Swan Song

by Elizabeth B. Splaine

  “How are you doing?” Marika asked.

  Unwilling to burden Marika with her mental musings, Ursula focused on her most glaring physical impairment. “My feet feel as if they will disintegrate into nothing.”

  Marika glanced at her high-heeled shoes. “Probably not the best choice for walking, my dear.”

  “Yes, well, I certainly didn’t know I would be walking so far, did I?” Ursula shot back.

  “It could be worse, Ursula.”

  Ursula cut her eyes toward Marika, a sharp retort at the ready, but noted the sadness in her new friend’s gaze. She surmised that Marika was thinking about her daughter, so she put her arm around Marika’s shoulders and pulled her close. “You’re correct, Marika. It could be much worse. Thank you for your kindness, for taking care of me when I was completely alone.”

  Marika smiled and waved her hand. “It was nothing.”

  A man ahead of them stumbled. He attempted to rise but fell again. One of the two soldiers accompanying them appeared at his side. “What is it?” he asked.

  “My ankle.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “I’m sure that I can.” He managed to stand but dropped when he put weight on his right leg. The man sighed deeply. “I cannot walk.”

  The soldier’s mouth twitched. “What’s your name?”

  The elderly man straightened and lifted his chin. He looked to be about seventy years old, and he carried himself with pride and authority. His voice was strong and resonant. “Leo Baeck.”

  The soldier turned to his colleague. “Check the list.” The second guard opened a small black notebook and perused its contents, then nodded. The main guard examined the tired group and pointed to two prisoners who looked to be about fifty. “You two. Get over here and carry this man. We have approximately one kilometer remaining.” The guards walked away briskly, returning to their positions amidst the queue.

  “What just happened?” Ursula asked.

  “That’s Leo Baeck, a well-known rabbi and hero from the Great War. His name must have been in that notebook. Perhaps it’s a list of Jews who shouldn’t be killed.”

  Ursula looked disbelievingly at Marika.

  “I bet your name is in that notebook, Ursula.”

  Before Ursula could respond, Marika continued. “I bet that my name is not.”

  “Don’t say that. Your husband has been invaluable, has he not? You told me that he came several weeks ahead of you to prepare the housing for us.”

  Marika’s eyes glistened. “That’s true.”

  “Don’t worry, Marika. You and I will take care of each other.”

  Marika turned to face her. “And your Willy will speak to his uncle and return from England to fetch you and whisk you away to live happily ever after.”

  Marika’s words saddened Ursula to her core. How could Willy possibly find me in this wilderness? But she knew Marika was trying to lighten the mood, so she smiled to appease her worry.

  They continued to walk in silence until, forty excruciating minutes later, Terezín came into view. Anticipating warmth and an end to their trek, the group moved faster and started chatting excitedly. The guards didn’t discourage the banter and even engaged in small talk with the first in line, a relatively young man Ursula recognized as a famous artist from Berlin.

  Ursula looked up as they approached the main gate. She read the words etched in iron.

  ARBEIT MACHT FREI

  “What do you suppose that means?”

  Marika glanced up. “Work sets you free.”

  “I know what it says, but what does it mean?”

  Marika shrugged. “As long as there’s a hot meal and a comfortable bed, I don’t care what it means.”

  They passed through the gate, and the group slowed its pace. Tension crept into Ursula’s shoulders as she examined her new home. Sidewalks lined the cobblestone street, which was wide enough to accommodate two cars. Large, beige buildings with tall windows stood on either side, and as she scanned the second floor of the building on her left, a woman with a haunted visage stared back at her. Ursula couldn’t pull her gaze away from the gaunt woman whose vacant eyes reflected the ghetto’s lack of color. She whirled around to see ten armed SS men block the path they’d just taken, and she was overwhelmed with a sudden, ridiculous urge to run. Tossing aside all logic, she quickly searched the area for a hiding place, but everywhere she looked she saw guards with guns. Panicking, she turned to Marika, but her companion, like everyone else in their convoy, had sunk to the sidewalk to rest as they leaned against their meager possessions. With an anguish she hadn’t known possible, the weight of a thousand empty souls bore down on Ursula, and she realized with dismal certainty that she’d entered Hell. They’re sheep being led to slaughter, and they’re so grateful for a rest that they ignore the captivity that stares them in the face.

