Songbird Under a German Moon (12 page)

Frank's heart did a double beat recalling Betty up on the stage, yet he tried not to show it. Since pursuing a relationship wasn't in his immediate plans, it shouldn't bother him—but it did.

The thing was, even if he did decide to risk his heart, she most likely wouldn't feel the same way. Also, from what he could tell, Betty seemed far less enthralled by him than he was by her. To her, he was probably just another Joe. Another reason not to let the spark of feelings run away with him.

“Yes, the show was something all right. All the girls were great,” he said, steering the conversation away from Betty. “I hear they have a show tomorrow night. You should go.”

“I will.” Art swung his camera bag over his shoulder. “Only if you promise you'll introduce me to Songbird.”

Frank eyed his friend. “I know you—too well. You'll want more than an introduction.”

Art's eyes sparkled, and Frank could tell his friend was teasing him. “Yeah, well, if she's as pretty as everyone says she is, I might ask her out on a date. Do you think she'd say yes?”

“Doubt it. What does a lousy cuss like you have to offer? Besides, how would I know? I don't know the singers that well. Our relationship is limited to the lens of a camera. I'm sure Bet—Songbird is already in a relationship or something.”

“Wait a minute—” Art punched Frank's shoulder, causing some of his coffee to splash over the mug's rim. “You're sweet on her.”
A grin spread across Art's face. “Out of all the years I've known you, I've never seen you sweet on a girl. She must be as wonderful as everyone says.”

“I don't know why you'd think that.”

“Is she beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“Does she sing well?”

“Of course.”

“Is she kind—nice to talk to?”

“We talked for quite a while—”

“Then what's not to like?”

“You're right, what's not to like?” Frank's mind scrambled for an excuse. He'd come up with many of them over the years—he had a girl back home. He was recovering from a broken heart. He'd sworn to his dear mother not to marry until after the war…. But none of those would work now. He was sure that Art could see through him. For the first time, he told the truth—or at least half of the truth.

“The question is, do I have anything to offer in return,” Frank said with a sigh. “Shoot, all I know how to do is take photos. It's not as if I've won a Pulitzer—and there's no chance for that now, especially with this new assignment—taking shots of singing girls. Not exactly important subject matter. I don't even have my high-school diploma. What type of job can I get back home? I also have to think what my parents would say—”

“Man, you think too much.” Art strode to the door. He placed his hand on the knob. “You'd be a fool to get this great assignment and not take advantage of it. Especially when there's a girl
like that around. In fact, I don't know what you're doing standing here talking to me.” Art ran a hand down his face. “I'm not nearly as pretty.”

Frank finished his coffee and set his mug down. He scanned the roadway outside the window that was starting to fill with more people, and he felt a grin curling his lips upward. “Maybe you're right. Maybe I should head over to the opera house and check things out—you know, scope out the place to make sure I get the best shots tomorrow night.”

“You have all the dumb luck, that's for sure.” Art opened the door. “Here I am taking photos of destruction and reconstruction. You get to take photos of pretty girls with pipes, and I get to take photos of—”

“Sewer pipes?” Frank hid his grin.

“Exactly. How did you know?”

“I saw some of your prints drying in that darkroom you've got set up.”

“Jealous, aren't you? Bet you've never photographed a sewer.” Art smirked, and then he slapped his leg. “Hey, I got an idea. I'll make extra copies of my photos and trade them for extra copies of yours—”

“What are you trying to do, get me sent home?” Frank began packing his own camera equipment. “You know we can't make extra copies for other people. These photos are property of the US military—although I have a feeling
if
I considered breaking that rule, it would be to keep photos of these girls, not give them away. Or at least one in particular.”

“That's my friend. Man, I thought you'd never loosen up.” Art slapped Frank's back. “Welcome to the real army.”

Everything seemed different in the daylight. As he walked along the road to the opera house, Frank snapped shots of the rolling hills and fields that bordered the buildings and park. The opera house itself was one of a complex of buildings—workshops, rehearsal areas, storage facilities—that had all been constructed behind the theater. He took photos of it all, noticing there was also a painting studio and two rickety refreshment halls.

Frank walked around to the front door of the opera house and was surprised to find it open. Inside it smelled of wood and cold. Paintings of composers hung on the walls. He could hear music coming from the auditorium, American jazz, and it struck him how out of place it sounded bouncing off the composers' smiles.

He focused his camera on the large painting of Wagner and took a shot. He couldn't help but think about Art's words last night about the “culture” of the Americans on stage. The difference was probably most clear to those who'd seen how things used to be. Of course, the German citizens hadn't been allowed to attend the new shows, and most of the Nazi high-ranking officers were now in prison in Nuremberg, awaiting trial for their crimes. Who was gonna speak up and complain that the Americans were replacing important German culture with jazz? No one, that's who.

