The crowd pushed the three of us between the Marathon Towers toward
the Berlin Olympic Stadium. The left tower displayed a simple
clock. On the right, both po liti cally and geographically, hung a twisted
iron cross— the swastika. I understood the message: It was 1936, and
the time of the Nazis had come.
.
Inside the stadium, I shied away from the enclosed white cabins that
signaled press boxes. The journalists inside knew me as German crime
reporter Hannah Vogel, wanted by the Gestapo for kidnapping the
young son of the now- deceased Ernst Röhm. I ner vous ly tilted my
wide- brimmed hat to conceal my face and moved with the crowd down
the stairs. Surely I would be diffi cult to notice among so many faces.
.
My current identity was Adelheid Zinsli, neutral Swiss reporter
and, hopefully incognito, part- time spy for the British. I looked over
at my contact, SS Hauptsturmführer Lars Lang, as we moved toward
our seats in the stadium. Years of our deadly game made most trips
feel routine, but this time I was frightened.
