The Kingdom of Shadows

TWENTY-TWO

“This is impossible, Herr von Behren. We cannot shoot in these conditions.”

He looked up from the pages of the script. His hands trembled with fatigue; he had to force his grip tighter, to keep the papers with his own typed words from slipping away and scattering at his feet. The assistant director’s accusing, impatient glare met his own red-rimmed gaze.

“Oh?” Von Behren rested his elbows on the wooden arms of the folding chair. He received the impression that the young man standing there blamed him for everything that happened. “And why is that?”

The assistant director stared at him in disbelief. “Are you mad?” He shouted to make himself heard above the sounds that battered the studio’s walls. “The Russians are outside the city!” His hands lifted, shaking in agitation. “It’s not a matter of weeks or days now – it will be only hours before they’re in the streets!”

“Yes… yes, of course…” Von Behren slowly nodded. He found the other’s voice more exhausting than all the bombs and artillery shells. How could the fellow raise his voice so? His own lungs were silted with ash, from the breathing of the smoke that darkened the Berlin air. When he could sleep, curling up on a pile of mildewed stage curtains that served as a bed for all the actors and crew, he would awake panting, his heart as loud as the explosions that strode among the burning buildings. The littlest of his actresses, a skinny creature of barely fifteen years, had crept into his arms, whimpering with fright, and he had rocked her until dawn, kissing her on the top of her head and telling her that everything would be all right. That was why he had not left to go to his own flat for… he couldn’t remember how long it had been. For all he knew, his flat, with his shelves of books and desk piled with unfinished scripts, all his memories, no longer existed. That district had taken a pounding from the American night bombers; he had been able to see the flames mounting up from outside the studio, the fire spreading from one building to the next, smoke roiling through the beams of the flak searchlights. He hadn’t even sent one of his assistants to check whether his flat had survived. It didn’t matter; he belonged here, with the ones who had come – it seemed so odd – to depend upon him. In the morning, after a particularly bad night, their hands would shake as they sipped at cups of ersatz coffee, their eyes dark-rimmed from lack of sleep. And they would turn and look at him, waiting for his instructions on what to do next, to flee or carry on with the filming of Der Rote Jager.

“ Herr von Behren – are you listening to me?”

He stood up, laying the script, with its notations on camera angles and lighting in the margins, on the chair behind him. “I heard you. God knows I should be deaf by now, with all this racket, but I’m not.” He pushed his way past and strode out to the middle of the studio space. He clapped his hands once for attention, though he knew he didn’t need to. All eyes turned toward him, those of the crew behind the lights and cameras, the carpenters and painters repairing the damage to the scenery flats that had been knocked over by the shockwaves, and the actors, already in costume and ready to take their marks. The shooting schedule, after so many delays, had last come round to the script’s grand banquet scene. Heavy, medieval-looking tables were laden with the clever imitations of food that the propmakers had cobbled together from colored plaster and modeling clay. “Please, everyone – I have an announcement to make.”

The actors appeared surreal against the machinery of filming, a confusion of time and place; the men in their doublets and hose, chains of faux gold brightened with glycerine around their necks, dangling barbaric emblems of rank, the women’s long gowns heavy with intricate embroidery, their hair upswept and laced with the beads that would photograph as strands of pearls. Outside the studio, the twentieth century collapsed in flame and ruin, while this little bubble of the middle ages shivered with each blow.

“I have been advised -” He glanced sidelong at the assistant director for a moment. “That the world is coming to an end.” No one smiled; he was merely stating the obvious. “I can assure you that it makes little difference to me. But I am willing to concede that there may be those among you would feel more comfortable, or perhaps even safer, in one of the underground shelters our thoughtful Reich has provided for the citizens of Berlin. If so, I would suggest that you leave now and make your way there, while there is still light to see by. Your doing so will, I am sure, greatly oblige the Russian army that presently knocks upon our gates; you will have conveniently buried yourselves and thus saved them the trouble.” Von Behren clasped his hands together and looked across the faces watching him. With exquisite dramatic timing, a distant volley of artillery fire sounded, followed by a rapid sequence of explosions, the last of which shook dust down from the studio’s overhead beams. The little actress – he felt so sorry for her – bit her lip to hold back her frightened tears, averting her face so none of the others would see. “Well? Those of you who do wish to leave should do so as a group; I would imagine your chances would be better that way.”

