Renate puts her nose into the deepest corner of my lap. A stirring moves up to my stomach, and I’m embarrassed. A dog can do that to me? I push her snout away, and she stretches out to sleep, her head on the major’s lap, her hindquarters on mine.

Driving carefully and avoiding every pitfall, the major is silent. Destruction passes by as if it were a movie, as if this were some Goebbels’ newsreel showing the bombardment we’ve unleashed on enemy cities. It’s like the American novel I read about the destruction of the South during the civil war. Scarlett O’Hara. Am I like that? A woman who has to endure war but has a great love?

“Major, have you read Gone with the Wind?”

“You ask that when Clark Gable flies a bomber over Germany? ”

“Gable isn’t in the book. 300,000 copies were sold in Germany. Aren’t you even curious?”

“One is always curious, Fräulein. I own an American stove!”

As we drive over two heavy beer signs, Renate’s leg digs into my groin jolting that locus already so warm and vulnerable. We three bounce up in the air—me with a short climax of quick release—before falling back to our seats.

“Sorry,” the major says. “I’ve no control over all the devastation cluttering the streets, though our long wide boulevards are good fire breaks. We haven’t endured a firestorm. Not like Hamburg or Dresden.”

“But we have the same ruin.”

“Our ruins are excellent enemy barriers.”

“And you’re a good driver.” I remove Renate’s leg from my lap and place it carefully on my knee.

We’re flagged down by a man dressed as a clown. His costume is clean and sparkling. In all the grime, how is he able to stay unsoiled?

“Stoi!” the major orders. “We’re on duty for the Führer.”

“Sir.” The clown salutes. “We’re official as well. The Berlin Relief Ensemble validated by the Reich,” he says in a broad Baden dialect.

“Major, I believe he’s authentic. Goebbels convinced the Führer that Berlin is still our theatrical center.”

“Nevertheless, I’d prefer him to remain at hand-grenade distance.” Holding Renate tightly for fear his reward might get away from him, we climb out of the Kubelwägen.

“Why aren’t you in uniform? Defending Berlin?”

“Sir.” The clown’s voice is deep. “We’re here to uplift the German spirit.”

“Where are your fellow uplifters, Prince of Clowns?”

“Call me Dunce, Major. In the theatre world, titles don’t matter.”

“Mein Dunce, then.”

“Please follow me.” The clown steers us to a small tunnel that’s reinforced with bricks and concrete. It’s the worse section of the city—Mulackstrasse—the alleyways of prostitutes and criminals. Coming out of a tunnel, we enter a basement with seats and stage and sit in the front row, Renate secure on the major’s lap. Behind us is an audience of people with faces blackened from bombardment, some with arms and legs smeared in red brittle powder. A war audience. Nobody speaks. It’s weirdly quiet. A smudged mask of charred amber looks at me with eyes that show no reaction to my stare.

Taking off his billowing pants, the clown stands before us in black glass shorts and a polka-dotted shirt. He announces, “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”

“Shakespeare,” the major says.

“Julius Caesar,” the clown adds.

“Act IV, Scene 3.” The Major smiles proudly. “Our family tutor was an Englishman.”

The clown calls to a young woman in yellow leggings who comes on stage. Her hair is the same yellow as her tights. With no crotch in her tights, her light brown pubic hair bushes at the opening.

With gaudy fingers painted in stripes of yellow and green, the clown taps his glass underwear.

“Isn’t love a delicate matter?” the clown shouts.

The girl in yellow tights shouts as she runs offstage, “Where is the 1,000 pound Reich person?”

“Leading the dying Luftwaffe Air Force on his motorcycle.” The clown waves his hands like fluttering wings.

Doubling over in laughter, the major stamps his feet in approval. He hates Göring.

“Göring can sometimes be charming,” I whisper to the major.

“Charming loses wars.”

“And he lost a nephew. Peter Göring died in a dogfight over the Channel.”

“Peter Göring was a talented fighter pilot and liked in spite of having a dummi-dummi uncle. Now Peter is in Soldiers’ Cemetery at Abbeville where his other comrades of the Schlageter Squadron rest.” The major motions for the clown to continue.

The clown announces, “All women in the audience are to sit on the laps of men.”

Looking at me with a persuading smile, the major pushes his legs close together.

What can I do? I gently lower myself on his lap, and a thick warm bulge presses into me.

There’s no movement from the crowd behind me. Silence. Are they all women?

“Women, then, on women’s laps,” the clown orders. A rustling noise as the dusty mannequins sit upon each other. “When just a little boy, the Führer came to my school,” the clown says. “I told him I wanted to be a great soldier. What should I do? The Führer told me to unclog the kitchen zinc.”

The major and I laugh. That’s Adi, the practical man, the corporal.

The audience remains lifeless, only their eyelids moving in creases of soot.

“When I was older, I asked the Führer what he thought of black, and the Führer being a former artist thought I meant the color, telling me that black to him is the crack in the ass of Eva Braun.”

Startled, I suck in my breath. People are laughing so hard that sparks of red and black powder fly into the air. Is it possible this audience has heard the name Eva Braun? Do they finally know who I am? Would they ever believe that I sit beside them?

Quickly standing and letting Renate fall to the ground, the major takes out his pistol and wastes a bullet on the clown’s throat.

It’s a clean bullet hole in the rouged neck. Bright red streaks runs down the clown’s chest and on his belly before he slumps over. Behind me people are still laughing thinking this is part of the act. But the girl in yellow tights comes on stage to drag off the clown.

