Nest of the Monarch

by Kay Kenyon

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  PART I

  AN UNCHRISTIAN WAY TO DIE

  1

  ASCHRIED, A VILLAGE IN THE BLACK FOREST, GERMANY

  FRIDAY, APRIL 24, 1936. A silver light painted the faces in the cinema’s audience. The villagers sat expectant and rapt as the MGM theme song boomed out. Watching from the back of the theater, Hannah Linz counted heads in the audience: Forty-six! And only moments before she had despaired of a decent house for the German-dubbed version of The Great Ziegfeld, very dear to rent in Deutschmarks and Nazi disapproval.

  She wished her father were here to see the number of people daring to entertain themselves on a Saturday evening. But Mendel Linz had gone to Stuttgart after receiving a summons from the Propaganda Ministry to take delivery—at exorbitant rates—of a few proper German films. “Otto is here to help you,” her father had told her. Otto, who ran the projection booth. “Three days. I will be back on Sunday, mein rotes Mädchen.” My red girl, as he called her, for her flame-red hair, like her mother’s.

  Just before Hannah closed the velvet drapes leading to the lobby, Frau Grober came through with her daughter Klara, Hannah’s closest friend. As Hannah shone the light of her flashlight on the nearest empty seats, Klara whispered to her, “I’m sorry we are not on time!”

  “No, don’t worry,” Hannah said. “Otto began the film late.” Everyone there tonight had risked Nazi displeasure to attend a film from the West, and for that, Hannah was grateful. But wasn’t it absurd to be moved by such small acts of courage?

  With her father, Hannah owned and managed the Oasis, a cinema built for the Black Forest Retreat and Spa that had gone out of business during the Great War, and now, under her family’s refurbishment, had ambitions to present a summer cinema festival. It would bring filmmakers, actors, tourists, and their money to Aschried.

  But the cinema committee had split on the question of whether to include films showing infidelity, cripples, homosexuals, or women working—all contrary to German ideals. The new German ideals. At the screenings, the committee took notes of objectionable scenes. In the end, they compromised: a sprinkling of heavy, Nazi-approved films to placate the officials of the Propaganda Ministry’s film division. “Give them a little, and they will be happy,” Mendel Linz had said.

  But they were not happy. She and her father learned this one day last month from a man with a too-long face.

  When she had opened the door of her home to the knock, she had found an SS officer standing before her. He wore a black uniform with a red armband, and beneath the peaked hat, a pallid face bearing a dueling scar that bisected his right cheek from eye to chin.

  “Yes?”

  Lieutenant Becht would speak with Herr Linz. Since she had no choice, she opened the door and led him into the parlor, feeling his eyes on the back of her neck, as though she had left the door open and a bear had padded in.

  Her father, who had been reading the newspaper, stood at the library door holding that day’s edition of the Aufbau. Removing his spectacles, he took in the unlikely view of an SS officer in their sitting room.

  Lieutenant Becht sat on the divan, her father in the best armchair. A silence fell upon them. The curtains were closed against the bright afternoon, leaving the parlor in murk.

  Hannah faced them, standing behind a chair, gripping the carved back. “Tea, Papa?”

  Becht flicked a hand to dismiss the offer, as though it were his house. The parlor, overwarm, imposed an odd, forbidding drowsiness. As Hannah looked at their visitor, she tried to grasp what sort of man this was. The black uniform and red armband proclaimed his SS status, but this officer had a strange appearance: his pale skin and the pronounced scar, a prominent chin, long and rounded, as well as a very high forehead, revealed when he took off his hat and placed it on the divan.

  “You are a widower, Herr Linz? Your wife died during the war?”

  “Influenza.”

  Becht nodded. “And you have lived in Aschried how long?”

  “Five years.” Her father lifted his gaze to Hannah, then pulled back, as though hoping Becht would not notice her.

  “Previously you were employed at a university, were you not?” The officer crossed his legs, getting comfortable.

  “Cologne. But I am retired from the position now.”

  “I think retirement was not your choice, however. It was a profession not suitable for a Jew.”

  “Some deemed that so.”

  “A disappointment for you, naturally.”

  “I do not complain, Lieutenant.”

  “No? But perhaps you thought that, so far from Cologne, you could protest with impunity. Using the cinema.”

  “The Oasis, you mean?”

  “Certainly. It is the only movie house in town. Therefore it has a certain cultural significance, you see. We have become aware of matters regarding it.”

  Hannah was preoccupied with the crocheted antimacassar draped along the back of the divan. She must try to pay attention. What had the SS officer said? Something about the cinema. A lethargy had fallen upon her, a feeling that she at first mistook for sleepiness. But how could she feel drowsy with an officer of the SS sitting in their living room?

  Her father seemed to be receding into his chair. He was not a large man, and he now became smaller, quieter. Hannah felt a great need to throw open the drapes, open a window.

