The Coming of the Reichchild

By J. P. De Sales

During the 1990s, George Bush Sr. called Saddam Hussein this modern day Hitler. THE COMING OF THE REICHCHILD is a visceral, highly visual story that deftly weaves historical fact with fiction to revel the chilling, all-too-plausible roots of the Iraqi dictator. Built convincingly around real historical events and personages, THE COMING OF THE REICHCHILD accurately traces the life of Saddam Hussein tying his roots to Adolph Hitler and the Third Reichs need for oil. The novel chronicles the diabolical events of another time when a seed was planted whose bitter fruit would be harvested by a future age, and traces Husseins collision course with the Jews whom he vowed to incinerate with his Scud missiles during the Persian Gulf War.

By his own admission, Saddam does not know who his real father was, and was raised by an uncle whom history reveals to be an ardent pro-Nazi. And how is it that German companies were so deeply involved in building his legendary underground bunkers.

Where fact stops and fiction starts is indiscernible, yielding a fascinating novel that is filled with suspense, intrigue, violence, treachery, and the ultimate love of a man for his daughter. Truly, a what if novel to end all what ifs."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 1, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462825332

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Copyright © 1991, 1992, 1993, 2007 by J. P. de Sales.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction and, notwithstanding the coincidental historical nature and content of this narrative, is the sole product of the author’s imagination. Names, personages, places, and actual historical events are used fictitiously. Although troublingly plausible, the story contained herein should not be construed as a bona fide depiction of actual historical facts, events, or occurrences involving the lives of the characters.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

The Changeling

Chapter 2

Fortune’s Child

Chapter 3

A Deception of Love

Chapter 4

Too Soon The War

Chapter 5

Journey To Babylon

Chapter 6

The Puppeteer

Chapter 7

A Dirty Business

Chapter 8

Incident At Bani Sa’d

Chapter 9

Hunting Season

Chapter 10

Exile

Chapter 11

AWGA MISR

Chapter 12

Jou Jou

Chapter 13

7 Rue Haddad

Chapter 14

Double Or Nothing

Chapter 15

Death In Damascus

Chapter 16

Whom Gods Destroy

Chapter 17

Ibn Furr’eh

Chapter 18

Sabre of The Mind

Chapter 19

Storm Front

Chapter 20

Rubaiyat

Chapter 21

Parliament of Whores

Chapter 22

Family Tree

Chapter 23

Courier From The Past

Chapter 24

Love Lies Bleeding

Chapter 25

Rafa The Blind

Chapter 26

The Enemy Within

Chapter 27

Prodigal

Chapter 28

By Rage Possessed

Chapter 29

Treachery of the Beast

Chapter 30

Spiderweb

Chapter 31

Satyr’s Alchemy

Chapter 32

Adder’s Lair

Chapter 33

Deliver Us From Evil

Chapter 34

Tightrope

Chapter 35

Where Demons Feast

Chapter 36

Betrayal

Chapter 37

Mirror

Chapter 38

Thirty-Nine Scuds

Chapter 39

. . . Ticking…

To

Peter and Adele

John and Barbara

Without whose love,

support, and

enthusiastic

encouragement, this

endeavor would never

have been a reality

Prologue

Late September 1944…

The soft crystalline snowflakes of early autumn didn’t live long. Drifting earthward out of a bleak, sodden sky as white as a winter moon, they were crushed out of existence into the long mud tracks that snaked across the war-ravaged countryside, undulating like brown tails behind the line of mechanized diesel monsters of the U.S. Second Armored Division as it slowly clanked eastward into the heart of a dying Germany.

The Third Reich, its impenetrability breached at Normandy, lay mortally wounded and had but six months to live.

Seventy-four kilometers to the east in Strasbourg, the hands of Dr. August Hirt hastily packed the last of his copious medical and scientific notes into a trunk. Hirt was director of the Anatomical Institute of the University of Strasbourg and a self-proclaimed protege of Heinrich Himmler. Throughout the war and at the behest of his mentor, he had proudly conducted scores of grisly experiments in hereditary research designed to help create a master Aryan race.

But now, within hours, Strasbourg would fall into Allied hands. Before that day would end, Hirt would step unseen into a waiting lorry that had been provided by Himmler and escape into the night, disappearing forever from the pages of human history.

To this day, he has never been found, having vanished without a trace since that day in 1944. There has never been a satisfactory explanation why.

