Faith smiled brightly, “I see you’re a World War Two buff. A collector,” she said, stepping back into the room. It was quite possibly the worst thing she could have said. “A collector!” he exploded, closing the door firmly behind him. “Do you think this is some sort of idle pursuit?” He glanced in apology at a silver-framed photograph of Hitler with several young men that occupied a prominent position on his desk. “I only meant that you seem to have accumulated a great deal from that time,” Faith said, backtracking. Freer picked up the photo and sat down on a corner of his desk. “My father and his two brothers. What a day that was for them. Five minutes with the Führer. A very misunderstood man. A very misunderstood philosophy.” These were not the words Faith would have chosen, to put it mildly, and “Five Minutes with the Führer” sounded like a production number from Mel Brooks’s The Producers. She decided not to choose any more words in this particular minefield.
