“Nicht Gott,” said Goering. “Gotterdammerung.”
There were more trumpets, and then spotlights flashed from below and above to the small balcony on a battlement above the rear gate to the castle keep.
“Emmy,” Goering said. “Hitler will be there and we will be here. Come. We must hurry. See, Hess and Himmler are already there, just below. Speer also.”
The crowd was pressing toward the battlement but a way was made for Goering and his wife. The Reichscommissioner pushed himself into a place between Hess and Speer, studiously ignoring Himmler.
Goebbels came forth to only moderate applause, though it sounded noisy enough given the huge size of the assemblage. The doctor gave one of his shorter speeches, ending with his always effective “Ein Volk! Ein Reich! Ein Führer!” blasting from the loudspeakers set up throughout the grounds. The applause then became thunderous, and louder still when more spotlights began to play amid more cannon firing from the ramparts.
Hitler stepped forth from darkness into incandescence, wearing his huge bulletproof military hat, familiar brown tunic and black breeches. He raised his right hand, bent backward at the wrist, in familiar salute, as Goebbels led the crowd in a dozen “Sieg Heils!” The thought passed Goering’s mind that this sort of thing presented a wonderful opportunity for an assassin. All eyes were on the Führer, and a sniper’s rifle shot would never be heard in all the noise.
With a curt wave of his arm, Goebbels brought both the crowd and cannon to swift and obedient silence. The Führer then stepped to the microphone. It was really quite cold and Goering feared his master was going to treat them to another of his hour-long speeches. But apparently he was cold, too. He spoke briefly about the destiny of the German people and the Reich and of how magnificently its unrivaled spirit had been captured by Fräulein Riefenstahl’s cameras. He spoke of greater glories to come, starting with the victories of German athletes in the Berlin Olympics the next year and followed by the march of Deutschland to fulfill its divine mission in Europe.
Another dozen or so “Sieg Heils!” followed and, as he almost never did, the Führer stepped deferentially aside in courtly fashion. Fräulein Riefenstahl then made her appearance—to more ear-splitting applause and cheering—pausing for a moment like a leading lady taking a curtain call. Then she turned to Hitler, gave the Nazi salute, curtsied low, and straightened to hand him a rose. The two thousand below greeted this moment with the hysteria due a religious happening.
Goering and Speer looked at each other, amazed. By the time they returned their attention to the balcony, the Führer and his co-star for the evening had gone back into the warmth inside.
“Come, Emmy,” Goering said, returning to his wife. “That’s where we belong, as well.”
Movie screens had been set up throughout the great castle hall and in many of the wide passageways. Guests gathered in groups before them as waiters passed throughout serving more champagne. At a cue, the lights were dimmed, and then went out. At another, the projectors were started. It was supposed to be a simultaneous commencement, but the timing varied enough for the images and soundtracks throughout the great chamber to be a second or more ahead or behind one another. After a while it began to sound like a madhouse.
There was a presence at his elbow and Goering didn’t need to look to know it was the chicken farmer. Who else would wait for the dark for a conversation?
“Good evening, Heinrich.”
“Good evening, Hermann. The Führer looks well.”
“Sicher. A heart-warming sight.”
“I have had a full report, Hermann.”
“On the Führer’s health?”
“On the occurrences aboard the Dutch ship Wilhelmina.”
“A report from whom, Heinrich?”
“From my own organization. From Ribbentrop. From the S.D. And from Admiral Canaris.”
“Everyone’s faithful servant, the admiral,” Goering said. He glanced around circumspectly, to make certain they were not being overheard, though that seemed unlikely in the grinding insanity of the competing film projectors.
“The man I put aboard has been killed,” Himmler said sharply. “He was one of the best agents I had in France.”
“The ship caught fire,” Goering said. “A number of passengers were killed, among them the beautiful Countess von Kresse. It’s all so sad, nicht wahr?”
“The Count von Kresse did not perish.”
“No, Heinrich, but neither did the Prince of Wales.”
They stood close together without speaking for a moment as the screen showed the gigantic swastika that was the centerpiece of the Nuremburg rally, so bathed in light it seemed afire. It was a masterstroke, that swastika of Speer’s. No wonder he stood so close to Hitler.
“I warn you, Hermann,” Himmler said finally. “The instant that Prussian traitor of yours steps foot on German soil I will have him arrested. If you object or try to interfere I will go to the Führer.”
“Don’t be so hasty, Heinrich. You are always so hasty.”
“Why didn’t you come to see me yesterday?” the ship’s doctor asked. He was a friendly, sentimental man with kind eyes and a florid face, and he asked the question out of a genuine deep concern.
Kees was staring down at the long ugly wound drawn in a straight line across the side of his thigh. It had gone purple and yellow at the edges. There was obvious infection.
“Is it bad?” Kees asked.
“Not too bad. Not yet,” the doctor said. “But you can’t fool with these things.”
“It doesn’t hurt that much.”
“It will in a moment. I’m going to clean it out thoroughly and apply some antiseptic.”
Kees shrugged. He had been treating his wound as irrelevant. The doctor knew his business. By turning any and all worries about his condition over to the doctor’s judgment, he could continue to ignore the injury.
