“WAG’S TALE”
by
Wilkinson Riling
The Texas morning sun filled the living room of the late Carl Smith with a light that glittered on tiny particles of dust. The house was empty save for a few end tables, chairs, plants, and a large TV. An animated commercial for dog food played on screen. Two figures carrying boxes crossed back and forth in the foreground past the television. The ad ended, cutting to a news flash report.
A grim looking anchor read from his teleprompter. A graphic showed over his shoulder. It was the image of a smiling, grandfatherly old man. The dates 1930 - 2023 appeared beneath. The announcer’s baritone voice was only background noise in the room. The volume low, but audible.
“Yesterday, Houston said it’s final goodbye to ninety-three year old millionaire Carl Smith, founder and CEO of Pet Emporium. In a funeral procession five miles long, attended by local dignitaries, including the mayor, and members of City Council, Smith was laid to rest at Peaceful Valley cemetery.
Mr. Smith was preceded in death by his two children Heinrich and Wilma, and survived by three grandchildren and twelve great grandchildren, his dog, Baron, and a legacy of philanthropy the city of Houston and PETA are eternally grateful for. He will be missed.”
As the report ended, an arm reached in and unplugged the television. “Looks like your grandfather will be making the news for weeks.” The husband and wife team of Leonard and Elsa Finkleman lifted the flat screen and carried it off. Straining, Elsa replied, “I should hope so, Pop-Pop deserves the recognition.” They both struggled as they hauled the set out the door. The forty-something pair were clearing out her grandfather’s house as they prepared to settle his estate.
Leonard muttered, “It be nice if someone from your family could help.”
“They agreed to take in the dog, that was the deal.” She reminded. “After this, we do the basement, then we put the house up for sale and put this all behind us.”
Leonard slowed. “Watch your step. Baron left behind a little gift.” Leonard stepped over a huge pile of dog droppings. They avoided the larger than normal stack of poo on the walkway and headed for the U-Haul parked out front. “I’d swear that dog is part horse.”
In the dimly lit cellar, the basement door swings open revealing a set of wooden stairs leading down into the dark. Switching on the light, Leonard and Elsa enter. A single bulb hangs down in the center of the crowded and cramped room. They descend the creaking stairs stopping at the bottom to assess their surroundings. Leonard takes in the massive clutter. “Geez, Elsie, your grandfather was a hoarder. Didn’t he ever throw anything out?”
“He was raised during the Depression; I imagine that had a huge impact. Now quit complaining. The sooner we clear out this basement, the sooner we can sell this place and leave this bastion of bias and bigotry.”
“Honey, Houston is fairly progressive.”
Elsa wagged a finger. “Not these suburbs, Leonard. I counted six houses on this street alone with MAGA flags, two with Confederate, and one with an inverted American Flag. We have to sell this place quick and get back to Connecticut.”
“Don’t forget your Grandfather’s. That makes seven MAGA flags.”
Elsa snapped back. “I threw that out last night. Now let’s get busy.”
Elsa passed Leonard on the stairs wading into the ocean of boxes. Leonard followed.
"Wonder what they'd think about our Bernie Sanders garden Gnome?"
Leonard approached some wooden shelves bracing a series of cardboard storage boxes lined in neat rows. The only indication of any organization in the disheveled room. “Elsie, what about these boxes? They say, “Zeitschriften?”
“That’s ‘Magazines.’ It’s in German. My grandmother was from the old country.”
Leonard’s eyebrows raised. “Elsie, I didn’t know you spoke German.”
“Gran taught me as a child, I told you, she’s from the old country. I only used it to speak to her.”
Leonard absorbed her answer then accepted it with a nod. He pointed to the boxes. “So, toss ’em, too?”
“No! My grandparents loved to travel. They could be National Geographics. We can sell those on EBay.”
Leonard reached up for a box and pulled. With a sudden tilt it slid open and a waterfall of magazines splashed to the floor. Leonard stared in disbelief.
