Sirius (23 page)

Herr and Frau Hitler do the rounds one last time, proffering a handshake to every single person in farewell, accompanied by a few personal words.

The goodbye with his doggy proves to be the hardest for Hitler. “What will become of you when I’m no longer here?” he asks in concern.

The dog has no idea. His entire life has always hung on a thread, and that thread was always connected to this man.

What Levi was, what Sirius is, what Hansi became – all of it was just a consequence, an escape, an act of providence.

He doesn’t know what will be left of him when Hitler is no longer there.

The master and dog take their farewell. Their fates were always intertwined in mythical ways, and in the end their paths even crossed in reality.

The Hitlers withdraw to the living room. Ajdutant Heinzel closes the door with the words: “They don’t want to be disturbed now.”

Then a gunshot is heard. And if the Red Army weren’t being so loud, maybe the biting of the cyanide capsule would be audible too.

That was the end.

*

And the beginning. The zero hour.

On 8
May, all of London cheers Winston Churchill as he appears on the balcony of Buckingham Palace with the royal family and stretches his hand out into the victory sign. In Paris, the bells of all the cathedrals toll. “The war is won!” cries General de Gaulle at the Arc de Triomphe, and the people break out into a delirium of joy. In Moscow, Stalin congratulates his people: “From now on, the great banner of freedom and peace will wave over Europe!” In New York, a replica of the Statue of Liberty stands in Times Square, almost to scale, surrounded by the thunderous applause of the crowd.

And in Berlin?

A ghostly silence lies over the city as Sirius steps back onto the street for the first time. It is so quiet that he gives a start when a drop of water frees itself and falls onto a corrugated iron sheet.

Entire sections of the city have been burnt down to their foundations. Here and there, a building’s skeleton protrudes out of the field of rubble with an almost helpless air, as if it were wondering why it still exists.

In the middle of the street, a man leans over a dead horse. He is in the process of cutting it up for food. The animal is still steaming. With his bare hands, the man throws everything edible into a wheelbarrow, looking around repeatedly to make sure there is no one around with whom he would have to share his precious loot.

Sirius can still hear the creaking of the wheelbarrow even once he has reached the next crossing. Is he himself precious loot? The thought sends a shiver down his back. It is probably better to avoid humans under the present circumstances. Hunger is unscrupulous.

He finds it difficult to orientate himself in the rocky wasteland. In many parts, the streets are no longer recognizable. Piles of rubble stand in his path, higher than the ruins which were once houses. Sometimes, voices can be heard in the ruins. The people are hiding, through fear of the Russians.

Sirius walks through the Brandenburg Gate, which is still standing. Only one column has been shot to pieces.

Red Army tanks are posted on both sides of the gate. One of the guard soldiers opens his trouser fly demonstratively to relieve himself on the historic landmark. The others cheer him on. A bottle of vodka is passed around, not the first.

Sirius walks on, straight down the Charlottenburg Chaussee. Where is he going? Even he doesn’t really know. Where one wants to go is often a puzzle anyway, and every once in a while the mystery is solved once one arrives there. Or not. Isn’t that how it is?

A small dog in a big city, where not a single stone has been left standing. He stomps bravely through the debris. Street signs that could help point the way no longer exist. No church tower, no Kaufhaus des Westens, no kiosk. Everything is just a great emptiness, and the wind whistles through it.

Maybe he has even been walking down a familiar street for a while now, but how would he know? Where there are no more houses, the streets disappear too. Where there is no more life, the world becomes grey and uniform. One ruin looks just like the next.

Isn’t that Frau Zinke?

A woman is sweeping the street. There is no one else to be seen far and wide, just rubble and ashes.

She drops the broom, dumbfounded, as she catches sight of the dog.

“Now isn’t this a surprise!” she says. Her brow wrinkles, clearly she is thinking hard. “Sirius! Isn’t that right?”

Sirius gives a start.

“Your name has changed so often,” she grumbles, “it’s very confusing you know.”

She carries on sweeping. “Things have to be kept in order,” she says.

Sirius looks around. So this is Klamtstrasse. This used to be his home. Parts of the house in which he used to live are still standing. The façade has collapsed, otherwise he would have recognized it straight away. On closer inspection, remnants of the ceiling frieze can be made out, the very fragment in which Adam is pointing his finger at his creator.