Maybe—just maybe—this is what happened.

Chapter 1

The Changeling

BEIRUT—1708 HOURS

APRIL 27, 1937

Nourishing milk flowed freely through the woman’s erect nipple into the mouth of the newborn infant hungrily suckling at her engorged breast. Barely seven days old, the robust child’s instincts for survival were already strong—instincts which would not fail this child and help it rise to the zenith of a predatory future world. Instincts which would help it thrive in the madness of days yet undawned.

MY BABY!

The large hands of the doctor in the white gown were not gentle as he ripped the infant away from its mother.

Herr doctor! Where are you going with my—

The hands of the second physician in the room abruptly stifled the rest of the young woman’s protest by slapping a large gauze pad over her mouth and nose. She jerked her head wildly from side to side, trying desperately not to inhale the sickly, sweet choking fumes. Her two hands thrashed at the doctor’s wrist, trying to dislodge it. She pushed upward, trying to sit up in the bed. The doctor’s free hand caught her brutally across the throat and violently slammed her down, pinning her to the mattress.

Starved for air, she gasped the deadly fumes deeper into her lungs. As the burning sensation raced down her windpipe, her ears were filled with the plaintive cry of her child as it was being carried from the room into the Beirut night. It was the last she would ever see of it. Indeed, this was the last the world would ever see of her—the intelligent, mysterious woman who had begun her life twenty-eight years prior in the small village of Abu Kamal in Syria.

Pinned to the bed, eyes wide with terror, she arched her back in a last desperate try for escape. With her hands locked around the doctor’s wrist in futile attempt to escape, her body began convulsing violently, eyes rolling upward and disappearing under their lids. A moment later, the arch of her lifeless body collapsed to the bed, milk still oozing out of her one exposed breast and dripping down uselessly onto the bedsheet.

Fortune had guided the life of the woman at every turn and had given her the talents and powerful ambitions which had served her so very well during the course of her strange and abbreviated life—ambitions which had now cost Fortune’s Child her very life.

*   *   *

BAGHDAD—2023 HOURS

APRIL 27, 1937

Exhausted from crying, even the jolt of the Nazi Fokker Trimotor hitting hard on the Baghdad runway didn’t wake the infant from its troubled sleep. Shielded from the midnight chill air by several layers of blankets, the infant was spirited across the dark, deserted tarmac to two waiting automobiles. A tall figure in an ankle-length trench coat emerged from the darkness inside the lead car. He tossed a glowing cigarette to the ground and crushed it underfoot. As the physician carrying the infant approached, the figure in the long coat clicked his heels softly and raised his right arm in salute.

I am Hoffmann, Herr doctor, he said brusquely. All is in readiness.

He pulled the rear door of the car open, and the doctor and his parcel disappeared inside. Seconds later, Hoffmann jumped into the front of the vehicle and slammed the door. Schnell! he snapped at the driver. The two cars roared off through the darkness unseen, the yellow shafts of their headlights pointing north out of Baghdad.

*   *   *

AL-AUJA, IRAQ—2304 HOURS

APRIL 27, 1937

Four kilometers outside Tekrit, in the squalor of an area known only as al-Auja, Subhah Tolfah al-Musallat lay in the house of her younger brother. As Khair Allah Tolfah watched nervously the old midwife hovering over the heaving body of his delirious sister, he glanced nervously at his watch.

Well? he snapped.

The midwife’s wrinkled hands plied the woman’s distended abdomen.

It comes soon. Her face was passionless and unemotional, the perfect match to her voice. With a wave of her hand, she wordlessly ordered Tolfah out of the room and began swabbing Subhah’s sweating face with a moist cloth. Tolfah stormed out, nervously glancing at his watch again.

Damn! It was taking too long! he thought as he threw a cigarette into his mouth. His hand trembled as he tried to light it. What’s taking her so long? He agonized. Subhah had gone into labor over twelve hours ago when he contacted Hoffmann in Baghdad. This should have been over by now!

Come on! Come on! Spit it out, woman! He frantically puffed at his tobacco, pacing wildly around the room. They’d be arriving soon—and after the baby came out, he still had to pay the midwife and get her out of the house before the Nazi arrived. But even more crucially, there was Subhah’s newborn that would have to be dealt with—quickly.

