Preparation: Riefenstahl and Lucy
The late afternoon light in Paris slanted through the drapes of the luxurious hotel suite where Leni Riefenstahl had chosen to prepare. Her things were laid out neatly: a fox-fur coat that shimmered with the kind of wealth and status only the Reich could provide, an evening gown of deep silk, and jewelry that had once belonged to a French aristocrat. Lucy sat nearby, quietly adjusting her own hair in the mirror, her nerves tight, her stomach knotted, but her face calm. She had been chosen to accompany Riefenstahl to the banquet—not just as an assistant, but as a visible companion. Every move she made tonight mattered.
Riefenstahl paced behind her, humming to herself, brushing a hand along Lucy's shoulder, fingers grazing lightly as though testing boundaries. "Du bist sehr schön, Lucy," she whispered, leaning close enough that Lucy could feel the warmth of her breath against her ear. You are very beautiful.
Lucy froze, her reflection showing the faintest hint of color rising in her cheeks. She had known this was coming—Riefenstahl's glances had lingered too long these past days, her compliments too frequent. The director's power radiated not only from her fame but from the way she carried herself, as if she were above the law, above Hitler himself.
Lucy managed a soft laugh, unsure whether to deflect or to lean into it. "You flatter me too much, Frau Riefenstahl."
"Leni," the woman corrected gently, her hand now sliding down to Lucy's wrist. "Tonight, let us not bother with titles. Fame… politics… they fade when the music begins. Do you not agree?"
Lucy swallowed hard. She knew the Reich's stance on homosexuality: men sent to camps, women frowned upon but whispered about. Yet here she was, staring into the eyes of the Reich's most famous filmmaker, a woman who seemed untouchable. A part of her—the part desperate to belong, to survive—felt the tug of the intimacy. Another part screamed at her: This is dangerous. This is wrong. What are you doing?
The tension nearly broke into something real—Riefenstahl's lips only inches from Lucy's—when a heavy knock came at the door.
"Madam Riefenstahl, are you in?" A voice called in clipped German tones. "We require your assistance immediately. The food has arrived… and it contains seafood. SS-Oberführer Muzket's daughter—she died from seafood poisoning. You know his temper."
Riefenstahl groaned loudly, throwing her hands in the air. "Scheiße! I told them no seafood. Keine Meeresfrüchte!" She glanced at Lucy, her annoyance eclipsing her flirtation. "I knew this would be a disaster."
Hurriedly, she slipped into her gown, snapped the fur coat around her shoulders, and muttered as she headed to the door, "We will continue later. Perhaps." Her eyes flashed back at Lucy with a knowing look before she swept out.
Lucy sat frozen for a long moment, her breath uneven. The thought lingered: Do I want this? Would it even feel good? Or am I simply playing a role in another one of the Reich's twisted games? She shook her head, chastising herself. Focus. Survive. Tonight is not about desire—it's about information.
Imel Prepares
Across the city, Obergruppenführer Imel stood before the tall mirror of his hotel suite, adjusting the knight's cross around his neck, smoothing the SS runes on his collar until they gleamed. His expression was calm, almost amused. Banquets meant politics, politics meant whispers, and whispers meant leverage.
He tilted his head at his own reflection. "Mhm. Tonight will be… interesting."
Behind him, two SS soldiers waited silently at attention, their boots polished, their uniforms immaculate. When Imel finally turned, they snapped into a sharp salute. "Heil Hitler!"
Imel raised his gloved hand in return, his boots echoing across the polished floor as they escorted him to the waiting car. Paris awaited.
Reichenau and Brenner
At the Hotel Meurice, Generaloberst Wilhelm Reichenau prepared in his quarters, Oberst Karl Brenner adjusting the older man's uniform with meticulous care. Reichenau's thoughts lingered bitterly on Adler's report: the farmhouse, deliberately cleaned, the severed arm, the tire tracks. Something foul was moving beneath his command—SS, medical men, experiments.
Brenner stepped back, tugging once at the general's collar to ensure its perfect alignment. "Herr Generaloberst, if they were there… they will be here tonight. We will see them in the flesh."
Reichenau's eyes hardened. "And then, Brenner, we will know who dared to attack a child under my protection."
Outside, the streets leading to the former French presidential palace—now a banquet hall for the Reich's occupation—were barricaded with checkpoints. Wehrmacht soldiers inspected papers with crisp efficiency. When Reichenau's car pulled up, the barrier lifted, and the vehicle rolled forward past cheering French crowds pressed against the cordons, their screams a mixture of awe and survival instinct. The SA brownshirts held them back, lining the red carpet in perfect formation. Flashbulbs popped as paparazzi captured images of the Reich's highest brass.
Inside, the palace glittered with chandeliers, its marble floors polished to mirror-brightness. Once the seat of French democracy, it now served as a stage for the Reich's theater of dominance.
Early Banquet: The Gathered Guests
The room swelled with uniforms of every branch: brown SA tunics, black SS, field-grey Wehrmacht, the dark blues of Kriegsmarine admirals, the Luftwaffe's sky-blue dress. Party bureaucrats in tailored suits mingled with officers, sipping wine and eyeing one another with suspicion masked by smiles.