The actors and crew glanced around at each other. After a few moments of silence, the chief grip stepped forward. “ Herr von Behren -” The man hadn’t shaved or washed in the last several days; his overalls were stained with black grease. “We have enough petrol to keep the generators going for eight, possibly up to ten hours. If we take down the canvas from the skylights, we might be able to shoot by daylight for an additional four to six hours – if we get started right away.” He looked at the others for support, then back to the director. “We’re wasting time, Herr von Behren.”

“Very well. You’re right, of course.” The show of loyalty touched his heart, though he knew at the same time it would have been easier if they had all leapt up and rushed outside, hurrying to the nearest shelters. Now he would be forced to show as much courage as they had, to carry them all upon his shoulders. He turned to the assistant director. “You’re free to go, of course. I would understand.”

The assistant director, arms folded across his chest, looked sullen. “There’s someone else whose decision you should ask. We won’t be able to accomplish much if she decides to leave.”

Von Behren knew that accomplishing anything at all was not the issue. Under these circumstances, if they produced even a few minutes of usable film, that would be a miracle. Der Rote Jager was a long way from being completed; there were weeks, if not months, of primary shooting to be done on it. Who knew if there would be one brick sitting on top of another in Berlin, this time tomorrow? The Fuhrer and his remaining staff, those too blindly faithful or stupid to have flown to refuges in the west, had already been sequestered for months deep inside the earth, in the fortified bunker beneath the Chancellery yard. Even the Gauleiter of Berlin, the Minister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, was there with his wife Magda and their blond children, awaiting the end. Goebbels had long ago ordered all the theatres closed, part of his dedicating the Reich to total war. Even if they were to complete the film of Der Rote Jager, there would be no place to show it, other than a private screening for the Reichsminister himself, the images flickering against the concrete wall of his cramped, stale-smelling burrow. Perhaps that was what Goebbels wanted; the equipment and the supplies, more valuable than money, had kept on arriving at the studio, so von Behren and his crew could continue with the filming. Or else they had been forgotten about, and the Reich’s machinery had carried on with the orders it already had been given, a captainless train bound to iron tracks, hurtling toward its fiery destination.

Now it was too late for any of them to jump off. They might as well stay to the end of the line. Von Behren looked past the crew and actors to where Marte sat on a spindly wooden chair in the shadowed area beyond the lights. She was in costume, a gown of white that turned her skin even paler. The bodice and high neck had been loosened, to make it easier for her to breathe; the wardrobe assistant would have to stitch it tight again before Marte could go before the camera. Her profile was turned toward von Behren, her eyes closed, lips slightly parted; she looked as if she were dying, and was more beautiful than ever before.

Von Behren supposed he had the Reichsminister to thank for that as well. It served the purposes of the script, the lady of the castle wasting away beneath the curse that had befallen the land, the sins of Jagdfrevel punished by the hunter cloaked in red. Just as in the book of old Marchen, every branch would wither, the crops blacken in the fields, the women mourn their children…

Marte had had one last meeting with her precious Joseph; she had told von Behren everything that had been said. The lies, and then the truth. That was when the silence had folded around her. She could speak the lines he wrote for her to say, and move from mark to mark on the stage, all in a dreaming, otherworldly quiet. The empty sadness behind her eyes, which had always reached out and laid a hand upon the hearts of those who saw her, now engulfed the onlookers, drawing them in and leaving them broken in a lightless room, the burial place of their own dreams. He had seen the other actors turn away, unable to bear such annihilating grace; even the cameraman had been forced to take his eye away from the viewfinder, to brush away a blurring tear. Von Behren knew that if he could capture that on film – and he had; the first reels he’d had printed and screened in private had caught her face perfectly, her silent, judging gaze like a knife to be embraced – it would be his masterwork. That by which he would be remembered, if any of it survived the last days of the war. To his own shame, he had rearranged the shooting schedule, to get as much footage of Marte as possible, before she died. In this, he knew he was as other men, even the Reichsminister he so despised. He wanted something, perhaps the same thing they all did, though the taking of it might destroy her. And as with the others, in this he was helpless. There was nothing else he could do.

