Swan Song

by Elizabeth B. Splaine

  Ursula started trembling. She glanced at Fritz and knew that Seidl was correct. Fritz would die without medical intervention.

  “Do not ponder your friend’s situation too long, Fräulein. He doesn’t seem to have much time left.”

  Ursula’s eyes darted between Seidl and Fritz.

  “Ah. I see. You’re calculating if he would survive if he received treatment.”

  Ursula was shocked at Seidl’s insight. He was not only intelligent. He was also cunning. A malignant combination.

  “The answer is that I’m not sure. But what I do know is that he will die without treatment. We have already sent hundreds of prisoners east due to illness.”

  The veiled threat hit home, and Ursula closed her eyes. Her conscience wouldn’t abide Fritz being sent to his death, especially when she could have prevented it.

  Seidl leaned in close. “Fräulein, we both know I could demand what I want, but I am a gentleman. I offer you a choice.”

  “It’s not a choice!” she hissed.

  Seidl was unfazed. “Oh, but it is. The choice may not be a palatable one, but it’s still a choice. I leave the decision to you. Please hurry.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “My wife will wonder where I am if I don’t return home soon.”

  Ursula gaped at him. “You have a wife?”

  “Yes, and two beautiful children.”

  Ursula shook her head. “You would betray her?”

  He laughed. “Our transaction has nothing to do with my wife.”

  Suddenly Fritz sat up and vomited. The sour aroma wafted up from the frozen ground. Despite the frigid temperature, sweat ran down his face. He looked around, found Ursula’s eyes, and collapsed again.

  A wave of nausea swept through Ursula. Without making eye contact with Seidl, she nodded. Silently, he led her into a small room that was used as an office for guards on duty. He closed the door behind them and caressed her face, then leaned down to kiss her. At the last second, she turned her head, so his lips landed on her cheek. She cringed, expecting to be slapped for her noncompliance, but instead he shrugged. “Pull down your undergarments.” She reached under her skirt and lowered her underwear so that it fell around her ankles. He leaned into her so that she could feel his erection on her abdomen. She fought the urge to strike him and focused instead on Fritz, laying outside on the frozen earth. “Turn around,” he whispered. Relieved to not look at him, she turned and felt his hands on her back rubbing gently. “You are so beautiful.” She felt his hands bunch up her skirt until it was hoisted above her hips, then pressure on her upper back as he bent her over the small wooden desk. She gasped as his cold fingers entered her while he fumbled to unlatch his heavy black belt. “You feel so good,” he moaned.

  She heard the belt thump to the floor. His breath came more quickly as he unzipped his pants. She steeled herself by digging her nails into the wood and clenching her teeth as he repeatedly tried to enter her. He cursed under his breath. For a moment she thought that he might give up, but his hands gripped her hips in a vise. Suddenly he was inside her, thrusting violently. She stifled a scream by stuffing her fist into her mouth and tried to ignore the pain as he climaxed. She squeezed her eyes shut, silently apologizing to her father and Willy, willing them to understand the sacrifice she was making for a friend.

  As Seidl withdrew, her mind turned to the conversation with Marika about shining Seidl’s boots. At the time, she’d been adamant that she would never exchange sex for a favor. But as she thought of Fritz, she realized that no one knew how they’d react until presented with an ultimatum. She couldn’t allow Fritz to perish knowing that she could have helped him. She decided that Marika would forgive her. She prayed that Willy and Otto would.

  Seidl lowered her skirt and smoothed it against her buttocks. “I was not aware that you were a virgin. I must admit that I’m shocked, but it made the experience even more pleasant than I had imagined. Definitely worth the wait. You may dress now.” Ursula pulled up her underwear. Her shame was complete as a warm wetness filled her undergarments, and she wondered if Willy would still desire her once he discovered her transgression.

  She became aware that music was carrying up from the basement. Had the group just started singing again, or had they been singing the entire time and she’d simply not heard it?

  She glanced at Seidl as he buckled his belt. “How is rehearsal going?” he asked.