“Elsa, these aren’t National Geographics, unless there’s a lost tribe in Scandinavia with blonde haired, well-proportioned, naked men”
“What the hell are you talking about, Leonard?” Elsa maneuvered though the cramped basement over to the heap of magazines, one laying upon the other in a jumble.
She gasped. “Oh, my God!” Piled before her was a collection of gay magazines that could fill a San Francisco street corner newsstand. Hundreds of tall blonde haired, athletic men, all in different states of erotic play.
Numb from what he was seeing, Leonard spoke slowly. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think your Granddad kept a huge, huge secret from us.”
Elsa shook her head. “This can’t be! My grandfather was a family man! A married man! He raised six kids! He drank beer! He owned guns! He voted for Nixon! He watched FOX News! He loved WrestleMania for Crissakes!”
Still numb, Leonard nodded. “I'm beginning to understand why.”
Elsa glared at Leonard. “He was a Texan!”
The single lightbulb illuminating the basement blinked as if sending a frenzy of morse code, then all went dark. A lone cellar window now provided the only source of light.
“Great. What else could go wrong?” Elsa snapped her fingers and pointed at a tall wooden bookcase filled with paint cans and miscellaneous objects and tools opposite the window. “Hand me that lantern.”
Leonard reached for a lantern near the top. The moment it left the shelf, the whole unit shook and began to move to the right. The bookcase was on coasters. The coasters were on tracks.
When the unit stopped rolling, Leonard and Elsa were staring at a formerly hidden doorway. The door creaked open. In a deep recess, more darkness awaited them.
Elsa hissed. “Leonard. The light!”
Leonard stood stunned. “W-What?”
“The lantern!” She barked.
Leonard gave a defensive shrug.“I don’t have a match. Give me a match.”
“It’s battery operated! Press the button.”
Holding up the 1990’s Coleman lantern lamp, Leonard could see Elsa was right. A large black button along with embossed lettering on its side that read “PRESS HERE,” with a convenient arrow pointing to said button, was located on the side. Leonard pressed it. A circle of light enveloped the pair.
“Go ahead. Go in. I’m right behind you.” Elsa ordered.
The entrance was about five feet in length and narrow. It emptied into a small room, the hand-held light revealed it to be about 12’ by 10’. What greeted them hanging down on the opposite wall was a series of dog leashes, muzzles, vests and canine gear from another age.
Leonard couldn’t help himself, he lifted a leash with a studded collar and turned to Elsa, “Exactly how kinky was Gramps?”
She was about to scold him but stopped as he let loose the chain while his expression changed from one of sarcastic wit to one of total astonishment. Leonard was looking past her, holding the lantern higher.
Elsa turned, not knowing what to expect, but soon began a pretty damn good imitation of Leonard’s own gaping pie hole. She could see her shadow laying across a huge scarlet flag draped on the wall by the doorway. The deep blood red sheet was centered by a black, angled geometric design, a swastika printed dead center in a spotlight of bright white fabric.
Together, they found themselves staring at a humungous Nazi flag, the couple instinctually clung to one another. Below the Nazi banner, a glass case contained a mannequin.
Adorning it, a uniform that at one time must have once been worn by a very, very short person.
“Don’t tell me your Grandfather was in the S.S.!” Leonard exclaimed.
Elsa took the lantern from Leonard, shining it at a light switch on the wall. She reached over flipping it on. The room was instantly basked in a harsh florescence that made the red of the flag pop even more.
She stepped closer to the case. A curved patch on the shirt's left sleeve read “Hitlerjugend” A triangular patch on the right sleeve read “Ost Berlin.” Elsa transfixed, translated. “Hitler Youth. East Berlin.” Elsa closed her eyes shaking her head in rapid centimeters. “No. No. No. No. No! Pop-Pop was in the Hitler Youth?” Her eyes popped opened. “M-My grandfather was in the Hitler Youth?!”
“I knew he never liked me.” Leonard looked around the room. “I’m starting to feel uncomfortable here.”