Movement caught his eye, and Frank turned to see who was
there. The door to the auditorium swung slightly as a fleeting shadow passed by, but when he stepped forward, he didn't see anyone. Frank rubbed his eyes.

“Hello,” he called. He walked into the auditorium, and the only person he saw was Kat on the stage, warming up. He walked down the aisles and scanned the rows of wooden seats. They, too, were empty.

Frank walked back to the lobby, wondering how someone had slipped by him. From where he stood, it would have been impossible. He finally looked around one more time and decided to check on the singers in the back. A chilling sensation ran up his arms. Someone had been watching Kat. For the briefest second he was sure he saw a figure in a long, black cloak. And whoever it was either didn't exist—or didn't want to be seen.

Dierk tightened his fists, wishing today were the day when it all would end. When Wagner could be reborn. He didn't know how he could face the humiliation any longer. He was glad the great master had not lived to see this day.

Soon—

It had been disgraceful enough to know that the local commander of the American troops had moved into Richard Wagner's son Siegfried's house. And who knew what the Americans had pilfered when they snooped thorough Winifred's abandoned study?

Even worse was listening to the Americans play jazz—music that had so exasperated Siegfried. Thankfully, Wagner had died before
hearing such “music.” How it pained Dierk to hear such noise being played on Wagner's sacred pianos.
This should never be so.

For a time, Dierk had regretted what he must do to ensure that Wagner's work, his stage, and his instruments were remembered in their purest form, but now he knew it was his sacrifice. He must destroy what was worth the most in the world to him, a sacrifice to ensure that all Richard Wagner loved would not continue under such disgrace.

His head pounded. His chest ached, and he needed freedom from the music that vexed his soul. With hurried steps, he left the lower quarters of the Festspielhaus and made his way, heart thumping, to the old set-painting workshop nearby.

Dierk stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and smiled. He felt most comfortable here, among boxes filled with things he'd managed to hide from the Americans—letters written in an old German gothic script, busts of long-dead composers, and an old painting of Hitler and a menacing. Alsatian dog. They weren't things he treasured, but if he had them they were a few less things for the Americans to pilfer.

He did have one treasure amongst the piles—the plaster model of what seemed to be the Festspielhaus transformed. The grandiose design, produced at the Fuehrer's wish, appeared like the Parthenon in miniature. He knew Hitler's plan was to rebuild the opera house to this new design as soon as Nazi Germany had won the war, but fate did not allow it. If all worked as Dierk planned, a second Festspielhaus would arise—but without Hitler's name attached. Even though Dierk couldn't imagine such a thing—how something new
could be even greater than the old, his dreams told him it would happen. But first, he had to play his part. The part designed for him. One that would make his name greater than that of any musician or singer who'd performed within these walls.

With his mind once again focused on his task, Dierk stepped from the building and peered down at the valley below. Each time he walked into town, he discovered more people had arrived: soldiers and other conscripts, freed political prisoners, prisoners of war, disabled men discharged from the military hospitals, and evacuees.

A growing audience for the show.

They practiced all day and even worked through lunch. Betty was pleased that she knew most of the songs, and she worked especially hard on an Andrews Sisters number with Dolly and Irene.

The day was almost over when Betty spotted Kat turning down a side hall, disappearing around a corner.

“Where you going, Kat?” Betty called after her.

“Stage right. I thought it would be easiest to sneak onto stage from there for the last number,” Kat's voice called back, echoing down the hall.

“You're heading the wrong direction.” Irene snickered. “You need to go down the first hall, not the second, and then take the first right. It will lead you to the back of the stage.”

They watched as Kat retraced her steps, re-emerged, found the right hall, and stomped down it with her hands balled into fists at her sides. “I'm so glad to leave this place. All these halls, rooms—whoever designed such a place should be taken out and shot.”

“Richard Wagner's been dead for quite a while,” Dolly called after her. “I don't think it'll do any good!”

“Is it really hard to get around?” Betty asked Irene.

“If you're just in the dressing room and going to the side stage
it's no big deal,” Irene explained. “It's the other rooms that are the problem. More than once, we've been practicing in a room and then someone shows up through a door we hadn't even noticed was there. Even Mickey's gotten lost a time or two. Oskar's the only one who really knows the ins and outs of everything.”

“Remind me to never go wandering around the place without one of you.” Betty pointed to her new friends. “I don't even want to think how horrible it would be if I was supposed to be on stage for a number and ended up in some dark closet instead. I wonder if the opera house has ghosts too.”