  Ursula stared, unsure how to respond.

  “Verdi’s Requiem is beautiful,” he continued. “Shall we go and watch?”

  “Your wife will worry if you don’t—”

  Seidl raised his eyebrows. “How kind of you to concern yourself with my well-being. My wife can wait. Come. Let’s go together.”

  Ursula thought quickly. “What of Fritz?”

  “Who?”

  Ursula suppressed an urge to kick him in the testicles. “My friend outside.”

  “Ah, yes. We will attend to him immediately following. Come.”

  He opened the door and started toward the stairs, seemingly unconcerned if she followed. Ursula glanced at the door that led outside. She had to choose between returning to Fritz or following Seidl. If I disregard his order, he might refuse to help Fritz at all. She rushed down the stairs and caught up with Seidl as he stepped off the last stair into the basement.

  The four voice parts had come together and were singing through the second movement. For a moment time stopped as the vocalists, unaware of their visitors, sang harmonies that vacillated between melancholic and soaringly triumphant. Ursula watched Seidl for any sign of impulsive violence as he listened, seemingly transfixed. But after several moments, he closed his eyes and swayed as the musical tension built. One of the altos noticed him and stopped singing, followed quickly by others in her section. Schächter took notice and ceased conducting, which caused a straggling effect as the voice of one singer after another decrescendoed to silence.

  Seidl opened his eyes and smiled, then brought his hands together and applauded as more than one hundred haunted eyes looked from him to Ursula. With dread she realized that they must think she had purposely brought him there. Although the commandant had ordered them to learn the work, everyone knew the volatile nature of Seidl’s moods. If he were in a room with an inmate, there was a fifty percent chance that the prisoner might die.

  “Marvelous! Simply wonderful! Keep going,” he called out.

  The singers turned their collective gaze to Schächter, who nodded dumbly. Fearing that Seidl might shoot them when they resumed singing, the conductor snaked his way through the crowd so that his back was to the commandant and the singers were facing him. Ursula realized that, even in this stressful moment, Schächter was protecting his choir. If anyone were going to be shot in the back, it would be him. If Seidl removed the pistol from his holster, the choir would see it and have time to flee. At least some of them might escape up the narrow staircase before they were executed. Ursula marveled at his leadership. His plan was severely flawed, of course, but hope has a way of turning logical thoughts into fairy tale.

  Her eyes flitted to the stairs. She pictured Fritz lying on the cold, hard ground. “Do not even think of attending to your friend until I say so,” Seidl muttered. She glared at him, but he ignored her. “Take your spot, Fräulein. You are a soloist, are you not?” Reluctantly, Ursula found her place among the sopranos.

  The maestro made eye contact with each person as he raised his arms to start the movement. The terrified vocalists, some of whom shook uncontrollably, were completely focused, fearing that if they didn’t deliver a stellar performance, they might be killed on the spot.

  The group managed a private concert that left Seidl openly weeping, and when Schächter ended the movement with a dramatic hand flourish, a heavy silence descended. With collective breath held, they observed Seidl remove his handkerchief and wipe his eyes.

  “Despite the f
act that you are all Juden, I am pleased. Very pleased actually. We shall continue these friendly evenings and you shall perform for all of the officers. Who knows, if you are exceptional, perhaps the Führer himself may pay us a visit!”

  Hysterical twitters erupted as people realized that they would live through the night. Ursula was saddened at how desperate they had become, when news of the Führer coming would bring joy. But of course, each choir member now held value and, therefore, would be spared another day.

  “What of Fritz, Herr Commandant?” Ursula defiantly raised her chin. “He awaits your promise.”

  Seidl’s good humor evaporated. “Ah, yes, Fräulein. We had an arrangement, did we not?” His lewd innuendo was not lost on some members of the choir, who openly stared at Ursula. She ignored their scrutiny and stepped forward.

  “Shall we see to him now?”

  Seidl stepped aside and swept his arm forward, indicating that Ursula should lead the way. As they climbed the stairs, he called out, “Keep rehearsing. I don’t want to be embarrassed if the Führer comes.”

