The Secret of Lions

by Scott Blade

  I could feel the pain swell up somewhere inside me. The memories forced their way to the surface of my mind’s palette. All of those years, I’d lived a horrible and utter lie. I was never Peter. I was never Hitler’s son. I had lived with the wrong father. I had loved the wrong father. I had experienced the wrong life.

  “I remember,” I said, interrupting my thoughts. “But you killed them. You and my father were friends. You had just come into power. And you had him murdered. That is what my mother told me. And then you killed her.”

  My mind was no longer fueled, no longer brainwashed by his lies.

  Hitler set the book down and slowly rose to his feet and turned toward me. He studied me for a moment. He could see the tears swelling up in my green eyes. They were small tears. One even slid down my face. Hitler watched as the tear became lost in my half-grown stubble.

  He looked at the floor.

  “I...Your father saved my life. He was a guard in a prison I was in years ago. Your father started talking to me one day. He was the only one who talked to me after I had sent everyone else away. I didn’t want to talk to any family or friends.

  Your father was the only person who talked to me about things other than politics. He was already married to your mother, Gracy. He died. Your mother was the only Jew and woman I ever loved,” Hitler said.

  I slugged him across the face with the gun, “Shut up! Don’t ever talk about her. You killed her. You never loved her. And you never loved me. You killed them both. I hate you!”

  Hitler fell to the ground, holding his blood-covered face. From his knees he did not beg for his life. Instead he said, “Willem, take the sketchbook. It is rightfully yours. I want you to have it. I want you to paint again.”

  “Fuck you! I don’t want your permission! And I don’t want your sketchbook!” I shouted. Hastily, I unscrewed the silencer, trembling as it came loose. I slipped it into my jacket pocket. I held the gun out and put it against Hitler’s face.

  “Open your mouth!” I commanded.

  Hitler stared at me. Blood covered his jaw. A gaping cut was left from when I’d struck him.

  “Open your mouth!” I demanded.

  Hitler still did not respond. I pointed the gun at Hitler’s left leg and shot him. Then I glanced at the doorway to make sure none of the guards had heard the gunshot.

  Hitler grabbed his leg and groaned in agony. As he opened his mouth, I shoved the gun into it, almost certainly shattering his front teeth. Immediately, I pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was muffled because the barrel was so far into Hitler’s throat.

  The bullet exited through the back of his brainstem. Smoke surfaced out of a large hole in the back of his head. He exhaled one final time. Only smoke rose from his mouth.

  I looked down at him and began to cry. Within moments tears covered my face as I stared at the figure on the floor. Hitler’s body squirmed around. Brain fragments were spread out across the floor behind his head. His hands convulsed around searching for something to grab.

  I took the silencer out and reattached it. I pointed the gun at him again. I did not fire. I just watched. I wiped my face of any remaining tears and tightened my jaw. My teeth clenched together as tightly as they could. I tried to keep the tears in the back of my eyes.

  Even though I had never really known it; I had waited most of my life for this moment. I had painted this scene on the canvas of my mind for nearly a decade. It was the revenge I’d dreamed of. I’d killed before, but for some strange reason this was the first time I felt sadness from it. Out of all the men I’d killed, it was Hitler who made me not recognize who I had become.

  I watched as he tried to stand up. I was sorry and ashamed of it. The blood was already on my hands. I had to finish the job.

  I thought of my mother, Gracy. I pictured the life she was forced to live for me. My mind swelled up with blackness. I had lost the sadness and became enraged again. I forgot the sketches and the art I’d spent so much time creating. Now I wanted to destroy them.

  I shot the dying man again, this time in the stomach. Hitler lay still. The blood filled up in the wound. It was black. The bullet had ripped through his liver. I watched as the blood soaked his shirt.

