After Hennig’s earlier warning about defeatism I wasn’t disposed to argue that the Russians had been provided with good teachers in barbarism. But I did try to moderate his language a little. “I see no point in upsetting Miss Schaper with talk like that,” I said, noticing that she had paled a little at the mention of cannibalism.

“I’m sorry,” said Hennig. “Lieutenant Gunther is absolutely right. Forgive me, Miss Schaper. That was thoughtless and insensitive of me.”

“That’s all right,” she said calmly. “I think it’s best to know exactly what we’re up against.”

“Spoken like a true German,” said Hennig. He turned in his chair and snapped his fingers at a waiter. “Bring us some brandy,” he said. “The good stuff. Immediately.”

A bottle of ten-year-old Asbach Uralt arrived on the table and Hennig threw some banknotes beside it as if money meant nothing; and given that he worked for Koch, it probably didn’t. The splash around Paradeplatz was that, with the help of the institute’s ruthless manager, Dr. Bruno Dzubba, the diminutive Koch had amassed a personal fortune of more than three hundred million marks, and it was clear from the fistful of cash in Hennig’s hand and the expensively tailored uniform he was wearing that some of this money was coming his way, at least in the shape of a generous expense account. Hennig uncorked the bottle and poured three generous glasses.

“Here’s to happier subjects,” he said and toasted Irmela’s eyes. “Your beauty, for instance. I confess I am very jealous of Lieutenant Gunther. You will forgive me if I say I hope you have a friend who’s a lightning maid, Miss Schaper. I should hate to be here for much longer without a charming young lady to spoil like Lieutenant Gunther.”

“It’s she who’s been spoiling me, I’m afraid,” I said.

“The mind reels at the very thought.” Hennig downed his brandy and stood up. “Well, thank you for a delightful evening, but I’m afraid duty calls. The governor has to address the representatives of the People’s Storm Unit here in the city tomorrow morning. Governor Koch has been appointed as their local commander. And I have to write his speech for him. Not that I have the first clue about what to say to them.”

The People’s Storm Unit was the new national militia that Goebbels had just announced—a home guard composed of conscripted men aged between thirteen and sixty who were not already serving in some military capacity. With a keen sense of humor most Germans were already referring to the People’s Storm Unit as the Father and Son Brigade or, sometimes—and even more amusingly—the Victory Weapon.

After he’d gone—but not before Irmela had promised to introduce him to some of her female friends—I breathed a sigh of relief and then downed my own brandy.