The Last Dance

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Are you all right?’ he checked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied with an embarrassed half smile. ‘I’m sorry for being so clumsy.’

  ‘You’ll get used to the landscape and you’ll be able to run like Grace downhill before you know it.’

  Stella looked at him squarely for the first time today, permitting her glance to linger on his. He was still holding her and she eased herself free. ‘Best not,’ she murmured, unsure of what she even meant by such a remark. Mercifully he didn’t pursue it. Perhaps he too held a lingering memory of the soft kiss of her glove.

  ‘So no one at home calls you Rafe?’

  He shook his head and she was transfixed by his unrelenting gaze that seemed to suggest he wasn’t feeling even remotely awkward about standing here on the hill behind the house and clearly visible from its back windows. ‘Where’s that feisty girl I met in the dance hall? The one who couldn’t give a damn about what anyone saw or thought?’

  She was convinced he could read her mind in that moment, and even gave a crooked grin. ‘Oh, I was angry that night and you suffered for it.’

  ‘I didn’t suffer. I enjoyed it.’

  Stella gave a short gust of a mirthless laugh. She let out her breath. ‘You’re my employer now. I can’t behave with the cavalier attitude of that night.’

  He gave a grin of such innocence that Stella could swear she had just glimpsed Rafe Ainsworth, the boy, of what must be over three decades ago. The grin ducked beneath all her defences and bobbed up inside to knock on the door of her heart. He looked ridiculously handsome in his baggy plus fours and tweed jacket and waistcoat. Once again his tie was loosened and his collar open – it seemed to be a trend for him and Stella recalled the inverted triangle of browned skin she’d noticed on their first meeting. He was equally tanned now.

  ‘You’ve obviously been away somewhere a lot sunnier than the British south coast,’ she said, desperate to shift his attention from her.

  He nodded, didn’t offer a response, and Stella realised she hadn’t asked a question so he likely didn’t feel obliged. She remembered now his secretive way.

  ‘And you’ve become rather thin,’ he noted.

  She ignored the remark. ‘So all of this is yours?’ she said, sweeping a hand. ‘You kept that very quiet.’

  ‘It didn’t come up in the brief time we met. I’m not in the habit of talking about it.’

  ‘Is this your family home?’

  ‘It is. How do you find my wife?’

  Stella regarded him carefully, wondering what it was he wanted her to say. ‘I found her typical of the women I have met from the society she was raised in.’

  He laughed. ‘What a brilliantly evasive answer. Walk and explain to me.’

  ‘Nothing to explain, really. She’s cool, distracted, essentially uninterested in me. Actually, that’s not entirely true. She was very quick to leap onto the suicide of my parents.’

  He cut her a sharp glance. ‘I had to mention it to Suzanne. And it was obviously her duty to lay out the facts to a client.’ He frowned. ‘I also can’t blame her for wanting to know more. Most would, especially as you’re in charge of her children.’

  ‘Of course I understand. I just don’t get how she couldn’t imagine such stringent questioning might be cruel under the circumstances. I had barely caught my breath from arriving. She might have left it to another time when we were alone, when I was more at ease in my new surrounds, maybe after I’d met and got to know the children a little longer. She might also have been more tactful in her interrogation.’

  He nodded. ‘All of that and more. I’m afraid my wife’s subtlety only comes to the fore for more cunning reasons.’ At Stella’s quizzical look he continued. ‘Watch your step, it’s quite slippery here.’ He pointed slightly ahead. ‘What I mean is, she’s a genius at the sarcastic understatement but she can be like a blunt instrument when she doesn’t care.’

  ‘So I am right. She’s not in the slightest interested; finds me dull . . .’

  ‘That’s not such a bad thing, though, is it Stella?’

  ‘You mean I shouldn’t be insulted?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. I prefer not to be noticed, don’t you?’

  She looked at him, grasping now what he was driving at and had to smile back. ‘Yes, I suppose it is if you needed to be clandestine.’

  Grace had doubled back. ‘Mummy’s just arrived home with Georgie. I can hear their voices.’

