The Secret of Lions

by Scott Blade

  They gained momentum as they traveled through the North Sea and along the Netherlands’ coast. The weather from the coastline dictated the weather in central Europe, almost as much as Eastern Europe’s January winds were affected by the winters in Siberia. As the coming storms gathered over the Mediterranean Sea, they also gathered over Germany and the rest of Europe.

  The spy hole for each cell door was barricaded by small, steel wires. The steel shimmered with a black, reptilian color. They reminded Heinrik of the way that the black rocks looked on the lakebed near the house he and his wife dreamed of buying.

  He walked up and down the corridor with a long, brown rifle. The end of it was fitted for a sharp blade—a bayonet, but that blade had long been removed. It was an infantry rifle, not unlike the one that he fought with in the Great War. Heinrik had fought for his beloved Germany. Besides the rifle, he also carried a combat knife. The blade was once razor sharp. In the war, he had done horrible things with it, things that he’d rather forget.

  Most of the watch guards carried a Luger, a standard German pistol. It was easier to draw a pistol on a fleeing convict than a rifle. But he preferred a rifle because of its range.

  It was uncommon for him to be posted in the halls. Usually he was in the yard, but tonight the guards were shorthanded and he needed to fill in.

  Sounds protruded from the cells surrounding the corridor. They were the sounds of the insane. Voices raved. Each voice plagued his dreams when he returned to the solace of his home. Every day he heard them and every night he took them home and stored them in the back of his mind, not allowing discovery by his wife. Many of the prison’s occupants were violent, so he had to stay vigilant.

  Heinrik made his way to cell thirteen, Adolf’s cell. It was the only quiet cell on the corridor. That was what was so odd about cell thirteen. It was quiet. This worried my father. He suspected that the prisoner inside was conspiring, like the brewing storms. He was gearing up, preparing for something dangerous.

  The cell was dark inside and smelled of urine. The normal guard always stopped on his route every night at this one cell. The guards were all informed to especially check cell thirteen; it was the main stop on their rounds.

  My father rested the butt of his rifle on the concrete floor and leaned over to gaze through the spy hole. He could only make out shadows. His eyes adjusted to the dim light that crept in through the bars on the cell’s window.

  Outside of the prison, the storm rumbled. The rain pounded on the buildings. Droplets sprayed in through the window; the roof leaked. Heinrik could hear rain hitting the floor, piling up into a small ravine of rainwater. The sound of the falling rain left a residing, banshee-like echo. It filled his ears.

  For a moment, that sound was all that he could hear. However, as his ears adjusted to the stillness of the cell, he began to hear something else. He could hear steady breathing. It was faint at first. He thought that maybe the occupant was sleeping. However, he knew better. He knew that even as this occupant slept, he was never idle. The silent prisoner’s mind was always vigorously working. Often Heinrik would see Adolf lying in his bed writing. He kept a journal with him almost everywhere he went.

  The breathing became louder. Heinrik heard panting. It was coming from the center of Adolf’s room. My father crept closer to the door, leaning in. His vision began to clear and he could see the figure of the cell’s occupant. The prisoner sat in the middle of the room. Heinrik’s eyes squinted. He tried to focus. The outline of the prisoner rose to a stance. He faced the window.

  A lightning bolt flashed outside. It startled Heinrik and he drew back a little. He returned to his position at the door, but this time he looked even harder. Inside the cell, he could make out Adolf’s figure again. He stood in the nude. There were red markings all over his body. My father noticed the same markings drawn all over the room—the walls, the ceiling, the floor, everywhere.

  “What are the markings you have drawn on yourself?” my father blurted out over the screaming that emitted from the other inmates down the corridor.

  The man in the cell did not answer back. Instead, he continued to stare out the darkened window.

  Heinrik could hear him mumbling something. His ears focused on the prisoner’s words. He could barely make them out.

