by Warren Court
“Who’s it from? New York? Washington, DC?” Helmut asked.
“No, just Berlin.”
“Really? Who would have telegrammed you here?”
“My friend Richard Fuchs, the journalist.”
“Ahh. My competitor.”
“Don’t be silly. I hardly know him.”
“You’ve known him as long as you’ve known me.”
“But you and I have gotten to know each other quite well, I should think.”
“Still, he pursues. I might have to shake him off.”
“Scare him off, you mean. Don’t be silly. Besides, you’re abandoning me tomorrow in Berlin. Duty calls.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. She didn’t want to admit it, but his jealously, fake or not, had annoyed her. She was trying to wink herself out of that feeling.
“Will you meet with him? You should.”
“I don’t know. We were together, that last day in Berlin, when I was arrested. Maybe it’s not such a good idea.” She remembered the arrest warrant Richard said had been issued for him. Chances were he’d already been apprehended, maybe as he was sending that telegram. Perhaps he hadn’t even been the one who’d sent it.
“I see. Still, you can telegram him from here. Reinhardt can run it in to the post office, or we can drop it off tomorrow. It would get to him before you arrive in Berlin,” Helmut said.
“Maybe. Let me think on it.”
“Okay, then. Reinhardt! The lady and lord of the manor demand supper,” Helmut bellowed.
Aubrey smiled but, truthfully, her annoyance had grown. No, don’t do that, she cautioned herself. Don’t let it spoil what could be your last evening together. She fanned herself with the telegram. The heat from Reinhardt’s roaring blaze had rewarmed her and now was blasting her.
“I should go upstairs and change.”
“Very well.”
Reinhardt, sensing the impending departure of his female guest, tried his best to entertain Aubrey that evening. He had her in stitches at one point, doing an imitations of film stars and singers and dancing around on his spindly legs mimicking Humphrey Bogart or Lon Chaney.
She looked over at the count, and he too had a bemused look on his face. Then he stared down at the dinner table and fiddled with his napkin. Their eyes met; his seemed full of a coming sadness at what was to transpire tomorrow.
After dinner, Reinhardt permitted his mistress, Helga, to come and join them for a cognac by the fire. Aubrey could see she enjoyed being included as the evening wound down.
At last, Aubrey retired to her room. She had nothing to pack. The count had insisted that the clothes she’d worn here at the chalet go with her to Berlin. She permitted only the evening dress; it really was quite lovely. She insisted the warm clothes stay here, ‘for when I come back,’ she said. It was a test, a lob over the net to gauge the count’s reaction. He smiled and nodded agreement, but did not comment. Another stab of doubt and pain plunged into Aubrey’s heart. Was this really going to be goodbye?
The count had provided her with a valise to take the dress. She packed that away, and then examined the clothes she hadn’t worn since she’d arrived at the lodge. The few droplets of blood that had landed on her clothes during that horrific interrogation had been scrubbed clean. She would have worn them regardless, as a badge of honour.
Aubrey climbed into bed but could not sleep. Instead, she watched the door, tossing and turning in anticipation. Wanting the count to come in for one last night together, but not wanting it. Let it end now. It was well past midnight when she heard the light rapping on the door and the handle turned.
He came in, not full of passion but slowly. Almost hesitant. He sat on the edge of the bed. Made no move to come to her. Was this a test? She sat up.
“You look tired,” he said. “You should get some rest; we have to get on the road early tomorrow. We really should have left tonight.”
“Why didn’t we? That would have been fine.”
“Because I was delaying the inevitable, I guess. When will I see you again, Aubrey?”
“That is up to you, I think. You’re a busy man, but a man of means. I’m just a poor journalist, a flyer without a plane. I have no visa here and no real story to follow anymore. Look, we both know where this is going. It was nice for a while, but you have your work, and so do I. I need to get back home. My father needs me.”
“I see. We have tomorrow together, in the car.” He started to rise.
“Is that it? Is that all?” Aubrey said. She wanted to lash out, jump into his arms.
He paused at the door. “Are you really going to let me leave?” he asked.
“Would you?”
He ran to her. They tumbled back onto the bed, threw the covers aside. The nightgown he’d loaned to her was practically torn off; his nails scratched her back. She did a fair bit of scratching too, clawing at his shirt. Their bodies were warm against each other, and he pushed her back into the pillows and was quickly inside of her.
When it was over the count lay next to her; both of them were wide awake.
“It doesn’t have to be goodbye,” he said. “I could arrange a tour of American factories; we’re always looking for new markets to expand to.”
“And I could dig up another story idea for the magazines. There’s as much interest in aviation here as there is the States, maybe more so.”
