Sirius (18 page)

The moderator is moved. “This spontaneous gesture from our comrades far away on the Black Sea has now united all the transmission stations around the world.”

Holy infant so tender and mild
resounds out ever more wholeheartedly, with ever more voices joining in.

“Now they’re singing in the Arctic Circle,” rejoices the moderator. “Now they’re singing in the combat zone in Rzhev. Now we’ll switch to Stalingrad. And now France. Now Africa is singing too.”

“And now all of you at home,” he cries, “sing along!”

*

The Führer has returned from spending the holidays in Upper Salzburg, so the service of adjutant Wünsche begins once more.

Blondi stays behind in the Berghof for now. Why would the dog want to be in the gloomy Reich Chancellery, when instead he could be out romping in the open air with Negus and Stasi, Eva Braun’s terriers?

Perfectly understandable, but now the Führer is sat there without a dog, and that puts him in a surly mood. He loves dogs. Nothing cheers him up like having a dog around to teach bizarre tricks to.

Even after so much time has passed, he still enthuses now and then about Fuchsl, the little stray terrier he encountered in Alsace back when he was just a simple soldier, on leave from the Front. Fuchsl was smart and quick to learn. Before long, he was able to clamber up a ladder on all fours. One witness of this performance had offered 200 Deutschmarks for the dog. “I wouldn’t give him up even for 200,000 Deutschmarks,” came Hitler’s answer. Soon after that, Fuchsl suddenly vanished without a trace. The column had to go back to the front, the master without his dog. A tragedy.

Blondi cannot climb ladders. And why would she? She’s a German shepherd dog, not a circus clown. How times change; Hitler is no longer a simple soldier, but the Führer. He needs a dog that represents something. A dog that proudly represents his race.

Officially, the Führer poses happily with Blondi. But in secret, he longs for Fuchsl.

“Ah, Fuchsl,” sighs the Führer woefully. “Bring me the map of the world, Wünsche.”

Wünsche brings the map of the world. The Führer pushes his index finger across Alsace, murmuring place names from long-forgotten times, Sundgau, Mülhausen, Schiltigheim.

“Here!” he calls, “Horndorf! That’s where I lost him.”

Wünsche stands there in sympathetic silence. He contemplates in all seriousness whether the erstwhile stray Hansi could possibly be Fuchsl, having trotted from Horndorf to Berlin in the search for his master. No, that would make Hansi – wait a moment – thirty years old. Impossible. Or was it?

“Thirty years,” ventures Wünsche. “Maybe he’s still alive,”

“Nonsense,” grumbles the Führer. “You know nothing about dogs.”

Wünsche, timidly: “I have a dog.”

“Oh really?” says the Führer. “What kind?”

Wünsche describes Hansi. The shaggy fur, spotted white and brown, the perky ears, the long snout, the cheerful tail.

“Like Fuchsl!” cries the Führer, moved.

Wünsche permits himself to respectfully make the observation that the Reichsmarshall himself declared Hansi to be a good dog, commenting on the pedigree that stretches back to the twelfth century.

“That’s very impressive,” says the Führer. “Bring Hansi by to see me when you get the chance.”

Has Wünsche heard correctly? Adolf Hitler, the Führer of the German people, the greatest field commander of all time, has personally addressed him, Erwin Wünsche? From one dog lover to another, so to speak? His chest swells with pride.

Hansi should get a nice reward for making this possible. The cook agrees and hands over a big piece of sausage. Führer sausage.

That evening, it is handed over ceremoniously.

“My dear Hansi,” begins Wünsche in a solemn tone. “Your name came up today during a conversation with the Führer.”

Gertrud claps her hands over her mouth in disbelief.

“The Führer and I,” he continues, “we talked about you. And I’ll emphasise that point: we talked. You brought us, the Führer and I, closer together on a human level. I emphasise again: on a human level.”

As a sign of his appreciation, he unwraps the sausage and lays it by the dog’s feet.

Ulrich and Rudi stare entranced at their father, who has suddenly taken on historical dimensions. The Führer and I. The dog, too, they see with new eyes. He is the hero of the day.

“And wait for it!” says the father. “The Führer wants to make your personal acquaintance, Hansi!”

Gertrud expresses her amazement by dropping her jaw and sitting there open-mouthed. She is speechless.

