“When I was older, I asked the Führer what he thought of black, and the Führer being a former artist thought I meant the color, telling me that black to him is the crack in the ass of Eva Braun.”

Startled, I suck in my breath. People are laughing so hard that sparks of red and black powder fly into the air. Is it possible this audience has heard the name Eva Braun? Do they finally know who I am? Would they ever believe that I sit beside them?

Quickly standing and letting Renate fall to the ground, the major takes out his pistol and wastes a bullet on the clown’s throat.

It’s a clean bullet hole in the rouged neck. Bright red streaks runs down the clown’s chest and on his belly before he slumps over. Behind me people are still laughing thinking this is part of the act. But the girl in yellow tights comes on stage to drag off the clown.

“Major, what have you done?“ I pick up Renate and stand facing him.

“The clown insulted you.”

“But he also recognized me.”

“Are you angry with me, Fräulein?”

“No. You believed you were defending me. Should we see if the clown is alive? Perhaps he needs help.”

“He’s only a dunce. We must get back.” With Renate between us, the major begins his arduous drive back to the Bunker.

Adi is waiting for us at the bottom of the circular stairs. It’s been over three hours, and he’s only upset because we’re late. The fortuneteller has assured him that we were safe. Standing next to him is Bormann who shifts nervously from one foot to the other.

“A gift for you, Mein Führer.”

Adi takes the dog, forgetting his anger.

“I’ve been shooting, Mein Führer,” the major announces formally.

“Not at animals, I hope.” The Führer’s body is suddenly rigid.

“Nein. Only people, Mein Führer.”

Petting Renate calms Adi. His mustache doesn’t quiver. Tight wrinkles by his eyes relax. Adi pushes Renate’s face against his jacket that has custard drippings. The dog licks the stains. Being stared at all these years has made Adi old. The eyes of people have diminished him. How spryly his legs moved when we first met. His hair fell across his smooth forehead when he leaned over me. Now he’s listless, his forehead lined in deep creases. As his wife, I vow to make him young again.

Bormann has arranged the wedding for midnight. The tulips have arrived.

I explain that my white dress is lost, and I’ll wear the black one with roses on each side of the neckline that Adi likes.

Nuzzling the dog, Adi listens to our adventures, how we rescued the dog and named her Renate, how we attended a theatre performance to see the brave people of Berlin struggling onward. We don’t mention the dead or dying or the amorous SS on the bed and certainly not the remark the clown made about me.

Bormann gets water and sets it on the ground, and Adi strokes Renate as she drinks loudly.

“You’ll be glad to know, Mein Führer, there are no Jews left in Berlin. Judenrein!” The major stands erect beside the drinking Renate. For emphasis, he bends stiffly to pat the dog’s head.

“And all their artworks?”

“Safe.”

“I have such a fondness for Dürer,” Adi says.

“I’m sure his works are carefully tucked away in one of our basement vaults. To be shipped to your private Linz Museum.”

“The Jews know art.” Adi picks up Renate who drips water from her mouth onto his jacket. “Surely you have some written statement, some Jewish validation of their worth?”

“Of course, Mein Führer.”

“With paintings, the Jew must be considered. The rich Catholics mostly covet gold chalices and statues. Protestants their racing stables. Who will remember the respect I’ve held for Jewish art collections?”

“The dog was rescued for you, Mein Führer.” The major steps closer to Adi.

Adi is pleased. It’s the best gift he could get, better than my wedding dress. A hint of sadness glistens at the sides of his eyes as he fears the dog has lived a terrible existence running frantically from one bombardment to another. An animal can’t know what the shells and fire mean. The poor creature is without national thoughts. The major deserves to be rewarded. What would he like? Boots? Special food?

“I wish to spend a weekend with my wife and children.”

The Führer calls for Bormann who writes up a special order from the stacks of endless forms on his desk.

Adi wishes to see a picture of the major’s family and out comes the photo from his pocket. Holding two blond children in her arms is a mother with blond braided earmuffs.

“Tell your children…” Adi begins.

“Yes, Mein Führer?”

“Tell your children…”

Adi suddenly turns and enters the map room holding Renate, closing the door softly so as not to startle her.

“I’ll always remember what he said.”

“Was is das?” I ask.

“That he thought of my children, even at the end.”

