by Tricia Goyer
“I’ve thought of that, but I don’t like to ponder it long.”
“Hitler could have slept in here. This very room.” Betty sat up slightly, leaning on her elbow.
Kat again placed a hand over her stomach. “Don’t say that. I’m feeling ill as it is. I’ve been all over Europe, and we’ve been in some harrowing situations, but every time I’m in this house, I have a bad feeling. Evil lived here too long, I suppose. It worries me—”
“What worries you?”
“Well, like something bad’s going to happen. I can feel it.” Kat stopped brushing her hair. “You know what they say, don’t you?”
“No, what?”
“This place is haunted. Some of the other girls say they can hear footsteps at night. They say they hear someone—or something—walking in the rafters…and below us too.”
“How do you know it’s not just hoodlums trying to find hidden treasure?”
Kat lifted a thin, penciled eyebrow. “Could be, but I wouldn’t put it past those Jerries to stick around—to haunt us even after they’re dead. There’re lots of rumors going around. Sometimes I can feel it too. It’s as if someone is here, in this house, watching us.”
“Really?” Betty sat up, planted her feet on the floor, and curled her hands into fists, trying to lighten Kat’s doomsday mood. “I’d be willing to go toe-to-toe with any Nazi ghost.”
Kat didn’t answer. She didn’t smile. Instead, she placed her brush on the nightstand and got into bed.
Betty padded over to the dressing table, poured fresh water into a basin, and brushed her teeth and washed her face. Just talking about ghosts gave her a sick feeling. Her stomach rumbled and she realized part of the reason she didn’t feel well was the fact she hadn’t eaten since they took off in London. The other part, though, was because Kat was right. Being in this house brought an icky feeling, and joking about it didn’t help. Betty turned off the light and hurried to her bed, thankful for the moonlight that brightened the room so it wasn’t completely dark.
Even though she was exhausted, Betty lay awake awhile, trying to comprehend everything the day had served up. It was unlike any day she’d ever experienced. She also had to admit she was sad that Kat would leave soon. Betty could tell that most of the other girls in the troupe gave Kat a wide berth, but she had a feeling that if they spent enough time together, Kat could become a friend.
Betty rolled to her side. “Kat?” she whispered.
“What?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Are you sure it’s only one? All you’ve done is talk. I’m glad I’m leaving in a few days. If not, I’d request a different roommate. A girl needs her beauty sleep, you know.” Even though Kat’s words were sharp, her tone was gentle.
“Just one. I promise.” Betty took a deep breath. “How do you know if you’ve found the right guy? With all of them out there—”
“Do you like someone, kid? Heaven knows you have a good shot of winning his heart if you do. There’s a one-to-a-thousand ratio of American girls to soldiers around these parts. And as you know, the soldiers aren’t supposed to fraternize with the German girls—”
“I sort of like someone. But I’m not sure. He’s so mature, so professional. And he’s a soldier. My mother told me soldiers are bad news.”
“Edward’s a soldier, and I don’t mean any harm by this, but I think your mother is wrong. The fact that a man signs up to fight is commendable. The ones you should watch out for are those who were too chicken to join, who hid back home with ‘safe’ government or production jobs.”
“Yes, that’s true, but this guy’s really great and—well, do you think I’d have a chance of him liking me back?”
Kat was silent for a moment, as if she was thinking. “Well, you’re not Betty Grable beautiful, but you’re not hard on the eyes either. So if some soldier around here isn’t interested, he’s either married or he’s devoted to some broad back home who’s good at writing sappy letters.”
“Yeah, well, I promised my mother I wouldn’t lose my heart to a guy too quickly. She says if I want to make something out of myself and get more than bit parts and walk-ons in Hollywood that I’ll need to be married to my work.”
