The Secret of Lions (27 page)

Suddenly, I heard the roar of the chainsaw
starting up. I looked up to see the large man wielding it above me.
He swung the chainsaw down hard at me. Quickly, I rolled and dodged
the blade. The saw scraped across the floor. It shredded the carpet
fibers and the top of the floorboards. Threads, splinters, and
fibers flew up, creating a small cloud of dust.

While lying on my back, I kicked the large
man square in the jaw with both feet. He flew back against the
desk. I jumped to my feet.

Again, I saw the chainsaw coming toward me.
The chain rotated around the blade as it neared my face. I grabbed
a lamp off the edge of a nearby table and shattered it across the
soldier’s face. He dropped the saw and grabbed his face in his
hands.

Now that I had a brief moment, my first
instinct was to check Anna. I ran over to her. I couldn’t tell if
she was dead or alive. She didn’t move and her face was covered in
blood. Both cheeks were swollen.

“Anna? Anna?”

She didn’t respond to my voice. I rose
sharply and faced the large man who was pulling shards of the
broken lamp from his cheek and neck.

I walked over to him and pulled him off the
desktop. He grabbed me with both hands, lifted me up from the
floor, and rammed me into one of the walls. I felt a sharp pain
course through my lower back.

The large man pulled me from the wall and
rammed me into it again. Once again, the pain seared through me. He
pulled me back a third time. This time I stabbed him in the upper
shoulder twice with the stiletto. I knew the muscle I stabbed
through would severely weaken his ability to use his left arm. He
dropped me.

I left the stiletto in his shoulder. I
stayed on the floor for a moment, trying to catch my breath. After
the pain in my back finally subsided, I leapt to my feet and
grabbed the large soldier by the chin, pushing it upward. I punched
his throat.

He fell over instantly. The handle of the
stiletto hit the floor first, hammering the blade deeper into his
back. He cried out in agony. I stomped onto the top of his right
arm in order to restrain it.

I picked up the shotgun, and with all of my
strength, I began pounding on his face with the butt of it. I
struck over and over until his face was as bludgeoned as
Anna’s.

Finally, I could no longer lift the shotgun.
It had been so long since the large soldier had stopped moving. All
that remained of his face was a mess of blood and bruises. I pulled
the stiletto out of his shoulder, figuring it might be useful later
on.

I rolled off him and lay on the floor next
to him for a while. I knew he was still alive, but it didn’t
matter.

I looked over at Anna’s body. I still wasn’t
sure if she was dead or not.

Suddenly, I heard a series of explosions in
the hall. Across from me the floor exploded and several splinters
of the floorboard sprayed out all over the room. One nearly stabbed
me in the leg.

The second floor of the building began
catching fire. Downstairs various machines exploded in sequence
like dominos; the entire building was coming down.

I tried to lift Anna. After several
attempts, I was successful in throwing her body over my shoulder. I
carried her out into the hall. It was slow moving. I had used up
most of my strength fighting the chainsaw soldier. I managed to
carry her out into the hall and part of the way back down it, but
the rest of the hall was on fire. I kicked in the door next to
me.

That room was not burning as badly as the
others. I entered the room and ran for the window.

At the window, I looked down. It was
possible for me to leap out onto the lower roof and then to the
street from there. I leaned Anna against the wall for a moment.
With one foot out of the window and over the ledge, I began to
climb out.

I turned to grab Anna. Another explosion
rang out. This one was close. Then another came. And another one
followed that. The room was suddenly engulfed in flames. I heard
the beginning of another explosion; this one launched me through
the air and out of the window. In the instant before I took flight,
I witnessed Anna’s body incinerate in a swift torrent of fire. She
was dead, but just before she died, in that one brief moment, her
eyes opened.

Violently, I landed on the top of the lower
roof before another explosion sent me off and onto the street
below. Shrapnel from the building had fallen over me, hiding me
from the remaining Todesgruppen. That was where I remained until I
awoke later.

79

In the bakery, I held the saw tightly in my
hand and glared down at the large soldier.

I thought only one thing: chainsaw.

