Clown in the Tower
'Have you any more requests?' the stocky man in front of me questioned brusquely.
'I have. I want to play my violin sir. For one last time.'
The colonel nodded and opened a hatch in the steel door.
The light flooded in, throwing the room into disarray. I turned my head slowly, soaking in the almost sanguine feeling. For one last time...
'Bring his violin from the office.'
He spun around crisply on the balls of his feet; the same proud look filled his shiny face.
'You will be honored _____. The first person to die in the Tower of London for a few centuries. But certainly not the last.'
I smiled wryly at that fat oily face.
'It would be an honor to die for Germany.'
'It would be better to live.' The colonel looked at me like I was a lunatic.
'My family will surely suffer back in Germany. But I do not regret spying for the Kaiser.'
But did I really not regret doing so? Nationalistic fervor it had been, but was it worth the price? Was war a good enough reason to die? I have so much waiting for me back in Germany, perhaps...perhaps...was it all meant to be as such?
The colonel shook his head sorrowfully. 'It was Germany who sent you here to die.'
Inside, I laughed at him. To die? They sent me here to die in a foreign land? What an absurd suggestion. I love my country, and it loves me in turn.
'No they sent me here to spy.'
The colonel pulled a wooden chair over to my bedside.
'They prepared you so badly that M15 was bound to catch you. We were on your tail right when you landed on British soil.'
'I wouldn't say so.' I frowned, the faintest tinge of uncertainty crossing my mind. How could they have done that?
Could I have been mislead all along?
'You're bound to be dead by dawn, it won't matter if we told you this. Your spymaster who trained you was Herr Bombacci. They trained you in a school in Cologne. Understand that ______ .'
'Perhaps.' The weariness consumed. Just give me my violin, I want to have a moment of peace.
'We know for sure it is!' the colonel groaned. 'He sent you here on a passport with his own handwriting. A clumsy and crude job to say the least.'
From that moment, I began to doubt in my own wisdom. Could he, the colonel be telling the truth?
Perhaps he saw the doubt in my expressions.
'He sent you to the Hotel Rendezvous, where he sends all his agents. He gave you a cover story. You were supposed to be a salesman of razors, bananas, potatoes. But you hardly know anything about them!'
The shame flooded me; it seemed to have a physical life of its own, forcing down my head. The colonel was laying down my secrets one by one. 'I sent in the reports as best as I could.'
'You sent in reports on when we turn on and off the searchlights to spot Zeppelin raids. It is not a great secret to die for young man.'
This final statement tore my steel-like belief in Bombacci. The lamenting inner voices skimmed over my heart. 'You know what my messages were?'
'You sent all your messages to a man in Amsterdam. That man is a British spymaster. We will shoot you ______, but you are an amateur, it was your spymaster who sent you to your death.'
The door opened creakily, as a key slid into the hole, the sound echoing a hundred fold in the gloomy dusty darkness. My violin was passed to me. I put my faithful instrument to my neck, and started the playing. Was it all worth it now? To die now for petty reasons?
For the next three hours I played like I never did before. The music soothed, irked, angered, saddened, and surprised me; it passed and circled me like a melodious being born from my emotions. It undulated within me, coursed wildly throughout my veins; it infused my blood with the notes speaking of vivid emotions.
My memories all rushed back, I was running care freely across the meadow, I was in the old schoolroom watching the teacher speak, I was taking hold of my violin for the first time, I was looking into my parentsâ grayed eyes as I left for my war training, I was holding her hand and saying one last goodbye to her, I was in the hotel room when the men barged in....The tunes that poured out wondrously seeped into the ancient walls, giving it a new tangible flavor. It stirred the ghosts of long dead prisoners; it intoxicated me with an almost alcoholic trance. War...it was all a bloody mistake to sign up.
The sky outside brightened flamingo pink with a tinge of sparkling gold, the sunlight pouring through the hatches. The end was near...
I played one last tune, the notes disconnected and wavering now. Senseless to die now....senseless war...
'Nice tune _____.' The colonel said, his eyes glinting. Was that a tear? The music seemed to have touched a raw nerve in his body; I could see the uneasiness in his eyes.
'By Lorenzo Verdentri. It tells a story of a broken-hearted clown. Perhaps that was all I ever was colonel. A broken-hearted clown.'
I raised the violin to my lips and kissed the glossy mahogany surface. 'Goodbye my friend, I shall not need you anymore.'
'I am ready colonel.'
I laid my precious instrument onto the bed, stood up and strode to the door. A firm grip grasped my shoulder abruptly.
'Tell me ______, do you have a son, a wife?' the colonel's gruff voice softened for once.
'No Sir. Just someone I love. By God Iâll miss ______. But a warâs a war; I'm merely another unimportant casualty. It was for my country after all. I was an amateur.'
Damn you Bombacci.
'Damn the war ______. Men die everyday like flies, my own son was shot at the Somme.'
I sighed wearily. Bonded through war. A Hun and a Brit. The derision almost killed the tension. His eyes stared at me. Poor fool, drunk on delusion they seemed to say. You're a clown, dying as such.
'The war must go on till the end. We will never surrender, and neither will you.'
'Perhaps you're right sonny perhaps you're right...War...'
Suddenly he snapped back to attention. 'Courtyard's at the first floor. Follow me.'
War...Could we all just be in the same boat? To die for reasons unbeknownst to the common man? To be slaughtered over minor squabbles? I shook my head. It didn't matter now.
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I refused the blind-fold, gentlemen die facing death bravely. The colonel's face seemed to sag; his mournful eyes staring straight at me. I stood back facing a huge stonewall, covered with damp moss and lichen, facing the eight men standing in front of me, facing death to the end.
'Rifle at the ready!' The colonel screamed, his eyes still looking at me sadly.
My life flashed past my eyes again in a blur, stopping momentarily at certain poignant scenes. A thousand emotions and thoughts churned within me, I felt the high and low, I felt the dark and light, I felt the fire and the cold. I felt the past, I felt the present, I felt the anger, and I felt the joy. I felt the peace, and I felt the war, I felt the musical tempo, I felt the shaky notes, I felt the love and I felt the hate.
'Aim and steady!'
I felt nothing.
I do not regret. I am a patriot, and I die a patriot.
But you are a clown, a foolish man, my demon screamed. Just a bungling dunce. Regret it now. But itâs too late for that now clown.
I smiled ruefully, almost clown-like; looking forward to my homecoming. Madness...
I saw that slim figure waving at me as the boat pulled out from the harbor. I smelled that last sweet breath, I listened to that last melodic goodbye, and I felt that last smooth touch, I caught that last bitter tear.
'_____ _____ ______' I whispered to the heavens.
'On my command good men...Fire!'
Dead and bleeding from eight perfect holes before I reached the ground; a foolish broken-hearted clown to the last. The world fades as the ground rushes...just that waving tearing figure in my mind as my heart froze in its final beat...
Hush my love all is quiet now.
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