Swan Song

by Elizabeth B. Splaine

  Bridget nodded. A stern frown was etched in the lines around her mouth. “Free will is a powerful force, Willy. If men choose badly, there will be consequences.”

  “Really, Mum? Because I don’t see Uncle Alf being held accountable.”

  “There will be a reckoning. Count on it.”

  Willy faced his mother. “What happens if this ‘reckoning’ doesn’t come before Ursula is killed?”

  “Actually, I—”

  “You’re not going to contact him, are you?” Willy demanded.

  “I’m praying because—”

  “Mum, Ursula is fighting for her life, if she’s even still alive! She could be starving or freezing to death, and you’re going to let a man like Alois Hitler bring you to your knees? Literally, bring you to your knees?” Willy pointed to the spot where Bridget had been kneeling.

  “William, you need to understand—”

  Willy grimaced and shook his head. “You raised me on your own. You were my rock growing up. You taught me right from wrong. Where’s the mother who taught me never to look the other way, always to help a neighbor, to fight for what’s right, despite the challenges?”

  “She’s right here, William! Listen, I sent—”

  Willy stood quickly and shook his head. “I thought you were stronger than that. I’m disappointed.” He grabbed his coat and ran out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He heard Bridget open the door as he sprinted down the sidewalk.

  “William, come back! I need to tell you something!”

  He ignored her and continued running, his hands jammed deeply in the pockets of his overcoat. He pace was manic, and he saw mothers pull their children close as he passed. He was so lost in thought that he’d covered several kilometers before stopping suddenly and looking around, not understanding how he’d arrived in front of Queen Victoria’s Memorial in St. James Park. The sun hugged the horizon, and he popped his collar and tightened his coat against a light wind that had kicked up. Very few people milled about as he caught his breath and allowed his eyes to travel the length of the twenty-five-meter monument that celebrated England’s beloved queen. A golden, winged Victory perched atop a globe stood at the highest point of the glorious marble structure. Directly underneath were personifications of Constancy and Courage. He turned his attention to a throned Queen Victoria flanked by Motherhood, Justice, and Truth. Willy looked past the memorial toward Buckingham Palace and realized how much he had missed England, its pomp and circumstance, its formality and long tradition of loyalty, the way the royals interacted with the national government to form a solid social foundation that assured care of its citizens. Decisions, for the most part, were fairly negotiated and benefited the people.

  His troubled mind then turned to Germany and the autocracy his uncle had created. The people had allowed it to happen. No, he thought. They had invited it. Inch by excruciating inch they had offered Hitler unchecked power. And why? Because they were despondent. Desperate people make rash decisions that might benefit them in the short term, but in the end, it’s they who pay the highest price, Willy thought.

  Without realizing it, his feet started moving again. Before he understood where his mind had led his body, he was standing in front of Britain’s seat of power—10 Downing Street.

  Winston Churchill had been prime minister for two and a half years, voted into office after Neville Chamberlain failed to deliver on his promise of “peace in our time.” Less than a year after Chamberlain negotiated the Munich Agreement with Germany, Hitler invaded Poland, drawing England into war. Then, after British forces failed to stop the Nazis from invading France, England’s citizens decided that Chamberlain didn’t exhibit the characteristics required of a wartime leader. Since taking office, Churchill had created a coalition consisting of various government factions whose united goal was to defeat Hitler. He had shown himself to be a true statesman, granting authority to his underlings, but never so arrogant as to ignore important details. He was proving himself to be the leader England required during this most dire period in its enduring history.

  Willy felt pressure on his lower leg and looked down to find a tiger-striped cat negotiating a figure eight through his legs. It rubbed its head against his pants, and, despite his mood, he smiled. He leaned down and scooped up the cat, who donned a jaunty Union Jack bow tie around its neck.

  “Well, don’t you look sporting.” In response, the cat rubbed its face against Willy’s stubbled chin.

  “I see you’ve found Munich Mouser.”

  Willy turned to find a fashionably dressed woman of about twenty-five gazing at him, her light eyes shaded by heavy lids. She wore a black fedora with mesh that cascaded over her right eye. Her head was tilted to the left, and Willy noted that she wore a half smile that played all the way into her eyes.

  “More to the point, I believe that he’s found me.”

  She walked forward slowly, a confident gait that landed her directly in front of him. Her height rivaled his own, and her meticulously styled, brunette hair curled gracefully around the hat’s brim. Her half smile extended to a full grin as she stroked the feline’s head. “He has a tendency to do that. Find people, I mean. You should know that he’s an exceptional judge of character. Count yourself blessed to have been anointed by the prime minister’s cat.”

  “This cat belongs to the prime minister?”

  She tilted her head back and forth. “Well, technically he belongs to the former PM, but Mr. Churchill keeps him around.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled. “Because not only does this little guy catch vermin, but the PM thinks that he helps to keep Nelson in check.”

  Willy chuckled. “And Nelson is . . .”

  “Mr. Churchill’s cat. The two have quite a rivalry going.”

  “Ah. I see. You seem to know a lot about it.”