  “Fräulein?” Ursula spun around to find Commandant Seidl at her side, his hand on her elbow. “Did you enjoy your stroll?”

  Ursula remained silent.

  “It’s this way to the physician’s office. I shall escort you.”

  Ursula stared at his hand on her arm. She wanted to strike him. She wanted to steal his gun and shoot him. “No thank you, Herr Commandant.”

  Seidl’s eyes became hard and he leaned toward her. “Now what kind of gentleman would I be if I allowed a beautiful woman to be scarred by the barbaric actions of some thugs. Follow me.” He walked away, obviously expecting Ursula to follow him. Desperate, she glanced at Marika, who nodded and inclined her head in the direction he had taken.

  Ursula closed her fingers around Willy’s locket and envisioned him: his smile, his embrace, his laughter, his warm eyes. A voice in her head whispered so quietly that she strained to hear it.

  Survive. Live to see another day.

  Pushing all unproductive thoughts aside, she took a deep breath and followed Seidl, who had disappeared around a corner. As she hurried to catch up, a woman in a mink coat mumbled something. Ursula stopped. “Were you speaking to me?”

  The elderly woman smiled sadly. “He’s doing you a favor.”

  Ursula shook her head. “Who?”

  The woman glanced toward Seidl, whose pace had not slowed. “He’s doing you a favor and will expect something in return. They always do.” Ursula’s mind wandered to her father’s similar warning. Although he had been describing Hitler, Otto’s words mimicked the woman’s perilous prediction. “A man like that always expects something in return for a favor. He will want loyalty. And loyalty can be deadly.”

  29

  Willy alerted the captain that Ursula was missing, and the Drottningholm’s small security team performed a thorough inspection of the ship. They found no sign of Ursula, save the blood smear and lipstick smudge that Willy had originally discovered. Believing that someone might have heard a commotion, Willy requested that they question passengers whose cabins bordered the telephone room, but the captain reiterated the points that Anna had made. How was Willy sure that the bloody smear was Ursula’s? And, as luck would have it, the captain’s wife wore the same shade of lipstick as the smudge. Just for good measure, the captain added, how did Willy know that Ursula had not changed her mind and walked off the ship of her own volition? At that point, Willy had explained who Ursula was and how she’d angered the Führer, then pleaded with the captain to return the ship to Hamburg. By the end of the tale, the captain agreed that Ursula had most likely been kidnapped but had informed Willy that by law he was not allowed to return the ship to its port of embarkation.

  “So, what are my options?” Willy asked, exasperated.

  “When we arrive in England, use every possible connection you have to put pressure on your uncle to return Miss Becker.”

  Willy had stormed off in frustration and had spent the rest of the voyage awaiting contact from his uncle and calming Otto, nei
ther of which had been successful. Otto, initially ecstatic about the voyage, had turned morose upon hearing of Ursula’s disappearance. He kept to his stateroom and resisted any attempt to draw him out. Willy never heard from Hitler and questioned whether Anna had actually delivered the message. Two more ship-to-shore telephone calls had been equally as unsuccessful, one of them failing to go through and the other resulting in another unreturned message.

  Willy and Otto arrived in Southampton, England, and presented their landing cards at the custom house, where—due to his surname—Willy received an icy stare from the clerk as he stamped his documents. The clerk then questioned Otto as to why he was traveling with Willy, and Otto broke down sobbing. Otto’s emotional breakdown, combined with Willy’s last name, led to them being detained for questioning.

  The Southampton police ushered them into a small, gray room where they peppered Otto with questions that Willy translated into German. Otto answered in fits and starts, vacillating between grief and anger. As the officers gained an understanding of what had transpired, they became sympathetic and ended the interview by wishing Otto “all the luck in the world” in finding his daughter. The men exchanged sad glances with Willy and told him that if he ever needed anything, to call and ask for them personally.

