Swan Song Read online

  Swan Song

  A Novel

  Elizabeth

  B. Splaine

  Woodhall Press

  Norwalk, CT

  Woodhall Press, 81 Old Saugatuck Road, Norwalk, CT 06855

  WoodhallPress.com

  Copyright © 2021 Elizabeth B. Splaine

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages for review.

  Cover design: Asha Hossain

  Layout artist: LJ Mucci

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  ISBN 978-1-949116-83-0 (paper: alk paper)

  ISBN 978-1-949116-84-7 (electronic)

  First Edition

  Distributed by Independent Publishers Group

  (800) 888-4741

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to a special lady—

  Mischling, Friend, and Seamstress Extraordinaire

  It is also dedicated to all persecuted people who suffered through the madness.

  I am humbled by your strength and perseverance.

  May we apply what we have learned in an effort to promote peace and awareness.

  But never, ever forget.

  The silver Swan, who, living, had no Note,

  when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat.

  Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,

  thus sang her first and last, and sang no more:

  “Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes!

  More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise.”

  —Orlando Gibbons, 1612

  Prologue

  Hitler was a monster.

  Except he wasn’t.

  He was a narcissistic sociopath who convinced millions of people to join his cult.

  In his early years, observers might have called him a simple man. Or a man who lived simply in a tiny apartment with as close to a friend as Adolf Hitler would ever have. Hitler met August Kubizek at the Linz opera after Hitler’s family moved to Linz following the death of his father. Like all of Hitler’s relationships, the friendship was largely one-sided. As Hitler vacillated between silence and raving diatribes about perceived wrongs, his roommate was doomed to listen and nod appropriately until Hitler finally exhausted himself. His friendship with Kubizek ended abruptly when the young man returned from the holidays to find that Hitler had moved out, leaving no trace. For reasons known only to Hitler’s troubled mind, he had decided to end the relationship as suddenly as it had begun.

  Hitler’s relationships with women were no less muddled and one-sided. While living with Kubizek, he fell in love with a young woman whom he spotted on the street. Over a period of months, he loved Stefanie from afar and never approached her. Instead, he fantasized about their life together and imagined he communicated with her through telepathy. According to Kubizek, Hitler truly believed Stefanie understood his thoughts and shared his unspoken passion. He even discussed the idea of kidnapping her, until Kubizek astutely pointed out that he had no money to support her. The fact that kidnapping is legally and morally wrong never came into consideration.

  Hitler’s “love” was all-consuming, volatile, twisted. To him, loving someone meant possessing her, smothering the person’s spirit and will until she became a part of him. If, for some reason, the supply of love was severed, the victim suffered greatly, having poured herself—heart, mind, and soul—into Hitler. Subjugation was an unspoken requirement when becoming involved with Hitler. In the process, the person lost her own identity, her sense of self. And when that has happened, what remains? A husk, a shell, with roiling emotions and a desperate sense of loss. Stefanie escaped by never actually engaging with the megalomaniac. Other women were not so fortunate. At least seven women committed suicide after being involved with Adolf Hitler.

  But of the seven, only one adversely affected Hitler.

  Hitler was forty years old when he became the legal guardian of his half sister’s daughter, Angela “Geli” Raubal, who was twenty-three. They lived together in a well-appointed apartment in Munich, her bedroom located right next to his. According to all accounts, Hitler adored Geli, and she enjoyed being the object of his attention. He showered her with gifts and paid for voice lessons when she showed some interest in the craft. He preened with her on his arm and thundered when she showed interest in spending time with other men.

  The relationship had limits, however, as Geli had no desire to marry him, and he was unable (or unwilling) to force his will on her. Still, he yearned to possess her, to control her every move. Seeing himself as a talented artist, he painted lewd pictures of her in the nude, which were stolen in an effort to blackmail him (and reacquired through purchase from the blackmailer). There are stories that he slashed her with a bull-hide whip he often carried. But she remained by his side, like so many abused partners. She stayed until she could stand it no more. On the night of September 18, 1931, following yet another screaming match, Geli shot herself in the heart with one of Hitler’s Walther revolvers. Hitler was out of town. Geli’s body was discovered the following morning by the housekeeper, Annie Winter.

  Next to the passing of his mother, whose picture he carried with him until his death, the suicide of Geli had the most dramatic effect on Hitler’s psyche. He ordered the suicide covered up, and, for the next two weeks he barely ate and rarely slept. According to confidants, he had to be physically restrained from committing suicide. In Hitler’s twisted mind, the death of Geli elevated her to a saint. Her bedroom became a shrine in which fresh flowers were placed each day to honor her memory. A full-length painting of Geli hung in Hitler’s alpine home near Berchtesgaden, commonly known as the Berghof. Underneath the painting always sat another bowl of fresh flowers. Hitler carried Geli’s picture next to his mother’s until his own death (by the same pistol Geli had used) in 1945. As his memory reinvented the young woman, her suicide became regal, an honorable, heroic choice to which he would refer again and again over the ensuing years.

