Return of the Demi-Gods

by Rex Baron

  Perhaps one of these ancient gatekeepers was acquainted with the real Michael Kroeger or was even a relation. He stared down at the old man before him, who muttered the words from the application form and his eyes widened. Perhaps this one was himself Herr Kroeger.

  Suddenly, he found it suffocating in the room. Like the world of the sparrow, it was airless and dead. He gasped for breath and the audible intake of air caused his inquisitor to stop reading and consider him carefully.

  “Are you the son of Professor Heinrich Kroeger?” He asked.

  Michael's mind raced back, trying to remember what his friend had told him about his father. “Yes, sir,” Michael answered.

  His opponent’s mouth twisted into a snarl.

  “Then you are the son of a subversive and are therefore denied admittance to the university.”

  Michael watched in horror as the old man tore up his application. He leaned over the desk and tried to stop his hands from their destructive work.

  “There must be some mistake,” he stammered. “He's a professor... a university professor.”

  “And a liar,” the man shouted, pounding the lacquered table. “He is on the list of degenerate writers. He has written a filthy book, a study of natural selection and Darwinism, that blasphemous filth. And he is a Catholic.”

  “But I'm a Lutheran,” Michael pleaded, remembering what his friend had told him to say.

  “That is of no consequence,” the inquisitor said, cutting Michael off. “Even if you denounced him as an enemy of the State, you would be a risk. It is in your blood. You are an undesirable.”

  Michael's lower lip trembled with the unspoken words caught in his throat. Warm tears welled in his eyes and his face burned with shame, as he vaguely heard the old man calling the name of the next applicant. He stood motionless, unable to move for a long moment, lost in a heavy mist of disbelief and physical pain.

  As he slowly made his way to the door, two soldiers stormed in. Michael's eyes widened and his heart stopped in fear of what they were summoned to do. But they brushed past him and purposefully loaded the last of the books from the cabinet shelf into a carton destined for the fire.

  Michael turned back to the elderly man, hoping for some sign of leniency, a pardon from the brand of dishonor he was sentenced to carry. But there was no sign, no vestige of humanity in his ashen countenance.

  As he turned to go, leaving his notebook on the long table, the sound of shattering glass filled the room. Mischa did not need to look behind him to know it was the sound of the bell jar shattering, freeing the dead sparrow into yet another airless, flightless world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Konigsplatz, Munich

  The cool detachment of success permeated Helen's body as she sat back in the limousine on the way to the Konigsplatz. She breathed a sigh of satisfaction, grateful that her plan was going as intended and reassured that her beauty and power were intact, for the time being anyway.

  As the car turned the corner, her thoughts were intruded upon by the sight of a wall of fire up ahead, near the university library. It was a bonfire, around which hundreds of black silhouettes danced and cried out, chanting in unison like initiates at some age-old pagan ritual. She thought for an instant that it might be some sister group to the coven she had seen in the woods near Neuschwanstein castle, but then she recognized a random shout from one of the soldiers. It was not the sympathetic and purposeful gathering of the local witches, harmlessly celebrating some shift in the position of the moon, but was instead the frenzied madness of a mob carrying out its righteous acts of destruction.

  Helen smiled to herself and breathed in the safe detachment of the luxurious auto. How odd these people were, she thought, so organized and powerful in one way, internationally renowned for their intellect and scientific development, and yet, just below the surface, there seemed to lie a stratification of maudlin and violent emotions layered in a complicated veneer, which could be accessed by anyone who understood its pattern. Ziegler had been no fool to go to the villages for the inspiration needed for the new public works. It was there, in the simplest expression of home and family life, that the subconscious of these people drew their collective identity. They were like children in their self-deception, Helen pondered, brilliant but dangerous children.

  Crowds were gathering on the street in front of the Konigsplatz as the last vagrant rays of twilight gave way to the uniform black of night. Searchlights scanned the sky and schoolgirls, flushed with enthusiasm, rushed toward the square to be certain to find a place near the front.

  A bit like Hollywood, Helen thought, as her car pulled up outside the massive classical structure with its red marble columns and floors. It was as if she had been asked to attend the premiere of a film or a gala party, announced to the world by the klieg lights overhead, a taunting reminder to all those staring up in wonderment that they had not been included on the guestlist of the industry's elite.

  But here, it seemed that everyone was in attendance. Shopkeepers had closed early and children had been allowed to stay up past their bedtime to come to hear the Chancellor speak.

  As Helen emerged from her car, a blinding light forced her to cover her eyes with her hand. The great dark expanse of the square was suddenly illuminated with the electrical wattage of several small towns.

  Red banners, the size of front lawns, emblazoned with the symbol of the crushed spider, were garlanded across the great expanse and rows of flags, like those carried by the Roman legions, flapped in the night breeze, anchored to the pavement on tall spears.

  The night air crackled with the electricity of the lights and the charge and excitement of power.

