From the Shadows

by Jeremiah Hawkins


I.
Lambach, Austria 1898

	A young boy sits reading in a monastery garden beneath a mid-April sun. He clumsily hums the notes he sees strung across the pages. He delights in the fresh smell of the many colored flowers and the ambience of distant birds. He likes it here.  It’s so much nicer than Fischlham. 
	“Good morning, my dear Adolf,” a soft female voice sounds from behind the boy.
	He turns and looks up. The sun blinds him, compelling him to raise his hand to block the rays. Seeing only the shadowed silhouette of a nun, he says, “Good morning, Sister.” He turns back to his book. He doesn’t know which Sister this is, and doesn’t care. He must learn the assigned hymn for Sister Claire before this afternoon’s choir practice. 
	 “I hear your birthday is in a few days,” she says, kneeling beside him. 
	“Yes.” He looks at her again and sees her face. He doesn’t recognize her. He would have remembered the deep-seated blue eyes, the thick jaw line, the aged appearance unusually absent of wrinkles. Unlike the other Sisters, her robe bears the crest that adorns so many walls of the monastery, the crest with that strange cross in the middle. The swastika, he thinks it’s called. She must be a high-ranking nun to be wearing such a distinguished robe. 
	“How old will you be?” the nun asks.
	“Nine.”
	“Well, that’s something,” she says and then runs her hand through the boy’s hair. “Nine is a very special number.”
The boy’s focused gaze relaxes, as do his fingers. He wonders what sort of nun this is who wears such a robe and touches him as if she’s his mother. He’s been at Lambach Abbey for a few months and all the nuns were quite nice, but they never touched him like this. 
“Who are you?” the boy asks.
“I’m your friend.”
“I’ve never seen you before.”
“That doesn’t mean I haven’t seen you. I’m always watching you.”    
	“You are?” the boy asks, staring forward with lazy eyes at the array of flowers as the nun continues to caress his hair.
	“Oh, of course. You’re a very special boy.”
	“Me?”
	“Oh yes. May I show you something?”
	The boy nods.
	She reaches into her robe and pulls out a candle. She moves it slowly in front of the boy’s face. “You are this flame,” she says.
	“What flame?”
	“This one.” She blows on the wick and a high flame quickly flashes to life. 
	The boy flinches. “How did you do that?”
	“Try to blow it out.”
	The nun holds the candle close to the boy’s face. He blows on it, but it remains. He tries again and fails again. The flame is unaffected, not even pushed by the blow. He blows as hard as he can. Nothing. The nun chuckles. The boy’s face goes red and he spits on the flame. A hissing sound emanates as the saliva is burnt off. 
The boy’s shoulders drop. “I… I can’t.”
	“Here, you hold it. Now, blow.”
	With the candle in the boy’s hand, he blows and the flame is extinguished easily.
	“Now give it back to me.” 
	The boy hands the candle to the nun and the flame immediately returns.
	“How do you do that?” he asks.
	“My dear Adolph, listen to me. Just as this candle is like no other, you are like no other. You are different, my boy, you’re special. You know this to be true, don’t you?”
	The boy nods his head, his eyes wide.
	“The way you lead the other boys, the way you use your imagination and intelligence in your little war games, the way you stand out. You are to be a great man someday. I can see it. Do you know what I mean when I say that?”
	The boy shakes his head.
	“I have the gift of prophecy, my dear Adolph. I can see what you are to become. And I shall help you. I will visit you from time to time. Even when your family moves to Leonding, which will be very soon, I will be close by. Do you believe me?”
	The boy nods.
	“Good. Now, get back to your hymn. Sister Claire will be very disappointed if you don’t know it. You do, after all, have such a fine voice. A fine voice, indeed.”