Frau Zinke is now sweeping the individual pieces of rubble.

Sirius studies her attentively. Has Frau Zinke been freed now? Is the day of emancipation a happy one for Frau Zinke? Have the Allied armies done Frau Zinke a favour? Have 50 million people died so that Frau Zinke can finally sweep in peace?

Klamtstrasse is desolate, no longer a street, just a swathe between mountains of rubble and isolated house skeletons. In front of them, here and there, a charred tree trunk still stands.

Only now does Sirius notice. Where are the mighty trees which used to transform the street every spring into a lush green garden walkway?

Only one single tree is still standing.

Sirius approaches it hesitantly.

“Hello?” he whispers.

“Yes,” says the tree. “It’s me.”

“Thank God!” rejoices the dog, “for a minute there I thought they got you.”

“Likewise,” smiles the tree.

“I have to…” says the dog, lifting his leg.

“Of course,” replies the tree. “Make yourself at home.”

Sirius pauses. “At home?”

“Well, you are at home now,” says the tree. “The war is over, and soon everything will be like it was before.”

“Is that what you really believe?” says the dog.

“It’s what I hope,” answers the tree.

The wind blows a cloud of dust through the air. Frau Zinke picks up her broom and sweeps.

“Give it a rest, Frau Zinke,” calls the neighbour. “It’s no good.”

To the dog, he hisses quietly: “Old Zinke, first her husband fell in Stalingrad, then she lost both her sons in the militia at the very end. They were just children. Since then she’s gone completely mad.”

*

There’s nothing to keep the Crowns in Hollywood anymore. Now that – in the words of President Truman – the flags of freedom are waving over Europe, the family feel drawn back to their home. Back to Berlin. Back to Sirius.

The images of the destroyed city are a shock, of course. “Where are these flags supposed to be waving from?” asks Carl in disbelief. “I mean, there’s not one single mast still standing.” But as everyone knows, flags of freedom don’t need masts; they wave in thoughts, in words, on the Sabbath.

An aerial photograph shows the ruins of Charlottenburg. “There!” cries Rahel in agitation, “I think I can see our house!” Her trembling index finger traces the path that Sirius trotted down.

“Sirius is somewhere there amongst the rubble,” she sighs. “He’s waiting for us.”

Carl takes out his magnifying glass. Isn’t it strange how objects from the past take on greater meaning as soon as homesickness is involved? The magnifying glass. It has slumbered in the drawer for so long. There was no use for it in Hollywood; things were already big enough here.

He leans over the picture, fixing his gaze on a tiny white fleck which could just as easily be a speck of dust. The emphasis being on
could
, for perhaps it really is Sirius.

“I’m sensing,” he says with a smile, “that my eyes are longing for the invisible once more.”

He is still wearing the Bordeaux-red uniform with the gold bobbles, which doesn’t exactly punctuate the deeper meaning of his words. He is, without a doubt, the only German in uniform who is going home without guilt.

Fate probably has a hand in it when two letters arrive from Berlin. One of them, with numerous stamps suggesting a great many detours during its journey, is addressed to Professor Carl Liliencron.

Dear Herr Professor,

The Board of Directors of the Prussian Academy of Sciences has today been newly constituted. It would be our honour to welcome you as a member of the academy and as honorary professor of Plankton research within the faculty.

Signed, President of the Academy, Professor P. Seewald.

The second letter, addressed to the Los Angeles Philharmonic, is opened by Andreas Cohn.

Dear Herr Cohn,

On the 26th of May the Berlin Philharmonic will give its first post-war concert in Berlin. Mendelssohn Bartholdy’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream Overture’. A momentous occasion which we hope will move you to consider joining our orchestra as first violinist, for this date and beyond.

Regards, Leo Borchard.

Two men in luck. Their exile has come to an end. And Korngold turned out to be right: Mendelssohn did survive Hitler.

Conrad Nicholson Hilton responds to the Crowns’ plans for their future with a frown: “What?” he stutters, “you want to go back to the Stone Age?”