The dog which no-one at home knows what to do with is suddenly a welcome guest in the Führer’s headquarters.

*

Dr. Joseph Goebbels, the Minister for Propaganda, has the floor. He is addressing the German people in the Berlin Sportpalast.

“The German people,” he says, “have to defend their most holy assets: their families, their women and children, their beautiful and pristine landscape, their towns and villages, the two-thousand-year legacy of their culture, and everything that makes life worth living.”

Then he becomes enraged. At the Lords and Archbishops in London, at international Bolshevism, at the sham civilization of Judaism, at the stampede of the Steppe towards our honourable continent. At everything.

“I ask you,” roars Goebbels, “do you want total war? If necessary, do you want a war more total and radical than anything that we can even imagine today?”

The answer is a tumultuous “
Ja
!” from thousands of throats. A hurricane of applause.

The speech is being broadcast on the radio, which, in the words of its orator, means that “millions of people are connected to us here in this room over the airwaves.”

Including the Circle.

“Now they have truly lost their minds,” says Count von Studnitz, shaking his head.

“We have just been listening to the devil,” declares Benno Fritsche. “Mephisto.”

“The devil’s mouthpiece,” calls Bloomfield. “Hitler is the true devil!”

Sirius flinches. He still has the scent of that sausage in his nose. Was it the sausage of the devil? Does the devil himself want to meet him? A shiver runs down his spine.

Professor Wundt is no longer able to stay seated; he paces nervously back and forth, stirred up by the vile speech.

“We really have to take action,” he says. “Hitler must go!”

But how? Bloomfield reports on the plans of the
Heidinger Circle
, friends of theirs, who are plotting to shoot Hitler. Another possibility being considered is a bomb to fire Hitler into the air.

“All we’re missing is one link in the chain, but unfortunately it’s the decisive one,” says Bloomfield. “An informant close to Hitler. Our man in the Führer’s headquarters.”

Is it possible that it could be a dog? How Sirius longs to be able to cry out “Me! I’m going to meet the Führer in person soon! He has already sent me a sausage! Maybe I can help you.”

But he can’t talk. Not yet.

Excited, he jumps up onto the piano and bashes the keys.

“He’s trying to tell us something!” cries Benno in amazement.

The Circle listens, captivated. Professor Wundt translates letter after letter.

“Hitler. Sausage.”

“His first words,” whispers Count von Studnitz, deeply moved.

“What do you think they mean?” asks Bloomfield.

The men retreat conspiratorially back to their armchairs, light up cigars and ponder. Is the dog’s message to be understood as a commentary on the Führer’s personality, something along the lines of him being a “silly sausage”?

“He’s right, you know,” says the Count. “But a highly-dangerous one.”

It is, of course, also plausible that the words are meant symbolically, like a poem in which
sausage
quite simply stands for something that is worth
striving for
, like
salvation
. Save us from Hitler!

“From the dog’s perspective, that would make sense,” comments the professor. “Think about it – he spoke the words just after we mentioned the Hitler assassination plot.”

“Or perhaps the dog just means he hasn’t found anything yet. Not a sausage,” says Bloomfield.

Fritsche frowns. “Then do you think this is going to help us? We need to get some inside information as soon as we can.”

“I’m just saying,” Bloomfield reassures him. “We have to consider all the possible interpretations.”

Sirius feels misunderstood. One thing is certain; he needs to learn to express himself more clearly as quickly as he can.

*

In Hollywood, fate is turning again, and for the better. The happy twist was prompted by Electra. Quite simply, she electrifies.

“Do something for the Crowns, Daddy, won’t you?” she asked her father.

Conrad Nicholson Hilton actually has his mind on other matters. He has just bought the Waldorf Astoria and the Plaza in New York, the two crown jewels, and with them he wants to become the Hotel King of America. He is also newly wed to Zsa Zsa Gabor, which is no easy task in itself. So he has little time to devote to two people who are unable to get over the loss of their dog.

“For my sake,” begs Electra, “please!”

Her joyous smile has bewitched philosophers, and now it turns out that even Kings are defenceless to her charms, not to mention fathers.

“Stop giggling,” says Hilton. “You know very well I can’t say no when you giggle.”

