Sirius (16 page)

At least he’s been lucky in that sense, thinks Sirius. Hunger is not something he is suffering from. He is full to bursting point with good German food, so much so that he feels ashamed.

By the side of the street, children trade bomb fragments with one another. They are from the last English air raid, which was a while ago now, when Sirius was still in Florida – in The Greatest Show on Earth.

The English bombers are threatening to come back soon. To be on the safe side, Berlin is making every structure possible into an air-raid shelter. Gas masks are being distributed to the population. Sirius has to brace himself now – for the Greatest War on Earth.

Why does fate drive him repeatedly to places where the Greatest is taking place at that very moment?

The Small can be nice too. Why not the Smallest Show in the World? Somewhere in Switzerland. Or the Smallest War in the World. Wishful thinking.

He just has to accept it: whatever he does, he’ll always end up making it big.

Lost in thought, Sirius roams around. As directionless as his wanderings are, he always ends up being drawn back to his old home, as though guided by some invisible hand. He stands there before his tree.

“There you are again,” says the tree, clearly delighted.

“Yes,” answers Sirius, exhausted.

“How are you?” asks the tree.

“Well,” sighs Sirius, “just look at my life.”

“Always being hunted, always on the run,” says the tree. “Ever since I’ve known you.”

Sirius remains silent.

“I can’t run,” says the tree.

“You have roots,” says Sirius, envying the tree for it.

Both of them ponder for a while the advantages and disadvantages of roots, giving particular consideration to the fact that trees don’t have a choice in the matter, whereas dogs, by their very nature, are more mobile. Just imagine a tree on the run.

“Look who it is,” cries the tree.

A man is approaching in the distance. He stops in his tracks and opens his eyes wide, unsure whether or not he is dreaming.

Sirius recognizes him at once, wagging his tail with joy and rushing over to him.

It’s Benno Fritsche. Good old uncle Benno.

“This can’t be real!” whoops Fritsche, stretching both arms out wide. In his excitement, he drops his cane, which is intended to emphasise his dignified appearance. Benno Fritsche, actor, film star, Party member.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, little dog!” he cries, completely out of breath. “By order of Hollywood.”

He gives a dramatic account of how inconsolable the family is, he gesticulates with both hands to show how many tears have flowed, he quotes from Rahel’s countless letters about how all of Hollywood misses Hercules and how they’re all counting on him, Uncle Benno, to search for the dog in Berlin.

Sirius is deeply moved. So they haven’t forgotten him after all.

“The Second World War is, of course, the most foolish of moments to look for a missing dog,” comments Fritsche. But he has succeeded.

He leans over to Sirius.

“Now be careful!” he whispers. “You’re in danger, I can sense it. I’m in danger, too, but more on that later. We can’t be spotted together in public under any circumstances. Go back to where you came from. We’ll meet every Wednesday afternoon at my house. But be careful! This is a secret mission!”

*

A new law comes into force, forbidding Jews from keeping pets. They are instructed to immediately put their dogs or cats to sleep. Germans are also forbidden from keeping Jewish pets.

Jewish pets? Erwin Wünsche wrinkles his brow. How do you recognize a Jewish pet? Does it hang its head sadly when it trots past a burnt-down synagogue? Is it particularly lazy on Saturdays? Is its nose a different shape?

He is posing these questions in relation to Hansi, of course. The dog was a stray, after all, and he picked him up in good faith that he was a German dog.

Is it possible that what he actually found was a devious Jewish pet, pulling the wool over his eyes in order to escape being put down? If that were the case, Wünsche would be guilty of an offence. His career would be over.

Hansi is certainly no hunting dog; that makes him suspicious. On the other hand: he loves German sausage. Are Jews not kosher?

And so the Hauptsturmführer’s thoughts go around in circles. He likes Hansi. Naturally, though, he would shoot him on the spot if the law required it. But it hasn’t yet come to that.

He decides to take Hansi for a walk in front of the Ministry the next morning, very casually, right at the time when Hermann Göring arrives for the day. No-one can differentiate a German dog from a Jewish dog better than the Reichsmarshall.

The plan proves successful.

The imposing state carriage drives up, and out of it climbs the Reichsmarshall, dressed particularly smartly today. He is wearing a snow-white uniform with gold buttons and braid, and his chest is littered with orders and medals. Over his shoulders lies a fur sash that reaches down to the floor, presumably mink or chinchilla.