Elsa imagined the stories that the mannequin could tell if only it had a mouth. Even without eyes, it seemed to be staring at her with contempt. The woolen soldier's cap perched on its head held the Hitler Youth pin; four small red and white diamond shapes formed into a larger one, with a swastika placed in the center. A black tie lay against a brown shirt along with a swastika arm band. It all complemented a cute pair of black shorts held up by a belt with an embossed eagle buckle featuring the motto “Blut und Ehre.”
Elsa wanted to cry. “Blood and Honor? They were just kids. Whatever happened to marbles and jacks?”
“Elsa, they were Nazis.” Leonard corrected.
“My God, Leonard! Do you have any idea what happens if this ever gets out?”
Leonard thought for a moment. “The merger of Pet Emporium and Pet Smart falls through and our stock price tanks just before we’re getting ready to unload it?”
“That’s right! We’re close to Chapter 11 as it is! When people find out that a seventy-year-old pet company was started by a Nazi, we are… kaput!”
“The idea doesn’t thrill me, but plenty of companies were entangled with Nazis. Volkswagen, Bayer, IBM, BMW, hell, even Coca Cola.”
“Yes, and you boycott them all!”
“Yeah, but most people don’t.”
“Then think of our family name!”
“Finkleman is a perfectly good name.”
“Not your family name. My family’s name!”
“Smith? Big deal. There are millions of Smiths out there. How many Finkleman’s do you know?”
Elsa shot back. “Right now I’m concerned about Carl Smith, my grandfather!”
Leonard pointed to a steamer trunk at the base of the cabinet with the initials F.S.. “What do you think is in there?”
“It can’t be good. Hold this.” She handed him the lantern and knelt to open the trunk. Elsa lifted the storage locker lid with little effort and reached in. “It’s just a chew toy.”
Leonard exploded. “What kind of sick Nazi was he?”
“I said ‘chew’ toy. For a dog.” Elsa pulled out an doggie chew toy made from rope and rawhide with a swastika embossed on the leather.
Embarrassed, Leonard looked at the other stuff in the trunk. “Oh. So, what else is in there?”
“Looks like books. Dog training manuals in German, text books.” Elsa answered.
Leonard knelt down beside her. “Is that a copy of Mein Kampf? Ohmagosh, it is.” Leonard pulled out the hard cover and flipped it open and read an inscription. “Zo Fritz, Immer treu.. It’s signed!” Leonard handed it to Elsa to translate.
“To Fritz, Ever loyal. Adolph Hitler.” She looked at Leonard astonished. “What the- -? Hitler!? Who the hell is Fritz?”
Leonard pointed into the bin. “What’s that one?”
Elsa lifted out a leather bound book the size of an Ipad but much thicker. She read the title. “Wags, der Mutige Kleine Welpe. Ein Kinderbook von Alois Rithel.” She looks stupified and repeated it in English. “Wags, the Brave Little Puppy by Alois Rithel.” She handed it to Leonard. “It’s a children’s book.”
Leonard turned the pages. “It’s illustrated! Who the hell is Alois Rithel?”
Elsa snaps her fingers. “Give me your Iphone.”
“What?”
Another finger snap. “Your Iphone. We’re going to find out.”
Leonard handed over his phone. Elsa started tapping her thumbs on the keys. “Google search. Alois…Rithel.”
Leonard fanned through the pages of the book. “These drawings are pretty bleak. If this is the main character, that’s a pretty sad looking puppy. Hey, look, it’s signed too. I can’t read this.”
Elsa stole a glance. “An Franz, denk dran, die Kinder sind unsere Zukunft. Liebe, Eva.” She translated. “To Franz, remember the children are our future. Love, Eva.” Elsa looks at Leonard. “Eva Braun?”
Leonard shrugs. “Who the fuck is Franz?”
I don’t know. Let me check Wikipedia. I have a hunch.” A second later, “I’ve got something.” Elsa turned to Leonard and began to explain as if she was giving directions to a tourist lost in a foreign country. “When he was young, Hitler was an artist in Vienna, barely scraping by.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a well known fact Hitler loved, Mutt and Jeff, the Katzenjammer Kids and Mickey Mouse, and at one time he even wanted to be a cartoonist.”
“I did not know that.”