“The Führer has deemed it a priority that young people learn to fly.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” She hated the fact he’d spoken that word, that name, in this room after what they’d just done. It spoiled it. Don’t let it spoil it, Aubrey. He has the right to say his master’s name. Is he his master? No. If ever there someone who was his own man, a self-made man, it was Helmut.
They made love again as dawn broke. Neither of them slept, and it showed on Aubrey’s face in the morning. Helmut had the car ready to go before seven, and one of the girls came down to prepare a small breakfast and some food for the journey. Reinhardt was already downstairs, and Aubrey spied the enormous form of the head cook at the top of the stairs for a split second as she scuttled out of the old man’s room.
“Aubrey, Fraulein, it was wonderful having you. You must come again,” Reinhardt said.
Aubrey leaned in for a kiss and a hug and whispered in the kindly old man’s ear. “And you must marry Helga.” She pulled back from him, and he winked.
“How did you know? Am I getting too old to be a sly fox?”
“It’s written all over your face. Just do it.”
“Ja, ma bin. I will promise to give it some consideration. And you, youngster, when will I see you again?”
“I don’t know, Uncle. It may be some time,” Helmut said.
They bid their farewells to Reinhardt and his mountain, and the Mercedes sped them away.
24
The drive was long and quiet. The chauffeur must have known instinctively to get the journey over with as quickly as possible. There was a gap in the curtain and Aubrey could see the speedometer; it was buried. Cars blurred by as he overtook them, swerving in and out with ease, the coach rocking back and forth smoothly. They stopped at a small roadside stop for a quick meal that the girls had packed them of pickles and cold sausage and cheese.
They passed a truck that had run off the side of the road and was ablaze with fire, men scrambling around it, their hands on their heads in disbelief. That warranted only a passing grunt from Helmut as they roared past.
They came back down to earth only when they reached the outskirts of Berlin. It was late afternoon, maybe too late to arrange a train to France. She would talk to the hotel manager; maybe there was a midnight express she could catch.
The Mercedes pulled up in front of the Hotel Adlon. She half-expected that monster from the SS to be there, waiting there to pounce with a squad of his goons. If they’d found the gun, they would have good cause to arrest her. She might yet fall into that evil man’s clutches again, she knew. Her fingers were crossed, hoping on that m
idnight express to France.
There were no SS troops waiting for her. The count escorted her into the hotel and went to the manager alone. He spoke quietly to him and then returned to her.
“It’s all taken care of. They assure me your room is as exactly as you left it.”
“I’ll have to get them to print out a bill for the extra nights.”
“It’s all taken care of, Aubrey.”
“No, Helmut.”
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “My pleasure.” He took her hands in his. She studied his face; there was the glint of a tear in his eye. Or was it just fatigue?
“I don’t have much time,” Helmut said.
“I understand,” Aubrey said.
“When will you be leaving Berlin?”
“Tonight, if I can swing it.”
“Will you be seeing your friend the journalist?”
That made her mad; he was still obsessing on this innocent connection she had to no more than a total stranger.
“Yes. I might ring him up, see how he made out,” she said flippantly.
Helmut nodded his head and squeezed her hands. “This is goodbye.”
“Not ‘until we meet again’?”
“I don’t know, Aubrey. Isn’t it better this way? l look forward to reading your articles.”
It was her turn to nod dismissively. “And I’ll do what I can to follow your company. If you ever make that trip to the States, please look me up.”
“I will, my sweet. I will.” He hugged her, kissed her hard, once. Pulled her waist into him so her head bent back in a dramatic gesture. She was as limp as a rag doll. Then he turned and was gone. There was just the slight chirp of the tires as the large German car sped away.
The manager had watched with a smile as Aubrey’s benefactor departed the scene. That smile fell into a straight-lined, blank stare as he saw Aubrey looking at him. Evidently, he did not think highly of the count’s American floozy. All the more reason to depart the scene herself. She had no choice but to deal with him, though, if she wanted to get out of the city.
“Pardon me, can you please enquire about trains to the border?”
“Which border, Fraulein Endeavours?”
She almost replied, Any border will do. “France, please.” That bastion of democracy and freedoms. Get me there soonest, post-haste. If I have to sit in the baggage car, so be it. If I have to strap myself to the roof of the dining car and duck down for the tunnels, no problem. Let’s make it happen.
The hotel manager spoke to his assistant. “We’re checking, Fraulein Endeavours.”
The woman came back with a timetable and picked up a phone. A quick conversation with the train station and she whispered something to the manager.
“Fraulein Endeavours, you are in luck. There is a train tonight, at eleven pm, and there are seats available. Shall we make a reservation for you? You can purchase your ticket at Anhalter Bahnhof, the station.”
“Yes, please do so. And thank you. Now I will retire to my room.”
