"How could we stop him? Anyway, I have a feeling he talked himself in even deeper than he did us."
Their discussion was ended by a clatter of boots, the arrival of a bristling escort. They were being honored with treatment as dangerous and important prisoners—a distinction less flattering than ominous.
The "People's Court" before which they were being taken was obviously not the extralegal supreme court which Hitler had made into a bogey-man for scaring grown-up consciences to sleep; this was a local affair, in the same building that housed the jail. All four prisoners were herded into a rather small chamber, innocent of audience or jury. Opposite the entrance, beneath a huge hooked-cross banner, three men in black robes sat behind a desk. Two of them were old men who regarded the defendants with dull, incurious eyes; between them, his bulk dominating and shriveling them, sat Herr Schwinzog.
Into the deathly silence a hoarse voice cried, "Heil Hitler!"
It was Wolfgang, his conditioned reflexes spurred by sight of the swastika flag. The Americans stared at him; it was the first words they had heard him speak—perhaps they were the only ones he knew. Herr Schwinzog raised his eyebrows.
"What did you say?"
"Heil Hitler!" repeated Wolfgang mechanically.
"What does 'Hitler' mean?" asked one of the old men curiously.
"I don't know," said the other old man. "Perhaps he is feigning insanity."