“Marte?”

She opened her eyed, turned and looked at him, then nodded slowly to indicate that she had heard every word that had been spoken in the studio. “Yes…” Her voice came from that hollow space inside her. “I’ll stay. It’s all right.” Her gaze shifted away. “There’s no place else for me to go…”

With each of her words, von Behren had felt himself turning into a thing of lead, his own weariness encasing his shoulders and spine. He managed to look over at his assistant director. “If you wish to go, I won’t hold it against you. But you will have to decide for yourself.”

The other managed a rueful smile as he shook his head. “She’s right -” He looked up, listening to the clashing sounds that had already grown closer and louder. “There really is nowhere else to go.”

“Very well.” Von Behren turned away, clapping his hands once more for attention. He raised his voice. “Let us get to work, then.” He glanced up at the clouded sun that had leaked through a corner of the overhead canvases. “While we still have light…”

He was so faint from hunger that he could no longer feel the ground beneath him as he walked. The only food he’d had on his long trek from the asylum had been a few green shoots pushing through the melting snow. That, and a few scraps of charred pork he’d found in the ashes of a fire left behind by Russian soldiers. His stomach had clenched around the strong-tasting meat and he’d been sick, vomiting it all back up. After that, he’d felt odd and feverish, the world shimmering uneasily in his sight.

From the hiding place of a muddy ditch, Pavli had witnessed the Red Army crossing the Oder, the heavy tanks splashing across the wide, shallow river. Nobody had detected his presence, though he had been close enough to hear the rough voices shouting incomprehensible words, the harsh laughter of the troops who had come so far from the east and were now within sight of their enemy’s capital. They were all blinded and deafened by the roar of cannon fire, the shouting rush of the Katushka rocket launchers, the ‘Stalin organs’ – that was what he had heard them called by the guards back at the asylum, the ones who had served time on the front. Even before the shelling of the German defenses on the opposite shore had ended, the Russians had plunged into the water, some swimming across in full gear, others in tiny, gun-laden boats or pushing rafts of supplies. Pavli had raised his head above the crumbling dirt rim and had watched the thousands of men swarming insect-like through the churning river. When silence came again, the artillery ceasing its bombardment, he had felt a scalding wind die against his face, the air tortured by the massed explosions.

He had made his own way across in the wake of the advancing army, floating with his arms wrapped around a shattered tree trunk, pushing away the ragged corpses of those who had been crushed by tank treads or had caught a bullet from the fleeing Germans. Their bearded faces still looked fierce, teeth clenched with vengeful desire. With the bag of black leather still clutched in his hand, he had staggered onto the other shore, coughing up the water made salty with blood.

That had been days ago. The Red Army was somewhere to his right now; he had drifted a little to the south as he had continued stumbling westward. That’s good, he told himself, the words creaking in his weary brain. You mustn’t let them catch you… That was his greatest fear, that he might fall into the Russians’ hands. He spoke only German and a few words and phrases of the gypsy-like tongue his uncle and the others occasionally had used. Would they think he was a deserter, or a scout from some nearby Wehrmacht division? From what he had already seen, these soldiers were given to making no distinction between one German male and another; it was obviously easier, and safer, to shoot anything that moved and then examine the corpses for items of value. Pavli still had Ritter’s SS dagger tucked inside his shirt; the blade bumped against his protruding ribs. If they found that on him – if he were still alive when they found it – it would be excuse enough to kill him and take the knife for a souvenir. Still, he hadn’t been able to throw it away. In the darkness, he could clasp both fists around its handle, ready to swing the glittering edge across the face of anyone who might chance upon him.