The cries of agony coming from the next room shattered Tolfah’s thoughts. He dashed back into the room just in time to see the midwife pulling a bloody lump out from between his sister’s legs. Subhah’s agonized screams ceased, and her trembling body went limp as she fell away into unconsciousness. Frozen at the door, Tolfah watched as the midwife lifted the infant and neatly sliced the umbilical. She quickly wiped its face and forced its mouth open to clear its windpipe. Seconds later, she slapped its tiny buttocks. There was no sound. She slapped again and shook the tiny figure. There still was no sound. Indeed—there was no movement.

The midwife slapped more desperately, but the tiny body remained motionless as precious seconds ticked away. Frantically, she placed her ear against the newborn’s chest.

Tolfah held his breath in anticipation as he stared at the unfolding drama for what seemed like an eternity. The old woman slowly put the infant down and began to wrap it in cloth. She turned to look at Tolfah. There was a trace of sadness in her craggy old eyes. She shook her head slowly.

It’s… it’s dead? Tolfah’s eyes were wide with shock.

The midwife nodded as she continued to wrap the tiny body in the cloth. Nervously, Tolfah raced over and stared at the cloth bundle as the midwife set about attending to Subhah. Then he turned his gaze to his comatose sister.

Is she… ? He was too excited to finish his sentence.

Pain, too much pain, said the midwife as she cleansed Subhah and wrapped her in clean cloths. Eventually she will wake.

Tolfah stepped back slowly, his agitated brain trying to analyze the situation. Fate had stepped in and lent a helping hand—the baby was stillborn. Now, he wouldn’t have to deal with it.

He looked at his sister. As an added bonus, she was unconscious—completely oblivious to what was happening. Now he wouldn’t even have to deal with her. Maybe, just maybe, this thing was going to work out even better than he had planned. He glanced nervously at his watch again. It was after midnight already. Enough time had already been wasted. There wasn’t a moment to lose. He had to get the midwife out of the house, fast!

*   *   *

0139 HOURS

APRIL 28, 1937

Reinhardt Hoffmann looked down at the comatose form of Subhah al-Musalat. Her breathing was shallow but regular.

You used the chloroform I gave you? he asked tersely.

No, no, I didn’t have to. Tolfah’s voice was excited. She… she passed out from the pain. She knows nothing.

Hoffmann eyed Tolfah suspiciously. He motioned to the doctor behind him to go to the woman and examine her. You’re a fool, Tolfah! If she wakes now and sees us here, the plan is ruined! You should have followed your orders!

But I didn’t think—

Don’t think, Arab! Just do as you’re told! Hoffmann interrupted. There was an angry look on his face. If she starts to come around, you’re to immediately put her out again! he ordered the doctor.

Hoffmann turned back to Tolfah. You’ve eliminated the child? he said curtly.

I didn’t— He caught himself just in time. Yes, yes, . . . it’s dead, Hoffmann.

Hoffmann eyed the Arab suspiciously. Produce the corpse! he commanded.

Tolfah took Hoffmann to the corner and opened a large burlap sack, revealing a small bundle wrapped in a bloody cloth.

Open it!

Tolfah bent down and pulled a corner of the cloth away. The small blue face of the dead infant looked up at them. Hoffmann knelt down. Dispassionately, his leather-gloved finger poked its bloody cheek, looking for any sign of life. There was none. He looked up contemptuously at Tolfah. Your loyalty to your own blood is a thing to behold, Arab, he said sarcastically.

Tolfah resisted the urge to spit in the face of the arrogant German.

Hoffmann rose and walked quickly back to the physician at Subhah’s side. He had a syringe stuck into the vein in her arm. Your evaluation, Doctor! he demanded.

Pulse and respiration are within acceptable tolerances, and there are no signs of dehydration. I’m giving her gamma globulin intravenously now. Uterine bleeding had ceased and—

Spare me, Doctor! Hoffmann interrupted. Just tell me if she’s going to be healthy enough for our operation!

Angered at the reprimand, the physician nervously adjusted his glasses on his nose and looked up at Hoffmann. Dammit Hoffman, I’m a doctor, not a clairvoyant! He glared at the commanding German. And when dealing with an inferior non-Aryan breed, I cannot assure you that medical science’s prognosis are any more meaningful than those seen by a gypsy woman in her glass ball! Given the squalor of the conditions I see around me, I would say this female is a picture of health! You are free to interpret that any way you choose! He angrily pulled the syringe out of her arm and slapped some gauze on the tiny puncture.