  “That Hitler is a real pisser, isn’t he? No offense, sir. I know he’s your uncle and all.”

  Willy waved the comment away. “No offense taken, my good man. I hate my uncle. In fact, when all of this is said and done, I believe that I’ll write a book about why I detest him so much.”

  The men had a chuckle at that, then walked Willy and Otto to the Southampton train station, where they purchased two one-way tickets to London. Several hours later Willy yawned and stretched, then shook Otto awake as the train pulled into the station. Otto looked out the window and blinked several times while Willy collected their belongings.

  “It is so large,” Otto marveled.

  “What? The train station? Wait until you see the city, Herr Becker.”

  Otto stood and placed his hand on Willy’s shoulder. “Willy, I believe that the time has come for you to call me Otto.” The older man became teary and then gathered Willy for a hug. Willy returned the embrace and whispered, “Upon my honor, Otto, I will find Ursula and return her to both of us.”

  When Otto withdrew, he was crying openly. “I am afraid it might be too late, Willy. Both of my daughters are lost to me. They might be alive, but I cannot access either of them. It’s enough to break an old man’s heart.”

  Willy leaned close and gripped Otto’s arms. “Listen to me! I will find Ursula and bring her home.”

  Otto’s beseeching look was so desperate, so needy, that Willy had to turn away. “Follow me, Otto.”

  The two men exited the dark train station to discover a brilliant summer day. Cars, buses, and taxicabs whizzed past, crammed with businessmen rushing to meetings and women carrying colorful shopping bags. Otto started to cross the street but stopped when he spotted a red, double-decker bus. He stared, open-mouthed.

  “What is that?”

  Willy smiled. “It’s a bus with two levels.”

  “Why?” Otto asked as his eyes traced its path down the road.

  Willy placed his hand on Otto’s back to keep him walking. “Because some of our streets are so narrow that a longer bus cannot negotiate the turns. So, a Parisian came up with the idea of a shorter bus that has two levels.”

  “Miraculous,” Otto breathed.

  Willy’s pulse quickened as they approached his mother’s house. He had been gone for several years and was excited to see her. “Two more blocks, Otto. Can you make it?”

  Otto looked offended. “Of course I can.”

  Willy glanced at Otto’s red face. “How about I take your suitcases?” Without waiting for a reply, Willy took the bags and continued walking. As they rounded the final corner, Willy smiled broadly. “Here we are!”

  They stopped in front of a smart, brick house that boasted window boxes filled with brilliant flowers. A gardenia wreath graced the front door, which burst open with such gusto it banged against the inside wall. Bridget Hitler stood there beaming, an apron tied around her ample waist. Her hands flew to her rosy cheeks. “I was staring out the window, waiting, when I saw a striking young man round the bend. As I live and breathe. William!” She rushed down the stairs and wrapped her arms around her only child. “Let me look at you!” She held Willy at arm’s length and evaluated him. “You look very thin, young man. Very thin. Oh! Who might this handsome devil be?”

  Otto removed his hat and smoothed his sparse hair. He spoke in broken and heavily accented English. “Hello, Madame Hitler. I am Otto Becker. I am pleased of make to my acquaintance.”

  Bridget drew herself up to her full five-foot-three frame and smiled up at Otto. “Hello, Mr. Becker. I am Bridget Hitler and I, too, am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Otto grinned, incredibly proud that he had made himself understood in a language so foreign to his tongue.

  “Let’s get you inside for a good meal and some rest.”

  Bridget and Willy led Otto to his bedroom and then showed him the bathroom in the upstairs hallway. A buzzer sounded and Bridget excused herself to finish preparing tea. When she had gone, Otto spoke in German. “Only one person lives in such a large home, Willy?”