His heavy eyelids drew closed, involuntarily, as he kept walking. The smell of burnt wood and the buzzing of flies brought him awake again. He stopped, shoulders hunched and mouth open to draw in one slow breath after another, and looked around.

He recognized the place; he was in the open square of one of the little villages just outside Berlin. He had come here with his uncle a few times, for photographs to be made into postal cards. The clock tower had a distinctive ornate design, the circle of numbers mounted with a scowling sun and smiling moon on an iron grille through which doves could reach their nests inside. There was no cooing and fluttering of wings now; silence, shaken only by the distant thunder of the war. A closer, almost electrical vibrating, hung over the broken and smoke-blackened buildings.

As his foot struck a hand outstretched upon the cobblestones, a cloud of flies burst into the air, then settled back down upon the corpse’s wounds. Pavli saw the dead now, scattered in the open or in the doorways. Most of them in uniform, darkened by the bleeding around the bullet holes; a few were civilians, without any rifles lying nearby.

“ Wer bist du? ”

Startled, Pavli turned toward the voice. For a moment, he couldn’t locate its source. Then he saw a woman peering from behind one of the doors. She emerged slowly, staring at him. Her hair was dusted with grey ash, her face smeared with soot.

“Who are you?” she demanded again. She had already crossed the square, her hands with their black-rimmed nails reaching up toward him.

He stepped backward, away from the woman. “No one -” The word, the first he had spoken in weeks, cracked in his throat. He shook his head. “I’m no one -”

Her hands darted out and snared upon the black leather bag he had clutched to his chest. Her eyes grew wilder, the thin arms in the torn sleeves shaking in desperation.

The woman had taken Pavli by surprise. He had almost lost his grasp upon the bag before he was able to push her away. He turned to run, but she caught his shoulders, the crook of her elbow around his neck.

“Give it to me!” She wept with frustration. “You must -”

They toppled together onto the stones, Pavli landing hard against his chest, the handle of Ritter’s knife shoving into his gut. The sudden pain flared into anger. He pushed himself onto one arm and swung his other fist across the woman’s face, knocking her from him.

He stood up painfully and reached down for the leather bag. As his breath returned to his aching lungs, he turned toward the woman.

“I’m hungry -” She knelt, arms clasped around her nonexistent breasts, rocking back and forth as the tears striped the dirt on her face. “I was hiding for so long – down there. Vati told me to, he told me not to come out until it was quiet – and now I can’t find him…”

He had thought she was an old woman, and now he saw that she was younger than him, almost a child.

“I… I can’t…” Her pleading gaze clove his heart as he stepped backward. “I can’t…” He turned and ran, holding the bag tighter to himself.

She had just been hungry; that was all. His own stomach had contracted to his spine. In a thick stand of pine outside the village, he slowed down, the smoke-laden air a rock between his lungs. She thought I had something… that’s all. He stopped, trying to keep exhaustion from felling him to the ground. In the branches above his head, the birds watched him.

Too dangerous to continue on, carrying the leather bag with the skin of his brother Matthi inside. Not that he was afraid of being caught with such a thing, of what would happen to him – they could only kill him – but what they would do with the skin, the remnant of his brother. He couldn’t bear the thought of it being violated, thrown aside in disgust and trampled into the ground, or tossed onto a smoldering fire.

Pavli knelt down. The knife’s sharp point broke open the ground, softer now that the spring thaw had set in; with his hands, he scooped out a hole deep enough in which to hide the bag of black leather. When he stood up, he memorized the location of where he buried the leather bag, an outcropping of rock serving as a marker. The time might come when he would be able to exhume it, have his brother with him once more, in the hope that Matthi would once more speak to him. But if his own death came instead, better that his brother’s skin lay in the earth undisturbed.

He heard a rush of wings overhead. The birds scattered, disturbed by the concussive sounds of the artillery to the north. A lull for several minutes, but now the bombardment of the city had begun again. The clouded sky flared white with each explosion.

With his boot, Pavli smoothed the dirt over what he had buried. Then he started walking again, toward the flames mounting in the distance, and the place where the earth split open to receive him.