II.
Leonding, Austria 1900
	
Within a modest home, sitting in brown armchairs placed close together in front of a wood-burning stove, a mother and father mourn their loss. In one arm the woman cradles her four-year old daughter, and with the other reaches out to the adjacent chair and clinches her husband’s hand. 
“My poor Edmund,” she continually says between the constant wetting of her daughter’s forehead with kisses.  She turns to her left to see her eleven-year boy sitting on the floor in a corner next to a thick wooden table, his knees pulled in. He’s rocking and staring at nothing, and too far away from the heat of the stove. “Come here, Adolf. Oh please, come here. You’ll catch fever. Do you hear me?” She turns to her husband. “Alios, tell the boy to come warm himself. He’ll catch fever and …he could… Oh please, Alios, tell him to come closer.”
Her husband doesn’t respond, but remains gazing out of a window by the front door. “The snow’s coming down too hard,” he says. “The priest won’t come.”
“Edmund’s dead, my love. What can a priest do now? Oh Alios, tell the boy to come.”
She kisses her daughter’s forehead once again and rises with the girl still in her arms. With strong arms and back, she gently lowers the girl to the chair. She walks over to her only surviving son, leans low and begins kissing him. “Come, my son. Come get warm.”
He appears not to hear her, but responds to her gentle tug on his arm. He stands without losing his lost stare. They walk over to the chair and the woman takes both children in her arms and pulls them onto her lap as she sits. She resumes her routine of kisses on her two children.    
A forceful knock on the door is heard. “The priest. It must be the priest,” the man says as he leaps up and strides to the door.
Stomping his feet at the threshold to the house, a priest enters. The boy looks over. A nun with a large crest on her chest follows the priest in. The boy—not having seen her since that magical meeting two years prior in Lambach—recognizes her.  As she walks in she stares into the boy’s eyes and he stares back. The priest introduces the nun to the boy’s mother and father. To the boy, everything in the house begins to fade into a shadowy background behind the nun’s presence. He no longer hears the exchange between the priest and his parents. 
The man and woman lead the priest to Edmund’s room. The mother tightly carries her long-legged four-year old daughter, leaving the boy behind sitting in her chair. The nun takes two logs from a pile against a wall and throws them into the stove. Then, she sits next to the boy where his father sat.
“Hello, my dear Adolph,” the nun says. 
“Hello, Sister.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
The boy looks down. “It was the measles.”
“Yes, the measles,” she says. “The result of impure blood.”
“Impure—”
“You like to draw, I hear.”
“How did you hear that? I haven’t seen you in such a long time.”
“That’s because I had some business to tend to. I travel.”
“Where did you go?”
“To the Soviet Union, and then America. You know America, don’t you?”
“Yes. Have you ever been to Germany?”
“Of course.”
They pause but never lose eye contact.
The nun then says, “You remember what I said to you in Lambach?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still believe it?”
“Yes. …Well, sometimes.”
The nun leans closer to the boy. “You must never forget. You remember the candle?”
“Yes. I never forgot that.”
“You are that candle. You are special. Your brother, whom you loved, died today, but you mustn’t allow that to hinder your passions. If you like to draw, if you want to be an artist, don’t let anyone advise you otherwise.”
“My father doesn’t like it,” the boy says.
“Your father will be dead in three years. What then? Listen to me. Your life is your life. Don’t allow anyone to extinguish the flame. Your passion shall make you great.”
The boy shivers and pulls his knees to his chest.
“You’re cold,” says the nun.
“Yes.”
She then raises her hand to the stove, and within a second, the fire begins to rage. The boy is almost instantly warmed. He looks at her and lowers his legs.
“Is it true?” he says.
“That your father will die in three years?”
“Yes.” 
 “I’m afraid so. Blood is impure, my dear Adolph. Races have mixed causing defects and disease.”
“Edmund died because his blood’s impure?”
“Yes.” 
The boy looks away from the nun and stares into the fire. They remain silent, listening to the crackling within the stove.
She then says, “I must leave again. They will be done with your brother in less than a minute.”
“Where will you go?”
“To Vienna. Tomorrow. It’s a nice city, full of artists and beautiful scenery, but I won’t stay long. I must return to America and remain there until a great panic overtakes the economy.”
“When are—”
Just then the boy’s parents and the priest return. The nun slowly waves at the fire and it calms to its prior state. The boy’s mother approaches his chair and lowers his sister, seating her next to him. She kisses the boy on the forehead and caresses his head. 
The boy’s eyes remain locked on the nun. He barely hears anything else, just muffled mutterings of his parents and the priest. Before he knows it, his father stands with the door open allowing cold air and snow flurries to rush in. As the nun and priest put on their coats, the nun pierces through the muffled background noise. 
Still looking at the boy, she says, “I will see you again, my dear Adolph.”


