Return of the Demi-Gods

by Rex Baron

  •••

  Ilse hurried along the Konigstrasse looking for the landmark of the butcher shop that told her the meeting was just around the corner and down a half flight of stairs into the basement of a small bookshop. She rapped on the door in a series of short and long taps, a kind of Morse code that would inform the members inside that one of their own had arrived. She had been careful not to have been followed and looked back over her shoulder a dozen times as she twisted and turned through alleyways and side streets in order to obscure her direction. The reason for the secrecy was that although the Hitler Youth was growing as a national organization, with eighty branches and nearly seven hundred members, many of the locals in small towns disliked the growing Socialist Party and persecuted the young promoters of the Worker’s Movement and the followers of Herr Hitler at any opportunity.

  Once inside, Ilse greeted the handful of her compatriots and browsed a collection of new Party pamphlets that were laid out on a long table at the back of the room. Posters displaying illustrations of beautiful blonde boys and girls, the flower of German youth, lined the walls, featuring slogans like: Kraft durch Harte Arbeit, strength through hard work. Countless photographs and lithography, borrowed from the Wandervogel, the league of boy scouts, encouraged handsome young men with sand-colored hair to return to nature and the wholesome ways of the traditional German farmer, while others showed rosy cheeked Madchen in dirndl and apron, marching into the fields with smiles on their faces and rakes on their shoulders, like rifles.

  Ilse bowed her head to examine the new offering of propaganda for their organization, but surreptitiously, she glanced around to determine if Carl-Heinz Neumann had already arrived. The object of her attentions was in the corner, talking to another lanky youth. The handsome Bergemeister’s son had joined the ranks of the Hitler Jugend in order to throw off the oppression of his middle class parents. He claimed that he believed in a Germany without the hierarchy of a class system, and that the people should return to the values of a less corrupted time, when the country was strong and unadulterated by foreigners. Ilse had never been exposed to such ideas, and when she had come to her first meeting, here in the basement of the shop, she was overwhelmed by the young youth leader’s passion when he spoke of such ideals, and a beautiful agrarian Germany of a future that was just within reach.

  Ilse approached and stood waiting respectfully, until he had finished his exchange with the other boy, only then speaking.

  “Gruss Gott, Carl-Heinz,” she said with a timid smile.

  He turned his pale blue eyes towards her, and his mouth turned up in amusement at seeing her.

  “Gruss Gott?” he repeated her words as a question… implying that she had committed some small transgression that he might be willing to forgive. “Since when do we greet our fellow Germans with a God bless you? It’s a little Catholic, don’t you think? Not at all egalitarian.”

  “Well, it’s what the farm folk say, and isn’t that what you’re always talking about… that we should be more like the common people.”

  Carl-Heinz laughed, as he pushed his platinum-colored hair away from his forehead with his hand.

  “You’ve got me there,” he said. “Your logic is faultless.” He bent down and kissed her cheek. “It’s nice to know that when I give my little inspirational talks, someone is actually listening.”

  “You’re a brilliant speaker,” Ilse replied, hoping that her flattery would somehow strengthen their relationship. “I read an article that was written by Kurt Gruber, in July, when the Jugend went national. He’s just a few years older than you… and he’s the leader of this whole organization, but he isn’t half as inspirational as you.”

  Ilse’s comment had the desired effect, eliciting a broad smile from the handsome young man and a patronizing little pat on her back. She gazed into his pale German eyes and longed for his touch to be more personal and intimate. But, instead, he stepped away from her and reminded her that the meeting was about to begin.

  “Oh, before I forget, I have something I wanted to bring to you… for the cause,” Ilse said, as she fumbled in her woolen coat pocket for the twenty dollars she had stolen from Helen’s bureau. She extended the crumpled bill toward him, along with what she hoped would be an appropriate expression of devotion on her face. Carl-Heinz quickly snatched the bank note from her hand and shoved it in his trouser pocket.

  “That’s a lot of money these days. Where did you get it?” he asked, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

  “I helped the actress I’m working for, and she gave it to me as a reward,” Ilse lied.

  “Well, it’s very noble of you not to keep it for yourself and donate it to our organization,” the young man replied, patting the pocket of his trousers with his palm. “I’ll see that it gets put to good use.”

  Ilse hesitated for a moment, knowing that she had to tear herself away and find a seat for his talk. Then, she ventured a comment, as casually and dispassionately as she could.

  “I know your views on marriage and sex are very much in keeping with Herr Hitler. I have decided that I would like to give a little talk of my own to the young women of the BDM about the need to produce children to populate a new Germany… and I wondered if you would meet with me sometime… to give me some guidance, and to teach me what I might need to know, so that I will say the things that are correct and in keeping with what we believe.”

  Until this moment, it had never occurred to Ilse to give a talk to her companions in the League of German Girls, and she had certainly never arranged to do so, but she desperately needed something that might draw this beautiful man to her and make him notice her as something more than just one of his many devotees.

  The penetrating blue eyes glistened with pleasure at her request.

