“Yes,” von Berg snapped. “You can get me Aphrodite. I’m going to get some fresh air.”
Franz clicked his heels. “ Zu Befehl, Oberstgruppenfuhrer,” he said, and left.
Von Berg looked up again at the face of his grandfather, King Ludwig II of Bavaria, and the terrible truth sank in.
The voices had returned.
He hadn’t heard them since his childhood days, when his father, Maximilian, was going mad in the sanitarium and Kaiser Wilhelm’s Reich was crumbling all around him. Now they were back, making their murmuring, disturbing presence clear. First, the increasing regularity and intensity of the headaches, which he had previously attributed to his gunshot wound. Then his lapses in memory, such as forgetting that he had killed his field underling Ulrich. Now these imaginary proclamations of his royalty from Franz.
Damn, he thought. He’d hoped he had licked them, these demons from the past, but he realized the discipline, focus, and intensity he had used to keep them at bay had slipped since he fell in love with Aphrodite.
“Yes, some fresh air,” he told himself. “That’s all I need. I’ve been away too long.”
Von Berg stepped outside into the gardens. He wandered past the statues of the dying Achilles and Empress Elizabeth toward the terrace overlooking the Chalikiopoulos Lagoon.
He wondered how his melancholy grandmother had felt whenever she stood here, looking out from this same breathtaking vista. Did it feel like paradise to her, or prison? To him it felt like both, he realized. The Achillion was his retreat, not from the intrigues of the Hapsburg Court, but from Hitler’s Third Reich. Unlike Elizabeth, he wasn’t trapped by an impossible marriage or the knowledge of a forbidden affair and illegitimate child.
Yes, von Berg decided, my grandmother had nowhere to go. But I, I have a destiny to fulfill. And it will ultimately bring me glory or death.
He was terrified of death, because it cast him in the same lot as every other man. And he was not like any other man. He was the rightful king of Bavaria, the only man who could topple Hitler, end this insane war, and bring peace on earth. That a leader destined for such greatness could die before his time was inconceivable to him.
Nothing would jeopardize his ambitions now. Not Aphrodite, nor Andros, nor Himmler, nor the Fuhrer. Nothing would stop him from fulfilling his destiny of becoming Germany’s rightful king and the leader of a united Europe. Hitler’s war had served its purpose: Europe was one. It was time for a new leader and a new world order.
Across the dark waters of the lagoon and under the pink skies, he could see the shimmering lights of Corfu Town. Somewhere down in those waters was Aphrodite, taking her evening swim.
It was her fault, he decided. She had made him weak, had made him actually care enough for her-a mere woman!-to waste his precious, limited time on Andros when Hitler’s weapons conference was the day after tomorrow. On his birthday, no less. The day he turned forty. The day all his fears-or dreams-would be realized.
Perhaps it was his fault. Perhaps she could detect unconsciously his knowledge that Andros was still running about in the mountains. Once Andros was dead, truly dead, and she had come to terms with that, then she might love him.
Despite his bitterness and dejection, he could not find it within himself to kill her. Her parents, yes. Andros, yes. But Aphrodite? Never. All he could do was hope that she would have a change of heart and learn to love him. To have to rely on hope at all made him despair even more. He didn’t believe in hope. He knew better. He knew that the best indicator of a person’s future behavior was his past behavior. But knowledge be damned! The end of logic was madness, after all. Perhaps Aphrodite was independent enough to change her feelings for him. She had the will. She could find a way. If she wanted to…
“‘Vernunft wird Unsinn / Wohltat Plage,’” he sang quietly, recalling the wistful sentiments of his favorite childhood poet, Goethe. “‘Reason becomes nonsense / Boons afflictions.’”
Aphrodite, he reasoned, was his affliction.
96
Aphrodite was swimming in the Chalikiopoulos Lagoon while Peter watched her from shore. Beyond the SS bodyguard was the Achillion on its hill, the sun setting behind it.
Everything had changed, she realized, and yet nothing had changed.
Chris had come to Athens and left without her. Her parents, whom she had stayed behind to protect, were dead. Her brother, for whose freedom she had slept with the Baron, had been released. She was all that remained, abandoned to live the rest of her days on this island prison with the man who’d stolen her virginity and murdered her parents. Better off if she were dead than to live in this tropical purgatory, she thought. She had already decided to drown herself before the sun set.
There was only one thing left for her to do.
She looked across the rippling waters to the islet of Pondikonissi, with its whitewashed Church of the Pantokrator. The church looked strangely dark and forbidding this evening.
She glanced back at Peter, who was watching her with hateful eyes. He blamed her for Hans’s death, she realized; he knew that it was only by a stroke of good fortune that he hadn’t been the sentry Chris had killed in Athens. He wouldn’t mind if she drowned herself. Indeed, it almost seemed as if the Baron and his staff expected her to take care of this final unpleasant task-getting rid of Aphrodite Vasilis. She wouldn’t disappoint them.
“I’ll be back before dark,” she told Peter, and swam toward the church.
This time there were no shouts for her to come back, no concern about her welfare. There were also no robe and slippers for her at the foot of the steps. She found it chilly as she climbed to the top of the hill and entered the tiny church.
It was even colder and darker inside. No candles, no warmth, no life. The Orthodox priest who had told her to trust in the Lord with all her heart was gone. With rising fury, she wondered if Ludwig had carried out his threat against Father John. She couldn’t even confess her misery and bitterness to God before she killed herself. She had never felt more alone in her life and began to cry in the dark.
“What’s the matter, child?” asked a voice.
She turned to see a bearded face hovering behind the flicker of a candle. “Father, it’s you,” she said, and told him everything that had happened in Athens. About Chris, the Maranatha text, and the death of her parents.
“Truly, the Lord is merciful,” said the priest. “He has spared his servant, and now he has spared you.”
“Spared me?” she asked. “What about my parents? What about Chris? He’s probably dead. What is there for me to live for?”
The priest looked at her with sad, knowing eyes, strange eyes that seemed to comprehend her pain all too well. Aphrodite looked away. Through the church’s tiny stained-glass window, set in a rotting wooden frame, she could see it was dark outside. It was time for her baptism.
“I’ve got to go, Father.”
“You most certainly do.”
His response startled her and she looked at him curiously. “I do?”
“You must complete what your love began,” he told her, and put his hand on her shoulder. “You must steal the Maranatha text from the Baron.”
His voice resonated with a depth that stirred her soul, and when she looked up into his dark eyes, she could see her own face dimly. And then in the candlelight, she could see that this priest was not the one she used to confess to, but somebody else.
“Where is Father John?” she asked, voice trembling.
“Killed by the Baron, I’m told.”
“Oh my God,” she said. “It’s my fault. I brought him to ruin just like everybody else I’ve loved.”
“There’s no need for you to bear the sins of the entire world, child,” the priest said. “Our Savior has done that for us already. Rest assured, the Baron will receive his reward in due time.”
“Who are you?”