The Secret of Lions (28 page)

“We represent different governments.
Primarily we are the world’s greatest nations. Our countries are
concerned about Hitler’s current aggression. He invaded Poland. My
country, Great Britain, is declaring war on Germany for this
outrage.”

“Am I a prisoner?” I asked.

“Yes and no. We know who you really are,
Willem.”

“How? Who are you guys?” I asked, bitterly
confused.

“We represent intelligence agencies. Some of
us are new at this; however, my country has been in the espionage
game for a long time.

“Currently, our governments are uniting
together. If we all join forces to fight the Germans, we have a
greater chance of success. To be candid, our governments have
feared Hitler’s power for years. He is popular and very
powerful.”

“Hitler is even popular in America,” Frank
added.

“What does this have to do with me?” I
asked.

“Willem, I can’t tell you how we know about
you, but we do. We have spies and informants. We don’t know
everything, but we know you’re not really Hitler’s son. And we know
you tried to kill him. We know it is highly unusual for the SS to
hand over one of their prisoners to a British embassy. And so we
have pooled all of our information on you.”

My sight began to return. The fuzzy figures
were merging into less than the five men I had suspected. There
were really only three.

“Willem,” the British agent said.

I turned my full attention to him.

“You tried to kill Hitler. And you would
have been successful if it were not for a highly skilled assassin,
code-named Beowulf, extremely dangerous and extremely loyal to the
Reich.”

“I’m listening,” I said. I could now see the
British agent’s face.

“Willem, over the last few years, we have
sent in assassins to kill Hitler. The French even got close once.
At least we think so. Our man never returned, but after we lost
track of him, his family was murdered in their home.”

“I know of this,” I said.

“Yes, we thought that you might. That’s why
we need you,” the British agent said.

“You want me to give you information?” I
asked, stirring again in the bed. I leaned my head against the wall
so I could see them better.

“Yes, but there’s more.”

“What?” I said.

“We know about the school they had you in
for all of those years. They trained you to kill there, didn’t
they?”

“Among other things,” I said.

“Okay, we want to continue your education.
Only we have a different purpose. The Nazis were training you to be
their next leader. We want to train you to kill the current
one.”

“Hitler. You want me to kill Hitler?”

“Yes. We feel you have the motivation and
the ability. We just want to give you those extra qualities you
lack, qualities to make you more like Beowulf, but not as evil,”
the British agent said.

“What quality did you have in mind?” I
asked.

“Invisibility,” the British agent said.

82

London was breathtaking. I had never been
here before. The British agent had me living and studying in
London. The weather was nice, even though I had heard it gets
dreary. Buildings were everywhere. London was a city of magnificent
architecture.

Big Ben was my favorite. Walking along the
stone sidewalks, I could see the majestic clock on Ben. I spent
most of my free time just walking and sightseeing. I enjoyed the
gardens, the old architecture, and the look of the churches. Many
of the old churches were doorways into history.

Over the last several months, I had grown to
love London. I hardly missed Berlin. And my studies here were much
different. Now I was being taught all of art, literature, and
history. There were no censors. I learned about books and paintings
that were banned in my homeland. In addition, they pieced together
the story of my parents and family as best as they could.

Still, I knew the day would come when the
British agents would call on me to learn how to kill. One word
stuck with me, even after all those months of freedom. The word was
“invisibility.”

I thought about it sometimes. What did the
British agent mean? I suspected they wanted me to match Beowulf, to
kill as he does. After all, if I was ever going to get close to
Hitler again, I'd have to get through Beowulf. I wasn’t scared of
the SS guards, but Beowulf was different. I was truly terrified of
him.

The British agent trusted me, but for my own
protection, I never left my flat or the university campus without
two armed escorts. They were two highly trained soldiers, dressed
in civilian clothes. I could tell they resented having to guard a
young German they knew nothing about. They wanted to be in the
battlefield with their brethren, fighting the Nazis. But they
followed orders.

I looked like an ordinary sixteen-year-old
schoolboy. I walked around carrying a backpack loaded with books
and a change of clothes. I had a new sketchbook. It had different
drawings in it; many were of lions. This sketchbook had some
illustrations as well. I had started to draw and color my lions
completely black.

My art instructor jokingly nicknamed me
Burnt Lion. I really liked my classes at the local university. The
British government did not enroll me in high school with my peers.
Before they decided where they were going to put me, they did
aptitude tests, IQ tests, and placement exams.

I scored high on all of them. My IQ was
measured at 145. Also, I was obviously well educated. In fact, I
was not only beyond other kids my own age, but I was also beyond
most of the teachers at the public schools.

My teachers were nice to me, for the most
part. One drawback I faced, however, was the fact that it was hard
to hide that I was of German descent. Being of German blood while
the British were fighting our homeland was not good for many
Germans who resided in the U.K. It was especially hard on German
children. Some school kids were hateful toward us. And I could not
hide that I was Aryan. It was ironic that I was half Jewish and yet
I looked all Aryan.

The agents were concerned with violence
targeted at me. So the local university seemed like the right
choice. It was easier for them to protect me there.

I was given a monthly stipend and a flat. It
was small with one bedroom and a separate kitchen. I was happy for
the most part. Sometimes I thought about Anna, but I tried to focus
on my art. I imagined I should have been more heartbroken over her
death, but the truth was that she loved Peter Hitler. And I was not
Peter Hitler. Peter also died that night in the fire.

On my way back to the campus, one of my
bodyguards stepped in front of me before I made it through the
front gates. Another guard stood by the gates, waiting. He was also
wearing civilian clothes. The guards met in front of me and started
talking. I couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded
important.

