The Secret of Lions

by Scott Blade

  It must be a crate, I thought.

  “Now students,” Rouscher said. “I have a very special exercise for you today, and one of you is going to play a very important role. We are going to discuss interrogation. More specifically, we are going to discuss the methods of interrogation.”

  The professor looked around the room. His gaze searched over the students until he finally settled on one, me.

  “Peter Hitler, why don’t you come up here for a moment?” the professor said.

  I reluctantly stood up and trembled nervously as I looked around the room. All of the other students gaped at me.

  “Peter, why don’t you come up here and stand next to me,” the professor said while motioning for me––Hitler’s protégé––to join him in front of everyone.

  Grudgingly, I moved down the aisle and the row to the bottom of the stage. I looked for the steps that led up and found them on the left side. I made my way up onto the stage.

  “Now, everyone, Peter is going to participate in our special seminar. We are going to discuss and observe the means of extracting information from a prisoner.”

  “Torture?” someone from the audience asked.

  “Yes, that is what some call it. Now, Peter, come here and stand beside me,” Professor Rouscher said.

  I walked to dead center stage to stand next to the headmaster. A terrifying feeling came over me. It was difficult to stop shivering with each step I took.

  The professor put his arm around me. “Don’t worry, Peter. It is only natural you feel fear, compassion, terror, and even helplessness. You should feel those things. They are all signs of humanity,” he said, while staring down at me. He raised his head and stared at the entire student body. Sounds began to shudder from the darkest part of the stage. The sounds were deep growling noises. Something was there, but I was not sure what, not at first.

  In the forefront of my mind, I feared what it might be. I feared it was Mocha, but the noises I heard sounded nothing like a powerful, majestic beast like Mocha. They were deep but weak.

  “Despite what our military leaders say, despite what our governments say, the best soldiers in the world, that is the deadliest ones, are the ones who feel the most. Leaders are not born from the passionless. The most deadly ideas come from the most impassioned among us.

  “Peter is a natural-born leader because the passion radiates from him. Besides being from the Führer’s seed, you can tell that there is rage in him. You can see there is leadership in him.

  “The fear you are feeling, Peter, is your strength. One day that fear will turn to hatred and later passion,” Rouscher said. He signaled to one of the soldiers who lingered in the wings.

  The guard followed the professor’s command and walked to us. He disappeared for a moment into the darkness upstage behind us. A scuffling sound came from the shadows. Then he returned into the light. Only now he was dragging a thick, black chain. He latched the end of it onto a metal clamp on the floor.

  “Okay, release him,” Rouscher said.

  The guard returned to the darkness. A sound of scraping metal followed. It was the sound of a metal cage door retracting.

  The black-maned lion charged out of the darkness. The length of chain ran out, and the animal stopped abruptly a few paces from me. He chomped his teeth repeatedly and roared. The chain held him, but he was visibly strained. The lion pulled and struggled to reach me but could not.

  Mocha, what have they done to you? I thought.

  He was different. He looked underfed and barbarically abused. His fur had multiple dark stains on it, like bludgeoning marks and scars from callous lashings. I’m not even sure he recognized me.

  Some of the children in the audience shifted in their seats. They became uneasy, even panicked. Some even leapt out of their chairs and onto their feet. The professor waved his hands in the air in order to calm them.

  “Students, don’t worry. The beast is perfectly restrained,” he said. Then he turned to me. “Peter, one of the first things you have to learn about your enemy is that he will do anything to kill you. It is either you or him. A lion, like an enemy, seems scary, but actually he is more afraid of you. Now take this and torture your prisoner.”

  Slowly, I turned away from Mocha and saw that the professor was holding a large iron bar.

  “No,” I shook my head in passionate protest.

  “Yes, Peter. Now take it,” Professor Rouscher insisted.

  “No,” I said.

  “Peter, you don’t want me to send a message to your father saying you couldn’t complete a simple assignment, do you?”

