Otto suddenly realized that he felt happy—ecstatically, wonderfully happy. . . .
The music swelled in Otto’s ears and mingled with the surf-like thunder of the cheers. . . . He sat in the open car with two other officers whom he never would know. . . . Their car led the procession of many similar cars which wound its way through crowd-lined streets towards the Sportspalast. . . .
At intervals in the serried, orderly ranks of cheering spectators were bands. . . . When you drew near a band there was no cheering until you had passed it and were out of its immediate range—then the cheering began again. . . .
He and the other officers sat stiffly. Taking his cue from the senior—a bearded naval man whose rank badges were those of a junior Admiral—Otto occasionally turned his head to this side or the other and saluted in acknowledgment of the cheers. . . .
The sun glittered palely down. . . . The cars rolled steadily, slowly on. . . . The roaring and the music and the iron voices of the loudspeakers mingled into one prolonged, triumphant pæan. . . . Otto’s throat constricted agonizingly behind the high stiff collar of the new uniform. . . . He felt a suspicious pricking behind his eyelids and dared not blink them. He kept the eyes fixedly, burningly wide. . . . He despised himself and was ineffably proud and miserably happy. . . .
And then the Sportspalast—and a species of coma which wrapped him about, cutting him off from real contact with the outer world—his own private, transparent, impregnable cloak. . . .
More music . . . more cheering . . . himself in the centre of a rapid line of waiting officers. . . . Then silence—and on the platform before him, the Fuehrer. . . . Then the harsh, volatile voice, addressing—through the officers, through Otto himself—the tensely listening thousands. . . . That awe-inspiring, extraordinary voice . . . the wonderful voice . . . the voice of the Liberator, future Ruler of the World. . . .
And then the slow, single-rank procession to the platform—and Otto in his turn upon it. . . . A firm handshake and the pinning upon his left breast of the most coveted honour in the New Germany. . . . A smile such as had not been granted to any of the men before him. . . . And then, after the smile, words of praise and thanks for his ear alone: personal, private words from the Fuehrer to Otto Falken! . . . Then, amazingly, yet another signal honour—a
After minutes or hours in which the coma-cloak had seemed opaque, he found himself out of the main hall and in an anteroom. It was filled with men in uniform; the men who, as well as himself, had just been honoured. He stood apart, wrapped in happiness and misty, unformulated thought. He did not want to speak to anyone nor do anything; he was satisfied to
For the second time to-day a heavy hand slapped him upon the back and a voice boomed in his ear.
“Falken! Still speaking to your old friends? Or are you waiting to dine with the Fuehrer?”
It was Hegger again. Otto did his best to be polite—but it must have been a poor attempt, for soon the man edged away and was caught up by other companions. Otto stayed where he was—and people left him alone. . . .
The press began to thin. In twos and fours, and even singly, officers began to leave. Otto, still wrapped in the impalpable dream-sensations, did not notice their going until he realized that the room was already three-fourths empty.
He was startled. He began to think, untidily. He had four weeks’ leave and no idea what he was going to do with it. He did not know many people in Berlin. He went so far as to wonder whether Hegger were still around. He turned his head to look for him—and felt a light touch upon his shoulder.
He turned to find himself—all six feet and more of him—looking up into the grey, lined face of a towering man in S.S. uniform with badges which, although unfamiliar to Otto, seemed certainly to be those of exalted rank.
“Captain Falken?” said this person.
Otto nodded, trying to keep bewilderment from his eyes.
“Follow me, please.” The man turned and strode away.
Otto followed—not towards the entrance which he and his fellows had used, but to another door, in the rear of the room, which was covered by a heavy curtain bearing golden swastikas upon a background of black velvet. . . .
Behind this door was a dark, narrow passageway dimly lit by yellow bulbs. His guide’s feet rang echoingly ahead of him—and Otto followed. Under the tonic of this mystery his mind was functioning almost at its normal and decisive speed.
At the end of the passageway was another door—and they passed through it into a little high-walled court-yard. There was a car there, with a nondescript, hunched-over man behind the wheel. Its engine was running. It was a black limousine, and blinds were down over its windows.
The S.S. officer opened the tonneau door. “Get in, please,” he said.
Otto paused with one foot upon the running board. This was too much. He said: