Songbird Under a German Moon (4 page)

“Frank.” He tipped his hat. “Frank Witt, ma'am.”

She offered a forced smile as she saw a short and stocky military police officer with blond curly hair approach with her luggage. He wore the same uniform as regular military, but also wore a black armband with
MP
in white letters. “Yes, well, it was nice to meet you, Frank.”

The MP neared the jeep, placing her luggage in the back. His eyes widened as he looked at her. “Are you Hedy Lamarr?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you sure look like her.”

“Thank you, soldier, that's a huge honor.” She extended her hand, ignoring the photographer's gaze.

The man placed his hand in her gloved one, and she shook it enthusiastically.

“Really, it's an honor.” She climbed into the front seat of the jeep. “And what is your name?”

“You can just call me Mac. My mother named me that, so I guess it's a good choice.” He chuckled. “I'll be driving you today.”

Betty placed a hand over her heart. “Sir, I told you I'm not Hedy Lamarr. I'm not certain why the USO sent an MP to chauffeur me. I'm sure a regular driver would have done just fine.”

“Didn't you hear how things are run now in Europe?” Mac chuckled. “Of course you didn't.” He chuckled again. “Bob Hope was in Nuremberg not too long ago, and he said one thing he noticed was that each soldier was protected by his own MP. That's not the case, of course, but sometimes it feels that way. Sometimes the only thing we have to do is watch out for each other—in the pubs, on drives around the countryside, on double dates—” His eyes twinkled as he shot her a glance.

“Which is why I'm here to sing for you.” She smiled.

“So are you nervous—singing on the stage over here? It's a real fancy place. Famous too.”

“Oh no. It doesn't matter if it's a huge stage or a table in the cafeteria, I'll sing. My mother says it's always been that way. I sang in church, at school, and I'd sing myself to sleep. At the factory, I sang for lunch crowds and for big celebrations.”

Betty settled in. Then, with one smooth motion, the photographer climbed in and settled into the seat behind her. Betty turned, surprised. “So you
are
coming to Bayreuth?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm on special assignment—or so I'm told. And if I'm not too busy, I might even have time to catch your show. Maybe tonight even.”

“Ah, man, some guys have all the luck,” Mac complained. “I mean, I'd love to listen to the singing. But the opera house isn't my favorite place.”

Betty's stomach flipped, just as it did when the airplane had made an especially large dip.
Frank's coming. He's going to see me perform on stage?

For the first time, she realized that when she'd planned for Germany, she'd thought about the singing, which was to be expected. She'd also thought about the “soldiers” as a collective group. But it never crossed her mind that there'd be someone like him here. Someone who could spark a rant and a smile from her in less than one minute.

Suddenly, she was more nervous about tonight—about performing—than she had been in a very long time.

It was an hour drive to Bayreuth, and Frank knew there was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the ride—and the view. He especially liked the way Betty's dark hair bounced on her shoulders as the jeep jounced over potholes, and the way she tilted her head back as she laughed. And it wasn't a girly laugh either, but one that came from her belly and poured out, a musical laugh, carrying on the fall air blowing through the jeep.

They drove off the airbase and down a country road that looked as if it had seen better days. Beyond the airfield, he scanned what was once the stately city of Nuremberg. Derelict buildings' jagged remains clawed the skyline, suggesting Roman ruins or some warped impression of church spires. From the vantage of rumbling B-17s during the war, he'd often photographed Allied bombs reducing the once-beautiful, classical architecture to the mockery that remained today.

It was not far from here, in fact, where he'd taken some of his best photos. That day was clear—too clear—with the German antiaircraft batteries targeting them like ducks in a shooting gallery, blasting shards of flak within twenty yards of their planes. He'd never seen the Germans so accurate with their gunfire, yet he'd done
his best to focus on his task—to take photos of what happened in the sky outside the window without worrying if the next hit would be a direct one.

On film, he'd caught the ground artillery exploding in the sky all around—and in the middle of the B-17 formation—yet the black puffs of smoke that appeared in the photos gave no hint of their destructive powers. The flak hitting the plane sounded like metal baseballs batted at them by Babe Ruth. Despite the near misses, all of the planes had made it back, and only one guy—a waist gunner in the lead plane—had been lost.

Of course, later missions had received far worse damage.

Frank shook his head, willing the memories to dissipate. He didn't need to think about that. Not now. Not here. There were more beautiful things to focus on. Take in.

As they neared the wooded countryside, the afternoon sunlight brightened the fall colors that made their appearance in full array. The trees were concentrated in the hills, leaving the valley bare and open, perfect for farming. Frank sniffed the air. The strong sent of manure told him the Germans were already preparing their fields for the spring. If nothing else, they were efficient.

“So what are you doing in Nuremberg? Is this your typical work—driving around very important singers and their tagalongs?” Frank asked the MP.

“Oh no, I'm usually stationed over at the Palace of Justice. Or at least I will be. The trials are supposed to start in a few weeks. I'll be one of the lucky jokers who'll be transporting prisoners back and forth from their cells to the courtroom each day.”

Frank felt a slight wind blow in through the side of the jeep. A cold chill climbed up his arms, and he wondered how many of those guys he'd helped to put in prison. A number of them, he supposed. But it wasn't the ones who were locked up that frightened him.

“Do you mean Hitler's key men?” Betty asked. “I read about that. I heard they were being held there.”

“Yes, ma'am. And the Nazis involved with all the death camps.”

“Are you guarding them so they don't escape?” she asked.

“Well, less of that and more for protection from those who would want to hurt them.”