  “No, but you can’t make me do this. I can’t. He’s just afraid. That’s what you said. You said he was just afraid of us. I can’t hurt him for that. This lion belongs in the wild, not here.”

  “Peter, he was captured for this purpose,” Rouscher said.

  “He is not meant to be tortured. Besides, he can’t talk. So what good will torturing him bring? What will it accomplish?”

  Rouscher became frustrated. He had never known me to be insubordinate before. He grabbed my arm and yelled at me.

  “If the roles were reversed, and you were chained to that floor, that lion would tear you to shreds,” Rouscher said. He grabbed my hand and forced my fingers to grip the bar. “Now hit him with it.”

  “No. I won’t.” I refused.

  “Yes!” Rouscher forced me to face the creature with the bar raised in my hand. The lion snapped its jaws as it stretched out to me.

  “No. I can’t.” I struggled with Rouscher.

  “YES! HIT HIM! DO IT! HIT HIM!” Rouscher shouted.

  Rouscher pushed me closer to the beast. It lunged and almost tore off my hand. Mocha didn’t recognize me.

  “Mocha, what have they done to you?” I whispered.

  I was forced closer still. I did not want to look, so I shut my eyes tight. Rouscher continued to push me toward the lion. I could hear the students in the audience as they joined in and cheered me on, urging me to hit the lion. The beast lunged out once more at me. Its hot breath cut through the air and hit my outstretched hand.

  Rouscher kept taunting me, pushing me. I didn’t know what to do. I didn't know what to think. So without thinking, without hesitation, even against my own desires, I swung the iron bar against the lion’s head. The creature retreated a few meters.

  “Again! Do it again!” Professor Rouscher ordered.

  With tears streaming down my face, I raised the bar again, and with a heart filled with regret, I struck Mocha across the head. I raised it again and repeated. I hit him continuously. Blood covered the bar and ran down his face. The animal could no longer see because blood covered his eyes.

  The lion stopped roaring. I beat him with the bar until the creature completely stopped moving.

  The sounds around me had become muted. I was lost in a blinding rage.

  “That’s enough, Peter! Peter, stop!” Rouscher shouted at me. He grabbed me and tried to restrain me, but I fought free.

  I kept hammering at the lion’s head. Blood splattered across the hard stage floor. I battered away until I lost the power to lift my arm.

  After I had nearly beaten the lion to death, I looked up at the professor. Distressed, he stood above me with a blank stare in his eyes. He did not know what to say. He was shocked. I looked around at the other students. My hair was normally slicked back, but now the longest strands in the front fell across my face, like my father’s. I dropped the iron bar and stepped back from the pools of blood and my dying friend, my lion.

  “Peter?” Professor Rouscher said.

  I did not hear him. Never raising my head, I began to walk away from the stage. Before I stepped onto the staircase, Mocha let out a dying growl. Another followed it.

  The sounds resonated in my ears. It was the only thing I heard. The vibration from the dying roar shook my skull, echoing inside my head. I turned back to the lion that had once been my friend. I watched as the creature’s head flopped against the
floor. It looked in my direction. Only one of its eyes was working. The other was mashed shut.

  I’m not sure, but I think in the last moment of life, Mocha finally recognized me.

  I had betrayed my only friend.

  No longer did I have to worry about nightmares of the Frenchman. Now the black lion haunted me.

  67

  Months later, I was on vacation with my father. We rested on a pristine beach in South Italy. Father had arranged for us to travel with as much secrecy as he was able to afford in those days.

  The day was hot and sunny, but a nice breeze brushed over our rocky beach. The Mediterranean was a bright blue. It was extraordinary how beautiful the water was. It was so clear I could see dozens of colorful, radiant fish.

  I stood near the shoreline with my toes buried in the sand. A large starfish washed up near me.

  “That’s a starfish, son,” Hitler said. He stood behind me. There were guards several meters behind us, but the beach was relatively clear.