Elsa ignored him and continued, “Get this, Hitler’s father’s name was Alois.”
Leonard nodded waiting for more.
“I believe Rithel is an anagram for his last name, Hitler. She smacked Leonard’s shoulder saying it as if she just discovered electricity. "Alois Rithel is Adolph Hitler’s pen name!”
“Are you saying this children’s book was written and illustrated by Adolph Hitler himself?”
“I ain’t saying Dr. Seuss!”
“But when? How? I never heard of Hitler doing this! Most of his art was of buildings and a few landscapes, not cute animals, or almost cute. And who is Fritz? Who is Franz?”
“I found a Fritz Tornow that was on Hitler’s staff and in the bunker during those last days of the fall of Berlin. He served as Hitler’s personal dog handler. Hitler was planning on suicide but didn’t trust the cyanide capsule. He ordered it tested on his dog Blondi. Fritz personally gave the cyanide to Blondi. He was then ordered to shoot her four puppies and his own dachshund named “Schnitzel.”
“Holy Schnitzel!” Leonard shook his head in bewilderment. “Those people were monsters!”
Elsa continued, “Fritz Tornow was captured by the Russians and sent to Siberia.”
“So much for Fritz. Who was Franz?”
“I have a feeling that will tell us.” Elsa reached back inside the steamer trunk and pulled out a little black book embossed with a swastika. The name Franz Shillinburg was printed in gold letters. She opened the daybook and read the inscription in English, “If found, please return to Franz Schillenberg, age 15, Wilhelmstrasse 77.”
“What is that? A Franklin Day Planner?” Leonard asked.
Elsa nodded. “Yes, and unless I miss my guess, today, Franz is better known as the former CEO of Pet Emporium and my grandfather, the late Carl Smith!”
Elsa continued reading in German. “15. April, Futterhund, sechs Uhr morgens. 10 Uhr. GehenSie mit dem Hund spazieren. 11:00 Uhr. Hundesscheibe vor dem Bunker des Anfuhrers einsammeln.”
The German was all lost on Leonard. “What’s he saying?”
Elsa shrugged. “Basically, feed dog. Walk dog. Clean up dog shit outside the bunker.” Elsa continued in English. “‘April 16th. Six am. Feed dog. Ten am. Walk dog. Eleven am. Pick up dog shit around bunker. Four pm. Blondi bit me. Six pm. Feed dog. Six thirty, clean up dog shit around the bunker.’ Leonard, I have a feeling Franz Schillenburg was a young assistant to Fritz Tornow, Hitler’s dog trainer.”
“Wow. This is crazy.” Leonard needed to sit.
Elsa wet a finger as she turned the pages. “It goes on like this page after page. ‘Feed Blondi, clean up shit, walk dog, dog runs off. Found Blondi in Russian sector. Bit by dog again. Returned dog to bunker. Fed dog, cleaned up shit. Bombs getting close.’ Wow, this kid had it rough.”
Leonard snarled. “I don’t care how “rough” any Nazi had it. They’re all bastards.”
Elsa cut him off. “Wait, this entry is a full page long!... ’April 30th. I washed and cleaned Miss Braun’s… correction, Mrs. Adolph Hitler’s Pomeranian, ‘Fluffy’. As a gift she handed me a Children’s Book, Wags, the Brave Little Puppy.”
Leonard held the book up. “He means this!”
Elsa continued. “She told me the fuhrer himself wrote the story and illustrated it using his pen name. Only one proof copy was ever printed. Mrs. Hitler told me she always dreamed of having children with the fuhrer, but his having only one testicle reduced his fertility greatly. As she spoke, she wiped away a tear. She always wanted children. She made me promise to read this story to my children one day. She believed the children are our future, she said teach them well and let them lead the Reich."
Elsa finished reading the entry. "She then ordered me, that on my first chance, I was to try to escape to the allies and avoid the Ruskies at all costs.”
“Apparently he did.” Leonard said handing the children’s book to Elsa.
