Songbird Under a German Moon (9 page)

Surely there has to be more to this thing than just shooting photos of pretty girls.
They wouldn't have brought him in if there weren't.

“Who are they?” The driver shook his head. “‘Who aren't they' would be an easier question. Some are Germans who've been kicked out of their homes to make room for the American troops. Some are families who lost their homes in the bombing. There are former prisoners from Hitler's concentration camps—those are the saddest cases. There are also Germans from the Sudetenland—the ones who poured into Czechoslovakia after Hitler invaded and then were kicked out again.”

“Things were similar in Paris. I hung out there the last few months, but it was nothing like this.” Frank sighed. “It's been months now, and these people are still out of their homes. It just doesn't seem
right to me. I wonder what will happen next. I hope the government does something before winter sets in.”

The jeep stopped beside a tall house, and the driver pointed. “They use the bottom as an officer's mess. Upstairs is a little restaurant, but lately there's been more music than food. I can almost bet your buddy Art is up there—or at least someone who knows him.”

“And if not?” Frank asked.

“Bayreuth headquarters will be open in the morning. I'm sure you can crash here until then.”

From the look in the guy's eyes, he was done driving Frank around. It seemed like he had other things in mind, like getting to know his date better. Frank couldn't help but eye her with suspicion. She most likely was a simple German girl looking for companionship after the war, but one never knew.

Frank jumped out, grabbed his duffle bag, and thanked the driver. Then he headed upstairs, via the outside stairway. He was only five steps up when he heard the music. It was a woman's voice, and in a strange way, it reminded him of Songbird.
What in the world?
Frank knew it couldn't be her, yet he took the steps two at a time. On the landing at the top of the stairs, two GIs were smoking cigarettes with another couple of young German girls. He nodded to them and moved inside.

The room looked almost gray from the swirls of smoke that curled in the air. Soldiers sat on worn-out sofas, at small tables, and even on the floor. The woman stood in the corner. Her head was tilted up as she sang. It was as though she serenaded a balcony that wasn't there. Frank scanned the room and there, in the far back corner, sat Art at
a small table. Frank moved in Art's direction, for the first time realizing how quiet the audience was—all of the soldiers focused on the woman's song.

Frank was halfway to Art when his friend stood, motioning him the rest of the way over. As he neared, Art shook his hand.

“Was wondering when you were coming. Have a seat, your duffle bag will make a great chair,” he said in a low voice, and before Frank could respond, Art had already turned his attention back to the singer.

Frank set his duffle bag on end and sat. He didn't ask Art about the empty chair at the table. He guessed it was for the singer. Art always had the most beautiful girlfriends wherever he was stationed. The only thing that would surprise him was if Art
didn't
have a date.

The woman sang her last note, and the room erupted in applause.

“Don't you think she's great? She's a star—or at least she used to be. Magdalena used to sing in the opera house, back when they still performed Wagner's
Siegfried
, and not the jazzy rubbish that's playing there now.”

“I'm offended by that.” Frank straightened his shoulders. “It's good music. I was there tonight.”

“Oh, yes.” Art half-smiled. “We're giving the GIs real culture—variety shows and revues—put on in the same building where last summer Nazi officers and invalid troops watched
Goterdammerung
.”

Frank rubbed his eyes. “Are you saying we don't have any culture?”

“Not saying that at all, but it's not Wagner. Don't you know this town is what it is now because of him and that opera house? No works by any other composer had ever been performed there until we showed up—”

“You seem to know a lot about music, Art. Last time I saw you in Paris a couple of months ago, you couldn't have cared less about German culture.” Frank's head started to ache, and he didn't understand why he was arguing. Yesterday he most likely would have agreed with Art, but today things were different. Mainly because when he thought of the USO singers, he thought of
her
. Yesterday Frank would have taken Art's comments as just observation, but now they seemed to be an insult to someone who had strangely managed to wiggle through a crevasse in the wall he'd built up around his heart.

I have to stop thinking about Betty. It's better for me—and for her. Don't want her wrapped up in the business I'm in—

“Yes, well, that's what two months here will do for you, when you come to care for someone, I suppose. Your world gets turned upside down overnight.”

The woman looked in their direction and met Art's eye. He lifted his hand and signaled her over.

“So, is that your girl?” Frank asked.

“I wish. She's still looking for her husband. Magdalena is Czechoslovakian—an international star who is now penniless. The Czechs sent her back to Germany because of her connection to Bayreuth and all her luggage was stolen, including valuable jewelry. So sad. But I'll stick around, just in case. It's horrible to say, but if her husband doesn't show up, I want to be first in line.”

Frank wanted to be outraged by what the Czechs had done to the woman, but he couldn't help siding with them. Their land had been overrun by the Germans and now they were ready to be rid of any German influences and reminders. Still, as with so many people he'd
met who were now displaced, the question wasn't “Where should I go?” but “Where are the ones I love?” Seeing their desperation at learning the fate of family members they'd lost track of during the war made him realize even more how important family was.

The woman approached. She was plain-looking, but in a beautiful way—like a statue of Mary, without adornment. She sat in the chair next to Art and smiled.

“Dis a friend?” She pointed to Frank.

“Yes, my old buddy—a photographer like me.”

The woman extended her hand and Frank took it in his, shaking it gently. Her hand was cold and frail, and he was almost certain that if he shook it too hard it would break.

