The Secret of Lions

by Scott Blade

  My laughter grew as she slowly pushed the door open.

  I sat on Hitler’s lap behind the desk. He tickled me. The two of us played as if we were longtime friends, or actually father and son. I was too young to know any different then.

  In front of us on the desk were some of Hitler’s old paintings. They rested side by side with my sketches, as if they were all done by the same artist. Hitler admired my talents. Thinking back, I even think he was envious. Even then, my artistic abilities were advanced, far more than his were.

  Hitler looked up from the drawing of a lion and saw Gracy. She froze with terror.

  “Why, Gracy. You woke up just in time. Peter and I were just looking at his sketches. They are so amazing. He gets his talent from me,” Hitler said, with a disturbing expression. His eyes cocked up at her while his head tilted down toward the art.

  Gracy trembled.

  “Why don’t you come in and join us, dear?” Hitler asked. “Come and sit next to us. We can compare Peter’s drawings with mine—as a family.”

  Gracy whispered, “Willem…”

  Hitler was silent for a moment.

  “What? Gracy, did you say something?” Hitler asked.

  “Willem,” she mumbled.

  “Gracy, really I can’t hear what you are saying,” Hitler retorted.

  “His name isn’t Peter! You monster!” she screamed, still trembling in fear.

  Hitler put me up on the desk. He stood up from the chair and tussled my blond hair.

  “Don’t worry, Peter. Mommy is just upset,” he said. Hitler marched over to Gracy.

  She stood completely still. Her breathing grew heavy. Hitler circled around her.

  “Gracy,” Hitler said calmly. “Willem is no more. He is Peter now.”

  “No! He is Willem! He’s my son! And he is Willem!” she screamed.

  “He is Peter! He is Peter! He is my son!”

  Hitler returned. He began banging his fist down on a nearby table.

  Gracy shuddered.

  “He is not your son! He has never been your son! He is Heinrik’s son!” Gracy said. She turned toward him, too terrified to make any other movements. She tried to stand strong and stare into his eyes.

  “Heinrik? Heinrik is dead! He is dead!” Hitler screamed. His anger teetered on the brink of becoming fury.

  One of Hitler’s SS guards entered the apartment to investigate the shouting.

  “Herr Hitler?” the guard called out.

  “Stay out there!” Hitler shouted into the darkness of the hallway.

  “Yes, Führer!” the guard said.

  Hitler clenched his fists. He looked back at me; I stood near the back corner of the room. Holding tightly to my sketchbook, I trembled, staring up at my mother.

  A moment of near silence swept between us. Fire crackled in the fireplace. Hitler approached the fire and leaned against the mantle. He fidgeted with a picture of one of his distant nephews.

  “Did you tell him?” Hitler whispered.

  “What?” Gracy asked. She moved closer so she was within earshot of Hitler’s voice.

  “Did you tell him who his father was?” Hitler asked. He reached out and grabbed my mother by the throat.

  “Momma?” I said. I reached out to her from the back corner of the room with my free hand.

  “Shut up, Peter!” Hitler said. He stared back into Gracy’s eyes and released her from his grip.

  “Does he know, Gracy?” he repeated, taking a deep breath.

  “No,” she said.

  Hitler thought for a moment. He walked over to me. He reached down and tussled my golden hair once again.

  Gracy began to approach me.

  Hitler screamed at her, “Stop! You stay there!”

  Gracy shuddered. Suddenly, she felt cold. Even near the fire, she felt a tremendous chill.

  Hitler grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the desk. He reached into a drawer for a moment.

  “Gracy, did you tell him?” Hitler asked again.

  “I said that I never told him!” she answered.

  “So he doesn’t know about his father?” Hitler asked.

  “I said no!”

  Hitler dragged me by my hand to the front of the desk. I started to cry, standing between Gracy and Hitler.

  Quickly, Gracy saw the gun in Hitler’s hand. It was behind me. I felt its cold steel handle brush against the back of my neck at the bottom of my hair line.

  My mother began to cry also.

  “No, Adolf,” she begged. “Don’t hurt my baby.”

  Hitler motioned the gun behind my head. The barrel peeked out, sending a chill down Gracy's spine.

  “Did you tell him?”

  “No! I swear I never told him! He’s your son! Adolf. He is yours,” she begged.

  Hitler ripped the sketchbook out of my hand. He tossed it to the floor. The book fell open to my favorite drawing of Mocha as a full-grown lion.

  “Son,” Hitler said. “This is a gun.”

  Hitler showed the weapon to me. It terrified me to my very core. He swayed it from side to side so that I could study it.

  Gracy reached out with her hand toward me.

  “No!” she exclaimed.

  Our eyes locked.

  “Please,” she begged.

  Hitler looked up at her.

  “Peter, open your hand,” he said, staring up at Gracy.

  I opened the palms of my hands, reaching out toward her. Hitler shoved the gun into one and gripped it with me. He forced me to hold it.

  “Do you see this whore? Do you see her, Peter?”

  Tears flooded my face. I was utterly confused and scared.

  “Adolf? No,” Gracy pleaded.