I swung the chainsaw. The blade cut through
the large man’s left arm and severed it. The body part flung
several feet and landed in an old cake. Blood streamed out of the
hole and smeared across the white icing and the words “Happy
Birthday.”

The large soldier screamed in anguish.

I stood still for a moment and relished the
fear on the man’s face. I savored the sheer terror and power I
felt. Peter Hitler was no more. Whoever I had been, whoever Peter
was no longer mattered. What mattered now was satisfaction. I was
almost satisfied but not quite yet.

Slowly, I followed the large man as he began
to flee. He crawled on the floor as best he could without his limb.
I never let him get more than a meter away. Before the man could
reach the door, I sawed through his legs. The chainsaw struggled to
saw completely through his thick legs and bones. The smell of saw
dust and seared flesh filled the air. Screams filled my ears.

Moments later, the large man was in four
pieces and very dead.

I stood over the mess of blood and body
parts. I stared at a blank eggshell-colored wall in front of me.
Like a canvas from long ago, it called to me. I felt a madness I
hadn’t felt since I’d tortured that lion those years ago. And I
felt a strong desire, an impulse, a vice, a need. I needed to
paint.

I only had one source of paint to use and
not much time. The Nazi soldiers were ramming the front doors of
the bakery, trying to get in. I had locked the door just before I’d
picked up the chainsaw. Still, I wondered what was taking them so
long. Then I thought maybe they recognized me and were looking for
my father.

“My father,” I snickered. “What a lie.”

My madness became my art. I picked up a
cooking brush lying in a jar full of stainless steel kitchen
utensils. I dipped the bristles into the pool of blood that leaked
out from the dismembered corpse.

I painted on the blank wall. Brush strokes
swept across the white wall until a distinct and ferocious shape
formed. Blood splattered everywhere and dripped down the wall.

Several minutes later, I was finished with
my painting of blood. I stepped back to view the first painting I
had done in years. Standing five or so meters from it, I
smirked.

It was a creature I would be forever linked
with. It was the most feared and vicious animal in the world, a
lion, painted in the blood of my enemy.

Suddenly, my mind relapsed again into a
distant memory. It was a memory I had forgotten from years ago. I
struggled with it. I fought it. At the same time, the Nazi soldiers
broke through the front doors of the bakery. They made their way in
and entered the kitchen.

At first, the soldiers were appalled. They
couldn’t believe what I had done. An officer stepped over the limbs
and blood. He approached me and put his hands on my shoulders.

The soldier, not knowing what to say, said,
“Sohn des Kanzlers, are you all right?”

I did not answer.

The officer repeated, “Peter? Are you all
right?”

“My name is Willem Kessler,” I replied.

The soldiers looked up at the drawing on the
wall.

They stared at the lion painted in
blood.

Chapter Eleven

Black Lion Rising

80

The soldiers did not know what to do with
me. They weren’t sure if they were authorized to detain me or not.
In any other scenario, they would have just shot me. If I were
someone else and not the Führer’s son, I would have been dead where
I stood.

“Peter, come with us,” the officer said. He
grabbed me by the arm. I did not fight them. I dropped the
blood-soaked brush. Droplets of blood streaked out of the bristles
as the brush hit the ground.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To see your father,” the officer
responded.

I was brought down to the basement of a
hotel. It was a very large, abandoned room. I knew what was in
store for me the moment Beowulf entered. He leaned against the back
wall, smoking a cigarette.

Neither of us spoke a word. We sat there
waiting, staring each other down.

We waited for over an hour. My father must
have still been returning. I did not care. I was not afraid. Even
though I was shackled to a chair in the middle of the room, I did
not fear. I looked at Beowulf with cold eyes.

Beowulf approached me. Within the last hour,
he had circled me several times. Like a wolf circling his prey,
Beowulf studied me.

Finally, he spoke, “Peter. You are
different. I can’t quite place it, but I sense something is
exceptional about you.”

“Willem,” I said.

“What?” Beowulf asked.

“My name is not Peter. It’s Willem.”

“Well, you are different,” Beowulf
repeated.