III.
Vienna, Austria 1907

The sky is overcast with lumpy grayness. The ground, covered with dirty heavily trodden snow, mirrors the sky. It’s morning and the streets are quiet. A slight breeze ruffles the hair of a solitary figure shivering on a street bench facing a popular opera house. He holds up his painting, piercing every detail with focused eyes. He compares it to the structure before him. Did he perfect it? Is there any flaw to be found? 
He looks up. He’s still very much alone. He stares down at the hardened footprints in the snow. He sighs and watches his gray breath dissipate into the wintry day. He shakes his head violently and glares back at the painting. 
“Merry Christmas, my dear Adolph,” a female voice says from behind the bench.
The young man turns around. Upon seeing the nun with the crest, he feels a flash of redemptive exuberance. But, it doesn’t last. 
“It’s you,” he says in a near whisper and places the painting on the ground, leaning it against the side of the bench. 
She sits, joining him in his quiet stare at the opera house. 
“It’s been a long time,” he says.
“Yes. How have you been?”
“I was rejected by the Academy of Fine Arts,” he says without hesitation.
“I know.”
“My mother died earlier this week.”
“I know.”
He turns to the nun, looks her over and says, “You look the same. Glad to see the years have treated you well.”
“They always do.”
“Have you been traveling?”
“Yes.”
“America?”
“Yes, America. You have a good memory.”
“How can I forget? Your words and your magic tricks are… Did your great panic take place?”
“Yes, this very year,” she says and looks over at him with a smile.
“Have you come to tell me I’m special or great or…” The young man winces from the cold, as well as his burgeoning emotion. He folds his arms tightly in front of his chest and hunches over slightly. The nun notices and places her hand on his shoulder. Within seconds the young man sits straight again and his arms relax. He no longer shivers. He looks over at her with the same boyish bright eyes of their last two meetings. 
 “You could have prevented her death, couldn’t you?” he asks.
The nun doesn’t answer.
“You could have helped me get into the Academy, couldn’t you?”
The nun doesn’t answer.
“Well?” the young man says.
The nun merely looks over at him, connecting her blue eyes with his.
“Why won’t you speak?” the young man says. “You came to me twice in two different cities, you put strange ideas in my head, you wow me with magic. Speak. Tell me what you’ll have me do now? I’m listening.”
“Be patient and continue the pursuit of your passions,” she calmly says. “I see you’ve been educating yourself in history and politics.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Have you read the works of the German philosopher, Nietzsche?”
“No!” The young man quickly stands. “What does it matter? What does any of that matter? Why do you remain so elusive? I don’t need chitchat right now! I can’t stomach it!”
“You speak to a nun this way?”
“I speak to anyone in any fashion I wish!”
“Very good.” She nods and smirks. “Now sit and let me speak to you of things to come.”
The young man glares at her. He looks away and then sits with enough force to shake the bench. He now looks at the nun with red eyes, undisturbed by the subtle sound of his painting falling flat on the rough, dirty snow.
The nun turns her body toward him and says, “You must be patient. I’m certain you are to be a great man, but you must wait for it. You must build and prepare yourself. …You have a mind for architecture, don’t you? Well, good foundations must be set if the structure is to last, my dear Adolph. Do you understand?”
“Yes. But, is that all? You’ve said all that before.”
The nun looks back to the opera house and doesn’t respond quickly.
“There will be a great war and you will fight,” she says. “You will be injured, but you will not die. I will make sure of that.”
“When?”
“It is years away still.”
“Years? What about tomorrow and the next day?”
“Be patient. You mustn’t let the death of your mother or the rejections you’ve received deflate your passion. Do you remember what I said about your brother’s death?”
The young man looks down at his knees. “Yes. Impure blood.”
“Yes,” she says. “Your mother as well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It shall pass to you to fix this someday.”
“What, the purity of blood?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“By listening to me.”
“I am listening, but you say nothing.”
She sweeps the young man’s shoulder with her hand as if to rid it of dust. Suddenly, his entire body contracts and his face contorts. He shivers. 
“Be patient and trust me.”
The young man lowers his head, and nods. He takes a deep breath.
The nun rises.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, and then begins walking away.
“Merry Christmas to you, Sister. I’m sure I will see you again. Someday.” 