Seemingly by coincidence, Erwin Wünsche is standing on the grassy area in front of the drive. At the end of the lead is Hansi, in the process of lifting his leg over a cornflower.

“Wünsche,” calls Göring in surprise, “what are you doing here? Are you not on duty today?”

The Hauptsturmführer salutes. “I’m always on duty, Herr Reichsmarshall! The German people are aware of their high moral obligation towards animals!”

“Bravo!” replies Göring, pleased that the preamble to his Reich Animal Protection Law is being put into practice.

“Is that your dog?” he asks.

“Yes, Herr Reichsmarshall,” replies Wünsche. “Yes and no. He is everyone’s dog. We follow the Führer! That applies to the German people and German dogs.”

Göring nods in approval. “So what’s the little chap’s name?”

“Hansi, Herr Reichsmarshall,” replies Wunsche.

“Hansi Herr Reichsmarshall?” smirks Göring. “That’s a long name for such a little dog.”

He winks to show that he’s making a joke. Wünsche salutes, a little taken aback. It is intended to mean: joke understood.

Now the conversation becomes more serious. The Hauptsturmführer summons up his courage. “Herr Reichsmarshall, please allow me to ask you a question. One that only you, as the highest authority on German animals, can answer. Is Hansi a good dog?”

Göring feels flattered, and for this reason he wants to give the question due consideration.

He circles around Hansi, estimates his height and checks his tail. Then he pontificates: “The breed was reared by Prince Albrecht zu Solms-Braunfels, a noble Hessian family that goes back to the twelfth century. The lion is its heraldic animal.”

“Hansi,” he calls approvingly, “the blue blood of the Count Palatine runs in your veins. The stately castles of noble knights are your kennels.”

Even his testicles don’t escape an appraisal. Göring comes to his ceremonious conclusion: “Hansi, you are a good dog.”

The dog can’t help but feel a certain pride. Blue-blooded, who would have thought it? He has to admit that he’s always had a weakness for accolades. In Hollywood he was given the “Golden Hercules.” And now, for the role of Hansi, the seal of approval from the Reichsmarshall. A tragic role, therefore significantly more demanding.

This fills him with satisfaction.

Sirius is saved. For the time being, at least.

“Wünsche,” says Goring, “it’s actually very convenient that we should run into one another, as I was planning to speak to you anyway. And Hansi has strengthened my resolve. I have big plans for you.”

“Your tomatoes,” he continues, “are proof of your high regard for organic food. I haven’t forgotten the 5,000 nesting boxes, on the double. You are a man of action. And now I’m seeing that you’re a dog lover, too. All respect to you!”

The eulogist stretches his hand out into the German greeting.

“Hauptsturmführer Wünsche!” he exclaims. “What I have said qualifies you for the most responsible role there is in the Reich Chancellery. I’m promoting you to personal adjutant of the Führer!”

*

Wednesday afternoon. Sirius creeps out of the house and makes his way to Benno Fritsche’s apartment, taking care that nobody sees him slip in through the garden gate.

Fritsche is not alone. He is surrounded by men smoking cigars and scowling worriedly. They call themselves “the Circle.”

“This is Sirius,” Fritsche introduces him.

“Welcome to the Circle,” says Count von Studnitz. The other members of the circle introduce themselves too, clearly not at all taken aback by the fact that a dog is joining their midst.

They know his story. An American in the group, called Ted Bloomfield, even knows his films.

“You saved Luckyville,” he says. “Bravo!”

The others laugh.

“We want to save Germany,” says Count von Studnitz. “Maybe you can help us with that.”

Save Germany? Sirius gives a start. He has no idea how he could help with that.

“Does he have any idea what we’re saying?” asks the man who introduced himself as Professor Wundt.

“He understands every word,” says Fritsche. As proof, he lays two pieces of paper on the floor, one of which has “yes” written on it, and the other “no.”

“Is today Tuesday?” asks Fritsche.

Sirius jumps on “no.”

“Is today Wednesday?” calls Bloomfield.

Sirius jumps on “yes.”

And so the questioning continues, until Professor Wundt triumphantly demands: “Does nothingness exist?”

Sirius jumps on “no.”

