“Oh, leave him in peace,” he had said. “I’m awake. I’ll take it.”

That had been nearly two hours ago. March glanced at his passenger in the rear-view mirror. Jost had been silent ever since they left the Havel. He sat stiffly in the back seat, staring at the grey buildings slipping by.

At the Brandenburg Gate, a policeman on a motorcycle flagged them to a halt.

In the middle of Pariser Platz, an SA band in sodden brown uniforms wheeled and stamped in the puddles. i Through the closed windows of the Volkswagen came the muffled thump of drums and trumpets, pounding out an old Party marching song. Several dozen people had gathered outside the Academy of Arts to watch them, shoulders hunched against the rain.

It was impossible to drive across Berlin at this time of year without encountering a similar rehearsal. In six days” time it would be Adolf Hitler’s birthday — the Fuhrertag, a public holiday — and every band in the Reich would be on parade. ; The windscreen wipers beat time like a metronome. i

“Here we see the final proof,” murmured March, watching the crowd, “that in the face of martial music, the German people are mad.”

He turned to Jost, who gave a thin smile.

A clash of cymbals ended the tune. There was a patter of “’” damp applause. The bandmaster turned and bowed. Behind him, the SA men had already begun half-walking, half-running, back to their bus. The motorcycle cop waited until the Platz was clear, then blew a short blast on his whistle. With a white-gloved hand he waved them through the Gate.