In his single bed‐sitting room in Coram Street, Dr Otto Hapfel, the young man who had visited the South London Parliament, was writing a letter. It was a long letter, and he was taking immense pains over it. For it was no ordinary letter. He had written a weekly document of this kind ever since he had been in England. And it had finally become the very centre of his life. Even his studies were now only of secondary importance compared with it. He spent nearly the whole week, when he was not at lectures, going to the theatre, the football matches, to restaurants, to religious services, to public meetings, painstakingly observing the strange British race and making notes on its behaviour. It was his fervent hope, his prayer, that somehow or other he might hit on some single aspect of English life that had never been scientifically isolated before, something that might provide the essential key to the national character.
On the face of it the effort was not wasted. The recipient of these six and seven page letters – he was Dr Karl Anders, senior history master at the Gymnasium at Krefeld – had hinted that the letters did not remain unseen by other eyes. He had even taken the liberty of having copies made. And he had shown them in the right quarters. In the result, they had gone high. Very high. Exactly how high Dr Hapfel dared not ask. But there was a suggestion of ultimate elevation that made it possible for Dr Otto Hapfel writing away in the rosy glow of his shilling‐in‐the‐slot gas fire in Coram Street, to imagine that passages from his letters – certain skilfully chosen sentences – might eventually find their way upwards and upwards until finally no less a person than the Führer himself… But this was absurd. Dr Hapfel was allowing his imagination to run away with him.
All the same, was it really so absurd? If it hadn’t been for those letters why should he have been invited to the Embassy in Carlton House Terrace?9 There must have been a reason, a special and distinctive reason, something that had singled him out from all the other members of the German Students’ Club who hadn’t been invited. The Ambassador didn’t go about offering his hand to every German post‐graduate who was quietly pursuing his researches in London.
‘Heil Hitler!’ he began his letter. ‘I trust that our beloved Führer enjoys good health. May he prosper!’
There were two perfectly valid reasons for beginning his letter in this style. In the first place, it was only fair to Dr Anders as the envelope was sure to be opened by the postal censors as soon as it got into Germany. And secondly he really felt that way. During the whole of his year in England he had felt himself mysteriously supported or assisted by the divine – yes, divine wasn’t too strong a word – love and strength that emanated from one man, and reached across rivers and mountains, over frontiers and continents and oceans to others of German race no matter where they were. It was exciting, like living in the birth of a religion while the Saviour – was still alive.
Dr Hapfel gave the knob of his stylo a little twist and continued with his letter.
‘I have been to many theatres and cinemas lately,’ he wrote as solemnly as before, ‘and I thought that you might be interested to hear how the audience behaves when the National Anthem is played. It is highly instructive to observe the devices which are adopted to avoid testing the patience of the public too strongly. Sometimes a few bars only from an electric recording are played at the very beginning of a performance so that people can come late and so avoid hearing it altogether. Many adopt this pitiful subterfuge. In other theatres and cinemas, it is played in the same shortened form at the end. But the effect is much the same: many leave deliberately before it. Everyone is, of course, expected to stand at attention whenever it is played but, at the end of a performance, only some High Tories observe the convention. Others button up their overcoats, feel about for their gloves and reach for their umbrellas. Singing of the anthem is rarely heard except on Boat Race Night. The Boat Race, you will remember, is an intercollegiate race rowed in tidal water on the Thames between Putney and Mortlake and as the British are a sea power nation much popular enthusiasm is released by this demonstration of water fitness. At religious services in those denominations which I have attended the anthem is not played at all. At large football matches, called Cup Ties, the anthem is both played (generally by compulsory military bands) and sung; but at cricket matches it is rarely heard. I have been to Lord’s (the principal cricket stadium in London) three times without hearing it once.’
Dr Hapfel gave another twist to the knob of his stylo so that the ink should flow really freely and went on with the second page. And with the third. And with the fourth. And with the fifth. And with the sixth. And with the seventh. When he had finished, he was quite exhausted. He sat back in his chair wondering how a race like the English which had once been so vigorous and ruthless could have decayed so rapidly. He thought that perhaps it had something to do with the women. English women, he had already noticed, habitually smoked in public, wore their hair short and arranged their own marriages.
The clock in St Pancras Church at the bottom of Southampton Row chimed midnight and Dr Hapfel put away his writing materials in the flat zip‐fastened brief case that he always carried about with him.
When the room was tidy he stood at attention and saluted the Führer’s photograph on the mantelpiece.
Then he started to undress.