From the Ashes

by Sandra Saidak

  Against the opposite wall was an array of state of the art surveillance equipment. Computers, unlike anything Adolf had ever seen, winked and chirped.

  Between the two discordant room halves, Herr Doctor Von Dymler sat behind an antique oak desk. Adolf guessed the psychologist was in his fifties, thick around the middle, but in good physical shape. His rich mane of brown hair, graying at the temples had clearly never felt the touch of bleach. Adolf stood at attention while the doctor read from a file that lay open on his desk.

  Von Dymler looked up with a warm smile. “Adolf! I’m so glad to finally meet you in person. Please, sit down.” He indicated a winged leather chair opposite the desk.

  Adolf sat, resisting the desire to relax into the chair’s soft embrace. He sat at attention, wondering if it was the uniform that made him do it.

  When the doctor said nothing more, Adolf leaned forward to peer at the file. “Do I make interesting reading material, Herr Doctor?”

  “I find you fascinating.” Von Dymler closed the file. “I have been studying your case ever since you left Berlin. I’ve written dozens of papers on you. And I am hoping that, together, we can pull our world back from the brink.”

  Adolf glanced around nervously.

  “Quit looking for torture devices; you won’t find any. I’ve always believed them to be inefficient anyway.”

  “Drugs, then? I mean no disrespect, Herr Doctor, but if you know me as well as you think you do, then you know I am committed to the downfall of this government and all it represents. Surely you know, at least I hope, that my heart cannot be turned from that purpose.”

  “Fortunately, your heart requires no change, Adolf. Only your misguided actions. And that is easily remedied. If you would stop for a moment and listen, you would see that your goals and ours are the same.”

  “This should be interesting,” Adolf murmured.

  If Von Dymler heard, he gave no sign. He got up and went to the tea service, and poured two cups. “American tea,” he told Adolf proudly. “As clean as you’ll find anywhere.”

  Adolf made no move to stand.

  “Go ahead,” said the doctor. “Choose either cup. If the tea is drugged, I obviously won’t drink. If there were poison in one of the cups, I wouldn’t let you choose.” He helped himself to a cake and ate with great relish, while Adolf considered the situation.

  Finally he shrugged and got up. He was going to have to eat eventually. He might as well enjoy one of his favorite confections. Adolf went to the table and chose a cup of tea, drinking only after Von Dymler drank from the other. Then he ate a cake. It was so delicious that he ate another, and then two more, barely restraining himself from finishing off the entire plate.

  “Now that we’re finished with that little dance of trust,” said Von Dymler, “Let’s sit down and talk.”

  They returned to their chairs. “The world, Adolf, is in serious trouble. Can we at least agree on that?”

  “Sure,” said Adolf.

  “It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. You know it and I know it. But the principles on which our government is based, the natural superiority by which our race conquered a planet—those things are still sound. To save the world we need someone who can rally the people behind those beliefs, and then, help us rid ourselves of the corruption and mistakes that perverted those dreams, and brought us to where we are now.”

  “But why tell me this?” Adolf was genuinely puzzled. “You know I’m not that person.”

  “But you are!” Von Dymler radiated a certainty that Adolf found nearly as compelling as the cause he had been fighting for all these years. “All that is good in us, Adolf, all that the First Führer dreamed of when He began His mission, has reached its pinnacle in you!”

  The doctor opened one of the many files that sat neatly on his desk. “Champion of the poor and oppressed. Zealous seeker of justice and truth. Incorruptible. Ready at any moment to sacrifice his life for what he believes in—or the life of a single child he’s never laid eyes on.

  “Who am I describing, Adolf? You? Or a Teutonic knight out of the Middle Ages? Is it possible they are one and the same?”

  Flattery and manipulation, Adolf thought. But it was much nicer than threats and insults…

  “You’ve always wanted to be a hero, haven’t you? Known in your heart it was your destiny? Then, along came your father. Cold. Tyrannical. Always telling you you’re wrong; unfit; a failure. Is it any wonder your destiny was twisted in the wrong direction?

