When a love one dies the world seems to become an hostile place, a place appropriate for Wagner's apocalyptic tones which, in time could be replaced with Mozart's Lacrimosa sorrowful chorus.
WWII was in reality a ominous Götterdämmerung. (or, God's twilight)
Excerpt from the book under work:
“The Life of Walther Alexander”
Sigfried’s Death (Der Ring des Nibelungen)
1943 Deuchland had become more Wagnerian with every evening darkness, slashed the shadows were with blotches of red a la Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy’s Hell of cities lights made of bombing fires.
Walther’s U-boot Nazi Party representative had, like a proud hen presenting her new batch of chickens, announced in the crew’s mess that the vessel’s Radio-operator had the honor of having his two older brothers fallen for the Fatherland Heil Hitler! Getting a couple of inches near to be punched in the nose by one of the torpedo crew that had lost a brother himself and didn’t fancy no sense of proud to be dying for a bunch of pompous boasting nincompoops, but for the negative nod from a Chief Engineer with clinched fingers.
All of them thought that Walther should be getting sympathy, no propaganda.
It was during Walther’s night radio watch that the Skipper had ordered to go up to the deeps where the radio antenna would surface freely.
The radio traffic was heavy and being fired apparently from every side of the globe, until the distinctive Q60 Q60 Q60…and the encrypted dispatches where coming down like the pearls from a broken necklace.
Five minutes after the call and the automated answer, too short a signal to be triangulated by the enemy, it was time to star deciphering the few received.
Walther hand froze when translating the gibberish into clear test to the Captain, telling the Commander to inform him, Walther, about his brothers dead with the most thankful regards from the Führer.
Suddenly his entire body felt like a block of ice, his heart wildly pounding trying to leave his chest, his chin with an incontrollable shake.
Memories of his childhood protected only and by his two older brothers came rushing, the teasing, the fights, the laughter…and now they were gone.
His eyes should have felt a tear but they didn’t know how.
Thanks to some strings pulling, Walther was sent from his U-boot post to be present at his two brothers funerals, sharing seats, in a Fokker airplane more like a corrugated aluminum coffin than a flying machine, with two mutt self-important Geheime Staatspolizei (Gestapo) men and a smartly dressed SS young officer, more fitted for propaganda posters than on a battlefront.
The pilots weren’t yet in the cockpit, and airborne, the deafening roar of the motors would make conversation impossible in those closed quarters.
Before that could happen, one of the Gestapo men, wearing wire framed round glasses a la Himler and probably a wannabe one, turned his head towards Walther with a kind of salivating mouth a hungry dog would look at a free piece of meat,
“Tell me my “Herre”, how come a healthy body like yours aren’t fighting for our Fatherland? Explain!”
Walther totally ignored the little man, which suddenly provoked action in otherwise a full of boredom journey of an arrogant pseudo policeman, which, pulling jerkily the jacket’s arm fabric of the boy said,
“Hear here “sonny,” how you would like to be in front of a firing-squad?”
Walther turned his head looking down at the hand touching his arm with a expression of disgust showing in his face and then fixing his stare on the eyes of the offending man, asking back,
“How would you like to be in front of one?”
Taking aback, because in the entire Reich nobody, no one, not even a crazy one would dare to confront his beloved Gestapo, the one that made Generals cry and the Pope too, and…and…here was this little wolf cub with milk teeth yet trying to bite? Him?! But then he looked into the eyes of the boy and saw nothing, no fear, or hatred, just a cold stare capable of freezing your bones.
He had seen those kinds of stares from the Totenkopf men, from the Treblinka guards, from Reinhard eyes, and yet this one was too young to be a treat. Better call his bluff.
“Where you going?”
Walther looked intensively at the man’s face, in his periphery he was seeing the other Gestapo man that maybe had sensed a life grenade without the pin ready of going off and not wishing any part of it, was royally ignoring the going on.
The SS officer was more occupied of his pants creasing than on anything else.
“I am going” answered Walther, “to the funeral of my two Luftwaffe brothers, invited by the Führer (that was a lie) and arranged this travel by who happen to be my uncle, a Schtzstaffel Gruppenfürer on SS Reichsführer Heinrich Himler staff (which was the truth) will you like that firing squad of yours or you won’t bother me for the rest of your miserable life?”
The Gestapo man face became crimson red, almost appopletic, but the mention of the Reichsführer was more than and incentive to desist following a line for personal reasons when even his boss, Heinrich Muller, couldn’t be expect to back his line of inquiry.
As sudden as it started, the air of the red balloon seemed to go away as the little man deflated.
The pilot at the door had heard the verbal exchange and with a shadow of a smile and a slight nod of greeting towards Walther he preceeded to the cockpick.
Walther faced the window and the tarmac below, few moments after they were airborne with their noses pointing home.
Home?
Should anyone explain to the submariner boy what the word “home” means?
The little Gestapo man wasn’t going to let fear to get the best of him as he started humming Sigfied’s funeral tune from Götterdämmerung.
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Reviewed by Peter Schlosser
5/2/2010
I like how our boy opens a can of whoop-ass on the Gestapo punk! Very interesting reading. The U-Boats were a fascinating subject for me growing up. Still are, actually. I used to sing the U-Boot Lied in bars after a few beers. You might imagine the horror on peoples' faces!"U-Boote fahren gar weit ins Meer hinaus,......"
Again this story continues in such an interesting way as to draw the reader not only into the times but into the very mind and heart of it's main character. Excellant work my friend. This is indeed going to be a powerful book that will have an important impact on how we look back on war and it's principals. Keep it going my friend.
fee
If this turns into a book, it will be a most powerfully dark one, or so it seems to me...it says so much to me as I have, from when I was a kid, a drawing to the 3rd Reich...ed
Your story telling is as wonderful as your poetry Georg. I wonder what becomes of the little boy? This may need to be added to my collection when your finished
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