The doctor began his work. The wound was no longer irrelevant. The pain was such Kees almost kicked and cried out. Gripping the sides of the examining table tightly, the flesh of his hands turning white, he somehow kept himself from doing either thing.
“How did you say you got this?” the doctor asked.
“On the steel motorboat. I fell backward during the storm. Caught it on a sharp piece of metal.”
“Fell backward? This laceration begins at the front, Kees. The tissue was plowed through like a furrow.”
“I must have turned when I fell. I can’t quite remember. It was very confusing. I was very busy. I had just one seaman with me and we had forty-foot waves.”
The doctor peered closely at the deep cut as he continued his cleaning.
“Kees,” he said, “this is a bullet wound.”
“Doctor. How could it be a bullet wound? We were at sea in a small rescue boat.”
“I am telling you what I see medically. I treated enough of them in Belgium during the war. This is a bullet wound.”
“I fell on the boat,” Kees said. “Everything is in the written report I made out for the captain. Or rather, for Mr. van Groot.”
“Get ready,” the doctor said, reaching for a swab and a small brown bottle. “I’m going to apply the antiseptic.”
Kees once more gripped the table, but when the doctor touched liquid to tissue, it didn’t help. Kees swore loudly against the agony.
“What in hell is that? Lavatory cleaner?”
“It’s even stronger,” said the doctor. “We want to avoid amputation, don’t we?”
“I’m not sure this is better.”
The doctor smiled. “There are no peg-legged captains on the Lage Lander Line.”
“Is there really some danger of that?”
“I was joking. But it won’t be a joke if you don’t tend to this. That means changing the dressing every day and going through this nasty routine.”
“For how long?”
“I’ll know better by the time we reach port.”
He began to wrap Kees’s leg in a dressing
.
“I’ll do as you say. I can take it.”
“I’ve no doubt. You’d already gone a day with it festering. I wonder you didn’t fall down.”
“It feels better already,” Kees said as he began to pull on his pants.
The doctor had gone over to a wall cabinet. He took out a bottle of brandy and two glasses.
“Here,” he said, pouring some out for both. “Pain killer.”
They drank in silence.
“How bad off is the captain?” Kees said, at last.
The doctor smiled again, but sadly.
“He’ll survive. The burns on his hands aren’t as serious as they first looked. But I suspect this is his last voyage. I think Mr. van Groot will see to it.”
Kees set down his glass, testing his leg as if it were a new shoe.
“Our conversation about your wound,” the doctor said. “That’s just between you and me. Whatever happened, well, I’m sure you’ve dealt with it in your report.”
“Every word of it the truth.”
“Come by again tomorrow. Tell van Groot I want you to rest in your cabin today. And get some sleep. You can’t fight infection banging around the bridge.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“You’re a good officer, Kees. I’m glad you weren’t hurt any worse.”
Olga sat in the only chair in Kees’s small cabin, looking at the sky through the porthole and thinking hard about her chances while Kees slept. She hadn’t counted on his presence for the day. It was worse than an inconvenience. Kees had said they had improved their speed and were making nineteen knots. She had little time left in which to strike. If Kees spent the afternoon asleep, he’d be wide awake all night, making sexual demands of her and preventing her from leaving the cabin. Perhaps she could persuade him to go back to the bridge.
He was snoring gently, lying on his back, his injured leg propped on a pillow. He was a handsome, gentle boy, with a too-small nose but cheerful Dutch blue eyes. She liked him. She hoped she would not have to kill him.
Their stateroom telephone jangled them from their sleep. Nora murmured but did not stir, though the phone was on her side of the bed. Spencer reached across her, his arm lightly touching the flesh of one of her breasts, causing her to murmur again.
He was in no way aroused. Their endless lovemaking had filled her with love and contentment but had drained him of sex. He was tired and sore and not a little hung over. The clock said it was just past nine in the evening. It had been morning such a short time before.
Spencer picked up the insistent telephone clumsily, dropping the receiver and leaning heavily over Nora’s chest and stomach to retrieve it. She groaned. Sitting up with the receiver secure in his hand, he put his fingers to his lips and then touched them to hers by way of apology.
He heard the voice on the other end with disbelief. Spencer sat there dumbly, while the other party waited for him to respond. When he finally did, it was as if he still had not comprehended who had called him. It was the other party who should have been halting and incoherent, Spencer the one who should be calm and in control.
The strange, brief conversation stumbled along. At the end Spencer agreed to the other’s request. He couldn’t think of a way not to.
Spencer walked around the bed to hang up the phone, not wanting to discomfit Nora further, then stood a moment in the center of the room, naked, his hands behind his back.
“That,” he said, “was the Count von Kresse.”
Nora sat up and yawned.
“That poor man,” she said. “I feel so sorry for him, and yet he scares me. Any man who could do that to his own sister.”
“She’d just killed a man. She was trying to shoot Mrs. Simpson. She’d gone stark, raving mad.”
“He still frightens me.”
“Well, he wants to see me.”
“See you? When?”
“Tonight. At ten o’clock. He’s invited me to join him for brandy.”