  I held the gun down by my side. I raised it again. I still felt empty. The blackness had consumed me. The only thought left on my mind was of my mother. I emptied the entire clip into Hitler’s dead body. I kept shooting after the gun was empty. It wasn’t until the fifth click that I finally stopped. The body was completely unrecognizable. I stepped back from it. Blood covered the entire floor and my shoes. I dropped to my knees.

  Nothing remained of the man I was. I thought for the first time in years that I didn’t want to kill anymore. I’d always imagined I would kill Hitler, but I never planned or thought about the moment after. My entire life existed for this moment. It existed solely for revenge. And it was over.

  I stayed in that room a little while afterward, just reflecting. My thoughts traveled through my memories at lightning speed. I walked back into the study. My eyes wandered from the floor to the grand fireplace I had not noticed when Hitler had walked me through the study earlier.

  Suddenly, I was overcome with a feeling of hope. Hanging above the fireplace was a painting. It was grand. It was mine. I’d painted the canvas years before, and Hitler had taken it from me. He swore he had burned it with the rest of the artworks the Nazis had destroyed. But among his lies was that very one, because the painting hung on that wall.

  Seeing it made me realize I wanted a new life. I had to keep on. I had to continue painting. I ran to the fireplace, reached above it, and ripped the framed painting down. With as much force as I could use without harming the canvas, I cracked open the frame and slipped the canvas out.

  I held it up high. This was who I truly was, a painter. I had to find Willem again. I decided to cover the whole thing up somehow. If I didn’t, then the survivors of the Reich would hunt me down.

  In one hand I held The Secret of Lions, and in the other I held my gun. I stared at the gun. I returned to the room that would become Hitler’s tomb and stared at his body.

  “Goodbye,” I whispered, and I tossed the gun onto his corpse. It was useless to me now.

  I went back into the room, grabbed a kerosene lamp off one of the tables, and threw it on the floor. The bunker lit up and the flames slowly traced the floor to a set of embroidered drapes with swastika designs covering the wall.

  I ran out of the room and back up the stairs. I walked up to the first floor, and I heard voices from Hitler’s staff. That’s when I realized the upper floors of the building were more crowded than I originally had thought.

  The voices were approaching. A split-second later they opened the door only to catch a glimpse of me running out the back, carrying a large canvas behind me.

  After they found their precious Führer in flames, I was gone. Black Lion was gone.

  87

  Several weeks later, the Russians invaded and occupied the eastern part of Berlin. They treated their prisoners savagely. Many German officers had much rather face their own bullets then be caught by the Russians.

  One morning at the beginning of June when things were warming up, a dangerous man walked into the main Russian camp.

  Beowulf was disguised as a Russian officer.

  Confidently, he walked among the troops. No one gave him a second glance. No one suspected he was a dangerous assassin.

  Beowulf entered a heavily guarded old church. He ventured into its grand cathedral. The church was gorgeous, considering that much of Berlin was bombed, leaving many buildings as hollow shells of their former selves.

  Three Russian soldiers stood guard around an altar. Steadfast, Beowulf approached them. He knelt before the altar and did the sign of the cross. The guards were slightly confused but did not dwell on it too much.

  “I’m sorry I failed you, my Führer. I should have protected you. But I will avenge you. I will find him,” Beowulf said.
/>   He rose from his knees and passed through the guards with ease. As he neared the altar, Hitler’s half-charred corpse became visible. The Führer’s body lay on top of the altar as if he were some divine being.

  A Russian medical officer stood over him, studying the body.

  “Doctor, report to me. Is this Hitler?” Beowulf asked, speaking in near-perfect Russian.

  The doctor peered up at Beowulf, almost questioning his rank, but he answered. “Yes. He was killed by several gunshot wounds. His face is mangled, but still recognizable. I think Moscow would prefer if we shoot one of his body doubles in the head and replace this body with his,” the doctor said as he circled the corpse, marking boxes on a chart that he cradled like a baby.

  Beowulf nodded.

  “Did you find anything on him?”