“It’s true. Hollywood has its demands. When I told my boss that I wasn’t renewing my contract, he about blew his top. My agent told me he didn’t invest so much in me for me to walk away. But I’m not concerned anymore with what he thinks.” Kat sighed. “I’m ready to be with Edward, to live like a family for once. I couldn’t have been happier when I heard the war ended. To me it meant Edward was going to make it through. And that, to me, is better than any applause or seeing my name in lights—guaranteed.” Kat’s voice began to fade. “Still, you shouldn’t jump into things too hastily. You’re young, give yourself time. If I were you I wouldn’t even consider dating until my job with the USO was up. Enjoy what you have. Enjoy the music.”
“Yeah.” Betty snuggled down in her blankets. “You’re right—I’ll wait. I’ll give myself time.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“So, where now, Bub?” the driver asked when Frank got back to the jeep.
“Well…” Frank took off his cap, ran a hand through his hair, and then returned it. “I’m supposed to room with my friend Art Spotts. He’s a photographer like me. But I don’t have much more info than that.”
The driver nodded as the German woman snuggled closer under his arm.
“Ah, yes, I think I know where to start. There’s a house where all the artsy types hang out. If they don’t know who your Spotts friend is, I don’t know what to tell you.”
The driver took them into the town of Bayreuth, and for the first time Frank understood the magnitude of the war’s destruction. Half of the buildings, at least, lay in rubble. The other half looked as if they were damaged in some way. It was strange, seeing up close what he’d photographed from above. He’d seen the bombs they’d dropped and their explosions, and he was more surprised by what still stood than by what had crumbled.
They turned onto a side street, and as the jeep’s headlights swung around the corner, the light reflected off the eyes of a small group of people—men, women, and children—huddled under a makeshift tent in the middle of the rubble in what appeared to be the shopping district. A little bit down the road, another group slept inside a building in which the front had crumbled away—most likely from a near-miss by an American bomb.
“What’s going on? Who are these people? Why are they sleeping outside?” Frank asked, even though he knew the answer. He’d seen many displaced persons all over Europe. He also knew, though, that one of the best ways to get information about any area is to play dumb tourist. People often liked sharing what they knew. He’d gotten more than one bad guy to spill key information in his or her role as tour guide. Not that he thought his driver had anything to hide—Frank was just warming up. Getting ready for the assignment he still didn’t understand completely.
Surely there has to be more to this thing than just shooting photos of pretty girls. They wouldn’t have brought him in if there weren’t.
“Who are they?” The driver shook his head. “‘Who aren’t they’ would be an easier question. Some are Germans who’ve been kicked out of their homes to make room for the American troops. Some are families who lost their homes in the bombing. There are former prisoners from Hitler’s concentration camps—those are the saddest cases. There are also Germans from the Sudetenland—the ones who poured into Czechoslovakia after Hitler invaded and then were kicked out again.”
“Things were similar in Paris. I hung out there the last few months, but it was nothing like this.” Frank sighed. “It’s been months now, and these people are still out of their homes. It just doesn’t seem right to me. I wonder what will happen next. I hope the government does something before winter sets in.”
The jeep stopped beside a tall house, and the driver pointed. “They use the bottom as an officer’s mess. Upstairs is a little restaurant
, but lately there’s been more music than food. I can almost bet your buddy Art is up there—or at least someone who knows him.”
“And if not?” Frank asked.
“Bayreuth headquarters will be open in the morning. I’m sure you can crash here until then.”
From the look in the guy’s eyes, he was done driving Frank around. It seemed like he had other things in mind, like getting to know his date better. Frank couldn’t help but eye her with suspicion. She most likely was a simple German girl looking for companionship after the war, but one never knew.
Frank jumped out, grabbed his duffle bag, and thanked the driver. Then he headed upstairs, via the outside stairway. He was only five steps up when he heard the music. It was a woman’s voice, and in a strange way, it reminded him of Songbird. What in the world? Frank knew it couldn’t be her, yet he took the steps two at a time. On the landing at the top of the stairs, two GIs were smoking cigarettes with another couple of young German girls. He nodded to them and moved inside.