  “Swastika, swastika, swastika.” This was the word that Adolf chanted over and over. His eyes were tightly shut. The lightning filled the sky through the window. This illuminated the cell again; Heinrik could see the room clearly. The drawings that covered the room resembled a Greek cross with each edge bent. Not many people had ever seen this design before. Never had my father been more frightened by a symbol than that night.

  The lightning struck again and Heinrik noticed that the prisoner’s arm gyrated profusely. He was masturbating to a picture that rested in his hand. It was a drawing of a woman. She looked familiar. He could have sworn that it was Gracy, his wife, my mother, but he could not tell for sure.

  “Go away!” the prisoner screamed.

  Heinrik jerked away from the door and left cell thirteen.

  26

  Six Months Later

  A sparrow flew over the prison yard. Its black wings fluttered under the warm sunlight. It followed its destiny.

  The prison yard was empty, except for one prisoner and a handful of guards. The prisoner preferred to be separate from the rest of the inmate population. From the day that he’d arrived, he’d gotten everything he’d desired. For reasons unknown to Heinrik, Adolf’s requests went directly to the warden.

  He sat on a rickety bench in the middle of the yard, sketching something. Occasionally, he looked up from his drawings and stared into the sky as if contemplating the next stroke of his pencil. The sparrow circled above him as if it were lost. The prisoner doubted the bird was lost. He viewed it as a sign, a symbol of fate.

  Heinrik Kessler sat twenty or more meters away from the other guards. This was his first time guarding Adolf. The other guards joked about how they were assigned to follow around one political prisoner every day at lunchtime. They never spoke to him or even near him. It was forbidden to speak directly to him unless he acknowledged them first. This order was issued directly from the warden.

  Heinrik ignored the conversations of the other guards. Instead, he watched the prisoner. He felt curious about the man, as though he had seen him before, but was unsure from where. Having so much freedom in a prison, Adolf was important. The thought of what the man was imprisoned for scared Heinrik. In a prison full of murderers, this one man was granted a variety of allowances afforded to no one else. Heinrik did not keep up with politics. He was more interested in art and music. Yet, he felt that it was dangerous to ignore the politics of this particular prisoner.

  “Kessler,” a voice shouted from behind him. He turned around to see a guard standing at the entrance to the prison’s yard. A beautiful and familiar woman stood behind the beckoning guard. “Your wife is here.”

  “Send her in; it’s all right,” he signaled to the guard.

  Gracy walked elegantly into the yard. A hand-stitched picnic basket she’d made rested in her grasp. She approached her husband and his fellow guards with an impressive smile on her face. She was the key to Heinrik’s happiness. And they could all see why. She was breathtaking.

  After the Great War, Heinrik had returned home to nothing. His parents were both accidentally killed by gas bombardments from the German military. The Germans thought that their village was hiding British soldiers.

  My grandparents slept while it happened. Wind carried the gas in large gusts over their home. It seeped into their house and killed them. The locals knew of the war, but no one thought it would come to their small town. Most of the people Heinrik grew up with died in that war. For the longest time, he was alone. Meeting Gracy had changed all of Heinrik’s misery. She’d turned his life around.

  Gracy stopped short of the other guards and reached into her basket and pulled out a rolled-up napkin. She handed it to one of
them. The guard unrolled the napkin to find fresh, hot rolls. She made baskets of rolls every week and usually brought some.

  The guards said their salutations and Gracy continued toward her husband. She was the only part of Heinrik’s life the other guards cared about. Since he was their supervisor, they didn’t care for him. However, they all liked her. Most of the other guards wondered how Heinrik had such a beautiful wife.

  Heinrik kissed her, embracing as if to make them jealous. As he held her close, he looked over her shoulder. The prisoner stared back at him from beyond the other guards. His stare was cold and void completely of any discernible meaning or emotion. It was the first time Heinrik had ever made direct eye contact with him. It gave him an eerie, nightmarish feeling of déjà vu. It was the prisoner’s cold stare that would haunt his dreams from that day forth.

