“But we have the same ruin.”
“Our ruins are excellent enemy barriers.”
“And you’re a good driver.” I remove Renate’s leg from my lap and place it carefully on my knee.
We’re flagged down by a man dressed as a clown. His costume is clean and sparkling. In all the grime, how is he able to stay unsoiled?
“Stoi!” the major orders. “We’re on duty for the Führer.”
“Sir.” The clown salutes. “We’re official as well. The Berlin Relief Ensemble validated by the Reich,” he says in a broad Baden dialect.
“Major, I believe he’s authentic. Goebbels convinced the Führer that Berlin is still our theatrical center.”
“Nevertheless, I’d prefer him to remain at hand-grenade distance.” Holding Renate tightly for fear his reward might get away from him, we climb out of the Kubelwägen.
“Why aren’t you in uniform? Defending Berlin?”
“Sir.” The clown’s voice is deep. “We’re here to uplift the German spirit.”
“Where are your fellow uplifters, Prince of Clowns?”
“Call me Dunce, Major. In the theatre world, titles don’t matter.”
“Mein Dunce, then.”
“Please follow me.” The clown steers us to a small tunnel that’s reinforced with bricks and concrete. It’s the worse section of the city—Mulackstrasse—the alleyways of prostitutes and criminals. Coming out of a tunnel, we enter a basement with seats and stage and sit in the front row, Renate secure on the major’s lap. Behind us is an audience of people with faces blackened from bombardment, some with arms and legs smeared in red brittle powder. A war audience. Nobody speaks. It’s weirdly quiet. A smudged mask of charred amber looks at me with eyes that show no reaction to my stare.
Taking off his billowing pants, the clown stands before us in black glass shorts and a polka-dotted shirt. He announces, “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”
“Shakespeare,” the major says.
“Julius Caesar,” the clown adds.
“Act IV, Scene 3.” The Major smiles proudly. “Our family tutor was an Englishman.”
The clown calls to a young woman in yellow leggings who comes on stage. Her hair is the same yellow as her tights. With no crotch in her tights, her light brown pubic hair bushes at the opening.
With gaudy fingers painted in stripes of yellow and green, the clown taps his glass underwear.
“Isn’t love a delicate matter?” the clown shouts.
The girl in yellow tights shouts as she runs offstage, “Where is the 1,000 pound Reich person?”
“Leading the dying Luftwaffe Air Force on his motorcycle.” The clown waves his hands like fluttering wings.
Doubling over in laughter, the major stamps his feet in approval. He hates Göring.
“Göring can sometimes be charming,” I whisper to the major.
“Charming loses wars.”
“And he lost a nephew. Peter Göring died in a dogfight over the Channel.”
“Peter Göring was a talented fighter pilot and liked in spite of having a dummi-dummi uncle. Now Peter is in Soldiers’ Cemetery at Abbeville where his other comrades of the Schlageter Squadron rest.” The major motions for the clown to continue.
The clown announces, “All women in the audience are to sit on the laps of men.”
Looking at me with a persuading smile, the major pushes his legs close together.
What can I do? I gently lower myself on his lap, and a thick warm bulge presses into me.
There’s no movement from the crowd behind me. Silence. Are they all women?
“Women, then, on women’s laps,” the clown orders. A rustling noise as the dusty mannequins sit upon each other. “When just a little boy, the Führer came to my school,” the clown says. “I told him I wanted to be a great soldier. What should I do? The Führer told me to unclog the kitchen zinc.”
The major and I laugh. That’s Adi, the practical man, the corporal.
The audience remains lifeless, only their eyelids moving in creases of soot.
“When I was older, I asked the Führer what he thought of black, and the Führer being a former artist thought I meant the color, telling me that black to him is the crack in the ass of Eva Braun.”
Startled, I suck in my breath. People are laughing so hard that sparks of red and black powder fly into the air. Is it possible this audience has heard the name Eva Braun? Do they finally know who I am? Would they ever believe that I sit beside them?
Quickly standing and letting Renate fall to the ground, the major takes out his pistol and wastes a bullet on the clown’s throat.
It’s a clean bullet hole in the rouged neck. Bright red streaks runs down the clown’s chest and on his belly before he slumps over. Behind me people are still laughing thinking this is part of the act. But the girl in yellow tights comes on stage to drag off the clown.
“Major, what have you done?“ I pick up Renate and stand facing him.
“The clown insulted you.”
“But he also recognized me.”
“Are you angry with me, Fräulein?”
“No. You believed you were defending me. Should we see if the clown is alive? Perhaps he needs help.”
“He’s only a dunce. We must get back.” With Renate between us, the major begins his arduous drive back to the Bunker.
Adi is waiting for us at the bottom of the circular stairs. It’s been over three hours, and he’s only upset because we’re late. The fortuneteller has assured him that we were safe. Standing next to him is Bormann who shifts nervously from one foot to the other.
“A gift for you, Mein Führer.”
Adi takes the dog, forgetting his anger.
“I’ve been shooting, Mein Führer,” the major announces formally.
“Not at animals, I hope.” The Führer’s body is suddenly rigid.
“Nein. Only people, Mein Führer.”
Petting Renate calms Adi. His mustache doesn’t quiver. Tight wrinkles by his eyes relax. Adi pushes Renate’s face against his jacket that has custard drippings. The dog licks the stains. Being stared at all these years has made Adi old. The eyes of people have diminished him. How spryly his legs moved when we first met. His hair fell across his smooth forehead when he leaned over me. Now he’s listless, his forehead lined in deep creases. As his wife, I vow to make him young again.
Bormann has arranged the wedding for midnight. The tulips have arrived.
I explain that my white dress is lost, and I’ll wear the black one with roses on each side of the neckline that Adi likes.
Nuzzling the dog, Adi listens to our adventures, how we rescued the dog and named her Renate, how we attended a theatre performance to see the brave people of Berlin struggling onward. We don’t mention the dead or dying or the amorous SS on the bed and certainly not the remark the clown made about me.
Bormann gets water and sets it on the ground, and Adi strokes Renate as she drinks loudly.
“You’ll be glad to know, Mein Führer, there are no Jews left in Berlin. Judenrein!” The major stands erect beside the drinking Renate. For emphasis, he bends stiffly to pat the dog’s head.
“And all their artworks?”
“Safe.”
“I have such a fondness for Dürer,” Adi says.
“I’m sure his works are carefully tucked away in one of our basement vaults. To be shipped to your private Linz Museum.”
“The Jews know art.” Adi picks up Renate who drips water from her mouth onto his jacket. “Surely you have some written statement, some Jewish validation of their worth?”
“Of course, Mein Führer.”
“With paintings, the Jew must be considered. The rich Catholics mostly covet gold chalices and statues. Protestants their racing stables. Who will remember the respect I’ve held for Jewish art collections?”