“Then you’ve got Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg. He was handsome too and his eye patch debonair. He was in the German Army High Command, fought under Rommel and did lots of brave things.”
Last night, Jack and I were watching Project Runway. I was trying to imitate Heidi Klum when she says, “…and the next day, you’re out.” I can imitate her pretty well until she says “out.” I just can’t get that word right. Jack, on the other hand, imitates her perfectly. He is so great with German and Austrian accents. He was born in Chicago like me, but you’d think he grew up in Berlin. I know this to be true because when we watch documentaries on Hitler and the Third Reich, he shouts out the names of Nazis with a perfect German accent. When he says “Speer,” it sounds like “Shhppieruh.” I ask him to say “Speer” ten times a day. That’s how good he does it.
I had a boyfriend once named Alan who looked like Albert Speer. His parents were Austrian born, but Alan grew up in Chicago. His parents lived in a mansion in an affluent Chicago suburb. When I knew Alan, his folks were retired. His father spent his days and nights in the unfinished basement, sitting on a lounge chair watching a small black and white TV with binoculars.
Jack doesn’t look like Albert Speer. Jack looks cute as a button. I could just squeeze him and dress him up in a little sailor suit with a hat and blue velvet ribbon and squeeze him all day. He won’t let me though.
Last night, Jack and I were talking about how it is that he can do these great accents. We think it’s because his ancestors are from Sweden. Then I wondered aloud, given a choice, who would Jack prefer to be: Albert Speer, Minister of Armaments for the Third Reich, or Colonel von Stauffenberg who tried to kill Hitler?
On the one hand, Speer was super handsome and had a lot of status because Hitler thought he was just the greatest and gave him lots of power–first in architecture and then as Minister of Armaments. He also got to spend time at the Berghoff, Hitler’s astoundingly beautiful retreat in the Bavarian Alps. Speer would stand on the terrace, hands clasped behind his back, as he and Hitler and perhaps a few others talked in a desultory fashion, smiling into the sun, knowing their place in history was assured. On the other hand, when they tried Speer in Nuremberg, no one thought he was so great anymore, and whoops, he was complicit in the murder of millions and sentenced to 20 years in prison. He lost all enviable status: there was no more Berghoff; his family was uncomfortable around him; and the leftover Nazis hated him for being a traitor to the Fuhrer. I don’t think the rest of his life was as happy as what came before.
Then you’ve got Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg. He was handsome too and his eye patch debonair. He was in the German Army High Command, fought under Rommel and did lots of brave things. He was a happy guy as far as I can tell until he saw firsthand the atrocities of the S.S. and S.D.–the massacre of Jews, the treatment of Russian P.O.W.’s and civilians and more. He was horrified. He joined the Renaissance, tried to kill Hitler and was shot for it. You’d think immediately that given a choice, you’d choose to be him over Speer, but sometimes everything isn’t so black and white. I’m not being racist. I have read, and this may be incorrect, but I’ve read that Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg did believe in the party’s racial principle, but not to the extent to which it was taken. So there’s a little black mark in my book under his name, along with the stars, until I can get more information.
So I asked Jack, “Jack,” I said, “Who would you rather be? Speer or von Stauffenberg?”
Jack immediately changed, right there before me. The light, the energy, the gaiety he showed every week when he watched Project Runway had vanished. And we were having such a wonderful night.
“Jack,” I said. “Jack! You don’t have to decide between Speer or von Stauffenberg right now! Let’s do it another night! Look, look at the TV! The guy with the leprechaun beard looks like he’s going to cry again! Look, honey. Hey, let’s eat a brownie.”
Jack was silent. He was, for all practical purposes, gone. I could have been thousands of miles away for all the good sitting beside him did me. I couldn’t reach him. I couldn’t take it back. Jack was gone–to Germany, Austria, the Berghoff, perhaps Paris. What was he seeing right now? What year was it? Who was he with? Was he safe? And if he found trouble, how could I help him? What could I do? Nothing, that’s what. Nothing.
So we sat on the couch until Project Runway ended. I said, “Darling, it’s time for bed.” Jack stood up from the couch, and as if sleepwalking, went through the motions, the nightly routine of turning off the lights, locking the door, and so forth. He joined me in the bedroom. Soon we were snug in our bed, under the quilts, with the window open as we like it. It was time to say goodnight. He had always been happiest when I sang to him. I would sing to him now as I did every night starting with a surprise song of my own choosing and ending with “Tura, Lura, Lura.” Tonight, only one song came to mind. I began. “To dream, the impossible dream . . .”
I slept fitfully. Sometimes Jack was there beside me; sometimes he was pacing the floor. I tried to call him back to bed, but I couldn’t stay awake long enough to say his name. It really didn’t matter. What difference would it have made? None.
I awoke this morning. What would I find? Would Jack be there? I mean really there, not just the shell of him? More important, had Jack found peace in the night with his decision, or was he a man divided?
“Good morning, darling,” I said. “Please tell me. What is your decision? Who would you rather be, Albert Speer or von Stauffenberg? I will love you either way.”
He looked at me with tears in his eyes. He said, “I want to be Esther Williams.”
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Original art by the one and only Ilyse Magy.
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