or the Reich? My guess, she wins something, she’ll have to give it back anyway.”
* * *
The Reichssportfeld sits on over three hundred acres of Grunewald forest in the far west section of town. From central Berlin, it is a relatively easy trip past the Tiergarten if one makes sure not to take the truck roads out to the Halske or Siemens factory sites—unless, of course, one is desperate for a rotary engine or any number of other electrical engineering devices. If one keeps to the low roads, the first behemoth to appear on the horizon is the stadium itself. It looms at the end of the wide Olympischer Platz, stone and granite leading all the way up to the double columns of the Marathoner Gate, with the five rings pitched in between. Though ostensibly the brainchild of the March brothers—Werner and Walther—the entire complex has the feel of an Albert Speer design, the thick limestone and wide columns telltale of the Reich’s architectural wunderkind. There was a rumor that the Führer, on hearing of Werner’s plans to create a modern wonder—steel, glass, and cement—said he would rather cancel the games than have them take place in “a big glass shitbox.” But that was only rumor.
Next are the Maifeld parade grounds—vast, wide, green, resplendent—surrounded by nineteen meters of elevated ground, two meters higher than the stadium itself. Originally slated to hold over 500,000 people, it manages only half that (much, again, to the Führer’s dismay), but there is the hope that, with the new health incentives—and the aim at a “fitter, sleeker, trimmer” German—the grounds might actually squeeze in close to 300,000 in the not-too-distant future.
And finally there are all those squares—August Bier Platz and Körnerplatz and Hueppeplatz (absolutely vital to name one of them after the German Football League’s first president)—but the real gem is the Langemarck-Halle. It is a series of cavernous rooms built to commemorate the gallant singing student soldiers ( “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles” ) who gave their lives in the early days of the war, charging in full chorus against the hordes of ravaging Belgians, who were bent on destroying the mythic German spirit. That the battle took place at Bixchote (so much harder to spell, and not really all that German-sounding) never deterred
“And in your pocket?”
Radek smiled. “Isn’t there a little pride somewhere in there, Nikolai? Something for the German greater good?”
“Tremendous amounts,” said Hoffner. “How much?”
Radek’s smile grew as he bobbed his head from side to side, calculating. “A hundred thousand seats in the stadium … Maifeld—that’s over twenty-eight acres of open ground—the practice facilities … Maybe”—he shot a glance at Franz—“what do you say, Franz? Twelve, fifteen million?”
“Twenty-seven,” Franz said blandly, as he continued to stare out.
“Twenty-seven million?” Radek’s disbelief was matched only by his cynicism. “Really? That much? Just imagine getting a cut of that.”
“Yah,” said Hoffner. “Just imagine.”
“They want to throw away the city’s money on this, Nikolai, I’m happy to help them.” Hoffner tossed his cigarette out and Radek said, “So you didn’t think of pulling out the old saber? Helping the great German cause?”
The thought of dragging his ancient legs onto the strip forced a dismissive snort from Hoffner. “I think Fräulein Mayer rounds out the token half-Jews on the team, don’t you?”
It had been in all the papers, the girl’s “special dispensation” from the Reich’s Committee. Mayer, a former world champion now living in America—and a Jew only in name—had been made an “honorary Aryan.” It seemed demeaning, no matter which way one leaned.
“She’s not doing them any favors,” said Radek.
“Who,” said Hoffner, “the Jews or the Reich? My guess, she wins something, she’ll have to give it back anyway.”
* * *
The Reichssportfeld sits on over three hundred acres of Grunewald forest in the far west section of town. From central Berlin, it is a relatively easy trip past the Tiergarten if one makes sure not to take the truck roads out to the Halske or Siemens factory sites—unless, of course, one is desperate for a rotary engine or any number of other electrical engineering devices. If one keeps to the low roads, the first behemoth to appear on the horizon is the stadium itself. It looms at the end of the wide Olympischer Platz, stone and granite leading all the way up to the double columns of the Marathoner Gate, with the five rings pitched in between. Though ostensibly the brainchild of the March brothers—Werner and Walther—the entire complex has the feel of an Albert Speer design, the thick limestone and wide columns telltale of the Reich’s architectural wunderkind. There was a rumor that the Führer, on hearing of Werner’s plans to create a modern wonder—steel, glass, and cement—said he would rather cancel the games than have them take place in “a big glass shitbox.” But that was only rumor.
Next are the Maifeld parade grounds—vast, wide, green, resplendent—surrounded by nineteen meters of elevated ground, two meters higher than the stadium itself. Originally slated to hold over 500,000 people, it manages only half that (much, again, to the Führer’s dismay), but there is the hope that, with the new health incentives—and the aim at a “fitter, sleeker, trimmer” German—the grounds might actually squeeze in close to 300,000 in the not-too-distant future.
And finally there are all those squares—August Bier Platz and Körnerplatz and Hueppeplatz (absolutely vital to name one of them after the German Football League’s first president)—but the real gem is the Langemarck-Halle. It is a series of cavernous rooms built to commemorate the gallant singing student soldiers ( “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles” ) who gave their lives in the early days of the war, charging in full chorus against the hordes of ravaging Belgians, who were bent on destroying the mythic German spirit. That the battle took place at Bixchote (so much harder to spell, and not really all that German-sounding) never deterred
Similar Books
