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But listens that much more keenly, all ears, to fix the locations, as far as possible, save these sounds, fanfares, trolley bells, clicking footsteps.

Hears the voice in the distance, from the loudspeaker, already hears the noise. Seemingly hears it, hasn’t reached the Ring yet, from this point hears only voices calling, the din of motors, shouts.

Passes the Ring a little farther on and the deep ditch, Marientor, the door in the ramparts, ears pricked up, picks up the pace, stepping quickly.

The real voice now, funneled inside the old street, a summer mist on the cobblestones of Lorenzstrasse, slick and glistening, a dampness, a decent shower.

At the bend in the street catches sight of the church, massive, with golden spires, Lorenzkirche, its nave damaged.

Goes around the edifice and returns to the main street, Königsstrasse, the people on the sidewalk, in small groups, seem less hurried than he, on their way down to the river.

Others pass on bicycles, in boots, feathered hats, rare cars, five o’clock, today the factories closed earlier, the stores, the offices.

Doesn’t believe his eyes, Martin simply finds himself here, in this city, not quite one whole week, walking on these cobblestones, he’s too going down toward the river, can spot the bridge, soon crosses the flower-decked bridge.

The voice is everywhere now, fills the square, the old city center, indeed, that’s the voice, that’s the one. Emphatically bursts forth, rings out, echoes.

When he comes into the square, Goebbels has already begun to speak. He’s there on the platform, with the dignitaries, green overcoat, has kept on his cap, too big for him, face furrowed, obstructed by the microphones, shouts very loudly.

Doesn’t believe his ears, what’s happening to him, this tribute seen so often before the war on screens, newsreels of childhood, adolescence, here in motion, very close, brandishing a fish, renowned actor, self-assured, haranguing at the top of his lungs.

Behind him the pennants, around him, standards, banners, ritual trappings, the weapons of the party, the province, mobilized coats of arms, the escutcheons of cities and guilds, medieval paraphernalia to the rescue.

Tried and tested stagecraft, fetishistic, harking back to bygone myths, the noble deeds of knighthood, rustic orders, the small dry man is there, contorted, assumes this glamour, bestows it upon himself, glacial, reads from his paper.

Martin emboldened slips in, to his surprise, the square is not jammed, gaps between the groups, reaches within a few yards of the tribune, closely observes, closely notes, giving the impression that he was sent for that express purpose, to be a witness, to observe closely.

Don’t understand everything, nowhere near that. Clearly pronounces, the orator, articulates precisely, speaks too quickly, but the themes are too simple, the clichés tired, easy to guess, to interpolate.

The theme concerns an act of treason, a treacherous king, the Latin ally had laid down its weapons, has turned its weapons upon us, the shame upon its name, we are true to our faith and our morale remains high, of a different caliber.

Functional, measured mimicking: the right forearm, fist clenched, back-and-forth horizontally, very quickly, level with the heart, folded back, straightened out, touches the heart rhythmically. Then the left arm rises, half bent, the fist still clenched, hammers frenetically, vertically each syllable enunciated, strongly emphasized, a sober programmed crescendo.

Fists on hips at last, stands on tiptoe, and the puny man, a trifle rachitic, calls to witness, ears sticking out, those two deep furrows carving his cheeks, hooked nose, a studied fanatic.

Proclaims in front of himself, in every direction, far in front, questions total war, do you want it, the shortest war, the time is now, long live victory! victory, hail!

He extends his arm, Martin watches the arm extend, slanting, hands raised, automatic allegiance, unrestrained approval, how to know, a soldier to leave in front of him doesn’t raise his arm, the woman at his side, arm extended, urges him, he makes a motion with his hand, disenchanted, drops it.

A glance around, the few soldiers present don’t raise their arms somewhat lost in the crowd, doesn’t the minister see them, that they’re not saluting? For civilians this diatribe, for civilians to stand fast, those in the bombed factories, the cities under attack already.

Noise, the crowd in chorus, again taking up the hymn sings solemn, contemplative, Haydn’s theme, familiar andante, great posthumous success.

Fills the square, baroque faces, brassieres, Marienkirche under sandbags, and the fountain, Schöner Brunnen, invisible, buried in sand, too.

The arms fall, and the mark of fervor, final salute, Goebbels is gone already, has stolen off, the gathering drifts apart, slow U-turns, no enthusiasm, some believe it of course, hard as iron, others are no doubt resigned, see in this the war coming to a perhaps quick end.

Martin, disconcerted, follows the movement, crisscrossing flux toward the four corners of the square, finds himself walking in the direction of the Burg, raindrops, sweltering heat, a fresh shower.

Goes up on the sidewalk after the fountain, sees the pennants over there slipping into the wings, the banners with swastikas, sleight of hand, they’ll be folded up, the tame joyless fair at an end, the stage empties out, rechristened a decade ago, already historic, Adolf-Hitler-Platz.