Your comments are duly noted, Herr doctor. Hoffmann jerked his head in the direction of the door, instructing the doctor to leave. The physician quickly grabbed his bag and disappeared.

You’ve… you’ve brought my… ? Tolfah said tentatively.

Hoffmann extracted a large envelope from somewhere inside his coat and threw it at the Arab. As we agreed, said Hoffmann curtly.

Tolfah turned his back to the German and peered inside the thick packet. His eyes widened hungrily. It was stuffed with currency.

The physician reentered the room, carrying a small bundle. Hoffmann nodded in the direction of Subhah. The doctor carefully laid the bundle near her and unwrapped the outer blanket. The tiny arms and legs of the infant stretched and twitched gently, its fists clenched around its own thumbs. The tiny protrusion between its legs told Tolfah that the infant was a boy. Hoffmann motioned for the doctor to take the other bundle containing Subhah’s stillborn. The doctor carried the tiny body out of Tolfah’s house and disappeared into the back of the car.

Hoffmann looked at Tolfah and thrust a goatskin bladder filled with milk at Tolfah. Until she wakes up, you’re the mother!

Tolfah stared down unsurely at the sack in his hand. But… but I know nothing about—

Then I suggest you learn quickly, Arab! Hoffmann’s eyes were commanding. You’ll find my German tolerance for incompetence can be quickly exceeded!

Hoffmann turned on his heel and walked toward the door. I want status reports weekly! If you need any kind of medical help, you’re to notify me immediately!

Tolfah looked at his sister and the infant beside her. Subhah stirred slightly and moaned. She was coming out of it. Hoffmann…

Just as he was about to exit, the German stopped and turned to look back at Tolfah.

Who is he? Tolfah motioned with his head at the child.

Hoffmann’s face expressed no emotion as his cold eyes looked over at the little changeling he had just delivered. You have to learn, Arab, as I have, that a loyal member of the party asks no questions and follows his orders. His gaze returned to Tolfah as the two men stared uneasily at each other. Even if I knew the answer, Arab, do you really think I would tell you? There was a decided sneer to the German’s statement.

A moment later, Hoffmann was gone. Tolfah watched as he walked briskly to the waiting vehicle, got in, and barked an order. As the car drove away in the darkness, Tolfah glanced down at his watch. It was 2:17 am, April 28, 1937.

And though at that moment, neither he nor Reinhardt Hoffmann knew it, the Reichchild was in place.

Chapter 2

Fortune’s Child

She was Fortune’s Child.

Fortune had made her what she was, and now fortune had destroyed her. It was almost as if the very hand of Providence had guided this woman at every step of her short life, only to fatally abandon her in Beirut that April day of 1937. The woman had come so far—she had beaten the odds. And now, in the twenty-ninth year of her life, she had vanished into oblivion. Fate’s cruel and ironic backhand had taken the woman and caused her to slip, unseen and unknown, into eternity’s black hole of nothingness.

She had been born one bright day in July of 1908. Her birth went unnoticed, lost in the pressing social and political unrest of the day. She was just another entry in the birth registry of the remote village of Abu Kamal on the border of Iraq. Her birth was purposely planned to take place in this small, obscure village that bordered the sweet waters of the Euphrates. No one that evening sensed that the aggressiveness with which she nursed was somehow prophetic of how she would attack her life.

Her birth had to be hidden. The religious, social, and familial embarrassment that would result for the man who had fathered her would have been too great. She had been conceived nine months earlier in Damascus during a lustful assignation between her mother and the man who employed her. Ali Abd al-Karim al-Dandashi was the titular head of one of the wealthiest landowning and agricultural families in the country. The al-Dandashi land holdings numbered into the thousands of acres in the area of Tall Kalakh, a lush and fertile valley located between Homs and Tripoli. Ali was one of the country’s richest men, to be sure, but was also a man of patriarchal demeanor. Important and influential landowners, such as Ali, maintained many country estate houses and farms with cottages, while maintaining the main family residential compound in a major urban center. The al-Dandashi residence was in the most influential city in the land—Damascus.

