by Bonnie Toews
“A duet?” Her eyebrows arched. “Are you also a pianist?”
He nodded.
“If not now, WHEN,”
This response he did not expect. Again, she was challenging him, but how naive to quote from a verse written by a Jewish philosopher with the Gestapo present. Before she could carry on with more subtle baits that could get them both in trouble he glided over to the piano bench and sat down beside her. He began to play the opening passages of Debussy’s Clair de Lune.
“Do you know it?” he asked.
She nodded.
“You play. I’ll improvise,” he told her.
At first she hesitated, and then her head rose in proud confidence. She began playing, and Erich introduced a jazz counterpoint to her classical treatment of the melody. His harmony contained the code.
Under the suddenness of the opportunity, he played a series of minor flats followed by rests in the alto line that were related to the pre-arranged list of key words or phrases between him and Sir Fletcher. D-Flat signaled Schellenberg; B-Flat equaled Dr. Nielsen; and A-Flat, Copenhagen. Through the music, he transmitted his new assignment with Schellenberg to monitor the nuclear scientist, Dr. Nielsen, in Copenhagen. He dared not look to see if Sir Fletcher recognized their code.
When they finally came to the end of Erich’s inventive playing of Clair de Lune, the gathering around the piano broke into raves and loud clapping.
To show her own respect for his unorthodox treatment of a classical piece, Lady Grace joined in their ovation.
“I would never have believed it was possible,” she told him.
“Nor I,” he said. “Nor I. But what fun, yes!”
She laughed. “What other surprises do you have?”
“Only one a night,” he said.
She feigned a pout.
“Would you have time to join me for a drink before you leave?”
“Oh, yes, I would like that.”
He escorted her to the only free booth in the anteroom. It was next to one where Lee Talbot and Quinn Bergin sat. The contrast between the two women struck him.
The American journalist exuded a worldly sensuality. For some men, she held an animal magnetism. In just a passing glance, her eyes invited him, and he could not deny his attraction to her promise of pleasure. Yet, he desired Lady Grace more. She was his English rose, a fresh flower in bloom. Open. Elegant. Pure. And quite refined.
He nodded to the two correspondents and waited until Lady Grace was comfortably seated.
“I think this occasion deserves champagne. Wait here, please,” he instructed her.
Soft chamber music played on the radio behind the bar as he waited for the bartender to bring him a bottle of champagne. He took the bottle and two champagne flutes back to their table. When he was seated again, he poured one drink for her and one for himself, and then raised his glass in toast to her.
“To the most wonderful time in my life … playing Debussy with the pianist I most admire.”
Lady Grace blushed at his flattery. Spirited, yet modest. If these were different times, he would pursue this fascinating young noblewoman. He knew his parents, if still alive, would approve of her as well. He tipped his glass to hers.
While they sipped their champagne, they stared at each other. Neither one wanted to drop contact first. Finally Lady Grace nodded toward the table next to them.
“Is that Lee Talbot beside us?”
He smiled and nodded to the journalist again.
“Do you know her?”
“I just met her tonight… before you arrived. Would you like to meet her also?”
“Oh, yes. I read her columns in the London Times and do admire her so.”
Erich studied her earnest expression and wanted to agree what Talbot wrote was remarkable considering Nazi censorship of foreign correspondents’ reports. He rose and held out his hand to her.
“Then we shall join Fraulein Talbot and her bureau chief.”
The sudden screeching of Joseph Goebbel’s high-pitched effeminate voice from the radio behind the bar disrupted further conversation: “The murderer has confessed!”
Immediately alert, Erich ordered the bartender to turn up the radio’s volume. A hush fell over the reception. Goebbel’s shrill voice ranted on.
“The murderer has confessed! Herschel Grynszpan, a 17-year-old Polish Jew has admitted to killing Ernst vom Rath, the Third Secretary in our Paris Embassy. Let every Jew in Germany be identified tonight with this unspeakable crime against the German people. NO Jewish business, NO Jewish home, and NO Jewish body will enjoy Reich protection from German citizens revenging their slain brother. We will rid Germany of these UNTERMENSCHEN! The German people are entitled to their time of vengeance!”
His voice shrilled, out of control. “And the time is NOW! Destroy the miserable Jews before they ravage our youth in their prime! Seek out every one and make him pay … PAY … PAY for this public assault on an esteemed Reich representative of the German people! Let no mark of Jewish life continue to exist in Germany!”