Riefenstahl glided at the entrance, elegant and radiant, the fox-fur brushing the marble. She greeted officials, laughed at compliments, scolded staff quietly to keep to the timeline. She owned the room without needing a weapon.
Taking the stage, her voice rang out, melodic yet commanding. "On behalf of Reichsminister Joseph Goebbels, I welcome you to this evening's banquet. We gather in honor of the good health of our Führer and Reichsführer Himmler. Raise your glasses, meine Damen und Herren!"
The crowd saluted, voices echoing, "Heil Hitler!"
She smiled, then added, "Our guest of honor has not yet arrived, but patience. Tonight will be worth it."
Among the guests:
Alfred Meyer in his brown Party uniform, gold trim catching the light.
Heinrich Müller, the Gestapo chief, in sharp SS black, his presence a warning.
Martin Luther of the Foreign Ministry, his face flushed with wine already.
SS-Brigadeführer Schöngarth, murmuring to fellow officers.
Conversations buzzed: Party members mocking the SS as "needy" and power-hungry, SS men sneering back that bureaucrats were useless "paper-pushers." Beneath the laughter, old rivalries burned.
Wine flowed. French belly dancers swayed on the stage, their sequined costumes glittering, their presence both exotic entertainment and humiliation of the conquered nation.
Arrival of Mengele, Oberheuser, Bormann
The great doors swung open. Conversations faltered. Heads turned.
In strode Josef Mengele—tall, smiling, every inch the handsome doctor, though those who knew his reputation felt a chill. At his side, Herta Oberheuser, stern and cold-eyed, carrying herself with clinical detachment. Behind them, Juana Bormann, her scarred face twisted, her lips curled as though in perpetual cruelty, a massive German shepherd at her heel.
Whispers spread like wildfire: Der Todesengel… The Angel of Death. Die Bestie der Schrecken… the Beast of Horrors. Die Frau mit den Hunden… the Woman with the Dogs.
They took seats at an empty table. No one dared approach.
Reichenau leaned toward Brenner, voice low. "Take note of them. If they are the ones who attacked the boy, I want it known. Quietly, Brenner. Quietly."
Brenner nodded, slipping into the crowd to mingle, his eyes sharp.
Arrival of Imel
The doors opened again. This time, the echo of boots preceded the entrance. Obergruppenführer Imel, flanked by SS-Oberführer Muzket, Paris divisional commander.
"Heil Hitler!" The hall thundered, a wall of salutes.
Imel returned it with a measured lift of his arm, then strode to the stage. His voice carried easily, smooth, confident. "Meine Freunde, forgive my delay. Duty before pleasure. Work before wine." Laughter rippled through the crowd at his wry smile. "Tonight, in respect for our Führer, the usual suspensions remain—no endless speeches, no interruptions. Let us enjoy ourselves."
Applause. Relief. Imel descended to his seat, already swarmed by Party men and SS officers alike, all eager to extract some hint of Berlin's secrets. Who was healthy, who was dying, who would succeed? Imel brushed them off with skillful charm, excusing himself until he reached his table, where Lucy and Riefenstahl awaited.
The music swelled again. Dancers spun. Glasses clinked.
Arrival of Heydrich and Eichmann
Then the doors opened once more. This time, the air froze. Even Imel felt a flicker of surprise, though his face revealed nothing.
SS-Standartenführer Adolf Eichmann entered first, crisp and severe. Behind him, the towering figure of SS-Obergruppenführer und General der Polizei Reinhard Heydrich—the Butcher of Prague, architect of terror.
All at once, the hall stiffened. No one saluted. Not one hand raised. They stood frozen, waiting.
Heydrich's brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his sharp features. Eichmann looked just as unsettled. Then the sound broke the silence—boots echoing across marble. Imel, rising from his chair, striding toward them with perfect control. Each step rang out, echoing across the hall.
He stopped before them, raised his arm in salute. "Meine Herren."
The hall exhaled. Imel's voice cut clean. "Forgive the assembly. I barred further salutes for the evening—it is my fault, not theirs."
Heydrich's face broke into a wolfish smile. "Ah… then all is forgiven. For a moment, I thought disrespect had settled into Paris." His tone held malice, but also amusement.
Imel leaned slightly forward, his voice low but firm. "I must ask—what are you doing here? You are meant to be in Italy, overseeing the Balkans."
Reichenau, watching from across the room, clenched his fists. Yes. Ask him. Expose him. What are you doing here, butcher?
Heydrich chuckled, the sound cold. "Word reached me that you were in Paris, Imel. I thought I might pay a visit. And, of course, I would not miss the chance to glimpse these so-called Olympic preparations. A little diversion from duty, hm?"
His smile said otherwise. His presence was calculated, dangerous.
Imel's own smile returned, sharp as glass. "Then let us not waste the evening. A busser—two more chairs at my table."
The young server in a white uniform scrambled to obey. Whispers spread like wildfire: Heydrich is here. Without permission. Without announcement. Why?
As Heydrich and Eichmann joined Imel's table, the hall buzzed with tension. Everyone drank, laughed, pretended. But beneath it all, suspicion smoldered.
The first half of the banquet had concluded. And yet, the night had only just begun.