Situated largely on the southern bank of the River Barada, Damascus lay in all its ancient splendor. A social, commercial, and religious center, the Old City, encircled by an ancient wall, was a maze of narrow and crooked streets, each festooned with strange and colorful inward-looking houses built around quiet courtyards. It was here in the al-Qaymariyya quarter, known for the plush and opulent residences of the moneyed rich and politically influential, that Fortune’s Child was conceived. Ali was the mukhtar, or leader, of al-Qaymariyya quarter, sitting on the majlis al-hagg ruling council and therefore was instantly known and recognized and hailed by the people everywhere, whether going to prayers at Umayyad Mosque or shopping at Suq al-Hamidiyya or the fashionable Midhat Pasha suq.

He was a ruggedly handsome man, with beautiful piercing eyes and black hair that spoke strongly of the Turkish component of his family’s mixed heritage. Like many of the other important families of the region, the al-Dandashis were of mixed stock—Turkish, Arab, and Kurdish. They were multilingual, not only speaking the native Arabic but were also fluent in French and English. Like his father before him, as well as his brother, Ali was schooled in Europe. The rich landowning families made it a practice to send their offspring there to train in the arts and sciences. Sons were sent to notable universities specializing in agriculture and animal husbandry. Favored daughters were sent to European finishing schools where the curriculum centered on linguistics, as well as music and the arts. Vienna, with its reputation as a major art center, was often the destination of these young, privileged women.

The al-Dandashi family compound in Damascus was opulent and reflected the family’s wealth and position in every way. Ali had a large household and employed many cooks, servants, and other domestics, all drawn from the lower classes. One chambermaid in his employ was a pretty woman who, like many of the lower class, had migrated to Damascus in search of work. She lived nearby in a small flat in the Bab Tuma quarter which was an area of the city populated mostly by the working class. It was here in Bab Tuma that one found a diverse ethnic and religious mix—Alawites, Druzes, Christians, Isma’ilis.

And it was here in Bab Tuma that all of the 3,679 Arabized Jews in Damascus lived. The future mother of Fortune’s Child was one of them. She was a pretty Jewess who had come north from Judea in search of a better life.

Ali was attracted by her beauty, warmth, and unassuming manner; and it was not long before he found himself intimately involved with her. As time went on, his occasional trysts with her became more frequent, his physical desires for her increasing with each clandestine meeting. And when, at last, nature had taken its course, the Jewess discovered that she was carrying Ali’s child. In her time both in his employ and in his arms, the Jewess had come to develop a warm, close affection for Ali and had always known Ali to be a fair and decent man. She made up her mind to protect his good name by going to him privately with the news. Being the fair and decent man he was, Ali appreciated the woman’s discretion. But it was apparent to him that the woman could not be kept at the compound in Damascus as her body would soon start showing evidence of their unions. There would be embarrassing questions—for her, his family, and himself. He explained his wishes to her, telling her that he was going to send her away to a safe place—beyond the prying eyes of his family and everyone around her. He assured her that she would be well taken care of. Ali would arrange to have her transported to a quiet place where she could give birth. She and her child would be well cared for, and all of her needs tended to after her child was born. After the birth, he would arrange to bring her back to one of his farms or country houses, where she could take up employment again if she wished and raise her child. It was a generous offer to be sure, and she knew it. A moment of lustful indiscretion could turn out much worse than this. She agreed to Ali’s plan.

As 1907 drew to a close, the pretty Jewess arrived in the remote village of Abu Kamal on the Syrian-Iraqi border and was welcomed into the care of Ali’s friends. In the months that followed, she grew fond of the peaceful burbling of the waters of the Euphrates, forever gliding past the village. On a hot day in July 1908, a private message was dispatched from Abu Kamal to Ali. It was the announcement that a healthy child had been delivered of the Jewess—a little girl. Fortune’s Child had been born.

Ali had sired many children and had several sons—but no daughter. The news of a female infant somehow pleased him. The only thing that dampened Ali’s joy was the news in the communique that, despite receiving the best of care, the mother had died two days after childbirth. As Ali al-Dandashi reflected back on the moments he had spent in sweet embrace with the Jewess, he privately resolved that he would see that her child was cared for and raised in a decent way.