“Oh, Fraulein Endeavours, I’ve just been informed that you have a note here for you. My apologies—I got distracted with making your travel arrangements.”
Aubrey took the note, assuming it was from Richard. She debated calling him while she rode the slow elevator up to her floor. Aubrey was reading the note, perplexed by its meaning, as she opened her bedroom door. She almost tripped over the broken chair lying on the floor.
Her jaw dropped as she was confronted with the state of her ransacked room. The note slid from her hand.
25
She quickly closed the door. The mattress was torn down the middle and the stuffing ripped out and spread everywhere. Her clothes were spilled on top of her bags, some of them lying in a heap on the floor. The magazine she’d left out with its corner pointed at the bedpost was ripped to shreds. What could they possibly have been looking for there? Even the picture of the room, which obviously belonged to the hotel, was askew. They’d left the light on in the small washroom, and she could see her toiletries lying on the tiled floor.
“My gosh,” she said. Aubrey lifted the destroyed mattress and, to her relief, saw the large American-made .45 lying there in all its shiny, black, deadly beauty. Her only friend left in this country. A friend that could get her out of trouble as quickly as it could get her into it.
She let the mattress flop back down. There would be time for that later. She retrieved the note and read it again.
It was from Lydia, the girl she’d met days before.
Miss Endeavours, we need your help. Please go to the Bierkeller house on the Kurfurstendamm tonight. Order a gin fizz.
Aubrey sat on the decimated bed and thought about the note. Finally, she ripped it into tiny shreds and, despite the carnage around her, put the pieces in the wastebasket. She lifted the mattress again, hesitated, then pulled the pistol free. It fit nicely in her Louis Vuitton bag.
# #
The Kurfurstendamm was blocks from her hotel, so she cabbed it. Her senses were on fire now. She looked out the back window, trying to discern if she was being followed. The maze of headlights crossing back and forth as cars changed lanes was dazzling. She gave it up as futile. If someone was back there, she’d never know it. She’d have to save what little surveillance skills she had until she was on foot.
The traffic backed up at the entrance to the Kurfurstendamm entertainment district, so she paid the driver and got out at an intersection. The street was busy with people, and she weaved her way through the crowd. She passed several rowdy bars, and a group of young men tried to corral her into one. She politely refused, but asked directions to the Bierkeller bar. She tried again in vain to spot a tail, but there were so many people; none of them stood out. She started memorizing parked cars’ license plates; at least she could do that well enough.
The Bierkeller was quieter than the rest, and she took a seat on the small patio. She ordered a gin fizz as the note had suggested and saw the waiter talking with the bartender about how to make it. Then he came back with a menu and placed it on the table.
“I’m not hungry,” she said, but the waiter was gone. She flipped it open. There was a small square of paper tucked inside. Go out the back way.
She passed the bartender, still struggling with the gin fizz, and headed to the hallway leading out of the back end of the bar. It gave her déjà vu goosebumps from her training session with Hewitt in France, but at least there would be no going out the bathroom window this time.
The rear door of the bar led into a courtyard that was well kept, with a square of lawn and a bird bath. Three-story buildings, the same height as the bar, surrounded the courtyard. She glanced up at the windows and fire escapes surrounding her. No one had seen her cross the grass, as far as she could tell. A man was pushing a broom at the far corner of the courtyard. She approached him. He didn’t look at her.
“Keep moving,” he said in heavily accented English.
There was a tight passageway leading out of the courtyard. She could see a dark sedan at the end of it. When she emerged from the passageway, the rear door of the car was flung open and she could see Lydia seated inside.
Aubrey checked left and right before getting in the car. Satisfied, she slid in and closed the door, and was thrown backwards as the car jerked away. The two women were silent for a block.
“Are we clear, Ernst?” Lydia asked the driver. Aubrey recognized him; he was the one who had tailed her after she’d inquired about Lydia.
“I believe so.”
“Good. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“You’re lucky you caught me; I’ve been out of Berlin for the past couple of days. And I’m leaving tonight. My train to France leaves at eleven.”
“There are other trains.”
“I know, but I think I’ve overstayed my welcome in your country.”
“Will you not hear us out?”
“Sure, for all the good it will do. But my bags are packed.”
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“My father is being released,” she said abruptly.
“Oh? That’s good news. I didn’t think they did that.”
“They do. There are so many people being put in camps that the state is scrambling to throw up new ones. Sometimes, with the right persuasion, or bribes, a person can be released. They released hundreds of prisoners in ’thirty-three, at Christmastime. A goodwill gesture—the last we’ll see, I’m sure.”
“Sounds like you have caught a bit of luck. I hope you and your father make out just fine.”
“There is a problem. He is a frail old man, sickly. A year in that camp will diminish him even more. He has to be helped.”