  The woman’s gloved hand found the pearl choker at her throat. “Well, I should hope so. I’ve worked as Mr. Churchill’s secretary for almost two years. My name is Elizabeth Layton.”

  Willy stepped forward and took her hand in his. “William Patrick Hitler.”

  Willy felt the slightest change in her grip. But being the secretary of a politician, she was practiced in the art of public diplomacy and quickly regained her measured gaze and steady smile.

  “Any relation?”

  Willy swallowed. “He’s my uncle.”

  Before she could respond, words poured forth from his mouth with an urgency that surprised him. “I hate him. You should know that. He’s taken my fiancée and is holding her somewhere. It’s a long story, but the gist of it is that she’s Jewish and she angered my uncle.” Willy looked at the number “10” on the shiny black door. “I’m not sure why I’m here but . . . I am.” His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, Ms. Layton. I phoned but no one returned my calls. I suppose I was hoping that, if I showed up in person, I couldn’t be ignored. You see, despite my surname, I’m one hundred percent English in spirit.”

  “I’m not ignoring you.” She smiled. “Mr. Hitler, your surname is no fault of yours. You shouldn’t act as such.”

  Willy felt a rush of gratitude for her benevolence.

  “Now, as for your fiancée, Mr. Churchill isn’t here. He’s in French Morocco. Casablanca actually, meeting with President Roosevelt in an effort to map out future military strategy. He won’t return until the twenty-fourth. I’m very sorry.”

  What did you really expect? he asked himself. “I understand.”

  “What’s her name? Your fiancée?”

  Willy came alive at her question. “Ursula Becker. I don’t know where she’s being held, but when the prime minister returns, perhaps he might—”

  “Intervene?” She shook her head. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but do you know how many requests the PM’s office receives on a daily basis related to finding loved ones who are missing? Hundreds. Lit
erally hundreds. I’m sorry, but—”

  “Please, Ms. Layton!” Willy rushed forward and gripped her hands. Her eyes widened. He released his hold and lowered his gaze, embarrassed at his outburst. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just don’t know what else to do.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  “You feel powerless.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do something.”

  He looked up, confused. “I am doing something.”

  She looked at him with patient kindness. “It seems to me that you’re going in circles and placing your faith in people with whom you have no relationship or control.”

  Willy didn’t understand where she was going.

  “Enlist.”

  “What?”

  “Join the armed forces, Mr. Hitler. Fight for your fiancée’s freedom, and for the freedom of the other victims who are being held captive by the Nazis. You will make a difference.”

  Willy blinked, then stared into the distance. She’s correct, he thought. I’m doing no good wallowing in self-pity. At least if I were fighting, I’d be closer to Ursula. I’d be shoulder to shoulder with people who hate Uncle Alf as much as I do.

  Willy’s head started nodding so vigorously that he thought it might roll off his shoulders. “Yes! That’s what I’ll do. Right then . . . thanks so much!” Without thinking, he rushed forward and impulsively pulled Ms. Layton into an embrace. Realizing his gaffe, he immediately released her and apologized, but she laughed and said, “Oh, my!” as he sprinted away.

  He felt exuberant, filled with renewed purpose as he ran through St. James Park. He stopped abruptly at Queen Victoria’s statue and stared at the gold Winged Victory. Her majesty and dignity reminded him of Ursula. “Hold on, my darling. Help is coming,” he whispered before continuing through Green Park. He marveled at the beauty of the Buckingham Palace Gardens, even in the dead of winter, then continued winding his way back to South Kensington, stopping only to purchase a bottle of champagne. He returned home forty-five minutes later and burst through the front door to find Bridget and Otto seated quietly together on the settee, drinking tea.

  They both stood at his entrance. He breathed heavily and waved the bottle of champagne. “Good news!” Willy managed between ragged breaths. “I’ve decided to join the—”

  Bridget held up an envelope.

  “What’s that?”

  “I tried to tell you, but you ran out of here so quickly . . . I wrote Alois a letter several months ago. I didn’t think it would make it through to him, but somehow it did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d written him?”

  Bridget grimaced. “Perhaps I should have, William, but I was afraid you’d be disappointed if he didn’t respond.”

  Willy’s eyes went to the envelope. “Is that his reply?”

  Bridget nodded. “A man just dropped it off. There’s no way it could have arrived via regular post, given the war.”

  “It must have been smuggled out of Germany,” Otto added.

  “What does it say?”

  “I don’t know. We were waiting for you.”

  Bridget repeatedly bit her upper lip with her lower teeth. The last time Willy remembered her doing that was when his father had left them the second time, for good. He had been only eight years old, but the memory was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. He took the letter, then met Bridget’s eyes.

  “Well, let’s open it then.”

  32

  “I’m sorry I startled you,” the girl said through a yawn. Although she looked to be about twelve years old, early in her stay Ursula had learned not to assume children’s ages. Many had been in the ghetto for a while, and the lack of food and proper hygiene led to slower growth and development.

  “It is I who should apologize for waking you. I thought you were a rat scuttling under the blankets.”

  The girl smirked. “If there were a rat under here with me you needn’t have worried. I would have killed it myself.”

