Nest of the Monarch

by Kay Kenyon

Hilde bit her lip. “I was just jealous. Erika thinks I have no merit, that I am unworthy of purification. She has convinced others. But if they do not give me an assignment, I think no one goes home from here.”

  “I could speak in your favor. Would that help?”

  Hilde nodded gratefully.

  Kim picked up the linens and trudged over to cabin 10. The spill from Hilde about Erika undermining her. Learning secrets now was like grabbing a puppy from a box. Why had she ever thought her Talent so difficult, so ambiguous? It seemed there was nothing she couldn’t accomplish, no obstacle that she could not manipulate in her favor.

  Yet underneath the euphoria lay a coiling dread. She was edging toward madness. No, madness was too strong a word.

  But what did you call it when you couldn’t trust your own thoughts?

  THAT AFTERNOON. In her sitting room, before a warm fire, Irina watched Stefan as he read the report. He was thorough and methodical, she was pleased to see.

  At last he placed the report in his lap and gazed at her. “I can see why you are concerned.”

  “Can you, Stefan?” Her belly clenched, hearing this. She had expected him to . . . perhaps try to soothe her, even cover things up.

  “Dr. Kaltenbrunner has not provided a satisfactory report,” he said. “We need more details. Names and conditions specified, along with purification dates. I am disappointed in this.” He tossed the report on the side table next to his chair.

  “I saw them, so pitiful,” she said. “Unnaturally thin, and some, so agitated! They could not tell me their pain. It was the language problem. We needed French, and not all had it, and then Dr. Kaltenbrunner was there, trying to hurry me along. And Kolya saw them too, and he asked me what was wrong with them. What can I tell him?”

  “Well, he does not need to know these things. But we—we must investigate, and I shall, Your Majesty. I will go down to the intake center. Today.”

  She had not considered that this might involve Stefan confronting Kaltenbrunner. The doctor had Himmler’s support, and Stefan, she had the feeling, did not. “Do not put yourself in jeopardy, Stefan. A talk with the man, but not an accusation. Himmler . . .”

  “Pardon me, but Reichsführer Himmler would also want to know if there are difficulties. Do not concern yourself with that.” He looked at her, his eyes soft, understanding her distress. “Please, Irinuska.”

  She wanted him to put his arm around her, wanted to rest her head on his shoulder. But they sat formally, opposite each other, in this public place, yes public, with officers coming and going and old Polina always hovering.

  “You know,” he went on, “we cannot have unstable individuals undertaking their assignments. If we do not have confidence in our Nachkommen, we cannot go forward. So you and I, you and the Führer, have the same goals in this regard. I believe that some individuals are not suited to taking your ministrations so far. But they are very few.” His face sobered, and she saw the steel in him, the SS officer. “If this is not the case, I will discover it. This I promise you.”

  “Stefan.” She paused, not wanting to say the next thing on her mind. She looked at her adjutant and friend. “You remember that Himmler said that the people must be broken. He is Hitler’s servant, not mine.”

  “Himmler is a powerful man. However, not everyone agrees with his methods.”

  “But perhaps Hitler? Perhaps these are Hitler’s ideas in any case?”

  “The Führer longs for an ally in Russia. You are that ally, Your Majesty. Yes, lives will be lost. But we will not break the Russian people, because even were it attempted, it is impossible. Your people are too strong.”

  His words were a great comfort. She had dressed formally, knowing that she would see him; she wore long silk gloves. Therefore she was able to invite him to sit next to her on the divan and did so with a small gesture.

  He came to sit at her side and took her offered hand. “I would never have lasted here without you,” she said.

  “You would have. You are the tsarina. To you, much strength is given. Your rare ability, your rare blood.”

  Polina entered the salon from the hall, curtseying.

  “Leave us,” Irina said, thinking how the woman had an uncanny knack for coming in at the wrong times.

  “I beg your indulgence,” Stefan said. “I asked her to come in after a few minutes.” He looked at Irina for permission, receiving her nod.

