Dreams of Innocence

by Lisa Appignanesi

Leo nodded. He felt his heart racing. He would always be loyal to Gerhardt, strong for him, with him.

  ‘Good,’ Gerhardt murmured. Suddenly he started to sing, his voice rich mellow over the noise of the jeep. Leo recognized the heroic strains of Siegfried: Siegfried, holding his precious Notung in hand:

  Notung! Notung!

  Sword of my need!

  You are fixed again firm in the hilt.

  Snapped in two,

  once more you are whole;

  No stroke again shall ever smash you.

  You broke when my father

  was doomed to death;

  his living son

  forged you again:

  for me now you laugh and shine,

  and your gleaming edge will be keen.

  They were driving through a small village now and Gerhardt had slowed the car.

  ‘Look,’ he pointed excitedly to the crest of the hill above and stopped the car short on the embankment.

  Leo stared in fascination. Coming towards them he could see a group of men, boys perhaps, carrying a strange looking person clad from top to toe in alder and hazel leaves and water flowers. His head was completely covered by a pointed cap on top of which perched a nosegay of peonies. His arms were held aloft by two young men, each carrying a drawn sword. As they drew closer, Leo noted that they all had drawn swords and for a moment he was afraid. They looked so bizarre.

  ‘It must be a pfingstl rite,’ Gerhardt whispered with something like awe. ‘Pagan. I’ve read about it. Let’s go after them. The others will understand if we’re late because of this.’

  He leapt out of the car, Leo close behind him. They followed the strange procession towards the village houses. At each house, the youths banged at the door and called for gifts. Instead, from an eave window, Leo saw buckets of water poured on the leafclad man. The wetter he got, the more the youths cheered until at the end of the village he was thoroughly and utterly drenched. Then they carried him to the brook which ran through the fields at the backs of the houses and stopped by a little bridge.

  The whole village seemed to be gathered now as the youths waded into the water. When the leafclad man was in up to his waist, one of the youths perched on the bridge lifted his sword and pretended to slash his head off. The cheering reached fever pitch.

  Leo felt Gerhardt’s hand on his shoulder. ‘They’ve killed him now, killed off the old tree spirit, the dying god, to make room for the new,’ he whispered into his ear.

  Leo glanced at him, saw the excitement in that austere, aristocratic face, the flare of the nostrils. The hand was still on his shoulder.

  ‘And we are the new,’ Leo said, gazing into the distance. He wasn’t sure whether he felt or imagined the answering squeeze on his shoulder. Whichever the case, he felt the sap rising in him, as if he too were a young tree god.

  That night his dreams were wild. He was in a dense wood, a bold hero, a fearless Siegfried in search of the corrupt dragon god he would displace. The birds spoke to him in a threnody of song, telling him the location of the evil treasure horde. He held his trusty sword, his Notung, aloft.

  Suddenly the trees were metamorphosed into knights, their banners bold swastikas, blood red. They urged him on, cheered. Forward. If he didn’t slay the dragon, he would never be able to free his friend - the wounded leader encased in a wall of stone in a jagged cliff surrounded by fire. But he wasn’t afraid.

  He marched on and then he saw him: the grizzly creature, his tale a scaly mass, his mouth a cavern waaas just ooon the other side of the river. And beyond him, there was a mountain surrounded by fire. If he could lure the dragon to plunge into the depths, the water would put out the fire.

  He called to him, challenged, raised his sword high, higher, jumped into the depths, heard the dragon plunge. He cried out his leader’s name, ‘Gerhardt, Gerhardt,’ and struck, stabbed hard and again and again.

  The creature writhed madly. Black blood oozed out of it. In the distance, he heard Gerhardt’s answering call, pure, sweet, like the notes of a horn. So sweet. But suddenly, he couldn’t move. The blood was pouring out of him too, sticky, clammy, imprisoning him in the water. He was drowning. And the men were laughing, the trees laughing.

  He woke with a start. The five other boys in his tent were giggling, staring at him curiously.

  ‘That was some nightmare, Adler. You woke us all up.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Leo murmured.