IV.
Vienna, Austria 1913

Pedestrians frolic through Schiller Square of the Ringstraße, bathing in the warmth and beauty of the spring day. A rough looking man in his mid-twenties dressed in rags leans his paintings against the base of Schiller Memorial outside the Academy of Fine Arts. He casts low-browed glances at the frothy populace. 
These people, he says to himself, they know nothing of the beautiful and sublime. They merely bounce about oblivious to anything of real consequence. He looks up at the statues of Schiller and Goethe and wishes he were alive in their time. He would have some respect then. People wouldn’t have merely walked past him ignoring his art. There was more purity back then. Now people are a dirty cluster of culture and blood.  
The man leans against the base next to his paintings and watches the people. He watches families with children discussing what fun activity they’ll do next, young romantic couples lost in their revealing conversations, solitary ones marching with strong resolve. 
Then, the man spots a group of odd-looking characters, the ones with those odd ways and religion. He stares at their dark side-locks curling down past their ears to their jaw lines, their lengthy caftans, and their large noses. They’re so different. Their features are unsmooth, bulging and blotchy. This must be the appearance of impurity. He thinks about how they very well could be as evil as the Viennese papers portray them to be. 
 The man then sees five wealthy men in serious discourse with a nun. The nun is speaking and the men are hanging on every word. They’re walking toward him. It’s been six years, and the poor painter probably would not have recognized her if it hadn’t been for the crest. He hopes she sees him.
The nun stops near him. She tells the wealthy men to go on without her, that she will meet them later in the afternoon. They nod and stroll on.
She looks at the painter in front of the statue and walks toward him. “Happy Birthday,” she says.
“It’s not for a couple days.”
“I know,” she says, looking down at his paintings. “They’re good. Not anything remarkable, but good.”
“I copied them from postcards.”
	“Of course you did.” She looks up at the Academy of Fine Arts and says, “You got rejected again, didn’t you.”
	“Yes.”
	“You’re homeless, living in shelters. And you smell.”
	“Yes.”
	She nods in what appears to be approval. “Well, I don’t have much time today.”
	“As usual,” he says. “Who were those men?”
	“Some European and American bankers.”
	“What did they want with you?”
	“What did I want with them, you mean.”
	“Very well.”
	“Big plans, my dear Adolf, big plans.”
	“For what?”
	“For the world. And for you! This is a year to remember. It is the year of the creation of the Federal Reserve in America, a central banking system. A great milestone.”
	“What does a bank in America have to do with me?”
	“You see those statues?”
	The man nods without looking up at Schiller and Goethe.
	“Do you see the size of the pedestal on which they stand, the very pedestal on which you and your paintings lean?”
	“I know, I know,” he says. “Foundation.”
	“Yes. It’s being built. Free trade and foreign markets have been strewn across the world. The stock exchanges are in place. The New York Stock Exchange, in particular, has grown to an unprecedented degree. And now, our long envisioned Great Bank is being put in place to govern it all from the shadows. Do you see the magnitude, yet?” The nun glides in close to the man and says,  “I’m setting it all up for you.”
	“For me?”
	“Yes.”
	“Why? I don’t understand.”
	“Blood is impure. Don’t you see? The world is corrupt. Christianity is tainted. Even from the first Christians—those dirty disciples—they had it all wrong. They lived in their communes and shared everything. They remained weak and powerless. Constantine, now there was a real Christian. I liked him very much. But you shall be greater.”
	“I don’t—”
	 “Go to Germany, my dear Adolph, to Munich. It’s time. The Great War I spoke of will begin next year—the tensions on the webbing of Imperial endeavors and the stock exchanges will pull the nations violently into each other. Now, you must wait for Germany to declare war. And then enlist.”
	“But you’re—”
	“You will soon receive the remainder of your father’s estate. That will get you going. Listen to me. It’s begun. It’s time to move.”
	The nun then waves her hand behind a passing elderly couple. Before the poor painter can collect himself and speak, the elderly couple stops and begins ranting their admiration of his art. They’re frantic, fiery even, striding up to the poor painter and questioning him about the plain paintings copied from postcards. How long did they take to complete? How much do they cost? Is there a name for the style? The painter looks at the elderly man and spouts out a price. When he turns back, the nun is gone.