  Mature words from such a small mouth shocked Ursula. “How would you have done that?”

  The girl held up her hands and wiggled her fingers. “With these.”

  Ursula’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Don’t tell me that you’ve never killed a rat,” the girl said.

  “I have not.”

  “Well—” The girl swung her legs over the edge of the roughly hewn board that served as a makeshift bed. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” She jumped down hard, the thump of her landing reverberating throughout the large, sparsely furnished room. Where her black boots landed, a puff of dust exploded. She stretched and yawned, then bent her neck left and right, causing cracking sounds.

  “I’m Ursula. What’s your name?”

  The girl smiled, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “I’m Addi Lutz.”

  “Do you stay here in Dresden?”

  “I do, but on the first floor.”

  “So, what are you doing up here?”

  Addi gestured to the blanket. “Sleeping.”

  “Yes. I see that. But why?”

  Addi tilted her head and squinted. “Do you sleep well here?”

  “Of course not. My mattress, if you can call it that, lies on the floor and I have no pillow.”

  “I sleep on the floor as well and use my jacket as a blanket. So, if I’m given an opportunity to take a nap in a proper bunk, if you can call it that, then I’ll take it.”

  “Aren’t you worried that the guards will catch you sleeping?”

  She snorted. “How old do you think I am?”

  Ursula paused. “Twelve.”

  Addi grinned. “I’m sixteen. If the guards knew my true age, then I would be put to work. But since they believe I’m only twelve, I’m allowed to remain with the younger children.” She gestured to the eager group listening to Ilse reading from her book. “While they listen and learn, I rest.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Prague.”

  Ursula smiled and spoke in Czech. “I’m from Berlin but I learned to speak Czech from my mother. I’m probably a little out of practice though.”

  Addi responded in kind. “Your accent is horrendous, but at least I can understand you. There are many of us here from Czechoslovakia, so you’ll get a lot of practice if you want.”

  “I see that you wear a pink triangle on your coat.”

  Addi glanced at the badge. “Yes, I like girls.”

  Ursula had known several male operatic performers who preferred the company of other men, but she had never met a woman who favored the same sex.

  “Is that why you were sent here?”

  Addi nodded. “The Nazis believe that I am immoral. I was to be sent to another camp, but Edvard Svoboda intervened and had me sent here instead. I’m an artist, you see. Well known in Prague, especially for my age. I knew Edvard before all of this.” She gestured with her hand. “Our families were friends before.”

  “So, he knows your true age but doesn’t reveal it?”

  “Correct.”

  “Why not?”

  Addi averted her eyes.

  Ursula pointed to the pink triangle. “And he doesn’t mind that?”

  Addi drew her lips in and shrugged.

  Ursula thought back to her conversation with Marika. If she could gain the protection of a guard by sleeping with him, would she do it? What if it meant extra food? Or blankets? No, she decided. She would not. Inwardly, she cringed. She had been in Terezín only seven months, yet she was contemplating trading her virginity for what? Food? She was hungry, but she wasn’t yet starving.

  She changed the subject. “You said you’re an artist. What’s your medium?”

  “Pastels.”

  “Are you able to draw much
here?”

  Chaos erupted outside in the form of barked commands in Czech and German. The sound of gunfire drew the girls to the windows just in time to see a guard take careful aim at a boy who was running down the street. A bullet found its mark and the child fell to the ground, jerking convulsively before rolling over and using his arms to pull his useless legs forward. The same guard who had wounded him let him crawl a few meters, then sauntered over and completed the kill with a precisely placed bullet in the back of the head. The boy’s forehead bounced off the cobblestones.

  Ursula shifted her attention to the girls. Several of them watched quietly, their faces expressionless. Others gasped and burst into tears as they slid to the floor. A girl of no older than eight stared unblinkingly at the unmoving body and mumbled in Czech, “That was my brother. That was my brother.”

  Ursula followed the stunned girl’s gaze to the mayhem outside. Several guards approached the boy’s body and pushed it with their boots to ensure that he was actually dead. One of them grabbed the child’s arm and dragged him across the courtyard while another turned and issued orders to the remaining guards. As the officer spoke, his eyes swept past Ursula and then darted back to her. It was Siegfried Seidl. Ursula had rarely interacted with him since she’d arrived and was surprised by the trepidation his presence created. She backed away from the window, but she knew that he’d seen her. Marika’s earlier story of Herr Abendroth going to the Little Fortress for not shining Seidl’s boots replayed in her mind, and she found that her hands had balled into fists.

  “Ilse, I believe the commandant is on his way.”

  Ilse had been trying to calm the girls, but in response to Ursula’s statement, she snapped her fingers and whispered, “Girls, focus on me. You must sit in neat rows and recite multiplication tables to one another. We shall have a visitor shortly.” The girls, ranging in age from four to fifteen, sprang into action. Within seconds they’d put on dull countenances and quiet voices, blending into their dismal surroundings. Addi positioned herself among the twelve-year-olds and slumped her shoulders to appear smaller. After ensuring that the girls were organized, Ilse stuffed the book into her undergarments.