Vienna, June 1937.
Inside the grey building of the Austrian Ministry of Interior.
The sound never stopped.
It was the sound of surveillance, of memos, of forms half-filled and always returned.
Officials combed through records of meetings, posters, rumors, church sermons.
Any phrase that ended in "German blood," "cultural destiny," or "brotherhood" was circled.
Copies were made.
But nothing stuck.
It had become harder to tell what was propaganda and what was merely polite conversation.
At the café Prückel, beneath yellow lamplight and high Baroque ceilings, the debates had changed tone.
University students still gathered in their coats, sipped their weak coffees, but the talk was now more careful.
Less about socialism or the failures of Dollfuss's authoritarian experiment.
More about culture.
Music.
The border.
"Wagner's been on Radio Wien every other night," said one student, pale, blond, sharp-eyed. "You think that's an accident?"