  27

  20 April 1924

  It was a Saturday morning when the large black car drove up to the gates of the prison. Dust rose behind it. The rims on the tires gleamed even under the shadow of the watchtower. The guard approached the driver’s side window and asked the driver for details about his business—what he was doing there, who he was seeing.

  Heinrik worked the gates most Saturdays until noon. Afterward, he followed the prisoner from cell thirteen around in the yard.

  Whenever a car approached the gates, Heinrik walked around to the rear of the car. It put him in an advantaged position over the car’s occupants. He stood in their rear, observing their movements. In case of armed hostility, all he had to do was raise his gun and he was automatically in their blind spots.

  The driver wore a dark suit and hardly acknowledged the other guard. Heinrik became suspicious. He pulled his rifle up to his chest, so it was in plain view of the rearview mirror. That way the driver of the car could see he was armed and ready for anything. It was a risky threat, but Heinrik was almost positive these men were legitimate agents of the government and not marauders.

  The two men in the backseat wore suits and trench coats. They looked diplomatic or government-like. One man’s receding hairline showed from under his hat. He wore glasses. Heinrik stared at him. He took off his hat and glanced back at Heinrik as if to acknowledge him. He wiped the lenses of his glasses with his tie.

  A strand of blond hair fell across Heinrik’s face, obstructing his vision. He reached up and moved the strand. The bald man returned his gaze toward the front of the car.

  Heinrik could not hear the words exchanged between the driver and the guard at the gate. He moved closer to the car. His hand slid along the butt of the rifle until the trigger was near his fingertips. He was prepared to respond quickly if there was an altercation.

  “Who are you here to see?” the guard asked while looking at their identification papers. “Mr. Schneider?”

  “We are here by permission of Dr. von Ortan, your warden,” the bald man leaned forward from the backseat and answered. The driver produced a writ proving this claim. He handed it to the guard, who studied it carefully.

  “I don’t doubt that you are authorized to be here; just tell me whom you are here to see,” the guard said. He leaned against the driver’s side door, handing the writ back to the driver.

  “We are here to see Adolf for his birthday,” the balding man leaned forward again and answered.

  “I will open the gates,” the guard said.

  The black car drove off to the innermost checkpoint. Heinrik saw that they’d brought with them large, blank canvases resting along the passenger seat. As the car drove farther away, he noticed small paint canisters lining the inside of the back window. They’d brought Adolf art supplies for his birthday.

  28

  Another day came and it was lunch time. Heinrik was on duty guarding his prisoner. Adolf paced underneath a cluster of trees on the western side of the yard. He walked around all afternoon with a sketchpad and two pencils in his hand. He never actually stopped to draw anything. Normally, he was peaceful and calm. Today, he acted restless.

  Heinrik noted the change in Adolf’s behavior. With Adolf, Heinrik had learned to be ready for anything. Although he was normally calm, the guards were well aware that Adolf’s mood could shift at any moment and without warning. Very quickly, he could become belligerent. Adolf was prone to unexpected outbursts.

  Heinrik didn’t care about Adolf—most of the guards didn’t. He was not afraid of Adolf, not physically, but there was something else about him, something terrifying.

  At this moment Heinrik only wanted to see his wife. She’d said she was going to bring him lunch today. She snuck up behind Heinrik. He almost didn’t notice her because he watched Adolf so closely.

  “Good afternoon, darling,” she said.

  Surprised, Heinrik turned to face her. Gracy wore a green, flowing dress. He liked her body’s combination of curves and slimness. She looked like a sculpture of a goddess. The image of her engraved into him as if God himself had chiseled it into his brain. She was beautiful.

  Heinrik was not the only one who stared. Adolf’s gloomy eyes traced her every step.

  “Afternoon, Frau Kessler,” Heinrik snorted in such a way so that the other guards and Adolf could hear him. He enjoyed reminding them that Gracy was his wife and that he went home to her.

  “I hope that you brought me a delicious turkey sandwich.”