*   *   *

At the very moment of the birth of Fortune’s Child, a despondent nineteen-year-old Adolf Hitler sat alone in the second-floor flat he rented from a Polish woman, Frau Zakrey. He sat staring out the window of Stumpergasse 29, which was near the Westbahnof in Vienna, the flowering capital of Austria-Hungary. He was at odds with his world, bitter from the rejection he had received nine months earlier, in October 1907, from the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. But there was something else which was even more deeply affecting this troubled youth. Two months after receiving his rejection from the Academy, he suffered the crushing blow of the death of his beloved mother. In the dark early morning hours of December 21, 1907—in the glow of a lighted Christmas tree in the family house at Blutengasse 9 in a quiet suburb of Urfahr—Frau Klara Hitler died a painful death from breast cancer, holding the hand of her fourth and only surviving son, Adolf. He had lost the second of the only two things in his life that held any meaning. Within the space of two months, his life had been drained of all reason so that now—staring vapidly out of the second-floor window of his hot, bug-ridden, cramped Vienna flat—Adolf Hitler could have no way of knowing of the birth of the infant girl in Abu Kamal on that sweltering July day in 1908.

Nor could he even remotely imagine how, twenty-nine years later, this infant would seemingly reunite him with the mother he had so adored.

*   *   *

The years drifted past as imperceptibly as the sweet waters of the Euphrates, and Fortune’s Child grew.

By the time she was three years old, Ali had begun receiving reports from the returning wakil that the little girl was constantly drawing pictures in the sandy dirt, and would spend hours quietly pushing her finger or a small stick through the dirt to try to form the images of things she saw around her—animals, boats on the river which floated past, even people. The stories were so consistent that Ali eventually sent up a small supply of paper and pencils with instructions that the little girl should be allowed to use them. Soon thereafter, the wakil began returning with samples of her drawing efforts. Ali was amazed at the level of drawing skill that this child of four was displaying, and she was already slowly winning a place in his heart. This was the daughter he never had. Ali made up his mind to try to bring the little girl closer to him. He wanted so very much to get to know her. He planned to bring her to his estate in Aleppo in the spring. He knew of a wonderful family there—tenants of his—who would gladly take her in and provide a good home for her.

*   *   *

In Vienna, young Adolf Hitler had experienced all the highs and lows of life, including love and, although he would deny it, lust. He was immersed in Germanic mythology and had a romanticized, knightly concept of all things sexual. Fantasy built on fantasy where, based on his adoration of his mother, women were anything but ordinary. He and his roommate Gustl spent hours at night in their flat on the Stumpergasse discussing women, love, and lust. But Adolf also spoke for hours on the dark side of sex. Outwardly, he tried to make his roommate believe that he condemned lustful practices, but his true inner fascination with this subject was difficult to conceal. Yes, here was a man who fought heroically to maintain his outward Christian appearances and to try as best he could to keep the devils within him suppressed. But his devils were there. Adolf Hitler did have an unfulfilled need for women—and if his mother had been still alive, Frau Klara Hitler would have been his perfect mate.

*   *   *

Safely ensconced in the local family Ali had planted her into, Ali immediately he began to make arrangements for a special local tutor to begin the child’s education. The tutor said she had an incredibly sharp mind, learning whatever was taught almost without effort. Since her arrival at Aleppo, she had already picked up a familiarization with a second language, French. Ali was impressed with her linguistic abilities and asked the tutor if he thought she had the capacity to learn yet a third tongue. When the tutor asked Ali for his preference of language, al-Dandashi suggested German. It was October 14, 1918—the girl was ten—when a language tutor began introducing her to the syntax of the German language.

That same morning, after four years of dehumanizing trench warfare, a corporal in the Sixteenth Bavarian Reserve Infantry named Adolf Hitler was blinded by mustard gas near the village of Werwick in the killing fields near Comines. Evacuated to a military field hospital, he would remain blind for almost a month, in which time he would hear the awful news that his beloved Germany was surrendering, ending World War I. In that time of blindness, he would hear a woman’s voice and also see a vision of a woman’s face. It was a gentle face, with large brown eyes. It was a face that was strangely reminiscent of his beloved mother.

*   *   *

Ali’s relationship with his daughter became very close as the years passed. She had no idea that he was her father—even her adoptive family didn’t know. She also became quite accomplished with brush and canvas, and she became quite the young scholar in the field of art, just by reading books on the paintings of the masters. She was fifteen when she read the newspaper accounts of the events that took place in Germany on a bitter, cold, and windy November 8, 1923, at a beer hall called the Buergerbraukeller, about a half mile from the center of Munich. A self-proclaimed German patriot and his brown-shirted storm troopers gained world attention with their ill-fated Beer Hall Putsch. The girl read how what started as a noble battle ended in a frenzied scramble, ending two days later as the door to cell 7 at Landsberg prison was slammed behind a dejected and sullen Adolf Hitler. How she was fascinated by this man! She tried for months to read any scrap of news pertaining to this charismatic figure and eventually read how his trial began on February 26, 1924. She was glued to the accounts of how a guilty verdict was rendered on April 1, and he was rushed back to his cell.

