The Secret of Lions

by Scott Blade

  I took my eyes off Beowulf for a single moment. And suddenly, Beowulf moved behind me.

  I felt an incredible pain in the back of my head. Beowulf punched me.

  I passed out completely, dropping the gun and releasing Hitler from my grasp.

  81

  I was drugged over and over for weeks. I slipped in and out of consciousness, never fully aware of where I was. Occasionally, I heard voices. I can remember some, but others remained inaudible. I lived and breathed in a drug-induced coma. Finally, I woke up in a hospital somewhere in Great Britain.

  “Mr. Kessler? Son, are you awake?” a voice asked.

  I felt groggy. I slowly awoke in a state of confusion.

  “What happened? Where the hell am I?” I asked.

  My eyes hurt. All I could see were five blurry images—men in suits. They sounded English, French, and American. Four of the men talked to each other, while the fifth patted my cheek, trying to wake me up.

  “The Germans still owe us reparations. All I’m saying is that by declaring war, we have kissed that money goodbye,” said one man.

  “No, you Euro boys are confused. Churchill is right to declare war. The Germans were never going to pay it, and now when we crush them, they will owe all of us.”

  “Frank, your country isn’t even planning on getting involved.”

  “Not true; the president is very interested in what goes on in Europe, even if Americans are not.”

  “Shut up. He’s awake.”

  “Mr. Kessler?” one of the men said, tapping a hand on my forehead.

  “Willem, my name is Willem,” I said, squirming in the bed. I tried to sit up but then noticed I was cuffed to the bed’s rail bar.

  “Sorry for that. We’re not sure if we can trust you,” one of the men said.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  The men were still blurry.

  “We represent different governments. Primarily we are the world’s greatest nations. Our countries are concerned about Hitler’s current aggression. He invaded Poland. My country, Great Britain, is declaring war on Germany for this outrage.”

  “Am I a prisoner?” I asked.

  “Yes and no. We know who you really are, Willem.”

  “How? Who are you guys?” I asked, bitterly confused.

  “We represent intelligence agencies. Some of us are new at this; however, my country has been in the espionage game for a long time.

  “Currently, our governments are uniting together. If we all join forces to fight the Germans, we have a greater chance of success. To be candid, our governments have feared Hitler’s power for years. He is popular and very powerful.”

  “Hitler is even popular in America,” Frank added.

  “What does this have to do with me?” I asked.

  “Willem, I can’t tell you how we know about you, but we do. We have spies and informants. We don’t know everything, but we know you’re not really Hitler’s son. And we know you tried to kill him. We know it is highly unusual for the SS to hand over one of their prisoners to a British embassy. And so we have pooled all of our information on you.”

  My sight began to return. The fuzzy figures were merging into less than the five men I had suspected. There were really only three.

  “Willem,” the British agent said.

  I turned my full attention to him.

  “You tried to kill Hitler. And you would have been successful if it were not for a highly skilled assassin, code-named Beowulf, extremely dangerous and extremely loyal to the Reich.”

  “I’m listening,” I said. I could now see the British agent’s face.

  “Willem, over the last few years, we have sent in assassins to kill Hitler. The French even got close once. At least we think so. Our man never returned, but after we lost track of him, his family was murdered in their home.”

  “I know of this,” I said.

  “Yes, we thought that you might. That’s why we need you,” the British agent said.

  “You want me to give you information?” I asked, stirring again in the bed. I leaned my head against the wall so I could see them better.

  “Yes, but there’s more.”

  “What?” I said.

  “We know about the school they had you in for all of those years. They trained you to kill there, didn’t they?”

  “Among other things,” I said.

  “Okay, we want to continue your education. Only we have a different purpose. The Nazis were training you to be their next leader. We want to train you to kill the current one.”

  “Hitler. You want me to kill Hitler?”

  “Yes. We feel you have the motivation and the ability. We just want to give you those extra qualities you lack, qualities to make you more like Beowulf, but not as evil,” the British agent said.

  “What quality did you have in mind?” I asked.

  “Invisibility,” the British agent said.

  82

  London was breathtaking. I had never been here before. The British agent had me living and studying in London. The weather was nice, even though I had heard it gets dreary. Buildings were everywhere. London was a city of magnificent architecture.

  Big Ben was my favorite. Walking along the stone sidewalks, I could see the majestic clock on Ben. I spent most of my free time just walking and sightseeing. I enjoyed the gardens, the old architecture, and the look of the churches. Many of the old churches were doorways into history.

  Over the last several months, I had grown to love London. I hardly missed Berlin. And my studies here were much different. Now I was being taught all of art, literature, and history. There were no censors. I learned about books and paintings that were banned in my homeland. In addition, they pieced together the story of my parents and family as best as they could.

  Still, I knew the day would come when the British agents would call on me to learn how to kill. One word stuck with me, even after all those months of freedom. The word was “invisibility.”

  I thought about it sometimes. What did the British agent mean? I suspected they wanted me to match Beowulf, to kill as he does. After all, if I was ever going to get close to Hitler again, I'd have to get through Beowulf. I wasn’t scared of the SS guards, but Beowulf was different. I was truly terrified of him.

