Wrath of the Gods-Xibalba

By Carlos H. Cantu

Gucumatz, divine Heart of Heaven, Father and Mother of all There Is, conceived the pristine forest as den for animals large and small, but He never pledged it as dwelling for men because, for humans, the jungle is hell itself. Nevertheless, instigated by greediness, men invade its enclosure and unfailingly stumble into a collective madness that binds them to its roots, preventing their escape before their time is due.
Inhabiting the jungle men turn into beasts that despise kindness and relinquish all virtues as they submit to wickedness. How can integrity be preserved living in hell? For the jungle is Xibalb, the dwelling of demons.
What do men look for in Xibalb that, to live there, they are willing to lose not only their lives, but also their souls? Absolution, perhaps, because regardless of their origin, removing the mask of greediness they wear over their feelings, they reveal to be fugitives of their own consciences that arrive in Xibalb to atone remorse, or expiate guilt, and for that they come from different and distant localities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 28, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469113326

Carlos H. Cantu

Born Aquarius in Mexico City, Carlos H. Cant regards himself a native of Monterrey, Mexicos industrial capital. His callings: aviation and the arts (drama & literature), rule his life. As a corporation jet pilot, he flew over most of the world. As an actor, he did theatre, movies and TV, becoming from 1983 to 1993 an American audiences favorite portraying Carlos, a lovable butler in acclaimed CBSs serial Knots Landing. Author of 22 film scripts, Mexican movie industry hits, he has also penned three stage plays and numerous praised essays. As a novelist he has published six awarded major novels in Spanish, being Pancho Villas Golden Hawks his first written in English. Pursuing his dedication to youth, he has taught flying, languages, drama, literature, theatre and television production. He is back in Monterrey, teaching Scholastic Excellence at the Universidad Autnoma de Nuevo Lens Law School, and working on his biographical novelization of Nezahualcyotl, Poet King of the Aztecs, and Levy, a novel of the Mexican Revolution.

Book preview

P A R T O N E

Berlin, Germany. August, 1939.

I

Colonel Maximilian Max Görzten

Heil Hitler! Salutes the arrogant orderly, his right arm stiffly stretched.

Max fastens his steely eyes on the youngster that stands before his desk, and ponders: If I withheld my reply, the stupid bastard would remain frozen in that stance for the rest of his worthless life! The youth can’t be older than 15, but his bearing reveals a fanatical National-Socialist conviction embedded in his brain by the five-year Hitler’s Youth training program. He´s proud to be a bloody Nazi!

Disinclined, with his elbow resting on the desktop, Max raises his right hand and replies, Heil Hitler.

Two words that break the spell. The orderly clicks his heels, turns about and marches out of the office.

As the door closes, Max looks at the sealed envelope lying on top of his desk. It disturbed him since he saw it appear from the orderly’s pouch. Why was it brought by a Ministry of the Air orderly, instead of arriving by regular official channels? Why is it sealed? Taking it in his hand he weights it, turns it over, and stares at it. This is no ordinary communiqué. I’d behead myself if it doesn’t bear Göring’s signature.

He sighs to relieve his increasing restlessness and takes the Damascus dagger he uses as a letter opener, but a peculiar vibration catches his attention. Behind him, the glass panels in the panoramic window rattle slightly. Swiveling his chair around, he looks outside. Across the neatly clipped lawn, five brand-new Junkers 87 roll on the adjacent runway taking off in a tight V formation, and climb at a steep angle.

Splendid! Max rates the dive-bombers while his gray eyes follow their flight as they disappear inside a bank of low clouds. The intriguing envelope calls his attention again but, desiring to avert it from his mind, he turns to glance at the vast expanse of the aircraft factory scanning the large hangars, already insufficient to shelter the aircraft being assembled in the adjoining plant. His eyes are drawn back to the envelope. It´ll be best to open it and put an end to his misgiving.

Taking the dagger, he tears the corner of the envelope when the door to the office opens to admit Lieutenant Frida Leber, his secretary.

