Berlin, the evening of Monday, February the 27th, 1933.

Putsi Hymstengel, the Nazi press chief, is having a lie down. He should have been at Joseph Gerbel's apartment tonight,

dining with Adolf Hitler. But, felled by a touch of flu, he snuggled up in his temporary quarters within Herman Goering's official residence,

the palace of the Reichstag President.

At 9.30 p.m.

Hamstangle is rudely awakened.

It's the housekeeper.

It takes a moment for his fog to clear, but there can be no mistaking her words.

The Reich stag, she's shrieking. It's on fire.

Hamstengel staggers to the window, to the south of the silhouettes of the capital's grand buildings,

the Foreign Ministry, the Rococo splendour of the Reichtag. the To the west, just across the way the sky is a glow.

Angry flames are licking at the great glass dome of the German Parliament

building.

A pall of black smoke billows into the night. With sirens rising in the background,

Hamstangle scrambles for the phone. He reaches Gerbles and splutters out the news.

Gerbles dresses Putsi down. The pair often prank each other.

This is not the time.

He hangs up.

Hamstengangle tries again.

If you don't believe me, he snaps, then you'd better get over there and see for yourself.

Goebbels and Hitler had been chilling out, listening to records, putting the world to Nazi rights,

but within minutes they're in the Mercedes, hurtling up Wilhelm Strasser at 60 miles per hour.

...