“He’s contradicting Nietzsche!” marvels Wundt.

“And he’s right to!” retorts Count von Studnitz. “Nihilism was the beginning of the end!”

“Now, now,” retorted Wundt, changing tack. “If anyone was right then it was Kierkegaard.”

“We’re going round in circles again,” groans Bloomfield.

Sirius doesn’t understand the circuitous debate. Is this why they are called “the Circle”?

Fritsche bangs his fist down on the table.

“Listen, all of you!” he cries. “You’re making the dog nervous. He must think we’re all crazy.”

“Sirius,” says Count von Studnitz in a calm tone, “we are ‘the Circle’. We are an underground organisation. We are in the resistance. Do you understand what I mean?”

Sirius jumps on the paper with “no.”

“Germany is in the hands of monsters,” reinforces Wundt. “That’s what we’re fighting against.”

“Monsters!” repeats Bloomfield. “Exactly!”

Sirius jumps on “yes.”

The poor dog is utterly confused. All he wanted was to pay a visit to Uncle Benno, his erstwhile knight in shining armour, the familiar face on the advertising pillars.

“I was the poster boy!” laments Fritsche. “I gave my face to this evil spectacle. And what do I see when I look in the mirror? A mask. A lie.”

“Keep your voice down!” admonishes Count von Studnitz. He has to prevent the dissenter from being too obvious about his resistance. Being underground is not Fritsche’s strong point.

Sirius is tired. He wants to go home.

“We know that you live in the house of a Hauptsturmführer,” whispers Bloomfield. “You’ll be sure to hear something here and there that could be of interest to us.”

“We help you, and you help us,” says Count von Studnitz.

*

The letter with the swastika seal arrives in Hollywood like a missive from hell. And that’s exactly what it is.

The Crown family is so happy that Sirius is alive. And yet, the letter closes with the words “There is nothing you can do for your beloved dog now except pray. He is in the service of our Fatherland. With love, Benno.”

Fatherland? Not even Jack Warner, Hercules’ creator, could have imagined that the little dog was currently poised to save Germany. The script said Ancient Rome, but Berlin is his fate.

The summer is drawing to a close. Else and Andreas welcome their child into the world, a boy, Johnny. The proud grandparents are filled with joy.

Georg has completed his medical studies. He is now an assistant doctor in a practice in Santa Monica.

But there is no light without shadow. Carl Crown is summoned to see Jack Warner. Even as he steps into the office, he already has what people call a “uneasy feeling”. And it proves to be well-founded.

“Any news on the dog?” asks Warner gruffly.

Crown launches into a story which is supposed to end with the bit about the service to the Fatherland.

“Where’s the dog?” bellows Warner.

Crown asks for his understanding regarding the Second World War; Hitler wanted it, so Berlin has no choice but to be part of it all.

“Enough about Hitler,” interrupts Warner stroppily. “That man has already unleashed enough misery, and the dog plays no part in it. But here in the studio, the dog does play a part. The lead part – Hercules!”

He thinks for a moment, his mind racing.

“The world,” he says after a while, “wants Hercules. It’s irrelevant who plays the dog. Find a dog that looks like your dog! A doppelgänger.”

Crown is outraged. “A doppelgänger? Impossible. There isn’t one, Sirius is unique.”

“Unique?” roars Warner. “Nonsense. Every dog is replaceable.”

“Not Sirius,” says Crown, firmly and abruptly.

Jack Warner stares at him with the ice-cold eyes of a shark cheated out of its prey. Then he makes the kind of hand gesture with which someone might swat away a fly.

“Leave the Chevrolet in the courtyard. And vacate that strange glass house of yours. Immediately.”

In the blink of an eye, Carl Crown has become jobless and homeless.

*

Erwin Wünsche begins his position in the Reich Chancellery. The Führer’s quarters are located on the first floor. Willy Kannenberg, the so-called house intendant, is responsible for the Führer’s housekeeping. He briefs Wünsche on his new role.

“The first job of the morning is to iron the world map,” he says. “The Führer hates it when the world map is creased.”

Wünsche makes a note.

“Breakfast,” continues Kannenberg. “The Führer goes to bed late and rises late. Krause, the valet, will give you the signal. Crispbread, butter, honey, cocoa. Always the same thing. But Lange, the cook, knows all of that.”