  I said nothing to him. I was furious. I couldn’t stop thinking of Mocha.

  Hitler grinned at me and then looked out over the water.

  “Peter,” he said.

  I remained quiet.

  “We can just sit here,” he said calmly.

  68

  Later that night, I was restless in bed. I dreamed of the black lion I had loved so much.

  Unable to stand it anymore, I got out of bed and sat near candlelight. I used candles because I didn’t want to get caught working on a painting I kept hidden from Hitler.

  This would be the night I finished it. That night, I worked diligently on the painting––The Secret of Lions. Before I knew it, the night had passed, and it was morning. I had stayed up the entire night. I didn’t want to sleep. I didn’t want to dream of the lion. I didn’t want to dream of my mother.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Hitler shouted from my doorway. I have no idea how long he had been standing in it, but it was long enough to see me painting, against his wishes, against his express orders.

  “I'm painting. That’s right, Father. I've been painting for months,” I said defiantly.

  “Son, you don’t defy me! No one defies me! I am your father! I am your Fuhrer!” he shouted.

  “You are nothing to me!” I shouted back.

  Hitler practically leapt over to me from the doorway. He grabbed the canvas from my easel and held it up high with both hands. He stared at it for a long moment. I saw a single tear come down his face. I knew better than to assume it was a sign of compassion. He was enraged at my disobedience.

  “How dare you defy me! This painting is in reverence to your enemy!” he shouted.

  “My enemy? That lion I murdered was Mocha. It was my lion. You knew that. Didn’t you? Didn’t you? You sent him there on purpose! You want me to forget him? You want me to forget that Mother took me to see him!” I said, suddenly realizing what his true intentions had been.

  Hitler flung the painting to the ground. I ran toward it, but before I could reach it, he punched me directly in the nose. Disoriented, I stumbled backward.

  I covered my sore nose with my hand. A stream of blood ran from it. I didn't think it was broken, but it hurt like hell.

  “You are to forget your mother; she killed herself. Remember? She never loved us. She never loved you. She left us. We are alone. No more lions and no more paintings. Only Germany matters. Only I matter,” he said.

  Later on that day, Hitler was speaking to one of his public advisors. He told him he didn't want Germans reading books that were not pro-Aryan. And he didn't want them to be plagued by art that wasn’t state approved. It was because of my painting that the Nazis burned books and torched paintings.

  It was my fault, my fault that my mother killed herself. That was what he wanted me to think. And over the next couple of years, he brainwashed me into believing it.

  For years, I thought she’d killed herself because of me.

  Chapter Eight

  In the Forest of the Night

  Warsaw, 1939

  69

  It was October, and the winter had begun to show its snowy presence. The winds picked up on Europe’s eastern front. Hitler, the German army, and I were together in the Polish city of Warsaw. That fall, I’d turned fifteen. I almost completely believed I was a full-blooded Aryan. Hitler had convinced me I was his only son and that my name truly was Peter Hitler and not Willem Kessler.

  The truth was locked in my memory. And I trusted every word Hitler told me. I learned every lesson. I had become his replica. I was buried deep within my false identity.

  Anna and I were engaged. Only her close relatives and Hitler knew. His Italian friend, Anna’s father, suggested that the two of us should be married. And since we were close already, it did not bother either of us. I suspected that one day I would marry her. Even though I didn't love her, not truly, not in the sense of the word as I have come to understand it. At the time I was convinced it was a good match. In many ways, I wanted to marry Anna. No, Peter Hitler wanted to.

  Hitler stood with his staff of SS guards, soldiers, and fellow politicians. They overlooked the remains of the Polish city. The city was ours. We had conquered it.

  In terms of defeat, the citizens were much harder to control than Hitler’s generals had predicted. Still some rebel factions were spread out among the Polish communities.