  “Who is your father, Peter?” Hitler asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Who?” Hitler asked again.

  “Mommy,” I said, staring at my mother through tear-blurred eyes.

  “Peter! Who is your father?” Hitler shouted.

  “Willem,” Gracy said. She smiled at me.

  The gun pointed in her direction.

  “Willem, who is your father? What is his name? Tell me! Tell me!” Hitler screamed.

  My vision was blinded by the tears. I saw my mother’s silhouette. Terrified, I answered, “Heinrik.”

  Hitler froze at the sound of that name. He looked into Gracy’s petrified eyes.

  “You told him!” he shouted.

  My vision cleared. I felt Hitler raise the gun higher. My little fist was forced to hold the gun. It was heavy.

  Scared, I looked down toward the sketchbook. I stared at the lion. The paper was white with the dark shaded areas detailing the black lion.

  My finger was beneath Hitler’s. I felt the weight of Hitler’s hands over mine as I was forced to squeeze the trigger.

  The gun fired. It echoed throughout the apartment building. Several SS guards rushed in, clamoring into the small space.

  I felt the vibration from the gunshot. It shook my entire body. The bones in my arms rattled. The echo penetrated my skull. I could hear nothing.

  I stared in absolute horror at the sketchbook on the floor and at the sketch of the lion. Blood splattered across the page. The blood seeped into the page and filled the outline of the lion. The blood soaked the drawing and then turned black before my eyes.

  I could no longer see the color red. It vanished from the palette of colors held in my mind. It vanished before my eyes, replaced with the color black.

  To me, the color of blood was now the color of darkness.

  Part Three

  Beowulf

  Chapter Five

  The Gathering of Beasts

  20 April 1936

  58

  Moths surrounded the windowpane. A dim light shone through. Outside the government building, people gathered. They waited for hours just to get a glimpse of Hitler. They were unaware that he stood on the east wing balcony. No one could see him. The SS guards had closed off that part of the building to
onlookers. He was alone. He leaned against the railing and looked over the edge. It was a three-story drop to the ground. He could see cigarette butts littered behind the bushes in the courtyard below.

  Hitler wore a new suit, a perfect tie, and a pair of gray trousers. With flawlessly combed hair, he was ready to join the festivities of his comrades. However, his mind was preoccupied and therefore unconcerned with the celebration of his birthday.

  The country’s armed forces were mobilizing and gearing up for a new war. Germany had fortified its relationship with Mussolini. Hitler had already made many friends and enemies. There were politicians in his own party who were concerned with his leadership. There always had been, but the dissenters remained silent for fear of death. Hitler had defeated most of his political enemies. And they usually ended up dead.

  Enormous thoughts weighed on his mind. The entire world watched him now. In order to establish Germany as the superior power he believed it was, he had to consider the actions of the rest of the world. He knew Great Britain would challenge him. He knew the U.S. and Russia would follow. Lost in his thoughts, he almost hadn’t noticed he was not alone.

  Slowly, a figure moved silently and swiftly to the balcony Hitler leaned against. At first he did not notice me. It was a few moments before he reacted to my silent approach.

  “Peter,” Hitler said as he gazed into the eyes of a young Willem Kessler. That former name was no more; now I was only Peter. As far as Hitler was concerned, Willem Kessler had died years ago with my mother.

  “Yes, Poppa,” I answered. I stopped in my tracks.

  “You will never be able to sneak up on me, and you know it. I can sense you. That is how you must learn to think. Remember that. Everyone could be trying to sneak up behind you at any given time. Never turn your back.”

  “Yes, Poppa,” I answered. I was a mature 12-year-old at this point. My hair was groomed as perfectly as Hitler’s. His personal aides groomed me. They were constantly brushing my hair and telling me what to say and where to stand.

  My green eyes glimmered from out of the shadows. Hitler smiled at me. The two of us had mostly forgotten the name Willem. Of course, the memory was more lost on me than on Hitler.

  “Poppa, are you going to come inside for the rest of your birthday party?” I asked.

  “I will. I am just thinking about Germany. It’s hard for your father to celebrate when there is so much cleansing to be done in the world. So much cleansing. There are so many German youths out there who are squandering their lives in poverty because of the Jew,” Hitler said.

  “Yes, Poppa.”

  “Son. Don’t call me Poppa. You are too old for that now,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied.

  “Is Himmler waiting for me?” he asked.

  “He is here, but I have not talked with him. He scares me.”

  “What?” Hitler asked.

  “Nothing, Father.”

  “He scares you?” Hitler asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s a weakness in you that I have almost forgotten. You get that from your mother,” Hitler said, looking away from me for a moment. He gripped his hands around the railing on the balcony, staring out over the backyard once again.

  “Peter, you are going to make a fine leader one day. This country will be free of Jewry by the time you arrive into power, but until then you have a lot to learn. You have to learn to be fierce. Remember the lions you painted for me. They do not tremble or feel fear and neither must you. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Father. I understand you.”

  “You must forget your Jewish side. Like Germany, you will forget. Now, let’s go inside and join our guests.”

  Hitler took me by the hand, and we walked through the terrace doors and into the house.