The room looked almost gray from the swirls of smoke that curled in the air. Soldiers sat on worn-out sofas, at small tables, and even on the floor. The woman stood in the corner. Her head was tilted up as she sang. It was as though she serenaded a balcony that wasn’t there. Frank scanned the room and there, in the far back corner, sat Art at a small table. Frank moved in Art’s direction, for the first time realizing how quiet the audience was—all of the soldiers focused on the woman’s song.
Frank was halfway to Art when his friend stood, motioning him the rest of the way over. As he neared, Art shook his hand.
“Was wondering when you were coming. Have a seat, your duffle bag will make a great chair,” he said in a low voice, and before Frank could respond, Art had already turned his attention back to the singer.
Frank set his duffle bag on end and sat. He didn’t ask Art about the empty chair at the table. He guessed it was for the singer. Art always had the most beautiful girlfriends wherever he was stationed. The only thing that would surprise him was if Art didn’t have a date.
The woman sang her last note, and the room erupted in applause.
“Don’t you think she’s great? She’s a star—or at least she used to be. Magdalena used to sing in the opera house, back when they still performed Wagner’s Siegfried, and not the jazzy rubbish that’s playing there now.”
“I’m offended by that.” Frank straightened his shoulders. “It’s good music. I was there tonight.”
“Oh, yes.” Art half-smiled. “We’re giving the GIs real culture—variety shows and revues—put on in the same building where last summer Nazi officers and invalid troops watched Goterdammerung.”
Frank rubbed his eyes. “Are you saying we don’t have any culture?”
“Not saying that at all, but it’s not Wagner. Don’t you know this town is what it is now because of him and that opera house? No works by any other composer had ever been performed there until we showed up—”
“You seem to know a lot about music, Art. Last time I saw you in Paris a couple of months ago, you couldn’t have cared less about German culture.” Frank’s head started to ache, and he didn’t understand why he was arguing. Yesterday he most likely would have agreed with Art, but today things were different. Mainly because when he thought of the USO singers, he thought of her. Yesterday Frank would have taken Art’s comments as just observation, but now they seemed to be an insult to someone who had strangely managed to wiggle through a crevasse in the wall he’d built up around his heart.
I have to stop thinking about Betty. It’s better for me—and for her. Don’t want her wrapped up in the business I’m in—
“Yes, well, that’s what two months here will do for you, when you come to care for someone, I suppose. Your world gets turned upside down overnight.”
The woman looked in their direction and met Art’s eye. He lifted his hand and signaled her over.
“So, is that your girl?” Frank asked.
“I wish. She’s still looking for her husband. Magdalena is Czechoslovakian—an international star who is now penniless. The Czechs sent her back to Germany because of her connection to Bayreuth and all her luggage was stolen, including valuable jewelry. So sad. But I’ll stick around, just in case. It’s horrible to say, but if her husband doesn’t show up, I want to be first in line.”
Frank wanted to be outraged by what the Czechs had done to the woman, but he couldn’t help siding with them. Their land had been overrun by the Germans and now they were ready to be rid of any German influences and reminders. Still, as with so many people he’d met who were now displaced, the question wasn’t “Where should I go?” but “Where are the ones I love?” Seeing their desperation at learning the fate of family members they’d lost track of during the war made him realize even more how important family was.
The woman approached. She was plain-looking, but in a beautiful way—like a statue of Mary, without adornment. She sat in the chair next to Art and smiled.
“Dis a friend?” She pointed to Frank.
“Yes, my old buddy—a photographer like me.”
The woman extended her hand and Frank took it in his, shaking it gently. Her hand was cold and frail, and he was almost certain that if he shook it too hard it would break.
“So you are a singer?” Frank asked, even though it was obvious.
“Ja. Or I used to be such.”
“Sweetest soprano you ever heard,” Art said.
“Did you sing in some of Wagner’s operas?”
“Ja.” The woman nodded. Her face appeared weary. “That was many lifetimes yet.”
“Your English is good.” Frank felt a weariness coming over him and he smiled, wondering when it would be polite to ask Art about their accommodations so he could head out.