  “Actually, there was one strange thing,” the doctor said. He reached into a brown bag and pulled out a sketchbook with a lion emblem on the cover. The book had Hitler’s bloody fingerprints on it.

  “This was gripped tightly in his hand. We had to pry it free, breaking his fingers,” he said.

  “Hand that over, doctor. The commander will want to have it,” Beowulf said, reaching to take it.

  “No, sir,” the doctor said. “The commander gave me explicit instructions not to release this into the hands of anyone other than himself.”

  “Yes, doctor. Of course not,” Beowulf said. He peered around the church. The three guards were facing the opposite direction. They were out of earshot but barely. Beowulf looked at the medical officer and smiled.

  Very quickly, he punched him in the throat twice and threw the doctor’s arms up in the air. Beowulf hugged close to him and quickly stabbed a short-bladed knife into the back of his neck. He spun both of them around and faced the guards with a silenced pistol drawn.

  He watched them, waiting for them to react to the quiet commotion behind them. But not once did they shift or turn around. They stood steadfast, unaware of the brutal murder behind them.

  Within moments the doctor had died in Beowulf’s arms.

  He left the body behind the altar, grabbed the sketchbook, and marched out of the church and into the night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Out of the Lion’s Shadow

  88

  In Evan’s quiet flat at King’s College, he sat and cuddled with Barbara. Her expression was awestruck at the secrets that he had shared with her.

  “Barbara, you know my secrets. You know what I’ve done. You know who I am,” he said. “I hope you still feel the same way about me. I hope you still care about me.”

  “Evan, I’ve never felt this strongly about someone before. I care about you so much,” she said. Her stunning, brown eyes looked deeply into his own.

  Before she could utter another word, he kissed her.

  Their lips locked passionately. For the rest of the night, they made love and held each other. Their bodies blocked out the cold, the world, and the fading memories of the war and of Black Lion.

  89

  Barbara awoke in Evan’s arms. At first she didn’t want to move, but suddenly she became alarmed. She sat up quickly.

  “What’s wrong?” Evan asked.

  “I’ve got an early class. What time is it?”

  “I think it’s close to sunrise,” Evan said.

  Relieved, Barbara turned around to face him. He stared back at her.

  His face was dark and covered in shadow. Barbara’s hands were behind his head, steadily combing through his hair. After a moment, she stretched them out and felt something underneath his pillow. She grabbed it and pulled out a gun.

  “Do you always sleep with your gun?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “So then you just slept with it tonight because you don’t trust me?” she asked.

  A serious look came over his face. “No, I meant that I don’t sleep,” he said.

  “You were awake all night?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s how it is most nights.”

  “Oh…I’m sorry,” she said.

  ”Don’t worry. I think I’m going to sleep in today while you’re in class,” he said, smirking. ”There’s something else.”

  “What is it?” Barbara was becoming worried.

  “I told you most of the story, but I left out my feelings about the night I killed Hitler. Something happened to me. I don’t know how to explain it. It was like I was born a child and raised to be a killer,” he said. He let go of her and sat up in the bed.

  Barbara sat up behind him and wrapped her arms around him.

  “You are not a killer,” she whispered into his ear.

  “There’s more still,” he interrupted. “Ever since that night, ever since that second, I have felt lost, like I don’t know who I am. And perhaps the worst part is that despite what he did to me, I loved him. I still love him. He was the only father I ever knew.”

  Barbara understood. After a long silence she said, “Evan, I don’t think that you are a killer. I’ve watched you for months. I have seen you when you paint and draw. You are a great artist. You are the person I have searched for. You are the person I have searched for since my mother died. You are the person I have searched for my whole life.”

  Barbara tried to look at him. She wanted to see his eyes, but he just kept facing the other direction.

  She touched his cheek and turned his head toward her. He was crying. The tears slid down his face.

  “I…You had better go and get ready for class. I think if they find you with me they’ll fire me,” he joked.

  She smiled.

