Nest of the Monarch

by Kay Kenyon

  “Yes, beautiful,” she said.

  He looked at her, his eyes dark and warm. “But today it does not seem as though you love the view.”

  “I do not love it today, perhaps.” She liked that he was sensitive to her moods. He was the sort of man with whom any trace of interested regard was flattering, even to her.

  “Someday the clouds will part and you will see your country.”

  “Yes. As you have promised.”

  A nod. A stunning smile. “When the Wehrmacht clears your path to St. Petersburg.”

  He would not call it Leningrad. Last summer, an SS officer had used that name in her presence, and his career nearly did not survive the insult. But she didn’t respond to Stefan’s Wehrmacht utterance. She did not like to think of the German army clearing a path, even if it was to sweep Russia clean of the Bolsheviks—Lenin’s minions who had murdered her uncle Nicholas and all his sweet family; the insatiable fanatics who had pursued her for eight years through the slums of Moscow and then the taiga. Those were the years of isolation, starvation, abuse. The fallen days.

  “It is all for Nikolai,” she murmured. Her history was not important. She nodded to the northeast. “All that I do, all that I am, it is for my son.”

  “You have the Führer’s word,” he murmured. “After you, your son will rule.”

  Stefan had the bearing of certainty. Unlike Hitler, who shouted his promises, Stefan whispered his pledges, and this was somehow more reassuring. She reached for his hand as it rested on the gray slate of the wall.

  His sudden look: a warning.

  “Forgive me. You do not wish to be touched.”

  “Alas, Irinuska. I cannot. You know why.”

  She withdrew her hand, for a touch from the tsarina meant something: an exaltation. One he did not want.

  A thud. The door leading onto the terrace crashed open, hitting the wall.

  Sir Stefan turned, then bowed in that Prussian way he had. “Your Imperial Highness,” he said to the intruder. “Mind that you don’t break the door.”

  Eleven-year-old Nikolai Ivanovich waved a large sheet of paper. “But, Sir Stefan, Maman, I shot a bull’s-eye!” he said in French. He rushed up to his mother as old Polina waited for her charge in the doorway.

  Irina took the target paper from him, seeing that he had indeed put a bullet through the center. She held it up for Stefan. “Well done, darling.”

  Stefan nodded with satisfaction. “Your practice pays rewards. Most excellent, Your Highness.”

  The tsarevich beamed under Sir Stefan’s praise, then his brow creased as Irina handed the paper back to him. “Maman! Mayn’t Sir Stefan call me by my name?”

  Irina paused before answering. She hated saying no to him.

  “I could,” Stefan said, as Irina raised an eyebrow. “But then the guards would have to shoot me.”

  The young prince grinned. “I would shoot back!”

  “Enough of guns, Kolya,” his mother said. “Polina waits with your French studies.”

  Nikolai cut a glance at Sir Stefan, but finding no sympathy there, he sighed and made his exit. At the door he turned. “But a bull’s-eye!”

  “And tomorrow another!” Stefan said.

  Polina took Nikolai in hand, and they disappeared into the chalet.

  For the past ten minutes Irina had noted a convoy of black cars approaching, appearing around switchbacks in the road far below. Now they rolled up the long approach road past the cordon gates.

  She and Stefan watched as the three Mercedes motorcars, black, low, and edged with chrome, came to a stop in front of the 150-meter wall of rock that comprised the unwelcoming face of the Aerie.

  “My other children,” she said. As they emerged from the cars, she counted seven.

  Their black uniforms proclaimed them SS, but the collar vulture insignia would herald them as her special unit. These were the souls she called the Nachkommenschaft, her progeny, as she styled them. There were civilian Nachkommenschaft as well, and all comprised a growing cadre for whom she felt tender responsibility.

  “Are their quarters ready?” she asked.

  “Of course. On schedule. We have taken out the airstrip to make room for spacious quarters with views.”

  In the past, Hitler had occasionally used the Aerie, arriving by aeroplane, but now, having provided the complex to the Nachkommenschaft operation, anyone approaching would have to take the road. From the battery next to the chalet, German guns would be trained on them.

