by Rex Baron
Michael sighed. “It will get better,” he said. “He can't stay mad forever.”
“Good luck on your exam Michael,” she said, emphasizing his new name and following it with a smile. “I can't say that I approve of what you're doing, but I suppose I'm the last one you'd listen to.”
She slipped through the curtain and past the old man in silence. Once outside on the street, she caught a glimpse of him through the window, pushing his spectacles up onto his forehead and burying his face in his hands.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Munich Museum of Art
The pageant stretched for miles down the boulevard in front of the Munich Museum of Art in honor of its dedication. Endless groups of children from local schools marched in obedient procession, carrying bouquets of flowers or using their willing bodies as pillars to support massive garlands of ivy and edelweiss. A scale model of the finished Museum, like an enormous wedding cake, displaying a classical facade held high on a portico of countless Corinthian columns, was carried along by a host of schoolboys dressed in military uniforms. The model’s proud designer, Herr Troost, followed in an open car, waving his gloved hand to the crowd like a beauty queen or fallen aristocrat. Soldiers marched in faultless ranks, snapping their arms and legs to attention with each step, stopping for a moment in front of the reviewing stand to clasp their fist to their heart in a tribute of loyalty borrowed from the Centurions of ancient Rome.
The entire pageant had been designed by the Chancellor himself, as a rewriting of German history and an unfolding of two thousand years of Germany's greatness yet to come. Amidst trumpeters and drummers on horseback, historical figures appeared, carrying esoteric symbols, the sun and the moon and the age-old broken cross, the swastika. Charlemagne, the ancient king of the Franks, Henry II and Barbarossa the conqueror were all represented. Knights and ladies of the Gothic period followed. Actors costumed as members of medieval craftsman’s guilds carried finely wrought religious articles and copies of fine blown glass. There were mercenaries, marching along to the sound of pipes, rustic farmers and industrial workers from the past, all orchestrated to recreate a collective sense of continuity and revive the strength that had been broken by the Great War and the depression that followed.
“God, everything but the gladiators. Can you imagine this foolishness going over on Hollywood Boulevard,” Claxton whispered out of the side of his mouth to Helen.
They sat in one of the official boxes in the proximity, but not on the same level as the one occupied by the Chancellor. If she hunched forward in her seat and looked around the substantial girth of a uniformed man with a monocle, Helen could see Hitler waving his thanks to the company of foot soldiers.
Next, a battalion of infantry, dressed in the short leather pants of the peasant class, marched solemnly past the stand. Each member wore a great leather glove upon which a falcon perched, blinking disinterestedly and listening intently to the sounds of the brass bands and singing schoolgirls following behind for miles.
“I hate birds,” Claxton said, a shiver going through his body, “especially birds that are trained to kill.”
“Will you be quiet,” Helen insisted, keeping her voice low so as not to distract the others.
She had wanted to be seen by any attending the pageant as calm and poised, straight-backed on the uncomfortable bench, totally self-possessed and serene. It was important that she began to cultivate a public image for her new position, and if the Fuhrer himself happened to glance her way and see the perfect embodiment of grace mingled with strength, then all the better.
The last phase of the pageant, depicting the modern world, consisted mostly of more soldiers, soldiers in brown, soldiers in black, all with high shiny boots, jerking up mechanically in the style of marching, which the Reich had irrefutably taken as its own. The Wehrmacht and the Storm Troopers marched, the National Socialist Motorized Units, and the Schutztaffel, the elite guard, all clomped past the reviewing stand amidst waves of enthusiastic applause.
Helen was seated in a position of prominence because her work was to be unveiled in the great hall of statuary following the parade. She had received a note from Ziegler telling her that their commissions had been approved by the judges for showing at the dedication. It was not such an overwhelming revelation as it would seem, Helen laughed to herself, owing to the fact that Ziegler had been the principle judge.
Claxton leaned toward her again in spite of her stiffening of annoyance.
“Your better half, Miss Paycok, or sexy peacock as I like to think of her, is conspicuously absent.”
Helen shifted her eyes to observe him without answering, as if gauging the distance of a snake or a snarling dog.
“She's quite talented, a bit short-fused though,” Claxton continued. “She nearly crushed my hand with a mallet the other day.”
He rubbed his hand with the memory of the pain.
“Still, she is gifted and the gifted seem to be so vulnerable. Let's hope you can profit from this one, without eliminating her altogether like you did poor Lucy.”
Helen's eyes widened at the mention of the subject.
“Let's not go into that again,” she whispered hoarsely. “I did it to get us here to Germany, to meet the Prince, to have the opportunity to sing.”
“Oh my dear girl,” Claxton spit out an unflattering laugh. “One has to have talent for that. You are not gifted in the way your new protégé Lexi is. Forgive me darling, but I fear your talent lies in other more sinister directions.”
He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away and conspicuously ignored him, staring ahead at the flanks of soldiers.
Claxton sighed with a kind of contentment. He had succeeded in upsetting her just before her moment of triumph with the unveiling of the statuary credited to her name. But then, this had been his sole intention. He had wanted to make his presence felt before she was carried away on a wave of undeserved self-importance. He was no fool.