  Stefan waved Polina in. She carried a package. Stefan glanced at the side table, and with that, Polina put the package down and left, smiling conspiratorially. Irina did not like to see it, as though the old woman had a secret in common with Stefan.

  “I hope you will accept a small gift from me, Your Majesty. In honor of Christmas.”

  “Oh, Stefan, do not be so formal. We are alone, after all.”

  He smiled, heartbreakingly handsome. “Very well. We shall not be formal.” He picked up the package, wrapped in fine white paper. “Irinuska, this is my small Christmas gift for you. I hope that you take some pleasure in it.” He handed it to her.

  She undid the ribbon that kept the heavy paper together. As the wrapping fell away, she found a small book. In Russian, the title read Collected Short Stories of Anton Chekhov.

  “All your books are in French,” he said, watching as she leafed through it. “The bookseller told me this is a first-edition printing.”

  It was a handsome gift, and she thanked him very sincerely. Still, since he had decided to give her a gift, she wished it had been a more personal one. But why should he when . . .

  “Also,” he said, interrupting her thoughts, “as a token of my care for you, Irinuska.” He drew out a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

  She drew off her gloves so that she could open the small packet. Removing a plain string that bound it together, she found a pendant, a perfect, yellow diamond on an elegant chain.

  She gazed at the most beautiful diamond she had ever seen. One made wondrous by its giver. “It is beautiful, Stefan.” Her hands shook as she passed it back to him.

  Turning on the divan, she invited him to arrange it around her neck. As he worked the clasp, his hands touched her neck, fleetingly, startlingly.

  She turned back to him, admiring his lean body, the planes of his face. She must always remember that he was a German officer. And yet, how difficult it was. And even those who were the famed SS, were they not men, men with hearts?

  Stefan looked pleased that she wore his diamond, his expression proprietary as he regarded her. At that moment she would have done anything for him. Of course they could never be lovers. But they could be in love.

  PART IV

  FLOWERS IN THE WINDOW

  42

  THE AERIE

  THAT EVENING. In the Festival Hall, Kim left her early-evening instruction session with Lieutenant Voegler. Outside the meeting room she took another look at the passport she had just been issued. The new identity, Janet Lowe. Her face, that of a stranger: thin, eyes black and lost. It was her imagination that her face looked too long. That could not be happening yet.

  Through the windows in the crowded hall she saw that it was dark already. She didn’t know what time it was, disconcerting since she had always worn a watch. Stark, tall figures strode purposively through the hallway carrying files and travel documents, bearing their inhuman purpose. An office door slammed, causing her to jump. Nerves flaring, she tried to soothe her teeming thoughts.

  In a little over three days, the plane. She and Adler must recruit Evgeny to their plan, and after him, Irina Annakova. The tsarina felt deeply for her Progeny, but deeper yet for her homeland. She would defect, Kim felt sure of it.

  Yet in the back of her mind, an anchor dragged at her thoughts. Would the tsarina have her arrested? Kim swept such pessimism aside. It wouldn’t unfold that way.

  She walked through the busy corridor on the back side of the Festival Hall, past offices with typists, officers on telephones, couriers, stenographers. All still working, as
they would into the night.

  Some of the office doors were open, and she heard a voice speaking German, a voice she thought she knew. As she passed, she looked in, noting a man seated with his back to the door, talking to someone seated behind a desk. The man with his back to her . . . he reminded her, even just seeing that much of him, of Erich von Ritter.

  Just a glimpse and she was past the office. What was wrong with her? Hannah hadn’t warned her how her imagination would intrude so much; but after all, Hannah didn’t know.

  It was all she could do to keep her thoughts focused, to remain practical. It was only the day before yesterday that she had advanced up the rating system for the spill. All the way to a high 9 or even a 10. Intoxicating one moment, alarming the next.

  She couldn’t tell if she was hungry despite the fact that she had not eaten since yesterday. Her stomach felt warm as though it were still trying to digest the normal and now unsuitable food she had eaten before she and Annakova had sat together on the divan. When the saboteur without her tincture became the target.