  Willy reminded him that there used to be three people living there. “But then my father went to Europe on business and remained in Germany during the Great War. Initially he couldn’t get out of the country and then, when he finally could, he no longer wanted to. So, it’s been Mum and me for some time. That’s why I went to Germany, Otto, to see my father and his brother, Uncle Alf. Unfortunately, neither relationship worked out.”

  “Your mother must have missed you while you were away.”

  “She did, but she was so pleased when she heard that I’d met Ursula. And she was so excited to meet her—” Willy’s voice failed him, caught off guard by a rush of emotion.

  “Boys, tea!” Bridget called from downstairs.

  Otto squeezed Willy’s shoulder and set his mouth. “As you said, Willy, you will bring her home.”

  They returned downstairs to find the dining room table covered in tasty tidbits: cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches, butter pecan crumpets, deviled eggs and Battenberg cake, scones with raspberry cream, and, of course, tea. Otto clapped his hands together and laughed. “Danke, Frau Hitler!”

  After the men had eaten their fill, Bridget held Willy’s gaze. “Now, son, tell me what on God’s green Earth has happened.”

  Willy had sent Bridget a telegram ahead of their arrival that outlined the gist of Ursula’s kidnapping, but as he filled in the details, Bridget removed a hankie from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. Willy paused every so often and translated for Otto, whose eyes glazed over as Willy spoke.

  “So, what will you do now?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” Willy’s eyes darted from his mother to the floor and back again.

  “What is it? William?” Bridget grabbed Willy’s chin and forced him to look at her. “Tell me.”

  “Well, I was wondering if we might ask Da to intervene on Ursula’s behalf.”

  Bridget released Willy’s chin and leaned back in her chair. Her lips became a thin line. Sensing tension, Otto stopped eating and folded his hands in his lap.

  “We?” she asked.

  “Well . . . you.”

  Bridget crossed her arms. “Why can’t you ask? Why does it have to be me?”

  Willy leaned forward. “You know why, Mum. When I went to Germany seeking a relationship with Da he told me, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t want to know me . . . in any capacity. Given that, you can’t expect me to ask him for help.”

  Bridget’s consternation was evident as she sought a flaw in his logic. “What do you think your Da could do to help?”
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  “I’m not sure, but we have to try.”

  “Son, I know that Adolf and your Da are close, but—”

  “Mum, please.”

  Bridget leaned forward and took Willy’s hand. “You were only three years old when he left us to marry and raise another family in Germany. He’s your father in name only.”

  “Yes, I know. He made that very clear when I was in Germany, which is another reason that the request can’t come from me. But you had a relationship with him. You loved him once, and from what you’ve told me, he loved you too.”

  Bridget nodded her head and smiled sadly. “You’re not wrong, but . . . do you know why I didn’t accompany him to Germany in 1914?”

  Willy blinked. “You told me it was because you didn’t want to leave your parents.”

  Bridget nodded her head. “That’s what I said, but it wasn’t true.” She sighed deeply. “I adored your father, but it turns out he’d been lying to me since the first day I met him. I refused to go with him to Germany because it was a chance for us to escape.”

  Willy’s eyebrows knitted. “What are you talking about, Mum? What do you mean?”

  Bridget removed her hand and picked at a thumbnail. She licked her lips and then swallowed. “He was beating us, Willy. Do you not remember?” She shook her head. “You were so little. How could you remember? Perhaps it’s better that you don’t.” She started to cry and stood, then turned away from him. “He hit you so badly that you had a bruise on your cheek for three weeks. I lied to neighbors and said that you’d fallen down the stairs.” She wiped her eyes and turned around to face him. Her tone hardened as she continued. “Based on the craziness that’s happening now in Germany, I’m convinced that insanity and abuse runs in the Hitler blood.” She retook her seat and put her hands on either side of his face. “Except for you, my dear, sweet boy. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a blessing, but every night I get on my knees and thank the Lord for giving me such a kind, intelligent child. You love Ursula, I know that, and you’re desperate to find her.” Bridget paused, tears running down her face. “But please don’t make me contact that animal of a man.”