Elsa opened the dusty book. Her slender fingers moved over the colored illustrations. “I don’t remember Pop-Pop or my father reading this to us.” Elsa began to read in English, “Once upon a time there was a German Shepherd puppy named Wagner, named after Germany’s great composer. Everyone called him “Wags” for short. Wag’s job was to lead the sheep to pasture and guard them from the wolves while keeping the farm free of vermin.”
Leonard scoffed. “Vermin. That little prick loved that word, didn’t he?”
She kept reading, “One day a sheep went missing. The old shepherd got angry and beat Wags with a stick. He told Wags he’d better do his job or he’d place him in a sack and drown him in a river.” Elsa held up the page with the picture of the old shepherd. “This illustration looks a lot like Hitler’s father, Alois.”
She continued reading, “Wags was afraid of Alois, the shepherd.” Leonard and Elsa exchanged a glance. Leonard snarked, “Talk about someone working through some shit.”
Elsa continued turning pages while giving the gist of the story. “Apparently Wags suspected a Russian Wolfhound of harming the sheep. Wags chased a wiener dog named Sausage from a pasture in Poland. He wanted to create more grazing space for his sheep while moving closer to the Wolfhound in order to trap him. Next, Wags took back a bone that a French Poodle named Charles was chewing on. The poodle didn’t even fight back. A Neopolitain Mastiff named Benito wanted to be friends but turned out to be useless to Wags. He had a bark worse than his bite so no one ever took it seriously. Wags then tried to make friends with an English Bulldog named Winston with no luck. Wags goes on to ignore a mongrel named Sam, finally taking on a Wolfhound named Joe, vanquishing him in Stalingrad. Wags is a hero but can’t understand why everyone still hates him. This story kind of sucks.”
“What’s the copyright on that book?” Leonard asked.
“1933.”
Leonard spoke in near disbelief, “This may sound insane, but that story is a metaphor for Hitler's plan to rule Germany seven years before he executed it!”
They sat in silence. Leonard spoke first. “What do we do, Elsa? These artifacts could be worth a lot of money not to mention their historical value.”
Elsa got to her feet. “Not enough money to ruin a family name and legacy, we’re getting rid of all of it starting with that Plato’s retreat pile of porn in the other room.”
“But how?”
Elsa stared at the swastika printed on the spine of Hitler’s children’s book. “This gives me an idea…”
It was dark by the time Elsa and Leonard piled the boxes of porn, her Pop-Pop’s Nazi memorabilia and German dog training text books into a pile and doused them all with charcoal lighter fluid in the backyard of Carl Smith’s modest home. Several tiki torches surrounded them providing ominous lighting to the setting. Leonard took a torch from it’s holder and used it to set the pile ablaze. The bonfire’s flame erupted and danced before them.
Elsa held the two contentious books out; The autographed Mein Kampf and the fuhrer-inscribed Wag, the Brave Little Puppy by Alois Rithel. She pulled them back. “What if you’re right Leonard? These two books alone could be worth a fortune and might be historically significant. Do we really have the right to burn them? Doesn’t this make us a party to censorship?”
Leonard was dumbstruck. Was she having second thoughts? He reached his hands out to her. “May I?” He took the books. Leonard looked at the cover for a moment then turned to Elsa, “I say, burn ’em.” He readied to toss them when a stranger’s voice called out.
“Howdy!” A high Texas drawal made the voice sound almost musical.
The Finkleman’s turned to see a large man in jeans and a tee covered by a flannel shirt crossing the yard, carrying a beer. “I’m Chuck Norris you’re neighbor.” Chuck shook his head and wagged a finger. “No, Not the famous one.” Then used that same finger to pop the can open. “Thought we’d share a beer. I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Mr. Smith, he was a hell of a guy, that Carl.”
Chuck stepped up to the fire next to to Elsa and Leonard. “Great neighbor. Even though he was a millionaire, he never put on airs. Lived modestly, never had a curt word to say. Always cleaned up after his dog. In fact, my dog could shit on his lawn and he wouldn’t complain, just scoop it up like a regular Joe, y’know what I mean?"
Elsa smiled wearily. “Yes, everyone loved my grandfather.”