  “Ah, so… now, you are doing the speaking too I see,” he answered with a hint of a mocking laugh.

  “Not that I could begin to be as persuasive as you,” Ilse hastened to add, “but I want to do what I can to further the cause you speak of… and I know that if you can teach me… guide me, I will not fail the Jugend or the Fatherland.”

  Carl-Heinz put his hand on her shoulder and then moved it slowly upwards, caressing her neck.

  “I’m sure I can help you discover more about the subject of which you ask,” he said in a soft low voice. “Perhaps we can meet later, after the meeting, to discuss this.”

  “I can’t. The actress will be back from her party tonight and I need to be there to put her things away.”

  Carl-Heinz shook his head

  “Being in service to the Bourgeoisie is what we are fighting to end,” he said, as if reproaching her for her work.

  “How about tomorrow… late in the morning,” Ilse interjected hastily, intending to stem his negative reaction.

  “Where?”

  “Come to the apartment on Volksstrasse. I have my own room there,” Ilse added with a hint of pride. “They will be out in the morning at a meeting so, we will have the whole place to ourselves.”

  Ilse flashed a tempting smile that Carl-Heinz could not resist.

  “What is the street number?” he asked in a way that told her the assignation was confirmed.

  “It’s 4737 on die Volksstrasse… a large apartment building… eleven o’clock?”

  The handsome blue-eyed German boy did not answer, but gently stroked the length of her arm, as a silent signal of acceptance, before he stepped away and took his place on the speaker’s podium.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Helen and Claxton’s apartment, Bayreuth

  Helen and Claxton did not return home from the ball until well past one o’clock.

  The philter that had been prepared to enchant Prince Henry had been a total fiasco, discharged, seemingly without any effect at all. If it had not been for the bungling fool who had snagged Helen’s dress and caused her to collapse into him, it might have been a completely different sort of evening. Helen pondered the possibilities as she took off her fur cape and tos
sed it onto a chair in the drawing room.

  She dismissed her ponderings now as unfulfilled fantasies… spilled milk… merely what might have been. She could not, however, totally dismiss the intense gaze and the beautiful tortured face of the arrogant young man who had caused the calamity. She remembered that she had held her breath when his hand had made contact and caught her around the waist to stop her from falling. Knowing the purpose of the charm was to make whoever might touch her fall in love with her, she had gasped in a kind of orgasm of anticipation, expecting to see the fire of passion suddenly ignited in his eyes. But it had not. When she pushed him away and reproached him for his impudence, he simply backed away and left. Now, hours after that moment of unrealised climax, she could not help but wonder where he had gone and where he was. With a shudder of apprehension, she examined her own mental ramblings and questioned, for a moment, whether the spell might have, in some way, been accidentally discharged in reverse and she had been the one who was now charmed by him. She dared not even let herself think about it.

  “Well, that was a complete waste of time,” she said, as she let herself drop into one of the white silk sofas in front of the fireplace. “Are you sure you made this thing correctly?”

  Having reproached it for its uselessness, she tore the impotent sachet from its hiding place in the bodice of her dress and tossed it on the floor.

  “I didn’t get myself a Royal Prince as an admirer and lover, but I almost got some narcissistic lunatic with broad shoulders, a tight fitting suit and perfect teeth,” Helen snapped at Claxton.

  Claxton turned to her and gripped the mantle of the fireplace to help stabilize the effects of too much alcohol.

  “That’s rather a confusing description of your young admirer, don’t you think? It’s contemptuous and flattering at the same time,” he noted impartially. “I, myself, do not remember any particular characteristics about the young man who saved you from plummeting down the stairs, face first… but then, I’m not the one who has a penchant for exotic looking men in tight trousers.”

  Helen glowered at him from where she sat.

  “Nonsense, that man is nothing but a clumsy fool. I felt like I was back in one of Max Sennett’s slapstick comedies.” Helen said, with a monumental sigh of exhaustion. “What are we going to do now? What a brilliant piece of parlor magic have you got up your sleeve for us next?”

  “Well, the good news is that you were able to play the Lucy card to the hilt, and the old boy seemed to delight in all of your shamelessly fabricated tales of girlish camaraderie with the dear departed little diva,” Claxton replied. “I must give you kudos my dear. You are really quite a gifted liar.”

  “And by some stroke of luck, I was able to convince him to be with us when we meet the theatre critics in the morning,” Helen stated with some amazement.

  “However did you manage that, my little Svengali?” Claxton replied, as he held tight to the mantle, to keep the room on an even keel, as if it were a rudder.

  “I went all Mary Pickford on him, and told him how terrified I was of meeting the press… because my German is so limited… and prevailed upon him to rescue me, and make certain that I understood all that was being said and was not made to say anything that might be misconstrued and embarrass me or his kind patronage… boy did I lay it on.”

  “And the old fool went for it?”

  Helen frowned as she replayed her performance with the Prince.

  “I suppose, now that I think of it, I was being what he wanted me to be… more sweet and considerate, like Lucy, and less like me.”