"Herr Oberst, Major Heinz and Oberstleutnant Door are here."

"Send them in, Leutnant," he replies, hiding the envelope under the leather writing set that bears his name, rank and a Swastika hanging from the Luftwaffe emblem.

Frida reappears to stand aside. Two Luftwaffe officers walk in and salute:

Heil Hitler!

May Satan trash his corpse! Max answers, standing up to extend his hand toward Door who, startled, darts an uneasy glance at Frida. Following his gaze, Max detects a playful grin in her full lips and, shaking the Lieutenant Colonel’s hand, says: "Don’t worry, Hans. Fräulein Leber would sweeten the Small Corporal’s coffee with a lump of arsenic if she had the opportunity. See that we´re not disturbed, Leutnant.

"Jawohl, Herr Oberst!" She replies, shutting the door.

Motioning to the red leather sofa that imparts a relaxed touch to the spacious office, Max invites them, Setzen Sie sich, Herren.

Still uneasy, the lanky lieutenant colonel asks, Are you sure about her, Max?

I’d place my hand over fire for her!

Winking, Heinz says, It must be rewarding to have such a close relationship with someone who can’t hide her assets, even behind a vapid uniform.

Scowling, Max replies, Let´s mind our business, Ludwig, but it is obvious that Heinz’s remark gratified his ego. What is new?

A remarkable progress, Max. Heinz replies. "The Opposition is unifying. Goerdeler came back from England to lead the civilians.

Karl Goerdeler, Leipzig’s ex-mayor, the everlasting opposer! Max scorns, offering them cigars.

Don´t you believe in him? Heinz asks, furrows scoring his forehead.

He’s a congenial man and has always opposed Nazism, but his scant seasoning hardly qualifies him to lead a divided civilian population; especially if he pursues the theory that Hitler will fall under his own weight. Pacifism will accomplish nothing! I have it from British trustworthy sources that neither Prime Minister Chamberlain, nor Lord Halifax—despite their appeasement policy—took Goerdeler´s speculations seriously. People like him hinder our plans.

But now he insists in direct political action, and has contacted generals Beck and Treskow to organize the coalition between civilian and military groups.

He´s succeeding, Dorr cuts in, in unifying the opposition parties: Christian-Democrats, Social-Christians, Socialists, Social-Democrats, even the Communists are willing to collaborate in overthrowing the Nazis!

Staring at the tip of his cigar, Max asks, And how do they plan to do it?

Max’s bitter tone daunts Dorr, who replies with slight conviction, General Beck suggests that every conscientious officer refuses to obey Hitler’s commands, making it impossible for him to start a second world war.

I agree that total war must be averted. If that lunatic assaults Czechoslovakia or Poland, Germany shall confront the world and we’re not ready for that. However, refusing to obey orders is not the solution and does not befit German military honor. Most officers would obey, Max asserts, asking: What will the civilians do?

They depend on us.

On us? Max’s stern face reddens and the veins in his neck swell. "On a pack of idealists who believe that the Nazis can be overthrown by parlor intrigue? Moreover, what do we represent in the gigantic apparatus of the Wehrmach? How much influence can we exert on our fellow officers? Answer me that!"

Heinz and Dorr deem Max with apprehension. His steel-gray eyes are unpleasant, cold, and mean. The ashen crewcut topping his sturdy head turns him into a sledgehammer ready to pound. Excitement makes him look taller and stronger.

Calm down, Max, Heinz says. "The Non Aggression Pact Hitler recently signed with Stalin gives us a respite. I don´t believe hostilities will break out just so."

"Oh, no? Don´t you see that Hitler himself has induced Poland to reject his absurd offer to guarantee the German-Polish border. Why do you think Poland and England signed a treaty just two days ago? And what about the so-called Steel Pact, which is nothing but an alliance between the Nazis and the Italian Fascists? Only the blind cannot see that Hitler is ready to attack!"