  Helen wrapped her evening coat around her shoulders and started up the white granite steps leading to the stadium platform. She gave her name at the entrance to a young officer dressed in a dark brown uniform with shiny leather straps across his chest and high black boots. He was so arrogant and proud to be of even the lowest official rank, so vain in this glamourized uniform, with its padded shoulders and slim hips. She smiled at him coolly and nodded, thinking to herself that in her country such attire was reserved for chauffeurs and servants.

  “Soaring with the eagles so soon. You're to be congratulated,” a familiar voice came from behind her. She turned to see Herr Ziegler leaning against the wall, his arms crossed in front of him.

  “By special invitation,” she answered with an unfathomable smile. “I hope I'm not crowding your territory. After all, I'm only your assistant.”

  Ziegler laughed with a snort. “Even if you were, I'd hardly go against the wishes of the Fuhrer. If he wants you here, then so be it.”

  The old man appraised her approvingly, touching the edge of her wrap with a gentle fingertip. “Very nicely done,” he said. “Then again, I wouldn't assess you to be anyone's assistant. It may be the case for now, but I suspect you have bigger ambitions than to follow in my shadow.”

  “Eagles make bigger shadows than sparrows,” she answered, raising her brow and staring through him.

  Ziegler replied with a wink. “Just be mindful, my dear. The Germans are hunters as well as soldiers, and it’s always open season on birds of prey.”

  They walked in silence to the official box and were shown their seats, flanking a raised platform where the microphones were set up for the evening's broadcast.

  Thousands of the faithful stood under the lights, quietly awaiting the arrival of their prophet, like the tribes of Israel awaiting the word of Moses on the mountaintop. They whispered amongst themselves, but in spite of the great numbers, the sound of their collective voices never rose above that of a gentle murmur.

  Like the entrance of a circus parade, it began. Trumpets ushered in the ranks of brown shirts, clomping in single file from either side of the great arena. The body of soldiers seemed to double the mass of expectant onlookers, swelling the crowd until the wide avenues had narrowed into congested rivulets of shuffling spectators. Countless scarlet flags, carried on l
ong staves, created a crisscross network of shadows under the overhead lights, as if a net had been thrown over the plaza by some unseen hand.

  The little man, his chest pushed outward in an attempt to give him stature, appeared out of the mass of soldiers and moved quickly toward the speaker’s platform. He climbed the stairs to the podium just above where Helen sat and raised his arm in a salute to the thundering crowd. It seemed an endless time before the mass of the faithful calmed itself into the order and silence he required for his message to begin. They stood open-mouthed as the disincarnate babble of their voices echoed overhead, fading into the darkness like lost radio waves.

  The message began with fatherly words of concern for the children of the homeland. He flattered them for their loyalty and devotion. He called for their support in keeping alive the indisputable values of family and country. They rewarded his concern with repetitive volleys of cheering and praise, like spectators at a sports match, all convinced they were on the winning side.

  As he spoke, the kindness of the father slowly gave way to the stern voice of the leader, urging his chosen people forward in a contest to the death. His arms waved angrily in the air as he spoke of the injustice of other world powers. His voice became a sharp, barking punishment, berating all present for their indifference in allowing this injustice to continue.

  Helen sat transfixed, her chest throbbing with the mixed sensations of pride and shame. He was a master orator, she thought, able to make even a foreigner's heart swell with a borrowed sense of nationalism and purpose.

  She watched his frozen blue eyes, charged with white light, as if an electrical current surged through the top of his head down into his body, animating him with the short jerky movements of one undergoing the subtle and ecstatic torments of sustained electrocution.

  His head tossed and his dark hair, cut to a peculiar blunt edge, lashed back and forth across his face. He pounded his fists and spittle flew from his lips. His thundering voice rose to a volume that seemed to fuse the vertebrae in Helen’s spine with its intensity. Then, in the next instant, he was still and motionless, scarcely breathing, his eyes locked on the future and his throat fell silent, collapsed by the weight of his own words.

  Helen held her breath, waiting, not certain that he was still alive. He had lapsed into a trance, a petite mort seizure of sorts that rendered him frozen amidst the echo of his fiery words, senseless and profoundly confused. She ached to hear more. The crowd groaned in anticipation.

  Helen saw a man come through the doorway, just behind the speaker's platform at the foot of the elevated stairway that led to the dais. He began to speak, furnishing the strong deliberate words required to shatter the cocoon-like haze that had befallen the Fuhrer. His voice was insistent behind the orator, whispering the missing monologue as a prompter in the theater whispers forgotten lines to a bewildered actor.

  Her heart came to a full stop for an instant. Not because the great leader had begun again, slowly slurring the words supplied, repeating them mechanically without yet having full comprehension of their meaning, but because the prompter who supplied the words to the puppet speaker was Kurt Von Kragen.

  He still possessed the almost cruel beauty that had excited her so many years ago at the Prince's ball, but now, his rugged face was etched with a kind of sorrow and wisdom that she had only seen carved in the stone faces of saints in torment. His eyes flashed in the darkness of his hiding place behind the platform, and he gripped the paper from which he read in anger.

  He was the true voice of the New Order, she thought. He was the man behind the puppet dictator, the man who possessed the spark of divinity that she had once been too blind to see.