  “I did,” she said. He motioned for her to follow him. The two of them walked to a nearby dirt mound. A dead log lay on the ground next to it. It made a perfect bench, so they both sat on it.

  For the moment, Heinrik forgot to watch Hitler. Instead, he enjoyed the lunch Gracy had brought.

  “How has your day been? Any excitement?” Gracy asked. Her eyes revealed her eagerness to hear an entertaining story.

  Gracy complained that her days were rather banal. She needed his stories for the excitement. The truth was his days were very routine. Still, he indulged her with stories of prison breaks, fights, or mysterious visitors, anything to entertain her.

  The only terrifying story he had was the night he’d witnessed Adolf in his murky, dank cell—masturbating. And that one, he kept to himself. Not even the other guards knew about it.

  “Actually, there was a rumor floating around that…Never mind. It’s probably not true,” Heinrik teasingly boasted.

  “What? Tell me. I want to hear it,” Gracy begged. She pulled in close to him. Her hands squeezed tightly around his left arm.

  Heinrik looked down at the dirt around his boots for a moment and smiled.

  “Well, there was this rumor that a woman came in the other day to visit her husband, a prisoner named Meulette—an Algerian anarchist, who was captured in Munich for his involvement with something, I don’t remember what.

  "Anyway, his wife came here to see him.”

  “Yes, go on,” Gracy said.

  “Well, she brought him a large loaf of French bread. I guess she thought that was appropriate because Algiers is a part of the French empire,” Heinrik said.

  “I know that,” Gracy said.

  “Anyway, she walked into the visitor’s area with it. She tripped on her way in. The bread bounced off the ground, and when it finally stopped bouncing, a sharp metal object protruded from it. The guards discovered she had baked the bread around a handsaw.”

  “That’s not true. I don’t believe you,” Gracy said, smiling.

  “Well, it happened,” Heinrik said, shrugging his shoulders.

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Gracy, I wouldn’t lie to you,” he said, half smiling.

  Gracy laughed.

  “You are strange sometimes,” she said. She leaned in to kiss him.

  Heinrik caressed her face with the back of his hand. Before he could kiss her, a shadow cast over them. They looked up. Gracy shuddered. Heinrik reached for his rifle, which rested next to him. He stood with the rifle at the ready.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked Adolf.

  Adolf stood perfectly still, holding hi
s pencils and sketchpad down by his side. He gripped them tightly in his left hand. Strands of brown hair fell across his face, mapping the emptiness of his features. All that was memorable about him were two piercing, devilish eyes and slicked, brown hair.

  Finally, he spoke. “Are you a Jew? I have never seen one so beautiful. Your blood must be Aryan in origin. My blood is like that,” he said.

  He paused for a moment.

  “I have never told that to anyone before. But I am a hundred percent Aryan.”

  Heinrik ignored Adolf’s babble. Instead, he quickly reacted. Without thinking, he butted Adolf in the jaw with his rifle. Adolf fell back and dropped his sketchbook and pencils.

  Heinrik would have continued to beat Adolf with his rifle if it weren’t for Gracy interfering. She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. She was far more cautious of people than Heinrik was. Living with discrimination every day, Gracy felt threatened by many of the Germans that crossed her path. She could sense their judgmental, hateful eyes gawking at her.

  Heinrik looked back at her. He realized he could lose his job for this. He rested the rifle back against the log and slowly walked over to Adolf.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Adolf said. A trickle of blood ran down his forehead. He struggled to stand up but slowly made it.

  Heinrik bent over to pick up the pencils and sketchpad, but Adolf leapt over to them.

  “No! Do not touch my sketches! I shall retrieve them,” Adolf said, enraged.

  Heinrik backed away from the sketches. Instead, he stood idle while Adolf collected them from the ground. It was an awkward moment for Heinrik and Gracy to wait while Adolf recovered all of his dropped materials.

  Gracy began to approach Adolf; she felt responsible. She thought she should help him gather up his items, but Heinrik halted her by raising his hand in the air, motioning her to stop. He waved her off.