  Becht went on. “Matters such as the showing of degenerate films, decadent movies from the West. Inappropriate for German citizens who should be viewing our own films, celebrating patriotism and the fatherland.” He paused, inviting comment, but one could not disagree with the SS, nor really could they bring themselves to agree.

  “And then we have the name, the Oasis. And the mural in the foyer, where you have palm trees and pyramids. These are not German scenes.” He shook his head. “Camels.”

  This was too much for her father, who had grown unnaturally still but now seemed to jerk awake. “What would you have us do? The Oasis has been here for thirty years.”

  Becht drew out a paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Here is a list of approved films. You will want to conform to higher cultural standards.”

  Her father sank back into his chair to read the document. At last he looked up. “I do not know these filmmakers. Who are they?”

  Becht leaned forward. “You mistake me, Herr Linz. Your approval is not required. Your ownership of the theater is not recognized.”

  “Not recognized?” He frowned, and in the long pause that followed he seemed to have forgotten what he was saying. “I have papers,” he finally whispered.

  “I will take those papers. For review, in Stuttgart.” Becht made a sweeping motion with his hand.
“Get them now. I will wait.”

  It took some time for her father to absorb this order. At last he stood, looking stooped and far older than his fifty-five years. He shuffled from the room.

  Becht stood, turning to Hannah. He was quite thin, his tailored uniform emphasizing a narrow waist. He regarded her with an expressionless stare. What did he see? she wondered. Not a person, not even an enemy, but someone utterly dispensable.

  “Living with your father, Fräulein Linz, you have no need of a job, is that not correct?”

  She struggled to pay attention. He had asked her a question—what was it?—about employment. It was imperative to remain alert, but the whole atmosphere of the room felt heavy with confusion. She struggled to gather her wits. “He . . . he lost his pension,” she managed to say. “My father could not take his pension. Under your rules.”

  He smiled, causing the long scar on his cheek to bend. “You are bitter. Your father will conform, but you—”

  “I manage a cinema . . . I do not go to university. I do not live near my friends in Cologne. I have no prospects.” Her hands, slick with sweat, curled around the chair’s wooden scrollwork. On his collar the curious insignia of a bird with a long, curved neck, and wings swept back like a cloak. It was a vulture.

  “So many curtailments,” he said. “But even here”—Becht gestured to embrace the house, the village—“even here, we take notice how things are done. Even in the Black Forest! You see, there is no place where you can poison us, where we will not . . . notice.”

  She shrank back from this attack, a wave of heat rolling over her skin. Time slowed, the room thickened. What should she say?

  Her father returned with the bill of sale. They learned that he was to consider himself a temporary manager, not owner.

  Did Herr Linz understand? Lieutenant Becht watched her father, a pleasant expression on his face, a demeanor that could quickly change, Hannah knew. Her father nodded, mumbling his understanding, his agreement.

  To Hannah’s relief, Becht seemed content and gave her a small, flat smile as she accompanied him to the door. The smile was mocking, and she did not return it.

  Waiting by the Mercedes, the lieutenant’s driver opened the door for him, and he departed, the tires spitting gravel as the car sped off.

  In the cool night air, Hannah’s lethargy evaporated. Closing the door, she turned to her father. “Papa! We own the cinema. Why did you give him the papers?”

  “He asked for them.” The words soft, self-explanatory: Because he asked for them. He ran his hand through his hair, sighing as if waking from a nap. “I could say nothing.”

  “But to give them away!”

  Looking at the door where Lieutenant Becht had been standing, her father said, “He has the Talent. Mesmerizing.”

  Ah, now she put it together: how when Becht entered, a fog of unreality had descended on them.

  Her father went on. “It was the strongest demonstration I have ever witnessed.” Yes, he would know, Talent research having been his specialty at Cologne. “But why does he waste this Talent on the likes of us?” Hannah asked. “He could have taken the papers in any case.”

  “Because,” her father said, “he wanted to enjoy our fear.”

  Perhaps it was enough for Becht and his superiors in Stuttgart that he had taken the cinema. They would still have a small stipend to live on. Aschried was very far to come just to terrorize two Jews.

  That had been a month ago. The disturbing memory lingered, casting its shadow over the happiness of a good reception for The Great Ziegfeld. The film was not on the list. They had ordered two propaganda films to satisfy the ministry, but Ziegfeld had already been rented.

  In the projection booth, Otto made a seamless transition to the second reel. Hannah watched in the back of the house near the drapes screening off the lobby. The whirring of the projector, a faint susurration from the booth. On the screen, William Powell was charming Myrna Loy into joining him, promising her the publicity she had always dreamed of. So handsome, William Powell, the ill-fated promoter, young and self-assured—

  The film snapped. A groan went up from the audience. Fortunately Otto was a master at splicing celluloid and would soon have it up and running.

  Someone came through the drapes. It was Frau Sievers, who tried to give Hannah her ticket money. Hannah waved it away, since she had missed much of the film, but Frau Sievers insisted on paying. Finally Hannah accepted a few Deutschmarks and helped her to find a seat in the crowded middle, where Frau Sievers preferred to sit.