“How so?” I asked.

“It’s your eyes. You have the eyes of a
killer now, and not just any killer, an assassin. How many men did
you kill today? Five? Six? Shit, you may have killed more.”

Beowulf stopped talking. We heard footsteps.
Several men approached from the staircase. Out of the shadows,
Hitler’s was the first face I saw.

“Son? What’s going on?” Hitler asked,
walking close to me. Before he got within whispering distance,
Beowulf stopped him.

“What’s the meaning of this? Why is he
strapped up like this?” Hitler said.

“Ask him who he is,” Beowulf said.

“Who he is? This is my son. Now unlock him,”
Hitler said. He became red and infuriated. “Unlock him."

Beowulf stood by and did nothing. Hitler
drew a pistol from his coat.

“Unlock him,” Hitler said while pointing the
pistol at Beowulf.

Beowulf did not try to explain further;
instead, he did as he was told.

Once freed, I rose and stared coldly at
Hitler.

“Son, what is the meaning of all of this?”
Hitler asked, still pointing the pistol at Beowulf.

I looked nightmarish. My clothes were still
dirty from the night before. I hadn’t slept. My face was covered in
dirt and ash and blood.

“Peter?” Hitler said.

I stood a couple of paces from Hitler. After
a long pause I spoke: “I’m not Peter. My name is Willem Kessler,
and you are the son of a bitch who murdered my father, my mother,
and stole my life.”

Suddenly, I was grappling the gun from
Hitler’s hand. Once I had it, I spun the Führer completely around.
I made him my hostage, while pointing the gun at Beowulf.

Beowulf was fast. He already had his own gun
pointed at my face.

“No!” Hitler barked at Beowulf from under my
grasp. “Don’t shoot him.”

“We can’t let you leave here,” Beowulf said.
"You know this.”

“Who said anything about leaving?” I
replied.

“Peter, you are my son. I’m not sure who
told you these lies, but you are my son,” Hitler said, trying to
squirm out of my grip.

“Shut up! Just shut up! You are not my
father. I remember now. I remember. My mother told me the truth.
She told me my father’s real name long ago. You killed my father
and mother,” I said desperately.

Hitler’s eyes widened.

“Son, don’t do anything stupid. Do you want
to just leave? You can do that. We’ll take you anywhere you want to
go,” Hitler said, trying to squirm out of my grip.

“I want to go home,” I said. I pulled the
hammer back on the pistol.

I took my eyes off Beowulf for a single
moment. And suddenly, Beowulf moved behind me.

I felt an incredible pain in the back of my
head. Beowulf punched me.

I passed out completely, dropping the gun
and releasing Hitler from my grasp.

81

I was drugged over and over for weeks. I
slipped in and out of consciousness, never fully aware of where I
was. Occasionally, I heard voices. I can remember some, but others
remained inaudible. I lived and breathed in a drug-induced coma.
Finally, I woke up in a hospital somewhere in Great Britain.

“Mr. Kessler? Son, are you awake?” a voice
asked.

I felt groggy. I slowly awoke in a state of
confusion.

“What happened? Where the hell am I?” I
asked.

My eyes hurt. All I could see were five
blurry images—men in suits. They sounded English, French, and
American. Four of the men talked to each other, while the fifth
patted my cheek, trying to wake me up.

“The Germans still owe us reparations. All
I’m saying is that by declaring war, we have kissed that money
goodbye,” said one man.

“No, you Euro boys are confused. Churchill
is right to declare war. The Germans were never going to pay it,
and now when we crush them, they will owe all of us.”

“Frank, your country isn’t even planning on
getting involved.”

“Not true; the president is very interested
in what goes on in Europe, even if Americans are not.”

“Shut up. He’s awake.”

“Mr. Kessler?” one of the men said, tapping
a hand on my forehead.

“Willem, my name is Willem,” I said,
squirming in the bed. I tried to sit up but then noticed I was
cuffed to the bed’s rail bar.

“Sorry for that. We’re not sure if we can
trust you,” one of the men said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The men were still blurry.