“They sure did. Salt of the earth, he was.” Chuck guzzled a swig of beer and belched, noticing the fire. “What’s going on here, barbecue?”
Leonard tossed the two contentious books into the pyre. The flames cradled the controversial tomes quickly dissolving them into ash. "Just a good old fashioned book burning."
“What books wuz those?” Chuck asked.
Leonard said, “One was a manifesto from one of those damn socialists called My Struggle. The second was a children’s book. A cross between Old Yeller and Mein Kampf.”
Another belch followed. “Dirty socialists. Though that second one sounded interesting.”
Leonard shook his head and winced at Chuck. “It had very graphic pictures, doggie style images, if you get me.”
Chuck snarled. “G.D. perverted socialists.” Then whispered, “What’s so wrong with missionary, anyway?” Chuck’s eyes then widened. "My wife! This is amazing!”
“What about her?” Elsa asked.
Chuck slapped his leg. “Talk about coincidence! Karen’s a teacher down at Jerry Jones elementary. She just came home today with a carload of books the school board banded!"
“Banned.” Elsa murmured.
Chuck guzzled his beer, crushed the can and tossed it into the fire. “What I said! Wait here! I'll go get 'em. I mean, why just ban books when you can burn 'em?” Chuck jogged off, stopped and turned. “Hey! Mind if I back my Ram 50 up your driveway?”
Leonard gave a thumbs up. “It’s a free country."
“B-T-W, I noticed your MAGA flag ain't up no more.” Chuck said.
Leonard smacked his hand to his leg. “Damn Antifa!”
Chuck understood. “Yeah. You need to get one of them Ring cameras. Since I got mine nobody bothers us. My wife and I don't even have to sit on the porch with our AR 15’s anymore. Anyways; I'll be right back with Karen and the kids!”
Another neighbor came up the driveway. “Hank, what's going on over there? Should I call the fire department?”
“Hell no, Steve! Grab Louise and the rugrats and bring some marshmallows! We’re having a good old fashioned book burning here with…" He turned to Leonard, "What's your name?”
“Leonard. Leonard Finkleman.”
“With Lenny!”
The neighbor waved back. “Yeehaw! Be right over!”
Chuck turned. “Finkleman? This is still old man Smith’s place, right?”
Leonard pointed to Elsa. “This is his granddaughter, Elsa. I’m his grandson-in-law.”
“Well, your grandpa was salt of the earth, he was! Be right back.”
Within seven minutes a small crowd gathered in the yard. Leonard and Elsa watched as a group of neighbors and their children surrounded the bonfire with looks of glee and neighborly camaraderie. They saw books of every kind and description being flung into the flames. Captain Underpants, Harry Potter, Catcher in the Rye, Dr. Suess, To Kill a Mocking Bird, I Have Two Dad’s, Out of the Darkness, Of Mice and Men, Maus,…
A neighbor stepped up to Leonard. “Got smores, Lenny?”
“Nope. That was the last of them.” Leonard showed his empty hands.
“Not more books, we got plenty of those! I’m talking smores! We're cooking em!” Sure enough, several neighbors were roasting marshmallows in the flames.
Chuck, on his umpteenth beer, stared glassy eyed into the hypnotic flames. He started to sing low at first, then his voice rose in increments. The neighbors joined in as the song rose to a level of reverance. The tune was Proud to Be an American, by Lee Greenwood. Those who knew the words sung them, others hummed along, including Elsa and Leonard, now swept into the tide of the moment.
Elsa stepped forward. “I’ve got one more book.” Elsa pulled out Franz Schillenberg’s day planner. “Hope you were proud of yourself, Auf Wiedersehen, Franz. Rest in peace Pop-Pop.” She tossed it into the flames and wiped her hands.
Leonard placed his arm around her waist. “We did the right thing, Elsie. The family name is intact. No one needed to see those books. What people don’t know can’t hurt us.”
Elsa watched as one of the neighbors tossed a copy of George Orwell’s 1984 into the flickering flames. She whispered. “I certainly hope you're right.”