V.
Pasewalk, Germany 
November 11, 1918

	“Hey,” a one-legged soldier says, “I overheard the doc tell the nurse that it wasn’t the gas but something in your head that has caused your blindness.” He reaches over to the adjacent cot and waves his hand in front of his comrade’s face. No response. “He said he’s confident your sight will return soon. Also, I heard people saying the war will be over any day now. Do you hear me?”
	The blind soldier remains silent, staring into the darkness within his mind. He pushes from his consciousness the incessant blubbering and moans of his many wounded comrades on all sides as visions begin filtering through the blackness. 
	He was a good soldier, a dispatch runner, responsible for delivering messages to and from the front. It was a dangerous job, and he liked that. He accepted his commands and performed his duties hungrily, earning a name for himself.
The visions become more vivid and his emotions rise. He’s near Belgium running to the front. He knows the message is important, he knew it when he heard the call—“Lance Corporeal!”—yelled with such fervor. “Go! Do not delay!” The message was jammed into his hand. 
Yes, it was an important message, but he shouldn’t have lived to deliver it. The shell landed right in his midst, killing everyone in close proximity, everyone except him. He was merely knocked down, miraculously unscathed. The only effect on him was a ringing in his ear, a ringing that birthed within him a feeling of detachment, a sensation that he wasn’t running but gliding, that he was a phantom floating amongst the eruptive chaos. The deafening thunder of war that could so easily cripple one’s manhood was buried within an impermeable ringing. He wasn’t disorientated in the least. He felt no pain. The shell did nothing but strengthen him. 
And this was not the first time. The blind soldier remembers other similar occurrences of cheating death. He won medals and earned great respect for his valor—respected to such an extent that his superiors tolerated his often sloppy appearance. He was a soldier who grew to love death’s edge. He was a real soldier, not a fraud in a well-ironed uniform.
But there were questions that often plagued his mind. The nun he hadn’t seen since before the war—that mystical woman—was she looking after him? Was the lowly dispatch runner truly invincible, protected by Providence?
A voice calls from the other end of the hospital, “The war, it’s over! Over!” The sound of much squirming and shifting can be heard, but no one says anything—no cheers, no hint of hooray. 
Germany has lost and no one is surprised.
The blind soldier rolls over on his side and sighs. His medals mean nothing now. All his great deeds will sink into an abyss of collective cowardice, surrender and failure. Four treacherously long years of warfare and death for nothing. The soldier feels closer to death now than ever before.
At this precise moment, a familiar voice paralyzes him with slithering whispers: 
“It’s time, my dear Adolph. No, don’t try to turn over. You’re not able, and you won’t be able to see me anyways. Just remain still and silent, and take leave of the moans of pain and broken spirits that surround you.
“You’ve seen much, haven’t you? Look at you, blind and hopeless. You’ve seen your dear brother die, then your mother. In the last four years you’ve seen comrade after comrade—close friends—fall in battle.
“It’s time, my dear Adolph. It’s time to stop using only your eyes. It’s time to cease observing and begin acting. It’s time to cease recreating onto canvas the realities of your eyes, and begin creating in actuality the visions of your hopes and dreams. It’s time to speak. You’ve seen and learned enough. You’ve seen beauty and destruction, pain and elation. You’ve seen the scowl of death all your life. It’s no longer time to input, but output. Speak, my dear Adolph. Speak. Grow your following. The time is ripe. 
“This war was my doing. The fall of Germany was mine. Why did I do this? For the emergence of the great leader that will propel the world into the next chapter of humanity, a chapter of great men—super men—not like those first disciples, those communists, those weak men who lived powerless and poor existences. No! Great men, great creators, that’s the next stage of evolution, great men of masonry to build a tower to the heavens. That’s the destiny of Man, my dear Adolph. But the race must be purified and strengthened. Every man must be of one blood, one language, one global purpose. This is why Germany had to fall: too much impurity and corruption, so much that the only solution was to tear it down and rebuild. 
“It’s time. The German people are disgraced. Right now—as I speak!—a treaty is being written in Versailles that will enslave Germany. The shame will be great. It shall tear their spirit anew every time the piercing remembrance re-emerges. So, you know what I want you to do? Make it re-emerge. Remind them of this dishonor with great force of words. Tear their spirits until they follow you, until they want blood.
“Never doubt, and fear nothing. I will watch over you as I have your entire life. And I will continue to do my work elsewhere. …Oh, my dear Adolph, my webbed temple is growing in power. My Great Bank I spoke of during our last meeting is rooted in place. When the time is right, I will not just simply start a panic, but I shall crash the whole thing with a slight toggle of a simple switch and thrust the world into a tailspin.  When that happens you will be but a few years from the throne of Germany. It will happen. Do not fear. Never doubt. When your present darkness fades, unleash your voice like fire from the deep loins of a dragon. 
“Listen. Listen to those moans. The whole nation moans like that, they moan for the reparation of not only their cities, but their very spirits. Their moans plead for relief, to be saved from inner ruin, from hopelessness, from darkness. Listen to them, my son, and receive your purpose. 
“Save Germany.”