  Stella felt her adult companion’s demeanour shift slightly. A prickle of tension now surrounded them. ‘Then I shall see you later on, Grace,’ she offered, filling the pause. ‘Thank you for working so hard today. We’ll do some more verses of that poem tomorrow.’ She turned to Ainsworth. ‘Thank you for walking us down.’ She smiled politely for Grace’s benefit.

  ‘Why don’t you join us for dinner tonight?’ he suddenly said.

  ‘Oh, yes, you must!’ Grace urged with excitement.

  Stella immediately began to step back from them. She even raised a hand slightly. ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate or necessary. The family is clearly being reunited after your absence, Mr Ainsworth, and I think —’

  ‘But I am inviting you, Stella. As head of this house and your employer I think it is most appropriate that you join our family for dinner. We would all like to get to know you better. It will be good for the girls and for my wife to share your company socially.’

  Grace was dancing around them, begging her to say yes but the little girl’s pleas were fading to background noise as Stella was sure she heard him murmur, ‘I want you to be there.’ Or did she make that up, believing them able to communicate without speaking? The invisible connection was both unnerving and reassuring at the same time. She felt momentarily flustered at his intense stare that willed her to agree.

  She glanced at the time. It was nearly five. Georgina had missed her lesson by two hours and Stella was convinced it was deliberate.

  ‘What do you say?’ he pressed.

  ‘Er, well, I can hardly refuse my employer’s wishes, can I?’ He shook his head, not allowing her to squirm away from his gaze. ‘If Mrs Ainsworth is agreeable, then yes, of course.’

  ‘Beatrice will be fine. We eat at half-past seven. Grace will fetch you if you’re a minute late,’ he said. ‘Come on, Skipper. Let’s go say hello to the family.’ He held out a hand. ‘It’s good to see you here,’ he said and Stella shook his hand once, sensitive to the soft squeeze he gave it. ‘We’ll look forward to this evening.’

  Stella nodded and watched them walk away. Grace held her father’s hand but looked behind and grinned delightedly as Stella gave her a conspiratorial wave as they disappeared around the corner of the house, their shoes crunching on the gravel.

  Stella dropped her shoulders and blew out a silent breath. ‘What have you got yourself into, Stella?’ she murmured softly.

  8

  BERLIN – MAY 1933

  Joseph Altmann was absently humming to himself and looked up from his desk at the buzz from his telephone switchboard with a soft expression of exasperation before he returned his attention to the file of papers. He finished signing his name to a letter typed in triplicate. The carbon copies were attached and he took his time initialling those before he flicked the switch on his intercom. ‘Yes, Felda?’ he said, aware she could surely hear the soft irritation in his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, Herr Altmann.’

  ‘Mmm, what is it?’

  ‘There’s a visitor here to see you.’

  He frowned. ‘There are no appointments in my diary, are there?’

  The rustle of pages being turned confirmed what he already knew. ‘No, Sir. You asked me to keep today clear for your monthly reports.’

  ‘In which case I would be most obliged if you would please have this visitor make an appointment and I shall see him when —’

  ‘It’s not a gentleman, Sir.’

  He baulked at the interruption but was sufficiently s
urprised not to take offence. ‘A woman? Who is it, Felda?’

  ‘It’s a Mrs Bergheimer.’

  He paused, ran the name through his mind, searching for familiarity. He came up wanting. ‘I don’t know a Mrs Bergheimer. Where is she?’

  ‘I’ve asked her to take a seat in the anteroom, Sir.’

  ‘And what does she wish to see me about?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but she seems reluctant to discuss it with me. She insists you know her.’

  ‘The only Bergheimer I can recall is a young teacher at my daughter’s primary school and I haven’t seen him in many years. To my knowledge he wasn’t married.’

  ‘What shall you have me do?’

  Joseph sighed, stared at the pile of letters still to be read, considered, signed, initialled. And then there were other files full of tasks demanding his time. He’d planned a long day of reporting and this tedious interruption would throw off his concentration.

  ‘Herr Altmann?’