And it’s a good thing he can’t. Carl Crown, as a result, is now working as a porter in the newly opened Hilton hotel, The Townhouse, in Beverly Hills. For Rahel, the position of hostess was created. She welcomes the guests and tends to their needs. The Crowns live in the hotel now, too.

Crown wears a Bordeaux-red uniform with gold bobbles, along with a matching cap. Rahel wears a uniform in the same colour, and beneath it a white blouse with the hotel emblem.

Else is unprepared for the sight when she visits her parents for the first time in their new home. Tears of emotion fill her eyes. The way her father bravely stands tall beneath his cap, the way her mother stands ready to greet guests with the coat of arms on her chest – it’s heart-wrenching.

“I know,” smiles Crown, “I look like an aubergine.”

“You both look wonderful!” cries Else. “Like something from a movie.
Made in Hollywood
.”

“It really is like the movies,” says Rahel. “We were put out on the street, and suddenly we’re living in a palace with a hundred rooms.”

Crown nods valiantly.

The revolving door sets into motion, and in comes a man who scours the room for familiar faces with a practised gaze, before heading towards Crown with his eyes and arms wide.

“Who is this I see before me?” he cries.

It’s John Clark. On his way to the hotel bar, of course, which is alleged to be the best bar in town. He looks the Bordeaux-red Crown up and down, wrinkling his brow.

“Is this the new guardian angel uniform?” he enquires.

“On the contrary,” replies Crown. “I have my guardian angel to thank for the uniform.”

Clark looks puzzled. “You’ll have to explain that one to me. Let’s go and have a drink!”

After the end of his shift, Crown follows him into the bar. He is looking forward to pouring out his heart to his friend from the good old days.

There’s a lot to tell. The circus in Florida. Manzini and the time machine. The Turk. Berlin. Hercules. Hitler. Hilton.

John Clark tries to follow.

“Oh man,” he says, “I don’t get it. Maybe I’m already too drunk.”

“Hercules is in Berlin!” exclaims Crown.

“That’s crazy!” replies Clark. “I’m shooting a movie with him right now, in ancient Egypt.
Hercules and Cleopatra
.”

“What?” cries Crown. “Jack Warner, that sly dog! It’s his doppelgänger!”

“Who is whose doppelgänger?” asks John Clark.

Sometimes life is just too complicated.

*

The Führer has recovered from the annihilation of the 6th Army in Stalingrad. He is in a better mood again, especially now that the uprising in the Warsaw ghetto has been quashed.

So why not take the dog along one of these days, like the Führer suggested?

Wünsche puts the lead on Hansi, while Gertrud combs him down beautifully one more time.

Their stroll to the Führer’s headquarters is bathed in sunshine. One can feel that springtime is on its way. The first trees are beginning to blossom. Wünsche lets the dog take his time around the tree trunks; he needs him to have an empty bladder when he meets the Führer. Heaven forbid he should cause that kind of mischief.

The Führer is already sat at his desk when they arrive. His hands rest on the ebony intarsia of a brandished sword.

“Look who it is,” he calls cheerfully, “the doggy.”

“
Mein Führer
, may I present Hansi,” salutes Wunsche.

The Führer gets up and pats the dog on the head. “Good doggy,” he says repeatedly. “Now then, let’s see what you can do, Hansi.”

He takes off the lead, positions himself directly in front of Hansi, stretches his index finger up high and commands: “Down!”

Hansi lies down obediently on the floor.

“Good doggy,” he says. Then he points his finger at his chair and calls, “up!”

Hansi jumps up onto the chair and sits enthroned at the desk where the Führer was sitting only moments before. He lays his paw theatrically on the sword intarsia.

The Führer doubles over with laughter.

The dog feels uneasy. This is the man he has spent his whole life fleeing from. The man who made his entire world go up in flames. And now he is sitting opposite him, playing with fire. A dangerous game.

The door connecting the office to the waiting room opens, and the secretary announces: “Admiral Canaris, mein Führer!”

Canaris, the Chief of the Military Secret Service, steps into the room and is stunned to see a dog sat at the desk – and in exactly the same pose as the Führer, to top it all off.

“Don’t worry, there hasn’t been a coup!” snorts the Führer.

“That’s good to know,” responds Canaris, his expression impenetrable. “I have important news.”

The Führer takes his seat again. The dog settles down by his feet.