As the captain made himself more presentable, I went to see if the Führer was ready to meet his Spanish envoy.

Adi and his secretaries, wearing matching aprons, were rolling chocolate bon bons over a platter of sugar.

As a rising politician, Adi thought it was unmanly to like sweets. Saving as much money as he could, he’d buy sugary treats that his followers never knew about and eat them secretly in his bedroom. He got jaundice from all the sugar. The whites of his eyes turned yellow, and he denied being sick to anyone who asked. These days he attempts to eat only two or three cakes in the afternoon, but with Fräulein Manzialy hovering around him with dishes of cookies and pudding, that’s hard to do.

“The Spanish captain has been waiting for many hours,” I announced. “He’s had to endure sitting at the commissary table and listening to all your generals do nothing but complain about the high cost of dress uniforms. And that major who is a ventriloquist is making the cups talk again.”

“The captain has earned a bonbon.” Adi held up a chocolate ball coated in white speckles, wrapped it in a torn page from an art book (a glossy self-portrait of Rembrandt) and placed it in my hand. “My wonderful ladies have typed everything. Everything. Then this! A full tray of homemade wonders.”

The three women laughed, each one delicately dusted with powdered sugar on their upper lip. Taking the clean handkerchief from his breast pocket, he patted clean first one puckered little mouth—lingering in the side crannies—then slowly moved on to the next one. I left a room of heavy sighs.

The captain never got to see Adi and was dismissed by Bormann until further notice. The captain didn’t get the bonbon, either, as I ate it in one gulp, the rich velvet chocolate melting on my tongue and made more delicious by Adi’s succulent touch. But the captain left a gift for the Führer—a pair of Spanish stirrups—and told me to advise the Führer to abandon the Clausewitz-Maginot Line as it was wrong to adhere to a fixed defense. “A great wall of China never works,” he said. But I saw no reason to bother Adi about a China Wall when he had so much to do.

The shelling up above has become closer and closer so Bormann asked all upper level German officers to remove rank on their uniforms for protection in case they’re taken prisoner. This is very hurtful as these officers are held in high esteem and have worked very hard for their superior status. Generals Tippelskirch and Sorpfeld, in their peaked caps with silver death’s head badges, who both had been bivouacked in Baden-Baden, had lunch with us two days ago and after their mushroom salad, asparagus and green potatoes, the two men slowly and painfully ripped the red stripes of a general staff officer off their trousers. After Adi left the table, they drowned their sorrow in mare’s milk alcohol (I later learned it was only brandy and milk and hardly exotic). It was hard on all of us. General Tippelskirch, whose grandfather once served in the Torgau Hussars, presented me with their red stripes, and I decided to use them as a border on my bed covers. I sew a little, thanks to what my mother patiently taught me, and just finished stitching a scarf. Gauze that cheese is packed in has been transformed into a wrap for my bridal bouquet. Adi ordered flowers, but he hasn’t told me what kind. It’s a surprise. I tried to get Bormann to tell me, but he wouldn’t even give a hint. Bormann and Goebbels will be the witnesses, and Magda is my maid of honor.

What does a woman think of before her wedding? I can’t help but remember the wonderful day when Adi became chancellor. I was so proud even though I feared he’d have even less time for me. But how could I ever possibly dream then that in the future I would be his wife? Oh, but it was a glorious milestone. Adi would rule Germany. After the official event, I couldn’t wait to see him, and all that day I kept biting my nails nervously. Finally he came to me in the late evening after celebrating with his staff. I thought he’d look different, but he didn’t. Perhaps a little more solemn. He carried a vanilla cream cake that had a smooth top with two little dots of walnuts looking like eyes, the cake strangely having the blank aimless gaze of an infant. Having talked himself out, he said nothing. His lips were dry, cracked and weeping little drops of blood as he cut me a slice of cake, then took a piece for himself. We ate in silence, slice after slice, until the cake was gone. Still saying nothing, he went to bed carrying the weight of the Fatherland in his throat. I knew I would have to be strong… Germany must come first, the one long truth.

All the girls in the world who get married, what do they dream about? Those brides probably wish for a sunny wedding day, but I’ll beg for a cloudy one so that the planes won’t come over us, and there will only be sniping and grenades. I know what other things are in my mind. How will I look when he’s finally my husband? For he’ll belong to me in a way that can’t be matched with any other official document in the Reich. That little piece of paper will say Frau Hitler. It’s something not even the German people can have of him. All those women who want him will be so envious of me.