VI.
Uffing, Germany 1923

In a second-story den, furnished and decorated with an eye for respectability, a married couple sits on a blue sofa next to an unlit fireplace opposite their demoralized political leader. The politician buries his face in his hands, a posture they’ve never seen from him. The woman stands and goes to the window to draw the thick curtains shut, preventing the curious eyes of the night from peeking in. 
The politician rants, and then mumbles, and then rants again, his emotions riding the peaks and troughs of heartbreak. 
Providence! Certainty! Failure! 
During his rants, he repeats particular words often, sounding much like he did during his rallies that so captivated people. But then, as his voice loses volume and intensity, he sinks into self-pity and doubt, his sentences often beginning with, “If only…” and “But she said…” 
The husband sits patiently concerned, looking upon his leader, despite it all, with respect and support. His wife, however, seems to fear for her leader with fidgets and shifts and rapid rising and sinking of the lungs within her chest. His words appear to cut into her.
Then, for no evident reason and before the couple have a chance to say anything, the leader demands immediate solitude. The man rises without hesitation, but the wife remains. Her leader looks at her, softens his eyes and requests politely to be left alone. And so they depart, closing the door behind them. As they walk away, the politician can hear the wife begin tugging on her husband’s ear, telling him that she fears their leader shall hurt himself, says she can sense these things. He should not be left alone.
The leader stands and begins to pace, his hands held tightly behind his back. How could this have happened? Was he crazy? Did the nun not say that she would watch over him and that he’d save Germany? 
He kicks the bottom of a dark green upholstered chair. How humiliating! All that work, all those speeches, all for naught. He was successful. He raised a small army of passionate followers. He recruited leaders of all kinds, distinguished men of every sort, even policemen. He thought he could do as Mussolini had done: march in and assume power by force. Mussolini led his army straight into Rome and took it over. Italy is now his. He’s their sole leader. Absolute power! How did he succeed so easily? 
He continues to pace, his arms flailing about, gesturing alongside his thoughts.
And now they’re after him while he hides in this den with the curtains drawn. He’ll be arrested, sentenced to prison. High treason shall be the charge. There’s nothing to be done. It’s over. To run would be cowardice. To fight would be a shameful shedding of German blood, the very blood he was trying to save, purify and protect. No, he shall end this the only honorable way he can.
He sits, and sinks into his chair. He stares into the dark, empty fireplace. He begins feeling strangely drowsy. His breathing slows and body goes limp. Then, a slow wavy flame begins to rise from nothing. It undulates like a serpent enchanted by a simple tune. The politician hypnotically stares. He knows this flame; he knows its source.
She’s here.
He waits for her to speak, but she does not. Instead she shows him things in the flame, scenes of future happenings. He first sees a courtroom with many people. Powerful people. He sees himself speaking in his own defense. He can’t hear what he says, but he sees the faces of the listeners and knows he plays them the tune they’ve yearned to hear for so long. 
The flame flickers and he sees a jail cell. He sees himself sitting. He’s writing. He writes many pages, telling the story of his struggle, of Germany’s struggle.
The flame jerks again and he sees himself leaving prison. He sits upon a beast of burden as the German people kneel down, forming two rows on either side of him, throwing petals to the ground for his beast to walk upon. He sees himself, his own face. He’s confident and strong. He looks straight ahead. He looks to the place he plans to lead Germany. He then looks at himself, the one sitting in the den contemplating suicide. He smirks. The politician in the den shudders at the uncanny eye contact. 
The flame broadens as another vision comes. He sees two separate crowds standing in a circular cluster around their particular leader in a large field surrounded by forest. It is raining and thundering, but a massive canopy hovers above sheltering those in the field. The canopy is not bare, but is adorned with numerous crests of many sizes randomly placed. It is the crest of the nun. Also, printed repeatedly along the entire perimeter of the grand canopy are the letters NYSE. The politician’s eyes widen as he remembers the nun’s mention of the New York Stock Exchange. Her words now echo in his mind: “crash the temple with the slight toggle of a simple switch… slight toggle… simple switch… crash.”
In the center of one of the crowds, the politician sees himself. His is the smaller of the two, but grows. People walk out from the forest and join his group. But his is still smaller.  
Then the politician sees a great earthquake. The canopy begins to rock. The people brace themselves against each other. A corner of the canopy breaks loose from the ground and begins flapping violently in the storm. The people scream. A great gust of wind comes and sweeps the canopy away. The heavy tarp whips and slaps as it flies, creating its own thundering cries. The rain falls heavy upon the people as they begin to shiver and cough and sneeze.
The people, shriveled within their drenched clothes, look to their respective leaders. The current leader of Germany is dumbfounded and says nothing. The other leader, however, begins to speak, and does so with great passion and volume. He thunders back at the sky. And, it is quieted. He rouses the dormant strength of his people, who now stand straight and strong. Those of the other crowd straggle over, and continue to do so until the people are united around one leader. Him.
And with that, the vision leaves. The flame dies out slowly as cold darkness returns to the fireplace. 
The once suicidal politician lifts his gaze to the ceiling as the smallest hint of a smile lightens his face.   
   