  “He made you believe you could never become that hero in the real world. So you turned to fantasy. And guess what? All the suffering of all those desperate people out there made them—and you—the willing targets of something called ‘mass hysteria’.

  “You believed that the only way to save the world was to bring it down and replace it with something better. The role was right there. All you had to do was step into it. And you did a masterful job, Adolf. Nothing less than I would expect from a true son of the Reich.”

  “Last time I checked, the word for what I did was treason,” said Adolf. He knew he could see right through Von Dymler’s line of manipulation if he just looked hard enough. But it was hard to see past the man’s charisma.

  “Your actions have been wrong; terribly wrong. But you could no more be a traitor to your people than I could grow a third arm.” For a terrible moment, Adolf ached to believe him.

  “Are you saying, then, that after you shoot me, I’ll be buried with full honors? In my family mausoleum?”

  Von Dymler’s laugh was deep and rich. “If it comes to that, yes. I give you my word. But I’m hoping we won’t have to shoot you. Or your family. Or any of the thousands of other fine young people who’ve fallen under your spell.”

  “What exactly do you want from me?” Adolf was more than curious. He was exasperated.

  “We want you to make a network broadcast. Live, to everyone in the world. Tell them this rebellion was a mistake. Show them that the answers can be found here, in traditional Aryan wisdom, not crackpot religions or vanished races. Get the people back behind our leaders and back into their appointed places. Then we can start to heal the wounds.”

  Adolf tried to speak. So much for my brilliant oratory skills. “Even,” he croaked, and then took a deep breath. “Even if I agreed to do such a thing, surely you know it wouldn’t work. There are millions of people out there ready to die for this cause, and hundreds of leaders more powerful than me! All they’ll see on the screen is a traitor who broke under torture. Some will curse me; some will pity me. But all of them will forget about me and go on with the fight.”

  Von Dymler smiled. “I had forgotten about your famous modesty. It really is one of your most charming traits. Probably because it’s genuine. You honestly don’t know your true worth.

  “Adolf, I’ve made a career out of studying the players in this rebellion. So have most of the other great minds in the Reich. Everyone agrees that you are the key; the lynchpin. If you speak to the masses, they will listen. If you tell them to do something, they will do it. If you lead them away from this senseless death and destruction, they will follow.”

  “So I can lead them off a cliff or into slavery. What a comforting thought.”

  “If you choose to see it that way. But I believe; have, in fact, staked my reputation on the belief, that once you’ve had a chance to think about it, you’ll understand why you must do it. And then you’ll do it, not because we’ve forced you, but because it’s the only choice.”

  “What about my father?” asked Adolf. “You seem to be painting him as the villain in this whole tragic affair. If I cooperate with you, won’t I be signing his death warrant?”

  “Not at all. Your father is a brilliant man, with many useful skills. And his loyalty to the Party is above question. It’s only in parenting that he’s a failure. Once you make the broadcast, and your family is restored to power, the only change in Herr Goebbels’ life will be raising no more children.” The doctor’s m
outh pursed, as if tasting something sour. “From what I’ve observed of Helmut, he won’t count it as much of a loss.”

  Adolf thought again of his family. Would they ever forgive him for wrecking their lives? Could he ever make it up to them? Suddenly, he needed to know. Needed to see them one more time, to try to explain.

  “I’d be willing to take a look at the speech you’ve prepared for me,” Adolf said, trying to sound strong and detached.

  Von Dymler grinned. “I should have known you’d say that. Still believe you’re just a pawn in a fancy suit, eh Adolf? There is no speech. My research has proven that any script we give you would be worthless. The words have to be yours, Adolf. Anything else, the people would see right through.”

  Adolf shook his head. “This is all a lot to take in.”

  “I understand. Take some time to think about it. The broadcast is set for noon tomorrow. Sleep on it if you like.