His frenetic pitch cut off sharply, and the Funeral March from Beethoven’s Third Symphony broke in. In shock, no one in the Club moved. Lady Grace’s hand turned to ice in Erich’s palm. Several moments of stunned silence passed until, once again, the radio retched with Goebbel’s ravings.
“NO German is safe from the miserable Jews until they are all gone!”
Lady Grace gasped in disbelief. “He’s ordering a pogrom!” She pulled her hand from Erich’s.
“Hush! Someone might hear you,” he implored her.
In a protective gesture, he turned her in his arms and rested her face against his chest. She looked up at him. The whites of her eyes bulged, partly in shock, partly in anger, as the journalists and the Nazi officers in the Club began rising from their tables. He prayed she wouldn’t do anything impulsive by joining them. He could hear loud speakers blaring outside with Goebbel’s news. Listening to the madness of his caterwaul screeching from every street corner made Erich’s soul shudder.
All at once, a brown rain-coated storm trooper burst through the entrance doors. He waved copies of Der Volkische Beobachter and threw one newspaper down on every table.
“Read!” he ordered. “READ!”
Erich stared at the ugly heavy-set black headlines, sick at heart, until he grew aware of Lady Grace’s gaze on the SS rune affixed to his rigid collar. At last, fear and disgust registered in her face.
“No, Lady Grace …”
Kurt Lindahl spat on him.
“This is one story you pigs can’t squash!”
Erich inwardly cringed at the newsman’s venom.
The other correspondents stormed out the entrance behind Lindahl. As Lee rose to follow, Ludwig Ketmann strode in front of her, blocking her path. Erich held Lady Grace’s elbow to steady her as she stood against him, helplessly watching.
Ketmann hissed in English, “I can have you and your press friends deported.”
“Don’t favor us,” Lee shot back.
He sneered. “Today the Jews. Tomorrow the Catholics. And the day after that… ALL journalists.”
Smirking, he continued to stand in front of her. Erich watched Lee jut out her chin in defiance and sweep by him. Erich could see her shoulders square as she marched away. Ketmann glared after her. When his attention turned back to Erich, he arched one eyebrow explicitly.
Erich stilled every emotion that might betray him and stiffly nodded.
In response, Ketmann’s lips split into a twisted smile of smug satisfaction. He slapped his leather gloves against his thighs, swung around and cut his way through the stunned onlookers to the foyer, leaving in his wake absolute terror.
“Please,” Lady Grace pleaded, “how do we get out of here?”
Erich led her to the checkroom. One Wehrmacht officer was passing out coats to people who called out their check numbers.
“Where’s Sir Fletcher?” Lady Grace asked in alarm.
Erich looked aroun
d. “I don’t see him. Don’t worry. No harm will come to you tonight. Not while you are with me.”
A mixture of emotions filled her eyes. Erich pushed through to the coat rack, retrieved his SS peaked cap and tapped it on his head, before he found her hooded ermine cape. He wrapped it around her shoulders and rushed her outside.
Beyond the horizon, a funnel of fire shot into the night sky. Its eerie glow formed an evil halo.
A hushed voice near them whispered, “They are burning the great synagogue on Fasanenstrasse.” The presence of Erich’s SS uniform quelled further remarks.
Erich felt disgraced and helpless. He led Grace away from the Press Club entrance and the people exiting it to a windowless section of the building further down the sidewalk where he could not be overheard.
“Lady Grace, I could not let you speak your mind inside. I’m sorry. Germany has lost all dignity and decency tonight,” he whispered disconsolately.
He lifted his cap and shaved his fingers through his close-cropped hair as he stared at the torched skyline. Black ribbons of smoke drifted closer. Acrid odors from the mixture of kerosene and smoke burned his throat. Tears blistered his eyes. From the distance, a jumble of sounds riddled his ears: jeering shouts, painful shrieks, glass shattering and jackboots thundering. He gritted his teeth and resolutely set his cap with the matte silver Waffen SS Eagle and Totenkopf ‘Death’s Head emblems aligned over his brow correctly.
“It’s murder!” Lady Grace condemned him. “Full scale murder! What kind of people are you?”
In anguish, Erich searched to give her an answer. “We are not all Nazis, Lady Grace. They have the power. They can destroy us at will.”
“But there are more of you than there are of them! How can you let them do this to innocent people? Surely there is something we can do!”
She looked around in desperation for some sign of help, but the people he saw hanging out their windows or filling the nearby streets gawked in silence. One old man shook his head and pulled his wife back inside their upper-floor flat. He closed the window and pulled the curtains. Erich closed his eyes in shame.