  ‘Yes, yes, very well. I shall be out shortly.’ He heard the phone click before he let out a vexed breath through his nose. He screwed the lid back onto his fountain pen and although he would normally put the 22-carat gold-nibbed pen into his breast pocket – a treasured gift from his brother – he defiantly left it on the heavy glass penholder to reassure himself that he would only be absent for a minute or two. He stood, briefly admiring the honey stripes in the wood grain of his French Art Deco Macassar desk that he’d brought in from home, a gift from his wealthy wife for his new role within the Reich office as a senior administrator. That was a proud day for his family with the announcement of his appointment.

  Joseph began rolling down his shirtsleeves, becoming more irritated by each tick of his desk clock – another gift from his wife and children – as it reminded him of precious work minutes ebbing away. He glanced at the photograph of his family and smiled.

  ‘Back soon, darlings,’ he said, enjoying his frequent eccentricity of speaking to the photo of four – his beautiful Brigitte or Gitte, as he affectionately called her, and their two sparkling blonde daughters on the cusp of their teenage years who resembled their mother, plus the new, unexpected gift of a son, after fifteen years of happy marriage. He looked at his boy, dark and small, cradled in Gitte’s arms, and felt the rush of warmth for new life and for the loves of his life. No man could be happier, he often thought, or as blessed.

  That photo encompassed everyone he loved bar one. There was a man he loved too . . . the brother he so rarely saw, but they’d shared enough in their childhood that the memories ran strong and vivid in his mind whenever he needed to recall and indulge them.

  Altmann walked to the coat stand thinking about his dear brother. He fetched his jacket, which he carefully put on before he moved to the mirror hanging on the wall of his spacious office that was made darker by its wood panelling. He checked his hair was still combed in place, stroked a knuckle against both sides of his lustrous moustache for neatness before he straightened his waistcoat, took off his glasses and placed them in his jacket pocket. Well, his brother may have got the best of his family’s looks but Joseph knew he was perfectly handsome in his own way, especially with his oddly lightish-green eyes that people so often remarked upon. How else would he have fought off all those suitors for Brigitte von Krosig’s hand in marriage, if he hadn’t been an attractive enough fellow? They were a good-looking couple, no doubt about it, and her family name with its impeccable connections and his bright mind made them formidable.

  With a final, indignant tug at his tie knot, he murmured, ‘Right, Mrs Bergheimer, whomever you are, this had better be good,’ and strode to the door.

  He emerged to walk past Felda, who smiled and nodded towards the waiting room. He could see through a glass partition that his guest had her back to him. She was clearly not young and so he immediately relaxed and understood now why Felda had seemed uninterested in his visitor. He moved down the row of typists that he personally kept busy five days a week.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said, smiling at each. They cast warm smiles of salutation back. Their day began at eight-thirty but his routine meant his morning had begun an hour earlier as it did each working day and so they hadn’t seen him until now. ‘New hairdo, Romy? Very nice indeed.’

  Romy giggled before glancing up at Felda and her expression straightened, her gaze instantly shifting back to her typewriter. He enjoyed flirting gently with the girls in the typing pool; he didn’t have the knack of his brother who was one of those men to make a woman’s heart flutter just by entering a room, but he knew he was charming enough. He could wish to be taller but then he’d been wishing that since childhood and given that his adored Gitte had not once complained about his stature or appeal, he rarely felt inadequate about it.

  These rambling thoughts led him into the doorway of the waiting room.

  ‘Mrs Bergheimer?’ he asked, and she jumped as if stung. ‘Forgive me,’ he appealed, ‘I did not mean to startle you.’

  The lady swung around. She was far older than he’d guessed, adjusting that estimate to her mid-fifties. He noted bulging, heavy-lidded eyes that were dark above the slightly hollowed cheeks that sat high on her oval face. The thick underlip reminded him of someone but the notion he reached for seemed to flick away as he became distracted, taking in her clean, simple attire. She was dressed neatly but not with any sign of wealth that would be anticipated for visitors to Joseph Altmann’s office. If she were thirty and dressed richly, preferably wearing a wedding band, Felda would have been flitting around like an annoying gnat trying to discover everything she could. But this dowdy, middle-aged woman held little potential for gossip, presumably.