Sometimes I wish for his child. It would be wonderful to see a part of him as a youth—like Klara did. But Adi feels there can be only one Adolf. And a genius is distracted from his important work by a baby. At any rate, I wonder if I would have any love left over from Adi to give to an infant—even his infant.

In our wedding bed, he’ll truly complete our love. Isn’t the work I did with Dr. Morell’s V-Volk exercises meant solely for this glorious day? I want all of Him in a Kaiserzeit embrace. I want to lick that false gold tooth in the back of his mouth, the one he paid for when he was poor and had to sell his overcoat and postcard paintings, the tooth he’s always afraid will loosen and choke him. Horses gallop so fast that at one point they have all four hooves off the ground—that’s how I’ll be when he’s rappelling up to my throat.

Tonight, I’ll wrap my legs around Adi’s chosen thighs and feel my feet slide on his skin like my heels did on the waxed stairs in the Karstadt Department Store. For he is Berlin—stone Berlin with its staunch temperament and architecture. But I’ll have Stone Berlin hot on my belly. I have done well to learn from dogs for I’ll slink along the walls of his body to know that every part of me is on his leash.

Magda was very sweet this morning, rare for her, coming to my bedroom after breakfast to bring me a gift for my wedding night. Since nightgowns are difficult to find these days, she gave me a Russian shirt for the purpose. As there’s no formal front between the Russians and us, we can run into the enemy anywhere. Her husband’s driver, Axel, captured a Russian last week and took the very shirt off his back after shooting him. Russian shirts are wonderful as they’re loose with no buttons. It’s hard to believe there are no buttons on Russian uniforms, and I understand how Adi sees such troops as being primitive. Ivans tie everything with little strings. I put on the white shirt made of linen, an officer’s shirt that hung to the top of my thighs. Magda added a violet scarf that she tied around my waist, and it did look fetching with trails of purple flowing down and fluttering against my legs. What bride could have a better nightdress than one from a slain enemy?

“You look very lovely,” Magda said. “The Führer will be pleased.” It took courage to tell me that. But she did contribute my nightgown so that put her in the position to take credit for my allure.

“Do thank Axel for me,” I said.

“Oh, that’s not a happy story.” Magda smoothed her coarse tinted hair with a nervous hand. Her nails had been done, and I wondered where she found the gold speckled polish. Such plunder is gifts from lovers, and I’m not told about every man she seduces. “Axel was captured by a woman Russian officer only this morning.”

“At least he’ll be treated well.”

“Quite the contrary. She castrated him with two shots. Then strung him up like beef. You can imagine how upset my husband is—having to be driven around all the burnt out boulders up there by his executive officer, Lieutenant Wievelhofe, until he finds another driver.”

“Adi says Russian women don’t look like women.”

“And to think when we were still friends with Russia, I let one of them give me Red Star Makhorka tobacco. It’s strong and pleasing in its own way, but I never guessed this gift came from such—such primeval roots. But here’s a gift from a more reliable country. It was given to me by a Japanese officer.” I could tell by the glow in her eyes that the officer gave her more than these pellets of colored pith that she dropped into a bowl of water. Hidden flowers opened in the water like a secret garden.

Magda then took out a curious can from a bag she held close to her side, an Oscar Meyer tin her husband found on a dead Russian soldier. No doubt American food packages had reached the Russians. It once held something called Spam. I tasted Spam once and hated it, but Americans are known to fry it up like pork sausages, smacking their lips. Göring said Spam tastes like human flesh and that’s why Americans like it.

“I plan to glue tissue paper around this can, fill it with pralines for your bedside table on your wedding night.”

“Or I can put in some flowers from my bridal bouquet,” I said happily. “Adi’s ordered something special, but he won’t tell me what.”

“I know,” Magda teased.

“You know?”

Magda’s response was a sly smile.

“Tell me. Tell me. I can’t wait.”

Magda wouldn’t give me a hint. As I chased her around my bed, we laughed and fell on the pillows, and it was then I knew why men were forever after Magda. Lying on her back, those bloated snow-pancakes of hers spread like lumpy batter from waist to neck. I was tempted to taste them scrambled, those pumped up Kaiserschmarren. But I remembered what Adi said about any old building on Potsdammerplatz being better than anatomy. You can’t walk through Magda’s breasts or pace the length of her nipples like floor plans. Even our Bunker is better than fatty tissue—for in looking up at concrete, I can see it’s white sweaty bones. How can you pick up scale under all Magda’s spongy skin and tissue? Scale is the distance between two sturdy trees not two doughy mounds. Adi says he’s afraid of feelings not meant for buildings.