  Helen instinctively leaned forward, locking her eyes on the scarred ruggedness of his face. She concentrated a beam of conscious thought toward him, sure that the intensity of her reaction at seeing him again and the violent emotion he awakened within her would be an ample homing device to draw his attention.

  His eyes searched the row of spectators in the private box, as if suddenly aware of being observed, like an animal on the scent of a predator. When their eyes met, the harshness of his furious gaze softened almost imperceptibly for a second, before glazing over once again in coldness. He continued to prompt the dictator, repeating again and again the lines of propaganda that caused the near hysterical crowd to scream between each incendiary phrase.

  When the Fuhrer had finished, Kurt receded into the shadows of the doorway. As the pounding approval of the mass of spectators reverberated around them like the full force of a hurricane, she could make out, through the darkness, a tiny glint of light reflected from his smile.

  She rose to her feet, applauding as those around her had done, never taking her eyes from the panel of darkness into which he had retreated. Without actually seeing any discernible difference in the black rectangular void, she suddenly sensed that he was gone.

  Helen was annoyed as she walked to her car. Knowing Kurt Von Kragen was an opportunity she had let slip away, because she had not had the foresight to see that he would make good on his promises of power. Ziegler had followed at her side for a time, prattling to her about the impact of the Fuhrer's address, but she did not hear what he was saying. She quickened her pace and left him behind, walking on in her own sullen silence.

  The driver stood waiting by the open door to the back of the automobile. Helen stepped inside, heedless of his sweet unprofessional smile.

  “So, we meet again after many years.” A man's voice filled the darkness of the closed auto. It was Kurt's voice. Helen heard her own gasp of breath.

  “I can't say that the years have done you any harm,” he said, his teeth glistening in the darkness. He leaned toward her, into the light, revealing his tormented beauty.

  “I, on the other hand, have had a somewhat tumultuous time of it.”

  Helen steadied herself. “You have done well for yourself. It seems your fluid time has flowed in your direction,” she replied. “You have, by all appearances, achieved all you said you would.”

  “And does that make a difference to you now?”

  Helen admitted that she was impressed by how well he looked in the handsome uniform and the shiny high boots. She would not confide that she was overwhelmed by his air of power and self-assurance, a far cry from the peculiar young man with delusions of world domination, who had pledged his love in a rainy garden over a tomb.

  “I know what you are thinking,” he said. “It is true. I must have seemed like a mad man to you then, but as you see, my world has come to pass. The chosen race will soon be in full control, and I shall be at the front line of that conquest.”

  Helen drew back, careful not to react with the awe he expected for the new Party line.

  “The chosen race,” Helen repeated his words. “Is that a little slogan for your Chancellor to spit out at the crowd during his next fireside chat?” she asked with a hint of mockery in her voice.

  Kurt smiled. “Actually yes. I've been working on a rally for the Ordensburg. They are mostly boys and children there. They respond to the winning warrior approach.” Kurt appraised her carefully. “I see something a little more sophisticated is required to impress and move you.”

  “What makes you think your words are able to move me now, any more than they were ten years ago?” Helen replied, adopting an air of elusiveness.

  “Words are the mere creations of the mind, they are thoughts in physical form. If one thinks of hate, the words of hate will follow... and in turn, the actions of hate. If one thinks of love...”

  “And, which of those does your master mind create at the moment?” Helen broke in.

  Kurt did not answer, but firmly took her shoulders in his grasp and drew her toward him, pressing his beautiful, cruel smile to her lips.

  “I've waited a long time for you to surrender to a kiss,” he whispered close to her ear.

  “I am not a child in the Ordensburg, training for warfare,” she said. “Surrender is not necessarily
one of the conditions of love.”

  Kurt tightened his grip on her arm.

  “Oh but it is,” he whispered. “Love is the conquering of the self as well as the opponent, the surrender of one's Soul in exchange for a part of the divinity of the other. It is a matter of simple alchemy, the blending of elements to create a new and insoluble alloy, bonded in thoughts, emotions and spirit. Surrender is everything. Just as Germany must surrender to the will of the ancient Thule, drawing the Fatherland upward in glory to rule the world, so must you... and I, surrender to the service we share toward that end.”

  It had become more than a bantering of words for Helen. His rhythmic voice touched something deep inside her that she knew she could not name, but had always felt. It was a desire to rule, to have dominion, not as a domineering little pedagogue, but as an empress, a queen. She had come light-years from the gully near the farmhouse, where she painted her lips and first called herself by her true name, shattering the form of all that she had been and found lacking. She was now, for perhaps the first time since then, raising her head above the surface of the fluid current of time, treading its waters for an instant. In the protection of this man's thoughts, she saw where the current was taking her, and knew for the first time what lay ahead.

  Kurt rapped on the glass that separated them from the driver.

  “Drive to the Tottenvogelnplatz,” he said into the intercom.

  He turned toward Helen, taking her face in his hands. “I have something I want to show you,” he said.

  The car made its way effortlessly through the night maze of Munich, toward the Vorort, the outlying districts, where the concrete of the city gave way to forests and open glades, shining black in the moonlight.