  Ursula stepped outside and was almost blown over by a blast of arctic air. She removed her coat and ran to Fritz, whose body shook uncontrollably. She knelt and placed it over him, chastising herself for not thinking of doing it earlier. “Come, Fritz. Let’s see the doctor.”

  He opened his eyes and whispered through blue lips. “You should not have sacrificed yourself, Fräulein Becker. Not for me.”

  She shifted her eyes to avoid his knowing gaze. “Let’s get you up now.”

  Seidl looked on, arms folded across his chest.

  Fritz moaned as she attempted to lift his frail frame. “I am done.”

  “No, Fritz. You must fight. You must!”

  She felt his body relax. He had ceased shivering. “I am tired.”

  “I know but . . .” Her voice trailed off as he slowly shook his head.

  “It is your turn to fight.”

  Staring into his glassy eyes, she whispered, “I don’t know if I have the strength, Fritz.”

  He closed his eyes and exhaled a ragged breath. “You are stronger than you know, Ursula.” His body went limp in her arms.

  Ursula stared at his kind, weathered face for several moments before looking to the dark sky. She followed a delicate snowflake as it descended, gracefully floating this way and that before settling softly on Fritz’s eyelashes, as if God were anointing Fritz for his ascension. She stared at the snowflake and remembered learning that no two flakes are exactly alike. Each is unique. Her heart felt as if it were being squeezed. The hope she’d enjoyed earlier shriveled, and she felt the burden of life return. Survive. She closed her eyes, wondering if she possessed the strength to carry on. Resist. She stroked Fritz’s cheek. “Thank you for calling me Ursula, Fritz. Be at peace, my friend.”

  39

  “Willy!” Bridget called up the stairs. “Dinner!” When Willy didn’t appear, she set her mouth and returned to the kitchen.

  “He’s not coming. Let’s eat, Otto.”

  Seeing the concern on Bridget’s face, Otto placed his hand on her shoulder. “Let me speak with him.”

  Bridget sighed. “Alright. But don’t be too long. I don’t want your dinner to become cold.”

  Following the Rusty Scupper meeting, Willy had settled into a depression that lasted months. He ate little, bathed infrequently, and drank too much. Bridget did her best to entice him by preparing his favorite meals, and even went so far as to invite childhood friends over for tea. But Willy had begged off, informing her that she had no right to interfere with his affairs, and remained in his room while the gatherings proceeded without him.

  For his part, Otto had grieved in his own way upon learning the outcome of Willy’s meeting. He desperately wanted to believe that Ursula was still alive, but reports coming out of Europe were dire and spoke of thousands of Jews dying in concentration camps in Eastern Germany and Poland. He had attempted to contact Anna through letters, all of which returned to sender within days. With both daughters absent from his life, Otto felt as if his limbs had been severed one at a time, leaving him a shadow of the man he once was. Additionally, being German, he was unable to find any type of work in England, which contributed to his feelings of listlessness and inadequacy. The only bright spot in his life was Bridget. They had discovered a kinship in their shared losses and relied on each other for companionship in these darkest of days.

  Otto climbed the stairs and knocked on Willy’s door before entering. The room smelled of unwashed clothes and body odor. He crossed to the window and threw it open, then pulled the covers from Willy’s bed.

  “Hey!” Willy groaned. He squinted at Otto, then assumed the fetal position, his back to his visitor.

  Otto spoke in German to ensure his meaning was understood. “Is this the kind of man my daughter is supposed to marry? A man who breaks into a thousand pieces when faced with adversity? You should be ashamed of yourself, Willy.”

  Willy didn’t face him and responded in English. “She’s dead, Otto! Hitler’s man told me. He said the words! How can you not accept that?”

  Otto stared out the window at Bridget’s small, tidy garden. The zinnias stood proudly amidst the other flowers and herbs in the well-tended ground. “Because I choose hope, Willy. Because as long as there is no body for me to bury, then I can pray that she is still alive.”