Weighting Max’s words, Heinz admits: Your logic is sound. We must urge the men we have in key positions to action.

That is where we have to be overly cautious. Who are you sure would support our cause?

Well, there’s Trescow in general staff; Admiral Canaris in intelligence; Nebe in the Gestapo; Oster, Von Kleist, Von Gersdoff, and many others in the army.

And how will those illustrious gentlemen detach Hitler from government, before he brings ruination on Germany?

They will coerce him to resign! Dorr asserts.

Max’s hand strikes the desktop like a thunderclap. Who dreamt up such stupidity? Each and every day he suffocates groups that oppose him. Haven´t you noticed how he has removed the nobility from the army high ranking posts to weaken their clout? Don´t you realize that with each of his ploys he becomes an absolute dictator? Hitler will never resign!

Giving them a hard gaze, he launches the fiendish conclusion he has had in gestation for months: Hitler must die!

His utterance shocks both officers.

Moving closer to them, Max lowers his voice to a secretive whisper: Göring’s stupid notion that he can win the war utilizing the Stukas as a key weapon has him swollen like a bull frog, so he’ll bring the Führer to this plant tomorrow. The chancellor will walk along the assembly line shaking hands with the workers and, when he stops to admire the Stukas, his eyes shine with the anticipation of triumph, everything within twenty meters around him shall blow up in pieces so small that not even his memory will remain to be buried.

Door and Heinz look at each other in disbelief

This must be kept in absolute secrecy. Only you two and I know about this possibility.

"Um Himmels Willen!" Door mumbles What you say is inconceivable! What will happen?

With Hitler gone, Germany will be safe!

Yes, but what about the government? There will be chaos!

Besides, the Nazis will try to remain in power!

That, we can prevent. There’s no one else with Hitler´s cunning or personality to replace him. We shall organize a coalition government while things go back to normal.

But we would have to tell someone, Heinz objects. This is something that cannot be done by surprise. We’d have to get ready for it.

"Ready we are, but if anyone knows about this plot before hand, we’d fail. What I need you for is to inform those who participate that the plan has succeeded as soon as I confirm it. Our essential people already know what to do in the event that the government is dissolved. I shall see you tonight at ten in my residence to work out the details. Now you must excuse me, I have to inspect the assembly line in fifteen minutes, and test fly some of the new Stukas. Lebewohl, Herren!"

He leaves them no alternative. Still dazed, Heinz and Dorr march to the door.

II

On the Edge of the Razor Blade

Brushing aside the Damascus dagger, Max hastily tears the envelope open and takes from it a parchment-like sheet with the Ministry of the Air monogram on its letterhead and Reichsmarshal Göring’s signature at the bottom of the text. As he reads, his features become ashen, his stiff fingers go limp and the communiqué falls from his hands. A defeated man, he sinks in his chair.

Frida Leber comes in minutes later to find him in that vanquished frame of mind. "Herr Oberst, it´s time to—Max, what is it!"

All my plans have been upset, he says, indicating the document lying on the parquetry floor.

Frida picks it up and scans quickly the first lines. Then she reads aloud: "Adjudging your valiant demeanor, masterful flying and heroic deportment fighting the Republicans in Spain, this Ministry regards that the Luftwaffe will be proud to have you back among its leading officers, and anticipates you will serve as an example to be emulated by our novice pilots. I would appreciate your having all matters readied to transfer your appointment as Oberaufseher dei Produktion to the administrator this Ministry will designate, begging you that at your convenience, but not later than three days, you report to the Reichenau Base to take command of Fighter Wing Jg. 22, subordinated to JAFU 2 (General Von Doring), commanded by the 2nd. Aerial Corps (General Kesselring). Looking up, Frida exclaims in disbelief: Reichenau Base is on the Polish border! You’re being sent to command a fighter wing! . . .

"Yes, liebling; it’s war. The Small Corporal is already deploying his toy soldiers."

Shaking, Frida sits on a chair.

