Child of the Light (39 page)

"The hell with you, Herr Doktor!" Erich took a second glass from a silver tray and followed the crowd to a punchbowl filled with boiled brandy, lemon peel, cloves, and cinnamon. Across the top lay two crossed sabers crowned by a large flaming rum-soaked sugar cube.

The flames rose and the military men around him burst into songs of bravery and battlefield chivalry. If this were the new aristocracy, Erich thought, feeling pleased with himself, perhaps he had not been born too late after all.

A passing waiter took his glass and handed him a fresh drink.

The song began. "Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles."

The crowd turned, Erich with it, to watch the Führer step off the bridge. His arm was around the shoulders of an Arab dressed in a flowing robe of white silk. Behind them came the rest of Hitler's party--Göring, Himmler, and the former prince whom many considered to be the true heir to Pfaueninsel, Augustus Wilhelm. Like Goebbels, all were dressed in formal evening attire.

"Heil Hitler!" Goebbels' voice rang out.

"Heil Hitler!" the crowd chanted, lifting their hands to salute their Führer.

Forgetting for a moment that he was holding Achilles' leash, Erich started to salute. Choking, the dog growled in protest.

"Sorry, old pal." Erich lowered his hand.

"Not saluting the Führer, Rittmeister?" Goebbels asked.

Making the only decision he could, Erich whispered a terse "Stay!" He dropped the leash and saluted.

At the edge of his peripheral vision, he sensed movement. He turned his head slightly.

A peacock, claiming ownership of the territory, fanned its feathers. It was accustomed to people but not to a German shepherd invading its territory. Dogs were not usually allowed on the island.

Achilles growled and assumed an attack stance.

"Steady, girl." Erich patted the dog and felt for her leash. Achilles did not seem to feel the affection. Her gaze was riveted on the peacock, her ears pricked up, her tail lifted and stiff.

The singing had died down and the Führer's voice could be heard. "I was misquoted by the press. I have nothing against Negroes," he was saying. "By all means let them compete. We are a democracy, are we not? What I did say is that, descended as they are from jungle peoples, they have an unfair physical advantage and a disadvantage emotionally, intellectually, and socially. Instead of representing the United States, they should be sent to Africa, where they belong."

"A simplistic solution, Herr Hitler." The man who had spoken stepped out of the shadows. His voice held an accent, Spanish perhaps, or Latin American, but the most outstanding thing about him was his clothing. He wore a white silk toreador's "suit-of-lights" trimmed with heavy gold brocade. Down his back and pinned to his hair was a long black pigtail and, on his head and drawn down toward his nose, the heavy
montero
of the bullfighter. Pinned to one shoulder and flowing into and over the crook of his arm was a black cape lined with red silk.

Forgetting all about Achilles, Erich stared in fascination. The man was outrageously handsome in a way Erich was sure no woman could resist.

"Simple, but not simplistic, Señor...Péron, is it?"

"Perón." The man corrected the accent, and made a slight bow. "And what of the Jews, Herr Hitler? Do you have an equally
simple
solution for the 'Jewish Question,' as I've heard it called?"

"There are many possible solutions."

"Name one I have not yet heard."

"Let me first remind you that the anti-Semitism people have ascribed to us is a thing of the past. You might not know it, but a Jew, one Hauptmann Fürstner, was responsible for building and organizing the Olympic Village."

"Yes," the man said, "but you have not answered me."

Reporters gathered around the two men scribbled furiously.

"Very well. Though I believe I can safely predict that in another decade or two what you call the Jewish Question will no longer concern anyone, I do have several suggestions. For one thing, they could be ordered to choose a homeland."

The "matador" smiled pleasantly. "I believe someone suggested Nigeria. However, the Nigerians might object to being displaced."

"There are other places. Madagascar, for example."

"Madagascar?"

"Why not? We could pack them off in ships and--"

"You are serious about this, Herr Hitler?"

"It would be convenient if they were all gathered in one place, would it not?"

"Convenient? For whom? And what of the Malagasy?"

"A hodgepodge at best. Negroes, Javanese--"

"I take it you would send
them
back to Africa and Java."

"Ja." The Chancellor glanced around, apparently growing bored with the discussion. "You there! Rittmeister...Alois, is it not? Enjoying yourself? I see you brought your old friend." He nodded toward Achilles.

"Ja, mein Führer!" Erich moved forward, pleased at having been singled out.

"That must once have been a fine animal--but might one of our beautiful young Fraüleins not be a more suitable constant companion for a virile young man?" The Chancellor turned to the man he had called Péron. "The Rittmeister is in charge of a special canine corps. You would be amazed at how well his animals are trained. Not so, Herr Rittmeister?" He motioned at the press. "Tell them!"

Erich hesitated, less pleased. He was being patronized--the butt of Hitler's minor annoyance with the foreigner.

"Go on. Tell them!"

"I--" Erich's mind reeled. "Dogs have a number of military uses," he said quickly. "There are sentry-attack dogs, scout dogs, messenger dogs, wire-laying dogs, pack dogs, sledge dogs. We are trying to combine these types into one." He brought his fists slowly together to illustrate his point. "Imagine a single entity, a Gestalt, a team of dogs as capable of acting on their own initiative as they are of--"

"Tell them what you told me about the javelin," Goebbels interjected. "What did you call it--an art form."

"An art aerodynamically," Erich said, gaining confidence. "Thrown well, it arcs clean, without compromise, like an irrefutable argument--"

Goebbels took hold of Hitler's elbow. "The Rittmeister here won several Youth events. He is a local champion, shall we say."

Hitler jerked from Goebbels' hold. "All of Germany's new generation are champions!" He motioned with his fist as if pounding on an imaginary table. "In any other country, the Rittmeister here could easily have been the best! But here, we have a new Germany, of such depth and breadth of skill..."