  Hitler’s Germany had stunned the world only a month and a half earlier when they’d formed an agreement with Russia. The two countries agreed not to go to war with each other. This mandated Hitler’s plan to invade Poland. With no threat of Russian retaliation, Germany could begin conquering its neighbors and enemies. We were not afraid of anyone standing in our way.

  Nightfall was near, and I could not wait. I was going to see Anna. We had agreed to walk the city that night and drink a bottle of wine she had stolen from her father’s cabinet. It was a 1901 bottle from a winery in Italy I had never heard of before. I was excited to see her.

  At that moment, I stood near a journalist who was snapping pictures of Hitler. The Führer stood with a pair of binoculars looking out over a horizon filled with buildings and crowded streets.

  There was no truth in what he was doing. He was merely playing to the camera. It was to show the German people that our Führer was leading us to victory. It was the game of politics. A published photograph of Hitler leading our military to victory would make him look strong.

  I looked out over the landscape and felt the urge to paint. I had not painted in two years. My father had instructed me to give up painting. He never said why. But I suspected that painting was unbecoming of a soldier.

  I could remember a time when my father had encouraged my painting, but that stopped early on. It was some time near my mother’s death, which at the time I remembered as a suicide. The horrible truth of it was easy for Hitler to suppress in my youthful mind.

  After I stopped painting, I was expected to take up more governmental studies. I still drew and painted in secret. Hitler said that painting was a great gift, but I had more important things to concentrate on.

  “Peter, you return to the encampment,” Hitler said. He handed the binoculars to a soldier standing next to him and disappeared into the crowd of spectators and Nazis. He shook hands as he walked away.

  I looked down at the ground for a moment. My shoes sank into the Polish soil. The Nazi army had fortified its control over Poland. Hitler had committed the military to the permanent occupation of Poland. A breeze swept around me and I watched as particles of dirt wafted between my legs. Everything seemed heavy to me. All of my thoughts, feelings, and worries weighed heavy on my shoulders. I did not fully understand my surroundings.

  I turned and made my way back to the encampment. I went into a building that used to be the capital building in Warsaw. This building had become Hitler’s personal home for our stay in the city. His SS police arrested the local mayor and most of his staff. If there was a government official wi
th an office inside the federal building, it was confiscated, and he was arrested. Sometimes they were shot in the street. Anyone who resisted was shot, no questions asked.

  Inside, the guards immediately recognized and saluted me as they would a higher-ranking officer. I shared the rank of an officer. It was my birthright. The Führer did not bestow an official title on me, but the guards referred to me as Sohn des Kanzlers. This meant “son of the Chancellor.”

  I walked past them without acknowledging them. I walked up the stairs and turned into the room Hitler had set aside for me to sleep in. Anna was down the hall under the guard of two SS police officers. Her access was limited at the request of her father. She was allowed to go outside as long as she was escorted. That night I would have to escort her out. For now, she slept.

  70

  Nightfall shadowed over Warsaw. Outside the window, a fog crept up to the sill of my room. The fog was tall enough to make it up to the second floor of the federal building. I opened my eyes and squinted in the shadowy darkness. I sat up and furrowed my eyebrows. I yawned and stretched my arms. I got up and closed the window.

  One hour remained until midnight. Most of the officers slept on cots. Others slept in neighboring buildings. They were used to sleeping through heavy gunfire, including artillery. No matter how much I endured, I could never sleep through the sounds of gunfire. The noise made me uneasy. Even though most of the army was asleep and the largest resistance had been over for hours, shots still echoed throughout the city. The Todesgruppen, or death squads, were still out rounding up Jews.

  Tomorrow the infantry was scheduled to finish putting up the brick wall in the city’s ghettos to quarantine the Jewish population. Some of the wall was already up, yet much of it was still under construction.

  Tonight Anna and I would walk the streets and watch the cleansing of the city.

  I got dressed and opened the door. I entered the hallway and noticed the number of guards that were posted had depreciated since I’d gone to bed.