Calm down, he says, taking her in his arms. This may disrupt my plans, but it does not finish me off. There are other means to attain power, even from the war front. I promise you.

Forget that. All I want is to be by your side. Take me with you to Reichenau. I can still be your secretary.

No!

Max, please?

Neither her beauty nor her tears move him. Her undeniable devotion makes him reconsider. All right! You shall come with me.

"Danke, Max. Danke schon!"

"Enough! We have much to do. First, locate my father. He must be at the factory in Bremen, or in the Hamburg office. Tell him it is imperative that his chauffer drives him here tonight. Then make everything ready to turn the office over tomorrow. Call the flight line and have a Junkers 52 ready for immediate departure from tomorrow morning on. Call Heinz and Door and tell them that our meeting for tonight is cancelled, and not to try to see me until I get in touch with them. Don’t let them or anyone else know about my transfer. Ah, send a memorandum to Personnel Command advising them you will continue to be part of my personal staff in Reichenau. Schnell, it´s already two forty-five and I still have to make several phone calls."

Who shall I connect you with?

Don´t bother. I’ll use my private line.

Wiping her eyes, Frida leaves and Max opens a drawer in his desk to take out a telephone and dial a number.

Seconds later a male voice answers: "Schlageter Staffel Hundert and Ein."

Get me major Schultz-Hoysen.

"Bitte, ein minute. I will see if he has landed yet."

Max notices another document inside the crucial envelope. It is a carbon copy of the official communiqué from the Ministry to the Luftwaffe’s Chief of Staff, General Jeschonneck. He perceives there is something odd in the way his transfer is being processed, but can´t quite figure out what.

There are connecting noises on the telephone line and then a familiar voice: Shultz-Hoysen here.

This is Max, Harold. The Ministry is transferring me to command a fighter wing in Reichenau. I have to know who gave the order and why,

I understand, Max, but it is late. I doubt I can find out who and why today. I’ll call you tomorrow as early as I can. Is that alright?

Try to do it today, Har. It´s most important.

I’ll do my best.

Max hangs up and ponders for a moment. Reaching a determination, he dials another number.

Chancellery Automotive Maintenance, a booming voice answers lively.

Hello, Halem?

Yes, this is he.

This is Max, from the lathe shop, to let you know that the part you ordered will be ready tomorrow.

Tomorrow? Are you sure?

Absolutely! There will be no further delays!

The voice in the telephone breaks. Almost breathless, Halem says: I—shall be expecting it…

Max deems he should tell Halem his action shall be the exploit of a patriot, or somehow encourage the poor bastard. After all, he is going to set off the explosive device that will get rid of Hitler, but compassion is not in his nature. He places the receiver softly in its cradle, considers what additional safety measures he should take and picks up the telephone again to dial long distance.

International operator, Berlin…

"Bitte, Österreich. Graz four two, six seven. Person to person with Baroness Olga Scheuermann. Colonel Maximilian Görzten here."

"Allow me to verify if there is any delay, Herr Oberst."

Priority one six one, operator. Connect me immediately!

His well-trained mind works with intensity arisen from the need to coordinate the activities he has to undertake in the next few hours. That bloody order dislocates his meticulously thought out long range plans to become one of the most powerful industrialists in Germany; so he isn´t willing—not for a single moment—to allow a last minute contingency ruin his future. He reacts to a voice in the telephone:

Hello, Baroness Scheuermann here…

Annoyed, Max asks: Will you ever be Fräu Görzten?

"Mein lieber Max! This is a surprise! I did not expect your call today. Will you be here for Countess Zigler’s reception?"

Listen to me! He interrupts her brusquely. I have just been ordered to a combat command. I want us to spend two days in the mountains before I leave. I shall be there tomorrow or the day after.

The line is silent for a few seconds. When Olga speaks again, her voice sounds shaken: Is it the war, Max?

Yes, but maybe it’ll not interfere with your social calendar, if I can prevent it.

And if not?

