Adi stood up and pushed his plate away in irritation. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. Oh, nothing, Mein Führer.” Magda compulsively tapped her front teeth with a fork.

“I’m careful with Blondi.”

“Oh, yes, Mein Führer.” She twirled a curl of hair on her finger nervously.

“Blondi was nearly two years old when she had the pups. She was well into her second heat.”

Goebbels tried to change the subject. “The Russian colossus began at the Neisse River. That’s where they pushed us back, and we lost contact with our 8th Korps.”

“There were thousands of ova present in Blondi’s second heat,” Adi announced.

“I never in the world meant to imply disrespect for Blondi’s ovulation.” Bowing her head, Magda stood. She was so distressed that later she stayed up all night to copy a picture of Blondi in a petit point velvet book cover for Adi’s volume of Johann Gottlieb Fichte, his favorite philosopher.

“Ja. Ja. Let us continue eating.” Moving his plate closer, erect and rigid on the edge of his chair, Adi coldly fixed his eyes on the dish of beets, eyes that were intense and circled with black by the monsters of duty. This was a red meal, apples, radishes, peppers, and ruby cabbage. Everything was blazing and vibrant.

“Then that stupid Göring let his Luftwaffe Fighter Wing desert the air strip at Lansdorf,” Goebbels continued.

Magda added: “Göring, wearing that silly felt hat with a white badge on it that looks like a price tag.”

“Yes, the very Göring who pointed his marshal’s baton at me and boasted I could call him Meier if even one little enemy plane bombed our capital.” Goebbels sniffed.

“We can now forget Meier Göring,” I said.

“I’ve dismissed the traitor,” Adi added, letting Goebbels continue with his bluster that would go on and on in a babble of self-indulgence but gave Adi time to eat radishes in a military 35 chews per bite.

“I believe airmen, as a rule, are idiots. Even more than sailors whose ships are only floating gun platforms.” Goebbels puckered, as if his lips couldn’t stand to part with such elegant wisdom, as though even words were as precious and guarded as the Bunker itself.

“Ships do not conform to the laws of nature. Look at the shape of a fish and the design of a ship. Has the Navy learned nothing?” Adi paused for he wanted to test the effect of his words.

“Yes, you’re so right. Still, pilots are the most idiotic people on earth. Who standing on firm ground can pity them,” Goebbels fretted.

“Pity? I admire them. No fighter pilot—ours or the enemy’s—will shoot a pilot who is bailing out. Such chivalry is glorious,” I said, not letting them know that I learned this from Göring.

“Mere dramatics,” Goebbels offered.

Adi, however, agreed with me.

“Now paratroopers are another matter,” Goebbels added. “Early in the war, they were helpful in surprise attacks.”

“I love their song.” Magda began singing. “Rot scheint die Sonne… the sun at dawn shines so red…”

“And what about our ramming squadrons?” I asked. “Ramming their planes into the enemy. To almost certain death?”

“Fanatics,” Magda said.

“My wife is right. Fanatics are high-strung killers and are often not accurate. We need the cool skilled soldier.”

Adi continued with his lecture. “All canine ovarian follicles release their ova at the same time.” He forked a large oval beet into his mouth. Food often had a faint layer of concrete dust, and I saw a hint of it now on Adi’s tongue. But it only made his breath beautifully misty.

“At the same time? How marvelous.” Magda poured more water into the Führer’s glass. The hand-painted pitcher with shiny black eagles had a broken spout.

“Spontaneous ovulation. It has a fertile life span of four days.”

“Four days. How marvelous,” Magda cooed with red lipstick bites of equally red cabbage.

“To hell with the Russians and all our generals who keep insisting that we go after Moscow,” Goebbels abruptly screeched. “Destroy the enemy first! Then go after their capital!”

“Generals are inept,” Adi shouted. “They know nothing about the economics of war. Nor are they brave. Were Frederick the Great’s grenadiers ready to die? They loved life as well as we do. But Frederick was correct in asking them to die for their country. Just as I am right asking Germans to do the same.”

“Oh yes! Richtig!” Magda screeched.

“I refuse to have another Rommel where everything depends on his personality as a leader. Rommel never discussed anything with officers of his rank,” Adi announced.

“Richtig,” Magda bellowed.

“He felt all that was necessary was to lead from the front. That way he and his men would be responsible for each other,” Goebbels snarled.

“Is that so bad?” I sounded prim, but that’s what I believe.

“It’s not enough,” Goebbels barked. “Do you know… He claimed a new word. ‘Rommeln.’ To Rommel. A verb meaning to stage a daring attack. He even encouraged his fans to change the Autobahn to the Rommelbahn.”

“And the only idea he ever had was filling up his units with silly dummy tanks,” Magda offered.

“Oh, yes,” Goebbels added. “His soldiers in Tripoli planted dummies on Volkswagen chassis.”

“I did hear it deceived the enemy about Rommel’s strength.” I was using the information I overheard from the map room.

“He had trucks drag tarpaulins to kick up desert sand and give the illusion of troop movement. He put propellers on trucks to do the same. He even placed straw dolls in observation towers for the enemy to shoot at. All the time crying that we didn’t give him enough equipment. Rommel! A true idiot. Good generals do not disappear at the head of their leading columns leaving subordinates to their own initiative. Then he complained Russia soaked up too many of our supplies. Russia! Don’t get me started on that. Where is the dignity in fighting those stupid Ivans sucking on sunflower seeds, spitting them out like damn birds,” Goebbels groused.

“You know the Führer doesn’t like that kind of language. And certainly not demeaning comments about birds.” Angling her head in a sharp little twist toward Josef, Magda’s smile once aimed at the Führer vanished quickly as she faced her husband.

