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 Fuhrer’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 Kornerplatz 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 uber 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 the planners from immortalizing both the place and the moment of the century’s first spilling of Aryan warrior blood. The caverns sit under the Maifeld grandstands and directly below the bell tower. Someone had suggested early on that they call it the Fuhrer Tower, but Hitler himself had vetoed that. Why overstate things?

The place was oddly quiet as the car pulled up. Hoffner noticed the requisite guards and policemen roaming about. There might have been more security elsewhere, but no one would have been stupid enough to stop Radek’s Daimler. These were his grounds; even the SS knew to leave him alone.

The car stopped and the four men stepped out onto Olympischer Platz. Somewhere off in the distance a crackling light from a welder’s torch cast shadows against a far column. Hoffner wondered if perhaps Werner March himself might be somewhere about, chiseling out the last bits and pieces. March had promised a dedication ceremony for early May. Instead, he had quietly announced the stadium’s completion about two weeks ago: AND NOT A MOMENT TOO SOON, the BZ headline had read. The editors had hoped to run a cartoon of March holding up the back of the stadium on his shoulder, a wide smile on his sweating face, but they had received a note from the Reich’s Propaganda Office advising them that such a display-“humorous as it was”-might be seen as beneath the paper’s dignity. How anything might be seen as beneath the BZ’s dignity remained open for debate.

Radek stepped around to the back of the car, pulled open the boot, and removed a bag. “The boys are going to stay here,” he said, refastening the latch, then bobbing his head toward the gate. “How’d you like to see the stadium, Nikolai?”

They walked in silence along the lamplit arcade: the place seemed to demand that kind of reverence. Flags from the competing countries hung limply from their poles. Searchlights shone high onto the stadium’s facade, arching up and over and misting into the gray of the sky.

Hoffner stared up as they passed under the gate. A few stars had managed to break through the cloud cover, but for the most part it was just swirls of black hovering above the iron rings.

Two or three guards strolled along the plaza beyond; all were careful not to notice Radek and his companion.

Hoffner said, “Do you smell that?”

“What?”

“Bad beer and piss.”

“I do,” said Radek.

“And that’s not a problem?”

“Not much they can do about it when the wind shifts.”

Hoffner was surprised at the ease of the answer. “So this happens all the time?”

“Three times a day.”

Hoffner was waiting for an answer.

“Strength Through Joy Village,” Radek finally said. “The thing’s about half a kilometer from here. It’s even got its own train station.”

“You’re joking.”

“Would I joke about that?”

They made their way between the central columns and into the stadium’s main entryway. Their footfalls began to echo.

Radek said, “It comes equipped with Strength Through Joy Beer Halls, Strength Through Joy Children’s Tents, Strength Through Joy Crappers. There might even be some Strength Through Joy Tits thrown in, but I think those girls are reserved for the pure Aryan clientele. That’s something you don’t get on the cruises.”

The Strength Through Joy recreation camps and holiday cruises had been set up by the Reich as a thank-you to the working class of Germany. The simple folk were, after all, the very spirit of the Reich. And such spirit-pungent as it was-deserved a little knockwurst and dancing on the cheap.

“Your boots are good?” said Radek. “It’s going to be wet.”

They mounted a stairway, arrived on the second level, and then moved down a short tunnel. Somewhere toward the middle of the tunnel, the stadium grounds began to come into view.

If Hoffner had hoped to find something clever or demeaning to say, he couldn’t. The place was overwrought, militaristic to a fault, self-consciously classical, larger than any other space he had ever seen, and breathtaking.

The curve of the stands pressed up and outward like the perfect ripple of a stone dropped into a still lake. The color was somewhere between the cream white of porcelain and the rough green-gray of sanded limestone. Empty, the seats looked like flawlessly laid tracks-twenty, thirty, sixty of them, circling the field in a series of infinitely rising loops. Everything was bright from the overhead lights, and yet there was no glare. Most remarkable, though, was the field itself, broad and masculine, its grass tufted and thick, glistening from the rain as if its own exertions had produced this rugged sheen. The smell, full and green, lingered, with just a taste of polished stone in the mouth. Hoffner stood in silent wonder.

“It’s even better on the grass,” said Radek, as he started down the steps. Hoffner had no choice but to follow.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, both men stepped up onto the low wall and then jumped down to the field. Hoffner felt a slight twinge in his knee. He did what he could to ignore it as they made their way across the six lanes of cinder track and out to the infield. At the far end, the top of the bell tower loomed through the wide and solitary opening in the stadium wall. Even the sky seemed more immense here.

“That’s where he’ll be coming through tomorrow,” Radek said. “Arm up, strutting, Heil Hitler!” He flipped his hand in a mock salute. “We might even see a smile.”

“I thought you liked Berlin just now?”

“What’s not to like?”

They made it to the center of the field and Radek stopped. The silence and size of the place came together in a single rush; odd to feel dizzy without moving.

Radek set the bag down. “And despite what you’ve heard, he asks for girls.” He knelt down and opened the bag. “Young ones. You never want to know what he does with them. The girls never say a word after. It’s unpleasant, but he pays well.”

Hoffner was still finding his bearings. “I didn’t know you’d taken to pimping,” he said. “Or are the economic trends good there, too?”

Radek pulled a bottle of champagne and two glasses from the bag. “It’s one client, Nikolai. I don’t think that makes me a pimp.” He stood and handed a glass to Hoffner. “A marked man, yes, but not a pimp.”

“So he’ll kill you one day.”

Radek snorted a laugh. “He’s going to kill a great many people one day, Nikolai. At least I’m getting paid.”

Radek stepped back and let go with the cork. The echo brought a stream of guards running out onto the first-tier balcony-small, shadowy figures from this far off-and Radek shouted, “Champagne, gentlemen! No worries!”

His voice continued to echo as the men disappeared as quickly as they had come.

“Like trained dogs,” said Hoffner.