It’ll break out in a few days. Take only one suitcase and don´t tell anyone where you are going. Did you understand clearly?

Yes, Max.

"Auf wiedersehen!"

Max reviews in his mind if there is anything left to do. Satisfied, he speaks into the intercom: "Leutnant Leber, call the flight line. Tell them to make ready the aircraft I must test fly today."

"Ja doch, Herr Oberst!"

III

Reminiscences

Nothing unwinds him more than the time he spends flying. He is at altitude of 8,000 meters, a level where the problems that assail him on the ground simply vanish. Flying shuts his world inside that cockpit. There is nothing therein but a complex instrument panel, the robust command stick, the engine control pedestal, the air brake and flaps lever, and the weaponry triggers. A world in which the Maximilian Görzten involved in politics does not exist. The roar of the 1,200 hp. Junkers Jumo engine engulfs his feelings and sinks them in the slime of passion and ambition spread over the earthly surface. If he did not have to go back to that, how different his life would be.

Possessed by the euphoria of flight, he pulls the throttle back pushing the Stuka´s nose down. Gradually, the dive-bomber picks up speed and the rush of air flowing around its W-shaped wings magnifies the noise. The drag created by the fixed undercarriage and its angular tail surface increases, as does the pulse in his temples. Although the Ju 87B-1 is sturdy, a new aircraft is never exempt from structural failure, and breakage of a wing is always a possibility.

Despite the cold generated by altitude, Max’s forehead grows wet. To feel every slight vibration traverse the fuselage to the stick control and to the palm of his right hand is as exhilarating as it is awesome.

When the airspeed indicator needle sweeps by the 250 kph tag, he pulls the stick control gently but steadily until the dive-bomber is up side down; then, he releases the rearward pressure on the stick allowing the nose to drop and, seconds later, pulls the control again to level out. With minimum effort, the Stuka has drawn a perfect loop in the sky. With similar ease, Max renders an Immelmann, snap and slow rolls, four an eight point barrels, regressions, the whole range of aerobatic and combat flight maneuvers, testing the dive-bomber technical perfection.

Perfection in flight gratifies him deeply.

He has always been an excellent pilot, the best in the sailing flight school in Westphalia. His recognized skill stemmed from his zealous demand for flawlessness. He always bid for the smoothest gliders and, even during off duty hours, when his comrades relaxed or had fun, he relentlessly drove the mechanics to keep his sailplane in top flying condition. He struggled fiercely to attain his first goal: to become a pilot.

The ashen haziness suspended over the horizon takes him back to pristine days, those bitter days when the Allied victory in 1918 cut off the wings he was starting to grow. Later came subjugation and the ban placed upon Germany to manufacture military aircraft. Nevertheless, he and his classmates—all young and eager to fly—resorted to sailplanes to glide through the air in powerless flight, scattering their love and dedication to the art of flying all over Börkenlerger’s barren steppes, and Westterholt’s gray rooftops. They built, maintained, cracked up, and repaired the sleek vessels in which they began to descry secrets known only to the eagles that soared those heights. Subsequently, although he hated it, he joined the military as the only means to become part of the Air Force, whenever there was a Luftwaffe again.

Suddenly he realizes only six years have elapsed since the coveted opportunity materialized: "When was it . . . March, April, 1933?"

In hiding, behind the British, French and American guardians’ backs, the Luftwaffe began to sprout again through the pilots that survived the war and the novices that sprung from all over the untamed Vaterland.

Although his face was not so young anymore, the fresh features of Galland, Dittmar. Opitz, Reitsch, Spate, and other comrades-in-arms reach his mind. They secretly trained in Italy to become proud air warriors.

Finally real war in mid November 1936. With tourists’ garb over the Nibelung coat of mail that enwrapped their chests, 370 volunteer German pilots sailed from Hamburg to Spain to constitute the Condor Legion. Under the command of General Hugo Sperrie, and Wolfram von Richthofen as their chief of staff, they were to serve Francisco Franco, during the Civil War. Spain would be the warfare laboratory where they tested their latest combat weapons against weakening Republican Forces and a defenseless civilian population, earning them distinctions and promotions.