  The British agent trusted me, but for my own protection, I never left my flat or the university campus without two armed escorts. They were two highly trained soldiers, dressed in civilian clothes. I could tell they resented having to guard a young German they knew nothing about. They wanted to be in the battlefield with their brethren, fighting the Nazis. But they followed orders.

  I looked like an ordinary sixteen-year-old schoolboy. I walked around carrying a backpack loaded with books and a change of clothes. I had a new sketchbook. It had different drawings in it; many were of lions. This sketchbook had some illustrations as well. I had started to draw and color my lions completely black.

  My art instructor jokingly nicknamed me Burnt Lion. I really liked my classes at the local university. The British government did not enroll me in high school with my peers. Before they decided where they were going to put me, they did aptitude tests, IQ tests, and placement exams.

  I scored high on all of them. My IQ was measured at 145. Also, I was obviously well educated. In fact, I was not only beyond other kids my own age, but I was also beyond most of the teachers at the public schools.

  My teachers were nice to me, for the most part. One drawback I faced, however, was the fact that it was hard to hide that I was of German descent. Being of German blood while the British were fighting our homeland was not good for many Germans who resided in the U.K. It was especially hard on German children. Some school kids were hateful toward us. And I could not hide that I was Aryan. It was ironic that I was half Jewish and yet I looked all Aryan.

  The agents were concerned with violence targeted at me. So the local university seemed like the right choice. It was easier for them to protect me there.

  I wa
s given a monthly stipend and a flat. It was small with one bedroom and a separate kitchen. I was happy for the most part. Sometimes I thought about Anna, but I tried to focus on my art. I imagined I should have been more heartbroken over her death, but the truth was that she loved Peter Hitler. And I was not Peter Hitler. Peter also died that night in the fire.

  On my way back to the campus, one of my bodyguards stepped in front of me before I made it through the front gates. Another guard stood by the gates, waiting. He was also wearing civilian clothes. The guards met in front of me and started talking. I couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded important.

  The next thing I knew, one guard was signaling for me to follow. I followed him through the gates and toward the student union. He led me into the building and up a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs, another guard stood post. He directed me through a door that led out onto an area that was under construction. It was a poorly lit landing that overlooked the first floor of the union.

  I could see the jugglers’ club practicing like they did every Wednesday night. Every week they performed in the middle of the union, sharpening their skills. Many of them were novices.

  However, a couple of the players were well-skilled. One player was Jordan. He was one of the few acquaintances I had made at the university.

  I spent most of my time alone. I did not socialize with the students in my classes too much. Sometimes, I’d participate in small talk, but I steered clear of politics. Whenever someone tried to hound me for being German, I changed the subject. Usually, I only talked about art. I rarely commented on the war.

  Beyond the hanging plastic sheets and tools that were spread out on the floor of the landing, I could see the familiar British agent from the hospital.

  “Willem,” the agent acknowledged. “My name is James Bosworth. I’m a British Intelligence Officer. We met in hospital several months ago.”

  “Yes, I remember. I remember you quite well,” I said, moving closer to him. For the first time, I noticed how short he was. Standing at 1.7 meters and weighing no more than 61.5 kilos, Mr. Bosworth was much smaller than the British guards who watched over me.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Well, honestly I remembered that you were taller,” I said.

  “You are not very big yourself. You are a boy and can’t weigh more than 70 kilos. Yet, you killed how many of the SS? And almost Hitler,” James Bosworth said.

  Changing the subject, I said, “What are you doing here, Mr. Bosworth?”

  “Willem, come here and stand with me,” Mr. Bosworth said, leading me to the railing. Together we peered over the edge at the jugglers. A small crowd of students gathered to watch them. The jugglers tossed pins, balls, and what looked like a couple of antique vases. The onlookers cheered every time one of the jugglers would pretend to drop one of the vases.

  I noticed Jordan. He was in great shape—tall, thin. I looked at my own body. I had gained some weight since I’d begun eating the campus food. I was far from heavy, but I did not have the long, lean body I had had while living with Hitler.

  “Willem, these kids have something that you and I don’t. Do you know what that is?”

  “Friends?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s true, but no. They have freedom. They are free from the knowledge that enslaves you and me. I’m in a position to know secrets, horrible secrets, the kinds of secrets men die for. They are the kinds of secrets men kill for,” Agent Bosworth said.

  “Yeah,” I said, looking down at Jordan, wishing I had his life.

  “Willem, I know things have been good here for you. I understand your grades are good, and you seem well enough. But it’s time for you to train for something else.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You already know what. Look at these kids. They’re all happy. Even though they know about the war, even though they all know that it’s going to get worse, much worse, right now they are happy. You know what my job is?”

  “Spying?” I asked.

  “No, it’s keeping them happy as long as possible. I’m in the spying business, but I’m also in the keeping secrets business. My job is to keep secrets secret. That keeps these kids happy. They can all go about their lives. They can study, drink, and have as much sex as they desire as long as I’m keeping them safe from the horrors of the world,” Bosworth said.