Her artistry with brush and canvas had become quite substantial, and Ali was pleased to learn that some of her works had actually been sold to suq merchants in Aleppo. He sensed her thirst for art and felt it would be a shame not to let her pursue this talent with which she was gifted. As he realized that she could never be a legitimate part of the al-Dandashi family and she would soon have to make her own way in the world, Ali decided to make arrangements to send her abroad to pursue her avocation to art, a development which delighted her. In making his inquiries, Ali was told that one of the finest schools for art was located in Austria, the Academy of Fine Art in Vienna. Nothing was too good for her, so this is where he decided she would be sent. Ali had arranged through his friends in diplomatic circles that the girl would reside in the residence of one of the attaches and his family, who was connected with the embassy in Vienna. It was June of 1928—Ali’s daughter would soon turn twenty, after which, she would leave for Vienna in time for the entrance exams for the fall semester.

Fortune’s Child took to the world outside Syria like a baby sparrow takes to the air once it leaves the nest. After taking the entrance examination, she was immediately accepted into the Academy of Fine Art. Vienna was a tremendous vantage point from which to monitor the activities of Adolf Hitler as, in 1930, he offered Germans a new feeling of national unity. She also saw him become somewhat of a best-selling author when, in 1931, sales of Mein Kampf, the rambling philosophical position paper he had written while in Landsberg prison, rose to an incredible 54,086 copies—one of those copies having been bought by Ali’s daughter herself.

During her second year in Vienna, a low-level clerical position had opened up at the embassy; and through the help of the diplomatic attache in whose house she was living, she managed to start her first job. She was able to arrange her duties to work in neatly with her schedule at the Academy. She eagerly joined the diplomatic staff and found her new environment in the world of international politics very interesting and stimulating. Her intelligence, and especially her linguistic abilities, did not go unnoticed for very long; and she was given the opportunity for advancement fairly regularly so that now, in her fourth year, she had become the secretarial assistant to the commercial attache himself.

Then, in early 1932, word came to Vienna that Ali al-Dandashi had turned ill, and there was fear that he might not recover. He was sixty-four years of age and had lived a full and rewarding life. She had made a special trip home in 1929 when Ali’s wife had died; but now, the very person who had supported her and encouraged her in her passion for art, lay ill, possibly dying. She had a special love for this kind and generous man, who literally had given her everything in her life. It, therefore, didn’t take her long to decide to interrupt her studies at the Academy and rush to be with him in Damascus.

As she stayed with him, Ali’s health rapidly deteriorated in the coming weeks. His once-handsome and virile face, with its strong chiseled features, was now fallen and gaunt. His beautiful eyes, which had always twinkled with laughter and the spirit of life, were cloudy and lifeless. As summer’s heat faded into fall, Ali al-Dandashi was surely dying. Twenty-two days after her arrival, Ali’s daughter sat close by his bedside, with her hand gently in his. His voice was somewhat weak and raspy, but he spoke slowly and deliberately to her as best he could.

Sweet child, I pray you listen to me now and hear the sound of a dying old man as he finally opens his heart to you. As Ali spoke, the late-afternoon Damascus sun streamed across the courtyard and into his bedroom, casting a warm, almost divine light onto the two of them. Knowing that death was imminent, Ali cleansed his soul of a lifetime’s worth of secrets and made peace with his conscience. She sat there quietly, saying not a word, just listening. Ali spoke for some time, slowly, softly. The warm glow of light faded from his bedroom as the sun started sinking beneath the horizon, and darkness imperceptible crept across the room. Finally, Ali stopped speaking. He looked wordlessly into the soft, loving eyes of his daughter, and a tear of happiness gently rolling down her cheek. He gently closed his eyes. She felt the fingers of her father’s hand gently go limp. She sat there, her hand still loosely in his, and silently watched over him for a long, long time. Tears now streaming down both cheeks, tears of happiness on learning that he was her father, Fortune’s Child gazed distantly out the window, watching the last sliver of sun disappear below the horizon until darkness enveloped both of them.

Chapter 3

A Deception of Love

Gentlemen!

The sonorous voice of Reichsmarschall Hermann Wilhelm