  As the Nachkommen walked out of view, entering the access to the lift, Irina turned to regard her residence, the soaring glass-and-stone-faced chalet. Through the enormous windows, which could be retracted on fine days, she saw that Nikolai and Polina had retreated to the classroom.

  Behind the chalet, on the sliced-off top of this mountain, stretched nine acres of grounds with barracks, cabins for senior Nazi officials, a vegetable garden, fire pond, security bunkers, and the great two-story festival hall with military mess and, above, the timbered ballroom for elite gatherings. When her black-uniformed children emerged from the lift, they would be in the handsome plaza. Her domain.

  Any visitor would be impressed. It was essential to intimidate and command with architecture. Chancellor Hitler had taught the tsarina a few things about leadership. Intimidate and command was only the beginning. And then control. For this, physical and spiritual terror was needed.

  Sir Stefan said, “Shall we greet them?”

  Irina demurred. “Let me enjoy the view a few minutes more.” Her nostalgic mood having passed, she looked out with satisfaction on the steep valley with its crumpled, forested hills. She could almost envision her Nachkommen as they slipped through the moss-clad trees, watching, controlling.

  Just because you could not actually see something did not mean it was not there.

  7

  THE PALAIS STROUSBERG, BERLIN

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 14. At night, Berlin came to life, with spotlights trained on plinths and banner-hung frontages, the cafés crowded and, on the Spree, boats with torches flickering on the water. On her way with Alex to the embassy dinner, Kim thought it all bore a frenetic, disturbing beauty.

  Their limousine joined the line of cars snaking up to the Palais Strousberg, the seventy-year-old mansion occupied by the British embassy. “Will we see the ambassador tonight?” Kim asked. She hadn’t met him when she was shown around the embassy last week, but she had met a number of undersecretaries, subalterns, and junior officials.

  Alex tapped his cigarette ash into the silver tray on the back of the forward seat. “Right, Phipps will be there. Can’t miss him in that cutaway he’s had for thirty years.” Alex looked effortlessly handsome in an elegant tuxedo and white tie.

  She tried not to be too impressed with him. “Göring will be hard to miss.”

  “Yes, he’ll be twice as wide as anyone.” He took her hand. “You aren’t nervous, I hope?” The car inched forward.

  “Not in the least.”

  “You look rather nice.” He gazed at her, coolly admiring. “The color suits you.”

  Under her lamb’s wool black coat, a slice of pale rose silk peaked out.

  “Thank you, my dear.” A formal answer, in case he hadn’t meant it.

  As they approached the next intersection on the Wilhelmstrasse, a commotion broke out on a side street. Kim leaned forward to see.

  “Alex, they’re beating someone!” Several people were dragging a man out of an alley, landing vicious blows on him. Lighting the scene, torches held by a few accomplices.

  Alex leaned past her to see. “The goons.” He raised his voice, saying to the driver, “Move on, can’t you? Pull out of the line, we’ll get out on the street.”

  As their car broke free of the queue, Kim turned to see what was happening in the plaza. “My God, they’re using clubs on him. Why doesn’t someone stop it?”

  “Because no one interferes with the Gestapo. Most likely this is part of the reprisals for the Stadtschlo
sse bombing. Three SS were killed; they think it was the Oberman Group.” At her questioning expression, he explained. “Jewish agitators.”

  To her horror, the group began dragging the man off by one ankle, causing his head to bump along the cobblestones. “Will they kill someone in the street?” She kept staring, forcing herself to look.

  “They might try him. Make it as public as possible before executing him. As a warning. Some of these dissidents have found a way to strike. Bombs. And nothing the Nazis can do about it, at least beforehand. Afterward . . .” He shrugged. The car had pulled up parallel to the line of cars in front of the embassy. The chauffeur opened the door, and Alex helped Kim out.

  She turned back in the direction of the Brandenburg Gate, soaring amid the floodlights, but in the press of debarking passengers, she could see little of the street activity.

  “Don’t look,” Alex murmured, and led her through the mass of cars.

  “How do they know who to arrest?”