  Willy sat up. Otto noticed that his unshaven face wore a thick layer of stubble and his eyes were dull. “Hope is a four-letter word, Otto.”

  “So is love,” Otto said quietly in English. “You told me that you loved Ursula. You told me that you’d move heaven and Earth to find her. You promised me, Willy. What happened to that man? The one who loved my Ursula so completely that he was willing to die for her?” Otto would have been crying, but anger had sapped his well of sadness.

  Willy’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know what else to do, Otto. My father won’t help. Uncle has disowned me. The British army won’t allow me entry. Tell me. Please. What should I do?” His voice was thick with desperation and helplessness.

  Otto sighed deeply and glanced at Willy’s desk. On it lay several pieces of writing paper. Otto picked them up and read the top line. “‘Why I hate my uncle.’ Willy, what is this?”

  Willy shrugged. “It started as a diatribe against Uncle Alf, but then it changed into an article that outlines why it was good that America entered the war and why they should continue to fight. It’s going to be published in an American magazine called LOOK.”

  Otto read some of the captions underneath the family photographs included with the article. His breath caught in his throat. “You cannot print this, Willy.”

  “Why not? I hate him.”

  “It will enrage him. If Ursula is still alive, he will kill her. Besides, all of this cannot be true.”

  “It is,” Willy insisted.

  Otto continued reading the article and shook his head. “Surely you are mistaken. You say here that Hitler had an intimate affair with his niece named Geli, and that she was pregnant when she committed suicide. That cannot be true.”

  Willy stood. “Which part, Otto? That my uncle slept with his niece, or that she was pregnant? Ursula looked just like her, by the way. Uncle even compared Ursula to Geli in his letter. I think he might be losing his mind.” Willy paused. “Or perhaps he lost it when Geli died, but no one noticed.”

  Otto looked hopeful. “If Ursula resembles this Geli, maybe that’s a good thing.”

  Willy shook his head. “She doesn’t resemble her, Otto. She’s her twin. At one point I would have agreed with you, but not now. I think he vented his frustration on Ursula as his quest for world domination became more challenging.” Willy looked out the window, unable to continue his thoughts.

  Otto’s eyebrows knitted. “This Geli was pregnant when she committed suicide?”

&nbs
p; Willy nodded. “The whole family knew about it. Uncle was furious when she told him about the baby. I’m not sure she killed herself, by the way. She might have been murdered. His gun was found next to her body.”

  Otto stared open-mouthed.

  “I know. It’s beyond comprehension. But it’s all true, and I’m going to print it.”

  “You cannot.”

  “I need to get his attention, Otto.”

  “But not this way, Willy. He’ll kill her.”

  Willy jumped up and grabbed Otto’s shoulders. “She’s already dead, Otto! He told me! I feel it. I know it. Now it’s time for revenge.” He turned away. “Besides, it’s done. I’ve spoken with the editor of the magazine, and the article will run in the July fourth edition. All of America will know what a sick bastard my uncle is.”

  “You’re going to the United States then?”

  Willy shook his head. “Their state department has issued quotas for immigrants and England is already past its quota for this year. I’m unable to obtain a visa.”

  “So, it seems that you’ve not been wallowing in sadness and filth this entire time. You’ve been scheming.”

  Willy rolled his eyes. “There was a lot of wallowing in the beginning, but as my melancholy turned to anger, I started writing, and that’s what surfaced.” He pointed to the pages in Otto’s hands. “I mailed the final draft to LOOK magazine, and they responded that they wanted to print it.”

  “Willy, what if Ursula is alive? You’ll be signing her death warrant if the Führer finds out.”

  “Otto, if I thought for one second that Ursula were still alive, I wouldn’t have sent the article. The only way my uncle will be stopped is if a powerhouse like the United States continues to intervene, and the only way to make the Americans listen is to have them come face-to-face with the devastation he’s causing. In the article I describe Uncle Alf’s world-domination aspirations. If the Americans think he’s coming for them and their way of life, they’ll continue to fight. Otherwise, we’ll all be dead in a matter of months anyway.”