VII.
Berlin, Germany
January 30, 1933

	The crowd looks upon their new leader with hopeful eyes. He looks back with a subtle, but ambitious grin. He stands in a second-storey window with spotlights aimed at him. 
He’s the new Chancellor of Germany. Finally.
	He waves and presents his mighty salute. He is happy and ready. He basks in the moment, but also can’t wait until the crowd disperses. He knows she will come tonight. He had one of his men set up a back room for a late night encounter. Candles throughout, the smell of incense, a small fire, the best tea. 
Ten long years she’s been absent while he lived out the visions he saw in the flame. Fifteen years since he last heard her voice, twenty since he last saw her.  She will come to me tonight, the Chancellor says to himself as he looks down on his people. His Germany.
	Finally, the parades slow and the people disperse. The spotlights are shut off. He has a final cup of tea with his men, and then retires to his candlelit room. 
	An hour passes and he yawns. He sits in a padded armchair reading the book he wrote about himself while in prison. He lifts his cup from a small table and sips his tea. He looks over at the vacant chair on the other side of the small table and sighs. 
	Then, out from a shadowy corner near his bed, she appears.
	“Well done, my dear Adolph.”
	She walks forward as the dim firelight illuminates her face. The Chancellor is stunned by her youthful appearance. Is it possible she’s gotten younger? No, it must be the time elapse. 
	“I knew you’d come, and I’m very glad you did.”
	“I know,” she says and sits in the chair intended for her.
	“Would you like some tea?”
	“Yes. Thank you.”
	He stands and goes over to a counter.
	“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we,” she says as he pours the tea.
	“I’d say.” He brings a cup back to her and sits.
	“But this is just the beginning. You realize that don’t you?”
	“Yes.”
	She sips her tea. “Everything up until now has been foreplay, the setting of the stage. The foundation has been laid, and now it’s time to build the structure.”
	He smiles and she looks him over.
	“You’re definitely ready,” she says. “You’ve been groomed to such a degree that you can do the rest on your own. But I do have one thing to say. Your impatience shall serve you now. Seize absolute power quickly, my dear Adolph. Burn down all opposition. You mustn’t have any competition, or separation of powers.” 
	“No,” he says, “that form of government is weak and inefficient.”
“Exactly. You once marched on Berlin, but the timing was bad. Now the timing is right. March. Tear down the walls that restrain you. However, do nothing that can risk losing the love of your people. Be smart. Gain absolute power now, but once you get it, work strategically. You must then build another foundation. We both know the end we seek. But to get there successfully will require stealth. Line everything up before you strike. During rearmament, let your propaganda be of peace and prosperity. Don’t give anything away. Be smart.”
“I’ve come a long way, Sister,” the Chancellor says. “I know exactly what needs to be done.”
“Of course, you do. I’m very proud of you. I want you to know that.” She takes another sip of tea and smiles. “How about we speak of simpler things. We’ve never done that. Would you like that?”
“Yes, I would.”
They both then relax their postures and begin speaking as comrades. Friends even. She asks him if he still paints. He tells her that he doesn’t have time anymore, but still enjoys the arts. He asks her what inspired her to become a nun and she says it all had to do with the book of Acts. She asks him about the blonde woman he’s in love with, and he spends much time describing her.
They continue to speak of simple things throughout the night until the Chancellor can no longer keep his eyes open. Before the dawn, he climbs into bed. She tucks him in and then disappears into the corner from which she appeared.


VIII.
Berlin, Germany 1937

	“The pain is bad tonight,” says the Führer. “I’m glad you’re here. Say something. Please.”
“Your blood is impure. Like your parents before you, you will die early.”
	The Führer reels in his reclined chair, covered by a thick wool blanket. Beads of sweat stand firm on his forehead and upper lip. He grabs his stomach and grimaces. “Then, this must begin soon. How long do I have?”
	“Years still, but no more than ten.”
	“I’m told we’re not fully prepared for war. Rearmament is incomplete. The economy suffers. And, Britain… she’s not what I had hoped. She will fight against me.”
	“She will. But Italy will come to your side, as will Japan. And the Americans and Russians will stay out of it for a time.”
	The Führer closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He reaches for a glass of water and a pill on the table next to him. Holding the glass in one hand and the pill in the other, he says, “Will we win?”
	“If I have anything to do with it, yes. I shall be hard at work, never doubt that. Though you will not see me again until the end, I will be near. Fear nothing.” She walks to him, leans down and wipes the sweat from his face. “You’ve been patient long enough.”
	He clasps her hand and looks up at her. Through clinched teeth, he says, “It’s time, isn’t it.”
“Yes, my dear Adolph. Do it. Unleash the machine.”
	