  “Well, a brilliant piece of acting is a brilliant piece of acting, and if it gets the desired effect from its audience, then I call for applause and a standing ovation.”

  Claxton let go of the mantle and clapped his hands together, before hurriedly reaching for its stabilizing safety once more.

  At that moment, Helen noticed that Ilse was standing in the doorway, dressed in an overcoat over her nightgown.

  “Where are you going?” Helen asked abruptly, shattering the reflective tone of the conversation.

  “Nowhere Madame,” the girl answered.

  “Then why are you wearing a coat?”

  “I don’t have a robe and thought it inappropriate to appear in my night clothes,” Ilse answered with her eyes trained on the floor in front of her. “I wanted to help with your dressing and put your things away before bed.”

  “Well, well, now there’s a conscientious working girl for you, and modest too,” Claxton said, as he slapped the top of the mantle with his hand, but dared not stray far from its comfort.

  He could not take his eyes off Helen as he watched her talking to the girl. She looked so beautiful, lounging there on the white silk sofa, dressed in her luminous evening gown, the color of new fallen snow. She was like an elegant confection of some sort, a wedding cake… no, better still, a society portrait, painted by John Singer Sargent. The idea of the image in white comforted him, because it seemed to mask the truth of what he knew about her… that beneath the glow of cool refined elegance that she presented at this moment lay a dark cruel woman that he feared he loved with all his heart.

  “Well, Ilse, I suppose we’d better get to it then,” he heard Helen say outside his reverie. “We have that meeting with the press tomorrow at ten that I told you about, so make sure my clothes are laid out, so that I can finish dressing by nine-thirty.”

  The young girl nodded obediently and made her way down the hallway to the bedroom. Claxton’s mouth turned up into a sneer that could pass for a smile, as he watched Helen dispatch the girl to her duties.

  “You know you are rather convincing at all of this,” he said with a hint of admiration that he was willing to let her see.

  “What?”

  “Oh, being the grand lady of the house. It suits you somehow,” he answered. “I think you have a natural knack for it.”

  Helen snorted out a harsh laugh to intentionally shatter his impression.

  “Yeah… and I’m sure, I’ll make someone a lovely wife.”

  The next morning, Helen rose early and spent over an hour with her makeup, trying to repair the damage the late night and the effects of alcohol had done to the illusion of innocent beauty that she would need in order to make an appearance for the Prince and the press. She applied a particularly pale foundation, painted on soft amber eyelids and a pale rose mouth that might pass for youthful purity with the help of a small cloche hat with a half veil that covered her eyes.

  Claxton looked none the worse for wear. But then, as he always boasted, he could swim the English Channel filled with alcohol, and never even get wet. He wore a casual blue serge suit with a waistcoat that was a muted yellow. Helen looked up from the mirror and her final touchups to eye him coolly.

  “If we were back in the States, I’d make some joke about the yellow bellied something or other, but here I’m afraid it would just fall flat.”

  Claxton ignored her attempt at an insult.

  “This color is all the rage, all over Europe,” he protested mildly. “I think I look the very picture of an international gentleman. Why, I’ll have you know this suit is made of the finest twill fabric that the tailor could offer on credit. I must say, your association with the Prince certainly does open doors.”

  “Well, go easy on spending my money,” Helen replied coldly. “I haven’t made any here yet, and the way we’re spending…” She let the sentence trail off, not wanting to sound unconfident, or worse yet, afraid.

  “You look lovely,” Claxton said to the reflection of Helen that stared up at him in the dressing table mirror.

  “By the way… did you take any cash out of my chest of drawers lately,” she asked, impervious to his comment. “It seems like I have less than I thought I had.”

  Claxton shook his head.

  “With this ridiculous exchange rate, I never seem to get it straight in my head,” Helen reasoned. “I guess I must have subtracted wrong or something.”
>
  •••

  By nine-thirty Helen and Claxton had departed for the café on Leopoldstrasse, where they were to meet the entourage of the Prince, as well as the three major theater critics from each of the local newspapers. Ilse closed the door behind them and listened to the diminishing sound of their footsteps, as they made their way down the stairs. She was finally free of them for the rest of the morning. She had been told that Helen would do an interview, then, they would all have a smart lunch at one of the fashionable restaurants off the Leopoldplatz. She could safely assume that they would not be returning until half past one, at the earliest. There would be plenty of time to meet with Carl-Heinz.

  The young maid tidied the dressing table and Helen’s room, putting away the clothes that had been strewn over most of the furniture, before returning to her room to get herself dressed for what she hoped would be a special occasion. She had decided, in her plan for her own future, that she would choose today to surrender her virginity to the beautiful young Youth Leader as a proof of her commitment to the New Order and its innovative ways of thinking. She had been raised a Catholic, but after listening to Carl-Heinz and the others, she had come to realize that saving herself for some idealized husband, and being bound to him for a lifetime of drudgery in marriage, was a traditional idea that had its roots in obedience and slavery. Instead, she chose to embrace the ideals of the new way of thinking and give herself to a man whose child she would want to have, whether they were married or not.