Against the mellow horizon, Max envisions Vitoria’s base unforgettable gilded fields, relishes in the remembrance of Spanish women’s warm lips, and experiences again the excitement of the air battles where he attained 38 certified kills in some 160 sorties, almost as many as Werner Mölders’, the top notch German ace. He had rated his Messerschmit Bf-109b against Russian Polikarpov I-16 fighters, fine aircraft so skillfully flown by Soviet volunteers and Spanish Republican fliers, that German pilots were no match for them when steering their older Heikel He.51.

Flying strafing missions in his Henschel Hs-123, he learned to disregard human life’s value. His orders were to back up Franco’s troops from the air while they pushed on to Santander, so he just had to shut off emotion and press the trigger on the control stick. The bullets spewed by his machine guns decimated faceless bodies scurrying on the ground. To develop and improve the blitzkrieg, he perfected air tactics that earned him the Iron Cross and, with each new experience, more medals to liven up the grayish Falangist uniform he wore.

"Maybe that is really why I am being sent to a combat command."

Although those experiences were foggy in his memory, he had to admit that, in the Ministry’s opinion, he was a hero; a role model the novice pilots would look up to. His assignment is justified after all.

"But I’ll be damned if that is a comforting thought!"

He looks at his watch and realizes he has been in the air longer than his tight schedule allows. He has to land to face his problems.

"I have but one problem! That lunatic whose only thought is making war!"

In a fit of anger he steers toward the strafing training area, pulls a small yellow lever deploying the spoilers to break the speed, and shoves the stick forward slanting the Stuka in a vertical dive. Seconds later, over the engine’s drone and the scream of air rush, he hears a loud howling coming from the landing gear left strut. It is a small propeller-driven siren devised as a psychological weapon. Its dreadful shriek will announce the Ju 87B-1s’ lethal presence over the enemy lines.

The ground crew that sets up targets on their pedestals hears the Trobone of Jericho, as the siren has been nicknamed by the Stuka pilots. Since there is no shooting drill scheduled for that afternoon, they go on about their tasks until the rumbling of the MG 17 7.9mm. machine guns scatter them to scramble for the safety of the steel-sheltered hide-outs.

Max’s right fist folds around the command stick in an iron grip. Like in Spain, his eyes become components of the electronic sights that aim the Stuka´s weapons at the target. His thumb presses the red button and the aircraft shudders with the vibration of its double machine guns, just as he trembles with rage.

The firing range is bedlam.

Max levels out the Stuka. With his fury vented, he steers toward the aerodrome and, reluctantly, takes the microphone to call in the control tower and conjoin with the other world and the slime that drenches it.

IV

Death Stalks

A utumn starts extremely humid. Overcast has darkened the sky since early afternoon and persistent drizzle makes Berlin’s cobbled streets slippery. Max holds firm grips on the steering wheel feeling accurately every bump in the boulevard, which makes him proud and confident. Few people in Germany own a Mercedes 540 Sport Roadster like his: handmade leather and hardwood interiors, a souped-up 8 cylinder 225 hp engine, individual suspension coupled to torque shafts set on pneumatic shock absorbers, and a hydraulic-assisted steering mechanism of his own design. That coupe is the result of his inventive shrewdness backed by an affluent bank account. Money makes everything possible

He observes people running in the rain, skipping over puddles to catch their collective motorcars, but doesn’t pity them. Most of them are content with earning a meager salary that barely supports a slight livelihood. They are the sheep induced by Hitler’s demagogy into believing they are the Aryan master race destined to rule the world some day.

"Imbeciles! A superior race would be made up of people like us, who create an industrial empire to give you a well-paid job and better living conditions."

Linking his thoughts to the problem war represents for them, once again he reaches the same conclusion: none of their plants can be converted into wartime production factories. Who will want refrigerators, stoves, water heaters, or electric fans, with a war going on? What can they manufacture that could be used in war?