“Major, what have you done?“ I pick up Renate and stand facing him.

“The clown insulted you.”

“But he also recognized me.”

“Are you angry with me, Fräulein?”

“No. You believed you were defending me. Should we see if the clown is alive? Perhaps he needs help.”

“He’s only a dunce. We must get back.” With Renate between us, the major begins his arduous drive back to the Bunker.

Adi is waiting for us at the bottom of the circular stairs. It’s been over three hours, and he’s only upset because we’re late. The fortuneteller has assured him that we were safe. Standing next to him is Bormann who shifts nervously from one foot to the other.

“A gift for you, Mein Führer.”

Adi takes the dog, forgetting his anger.

“I’ve been shooting, Mein Führer,” the major announces formally.

“Not at animals, I hope.” The Führer’s body is suddenly rigid.

“Nein. Only people, Mein Führer.”

Petting Renate calms Adi. His mustache doesn’t quiver. Tight wrinkles by his eyes relax. Adi pushes Renate’s face against his jacket that has custard drippings. The dog licks the stains. Being stared at all these years has made Adi old. The eyes of people have diminished him. How spryly his legs moved when we first met. His hair fell across his smooth forehead when he leaned over me. Now he’s listless, his forehead lined in deep creases. As his wife, I vow to make him young again.

Bormann has arranged the wedding for midnight. The tulips have arrived.

I explain that my white dress is lost, and I’ll wear the black one with roses on each side of the neckline that Adi likes.

Nuzzling the dog, Adi listens to our adventures, how we rescued the dog and named her Renate, how we attended a theatre performance to see the brave people of Berlin struggling onward. We don’t mention the dead or dying or the amorous SS on the bed and certainly not the remark the clown made about me.

Bormann gets water and sets it on the ground, and Adi strokes Renate as she drinks loudly.

“You’ll be glad to know, Mein Führer, there are no Jews left in Berlin. Judenrein!” The major stands erect beside the drinking Renate. For emphasis, he bends stiffly to pat the dog’s head.

“And all their artworks?”

“Safe.”

“I have such a fondness for Dürer,” Adi says.

“I’m sure his works are carefully tucked away in one of our basement vaults. To be shipped to your private Linz Museum.”

“The Jews know art.” Adi picks up Renate who drips water from her mouth onto his jacket. “Surely you have some written statement, some Jewish validation of their worth?”

“Of course, Mein Führer.”

“With paintings, the Jew must be considered. The rich Catholics mostly covet gold chalices and statues. Protestants their racing stables. Who will remember the respect I’ve held for Jewish art collections?”

“The dog was rescued for you, Mein Führer.” The major steps closer to Adi.

Adi is pleased. It’s the best gift he could get, better than my wedding dress. A hint of sadness glistens at the sides of his eyes as he fears the dog has lived a terrible existence running frantically from one bombardment to another. An animal can’t know what the shells and fire mean. The poor creature is without national thoughts. The major deserves to be rewarded. What would he like? Boots? Special food?

“I wish to spend a weekend with my wife and children.”

The Führer calls for Bormann who writes up a special order from the stacks of endless forms on his desk.

Adi wishes to see a picture of the major’s family and out comes the photo from his pocket. Holding two blond children in her arms is a mother with blond braided earmuffs.

“Tell your children…” Adi begins.

“Yes, Mein Führer?”

“Tell your children…”

Adi suddenly turns and enters the map room holding Renate, closing the door softly so as not to startle her.

“I’ll always remember what he said.”

“Was is das?” I ask.

“That he thought of my children, even at the end.”

Kissing me on both cheeks, the major leaves with the wonderful pass clutched in his hand. And there’s still the mummified prize in the car.

I go to my room to smooth out my dress, wash my hair and savor each glorious minute before my wedding. If only Renate could witness me marrying the Führer.

My mother! If she could see the rapturous face of her daughter getting married to the Führer. Mother was impressed when I gave my fur coats to the military—for the freezing men on the Russian front. Even Adi was overwhelmed by my gesture, so much so that he had Bormann arrange to get me another fur coat. It was taken from a Jewish woman in the northern city of Kiel. I felt bad about it until Bormann told me that the woman went to a warmer climate. My new coat was delivered to me by ambulance.

24

BORMANN KNOCKS. I can tell his short official raps. If he’d just quickly push the door open! His hand lingering on the knob is distressing as I’ll feel his touch when I go out.

“Here is the agenda.” Bormann has a grating over-used voice and doesn’t smile. I’m wearing a robe and my feet are bare. His little squinting eyes look at my toes. “They’re painted.” he remarks.

“It’s my wedding day.”

“You know the Führer doesn’t like nail polish.”

“A woman must do as she wishes on her wedding day.”

Placing the agenda on my bed, he exits with quiet stiffness. I give a second coat of red polish to my toenails.

The wedding will take place after midnight with a justice of the peace, Walter Wagner, to marry us. Goebbels is the witness. A short party will follow, then the bride and groom retire to the Führer’s bedroom. In the early morning, Mr. and Mrs. Hitler will kill themselves.

Magda taps on my door three times in imitation of the three raps when the curtain rises at the Comédie Française (using sophistication gained from our Paris occupation). She appears in a long white towel. Her thick legs show. “Dr. Morell has given me my grape injections, and I feel wonderful.” Pins hold up her stiff blond hair. She’s wearing a red dress to the wedding assuring me it’s a soft red along with a hat of crimson ribbons. Magda may be able to buy “fashion” but she can’t buy “style.”