by Rex Baron
“I was just curious,” Michael answered, losing his courage.
“My wife and what she does is none of your affair. Now, run along and stop annoying me with questions about things that don't concern you, or else I might change my mind and take someone else in your place on Saturday.”
Claxton turned his attention back to the opening of the morning mail, dismissing the boy from his office with a wave of his hand.
Michael stood rooted to the carpet with indecision. The correspondence inviting them to the country lay open on the desk. Michael craned his neck around just far enough to see that the memo had been initiated at the Ministry of Internal Affairs and had been signed captain K. Von Kragen.
Claxton raised his head from his work and scowled as Michael backed out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him.
• • •
Helen's new felt hat, with a pheasant feather curling out from the band, was the only topic of conversation that seemed safe and unbiased for the trip to the country. Claxton sat slumped in the back seat of the limousine with his arms across his chest, appraising the creation from the corner of his eye.
“You look as if you should be perched on a mountain top yodeling in that thing,” he muttered. “Don't you think you're taking this nationalism thing a bit far? I mean, I should think you would draw the line at wearing peasant clothes, making yourself look like the Bürgermeister's wife.”
“I think it's very sportif, perfect for the country, not too fussy. It’s sort of like a hunting costume,” Helen answered brightly, her veneer of mirth unscratched. “I think it's charming. Don't you?” Helen directed the question to Michael, who sat opposite, facing them in the compartment.
The boy shot a quick look to Claxton, then nodded his agreement, more out of nervousness than approval.
Silence followed until it was broken by the unspoken question that had weighed upon the tiny compartment and its inhabitants since the car had started on its journey.
“Is Herr Von Kragen going to be there?” Claxton asked point blank.
Helen adjusted the feather, stooping to catch a glimpse of herself in a small mirror behind the driver.
“I should think he would be,” she answered coolly. “After all, he is the right hand man to the Fuhrer.”
The mention of the name caused Michael to stiffen with fear. He had not been able to tell Claxton about the conversation he had heard between Helen and this man. He stared helplessly at his sullen employer, angrily rotating his cane in his hands, and wished that he had communicated his fears for him, in spite of the anger it aroused when he had mentioned his wife. The words of warning formed in his throat. He wanted to blurt out his suspicions aloud, but the sight of Helen, calmly draping the veil from her hat down seductively over her nose and crimson mouth, made him choke back the words. He would wait until the moment was right. He would try to get his friend alone for a moment and tell him what he had heard, regardless of the consequences.
“There,” Helen said, drawing back from her reflection to assess her presentation. “Do I look like I'm ready to go hunting?”
“You look like your traps are set… if that's what you want to hear,” Claxton answered sullenly.
Helen smiled and blew him a kiss.
• • •
By late morning, they had arrived at the Berchtesgaden, the country hideaway of the Chancellor. Helen was more than a bit crestfallen to find that she was no more than one of several dozen other intimate guests who had been invited for the afternoon. She squared her shoulders against her disappointment, and stepped from the car with the aid of a uniformed corporal wearing high black boots and a red armband.
“Might is made by many,” Claxton whispered the party slogan mockingly into Helen's ear as she stepped into the hazy sunlight.
The house of the Chancellor was modest compared to Helen's expectations. It had the wood and stucco charm of a peasant cottage, but was larger in scale and overgrown with carefully placed trailing ivy and aromatic flowering shrubs. The desired effect had been to create an atmosphere of seclusion and simplicity, in spite of the modern concrete and steel construction and the latest conveniences. It was the grounds and the landscaping that were impressive. Rolling lawns stretched on every side of the house and stables, out toward meticulously planted forests of linden and oak. A grassy little paddock behind the house, near a shooting range, served as the gathering place for the invited guests.
Michael started to wander off into the midst of the chosen few, but was snagged by Claxton, who motioned for him to remove his cap before mingling with the elite. They had left their coats in the auto because the Fuhrer liked to see himself surrounded by hardy, stoic Germans of good stock. And although there was enough of a chill in the air to produce the frost of visible breath, each of those arriving presented themselves in light flannel jackets with rosy cheeks in order to enhance the desired illusion of stalwartness. Michael folded his woolen motoring cap in half and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
The greeting from the Chancellor was perfunctory and indifferent as he passed by receiving his guests. He made small talk to each of them as he took their hands, remarking about the unusual warmth of the weather or some pleasantry about their personal appearance. Helen's hat was singled out as the point of focus. Hitler suggested, as he smiled and fleetingly pressed her hand in his, that it reminded him of a painting he had seen of a beautiful shepherdess.
Claxton did all he could to contain his laughter, as the Fuhrer made his polite comment and passed him by as well. Helen stood in bewilderment, a contestant in the Judgment of Paris who had been passed over in favor of another.
Claxton knew how Helen aspired to the elite inner circle. In that singular way, she had not changed from their days in Hollywood, when she charmed and bullied her way into the coterie of Lasky's top players. It was a step up in the world, a step farther away from her murky and nearly forgotten past. It was a first class ticket to success and the promise of a career without equal. But in his estimation, she had fallen short. She had misjudged both the talents and the intentions of this band of jackals, and the consequences could prove disastrous.