There is the possibility of stamping metal sheet for aircraft fuselages, or trucks or tanks bodies, but that would require a conversion of their plants at an out-of-proportion cost. War means disaster for them. It must be prevented.

Although deep in thought, he drives carefully. Approaching the Hafenplatz he slows down, looks in both directions and, distorted by the rain, sees through the passenger window the headlamps of a heavy vehicle coming directly at him. His first reaction is to brake but he notices that the truck, obviously out of control, is about to ram him. Shifting gears down he floors the accelerator but the rear tires skid on the muddy surface producing only partial traction. The Mercedes is hit on the right rear fender and spins around twice before coming to rest on the promenade of the plaza. The hefty truck swerves to the left and collides head-on with a lamppost, bringing it down.

Max is stunned. He smashed the side window with his head; but the cap he wears deadened the impact. Peering outside, he sees a man running away from the truck to disappear in the rain. Getting out of the car, he moves aside the onlookers gathering around, and approaches the wrecked truck by the driver’s side.

This soldier reeks of gin, says a corpulent man peeking inside the truck’s cab.

Is he hurt? Max asks.

I would say he is dead, the chunky man says and, noticing the ensigns on Max’s trench coat asks. "Are you all right, Herr Oberst?

Yes, I think so.

Well, you were fortunate. These brutes accelerated as if they had wanted to run you over intentionally.

They? Then, there was another man!

Oh, yes. Another soldier. I saw him run away. He also seemed to be hurt.

What happened here? asks a policeman elbowing his way through the crowd…

V

The Fallen Idol

Despite her anxiety, upon opening the Görsten’s stately mansion front door Frida Leber is a vision of sensuality in her night apparel,

"What took you so long, lieben? You had me worried!"

I was involved in an accident. Nothing serious. Did my father arrive? He asks, handing his trench coat and his kepi to Johan, the elderly butler.

Your temple, Max! You’re bleeding!

It’s nothing. Tell me, did you find my father?

He waits for you in the library, she says, and asks the butler. Do you have a medicine cabinet, Johan?

Yes, Madame.

I will get something to dress that gash, she tells Max, who is already walking toward the library door.

What is so urgent that you had me dragged over here in the middle of the night? Herr Görsten asks, lifting his tired eyes from the finance report he read.

I have been transferred to Reichenau to take command of a combat group, Max says, dropping heavily onto the overstuffed sofa.

I know, Frida informed me, Herr Görsten says and, adjusting his glasses on his nose, he notices Max’s wound. There is blood on your temple.

A stupid drunkard rammed my car at the Hafenplatz. Staring beyond the huge crystal chandelier, he muses. I surmise my transfer is a ploy. Somebody wants me away from Berlin.

Herr Görsten shuts the binder he held in his hands and, annoyed, gets up from the massive desk. He moves swiftly despite his 76 years, revealing the abundant stamina stored in his lean body, and walks the length of the elegant room to face his son and scold him like he was a child. If this is true, you have no one to blame but yourself! Tell me, How many people know about your machinations to depose Hitler? The glance in his eyes is fiery.

Only those who collaborate with me.

What about Frida Do you think she will not turn you in, just because she is your lover?"

"Father!

"Dummkopf!" Herr Görsten exclaims in anger. "You have never grown up enough to become a sensible man.

Getting up to walk away from his elder, Max shouts back. If we don’t act at once and with determination, we shall be ruined!

Frida comes in bringing iodine and bandages, Allow me to dress your wound.

Forget my wound! He snaps. Give us some Cognac.

Herr Görsten wants to add something, but he holds back distrustful.

Max stands by the window watching the storm brewing over the city. Lightning intermittently illuminates his face. At length, he speaks: Germany is plagued by too many insignificant political parties engaged in constant bickering. Nothing can be expected from them. We have to behead the enemy. Hitler must be ousted!

"With