  There were several events in Hitler’s life that drove him closer and closer to the insane, autocratic tyrant he eventually became. But the guilt he felt at Geli’s suicide was the trigger that fully unleashed his complete lack of morality and conscience. As Robert Payne so aptly describes Hitler’s mental deterioration in The Life and Death of Adolf Hitler, “She was of his blood and flesh, almost a daughter and almost a wife, closer to him than anyone else in the world. To have caused her death was to have committed the ultimate crime; the guilt would remain, never to be washed away. Henceforth, he was free from all of the conventional ties of morality . . . He had gone beyond good and evil, and entered a strange landscape where . . . all the ordinary human values were reversed. Like Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor, he succumbed to ‘the dread spirit of death and destruction.’”

  It is important that you, dear reader, understand Hitler’s state of mind as he makes the acquaintance of a beautiful young opera singer named Ursula Becker. In this story, he has been following her career from afar, much as he followed (and courted) Stefanie only in his mind. It has been several years since the death of his beloved niece when he finally meets Ursula Becker, who so closely resembles Geli that Hitler cannot help but be drawn to her. He yearns to possess Ursula, to consume her. But
her will is strong and her personality rebellious. As she continues to defy him, his broken mind conflates the two women and, over time, the truculent Ursula becomes Geli. Hitler is left with two choices: once again cause the death of someone he cherishes or allow her to live and openly defy him. The personal decisions he makes, as seen through Ursula’s eyes, reflect the turmoil he continues to create throughout the world.

  This is not a novel about Adolf Hitler, who died like a coward in an underground bunker instead of facing the atrocities for which he would have been held accountable. This is a story that represents the victims, a tale of one woman’s struggle to survive against overwhelming odds as the object of a crazy person’s possessive passion. This is a love story that spans continents and time, war and cruelty. This is a story of the worst and the best that human nature has to offer, a tale of the resilience of the human spirit, of the Light against interminable darkness. And we all know that, in the end, despite the unthinkable atrocities that were waged on the innocent, the Light overcame the darkness.

  Respectfully Yours,

  Elizabeth B. Splaine

  October 2021

  I

  1933

  1

  The tall, raven-haired beauty stood motionless in the cavernous space and appraised the sea of red velvet seats. Placing her hands on her slim waist, she adjusted the belt of her knee-length, lightweight wool dress and kicked off her brown leather pumps. Shapely calves sheathed in seamed stockings offered the casual observer a tantalizing glimpse of her delicate bone structure.

  Sudden, bright light stabbed her large brown eyes, and she threw up her hand to shield them. Straight ahead, the lighting director waved as he tested various colors. She smiled as the spectrum splashed blue and purple across the perky cherubs who never tired of supporting the balconies.

  Ursula closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing her lungs to expand until her midsection bulged. The musty, woody scent that wafted up from the worn, pine floorboards snaked its way into the olfactory portion of her brain, reminding her that she stood in her most favorite place in the world. She blew out the air she’d been holding, then stretched her lips to relax the tension that had settled there. She opened her eyes and scanned the auditorium where, in just a few short hours, the most wealthy and influential Berliners would be seated, the men chattering in hushed tones about the blossoming economy while their wives furtively evaluated the competition outfitted in the latest haute couture.

  Following the Wall Street crash four years prior, many countries were in financial ruin. Germany had not been immune to the economic downturn, so Ursula was grateful that people still regularly attended the opera. Her father believed that an operatic performance allowed a brief respite from the drudgery of daily life, if only for a few hours. A chance to soar with the eagles on some of the most majestic music ever composed. He liked to say that Ursula’s work was critical to Germany, her small part in maintaining and growing the cultural icon that Berlin had become.

  Ursula reached her arms toward the auditorium’s domed ceiling where angels danced among the clouds, and then quickly bent forward, dropping her hands to the floor. She allowed herself a moment of silence and stillness as she simply hung there, the tiny muscles in her arms, shoulders, and neck slowly achieving full release with her repeated, low breaths. She inhaled deeply once more, enjoying the expansion in her lower back. Someone cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me, Fräulein, but you cannot be in here. We have a show in two hours, and we must prepare.”

  Ursula slowly raised her torso and grinned, her even, white teeth completing the image of elegance and refinement. “Do you not recognize me out of costume, Fritz?”

  The diminutive, white-haired man blushed, and he removed his wool cap. His rheumy blue eyes found the floor as the cap writhed in his large, veined hands. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he mumbled, “Oh, please excuse me, Fräulein Becker. I did not know it was you. Take as much time as you need.”

  Ursula approached the theatre’s property custodian and placed her hand on his crepe-paper, mottled arm. “I have asked you many times to please call me Ursula, Fritz. After all, I refer to you always as Fritz. In fact, I just now realize that I do not know your surname.” He gazed at her with unsettling sincerity.

  “Rosen. Rosen is my surname.”