“Buck up, my dear,” Claxton said with a smirk. “Perhaps we'll play games later and you'll have a chance to cheat and come in first.”
Helen never took her eyes from the nervous little Chancellor in his gray pinstriped suit, moving quickly and efficiently through the ranks of people like a small rat working its way through a maze. He was followed by an officer, who carried a clipboard, checking off the names of the guests as they were greeted, and by a young woman with her hair bleached the color of snow.
This was the infamous Eva Braun, whom Helen had heard so much whispered about, the young ward and suspected lover of the Chancellor. Helen was surprised at how unsophisticated the girl appeared, wearing a cotton dress under a handmade sweater and no jewelry of any kind. Her back and shoulders were broad and athletic, the figure of an Olympic swimmer, boyish and strong, the perfect representation of the new woman for the New Order.
It was the color of her hair, the chief ornamentation of her appearance, that made her stunning and oddly glamorous in contrast to her simple beauty. Her skin was tanned and healthy looking, and her smile revealed dazzling teeth that showed themselves, ingenuously and charmingly, to anyone who nodded in her direction. She was out of place amongst the ancient heel-clicking, fallen nobility who had cast off their threadbare pride and condescended to appear at the invitation of the little upstart, who they habitually complained had ruined their country. Those who hadn't had the courage to go into exile and be parted from the properties bearing their family names huddled in quiet clusters, sipping champagne with industrialists and businessmen who had seen the light and adopted the party slogan in order to save their wealth.
The romantic Prussian uniforms and bands of medals, usually worn with formidable disdain on such occasions by those deposed aristocrats, had been exchanged for the gray country suit, a simple and i
nnocuous disguise that leveled even the loftiest in rank to a position equal to any office clerk of the National Socialist Party.
Michael tugged at the hem of Claxton's gray flannel jacket, trying to get his attention.
“I have to tell you something,” he began hesitantly. “I've been wanting to tell you what I heard the other day, when I went to the sculpture studio to deliver that requisition.”
“Do tell us what you heard,” Helen's voice, behind him, caused the boy to jump. “Some uncharitable remark from your sister I'd wager.”
Michael backed away in silence. He watched her cruel mouth, behind its latticework of veiling, twist into a horrible facsimile of a smile.
“It was only that the statue might be ready earlier than expected,” the boy replied, grasping at the first lie that came into his head.
Helen lifted her veil and sipped gingerly from the tall flute of champagne in her hand.
“Your sister must have been trying to be amusing. There is no chance whatsoever of meeting that date, even if Hitler himself demanded it on hands and knees.”
“A highly unlikely scenario,” Claxton quipped.
Helen drew the champagne once again to her lips, but was arrested in her small action by the appearance of Kurt Von Kragen, visible just outside the rim of the crystal glass. Slowly, she brought the flute down and concentrated in his direction.
He looked up from some minor conversation with one of Hitler’s officials and returned her gaze, as if answering a siren’s call, too ethereal and dangerous to be heard by those in gray. He nodded but made no attempt to cross the lawn that separated them.
His soldier's uniform and shining boots set him apart from those around him, clad in a copy of the Fuhrer's suit. They were dressed conservatively, to reflect the stability and businesslike demeanor of the New Government, but Kurt was a soldier, the Will and Purpose enforcing the ideal. There was no pretending that the New Order would win over the world with words. The shining leather straps across his chest and the pistol concealed under his coat spoke the language of Germany’s ancestors, when Barbarossa and Attila the Hun commanded respect by a drawn blade and the stature of their presence on horseback. Helen knew that under his air of courtly refinement lay an exquisitely brutal warrior's soul, dedicated and singular in its purpose.
Claxton was more than aware of the fascination this soldier held for his wife.
“Your obvious interest is more than indiscreet,” he whispered into Helen's ear, as the company stood watching a polo match on the lawn. “Remember that Hitler, hypocrite that he is, frowns on extramarital dabbling.”
Helen ignored the remark. Her eyes fixed on the field of dead winter grass and the breath from the horses in the chill of the air. A shiver of disgust ran through her body.
“You know I should be jealous of your melodramatic Prussian lover, but I'm not,” he whispered close to her ear. “Remember, all I need do is get a lock of his hair or a clipping from his little finger, and there would be nothing left worth talking about.”
“Don't make me laugh,” Helen hissed back at him, never taking her eyes from the field. “You couldn't touch him on any level.”
“You think you're powerful enough to stop me?” Claxton replied, in too loud a whisper, causing a woman in a red hat to look their way with mild interest.
“I don't need to protect him,” Helen answered. “Don't you understand? He is the Magician. He is the force behind all of what you see here. He doesn't need protection from anyone. It's finished for you. Don't you understand that? There is nothing left between us. There never was much… and even that is gone. I have no use for you any longer. You can leave any time you wish.”
She finished what she had to say without emotion, and continued watching the match, as if she had spoken of something as unimportant as a change in the weather or the time of day.
Claxton was unable to move from where he stood next to her. If he walked away, it would somehow be as if by carrying out her request. He would seal his fate and cast himself out of her presence forever. He lingered where he stood, aching of physical pain, wishing for all the world that he would have had the foresight to bring along his flask.