He knew that she spent her days surrounded by men handsomer and younger than he, fawning over her, carrying out her demands, making her feel powerful and beautiful. He alone was the keeper of the truth. She had come to count on that. He had taught her to eat and speak and showed her how to dress like a wealthy woman, suggested hairstyles that flattered her and schooled her to spot imitation jewelry from across a dinner table.
She had come to rely on him for many things, and this was the position he cherished. She would never be lost to him, would never leave, as long as she saw him as the guardian of her secret past. This secret was far more powerful than all the incantations and spells he might teach her. There might be lovers and others of some influence. That was acceptable. After all, she was his wife in name only. But there would never be another to take his place, as long as he was able to fire her with anger at the truth.
The interior of the museum was grand in its proportions. Every material and decorative detail had been chosen by Herr Troost, in collaboration with the Fuhrer, to evoke a reverence for classical antiquity. Marble and garlands of gold were everywhere. Even the toilets and modern plumbing were hidden behind false panels and designated by the presence of inconspicuous inlaid symbols distinguishing the ladies from the gents.
It was designed as a temple of Art, not a custodian of the works of old masters, but a living, changing showcase for the talents and genius of the New Order.
Helen and Claxton previewed the endless rows of pastoral scenes and group portraits of German families. “A Kalenberg farm family,” a large ponderous canvas, depicted three generations of worn, humorless faces, each dedicated to his role in the new agricultural army.
“If I see one more painting of a cow, I am going to lose my mind,” Helen muttered inconspicuously to Claxton.
She took his arm and strolled past another painting. They smiled and nodded for effect, in the event that they might be under public scrutiny.
“He's had all the really good modern painting confiscated,” Claxton said, “and replaced them wi
th this cozy rubbish. I suppose he just has this thing for farm animals.”
They walked on in silence for a moment, then Claxton began again tenuously. “I hate to steal your thunder, mere seconds before the big unveiling of your statue, but I've been trying to tell you all day. I've been accepted to the position of Assistant Secretary of Propaganda. Our fat friend, Theodora, proved to be worth her weight in gold after all.”
Helen's mind raced with the news. She had focused her thoughts on the proceedings at hand and this piece of information, as welcome as it was, was jarring and confusing.
“That's wonderful,” she said without conviction.
“Endless possibilities,” Claxton said, patting her hand with confidence. “Now, you'll see what I can really do.”
At long last, word rippled through the crowd that the Chancellor was on his way up the stairs and would appear at any moment. Helen and Claxton took their places flanking the enormous metal doors that led to the main salon. She had never really seen the man up-close before. She had heard his voice on the radio and caught glimpses of him as he moved about the formal functions she had attended, but this was the first time she might see him face to face.
A small man with a quick-paced stride made his way down the length of hallway in a matter of seconds. Unlike the languishing grace she remembered in the aristocratic Prince and others in authority, this man was the soul of efficiency. He moved with sharp jerky movements, appearing almost mechanical and ill at ease. Without ceremony, he entered the room and saluted those present with his stiff one-armed greeting.
Patting Herr Troost on the back, he congratulated the designer on the splendor of the new facility.
To Helen's surprise, he produced a slip of paper and read a speech prepared for the occasion.
“This masterpiece of architecture is as notable for its beauty as it is for the functionality of its technical equipment. But nowhere do subordinate, technical requirements intrude on the design of the whole. It is a temple of Art, not a train station nor a power plant...”
He looked up from the paper and gauged the attention of the crowd. As his words continued, Helen felt a haunting sense of recollection. She searched her mind but could not think of where she might have seen him. Then, she remembered. It was his eyes. When he spoke, his eyes filled with a kind of unnatural light and he appeared to be staring out at something beyond the confines of the room, beyond the present space in time.
He was the little man who had crossed her path outside Wagner's house over ten years before. She had remarked to herself that day, as they took their walk, that she would never forget his eyes. Here they were again before her, the shining beacons of the most powerful man in Germany.
“The result is a house worthy of sheltering the highest achievements of Art and showing them to the German people. This building will put an end to the chaos of architectural dabbling we have seen in the recent past. This is the first new building worthy to take a place among the immortal achievements of our German artistic heritage.”
As the rousing applause that followed the last words of the speech died away, the Fuhrer clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the rows of paintings, like a middle-aged schoolteacher scrutinizing his pupils' work. This was not the powerful leader who inspired the creation of a civilization that would last a thousand years. This was just a dowdy little man, who made tapping sounds with his feet when he walked, Helen thought to herself.
The schoolmaster stopped abruptly in his tracks, in front of a washy, harmless painting of a twilight sky over a village. He grasped the frame in his hands as if admiring it at a distance, and without warning, ripped it from the wall and tossed it to the floor.
“I will not tolerate unfinished painting,” he said in a rage.
Herr Ziegler guardedly stepped forward and explained that it had been included as a test, to gauge the true understanding of the general public as to the significance of profound realism in art and its reflection of higher ideals. The answer was satisfactory, and all present exhaled a collective breath of relief, as the Chancellor threw back his head and roared at what he perceived as a well-executed joke.