“The Stone Age,” replies Crown, “was actually the time when the Neanderthals became
homo sapiens
. Now we want to do our part to make sure that the miracle repeats itself.”

Hilton isn’t sure that he really understands this, but he senses that there is something celebratory in the air, and allows himself to be moved to a grand gesture:

“You’ll fly Pan American!” he cries.

The airline has recently announced that from now on there will be direct flights from New York to Europe. The Hilton family has been invited onto the inaugural flight. So instead, the Crown family is given the honour.

Conrad Nicholson has ulterior motives, of course, otherwise he wouldn’t be Conrad Hilton. He is not exactly unhappy about the fact the Crowns want to disappear from the picture so swiftly. His daughter Electra has changed her mind, and now wants to marry that young actor Freddie Winston.

Bad luck for Georg. He went to war especially for Electra, and now he is coming home empty-handed. Electra’s letter of farewell is already on its way. A delicate subject, which the bride’s father would rather discreetly circumnavigate.

He asks casually: “How is Georg doing?”

“Good,” replies Crown. “His unit is stationed on the Elbe. I think it will be a while before we see him in Berlin. After all, Berlin is still occupied by the Russians.”

“Ah yes, the Russians,” murmurs Hilton. “Ivan and that lot.”

It reassures him to hear that the spurned fiancé is at a safe distance.

“Right then,” he says, eager to wrap up the conversation. “All the best in Berlin, Crown!”

In the hotel lobby, Crown runs into John Clark. “No red bobble hat today?” asks Clark.

“No, not anymore,” replies Crown, and this time he beats his old friend to it: “Let’s go and have a drink!”

“One last one,” he adds.

Clark looks at his watch in surprise. “The last one? How many have you already had? It’s only midday.”

“The last one ever,” replies Crown, telling him the news.

“No way!” declares Clark. “Well then, first you need to say a proper goodbye to Hollywood.”

They race down Sunset Boulevard in Clark’s cabriolet together, back into the past.

“My name is Carl Liliencron,” says Clark, imitating the newcomer.

Crown retaliates with memories of his time as a guardian angel in the Banana House.

“Do you remember how we drove through Hercules’ handcuffs on Hollywood Boulevard?” asks Clark.

“Of course,” says Crown, “I’ll miss that in Berlin.”

“Good luck there!” laughs Clark.

“I’m wilder than the west, and that’s a fact!” cries Crown.

Such crazy years.

In the Formosa, they order a round of gin fizz. And another. And another. And another. And another.

The next day, when Carl Crown climbs into the airplane with his family, it is not just the flag of freedom waving, but the flag of the Formosa too.

*

In May, there are days when Berlin is already skipping ahead into summer, and it’s beautifully warm. Today is one of those days.

The sky shines its brightest blue, even though it is arched over a city that lies in ruins.

Sirius wanders through the streets, feeling hungry. It’s not easy to find something edible when all the humans’ stomachs are rumbling too. On every corner, there is someone stood exchanging something for something that can be eaten. Sirius watches as a packet of cigarettes and a stack of turnips change hands. A turnip, that would be just the ticket right now. His mouth waters. He pushes his way into the bartering process by sitting up and begging, and puts on his best irresistible expression.

“Get lost!” curses the man who has just taken ownership of the turnips. “I need these to feed my family. For an entire week.”

Sirius scarpers away. He makes his rounds for a while longer, then gives up. He lies down on a patch of grass which is catching the rays of sunshine.

“Do you have to lie right where I want to sweep?” scolds Frau Zinke. She brandishes her broom threateningly.

A Jeep with an American flag drives past. The hood is up and a large movie camera is jutting out of it.

“Stop!” calls the cameraman. He films Frau Zinke sweeping the ruins.

“A widow always sweeps twice,” laughs the director on the Jeep’s roof, shaking his head in disbelief.

Sirius can’t believe his eyes. He knows these men. The one behind the camera is Tyrone Chester. The other is the strange Austrian with the cocked hat, Billy Wilder.

Tyrone Chester sees the dog in the sunshine, framed by the ruins, and his foolproof sense for tear-jerking scenes tells him that this is a fantastic motif. It would be even more powerful, of course, if the dog were lying not on the grass, but on the rubble and ashes.