The Seventh Secret (7 page)

"Not because you liked Nazi architecture?"

"No, because I hated it, but I felt that a visual record of this period should be preserved. Hitler's building program is what we call Fascist architecture. It's anonymous, and quite ugly. Fascist architecture is like a baked potato or a pound cake. All filled in. There's no lightness to it, no personality, no romance, no emotion, no passion. Let me show you."

He opened the portfolio.

"These are photographs of buildings that went up under Hitler, and models. in miniature of drawings of buildings he wanted constructed after he won the war. Happily, most never saw the light of day. Here is a photograph of the New Chancellery that Hitler did have Albert Speer build for him in Berlin. These are Speer's comments in my caption." Foster began to read to her from the caption. "'Strictly speaking, the element Hitler loved in classicism was the opportunity for monumentality. He was obsessed with giantism.'

Foster went on. "When Hitler first set eyes on the Old Chancellery, he abhorred it. He thought it some-thing 'fit for a soap company.' He wanted his New Chancellery nearby to be majestic. Speer saw that it was exactly that. A visiting diplomat entered the building on the Wilhelmsplatz through a court of honor. He went up an outside staircase into a medium-sized reception room, and then through double doors seven-teen feet tall into a large hall decorated in mosaics. Then up more stairs into a mammoth gallery four hundred eighty feet long—twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles—going on past seemingly endless office rooms adding up to seven hundred twenty-five feet more. Only then did he reach Hitler's own reception hall, and finally Hitler's huge personal study with its desk bearing an inlaid design of a sword half out of its sheath, a marble-topped table at the window—used for conferences, after 194 and gilded panels over the room's four doors. These panels depicted four of the virtues, namely wisdom, prudence, fortitude, and justice. The floors were marble everywhere. Hitler would not permit carpeting. 'That's exactly right,' Hitler said. 'Diplomats should have practice in moving on a slippery surface.'"

Foster slowly turned the pages that showed photographs of the exterior and interior of the New Chancellery. "Anyway," Foster went on, "Hitler loved it. 'Good, good!' he told his architect. 'When diplomats see that, they will know fear.' Later, Speer wrote about his buildings for Hitler, 'They were the very expression of a tyranny.'"

Foster resumed flipping the pages.

"Next, let me show you an example of something grand that Hitler never had a chance to finish. This is his plan for the
Prachtallee
—the Avenue of Splendor—in the center of Germania, as he intended to rename Berlin. Hitler was an admirer of Georges Haussmann, who designed the great boulevards of Paris. Hitler wanted to outdo Haussmann. This Avenue of Splendor was intended to be seventy-three feet wider than the
Champs Elysees
and three times as long, leading to the Führer's palace. For the top of the palace, Speer suggested a German eagle in gold holding a swastika in its talons. Hitler liked that but a few years later suggested the golden eagle should hold a globe of the world in its talons instead."

The reporter was pointing to a model of a vast indoor room. "What's that?" she asked.

"The dining hall of his palace, large enough to seat two thousand guests at once."

"My God," murmured Joan Sawyer.

"And so it goes, page after page of plans never carried out. Speer wryly called it his 'drawing-board architecture.' Now look at this. It's the quote I want to use to end this section and, indeed, my book. It is a very effective quote from Albert Speer's secret diaries kept in the prison at Spandau."

Joan Sawyer bent closer and read the quote out loud. "Albert Speer wrote: 'For what was never built is also a part of the history of architecture. And probably the spirit of an era, its special architectural aims, can better be analyzed from such unrealized designs than from the structures that were actually built. For the latter were often distorted by scarcity of funds, obstinate or inflexible patrons, or prejudices. Hitler's period is also rich in unbuilt architecture. What a different image of it will emerge if someday I produce from my desk drawers all the plans and photos of models that were made during those years."

Joan Sawyer straightened up and regarded Foster with new respect. "And that's exactly what you've done."

"I hope so," said Foster. He considered his portfolio.

"That palace of Hitler's was going to be immense, full of two-story-high colonnades with ornaments of gold and bronze. But don't be fooled by that. Although he liked his buildings to intimidate visitors, both by their size and ostentation, Hitler preferred—deep down inside—structures that were stark, simple, native German, and with few international touches. You may not believe that, seeing his models. But it was so. Still, with the world in his talons, I guess he got carried away."

Foster closed his portfolio. "Well, there you are."

Joan Sawyer's eyes were glowing. "You're right, it's a fascinating project."

Foster gave up a half smile. "Like looking at a lineup of snakes. -

"When is it coming out, your book?"

"When it's completed. I have a few more pages to finish. That's why I'm hoping to go abroad this week. To wind it up. The book should be published next spring."

"I wish you luck." Joan Sawyer shut off her tape recorder. "Would you mind if I came back with a photographer next week and had him shoot a few pictures from your book? Of course, you won't be here . . ."

"I'll be taking this copy with me. But my secretary has a duplicate copy. You can see her."

The reporter had gone to retrieve her capacious purse, and was stuffing her recorder into it. "They'll make wonderful illustrations for my story." Then, as if worried he might change his mind, she added, "It'll make great publicity for your book."

Foster grinned. "Why do you think I gave you all this time?"

Thanking him, she shook his hand, and hurried out the door.

For a few minutes, Foster lingered at his drafting table, spreading his portfolio wide and turning the pages.

What he saw again pleased him. A solid job. But then there were several blank pages at the end. For the seven missing plans he knew existed but had not been able to find.