  “Oh, I have to warn you. The broadcast will be time delayed about ten seconds. That means that if you decide on some kind of noble suicide, like shouting ‘Arise now!’, they’ll shoot you dead, and no one out there will hear a thing.” Von Dymler looked genuinely troubled. “I’d really hate to see it come to that, Adolf.”

  “So would I,” said Adolf.

  “So in the end, we really do agree on the important things.” The doctor stood and walked Adolf to the door.

  “Take him to his cell,” he told the guard who opened it in response to his knock.

  “Herr Goebbels is to have one more interview,” said the guard.

  Adolf sensed a sudden tension in the air. Von Dymler scowled. “I was assured that would not take place! I have repeatedly warned the committee that such a confrontation could be extremely detrimental—“

  “And I have my orders, Herr Doctor. And you know where they come from.”

  Von Dymler stopped, was about to speak again, then disappeared from view as Adolf was hustled down the hall—this time by eight guards—and through a maze of corridors and tunnels whose musty smell and dim lighting suggested rarely used underground passageways. Then they were in an elevator going up. For all Adolf knew, that could have walked halfway across Berlin by now.

  Once out of the elevator, they were joined by more guards, who escorted Adolf down a hallway bristling with surveillance equipment. No one spoke. As the resonance of over two dozen goose-stepping boots echoed down the hall, Adolf became aware that he was marching in time with the soldiers. Some habits were hard to break.

  Outside a heavily guarded door, Adolf was again strip searched, this time with the help of some kind of portable x-ray device. When all was pronounced in order, a senior guard punched a fourteen-digit code into a keypad next to the door. With great ceremony, the door swung open, and Adolf was ushered inside.

  For a moment, he could see nothing in the dim light. He was aware only of the music in the background—Wagner—and a variety of smells. Water and soap and something floral. Incense, was Adolf’s next thought. No, he realized. Opium. And beneath it all was the sickly sweet stench of decaying flesh. And something more.

  His eyes began to adjust. In the gloom of the richly appointed chamber, an old man was seated in a luxurious marble bathtub. He was wearing dark glasses, despite the soft lighting, but nothing else. The tub was an antique, and not attached to any fixtures, as the room was an office, not a bathroom.

  On the far wall, six ornately framed paintings hung, barely visible in the shadows. The largest, resting above the others, was of Adolf Hitler, the First Führer. Below it, and each about half its size were paintings of each successive Führer. Hermann Göring, who reigned for just three years, then died in 1962. Baldur von Schirach, the third Führer, ruled the Reich for twenty-seven years, and created the first dynasty when his son, Adolf, became the fourth Führer in 1989. But the second Von Schirach died just five years later. In the thirteen years since, the fifth and sixth Führers had ruled, died and been immortalized on this wall.

  And in the bathtub, sat Himmler Hanover. The Seventh Führer of the Third Reich.

  “Young Goebbels?” asked a shill voice. “Step closer. Let me have a look at you.”

  Guards trailing, Adolf approached the bathtub. The Führer removed his glasses and peered at Adolf with swiftly contracting pupils in eyes set in decaying flesh. Putrid sores covered his entire body. A strong medicinal smell arose from the water, but not enough to cover the stench of the body within it.

  Leprosy? Adolf wondered. But it felt like something even more sinister.

  Hanover lifted a beautifully carved ivory pipe to his lips. “So you are the man who thought he could bring me down?” he said.

  “It doesn’t appear that you need my help for that, Herr Führer,” Adolf said softly.

  All around him, guards stiffened. Some twitched, eager to reach for side arms, but no one here would do a thing without a direct order from their Führer. These men were fanatics, chosen for their loyalty.

  Hanover laughed. “They told me you were like that! That is why I insisted on meeting you for myself. So many stories.” He sighed. “Some accounts place you at twelve feet tall. Others say you sold your soul for a voice that would ensnare anyone who heard you. They say you have more lives than a cat.” He sighed again. “All I see is another pretty boy, and we have so many of those. I’ll admit I’m disappointed.”