He was beginning to lose control of his temper, Erich realized. He did tend to do that at parties. With the foreign press here in full force, the Führer would have to be closely watched.

One of the pages, unmindful of her audience, flung her flaming torch into the birdbath and threw herself into the arms of a young officer, who led her away. His attention distracted, Hitler moved on. The press followed him.

A tipsy, middle-aged woman in a pink gown and hair tinted to match gripped Erich's arm. "Seen my husband?"

"What does he look like?" Erich asked, more happy than not at having had the spotlight removed from him.

"Like a lecher!" She stumbled off into the shadows.

Magda Goebbels walked up to Erich. "They are all lechers." She did not look happy. "My husband said he wanted the girls to look svelte, not homespun, but these girls' behavior is indecent! Disgusting!"

Some of the girls were members of the State Opera's
corps de ballet,
but most, Erich knew, came from music halls and cabarets. Their morality seemed as flexible as their bodies. Already, couples headed for more secluded realms. Former torchbearers and officers, former torchbearers and foreign dignitaries, former torchbearers and men--whatever their description.

"If my Paul Josef spent less time with his movie star harlots, he might be less accepting of this behavior," Frau Goebbels said quietly. "Any time now, the Führer will lose his temper over this situation, you wait and see. It must be stopped. Can you not--"

She stopped talking, her attention diverted toward Achilles. Unleashed, the dog had begun to stalk a peacock standing like a lawn ornament, its long neck lifted and still. Muzzle thrust out and tail out straight, the dog eased forward.

The peacock screeched indignantly, looking for all the world like a false-eyelashed transvestite whose bottom had been pinched by the wrong person.

Quickly Erich tried to fill his mind with light, to visualize the dog's eyes and transfer a command:
Friend!

Achilles pivoted mechanically toward the bird.

Play!

Achilles' body untensed. Scampering over to the bird, she nudged it as gently as a kitten testing a ball of string. The peacock strutted back, lifted its fan and emitted a sound that was more tease than screech.

Again the dog advanced and again the bird sidestepped, the beauty of its feathers and voice making the dog appear clumsy by contrast.

People began gathering. The Führer, smiling, nodded to the spectators, then toward his retinue of adjutants and aides, who apparently knew what he wanted of them. Without a word, they scurried in all directions, running into bushes and the pavilions, knocking over trays and tables, pulling people in varying states of undress into the open. Fists and feet and bottles flew.

A bottle hit the peacock. Screeching and stabbing with its beak, it attacked Achilles, who backed up, obviously perplexed.

"Those birds are sacrosanct!" the Führer screamed. "You should have commanded the dog to stay away from it!"

"I--" Erich stopped. No one, not even Adolph Hitler, would believe in the kind of communication he had with his animals. He grabbed for the leash. "Down!"

Achilles sat dead still.

Apparently sensing its advantage, the bird circled her.

"Stop that stupid dog!" Goebbels yelled, limping forward.

"Down!" Erich shouted again...too late. Achilles gave in to instinct. Erich could feel the animal's single-minded intensity and knew he had lost control; his only hope was that the peacock would back away.

But the bird was in full motion, protecting its territory from this strange four-legged invader. One more time it darted forward. One time too many.

It never had a chance. There was a squawking, and a flurry of feathers. Achilles' mouth was around its neck.

Goebbels picked up a tray that had fallen to the ground, held it like a moon-burnished shield, then threw it at the dog.

Achilles opened her mouth as if catch the tray, and dropped the bird, its wings beating feebly and head hanging limply to one side.

"Stay!" Erich commanded.

Growling, the dog stared at Goebbels' groin.

"Somebody shoot that beast!"

Erich grabbed the dog's harness. Achilles, done with her show of strength, became meekly obedient to Erich's command to heel.

"My fault for losing hold of her," Erich said.

"No one is at fault." Hitler stepped forward and leaned down to pet the dog. "She was simply overexcited by this idiotic event."

Erich breathed more easily.

Hitler leaned close to Erich and, smiling at those around him, said softly, "Now, Herr Rittmeister, you will shoot the dog."

Erich stared in disbelief. "But Herr Führer, you said--"

"I know perfectly well what I said. There is no blame. Nonetheless, there are times when the blameless must be destroyed."

Erich knelt next to Hitler and put his hands in Achilles' fur. He could smell the pungent, sour odor of age.

Briefly the tips of Hitler's fingers made contact with Erich's. "I have given you an order," the Führer said, continuing to fondle the dog. "Once I have made up my mind--" He paused. "I have plans for you, Rittmeister, but I must know you are strong enough to accept the fact that there is no room in the Reich for compassion."

Erich stared at the bright stones on the footpath and wondered what the party-goers were thinking. Many were stepping back, aware that something unusual was happening and wanting no part of it.

"Give me a pistol," Goebbels said, fuming.

"No!" Hitler stood up. "The Rittmeister shall do what must be done. His dog has outlived her usefulness." He took hold of Erich's arm. "I will watch. I order you not to look away or to display emotion."

A series of lightning seizures jolted Erich's body as he unholstered his pistol and released the safety. When they subsided, he cocked the pistol and took aim, his vision blurred by angry tears, his thoughts damning himself, Hitler, the Reich.

Forgive me, Achilles. I love you.

Knowing that the pain the dog would feel would seize him as well, he fired.

Achilles gave a cry that sounded like a human child, fell and lay still. Erich lowered the pistol and stared at his old friend. Red, raw muscle showed where the fur was suddenly missing.
Good-bye, old friend.

He waited for the pain, welcoming it, but it did not come. He experienced neither guilt nor pain, only numbness. There was no room in him for anything except hatred.