This reminded him that Dr. Harrison Ashcroft had promised to help him locate them. Then he remembered that Dr. Ashcroft was dead.

He went back to his desk to find the
Los Angeles Times
story he had been reading but had not read entirely because of the reporter's interruption. He found the piece about Dr. Ashcroft's funeral and resumed going through it. He was sorry for the man, and for his own missed opportunity to meet with him.

He came to the last line of the dispatch, and sat up, suddenly revived. "Miss Emily Ashcroft, the daughter of the deceased, had been collaborating with her father on the book, and she has announced that she will finish the biography of Hitler alone, according to her London publisher."

Rex Foster felt a surge of hope once more. Of course his problem could be solved. Emily Ashcroft would know all her father's sources. She would be able to tell Foster who, among Speer's ten architectural associates, might have the missing plans.

Foster's instinct was to reach for the phone immediately, call Miss Ashcroft in Oxford, arrange an appointment with her, learn whom to see in West Germany, and get over there to complete his own work. Before reaching for the phone, Foster's eye fell on his desk clock. Late morning here meant early evening in Oxford. An acceptable time to call. Momentarily he hesitated, thinking it might be too soon after her loss to bother her. Then he remembered the deadline for his book.

Ringing Irene Myers on the intercom, Foster asked his secretary to try the telephone number they had for Dr. Ashcroft's home in Oxford.

A few minutes later, Irene was on the ICM again.

"Mr. Foster, I have someone at the Ashcroft number in Oxford. But not Miss Emily Ashcroft. Apparently she's not in. I have a Miss Pamela Taylor—"

"Who?"

"She's the secretary and she's been staying in the house since Dr. Ashcroft's death. Do you want to speak to her?"

"I'd better."

Foster got on the line.

"Miss Taylor? This is Rex Foster calling from Los Angeles. I don't know if you'll recognize my name—"

The soft-spoken British voice was uncertain. "I—I'm not sure."

"I had a recent correspondence with Dr. Ashcroft. I'm the architect who needed some information from him on Adolf Hitler. He agreed to see me. Next week, in fact. I had an appointment. But now .....He faltered. "I just learned what happened to Dr. Ashcroft. I can't tell you how sorry I am."

"It's a terrible loss," said Pamela Taylor. "Mr. Foster, you say? I do recall your name the appointment. .

"Well, I was just wondering. Miss Emily Ashcroft was working on the biography with her father—"

"Oh, yes."

"—so it occurred to me that perhaps she would have the same information that her father had, and would be able to help me as he had agreed to help." He was apologetic. "I know it's a little soon—"

"I'm sure she would be most cooperative."

"Can you tell me what time you expect her back this evening."

Pamela Taylor was regretful. "I'm afraid she won't be back this evening. She left London this morning for West Berlin."

"West Berlin?"

"To finish the project she and her father were working on."

"How long will she be in Berlin?"

"I don't know. Her stay is indefinite. It would be safe to say she'll be there at least two weeks."

"Can you tell me, Miss Taylor, where she's staying in Berlin? Perhaps I can look her up."

There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Pamela Taylor spoke. "It's supposed to be hush-hush---"

"Miss Taylor," said Foster patiently, "I'm sure she wouldn't mind. After all, since her father gave me an appointment, I'm positive she would, too."

"Yes, you're right. Very well. She's at the Bristol Hotel Kempinski in Berlin. Should be all checked in by now."

"Thank you, Miss Taylor. I appreciate it. I'll get in touch with Miss Ashcroft. Again, I'm terribly sorry about the accident. Hope to meet you one of these days."

Hanging up, Foster came to his feet, and hurried into the reception room.

Irene looked up from her typewriter. "Any luck?"

"Yes, definitely. Emily Ashcroft is in West Berlin. The perfect place to see her and get what I need. So, Irene, let's start right in. Book me on the first flight available to Berlin tomorrow. If tomorrow is impossible, make it the next day. Then call the Bristol Hotel Kempinski in Berlin. Have them hold a room for me, single, double, whatever accommodation they have.

"The reservation—for how long?"

"Who knows? Tell them a week. But it'll be for as long as I need. just pray that Emily Ashcroft stays safe and sound. She's my big hope."

H
aving settled into a small, modern, air-conditioned room on the eleventh floor of the Hotel Guarani in Asunción, Tovah Levine sat at the dressing table reading
La Tribuna
and sipping the last of her breakfast coffee.

Feeling refreshed after her shower, feeling relaxed about being in the capital once more after the four exhausting weeks in the back country of Paraguay, Tovah was trying to catch up on the world since she had disappeared from sight. On page three the name Hitler jumped out at her, arrested her attention, and she brought up the paper to read the brief item in Spanish. Anything that mentioned a Nazi was grist to her mill.

Sir Harrison Ashcroft, the world-famous historian from Oxford University, was laid to rest yesterday in a Methodist cemetery outside Oxford. Ashcroft, co-author of a forthcoming biography on the life of Adolf Hitler, suffered fatal injuries in a hit-and-run auto accident in West Berlin last week, where he was visiting to complete research on his book, Herr Hitler.

Tovah thought that Ashcroft's name struck a small chord in her memory. She might have read one of his earlier books while at the university in Jerusalem. She wasn't sure. In any case, she wasn't terribly interested in yet another book on Hitler, and she moved on inquisitively through the rest of the newspaper.