  She passed through the officer’s mess with the strangely lean men whispering to their fellow officers or perhaps just muttering to themselves. Glances followed her. She stared back at them. I am one of you. I am not afraid. As she moved on, a few of the creatures still watched her, she knew that they did, thought they did, imagined they did.

  There was no one in the civilian dining room. No food on the pass-through. She found that she was hungry. All she wished for now was very rare red meat. An unnerving urge.

  She went into the dining room and sat alone at a table. At length someone spotted her through the window in the kitchen door. One of the usual servers, an older woman. She came out. “The last seating was at six thirty,” she said in German.

  “I’m hungry now.” Kim tried out a blank Nachkommenschaft stare, so effective unless you had to be rangy, tall, and insane.

  The woman left, not promising anything.

  Kim’s thoughts went to Annakova. The woman knew the back way out . . . if there was one. The tsarina would never accept the extermination of St. Petersburg. She would be shocked to learn the ultimate fate of her Progeny. This was something Kim would attest to, and Annakova would listen because of the SS secret plan to put Evgeny down like a horse with a broken leg. With all these Nazi lies exposed, Evgeny and Annakova would turn against their German allies. They would all defect together. Their new lives, in England, new identities. The White Russians who had fled to England would treat them as royalty. The woman would not serve the Nazi beasts ever again.

  The server came out with utensils and a cut of meat, warmed to a tantalizing fragrance.

  Kim waited a beat as the server left, so as not to dive into her food. Then she cut off a large piece and stuffed the bleeding morsel into her mouth. It took her a long time to chew, but it was so delicious it made her ears ring.

  Afterward she made her way up to the barracks under the wan light of the plaza lamps. The air smelled of snow and pine sap. A distant report of a gun. She flinched, feeling it, remembering. The shooting range up the hill was lighted, extending the hours for practice.

  Continuing past the pond, she imagined the lake in the woods. Imagined the drone of the plane London must send.

  Then the anchor to her hopes dug in, hard. How difficult would it be to land?

  She walked past the pond, the white surface like a sheet pulled flat. Four inches of snow. That did not present so much difficulty for a plane, if the lake in the valley was the same.

  But fear descended on her all at once. She stopped on the shoveled path, pulling in frigid lungfuls of air.

  Good Christ, it would be a disaster. Perhaps her letter did not reach her father. That would leave the decision about an airplane up to Duncan, or if he did ask for direction from London, he would certainly put things in the worst light. Gone off the deep end, poor thing. Jews. Heroics. Feminine emotion.

  And then, how many could the plane hold? It would have to be a small plane to minimize its presence. Annakova would bring Nikolai and Evgeny. There was Hannah, as well. Five in all, plus the pilot. Well, one was a child.

  She imagined the SS charging across the frozen lake. This vision turned into the Nachkommen walking slowly, intently, toward a stalled airplane. Too heavy to fly. Someone must stay behind. Who?

  If that happened, they would flee down the service road. That assumed that the SS would be delayed in their pursuit at least twenty minutes, and perhaps longer, depending on when Annakova was found missing.

  Tears formed along her lashes, cold as acid. Stark terror brought them on, and the fear was oddly comforting. Here was her real self, the one who knew the danger for what it was: clear, imminent, lethal.

  It was so good to have her normal thoughts back, even for a few moments. She savored this as she made her way up to the barracks.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22. Kim had awakened that morning hoping that Captain Adler had not been able to steal the execution order for Evgeny Feodorovich. That she would not have to go through with it. But an hour later, with Adler’s surprise inspection, she knew it wasn’t so. The papers would be behind the water tank.

  The three women shared relieved glances that they had passed inspection without a reprimand. On each woman’s bunk, a package of clothes they would need for their Nachkommenschaft roles.

  Kim leaned against the wall as she sat on her bunk, trying to gather her courage for what was to come.

  In a moment of absurdity, Hilde suggested that they have a fashion show, trying on the clothes they had been issued. She gave Erika an ingratiating smile. “Because what if they do not fit?” Erika rolled her eyes.