  “We’ll pick this up tonight, then?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “There will be plenty of time for us to talk more. By the way, I am Willem Kessler. And for the first time, I don’t feel dead.”

  Barbara got up and dressed. Willem followed. He watched her as she walked through the door to his flat. She stopped in the doorway and blew him a kiss.

  90

  At lunch she went by his flat. He came to the door with a big grin on his face.

  “What are you grinning about, Evan?” she said.

  “I’m happy to see you,” he said. He grabbed her in a lustful embrace. They kissed. He was so excited to see her that he hardly noticed Barbara had brought him some lunch.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Turkey sandwiches,” she said. “Nothing fancy.”

  “No one has ever brought me lunch before,” he said.

  “No one? Not even Anna?”

  A hint of sadness came over his face, and Barbara wondered if that remark was insensitive.

  “No one has,” Evan answered. He returned to smiling.

  They sat down on the dusty sofa and began to eat.

  “I have some news. Something that I wanted to tell you before,” Barbara said.

  Evan took a big bite out of the turkey sandwich.

  She went on to explain about Kobnhavn.

  After some time, Evan considered it.

  “I think we should meet with him then,” he said.

  “You mean that?” she asked.

  “I do. Bosworth and the British have been good to me, but I am ready to lead a better life. All Bosworth has me doing is spending my time cleaning up after people. If this guy Kobnhavn can do what he told you, then it’s worth the exposure to me. Besides it would be good for you.”

  “I don’t fully trust him, but Dr. Blake does,” she said.

  “Blake? He’s that new professor? He’s only been here like two semesters? I’ve not met him yet,” Evan said.

  “You should. He’s great. He introduced me to Kobnhavn. It’s worth a shot. Maybe he can give us new lives. Together,” Barbara said, smiling.

  “Together,” Evan said. “I’d like that. Together.”

  91

  Together, Evan and Barbara waited near The Secret of Lions in the art gallery. The day was drawing to an end. The sun had already begun to set. The sky outside
was a thick, reddish color, like the veins of the sky were exposed to the earth below.

  Evan clutched the handle of the gun tucked into the back of his trousers. He smiled at Barbara as they waited for Kobnhavn to meet them.

  Two hours earlier, he’d agreed that they should meet in the gallery in front of the painting. Barbara seemed entirely confident that he was trustworthy, but Evan's suspicions grew stronger with every minute he did not show up.

  The gallery had a lot of shadows; he was starting to regret agreeing to meeting there, but he was confident in his abilities. He was in good physical and mental shape. He’d kept up with his training.

  “Evan, maybe we should just give up,” Barbara said.

  Suddenly, a noise came from beyond a spiral staircase. It came from the direction of the foyer. Moments later, a man wearing a dark turtleneck sweater appeared. His hands were plainly visible. Evan stepped in front of Barbara in order to protect her. His right hand remained clutched to his weapon.

  “Barbara Howard,” a voice said from the man in the turtleneck. “I can’t believe you actually found him.”

  A man stepped out from behind the bulky man in the turtleneck.

  “It’s him. It’s Kobnhavn,” Barbara whispered to Evan.

  “That’s not Beowulf,” Evan whispered back. “Who’s the other guy?”

  “I've never seen him before,” Barbara said.

  “Mr. Kessler?” Kobnhavn asked, his arms outreached as if he expected a hug.

  “Stop there!” Evan said. He drew his weapon and aimed it at Kobnhavn.

  “Mr. Kessler, this is not necessary,” he said.

  The turtleneck man stiffened up. He moved unhurriedly to the side, as if to slowly flank Evan.

  “Stop there,” Evan repeated. This time he pointed the gun at Kobnhavn’s accomplice.

  “Mr. Kessler, I’m sure that Miss Howard explained to you who we are,” Kobnhavn said. He continued to move toward the couple.

  “She did, but how do I know it’s real? How do I know you’re real?”