As he approached Helen's Colossus in stone, he stood appraising its shape under the blue velvet drape for some moments before giving the nod that it should be revealed. The fabric slipped away to unclothe an enormous block-like nude, his face turned toward heaven, standing with one foot firmly planted on the anvil of industry and a two-edged sword pressed to his chest. It had been fashioned after the Roman god Vulcan, whose fiery forge produced weapons for the gods.
Helen had received a note from Ziegler some weeks before, informing her that the statue must be changed before it could be presented at the dedication. According to mythology, Vulcan had been lame and walked with a limp, a punishment for his impudence toward Jove. But Chancellor Hitler had thought it inappropriate to display a physical form that was less than perfect, and insisted that the foot, turned inward, should be straightened.
Helen had accepted this idiosyncrasy with indifference, but Lexi had reacted with violent resistance to the inaccuracy. She argued with Helen. But when Helen saw the young woman's hand tighten on the chisel as her rage increased, she put an end to it and slapped her hard across the face, reminding her of her delicate position in the social fabric of the New Order.
Lexi had given the statue a squared-jawed, heavily stylized face, but one that was reflected to a surprising degree in the angular faces of the people of this race. They were beautiful in a heartless and somewhat humorless way, possessing a refinement and cultural charm that stretched like thin skin over the galvanized frame of the warrior beneath. The body she had sculpted was massive and yet graceful, borrowing its form from the broad-shouldered worker with his sinewy muscles, and balancing its coarseness with beautifully sensitive hands and a soft flowing texture in the hair.
Helen held her breath as the Chancellor paced around the statue examining it from every angle. Finally, he nodded his approval and clapped his hands together in praise.
“A true work of German Genius,” Hitler said to Helen as he took her hand. “I am pleased to see that you saw the true nobility in my suggestion.”
Helen's voice stopped in her throat. She was going to explain that she was American, but the wild-eyed look of despair on Ziegler's face took the words away. Instead, she smiled and bowed, an instinctive theatrical gesture from her days as an actress.
“And for you, the creator of beauty, to be so charming, displays a touch of divinity in not only the created, but the creator as well. You must join me in my box at the Konigsplatz tonight. An invitation in your name will be held at the gate.”
The Chancellor shook her hand and nodded, then, without ceremony, turned to greet the others present.
Claxton came to Helen's side and steadied her.
“You're a hit,” he said softly. “Now it looks like we're both on the inside track.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Munich University
A soldier carried a file cabinet from the library and heaved it up onto the pile. Dozens of others from the Kultur Kammer dragged cartons filled with books from the university building and deposited them in the same heap on the lawn outside.
The surrounding park, usually filled with couples strolling in the twilight, now attracted curious onlookers, silent and watchful. Isolated figures stood silhouetted against the glow as the great pile was torched into a righteous and purifying bonfire.
Michael Kroeger stood nearby, breathless, as he watched the perfect surface of a mahogany desk wither and blacken behind a curtain of flames.
Michael cautiously pushed his bicycle toward the other side of the quad. He loosened the strap that held his notebook, never quite able to take his eyes from the violent blaze that seemed so out of place on the inviting green lawn of the school.
He pulled open the door to the registry hall as a soldier lumbered through, carrying in his arms what appeared to be an entire set of encyclopedia intend
ed for the fire.
“What's happening?” he asked a young girl. But she hurried away, distracted by some unconscious purpose, her feet clattering down the marble hallway, leaving Michael's question unanswered.
He made his way to the door marked registration and took his place with a handful of young men waiting on wooden folding chairs against the wall. One by one they were called to approach a table, standing like an island of black lacquer in a sea of polished floor. There was scarcely any other furniture, and Michael wondered if the room had sacrificed its contents to the fires of purification outside. The wood and glass cabinets built into the wall appeared to be the only furnishings exempt from the conflagration.
On one shelf, amongst some books, Michael noticed a glass bell jar imprisoning an ancient, withered sparrow that sat wired to a dead twig. Its mouth was open, as if to sing, but stifled in the airless space without oxygen enough to carry the sound of a single note. The glass dome had been brought down over it, intending to seal in the uncomplicated creature's beauty and simplicity for eternity. It had cruelly failed. Now, it was nothing more than a faded, lifeless thing, mute and colorless in death.
“Michael Kroeger.”
The unfamiliar name was called twice before Michael was roused from his pondering of the sparrow. He leapt from his chair, causing a loud disruptive noise to reverberate around the huge vacant space and a disgruntled frown to register on the face of his inquisitor.
“You've applied to the University in Stuttgart.” The old man read from Michael's application, without looking up at him. “You are applying for the examination on Wednesday next to enter as an undergraduate.”
“Yes sir, “ Michael responded inappropriately to the apparent question.
The old man looked up and grunted his disapproval.
Michael let the nervous smile fade from his face and lapsed into silence. His heart raced and the palms of his hands were so wet that he could feel the dampness seeping into the fabric of the woolen cap he twisted between his fingers. What would he do if his deception were discovered, what would they do to him?