By tea time, the number of guests had dwindled to a chosen few, as S.S. officers worked their way through the company suggesting to lesser individuals an appropriate time to take their leave. Helen's aspiration to the elite inner circle was at last confirmed, as she and her party survived the final cut.
Kurt now commanded the attention of a dozen remaining guests. With a flourish of his hand, he called forth a procession of uniformed officers, like so many footmen in livery, carrying large wire cages, each containing an ominous hooded falcon. The birds sat inanimate in their confinement, blind and still, as if by removing their sight, all time and thoughts and even the most imperceptible movement had stopped for them. Each of them remained in a suspended state with only its hearing left intact. They waited, listening for a signal, some sound to cause them to spring to life, like torpedoes waiting to be detonated.
Two dozen birds, in all, were presented to the Chancellor as a gift from the selective branches of the military and the Schutzstaffel S.S. The Chancellor proudly inspected the cages, like a farmer intent on buying livestock, but Eva drew back in horror from the motionless creatures that waited, listening in sullen silence.
“They're awful,” she said, clutching the Chancellor's arm for safety.
“Don't be such a goose,” he laughed, taking her hand in his and forcing it toward one of the metal cages. “Touch one. They are really quite harmless.”
He looked up at Kurt for his nod of approval. The girl squirmed, trying to free herself from the insistent grasp.
“I don't want to.” Her voice broke, just this side of tears. “Please don't make me.”
But the Chancellor was determined to have the image of his young ward, bravely stroking the cowled head of one of his new possessions, fulfilled. He motioned for a photographer to position himself, ready to memorialize the courageous event.
“Please, please,” the girl cried, as he dragged her toward the cage and cruelly forced her fingers between the metal rungs. The bird inside, jarred by the intrusion into its world, jerked its unseeing head to attention and pressed its body against the opposite side of the cage for safety.
Eva tried to control her sobbing. She gasped for breath and tried to smile into the camera.
“Du jammerst wie ein kleines Kind,” the Fuhrer scolded in a harsher tone, calling her a child.
A hysterical giggle took the place of her choked terror, as she pitifully mustered a good-natured, simple-minded grin and touched the head of the bird for the photograph.
The Chancellor planted a fatherly kiss on her cheek, as she smeared the sticky moisture from her nose and eyes across her flushed and swollen face.
Claxton bit down on his back teeth in disgust for the loathsome act he had just witnessed. The sinewy legs and bloated bodies of the bloodthirsty creatures caused him to shudder in a horror of cold sweat. His assistant broke into his dread-filled pondering with a welcome tug on his sleeve.
Helen caught a glimpse of Michael whispering into Claxton's ear. Color seemed to drain from Claxton’s face as the boy continued to speak behind his hand. Claxton's eyes watched her as he listened. An expression of pain and betrayal flashed briefly in his eyes before he could school his features.
“They are ferocious hunting birds, but they are as tame as house canaries unless you give the signal,” Kurt explained to the small group hovering around the cages.
He produced a pitch pipe from his pocket and placed it to his mouth. He sounded a single resonating chord.
“One must make a sound similar to this one,” he said, handing the pipe to the Chancellor. “It is not the appropriate note, since it would only confuse the birds to give them a retrieval command while still confined. But it is a very similar sound… I will show you later.”
The Chancellor produced a series of awkward squeaks fro
m the instrument and laughed along with the tittering of the crowd.
Kurt felt the presence of Helen tugging at his consciousness, and quickly searched the attentive faces to find her. Using her eyes, she directed his attention to Michael and Claxton.
“I will show you how they work,” Kurt said, flourishing his hands like a sideshow barker.
He jerked his head, indicating to his officers to take up the cages and follow him. He started off into the meadow behind the house, his shining boots covering the distance in great strides.
“I'll need two participants, contestants if you like, for our little demonstration,” he shouted as he walked.
He did not wait for a show of volunteers.
“You,” he called out, pointing to a somewhat flustered lady of the press, “...and you.” His finger chose Claxton out of the crowd. He waved for them to follow him.
The soldiers had already placed the cages at a distance of twenty yards and released the falcons from their cells. The anxious birds paced the top of their prisons or pecked at the gauntlet gloves on which they perched, in anticipation of the hunt.
“Over there,” Kurt called, indicating that the two chosen ones should mark off a position approximately thirty yards from where the soldiers stood with the nervously flapping birds.
The woman of the press, her face reddened from the unwelcome attention, stood speechless in the open field alongside Claxton, like two aging school children called out for a punishment. The sarcasm and string of caustic remarks behind which Claxton usually hid, and from which he took his courage, were reluctant in coming. It mattered little what he said at the moment. Even though he had just been told some unbelievable lies by Michael, he could not take his eyes from Helen. She had been cruel to him with her comment about not needing him, but no more so than countless times before. It meant nothing, he told himself. He would simply be more agreeable and stop finding fault with the incomparable Colonel Von Kragen. He would allow Helen her infatuation with this man. He was not really her husband after all, as she so often reminded him, and perhaps they had come to a point where his more paternal interventions would be less resisted.