  Alex pulled her along more insistently. “I’m afraid any Jew will do.”

  The Germans with their appalling anti-Semitism. The rumors of brutality against the Jews were often denied, but what if they were true? Feeling ill, she let herself be led up to the great doors.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, pausing for a blessed second.

  “Yes.” She put on her witless American face, her standard expression when she felt things most deeply. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  He squeezed her elbow, giving a rueful smile of encouragement. They entered the portico and ascended the stairs. The doormen recognized Alex, and they were passed through to the vestibule, resounding in excited voices. Suddenly Kim did not want to be here amid the happy guests, finely dressed, talking too loudly, milling and murmuring to one another. The two-story gaslit room with its grand coffered ceiling and two flights of marble stairs felt like a mausoleum hosting an intolerable party, one that mocked the violence outside.

  Alex was accosted by Adrian Woodhouse, the third secretary for culture, and his wife, Something-or-Other, and then by a junior official with a mustache and a bad complexion. He introduced his guest for the evening, Rachel Flynn, a robust woman with her dark hair in a chignon. A large smile and something about being a correspondent for the Chicago Daily News, which was interesting. Alex murmured to Kim that over there, a trim man in wire-rim glasses was William Dodd, the US ambassador—looking very much the history professor—with his wife and daughter. Then they were all moving into the reception hall, another enormous room. As Alex disappeared into the crowd, she found a seat in a grouping of sofas and gradually got her bearings, taking stock of the party guests.

  Alex’s quick recovery from having witnessed the beating disappointed her. But he was a political man; this was an important embassy dinner, and he could not be seen to criticize the actions of the German security police, at least not tonight.

  The woman who worked for the Chicago Daily News had sunk onto a chair nearby. Rachel Flynn. Bending over the woman was a man in a German naval uniform, smiling and laughing. By the bank of windows showing onto the Wilhelmstrasse were a group of men in SS black with red armbands. They were fair-skinned and fit, at ease, holding their drinks, one hand behind their backs.

  Momentarily left alone, Rachel turned a frank gaze on Kim. “You have an American accent, am I right?”

  “Well, I’ve been living in England, but I spent my childhood in America. How nice to see an American in Berlin.”

  “Everyone likes the Americans. Well, except the German officials don’t much care for Dodd.” She held up her empty champagne glass to a passing waiter, who supplied a new one.

  “Oh, why ever not?”

  “The American ambassador isn’t a fan of the Nazis. And has the poor taste to say so.” Her eyes sparkled. “Now, over there,” she went on, nodding at the canapé table, “that’s his daughter, Martha.”

  Kim noted a young woman with dark blond hair in a dress with a plunging neckline, obviously enjoying the attention she was getting. “She looks completely at home amid all this.”

  Rachel cocked an eyebrow. “And you’re not? Well, of course you’re not, you just arrived. It takes some getting used to, Berlin does.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “See the man dipping into the caviar? That’s Armand Berard, a French diplomat who Martha’s carrying on with. Lots of bodies in her wake.”

  “Her father doesn’t mind that she’s . . . carrying on?”

  Rachel laughed. “Oh, he minds all right.” She glanced at the man just lighting up a cigarette by an enormous Chinese vase. “And then, when she’s not with Armand, she’s with him.”

  “Quite a handsome man.”

  “A Soviet press attaché.” She smirked. “So he claims.”

  Kim looked him over. Did she mean he was a spy? And everyone knew it? “Anything goes in Berlin, I guess,” Kim said, warming to her role as the innocent. “You’re with the Chicago Daily News? What story are you working on?

  “Boring stuff. The Four-Year Plan, the Anti-Comintern Pact with Japan.” She rolled her eyes.

  “It seems like a plum assignment in Berlin if you get to come to all the diplomatic parties. I dabble in journalism. Women’s magazines.” They spent some time talking shop, with Kim avoiding mentioning her stint at the Philadelphia Inquirer. There was a chance that, given Kim’s acquaintance with the SD agent Erich von Ritter, her name would be known by German intelligence services. Their chat was occasionally interrupted by people coming by to greet Rachel.