“He drowns his sister and now he wants to celebrate? He really scares me.”
“He sounded very serious.”
“What does he want with you? Share old war stories or something?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to see him.”
Nora yawned again and stretched, the movement causing her breasts to thrust forward. Now Spencer did feel at least some small arousal, but kept his mind from it. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took Nora’s hand.
“Do you mind?”
“No. I’m a big girl. I can manage by myself for an hour, if you can promise me the ship won’t sink or someone won’t start shooting.”
He kissed her hand. “I promise you. Are you tired?”
Her smile was dreamy. “Happily tired. I can use some sleep.”
He started to rise, then sat back.
“The count may want to ask me whether we’re going to turn him in,” Spencer said. “What shall I say?”
“I don’t want to stir up any trouble, Jimmy. We’ve all had enough trouble. What happened was awful, horrible, but it did end with some kind of justice, didn’t it? It was like that Madeleine Carroll film about the Russian civil war, when the countess got shot. I just want to forget it, get to New York, and start rehearsing my play. But you’re going to write a news story, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to write about the prince and Mrs. Simpson, and the fire, and the rescue. I haven’t decided what else to put in, or whether to say who all was on that boat.”
“Are you going to lie?”
“Of course not. I don’t work for a New York tabloid. But there are things I could leave out. There’s never room for everything. There are some things I should leave out, that wouldn’t stand up in a libel or slander trial, even though they happened.”
“Are you going to leave me out?”
He kissed her. “I’ll simply remark on the good fortune that the ship’s most beautiful and glamorous passenger was among the rescued. I’ll note that she gave this correspondent an exclusive interview.”
Nora blushed. “You bet, exclusive.” She rubbed his back softly. “You go off now and see this strange German man. I’m going back to sleep. Sometime tonight, wake me again.”
The count had returned to civilian dress and was wearing black tie, signifying that he had dined in one of the first-class public rooms rather than remain in his stateroom in a manifestation of grief or mourning. As arranged, he was on the promenade deck, standing at the rail opposite the entranceway that led to the main ballroom.
He greeted Spencer with a solemn nod, then returned to looking out over the dark sea. He had seemed so natural, so soldierly, in his gray uniform that it was something of a shock to see him out of it.
His eyes appeared old and weary. At least he was not getting any sleep.
“Thank you for joining me,” he said, his voice as sad as he looked. “I appreciate your company tonight.”
“What happened to Edwina?”
“Lady Mountbatten is very tired,” he said.
Spencer wondered if this was euphemism, if Edwina had by now found yet someone else—a traveling businessman, a Javanese porter, another in the prince’s party.
“She constantly pushes herself to the edge in life,” the count continued. “An experience such as we just survived can be very damaging. I fear she’ll not live a normal lifespan.”
Dagne von Kresse had lived no normal lifespan. Neither man spoke. The vibration of the turbines could be felt beneath their feet. The ship was driving very hard.
“I think also she is tired of me,” the count said. “Since our rescue I have talked to her only of my sister, and this I think disturbs Edwina. She seems now in a mood for different company.”
“What did you want to see me about?” Spencer asked. “To talk about your sister?”
“No. I talk now only to God about my sister. And to myself.” The count smoked. “You are going to write a newspaper story about this voyage,” he said. It was not a question, merely a statemen
t of fact.
Spencer confirmed it. “I thought that’s what was on your mind. Yes, I’m going to write a story. Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I am very interested in this story, in what you are going to put into it.”
“You’re afraid I’m going to write about you and what happened to your sister.”
The count had frowned at the word “afraid.” It was one never used in association with him—except by himself, in his darkest, late-night thoughts.
“I am going to return to Germany, Mr. Spencer. Sooner or later, but eventually. What appears in American newspapers is of no consequence in the Reich. What appears in German newspapers is of no consequence. They are not believed anymore. In Germany I will be beyond the jurisdiction of Dutch maritime authorities. The Reich is beyond the jurisdiction of all authority, save its own. So I’m not afraid that you will expose my desperate act. In a way, as a matter of fact, it might help.”
“How?”
“Help me to understand. To see what happened through your eyes. I would be grateful.”
“You saved lives. You killed your sister. You wouldn’t let us rescue her. You let her drown.”
The count’s expression did not change. It disturbed Spencer to look at the man’s eyes, to imagine all that they had seen.
“Actually,” Spencer said, softening his tone, “no one really tried to rescue her. We’re all as guilty as you.”
“I didn’t mean for her to die,” the count said. “I hit her with great violence, but I wanted only to stop her. Yet once she was in the water, well, suddenly there was a simple answer to what for me has been vexing and very complicated problem.”
“I can’t tell if you’re sad.”
“Sad? You’ve no idea the depths of my despair, Mr. Spencer. I am as sad as you are cynical and Miss Gwynne is beautiful. As Edwina is promiscuous. I have more grief than blood in my veins, and it has been that way for years. Especially since Dagne joined the party. It was so easy for her. She returned from a social engagement one evening and announced she had become a Nazi. I could not imagine anything more horrible, more unlike her. The most profound sadness came when I realized that, after all, it was quite like her.”
Dance on a Sinking Ship Page 42