The next thing I knew, one guard was
signaling for me to follow. I followed him through the gates and
toward the student union. He led me into the building and up a
flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs, another guard stood
post. He directed me through a door that led out onto an area that
was under construction. It was a poorly lit landing that overlooked
the first floor of the union.

I could see the jugglers’ club practicing
like they did every Wednesday night. Every week they performed in
the middle of the union, sharpening their skills. Many of them were
novices.

However, a couple of the players were
well-skilled. One player was Jordan. He was one of the few
acquaintances I had made at the university.

I spent most of my time alone. I did not
socialize with the students in my classes too much. Sometimes, I’d
participate in small talk, but I steered clear of politics.
Whenever someone tried to hound me for being German, I changed the
subject. Usually, I only talked about art. I rarely commented on
the war.

Beyond the hanging plastic sheets and tools
that were spread out on the floor of the landing, I could see the
familiar British agent from the hospital.

“Willem,” the agent acknowledged. “My name
is James Bosworth. I’m a British Intelligence Officer. We met in
hospital several months ago.”

“Yes, I remember. I remember you quite
well,” I said, moving closer to him. For the first time, I noticed
how short he was. Standing at 1.7 meters and weighing no more than
61.5 kilos, Mr. Bosworth was much smaller than the British guards
who watched over me.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Well, honestly I remembered that you were
taller,” I said.

“You are not very big yourself. You are a
boy and can’t weigh more than 70 kilos. Yet, you killed how many of
the SS? And almost Hitler,” James Bosworth said.

Changing the subject, I said, “What are you
doing here, Mr. Bosworth?”

“Willem, come here and stand with me,” Mr.
Bosworth said, leading me to the railing. Together we peered over
the edge at the jugglers. A small crowd of students gathered to
watch them. The jugglers tossed pins, balls, and what looked like a
couple of antique vases. The onlookers cheered every time one of
the jugglers would pretend to drop one of the vases.

I noticed Jordan. He was in great
shape—tall, thin. I looked at my own body. I had gained some weight
since I’d begun eating the campus food. I was far from heavy, but I
did not have the long, lean body I had had while living with
Hitler.

“Willem, these kids have something that you
and I don’t. Do you know what that is?”

“Friends?” I asked.

“Well, that’s true, but no. They have
freedom. They are free from the knowledge that enslaves you and me.
I’m in a position to know secrets, horrible secrets, the kinds of
secrets men die for. They are the kinds of secrets men kill for,”
Agent Bosworth said.

“Yeah,” I said, looking down at Jordan,
wishing I had his life.

“Willem, I know things have been good here
for you. I understand your grades are good, and you seem well
enough. But it’s time for you to train for something else.”

“What?” I asked.

“You already know what. Look at these kids.
They’re all happy. Even though they know about the war, even though
they all know that it’s going to get worse, much worse, right now
they are happy. You know what my job is?”

“Spying?” I asked.

“No, it’s keeping them happy as long as
possible. I’m in the spying business, but I’m also in the keeping
secrets business. My job is to keep secrets secret. That keeps
these kids happy. They can all go about their lives. They can
study, drink, and have as much sex as they desire as long as I’m
keeping them safe from the horrors of the world,” Bosworth
said.

I said nothing.

“Willem, the Nazis are gathering people up.
Women and children. All Jews. They are taking them in trains. I
don’t dare imagine what for. I don’t imagine because I already
know. And so do you. They are putting them in camps. They shave
their heads, tear out their fingernails, and pull out their teeth.
They are exterminating them.

“Willem, your mother was a Jew.

“Willem, the Nazis are coming. I need your
help. None of my agents can get close to Hitler, not like you can.
Shit, you may even get an open invitation under the right
circumstances. This may take a long time, but killing Hitler can
end this war.

“We can stop the Nazis from exterminating an
entire race of people.

“We can end this nightmare. Willem, we can
end your nightmare,” Bosworth said, picking his coat up off the
railing. He began to put his arms into the sleeves.

He stopped and looked deep into my eyes.

“Think about it and let me know. I’ll be in
touch,” Bosworth said. He disappeared into the darkness.

I stood on the landing alone, left to my
thoughts, my nightmarish thoughts.

83

A drafty, old London movie theater was
located in the heart of the city. I had not seen a moving picture
in a long time. The only two things on my mind lately were
Bosworth’s words and the blurred memories of my mother.

I’d spent months trying to remember more
about her, trying to unlock those memories in my mind. Mostly I
failed, but the day after I spoke with Bosworth, I was walking with
my bodyguards when I saw a movie poster in the student union.

I walked up to it and stared at it with a
far-reaching gaze. As my eyes followed a long-winding, yellow brick
road, I dove into my past and scoured my memories.

The movie poster was for
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
. The title struck a chord
with me. It reminded me of my mother’s voice. I remembered she used
to read the books to me.

I walked into the movies and watched in
absolute wonder. The movie flooded my ears with the sounds of my
mother’s voice as if she were narrating it to me.

I remembered my mother used to turn to me
with a big smile every time the story introduced the cowardly lion.
I remembered her smile ignited my imagination.

The movie ended and I walked out. Now, I
knew the answer I would give Bosworth.

84

A week later, I was in my art class. We were
finishing our final projects for the semester. I had painted a
lurid scene filled with violence and war. The combatants were all
animals. There were lions, tigers, eagles, and a single wolf.

There was a series of shadows near the head
of one of the armies—represented by a fox. Near him, crawling
through the shadows, was a black lion. It was crouched and ready to
strike, but the wolf stood by, ready to defend the fox. The
painting was titled The Proposition. I don’t know what happened to
it.

After class, I walked the halls alone in a
crowd of freshmen and sophomores. I headed in no particular
direction. I had finished my classes for the day. Wandering the
campus, I ran into Bosworth standing near an open doorway to an
empty classroom. He signaled to me to follow.