  At last Kim stood, aware she’d spent too long as a wallflower. “Alex is eager for me to meet his associates,” she said, “but I do hope to see you again.” She drew a card from her bag and used a small pen to strike out her last name. She handed the card to Rachel.

  Rachel supplied her own card, also striking out her last name, and suddenly they were on a first-name basis. Perhaps Kim had found her shopping companion.

  Before she could depart, an SS officer came up to greet Rachel. She introduced him as SS Captain Rikard Nagel. Kim declared her pleasure to meet him, all the while taking in his odd appearance. Tall—indeed, most of the SS officers had the ideal Aryan physique—but Rikard Nagel was very lean indeed and long-faced as well, his receding hairline adding to his gaunt appearance.

  “Frau Reed,” he said in heavily accented English. “A very great pleasure.” He bowed in a quick, ducking motion. “I have met your husband.” He had a distinct insignia on his collar, but before she could take a closer look they were distracted by a murmur in the room. Everyone turned toward the entrance. A large man in a white uniform studded with medals had entered. He beamed in high pleasure at the fawning crowd. It could be none other than Hermann Göring.

  When she turned back to Rikard Nagel, he was staring at her with a disconcerting intensity and—how completely bizarre—his nostrils flared as though he were smelling her.

  Then he turned his gaze away, appearing to have already forgotten her, and moved into the crowded center of the room toward Göring. Kim was rather relieved to escape the officer’s peculiar stare.

  When he was gone, Rachel said, “Where do they find such people? Too fat, too thin, it’s as though they collect all the strange ones.”

  “Perhaps only the strange ones can applaud what goes on.” The image was still vivid of the man being dragged by one heel in the plaza.

  Rachel smirked, and Kim felt she knew the woman’s opinion of Germany’s current government.

  “And here comes Sonja Nagel, Rikard’s wife.” Rachel glanced in the direction of a woman approaching.

  Bright blue eyes, with a delicate beauty, Sonja took a place in an armchair across from them. “I hope Rikard was not rude,” she said to Rachel, whom she apparently knew. There was nothing one could say to that, so Rachel made the introductions. Since Kim was already standing, she felt she could move on, and she left Rachel and Sonja Nagel to their conversation.

  Making her way through the throng, she reentered the vestib
ule and found the women’s lavatory tucked under the marble stairs.

  The cold of the large tiled room settled soothingly over her flushed face. A few women chatted at the sinks, reapplying their powder. When she emerged from her stall, only one person was at the mirror, a young woman dressed in sequined brown, with shoes that did not entirely match the dress.

  The woman, whose red hair looked striking with her bronze dress, smiled at Kim, then applied a bright red shade to her lips. As Kim finished washing her hands, the woman said, “You are the wife of Alexander Reed?”

  Kim turned to the woman. “Yes, I’m Elaine Reed. Do you know my husband?”

  “No, I do not. I have, actually, a request to make. I hope you do not mind talking to a stranger?” She looked around the powder room as though to say, We have not been introduced, but women will chat in the WC, won’t they?

  “Of course.”

  The woman glanced at the door. “No one at the embassy will see me, so I have sought you out.” Her English was stilted, but otherwise excellent.

  “Would you like to walk into the foyer, where we are certain to have a moment to ourselves?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  In the hall, the young woman—she looked to be in her very early twenties—led her up a short staircase into the atrium with its glass ceiling, dark now, as the night deepened.

  “Mrs. Reed,” she began. “I am a Jew, and they are searching for me.” Her gaze, frank, almost challenging. “I may be killed if I cannot find asylum in your country. Of course the embassy would not bring me out of Germany just for myself. But I have . . . things to report. If there is someone at the embassy who can help me—perhaps your husband?—I will return this favor with information your country may greatly need.”

  “Why would no one at the embassy see you?”

  “Because they do not wish to rescue German citizens from their own country. It makes it appear that Germany is bad, and you see here all the members of the National Socialist Party who will be sitting down at table with you.”

  “Why have you come to me specifically?” Kim asked. “My husband works in trade issues.”