“Russian tanks shoved us back to Zulz,” Goebbels continued. “Our generals should never have allowed the Russians near there.”

“The only good general is Russian. General Winter,” I said.

Adi smiled, what Goebbels called a DaVincian smile. “When asked what kind of generals he liked, Napoleon said… lucky ones,” Adi announced.

“Our Führer Directive Number 33 said Bolshevik officers are to be ‘shot out of hand.’ And rightfully so as even Blondi is much smarter than a Russian,” Magda offered.

But this made Goebbels angry for although Russia was primitive, it still was a vicious opponent and not to be dismissed so easily. Becoming flushed, even his nose reddening, he snapped that it was the Lhasa Apso that protected emperors. As if Magda or I cared about any insult directed toward Blondi.

Pleased that Magda remembered his Directive Number 33, the Lhasa Apso remark didn’t annoy Adi, his gaze a controlled neutral. Facts are facts. “Just fifteen days after mating, Blondi’s embryos were attached to her uterus.”

“Thank goodness it happened quickly,” I amended. “Who can stand loose embryos over fifteen days?”

“One can hardly believe such a miracle.” Magda picked at cabbages as if hearing about Blondi’s uterus was so momentous that the mere idea of sinking her fork into food would seem trifling.

“A dog was Wagner’s muse,” Adi declared. “Little Peps was the co-author of Tannhäuser.”

“Blondi is superior to all those pictures I’ve seen of Patton’s white and ugly bulldog, Willie,” Magda announced.

“Willie! That ridiculous bulldog! What would you expect from a bombast like Patton,” Goebbels added, eager to establish his loyalty back to Blondi.

“And how are Negus and Stasi doing?” Magda’s tone was challenging as she hoped to make me feel guilty for leaving my dogs behind. I didn’t want to bring them to the Bunker. Taking care of Blondi is enough, so I gave them to my Uncle Alois to watch.

“They are sweet little carpet-sweepers,” Adi said of my dogs because of their short legs. He was smiling.

“Negus and Stasi are running happily in Uncle Alois’ yard,” I announced proudly.

Adi suddenly froze for fifteen minutes—completely motionless, his spoon to his mouth. Goebbels stifled a yawn with a series of brisk pats to his cheeks as we all waited quietly for Adi to recover. Then Adi startled awake and began to talk about the American film The Ghost Goes West, a film with the kind of light humor he loves.

I wrote Mother about these conversations but never about the paralyzed silences. She wasn’t interested in Blondi as she knows only border collies with herding behavior that make friends with hills and cliffs not people.

I myself long for my Scotties who are at ease around water and love to swim and wait patiently for me.

“What about the war?” Mother writes. “I have a grandchild to think about. There’s been so much bombing here. How much more can we take? Loudspeakers on street corners tell us to leave. But how? Trains are full of soldiers and impossible to board. My neighbor, Dortchen, remember her? She had to break her son’s arm so he could go to the hospital and get some food. I heard on a British broadcast about the trauma of war on English children. What about our children? And can you ask the Führer about my cook, Thilde? She was sent to a camp two weeks ago. I heard there’s one 9 miles from me. We need such camps to rid ourselves of Communist subversion, and she’s probably close to Dachau that’s beautiful. But I’m at a loss for managing meals by myself. Bakers are prohibited from selling fresh bread because it won’t last as families are tempted to gobble it up. Therefore we get hard day-old rye. But Thilde can always find a baker who is willing to throw in a fresh slice or two.

“Thilde is only a Hausjude, a simple house Jew who never wears a fur collar or hat and who in no way resembles Moses and is so good at finding food. I could understand her being rounded up if she were like all the others with a Biblical profile and being what Himmler calls bacteria. I’m quite aware that she’s not entered in the Nazi Sippenbuch racial book as we are. I tried to get her to go to the anthropological institute for a consultation. I think it’s idiotic she’s Jewish with a skull that looks almost Aryan. And because she’s helped your family so much, couldn’t the Führer make her an honorary gentile? Oh, why did she have to be a Jew?”

When I asked Adi about Thilde, he grew impatient. He hears it all the time from his staff. Somebody has a Jewish barber who is not like a real Jew and should be overlooked. A concert violinist is so talented he couldn’t possibly be held to the same beast-like standards as the rest of them. A professor should be saved as he in no way acts like a Jew and has helped preserve German history. Now this Thilde who doesn’t cook like a Jew and prepares food like a good gentile and is needed to feed a Munich family. All selfish requests. Give in to one, Adi says, and others follow. Where does that leave the purity of the race? “We must sweep with an iron broom.”

“But Adi, you didn’t confine Dr. Bloch to a resettlement camp. You let him leave Germany. Because he treated your mother.”

“Of course.”

But… in Mein Kampf, you advocated no special treatment for any Jew.”

“Mein Kampf is a book, a polemic, an important one, of course, and essential to every soldier and citizen alike. I’m the only one who can sometimes deviate from it for responsible choices.”

“Then can you deviate for our cook, Thilde?”

“Impossible.”

“But why?”

“I decide who is a Jew.”

“But poor Thilde has an ulcer,” I inform Adi. “Mother says she talks of her ulcer as if it were another person: It is hungry. It needs hot soup. It wants some tea. Poor Thilde is in constant battle with her ulcer.”

“Ulcers are the Jewish disease,” he replies.

I know Adi hates diseases and has done everything possible to encourage good health. When he came to power, he urged regular exams and the eating of vegetables. Smokers were asked to quit, and he banned smoking in many public places. It was our friend Dr. Fritz Lickint who found evidence between cigarettes, ulcers and cancer, a fact that is encouraging me to quit. I’m down to eight cigarettes a week because our body belongs to the Führer… especially mine.