  ‘Look, look, he’s wet his sleeping bag,’ the small runt-like boy who was the only one in the group he had always disliked, pointed. There was a leer on his face.

  Leo looked down at his bag aghast. It was true. There was the tell-tale stain. Shame covered him.

  ‘What do you expect from Jew-scum. They’re bedwetters all.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Leo clenched his fists.

  ‘You heard me, Jew scum. Adler’s a Jewish name, isn’t it?’ the boy taunted him.

  With a single gesture, Leo leapt from his bed and landed a fierce punch on the boy’s face. He had only a second to see his look of surprise, before he launched another. With this one, the boy fell backward, hit his head on a tent pole. There was blood oozing from his nose. Leo pounced on him. The punching felt good, so good, he could throttle him, but the others were clawing at him, holding him back.

  ‘You’ll get sent home, Adler.’

  ‘You know it’s not allowed.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Leo said. But he let go, fought to restrain the tears which now threatened to flood his eyes. Carefully he rolled up the wet sleeping bag, packed his few possessions methodically into his sack. He wouldn’t let his glance fall on the boy who lay sprawled in the corner or on anyone else.

  No sooner had he finished then Junger, their local group head was upon them. He stared at Leo, ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ he muttered, then rushed to tend to the injured boy. He saw him off to the infirmary.

  Leo waited. Not for long. Junger was soon back.

  ‘Now what’s all this, Adler. I want an explanation. A good one. Or you’ll be sent home. You know the rules.’

  ‘I hit him,’ Leo said.

  ‘Why?’

  Leo shrugged, was mute. He couldn’t bring himself to repeat the scene.

  Junger stared at him. ‘It’ll be a black mark on your record, Adler.’

  Still Leo didn’t speak. He felt the boys staring at him. On the ground he noticed some ants scurrying. He was tempted to crush them. But he didn’t move.

  ‘Well, Adler, another minute and I’ll be forced to send you home.’

  ‘I had to hit him,’ Leo murmured, then fell silent again.

  The minute grew into an eternity. At last Junger said, ‘Right Adler. That’s it. Do I put you on kitchen duty until your parents come and fetch you or will you make your own way home?’

  ‘My own way,’ Leo mumbled.

  ‘You’ve got money for the fare?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Bernfeld and Schmitt will walk you to the station. You’ll have an explanation ready for me when I’m back in Berlin. Understood?’

  Leo nodded again, anxious now to be off, terrified that he might bump into Gerhardt if they didn’t go quickly.

  But they managed to leave the camp grounds without any confrontations. That bit of luck, at least, was on his side.

  On the train to Berlin, he sat and stared blindly out the window. He would never see Gerhardt again. Never see any of them again. For a moment, he thought he could smell his sullied sleeping bag on the wrack above him. He would throw it out, burn it.

  But now his cheeks burned instead. With shame. That little runt. He would have liked to punch him until his whole body sagged, punched all the breath out of him. How dare he call him Jew-scum.

  He would never tell about the incident or repeat the accusation. Never tell Junger. The whole thing was too demeaning. The other boys would keep their mouths shut as well, if they knew what was good for them. But what if they told? What if Adler was a Jewish name? He suddenly s
at up straighter. The thought had never occurred to him before.

  He knew nothing about his father. Except that he was dead. Had died before his birth. That he was Austrian. He had always thought of himself as a member of the Austrian aristocracy, a von Leinsdorf, like his mother and his Aunt. Bettina had told him about the von Leinsdorf’s. He was proud of them and their closeness to the Emperor. There were generals amongst them. He had dreamt about that when he was younger. But his father? What if he really were Jewish scum? It would be just like his mother to inflict that too on him. The blood taint.

  By the time, Leo reached Berlin, he was wracked with confusion. On top of it all, he would have to explain his presence to everyone. They weren’t expecting him for another week. He should run away from home. But where would he go? To his mother who would ask him countless questions, who would attempt to pity him, to bury his head in her bosom. No. Berlin was preferable to that.

  It was dark by the time he reached the house. The little ones, thankfully, would be asleep. He glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. With luck everyone would be out except Klaus and old Martha. He could cope with them. He squared his shoulders and turned the key in the lock.

