Word: hrer
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Last week a diplomatic drama as strange as a Wagnerian opera unrolled in the Bavarian Alps. The setting was Wagnerian-Führer Adolf Hitler's Berghof at Berchtesgaden, a mountain hideaway 15 miles from music-haunted Salzburg, 600 miles from Danzig, 1,300 miles from Moscow, and 3,000 feet above sea level. Facing the cloud-capped mountains the brown and white Berghof itself-huge echoing rooms, wide halls, bedrooms for 40 guests, guards' turrets, flower gardens, machine-gun nests-seemed as unreal as the home of the Troll kings...
...last week Count Galeazzo Ciano, Italy's Foreign Minister, son-in-law of Il Duce. Already there were German Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop, the German Ambassador to Rome, the Italian Ambassador to Berlin, sundry legal experts, advisers, retainers. They were to have lunch with the Führer...
...satisfy the German passion for music and drama without indulging the non-Aryan composers, playwrights and directors who were to a large degree responsible for them. Music was comparatively easy, for Germany's favorite composer is romantic, loud, Aryan Richard Wagner. Every year at Bayreuth the Führer turns up and sits raptly listening to Tristan und Isolde. But Germany's favorite dramatist is an Elizabethan Englishman: William Shakespeare. And Shakespeare's foremost German producer before Adolf Hitler was a Jewish director, Max Reinhardt, whose summer theatre at Salzburg once ranked with Bayreuth as an international...
...understood by everyone. Too many Gestapo men are around to mention the word "Hitler or "Adolf," but when Italians say "We were better off under our own padrone," the inference is that they believe Il Duce to have lost his hold on Italy and that the Führer is really the boss...
...will stink to high heaven from north pole to south pole and it would draw the Americans into the war within a week. . . . It is true that you have the Italians as allies. We had them last time and we know all about them. . . . It is your Führer, and not my old Prime Minister, who will give the signal to attack. . . . Perhaps you will recognize in time the abyss toward which you are being led. . . . Until next week, with best regards...