“So you are a singer?” Frank asked, even though it was obvious.

“
Ja
. Or I used to be such.”

“Sweetest soprano you ever heard,” Art said.

“Did you sing in some of Wagner's operas?”

“Ja.” The woman nodded. Her face appeared weary. “That was many lifetimes yet.”

“Your English is good.” Frank felt a weariness coming over him and he smiled, wondering when it would be polite to ask Art about their accommodations so he could head out.

“I worked with many Americans. I've traveled there also, debuting—” She shook her head and looked around. “It doesn't matter now. I've had good life. A good career.”

“Maybe it's not over yet. You never know.” Art patted her hand.

Magdalena smiled at Art, but it was obvious she didn't believe his words.

“I know some of the singers who are at the opera house now. I'm sure they would like to meet you—to hear about your career,” Frank said.

Magdalena's eyes widened and her lips pressed into a thin line. “I think I would like that,” she finally said. But even as she said the words, Frank could see it was far from the truth. The woman's forced smile said one thing—but her eyes said something else completely.

Dierk's footsteps were light as he walked down the narrow alley. Rays from a yellow moon lit his way, yet he knew that even if there were no moonlight he'd still walk unhindered. He'd made this same trek nearly every night since the Americans had moved in and the Germans had abandoned their labors. The warehouse at the end of his path stood in the midst of a larger factory complex. Thankfully, the Americans had yet to explore thoroughly the treasure hidden within the boxes and piled in dusty corners. The foreign invaders believed the war had ended—Dierk knew this was not the case. The war would never end. Evil would rise again. And what Americans didn't understand
would
hurt them. Their death cries would be part of the final act.

The warehouse was only one place he looted, although Dierk liked to think of it as gathering only what had already been prepared for him. The Nazi death forces had done their work, used their weapons as long as their time allowed. And now it was his turn.

Even though Wagner's focus had been musical drama, the work of Wagner's family spun off in other weighty pursuits. Dierk had
co-labored with Wieland Wagner at the opera house and with Wagner's brother-in-law, Lafferentz, on more technical matters. Lafferentz was a man Dierk admired greatly—especially his work with the “sighted bomb,” an effort to improve the accuracy of rockets launched from planes or submarines. They'd been so close to achieving success. If only they'd had more time. He would have liked to see the rocket finished to help the German people, but not for Hitler. The madman didn't deserve such a reward.

Time caused us defeat once, but not twice.

Again the ticking clock sounded in his ear—his performance must happen at the appointed hour. He didn't have a minute to waste.

Dierk's steps quickened as he walked toward the trees at the back of the factory. Years ago they had made thread here, but during '44 they had made death—or rather the type of rockets that had carried death into England and France.

He strode toward the sign that read N
EW
C
OTTON
M
ILLS
. It was here that specialist workers—electricians, engineers, technicians, and physicists—had worked on the
wunder
weapon.

If Dierk continued down this road, he'd come to a gate where two American MP officers stood, but they wouldn't have the pleasure of meeting him tonight.

They guarded a main building—the former thread factory—that stood idle for want of raw materials. The former rocket factory also stood idle since wunder weapons were no longer needed. And the large concentration camp beside it, where forced laborers had worked, stood empty too.

It had been a little over a year ago when all German theaters had closed as Goebbels appealed for “total war.” All exemptions from military service were cancelled—even all the artists in the Berlin State Opera company and the singers to the
corps de ballet
had gone off to war. Only his opera—Wagner's
Mastersingers
being performed at the
Festspielhaus
—was allowed to finish the season. But after its final performance on August 9, Dierk had also found work inside these gates. Not as a prisoner, but as a well-respected laborer. And since then, his labors had not ceased.

Even though he was far out of view, Dierk gave a mock salute to the American military police and chuckled. It amused him how the Americans considered themselves safe. Didn't they understand that those who wish to do harm don't come announced? They don't plead for entry? He'd always found other ways to get what he wanted. He always found the unseen paths.

Cutting off from the main road, his footsteps barely made a sound as he moved under the trees. The leaves pressed under his feet in submission. The air smelled of dirt and decay. The decay of the leaves and the scent of death also lingered in the scattered ashes of the nearby camp. Though the gates had been opened and the prisoners freed, the stench remained. The Americans had tried to clean up the camp—as they did with everything—but evil clung. It stuck to all that had life, assuring that those who still breathed would not forget.

If a million nights passed, Dierk would not forget.

He approached the opening to the fence and glanced around, just in case some poor beggar saw him enter the woods and
followed, hoping for a companion and maybe a little food. Seeing no one, he slipped through the opening and stayed crouched as he hurried to the warehouse's back door. He entered and noticed the moon's rays streamed through the high windows. He didn't need to use his flashlight tonight, which was fine. Dierk felt more comfortable in darkness.

He went through three boxes, pulling out the parts he needed, and made a pile. These parts were designed for rockets, but he had different plans. The explosives were marked for the enemy of the Reich, but he'd use them against the enemy of the town—those who trampled their heritage. Dierk could not change how Bayreuth and Wagner, its most famous citizen, were disgraced, but he could ensure the abuse didn't continue.

When he found all he needed, he put it into a sack and tucked it under his shirt. Then he buttoned his shirt and his jacket over it.

He wasn't greedy. He only took what he needed for this night's work.