“I worked with many Americans. I’ve traveled there also, debuting—” She shook her head and looked around. “It doesn’t matter now. I’ve had good life. A good career.”
“Maybe it’s not over yet. You never know.” Art patted her hand.
Magdalena smiled at Art, but it was obvious she didn’t believe his words.
“I know some of the singers who are at the opera house now. I’m sure they would like to meet you—to hear about your career,” Frank said.
Magdalena’s eyes widened and her lips pressed into a thin line. “I think I would like that,” she finally said. But even as she said the words, Frank could see it was far from the truth. The woman’s forced smile said one thing—but her eyes said something else completely.
Dierk’s footsteps were light as he walked down the narrow alley. Rays from a yellow moon lit his way, yet he knew that even if there were no moonlight he’d still walk unhindered. He’d made this same trek nearly every night since the Americans had moved in and the Germans had abandoned their labors. The warehouse at the end of his path stood in the midst of a larger factory complex. Thankfully, the Americans had yet to explore thoroughly the treasure hidden within the boxes and piled in dusty corners. The foreign invaders believed the war had ended—Dierk knew this was not the case. The war would never end. Evil would rise again. And what Americans didn’t understand would hurt them. Their death cries would be part of the final act.
The warehouse was only one place he looted, although Dierk liked to think of it as gathering only what had already been prepared for him. The Nazi death forces had done their work, used their weapons as long as their time allowed. And now it was his turn.
Even though Wagner’s focus had been musical drama, the work of Wagner’s family spun off in other weighty pursuits. Dierk had co-labored with Wieland Wagner at the opera house and with Wagner’s brother-in-law, Lafferentz, on more technical matters. Lafferentz was a man Dierk admired greatly—especially his work with the “sighted bomb,” an effort to improve the accuracy of rockets launched from planes or submarines. They’d been so close to achieving success. If only they’d had more time. He would have liked to see the rocket finished to help the German people, b
ut not for Hitler. The madman didn’t deserve such a reward.
Time caused us defeat once, but not twice.
Again the ticking clock sounded in his ear—his performance must happen at the appointed hour. He didn’t have a minute to waste.
Dierk’s steps quickened as he walked toward the trees at the back of the factory. Years ago they had made thread here, but during ’44 they had made death—or rather the type of rockets that had carried death into England and France.
He strode toward the sign that read NEW COTTON MILLS. It was here that specialist workers—electricians, engineers, technicians, and physicists—had worked on the wunder weapon.
If Dierk continued down this road, he’d come to a gate where two American MP officers stood, but they wouldn’t have the pleasure of meeting him tonight.
They guarded a main building—the former thread factory—that stood idle for want of raw materials. The former rocket factory also stood idle since wunder weapons were no longer needed. And the large concentration camp beside it, where forced laborers had worked, stood empty too.
It had been a little over a year ago when all German theaters had closed as Goebbels appealed for “total war.” All exemptions from military service were cancelled—even all the artists in the Berlin State Opera company and the singers to the corps de ballet had gone off to war. Only his opera—Wagner’s Mastersingers being performed at the Festspielhaus—was allowed to finish the season. But after its final performance on August 9, Dierk had also found work inside these gates. Not as a prisoner, but as a well-respected laborer. And since then, his labors had not ceased.
Even though he was far out of view, Dierk gave a mock salute to the American military police and chuckled. It amused him how the Americans considered themselves safe. Didn’t they understand that those who wish to do harm don’t come announced? They don’t plead for entry? He’d always found other ways to get what he wanted. He always found the unseen paths.
Cutting off from the main road, his footsteps barely made a sound as he moved under the trees. The leaves pressed under his feet in submission. The air smelled of dirt and decay. The decay of the leaves and the scent of death also lingered in the scattered ashes of the nearby camp. Though the gates had been opened and the prisoners freed, the stench remained. The Americans had tried to clean up the camp—as they did with everything—but evil clung. It stuck to all that had life, assuring that those who still breathed would not forget.