IX.
Führerbunker
Berlin, Germany
April 30, 1945

	An explosion quakes the building. Dust falls from the ceiling of the bunker onto the heads of Adolph Hitler and his wife, Eva. Eva cries and he holds her. He tries to protect her, but knows there is no use. He’d done well over the years to shield her from the mass destruction and death he poured upon Europe. But now that his war machine has wilted to rubble and the bloodshed has reached Berlin, he knows there is no way to protect Eva’s innocent eyes from the explosive storm that is upon them. 
	Another bomb lands nearby, piercing their ears and shaking the ground, knocking over a couple of candles they lit when the electricity went out. Eva convulses sharply and buries her head in her husband’s chest. Her entire body vibrates from fear and she kneads his coat with desperate, tense fingers. He tries to calm her, but he can’t. He rocks. He rubs her hair. But her fear grows. 
	Another bomb cracks the ceiling, sending a thick blanket of dust floating down. The bass booming sound causes her to convulse again. She can’t handle anymore. She lifts her head and begins screaming uncontrollably. She pulls away as her husband attempts to maintain the embrace. He tries to tell her to calm herself, but she’s screaming incessantly. He yells his commands. Another bomb hits. They’re both screaming now. The bunker shimmies and rocks. Hitler reaches into his pockets for the two capsules he had been saving.
	Then, in an instant, everything stops. The bombs stop. The ground stills. The dust dissipates. Eva’s wild movements and cries cease. Dizzied by the abrupt silence and stillness, Hitler looks down at his wife. She’s unconscious, breathing peacefully, her head resting on his chest. 
	“Hello, my dear Adolph,” a woman says from a distant, dark stairwell. 
	Hitler doesn’t respond. He merely stares into the shadow from which the sound came, unsure if the far away voice was real. 
Then, she appears.
He stares at her, blinking and squinting his eyes to clear away the daze. The nun says nothing more, but simply strides slowly toward him in her heavy, black robe. As he begins regaining his presence of mind, his emotions begin to awaken. The anger of betrayal begins to burn within him. He slides out from underneath Eva and guides her head to the floor. 
He looks up at the nun and violently stands. He speaks. His volume increases rapidly until he’s yelling. He verbally thrashes her for her betrayal, for her weakness, for her incompetence, for her stupidity. He stomps toward her, his fists clinched tightly. When he closes in within five feet, he raises his right hand to strike. 
Suddenly, the nun thrashes the empty space between them. Without being touched, Hitler is hurled backward. His head snaps back at impact, thumping hard against the floor. He rolls onto his side in pain. 
He opens his eyes to see the bottom of her robe within inches of his face. He looks up and sees her peering down at him with large, incendiary eyes.
	“I’m here to save you and this is how you treat me,” she says. 
	Hitler rolls onto his back and the nun sits down on the floor beside him. She places her hand on his shoulder as a numbing sensation courses through his body that paralyzes his arms and legs. She commands him to sit up. Seemingly independent of his volition, Hitler’s body obeys. 
“It had to come to this, my son,” she says.
She flicks something luminous—a flimsy flame, a paper-like incandescence that lands in front of them on the floor. He stares into it.
Within the flame he sees a bald eagle gripping thirteen arrows and an olive branch. It flies above pockmarked Germany heading west. It flies over Britain, and then over the Atlantic Ocean before reaching land where it approaches a towering pyramid reaching to the heavens. Engraved upon the base stones are the words: The Federal Reserve. The eagle ascends to the top of the pyramid where a colossal capstone floats—a capstone with an eye. The stone hovers and turns and gently rises and falls, as if floating on the sea. It blinks and then looks at the small, barely visible eagle. 
“What is it?” he asks.
	“It is the Kingdom,” the nun says. “It’s not yet complete, but, thanks to you, we’re entering the final stage of creation. Your war machine has plowed the way, setting much of the world ablaze, and thus providing the proper soil for what is to come. The rise of the two feuding superpowers—the Communists and Capitalists—that’s the next phase. Oh, but I have much yet to do. So much to do.”
The nun leans back against the wall while Hitler remains upright. She crosses her arms and continues speaking.
“You see, a century ago I fused Communism with Atheism with a simple Manifesto, a set of ideas that has spawned today’s Soviet Union. That was quite easy, to be honest. What I’ve done here with you, however, was much harder. But well worth it, let me tell you. Soon, I shall begin whispering the name Hitler into the ears of both the Capitalists and Soviets, causing anxiety to build. They shall fear each other because of their opposing ideologies and the remembrance of your dark deeds. A scramble for allies and markets and the spread of their ideals will consume them like hot embers in their guts. They shall battle each other in a new form of war. In but ten years, the atheism of the Communists will compel the Capitalists to disregard their separation of church and state and declare their belief in the true God.  And thus, the fusion of Capitalism with Christianity.”
The nun begins running her fingers through Hitler’s hair.
“That’s what all this was for, my dear Adolph. To rid my Christian people of the beliefs of those first disciples and deliver them to the true God so they can finally reach their potential and rule this world. You see, all durable empires must have a single God, whether it’s a man, a statue, or an idea. It unifies their belief system and focuses their power, leading to purity.”
The nun waves her hand over the flame and Hitler looks down at it. 
The vision is still of the pyramid and the eagle flying freely in front of it. Then, from the eye of the capstone, Hitler sees visible vibrations radiating out like waves of air and sound. The vibrations soon coalesce into massive discernible shapes. Words. 
Hitler reads: In God We Trust.      
	“I don’t understand,” he says.
“Money, my dear boy. Money is power, and power shall be their God. Their purity. It is the way, the truth, and the life. It has always been. And in 1955, my Great Church—the Federal Reserve—will establish this creed by printing those very words on every coin and bill. Don’t you see? I’m not interested in the purity of a fluid that runs through their veins. No, I want to purify their souls; I want to purify the deepest levels of who they are, those levels that only ideas can touch. Then, and only then, will my work be complete.”
The nun blows on the small fire, easily extinguishing it. She smoothes out the front of her robe and leans forward. She rubs her hands together and says, “We’ll have plenty of time to talk further. But, as for now, we must depart.” 
She stands, turns to Hitler, and holds out her hand. Hitler feels his paralysis lift, but nevertheless remains still. 
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ve taken care of everything. History will read that you killed yourself and your body was cremated and tossed to the winds. You’re safe. Rise to your feet, my dear Adolph.”
	He then places his hand in hers and looks up at her with wide eyes. “Who are you? Who are you really?”
The nun smiles and pulls him to his feet. “I’m the one who leads from the shadows. …And, I’m your friend. Now, come. The land of opportunity awaits.”