THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE

CHAPTER 7 1942

I’ve given up on Substack video posts.

I spent forty minutes loading this, only to have it say something went wrong. Really? I’d already loaded it up to my Book Toob Channel, and so copied and pasted the link here. It works. I tried it, but for some reason, the volume is low. You can hear it…but. As it stands, there’s one more section to this chapter, and then we go to the last one, which is three. So four READINGS left.

7 Berlin 1942

The War was something that had barely touched their lives—and hadn’t in months—or so it seemed, Martin thought. The bombing raids everyone seemed so fearful of, never really materialized—at least, not the way everyone thought they would; there’d only been the nine bombing raids all told since the war broke out. According to the Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda—such a pretentious name when Ministry of Lies would’ve done just fine, Martin thought—the bombing of British cities had been a huge success. The Luftwaffe had been the superior Air-Force, and the British were back on their heels as a result.

“It’s only a matter of time before the Invasion of Britain is a reality,” Dieter said. They were laying in bed, holding each other and sharing a cigarette. “The Allies? Their futile attempt at an invasion was a disaster,” he went on. “The biggest. Dunkirk’s been the greatest German victory of the war,” he added. “And now the bombings? The Brits are doomed,” and Martin nodded, agreeing. It was hard not to see it that way. Sitting up, Dieter was quick to say it was only a matter of time.

“But not only that,” he said, getting out of the bed they’d spent the afternoon in, “I’ve heard rumours.”

Martin watched him as he walked to the balcony window, standing naked for all the world to see, spreading his arms and embracing the last of the summer sun sinking into the west. He was thin, his buttocks so small his hips stuck out, and Martin could see where his ribs joined his spine. They’d spent the last two hours locked in an endless embrace—in an endless kiss—and the passion had been intense. Dieter opened the window, and the sounds of the city sifted through the silk curtains; Martin thought he could hear a band playing somewhere.

“Rumours? What kind of rumours?” Martin asked, distracted. A part of him wondered where Dieter got his information from, while the other part of him listened to the band in the distance.

“Hitler’s turned on the Russians,” he said over his shoulder.

“What do you mean, turned on them?” Martin asked. Dieter turned and nodded briefly, looking out over the city again before closing the sheer curtains and facing him. Martin felt himself stir under the sheets as he looked at Dieter’s profile standing where the soft light was melting through the curtains.

“You know about the deal Ribbentrop made?” Dieter asked.

“The Non-Aggression Pact? Of course. Goebbels was proud to sing the praises of the Reich with that one. Peace for ten years, he was saying, or something like that.”

“Yes. But there was another part of it that was never revealed. Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? We’ve launched the attack,” he added, sitting at the foot of the bed.

“But Russia? Why? If history’s taught us anything, Russia’s not a country you want to invade with winter coming. Ask Napoleon.”

“Why? For the oil! We need oil; the Russians have it. Rather than make a trade agreement, why not just step in and rightfully take it?”

“Rightfully? That’s insane,” Martin said, shaking his head.

“Only if we fail.”

“You sound like you support this.”

“Why wouldn’t I? The war’s going exactly the way they said it would.”

“You mean rations and arrests?” Martin said, sounding bleak.

“The rations are a temporary necessity.”

“Temporary?” Martin laughed. “I went to Paris two weeks ago. Remember? Do you know how long they’ve been on rations? Two years.”

“Who cares about the French?”

“Must you be like that?” Martin said.

“What?”

“I like the French. And what about the arrests?”

“You mean the Jews? Goebbels promised he’d clean the city and make it Jew free.”

“Does that include the homos?”

“Those are the one who were foolish enough to get caught.”

“And you think they weren’t being cautious, is that it? Are we being cautious? It doesn’t matter how careful you are if someone turns you in. Has anyone ever asked you why you haven’t signed up yet?”

“I tell them I had childhood polio.”

“What? Polio? Don’t you have to have medical papers that prove you did?”

“What makes you think I don’t?”

“And where would you get those from, if you even have them in the first place?”

“I’m an artist.”

“And paint Degenerate art you can’t even sell.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m still an artist.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?”

“It means, I know other artists who forge papers.”

“You do?”

“I may be a lot of things, Martin, but I’m no fool,” he said.

“Are you still painting? Are you still painting nudes, I mean? Male nudes? And what about your erotic prints?”

“No one knows about those.”

“I do.”

“I told you.”

Martin sat back against the headboard, lit up another cigarette and handed it to Dieter who took a drag and passed it back.

“I’m going to have to get going soon. I have a rehearsal and Beck doesn’t like it when I’m late.”

“When can I see you?”

“You can see me anytime you want,” Martin smiled.

“I mean like this. I want to feel you inside of me.”

“We have to be careful…I mean, with everything the way it is.”

“Everything the way it is,” Dieter smiled. “I like that. Why don’t you just come right out and say it?”

“Why do you have to be like that?” Martin asked, shaking his head.

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“How about this?” Dieter asked, reaching his hand under the sheet and running it up Martin’s thigh.

“Do you think if you get me hard, I’ll stay longer?”

“As if, but no; I’m thinking I can give you a handjob under the sheet and no one will be the wiser.”

“As inviting as that sounds, no,” Martin said, giving him the cigarette and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“No?” Dieter asked, passing the cigarette back and looking at him.

“I told you, I have a rehearsal,” Martin said, standing up.

Dieter reached across the bed and Martin stepped back, out of reach; so Dieter picked up the cigarette package instead, taking two out of the packet for later.

“Since when did that ever matter?” he asked, leaning back and lighting a third cigarette for himself. “What about Annaliese?”

“What about her?”

“When are you going to marry her?”

“You sound like my mother,” Martin said.

*

Martin was at a loss for words when it came to how he was supposed to respond to congratulations after a rehearsal. As much as he hated the National Socialists, he was still a proud German, and it was hard not to be a proud German when things were going well, he told himself. Beck said it was only natural that when things were going well there’d be times when high ranking officials would want to attend rehearsals in the spirit of celebration.

He felt his heart rate pick up as he stepped off the stage and made his way down the centre aisle. He saw Beck’s familiar figure, but sitting beside him were Goebbels and Furtwängler, the conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic. A tall, thin, anxious man, Furtwängler had been the head of the Philharmonic since 1922, and was a favourite conductor of Hitler’s, and as a result, the National Socialists.

“Martin!” Beck called out. “Look who’s here to see you. It’s Willy!”

Standing up, Furtwängler was quick to offer his hand; his smile genuine as he spoke.

“Well played, Martin. Well played. I was telling Herr Goebbels how I conducted you in one of your first appearances on stage. Do you remember that? You were too young to realize you should’ve been nervous!” he said with a laugh.

“I’ve learned how since, believe me!” Martin smiled, and Furtwängler laughed again.

“It don’t know how Der Führer does it at his rallies,” Beck said, looking at Goebbels. “I prefer conducting, you only have to look at the orchestra.”

Martin looked up; Annaliese was walking down the aisle toward him. He smiled, standing up—grateful for the welcome distraction—and hoping he’d be able to use her as an excuse to get away. He looked at her as she approached. Her face appeared unreadable; she was unsmiling. He could see her bottom lip quivering, a tremor that was ever so slight, but there.

Furtwängler turned to look at her, as did Goebbels.

Beck smiled. “Annaliese, such a pleasant surprise!” he said.

She ignored him, choosing instead to face Martin and slap him. She waited, looking at him with tears in her eyes before she turned her back on him and walked away.

“Hell hath no fury,” Goebbels said after a moment, watching Annaliese as she walked into the shadows.