  Everything was quiet. He made his way softly up the stairs. On the first landing, he could see a light coming from Bettina’s study door. Should he slink past or confront her? No, he wasn’t a coward. He would see her now.

  He paused at the door before knocking and with that old habit which he was now ashamed of, listened for a moment. Bettina was talking as always. And the answering murmur could only be Klaus. He raised his hand and then hearing his name, dropped it, listened more carefully.

  ‘Yes. About Leo. Thomas made me think of something the other day. I forgot to tell you. He said his little sculptures were really good and I was looking out the window at Leo and suddenly it struck me. Johannes. He reminds me of Johannes. I know Anna’s always said Bruno was his father, but at the time, way back then during the war, she wasn’t so certain. And now all that talent, I just thought….’

  ‘Soon you’ll be telling me that Max…’ he couldn’t hear the rest of Klaus’s mumble, only Bettina’s:

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  They were silent for a moment.

  Leo stared at the door in a tumult of confusion. Was Bettina implying that Johannes was his real father? She could only mean Johannes Bahr, his mother’s husband. But…

  Leo slunk away. He could hardly remember Bahr, hadn’t seen him in years. He vaguely remembered that as a small boy, he had been being afraid of him. He never came to the house now. Still, if Johannes was his father, then Adler wasn’t. And Bahr wasn’t Jewish as far as he knew. A few weeks back one of his teachers had quoted a famous jurist called Bahr. And his mother had told him that Johannes had been a soldier in the war. He had earned medals.

  Yes, that was it. A plan began to formulate itself in Leo’s mind as he softly climbed the stairs to his room. He would go to Munich. Confront Bahr. Ask him. He would steal away at the crack of dawn. Nobody would know that he had ever come home first.

  Leo opened the door to his room, saw a nightlight, saw a little tousled head peering above blankets. He had forgotten Walter. He put a finger to his lips, closed the door silently.

  ‘Shhh, no one’s to know that I’m here,’ he whispered. ‘And you’re not to tell that I’ve been, okay?’

  The boy looked at him with frightened eyes.

  ‘I’m just going to sleep a little, change, and I’m leaving again first thing. Understood?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Yes,’ he squealed

  ‘Good, it’ll be our secret. Look, here’s one of my best stones to seal it.’ He took one of the stones from his table and handed it to the boy. ‘It’s magic. It’ll bring you luck if you keep your promise. You’ll never have to be frightened again. Right?’

  The boy gazed at the stone distrustfully, then with a sudden smile, tucked it under his pillow. ‘Okay,’ he whispered.

  ‘Good.’

  As silently as he could, Leo opened the cupboard door, threw his rucksack into it and got out of his clothes. Then he rummaged in his desk. He needed an address. There was a letter from his mother somewhere. He hadn’t answered it yet and so hadn’t thrown it away. He remembered that it had borne a Munich postmark, not the usual Seehafen one. Yes, here it was. Leo tucked it into his jacket pocket, took all the money out of his savings box and added that to the pocket. Then he clambered into bed.

  ‘Night, sleep tight,’ he murmured to the small boy whose eyes had never left him. ‘And remember our secret.’

  He left at the crack of dawn the next day, before the house had stirred. Once again he had a sense of being a hero on a quest. After all, Siegfried had set out to find out who his father was. His mind raced ahead of a journey which seemed interminable. He hadn’t taken account of how far Munich was, how long it would take him to get there. By the time he arrived, it was late at night and he was too tired to think of confronting anybody.

  He looked round the station and tried to think sensibly. A youth hostel. That was what he needed. They wouldn’t ask questions. He found a policeman who guided him to an information desk and eventually, exhausted, and having lost himself in a maze of streets, he located the hostel on a cobbled back street.

  In the morning, he woke with a sense of being lost. He couldn’t remember where he was, and when he remembered he suddenly thought he must be mad. What would he say to Johannes Bahr? And would the man be able to answer? Would he know whether he was his father and if he knew wouldn’t he have told him so years ago? Perhaps his mother had kept it secret.