  59

  In a grand ballroom, Germans, Europeans, and Americans mingled. All of the guests were Nazi party members or contributors to the Reich. Many were the most respected politicians and entertainers in the world. Others were wealthy elites and aristocrats.

  They were all there to invest in Hitler’s dream, his vision. The room was burnished like a palace ballroom. Richly decorated tables sat in every corner. Waiters walked around carrying trays of fine wine and fresh fruits. Some carried trays filled with bite-size pieces of Germany’s best chocolate.

  I stood just over five feet now. I was tall for my age. I wore a suit that was tailored specially for this event. I did not make many public appearances. Hitler kept me near but away from all of the politics, the people, and the media.

  I stayed near the darkest corner of the ballroom. I gazed through the thick cigar smoke that flooded the air. I leaned against lime-green wallpaper that covered the wall. I was next to a painting of a woman’s face. The painting was rather abstract, and the face had been painted so that it slowly merged with the background, almost as if the face were becoming invisible, fading away into my memories.

  A quartet of violin players stood in the middle of the room. Political leaders—wearing swastika pins on the outside of their tuxedos—filled the room. Generals talked with rich politicians and their contributors about matters of state. Everywhere I went, I felt out of place and uneasy. I could not remember why.

  I pulled out a small, black sketchbook. It was old and worn. I had drawn in it for as long as I could remember. I’d struggled with my memories all of my life. I rarely looked back at the old drawings. But when I did, they triggered some details I had forgotten.

  Hitler had raised me to believe in the future and not the past. I turned the pages to a new sketch. It was of the magnificent German countryside. There were horses in the distance and a German flag that protruded before a large command center just at the belly of a mountain range.

  “That’s beautiful,” a voice said. It sounded like a girl’s voice. I looked up to see Anna Milan. She was the daughter of one of Hitler’s Italian friends, a businessman.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Your name is Peter, right?” Anna asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. My hair fell slightly in front of my eyebrow. I reached up and furrowed it. I took in the beauty of Anna. Her blond locks fell across her shoulders and over the tops of her breasts. She was an attractive girl. If I were to engage in a relationship with Anna, I was certain my father would approve.

  “Your father is the Führer?” Anna asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I wonder why I have never met you before. My name is Anna Milan; our fathers are friends,” she said. She walked over and leaned against the wall next to me.

  My palms began to sweat a little. I was not very experienced with girls. Actually, I was not very experienced with people in general. Hitler kept me isolated from others. Anna was a year older than I was, but I had heard my father’s friends talking about her body. Many of the older Nazis looked at her with lustful desires.

  “So, you like to draw?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Can you say anything other than yes?”

  “Yes, sorry,” I responded.

  “That’s okay. So what are you drawing?”

  “It’s my father’s vision. I just draw it. He tells me things and teaches me things and then asks me to draw them for him.”

  “Interesting,” Anna said.

  “What about you? What about you?”

  “Well, I’m here with my father and now I’m talking with you. You know I’ve noticed you before.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes, I saw you looking at me last month when your father and my father met for dinner with some people I don’t know. I sat at the far end of the table from you. You just sat and stared at your food.”

  “My father told me that it is better to observe than participate. He always says, ‘The man who observes can act later with a strategic course of action.’ Or he says something like that. I‘ve heard his speeches and talks many times.”

  “Are you sure he said that? It doesn
’t sound like him,” Anna asked.

  “You are right. Maybe I said that,” I said. We giggled. “Honestly, I sometimes don’t listen to carefully.”

  The two of us were now sitting on the floor next to each other. We sat unnoticed by the politicians and onlookers. We were alone in our own space. The lights grew dimmer in the ballroom and candles flickered from their perches and candlesticks. There were more people concentrated around the ballroom dance floor than around the edges of the tables.

  “You know, being the son of the Führer must be exciting,” she said.

  “It can be,” I said.

  “What’s the matter? You are not always excited by the things that are going on around you all of the time? The governing and planning are not exciting? You are witnessing history.”

  “I guess so. I sort of just watch. I don’t really have a very active role in anything that my father does,” I said.

  “What about your mother?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t remember her. My father and I don’t talk about her very much. She died when I was very young. I don’t remember her that well,” I said. “I think she was ill. My father doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  “Ah, well, that must be painful,” Anna said.

  “No. I don’t think about it that much. Like I said, I don’t remember her.”

  “Not at all?” she asked, leaning in closer to me. I could feel her breath on my cheek.

  “Sometimes I dream about her, but they are only dreams. Sometimes I dream of drawing her, but that is all,” I said.

  “And your father never says anything about her?” she asked.

  “He never talks about her. He says that it is not wise to dwell on the past because the past leads us backward when we must go forward. We must always be facing forward. You can’t travel forward when you are watching the road behind you,” I said.

  60

  In a dank room, two of Hitler’s SS guards stared at a man tied to a chair. He was stark naked. His hands and feet were tightly bound. Dirty brown hair was the only thing that kept his head warm. The prisoner was French. It appeared he was barely conscious. The bruises on his body had swelled to the size of lemons.