Kissing me on both cheeks, the major leaves with the wonderful pass clutched in his hand. And there’s still the mummified prize in the car.

I go to my room to smooth out my dress, wash my hair and savor each glorious minute before my wedding. If only Renate could witness me marrying the Führer.

My mother! If she could see the rapturous face of her daughter getting married to the Führer. Mother was impressed when I gave my fur coats to the military—for the freezing men on the Russian front. Even Adi was overwhelmed by my gesture, so much so that he had Bormann arrange to get me another fur coat. It was taken from a Jewish woman in the northern city of Kiel. I felt bad about it until Bormann told me that the woman went to a warmer climate. My new coat was delivered to me by ambulance.

24

BORMANN KNOCKS. I can tell his short official raps. If he’d just quickly push the door open! His hand lingering on the knob is distressing as I’ll feel his touch when I go out.

“Here is the agenda.” Bormann has a grating over-used voice and doesn’t smile. I’m wearing a robe and my feet are bare. His little squinting eyes look at my toes. “They’re painted.” he remarks.

“It’s my wedding day.”

“You know the Führer doesn’t like nail polish.”

“A woman must do as she wishes on her wedding day.”

Placing the agenda on my bed, he exits with quiet stiffness. I give a second coat of red polish to my toenails.

The wedding will take place after midnight with a justice of the peace, Walter Wagner, to marry us. Goebbels is the witness. A short party will follow, then the bride and groom retire to the Führer’s bedroom. In the early morning, Mr. and Mrs. Hitler will kill themselves.

Magda taps on my door three times in imitation of the three raps when the curtain rises at the Comédie Française (using sophistication gained from our Paris occupation). She appears in a long white towel. Her thick legs show. “Dr. Morell has given me my grape injections, and I feel wonderful.” Pins hold up her stiff blond hair. She’s wearing a red dress to the wedding assuring me it’s a soft red along with a hat of crimson ribbons. Magda may be able to buy “fashion” but she can’t buy “style.”

“Josef, the children, and I will follow you both,” she says pulling the towel closer to her body.

I have an instant fright that Magda and family wish to follow us into our wedding bed.

“In what way?”

“We’re done for.” The amber spots in Magda’s eyes are gleaming.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve told the Führer. We have his blessing. We don’t want to go on. Any of us.”

“Adi did tell me…”

“What did he tell you?” Magda faces me eagerly. Those puffy red lips pucker in anticipation. “What?”

“That… you would… would…”

“Die with him?”

“Not with him. That’s my place, Magda.”

“I know that, silly Eva. But we do intend to follow shortly afterward.”

“Why does it have to be this way?” I moan. “It would be better if thousands died rather than the Führer be lost to Germany.”

“Of course. But we must deal with now.” Her head is down and she is unable to look me in the eyes. “Six chocolates filled with the drug Finodin are prepared by SS Doctor Ludwig Stumpfegger. It puts the children to sleep and helps me ease my babies out of this life. Dr. Kunz will give the children morphine to deliver them gently into eternal sleep for they belong to the Third Reich and to the Führer.” She pauses, then stammers: “The only thing that worries me is that… I will weaken at the last minute. I fear a stupid acrobat of emotion.”

I stare at her pale hands that now look like claws.

“There are two glass cyanide capsules set aside for Josef and me,” she adds. She looks up at me sternly. “Eva, you must help me. I wish to see the Führer alone one last time. Just for a few minutes. But he refuses.”

Magda is asking me to intercede for her. I feel the power of becoming a wife.

“What is there to say?”

“There’s everything to say.”

“We have so much to do before the wedding.”

“Eva, I’m here to help you in any way I can.”

Magda is fawning. Magda is requesting a favor like a servant.

But she’s clever enough to know there is something she can do. I’m nervous. I need unusual experiences. I want to be special.

“I can’t believe a poor girl from Simbach in Bavaria would know much of love. Am I right?” Magda asks eagerly.

“There are men in Bavaria. Handsome men. I was never without one.”

“Eva, you’re with the Führer. A man who spins his marvelous cocoon and pupates.”

“Haven’t I been in his bed? But tonight—tonight is different, Magda. Tonight, he’s released from Germany. Tonight he’s my husband, all mine. What we do in bed will take me into ecstasy.”