Come the days of retribution, the days when the remnants of shameless evil would be tracked down, hopefully eradicated, Argentina would become her home from home. As of now though, the unbearable midsummer dusty dry heat, a thing the medics had long since insisted that, with her specific condition, she should avoid, plus the foulest stench of fermenting acre upon acre upon acre of cattle dung meant she simply had to get away.

Her initial intention was to wish upon a star. In the event, she was spoilt for choice and decided to run with gut instinct and return to the tantalising decadence of Berlin. However, with the dawning of her fatherlands National Socialism epoch where blond locks and blue eyes were the safest bet, being unusual, an albino reliant upon a smokescreen mousey brown wig, darkest sunglasses and heavy make-up during daylight hours posed certain potential pitfalls of which she was aware, yet cared not.

I am blind now. My condition has worsened, reached its finality. All I can see these days are memories long since deposited within. Some fade a little, others get embellished, yet one, just the one never changes.  That night when I first laid my then functioning eyes upon her. The night she both wept and danced unmasked to the plainsong of a clumsy fiddle in a blue, blue fog loaded freaks paradise beneath Kurfürstendamm. She would later tell me her tears were nothing more than her disappointment that the only food left over for dancers was salted cashew nuts. She was allergic to those and had gone starving rotten hungry.

Inevitably, being of insanely enticing skin and bone, stark snow white all-over, amid the throng of the grotesque powdered and rouged she was to become the very symbol of the unashamed immodesty that was the Kabarett, the talk of the waning ‘Golden Age of Weimar’.  Was it the fusion of the saucy cat calls of the well-fed faces coupled with her own devilment that ensured she became notorious for dancing naked on stage? Likely it was. Also, she led an excessive style of life back then dominated by schnapps, opium and her bisexuality. How was I to know that one day soon she had it in her to become an accomplished and later, much fabled assassin within espionage echelons? Upon reflection, we must have made an absurd pairing. Me, the stereotypical reticent old school Englishman, she the wildest, whitest creature, game for anything and everything.

Oh dear, my jocular nurse now tells me, blood pressure non-existent, brain function just adequate.  A regular pulse would be a plus. Pulses should be bonded as brother and sister, yet mine are so far apart they are akin to warring siblings. What use my sanity in a sealed envelope?

Where was I? I do tend ramble with the passage of time. Whatever, I left her behind the day I climbed Everest. Her new preference, rich tea biscuits and Darjeeling, plus, inevitably, the pretty little hotel waitress she was keen on bedding in my absence.  Sadly, in her enthusiasm she had not realized that the gal was not of that particular persuasion.

Back in the day she once told me that she hated sharing a decent bottle of Chablis with anyone. How she stayed so slight is quite beyond me. Funny, the odd things one keeps in the locker.  Regardless, it was while I was trudging up to base camp, she sought the solace, then allegedly the casting couch (perhaps vice-versa, one could never tell with her) of the sauntering American we had spotted in the bar the night previous. US Secret Service chappie on a Nepalese jaunt with buddy’s by all accounts.  He must have seen in her the potential for the clandestine. The rest, for me at least, is sad history. I never saw or even spoke on the wire with her again. I will say this of her though, she was kind to the luckless, an oppressor of the wicked.  I think of her often.

This piece is a prequel to my previous post, ‘OF ASSASSINATION & GITANES’



  1. I love this Mike, I can only imagine the fascination of an Albino stripper…did I say that out loud? Lotte Lenya most definitely led an exciting and rather bizarre life, the best kind. Great story beautifully penned.

    1. Cheers. Well, others have done a dragon tattoo and similar so I thought this lovely gal character should be given a chance. I say, ‘lovely’ must remember she kills for a living!

  2. Ah, those early 20th century cabarets! I’d love to read more about her. So this is part of a bigger novel?
    It’s hard to imagine when she’d find the time to oppress the wicked what with all the carousing and tea drinking and seducing of both sexes.

    1. I hope it is. All that could stop it being thus is me! The researching of each capital city in a specific time in that piece of history is pure joy. As a well paid assassin methinks she’ll sort something out on the time front.

    1. Cheers Ms S. I spent my two weeks off over Christmas taking my tale back to the 1930’s and 40’s (it had been set present day) and these posts are cameo’s of pieces of my story…they help me consolidate my thoughts and it’s useful to see how they work on WP. I am at fingers crossed stage hoping the momentum remains!

      1. Mike, it is actually your word, but I do use it 🙂 See, I am a defendant of the luckless myself, and I always stand for those who lose, which has never helped me much, clearly 😉

      2. There’s a line in a song from my favourite English artist, Billy Bragg. It goes, ‘If you’ve got a blacklist, I want to be on it’. Sometimes those of us caring for the luckless do get blacklisted! Funny old world we live in.

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