  “I find that I am not,” said Adolf.

  “Do you know why I really wanted to see you?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  The man in the bathtub scowled, looking dangerous for the first time. “I needed to look into your eyes. My advisors hatched this half-baked scheme, telling me you could be persuaded to call a halt to all this nonsense—and that you possess the charisma to pull it off.

  “Now I see you, and I don’t believe it.”

  Adolf felt his gut twist. He hadn’t even decided to make the broadcast, and now he was terrified that this rotting lunatic would make the decision for him.

  “Oh, I’ll give you your shot at it. I promised them I would. But I don’t think you can stop this avalanche now that it’s started.” He giggled. “In fact, I’m betting my physician ten thousand marks that you fail.”

  “And what will happen if you win?” asked Adolf.

  The Führer turned away from some imagined conversation, as if surprised Adolf was still there. “If I win I won’t need the money. No one will. If you and I together cannot preserve the supremacy of the Aryan race, there’s really no reason for anyone to go on living, is there? In us, mankind has reached its highest stage of evolution. To lose it all to the lower orders would be an insult to the planet that gave us life. It would be our duty to cleanse it once and for all, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, I haven’t really given the matter much thought. What do your advisors say?” Please, tell me someone is controlling this madman!

  Hanover stood up and grabbed a silken towel from the desk beside the tub. Adolf gagged on the smell that wafted his way. “Cowards!” he spat. “Most of them want to live at any cost! Even if it means defeat at the hands of every degenerate race ever spawned! Do they give any thought to their children? What will happen to their daughters? No!

  “Therefore, I must think for them. They are my people, after all. My responsibility. If the Aryan race is to be defeated, I have at least made sure we shall all reach Valhalla together.” His eyes roved over Adolf’s body. “Those who are worthy, anyway. The bombs are all in place: a few of the old atomic kind, mostly the new biological. One order from me, and bases all over the world will carry out Operation Scorched Earth.”

  Karl, thought Adolf, you may be morally and intellectually challenged, but you certainly understand the minds of our leaders.

  “Even in the worst of times, there are men who know the meaning of duty and obedience,” Hanover continued. “Even today, there are whole families of loyal Aryans who have served the Reich for generations. The Bormanns. The Eichmanns. The Mengeles. All proud lines, who have helped
our race rule the earth.”

  “Does this mean the Goebbels have been dropped from that elite register?” To Adolf’s surprise, he felt no shame at bringing that state about.

  “I have no use for traitors! Nor any of their blood! I’ll…” The Führer began to cough and wheeze. A man in the uniform of Party Medical Corps rushed from the shadows and pressed a ventilator into Hanover’s mouth.

  “Calm down,” the doctor said soothingly. He glared at Adolf. “You’ve seen him, mine Führer. Now send him away. You mustn’t risk another attack.”

  The Führer nodded. “Just one more thing,” he said. “I want you to know, Adolf, that your family will have front row seats at your speech tomorrow. Your gentle psychologist didn’t think you should know, but I think you should. If you try any kind of trick on the air, I promise, you’ll live just long enough to see your family die.

  “Take him to his cell,” said the Führer softly.

  Adolf was hustled out of the room, back through the nearly comically overblown security system, into a hallway lined with clean, efficient looking metal cells. All of them were empty. That made sense; someone of Adolf’s stature would have to be kept in complete isolation. He recalled that even his escort had orders not to talk to him.

  So it came as rather a surprise when an oddly familiar voice dismissed the other guards. There was some consternation among some of them, but after a few moments, all had saluted and turned smartly out of the corridor.

  Adolf found himself alone in a cell with the captain of the guard. The door remained open. “You’re a very difficult man to find,” the captain said to Adolf. “You have no idea how hard it was just to get a few minutes alone with you.” Then he removed his black helmet and turned to face his prisoner, allowing Adolf to see his face for the first time.

  Adolf found himself looking into the handsome Aryan features of Josef Heydrich.