“It sounds dangerous,” Frank commented, leaning forward in his seat. His face was close to Betty's shoulder, and he noticed she smelled of some fancy perfume that reminded him of his mother's rose garden. “I'm sure there are those who'd like to assassinate those guys themselves instead of having them go through the process of a fair trial.”

“Yes, it seems strange to me. You know, to protect the guys who killed millions so we can see that they pay for their crimes—”

“It doesn't sound like my cup of tea at all.” Betty shivered. “I'm glad I'm here to sing—no danger in that.”

The MP turned and glanced at Betty, and Frank noticed Mac had a wary look on his face—as if he disagreed with her words.

“You know, sometimes it's easier to work with the Germans than the GIs,” Mac said with a chuckle. “I've been patrolling the Occupation Zone since the war ended, and I feel like a tattletale, or worse, a goody-two-shoes, always trying to keep the guys in line.”

“Yeah, it was the same way in France,” Frank said. “It's hard for the guys to obey a set of rules when they can hardly believe they're
alive and want to really live.” Images of the GIs loose on the Paris streets flipped through Frank's mind—the champagne, the girls. He'd kept far away from both.

“In Germany, we're telling them who not to date, where not to go, what not to do. I've heard GIs say they feel as if the Germans are free, and they're the ones locked up by all these rules. We like to think we're here for protection, but sometimes we're viewed as babysitters.” Mac shrugged. “And then there are those who love that role—being the boss, putting everyone else in their place, being the final say because they wear this.” He patted his MP armband. “It might as well be a swastika.”

“But enough of that talk. Have either of you been to the Festspielhaus?” Mac asked, briefly looking over his shoulder toward Frank. The MP's eyes were wide, almost fearful.

“Can't say I have,” Frank answered. “Opera really isn't my favorite thing.”

“I like opera—or I think I would if I ever had a chance to go to a real one,” Betty said, “but this is my first time in Germany. My first time away from home, in fact.”

Frank noted color rising on Betty's cheeks.

“Listen to me, I sound like a country bumpkin.” She clasped her gloved hands on her lap and turned her attentions to the Bavarian landscape.

“Oh, you're going to love Bayreuth. It's an interesting place to visit for your first trip.” The driver jutted his chin and took on the tone of a tour guide. “It's formerly part of Bavaria—the Saxon region. It was favored by the royals, and around the turn of the century, a lot
of people flocked there. You'll see their influence in town. It's royal, Baroque, and basically gaudy.”

“It sounds great.” Betty smiled.

“Yes, the town is,” Mac said. “Of course you couldn't get me within a mile of the Festspielhaus. It's too close to evil if you ask me.”

“And this from a man who guards the men who designed and manned the death camps.” Frank smirked as the wind whipped his words.

“The enemies I guard are men—disillusioned men who invested their souls in the wrong religion, the wrong cause. It's the forces I can't see that I'm more worried about.”

Frank eyed the driver and felt the muscles in his stomach tightening.

“What do you mean?” Betty turned in her seat. “I can see from the look on your face there's a story behind those words. An interesting story, perhaps?”

“I'm not sure how interesting it is—”

“Well, you can tell us, and then we can judge. ‘Unseen forces' have to make a good tale,” Betty said.

Frank eyed Betty, and he couldn't tell if she was just being nosey or if she truly was interested in the story behind Mac's words.

“Well, I've never told anyone before—mostly because no one seemed to care or ask—but my mother was an opera singer. She used to travel Europe before things got bad. I must have been twelve or thirteen, and I remember waking up one night and hearing the sound of paper tearing. I went into the kitchen, and there on the
table in front of her were bits of paper. She wouldn't speak of it at first, but I saw that they were the music sheets for Wagner's operas.

“After one of her concerts, she had met a man who'd been a childhood friend of Hitler. The man, August, had attended an opera with Hitler when they were both in their teens. It was Wagner's opera
Rienzi.
It's the story of a man who wrests authority from a corrupt, Roman ruler. After the performance—so August told my mother—it was as if young Hitler had been overwhelmed by something beyond himself. He spouted his plans under the stars. He wanted to do something to make Germany great again. He claimed he would be the one to wrestle it from the oppression placed on it after the Great War. It was as if Hitler had transferred Rienzi's complete mission onto his own shoulders.”

“And what was Rienzi's complete mission?” Frank dared to ask.

“To lead his people out of servitude to the heights of freedom, which Rienzi did, until nobles and the church schemed and conspired against him. Every time my mother read about another horrible thing Hitler did, she reminded me of the opera, especially when Hitler used the
Rienzi
overture as the musical theme for all Nazi Party rallies. Yet while Rienzi had good motives, Hitler's were far from that.”

“So did Rienzi achieve what he desired?” Betty asked.

“No, in the opera's finale the conquering Rienzi—the historical hero—is overthrown by the mob.”

“Maybe Hitler should have taken note of that.” Frank chuckled.

“I wouldn't laugh too hard if I were you. And I'd keep a watchful eye. My mother doesn't think it's over yet.”

“What do you mean?” Betty's face paled at Mac's words. “Hitler is dead, and all the guys who can cause trouble are locked up. You, more than anyone, should know that.”

Frank tried not to react to her words. Tried not to reveal that he believed nothing could be more wrong. He wouldn't still be around if that were the case—if all the bad guys were locked up. He'd be home, preparing for his future and looking for a girl to spend his life with.

“I don't know enough about these things to make heads or tails of it, but I received a letter from my mother just a few weeks ago. She warned me to stay away from the Festspielhaus, especially in the month of October.”