  I said nothing.

  “Willem, the Nazis are gathering people up. Women and children. All Jews. They are taking them in trains. I don’t dare imagine what for. I don’t imagine because I already know. And so do you. They are putting them in camps. They shave their heads, tear out their fingernails, and pull out their teeth. They are exterminating them.

  “Willem, your mother was a Jew.

  “Willem, the Nazis are coming. I need your help. None of my agents can get close to Hitler, not like you can. Shit, you may even get an open invitation under the right circumstances. This may take a long time, but killing Hitler can end this war.

  “We can stop the Nazis from exterminating an entire race of people.

  “We can end this nightmare. Willem, we can end your nightmare,” Bosworth said, picking his coat up off the railing. He began to put his arms into the sleeves.

  He stopped and looked deep into my eyes.

  “Think about it and let me know. I’ll be in touch,” Bosworth said. He disappeared into the darkness.

  I stood on the landing alone, left to my thoughts, my nightmarish thoughts.

  83

  A drafty, old London movie theater was located in the heart of the city. I had not seen a moving picture in a long time. The only two things on my mind lately were Bosworth’s words and the blurred memories of my mother.

  I’d spent months trying to remember more about her, trying to unlock those memories in my mind. Mostly I failed, but the day after I spoke with Bosworth, I was walking with my bodyguards when I saw a movie poster in the student union.

  I walked up to it and stared at it with a far-reaching gaze. As my eyes followed a long-winding, yellow brick road, I dove into my past and scoured my memories.

  The movie poster was for The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The title struck a chord with me. It reminded me of my mother’s voice. I remembered she used to read the books to me.

  I walked into the movies and watched in absolute wonder. The movie flooded my ears with the sounds of my mother’s voice as if she were narrating it to me.

  I remembered my mother used to turn to me with a big smile every time the story introduced the cowardly lion. I remembered her smile ignited my imagination.

  The movie ended and I walked out. Now, I knew the answer I would give Bosworth.

  84

  A week later, I was in my art class. We were finishing our final projects for the semester. I had painted a lurid scene filled with violence and war. The combatants were all animals. There were lions, tigers, eagles, and a single wolf.

  There was a series of shadows near the head of one of the armies—represented by a fox. Near him, crawling through the shadows, was a black lion. It was crouched and ready to strike, but the wolf stood by, ready to defend the fox. The painting was titled The Proposition. I don’t know what happened to it.

  After class, I walked the halls alone in a crowd of freshmen and sophomores. I headed in no particular direction. I had finished my classes for the day. Wandering the campus, I ran into Bosworth standing near an open doorway to an empty classroom. He signaled to me to follow.

  “Shut the door, Willem,” Bosworth said to me as I entered the classroom.

  I shut it and took a seat in one of the empty desks. The room was an auditorium-style classroom. James Bosworth stood on a platform in the center of the room. I sat in the first row peering down at him.

  “Willem, you’ve had several days to think about our proposition. So what is your answer? Do you want to end the nightmare?”

  “What happens after?” I asked.

  “What do you want?” Boswo
rth said.

  I thought for a moment and said, “I want to paint.”

  “Fine. We will send you anywhere that you want to go after this. Of course, Germany and Eastern Europe will be off limits. You might want to consider going to the States. But we will set it up so that you can paint. Although, you will need to keep a low profile.”

  “What is the first step?” I asked.

  “First, we have to give you a code name, something that will become your new name. Something that will protect you. Something fearsome.

  Not only is that how Beowulf keeps his identity a secret; it is also how he is able to strike fear in the hearts of his enemies. He has built a legend for himself,” James Bosworth said.

  “What name shall I have?” I asked.

  “Black Lion. That’ll be your new name,” Bosworth said.

  “Black Lion,” I repeated.

  85

  I spent the next several semesters studying at different universities throughout the U.K. Bosworth thought it was safer for me to bounce from place to place, never becoming complacent.

  I never really got to know too many people.

  Every semester I had two courses of study. One was art and art history. The other was military training in the arts of killing, spying, and stealth.

  Before I knew it, I had unofficially graduated from all my courses.

  The war had grown particularly nasty for England. It had blossomed into a fully-fledged world war. I couldn’t have graduated from my lessons at a better time. Most of public life had been suspended due to the bombings.

  Bosworth came one day to visit me at my flat. I was living in Dublin at the time. He spent the night. We stayed up late discussing his plans for me. And the next morning, I was off.

  I set out to make my way back to the world that I had escaped: Berlin.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Killing Kind

  Berlin, 1945

  86

  The city streets were empty except for the secret police. They were hunting for Allied troops. They wore dark, leather uniforms. They were the elite of the Nazi military. They stormed through the streets.

  Throughout the city, I heard the sounds of gunshots and artillery fire. I heard heavy bombardment; the SS still marched and shouted. I could hear their sounds echoing from every alley and near the openings of every building on the street. I felt sorry for them. They had been fooled by a madman, as I had.