  Hilde tore into her package, shaking out a skirt and sweater and a coat. “The shoes!” she cried, holding up a pair of high heels.

  Erika opened her own package. A suit with an A-line skirt, nicer than Hilde’s outfit.

  “I’m going to the toilet,” Kim said.

  “But the fashion show,” Hilde moaned.

  “The toilet,” Kim said, “not Austria.” She used sarcasm so that Hilde would know she wasn’t afraid of her. And she had no intention of trying on the dress and prancing about, or whatever Hilde had in mind.

  In the lavatory she entered the middle stall, one of two that had a door. She felt behind the wall-hung water tank. Tape held something in the gap between the wall and the tank. As she began to peel the tape off, the outside door opened. Someone entered the stall next to hers. She looked under the partial wall, seeing a pair of high heels. Hilde.

  “I had to go too,” Hilde said, peeing.

  Kim sat on the toilet, her face cold and sweating, hands in her lap like claws.

  Hilde flushed the toilet. Kim heard her washing her hands, but then, no sound of the door closing. She was waiting for Kim to finish.

  When Kim didn’t come out, Hilde said, “You talked to them about me, then? You recommended me to the tsarina?”

  “Yes. Now leave me in peace so I can finish.”

  “Because if you did not, I can still make trouble. I really can.”

  “Her Majesty and I have a special bond. One word from me, Hilde, and you’re history.”

  “History?”

  “Ruined.”

  “Oh. I only meant . . .” A long pause. “I should not have said that.”

  A little spill, showing Hilde’s spite and delusions of importance. “No, you shouldn’t have, and I’m annoyed.”

  “I am sorry, Nora. I really would like to see you in your new dress.”

  “What makes you think I got a dress?”

  “We opened your package.”

  Kim bit her lip, trying to suppress a snide remark. “Is it nice?”

  “I suppose it is, if you like green.”

  At last the sound of the door closing. Kim crouched down to look under the stall door. The room, empty. Springing up, she yanked at the tape behind the water tank, retrieving an envelope. She fumbled at the clasp and drew out the single sheet of
paper. The name on the form: Evgeny Feodorovich Borisov. Some of the boxes checked. She couldn’t translate the words, but Evgeny’s German was better than hers.

  She stuffed the envelope down her trousers, secured by her waistband.

  When she entered the room, Erika was holding up a green print dress. “Someone has spent money on you,” she said disapprovingly.

  “The Third Reich?” Kim snapped.

  Erika sneered. Her own outfit lay discarded on her bunk.

  Hilde looked blamefully at Kim, presumably because of the green dress. Good God, at a time like this, they were going to have a catfight over clothes. But the mood for the fashion show had evaporated.

  “Breakfast,” Erika announced. She hauled on her jacket.

  Pleading a bad stomach, Kim stayed behind. Once alone, she scanned the document again. One of the boxes: Hinrichtung. A typed X. She thought this might be the word for execution. A small number in pencil on the envelope: 4. Evgeny’s cabin number?

  She sat for a long time staring at the walls. The room, quiet; her thoughts, dark.

  At last she put on her coat and boots and went down the hill to breakfast. As she neared the Festival Hall, she saw Captain Adler crossing the plaza on a path to intercept her. Perhaps he had been waiting for her. They stopped for a moment. No one else was nearby.

  “I got the papers,” she told him. “Hilde is going to make trouble for me.” He could detain her. They only needed two more days where nothing went wrong.

  “Go to cabin 4 now,” Adler said. “He is there. I will keep Hilde busy.” And strode past her.

  Kim proceeded into the plaza, past the booth housing the lift, and up the other path to the private cabins.

  A Nachkomme in SS black was coming down the walkway. As he drew closer he noticed her, watched her. She kept her eyes averted.

  He stopped in front of her, saying something in German that, in her panic at being stopped, she could not quite catch.

  “Please excuse me, Lieutenant, I do not speak German very well.”

  “What is business you have here?” he said very slowly in German. He bore a profound scar down his right cheek.