  Joseph frowned. ‘I’m so sorry, I can’t recall us meeting,’ he tried politely.

  Gitte accused him of having a memory like a Venus flytrap; that every fact he heard or discovered were like poor insects, caught in his mind forever. It was true. His recall was yet to be rivalled and for someone working hard to wrestle this new bureaucracy into shape, it was a helpful skill to be learned across all departments; a reason the interior ministry valued his service. Chancellor Hitler himself had commended his work via his Interior Minister, Wilhelm Frick. And Altmann knew that Frick liked him – no doubt because they were fellow philologists, who had turned to Law.

  ‘I’m the one to apologise,’ she said softly, casting an anxious glance over her shoulder. He looked through the glass to where she watched and then back to her, his frown deepening at her curious remark. ‘I lied to your secretary,’ she explained.

  He gave a rapid blink, perplexed. ‘Why would you do that, Mrs Bergheimer?’

  ‘I need to talk to you, Herr Altman, Sir.’

  ‘We are talking,’ he observed dryly. It wasn’t fair to take this approach but he did not like being cornered in this way. ‘Mrs Bergheimer, I am a civil servant of transparency. I have no secrets but you are making me feel as though I must somehow protect your visit; become part of whatever ruse this is.’

  ‘It is no ruse, Sir. I beg your indulgence.’ Her lip quivered. She appeared frightened.

  ‘Are you all right, Madam? Can I fetch —?’

  ‘No, please!’

  Now he was the one who looked startled.

  ‘I’m sorry, Herr Altmann,’ she hurried to assure. ‘I wish to talk with you in private.’

  ‘I see. About what, may I ask? If it’s connected with housing or —’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with State government, Sir. It’s personal.’

  ‘Madam, please, I have not met you before so I cannot imagine that you and I share anything of a personal nature. Now, really, you must forgive me, but —’

  She took his hand, squeezing it so hard he winced. He looked around, both alarmed and annoyed now. He wanted this desperate woman gone but he couldn’t catch anyone’s attention. Felda was no longer at her desk. Her back was to him, at the filing cabinets.

  ‘I have something important to give you.’

  ‘Oh, yes
?’ he said, twisting his arm away in irritation. ‘What could that be?’

  ‘Notes,’ she muttered.

  ‘Notes,’ he repeated with exasperation and she put a finger to her mouth to hush him. Joseph’s lips thinned. ‘Now, look here, Mrs —’ he began.

  ‘They’re written by him.’

  He looked at her with annoyance, only barely covered by the obvious question in his expression.

  ‘Hitler,’ she added in a whisper, and stood. ‘You need to read them to know the truth.’ She moved even closer, pointing a twisted finger that had seen hard work for all of its life at his chest. ‘You’re a Jew. You will be as scared as we are.’

  Joseph Altmann felt his day of reporting unravel at the same speed that his gut seemed to tangle in a twist of fear.

  ‘Let my son in when he visits you,’ she said, her anxiety suddenly infectious. ‘You will remember him. He is a teacher at your children’s old school. He will bring you the notes.’

  Gitte paused at her embroidery and looked on with a smile in her pale eyes as she watched her husband cuddle their son. She tucked a wayward strand of her hair that Joseph described as ‘curls of trapped sunlight’ back behind her ear and sighed.

  ‘You both look so peaceful, my love,’ she remarked. ‘I admit he’s not so placid through the day.’

  ‘He appears a most content baby because he has a wonderful mother.’ His wife kissed the air in his direction and he grinned. ‘So lovely when the house sleeps and it’s just you and me awake.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, her shoulders drooping slightly as she returned to her cross-stitch. ‘What did we used to do with all that time we had to ourselves?’

  ‘We made babies,’ he replied dryly and loved her laugh. ‘Shall we make another tonight?’

  Her eyes lifted and there was mischief smiling in them now. ‘Maybe not another child, my darling, but that shouldn’t ever get in the way of your affections.’