H-H, as we came to call His Holiness, was serene and distant. Giving a blessing by passing his hand above us, he silently deliberated over each head as if it were a dish of food for him to judge as edible or not.
Josef gave H-H a gift box of fat beer sausages, two sporting rifles with silver inlay, and one Walther pistol decorated in gold that his cardinals took away silently but with smiling faces. Though Josef hated the Catholics, he was grateful for the Jesuit principles set down by Ignatius Loyola that he imitated when it came time to build the SS.
But when I looked into H-H’s eyes, I saw a dreaminess that had no focus on what Germany hoped to do.
H-H seemed more concerned with froufrou statues and altar cloths than any racial laws. Adi had worried unduly that the Church would show active resistance to him. But I could see the Pope would give us no trouble, and Josef and Magda agreed as we waited on our knees just to hear him say something. Anything. With both his hands held tightly to his stomach, H-H looked as if he were trying to keep the heavy-creamed onions he had for lunch down where they belonged.
Magda presented the Pope with a passionflower, placing it on the floor by his portable throne and saying piously that she would never give one to a Jew as the pistils and stamens resembled the Crucifixion.
Josef broke the silence by thanking the Pope for authorizing birthday greetings to the Führer each year on April 20th.
The Pope said nothing.
“We Germans thank you for the non-interference regarding our bombing of Coventry,” Josef said.
Silence.
“You must keep the Vatican illuminated after dark so that the enemy does not attack your churches.” Josef shifted his weight on one knee.
“We can’t supply light at night as the Führer has yet to occupy the moon,” I announced with a hint of sarcastic humor that made Josef grin.
Silence.
“There is a question, Eure Majestat, regarding that small something that was promised from the Uffizi Museum for the Führer’s Linz collection.”
Silence.
“The shelling in Florence besmirched the Madonna by Arnoldi. I want Eure Majestat to know our soldiers are patrolling the streets for her nose.”
Silence.
The German ambassador to the Vatican, Ernst Von Weizsäcker, announced that our special train was waiting, a train run by two steam locomotives and protected at front and rear by banks of 2-centimetre quick firing antiaircraft guns manned by 26 soldiers. Adi had given us his own Pullman number 10206 with its kitchen and bath car. As we gave our respectful good-byes and reached a door riddled with bullet holes, the Pope suddenly stood, put his red velvet slippers together and swayed, his body totally rigid in a huge sweeping circle. He performed this 180-degree turn in silence three times before stopping, then pranced in a flourish through a long arched hallway.
We never learned what H-H meant. However, being shy, perhaps he was telling us he was ordained to circle not only Venice and the Vatican but the globe as well.
For the journey home, Magda requested a separate train car and had it uncoupled and shunted onto a single track siding so that she and her husband could make noisy love inspired by the Pope. Magda claimed that she did 180 degree turns on Josef’s potency for several hours. When they were finished and rejoined us, the constant jolting of the train on the uneven Italian rails gave me no peace and I did not sleep until we wobbled to a heavily braked stop at the Anhalter Station in Berlin.
Now, all that seems so long ago.
With one child in her arms and four trailing behind, Magda sweeps with a regal grandness into the dining area. Walking noticeably apart is Helga who can’t stand the idea of being one of the brood. Hans stoops to the little ones playfully, moving their hands as he sings,
The children chant, “The flags held high, the flags held high,” as they raise their chubby arms.
Wiping condensation from the metal doorknob with his handkerchief soaked in vinegar, straining to look calm, Adi leaves the map room. Veins on his forehead and temple bulge. His generals are behind him. General Krosigk, a whip hanging from his waist that drags on the floor and tangles between his legs, talks about a new plan for resistance in the lake region of Strausberg as he climbs the spiral iron staircase.
“My generals have undone me,” Adi says growling as he watches them go up the stairs. He gives a forced smile. “Like those silly obese generals in Napoleon’s army who were too fat to ride horses and led the troops in carriages. I should listen to Machiavelli: Guard against generals, do away with them, eliminate their esteem.”
Adi’s generals are skeptical of his military strategy. Generals, he reasons, are ungrateful, their minds on glittering guns, tanks, planes, bombs. They never listen to him. As for their quirks—when things go wrong, he hears from them but never when they get themselves and their troops slaughtered. It’s ridiculous for him to stand in front of such fools. You don’t have a bunch of kids in knee pants telling an experienced teacher like himself how to conduct class. Generals get too much praise that belongs to the trench soldier. Nevertheless, Adi ends his meetings with them asking sensitively about their wives and children and giving their families boxes of chocolates knowing that it’s prudent and off-setting to reward your enemies before your friends. That’s an important part of being the Führer.
He takes a few silent minutes to hate all of his generals, signaled by a series of tiny jerks inside his trouser legs.
Seeing the children, Adi smiles broadly and picks up a ball slick from Bunker dampness. He bounces the ball and sings softly to them: “Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen fest geschlossen!… close ranks up tight…” Then he takes out his comb, puts a slip of paper on it and hums, the children humming with him.
As Helga puts her arms around Uncle Führer’s waist, he pats her hair. Taking a sugar cube from his pocket, he lifts Helga’s face, fondles her mouth, parts her lips lovingly to place a sugar cube on her tongue. Is he thinking of Geli?
“Sugar! Sugar! We want sugar,” chant the children, forgetting their humming, their waving fingers frantically clawing at Uncle Führer’s bulging pocket. As he hands out sugar cubes, he also gives one to Magda, Hans, and me. Loudly sucking, Hans speaks about a breakout as he rubs his Gold Wounded Badge (which he was awarded after five injuries) and flexes his chest so that his other medals jingle softly. He reminds me of a skilled piano player who never comes to the end of his keys, who leaves a vague hint of the final note.
“No talk of that in front of the children,” Adi says softly.
Magda hands the crying Heidi to Adi who cuddles the child gently saying: “Engelchen. Little angel. How well you cry.”
“Oh, my, oh, my,” says Hans to the children. “I’ve eaten the wrong end of my sugar cube first. To digest it, I have to get upside down.” He stands on his head and lets his legs slap loudly against the damp wall.
The children scream excitedly. Even Helga leaves Uncle Führer’s side to examine the rush of blood that turns Han’s face bright red. Adi moves the baby’s head to see Hans. Sitting on the floor, Magda smiles in glory as we adore and entertain her children. She uses them for her own vanity.