  “Fritz Rosen.” Ursula rolled the name around her tongue. “It flows nicely, does it not?”

  “Ja, Fräulein.”

  “Ursula.”

  Fritz’s entire countenance lit up as he smiled, revealing two missing teeth. “Ja, Fräulein Ursula.”

  Ursula shook her head and laughed. “I suppose that Fräulein Ursula will have to do for now.”

  As Fritz retreated, Ursula stepped forward until she was aligned with the proscenium arch, the most advantageous acoustical point on the stage. She dropped her head and closed her eyes, allowing her imagination to morph her into Adele, her character in the upcoming opera. After a few moments, she lifted her head, smiled brightly, and launched into vocal exercises that slowly and deliberately climbed the pentatonic scale until she’d reached her goal, a quiet but solid high E flat. Satisfied, she waved to Fritz, who had seated himself in the balcony to listen to her abbreviated concert, and hurried to her dressing room, where her hair and makeup stylist awaited her.

  “Ursula, where have you been? You’re late! You are not the only person for whom I work, you know.”

  Ursula rolled her eyes. Hilde Mayer had been employed by the opera house since the age of sixteen when she’d been apprenticed by her father. She had started as a costume seamstress until she discovered a passion for makeup artistry, which she deftly parlayed into a new career by marrying the former opera house manager. Her husband had since passed, leaving Hilde the unofficial mistress of the opera house and the uncontested lead makeup artist. Hilde was now in her mid-thirties and had seen divas come and go. Her righteous indignation was matched only by her expansive bustline, which heaved as if she’d run a fair distance prior to Ursula’s arrival. Her thin, platinum-blond hair was plaited down her back, and her eye makeup was as elaborate as the outfit she’d cobbled together from various costume scraps.

  “Hilde, we have this same conversation over and over. You don’t need to do my hair and makeup first. Why don’t you start with Frau Baumann and then come to me?”

  “Because she’s a contentious snot. She’s been singing for far too long and believes that her vocal prowess is unrivaled.”

  Ursula sat and acquiesced to the horsehair brush being dragged through her long hair. She grimaced as Hilde’s strokes matched the vigor with which she continued to denigrate the aging opera star.

  “Helga Baumann used to be like you, Ursula. Kind and humble, bordering on insecure.”

  “I am not insecure,” Ursula balked.

  Hilde stopped brushing and stared at Ursula in the mirror. “Not about your singing. But you are insecure about men.”

  Ursula crinkled her nose and Hilde recommenced brushing. “But her years in the spotlight have altered her demeanor. She’s haughty and believes that each man she encounters desires her. I’ve seen it happen over and over again. Young ingenues enter the door of this glorious Statische Opera house and conceited, overbearing women emerge. Don’t let the same fate befall you, my dear.”

  “I’ll do my best, Hilde.”

  Hilde stopped brushing and jutted out a hip. “You’re unique, Ursula. Your voice is beautiful, but great voices are common. No, there is something else about you.” She shook the hairbrush as she considered her words. “I have the belief that you were meant to do something special.”

  “I am doing something special, Hilde. I have the unparalleled opportunity to sing in this glorious theatre and get paid good money to do it! There is nothing more important than that.”

  A knowing smile grew as Hilde resumed her task. “You’re
wrong, Ursula. There are many more important things in this awful world. I pray that as long as you live, the most challenging task you encounter is how to embrace a difficult new role.”

  “Hilde, as usual you’re being dramatic. I assume you’re referring to current politics? You do like to prattle on and on about that.”

  Hilde halted, mid–brush stroke. “Yes. I do. Because the situation is frightening, Ursula. You need to pay attention.”

  Ursula sighed heavily. “I’m sorry that you lost your husband in the Great War. You know that my father fought as well and continues to suffer because of it. But Papa says that the world has experienced enough bloodshed for a lifetime, and that Germany is repaying its debt through the Treaty of Versailles.”

  Hilde shook her head as she gathered sections of Ursula’s silky hair and twisted them into unfathomable knots, cementing them in place by driving metal hairpins into Ursula’s scalp.

  “Your father is wrong. I would have agreed with him before two years ago, but now von Hindenburg is ailing and may not run for re-election. There’s no one suitable to replace him. People are tired, Ursula. Although our economy is on the rise, their memories of war and post-war reparations are strong. They’ll turn to anyone who offers them security. I don’t trust the new chancellor. His thugs held a book burning, for goodness’ sake! Trust me, unless something changes, Germany will suffer, maybe even worse than it did after the Great War.”

  A perfunctory knock was followed by the fastidious opera house director sweeping into the small room. “There’s my beautiful princess!” Carl Ebert was dressed in a fitted, pin-striped gray suit that matched the color of his closely cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, and he clutched a black walking stick that sported a silver handle in the shape of a ram. As far as Ursula could figure, the cane was not a physical requirement. Rather, Herr Ebert liked to use it as a prop as he spoke, gesticulating madly in the air to hammer home a point. He held his stick aloft, his arms wide.