  His mind reeled with the untold possibilities, with duplicities. He covered his head with his pillow. Didn’t fatherhood mean anything to her? No, she was just a stupid woman, had no respect. Like Bettina, the two of them alike really, despite all the surface differences. They had no respect, cared not a hoot for men, wanted to trample them. Like those wild Red women, old Steinecker had talked about. Why, just look at Klaus. Bettina had ground him down.

  From a distance he heard the wake-up bell ringing. His cheeks were hot. Slowly he dragged himself out of the bed, went to splash cold water on his face. He must pull himself together. He had come this far and he wouldn’t give up now. He remembered that horrid little runt telling him Adler was a Jewish name. He squared his shoulders. No, he wouldn’t be afraid. Some food. That was what he needed. He hadn’t had a proper meal since the day before he had left the camp. Food would set him right.

  He looked at his face in the small bathroom mirror. Saw the clean lines, the square jaw, the shock of gold blond hair. Gerhardt had said he looked like Parsifal. He must remember that, even if he never saw Gerhardt again. He couldn’t see him unless he cleared his name. He took a deep breath, fought back the tug of tears. Boys didn’t cry. They didn’t cry.

  He found a cafe, scoffed two buns hungrily and tossed down two glasses of milk. His money was running short. He had to be careful, but he desperately wanted another bun. He had one. After all, he could always ask Johannes Bahr for money, if need be, whatever his paternal status. The thought calmed him.

  By the time he had located the address on the crumpled envelope, it was almost noon. It occurred to him that no one might be in. That made him even braver. He crossed the small courtyard with long strides and then, on the instructions of an old man who was sunning himself in a rickety chair, climbed the stairs in twos, till he reached the top of the building. The door to the apartment was ajar. He hesitated, knocked nevertheless, and when there was no response let himself in. There was a long dark corridor with a multitude of closed doors. At the end of it, one was open to a blaze of light.

  Leo walked softly towards the light. When he reached it, for a moment, he felt blinded. All he could see were huge leering shapes jumping off the walls. Then, from the far end of the vast room, he heard a high-pitched laugh.

  ‘We have a visitor, I think, Johannes.’
r />   A woman was standing stark naked on a pedestal, her breasts pendulous, her heavy shanks blotchy in the sunlight.

  ‘One of your pretty boys,’ another woman laughed. She was sprawled over an old easy chair, her legs parted, so that Leo could clearly see her private parts where the tulle of her gown spread. He averted his eyes. There was a huge dog at her feet, a mastiff, its great mouth agape.

  ‘Invite him in,’ a third voice said. ‘I’m tired. I could do with a pretty boy.’

  He looked up from the dog to see a woman and a man lying naked on a crumpled sheet on a large table top, no not a woman and a man, two women, their limbs and hair intertwined.

  ‘Come in, pretty boy,’ the woman beckoned him, her mouth parted lasciviously.

  ‘Quiet,’ a man’s voice barked.

  Somewhere a baby began to squall. ‘And now there goes that brat again. Do something Veronica.’

  The woman on the table, leapt off, came towards Leo as if she were not wearing only her smile, lifted a grey rumpled bundle from a sofa and stuck it to her breast.

  The man in the centre of the room threw the brush he had been holding noisily to the floor. He veered round, stared at Leo with great bleary eyes. ‘What do you want here?’ he bellowed.

  Leo stood as if transfixed.

  ‘Well? Have they sent you here to pose? What is it? Have you lost your tongue?’ The man came towards him threateningly.

  Leo turned and ran, ran down the long, grey, corridor. He could hear them laughing behind him,

  ‘You scared him away, you old monster.’

  ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  ‘Such a pretty boy, too.’

  Then the man’s voice, shouting after him, ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute.’ He was running to catch up with him.

  Leo raced down the stairs.

  ‘You’re not Leo, are you by any chance?’ he heard him call, as he reached the courtyard. But he carried on running, ran until he could run no more. And then ran a little further, as if his life depended on it.

  His thoughts raced. There was no father there. Just a filthy debauched monster, a canker on the pure white body of the fatherland. He lost himself in a maze of streets, finally stumbled on the station, took the first train north, any train. He had to get out of here. Get out of this city.