  A loud thud came from the booth, then a crash. Something had fallen. Hannah slipped from the auditorium. If Otto had dropped the second canister, it would mean a tangle of film and an awkward delay. As she pushed through the drapes into the lobby, she noted a man just leaving through the main door. A black leather coat. A bloodless, long face.

  He didn’t see her as he strode away. But she recognized him. Becht.

  She rushed up the stairs. The projection booth door lay ajar as it should not be during the program. She could hear the film up and running again and whirring on the reel.

  Entering the booth, she found Otto on his hands and knees struggling to get up.

  Screams erupted from the audience. Leaving Otto sitting upright, she rushed to the aperture to look into the house.

  There, on the screen, a scene that was not from the programmed film. A birch woods, with fog drifting, snow remaining in patches on the ground like scabs. And there, some fifteen meters away, a man—what was this?—a man tied against a tree. The movie camera zoomed in closer.

  Hannah gasped. It was her father who was bound against the trunk, ropes around his chest and legs. No, no . . . it could not be. But yes, he was roped to a tree, his shirt stripped from him. And oh, the blood gushing from his torn neck . . . It could not be, it could not. “Papa!” came her strangled cry.

  A close-up of the knife as a figure walked into the frame. The knife stained red. Held in the hand of the man with the too-long face, the man who had just left the cinema.

  Was it her own screams or was it the people in the theater? She could not tell. People jumped from their seats to flee, while others sat rooted in place. She forced herself to watch the screen, willing it to be gone, to be a dream, a nightmare, but no. There was the birch woods, the tree, her father. So much blood, still pumping, the life leaving him. Still the film ran, the camera coming ever closer to his stricken face, until his head dropped down to his chest.

  The film flickered off, the end of the spool slapping against the reel again and again.

  She staggered from the booth into the corridor outside, her mind black, her breaths harsh and loud. Down the darkened stairway to the foyer. The crowd pushed past, slamming against her in their rush to the exits. She fell to her knees. A moment of stunned immobility overtook her as she stared at the carpet, sandy brown, studded with palm trees and popcorn.

  Klara rushed up to her, kneeling at her side. Men were leading Otto down the stairs. He staggered over to Hannah and she held him as he wept. “What is happening,” he cried. “What is happening!”

  But she knew what was happening. The National Socialists had taken notice of Aschried and its cinema.

  She held Otto, comforting him. Thank God she could think of someone else at this moment, because if she thought of her father . . .

  He had left for Stuttgart, but it was unlikely that he had been called by the Ministry. She felt certain that he had been lured away and stopped along the road. Her thoughts became stone, as though the world had solidified, never to change after this moment.

  Klara helped her outside, away from the theater lights, into the darkness. People were shouting, some clumped into groups, consoling each other. In the cold April night, Hannah’s tears turned icy on her face. Then Hannah and Klara were walking along the pavement toward home. Her friend would stay with her. She must have tea, Klara said.

  But when they got to her house, she saw the windows shattered, and inside, th
e furniture upended and ripped.

  Klara was aghast, but Hannah looked on the chaos without reacting. How could she care about upholstery and china when her father had died, died alone in the deep woods, tied to a tree?

  The SS had come for Hannah and her father and life could never be the same. She must leave here. Tonight. Glass crunched under her feet as she climbed the stairs to her room.

  Packing a small suitcase, she dressed in trousers and a sweater and her father’s leather jacket with ivory buttons. He had been a small man, and the jacket fit her.

  An hour later she left Aschried. Some people had not been afraid to help her. She drove Klara’s father’s truck, to be picked up tomorrow at the railhead. Driving to the station, she held to one thought: that she would not be solicitous, passive, or silent again. Klara had given her the names of friends in Leipzig. At the station window she bought her ticket, but it was not for Leipzig. That city was not the source of this horror.

  It was Berlin. Where they would notice Hannah Linz.

  SIX MONTHS LATER . . .

  2

  BAD SCHANDAU, GERMANY

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 28, 1936. Seated beside Alex Reed on the bench at the railway platform, Kim Tavistock stole a close look at her husband, a man she had only known for eleven days. She had to admit that he was handsome, fair-haired and fit, dapper in his travel coat and tie, hair slicked back, emphasizing his fine profile. He exhaled a long stream of cigarette smoke as he looked down the tracks for the train to Dresden.

  Turning his blue-eyed, mischievous gaze on her, he said, “Oh, do sit closer, Elaine,” using her cover name.

  He pulled her toward him, in a casual, husbandly way. She couldn’t protest. They were supposed to be on their honeymoon. Actually, she rather liked pretending to be in love with him. Her last love affair—good Lord, had been back in the States. That long ago.

  “Are you going to take the baths while I’m gone?” he asked. Bad Schandau was known for its homeopathic waters.