Just then, a black cab pulled up to the curb. Lee jumped out and ran up to the English pianist. “I don’t have time to explain, but Sir Fletcher says you have to come with me, Lady Grace.”
She hesitated.
“NOW!” insisted Lee.
“If not now, WHEN!” Erich quoted to Lady Grace. Her eyes reflected her surprise, and disillusionment. He took her by the elbow and ushered her toward the waiting taxi.
“Take good care of her, Miss Talbot,” he said, helping them slide into the back seat. As he started to close the door, the English girl’s sad blue eyes pleaded with him.
He paused. “This is my homeland. Right or wrong, I belong here.” He banged the taxi’s back door shut. “Lock your doors.”
He then saluted them and rapped the hood of the trunk to signal the driver to move on. As the motorcar pulled away, he could see Lady Grace’s distraught face peering back at him through the rear window.
SIX
Wednesday, November 9th, 1938
Lee glanced at the young English girl, who had not spoken since she had climbed into the back seat of the cab with her. The pianist whisked the dainty diamond tiara from her crown of honey curls and laid it on her lap. She twisted her fingers around the thinnest edge and began squeezing it like a kitten kneading comfort from a wool shawl.
As much as the white fur cape draped the rich teal gown she wore, it failed to conceal her tiny waist and small pointed breasts, but what raised Lee’s envy most was the pianist’s flawless complexion and chaste beauty, not her virginal figure.
Something had clicked between the British king’s cousin and the handsome Nazi colonel. Yet, Lee had sensed the SS officer’s interest in her too. She had planned to use his attraction to gain more introductions to Hitler’s inner circle, so the mutual magnetism between von Lohren and Lady Grace took her by surprise.
As did his performance. Who would have guessed he too was a brilliant pianist? Nevertheless, the SS officer’s reaction to the titled pianist, no matter what the cause, intrigued her. Was he just gallant or did he act protective towards her for another reason?
She considered Lady Grace’s set expression. Her eyes were sadly troubled. She looked so young, yet so old.
Three blocks south of the International Press Club, the young noblewoman spoke first. “Where are we going?”
“I’m sorry. I should have introduced …”
“I know who you are. I read the papers.”
She looked at Lee with amazing calm. “I just want to know where we are going.”
“The American Embassy.”
“Why not the British?”
“Sir Fletcher is at the American Embassy,” Lee explained.
“I see,” she replied, “And my parents? Are they with Sir Fletcher?”
Her question took Lee by surprise. She had forgotten they had accompanied the English pianist on her concert tour.
“I didn’t see them, but I’m sure they’re safe. Sir Fletcher would see to it.”
Grace nodded. “Yes, he would. My father and he are best friends.”
Lee resumed looking out the window at the fashionable sixteenth and seventeenth century villas lining both sides of the street. Each three-story mansion had been divided into luxury flats nestled behind tidy courtyards.
“May I call you Lee, Miss Talbot?”
Lee turned her attention back to the young woman. “Certainly.”
“I would like you to call me Grace. Lady Grace is an awful mouthful.”
“Of course,” Lee smiled.
As they neared the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, a fire truck blocked the cab’s entrance at the intersecting streets. To the west, billowing flames roared out of control. The cab driver kept the taxi’s engine idling.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked Lee.
Grace swiveled around in her seat to face Lee and spoke with quiet resolve.
“I don’t know what Sir Fletcher expects, but I assure you I don’t need to be coddled. This is an once-in-a-lifetime story. Do what you would do if I weren’t here.”
Lee considered her with astonishment. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Right. Thanks, Lady… Grace.,” she corrected herself.
“Can you get on the Kurfurstendamm from another street?” she asked the driver.
“Tonight it is forbidden.”
“There’s fifty American dollars here if you take us.”
She waved a bill in his rear view mirror so he could see it.
She saw the reflection of his lips curve into a smirk.
“Make that one hundred.”
She pulled out another fifty-dollar bill and handed it over his shoulder.
He grabbed it.
“Keep your windows closed,” he instructed as he backed up the taxi and wheeled down another back street of elegant Renaissance homes.
Despite the blazing sky and insistent clanging of fire bells, the shutters on each home remained closed to the madness storming Berlin. They heard the yelling and cursing before they saw the flickering reflections of myriad torches lighting the sidewalls of the buildings on the next block. The driver slowed the cab down almost to a complete stop.
“Stay still,” he said as a roving gang of youngsters rounded the corner at the next intersection. These were scavengers pillaging the stores. They carried trophies of lamps, fur coats, clothing, shoes, hats, paintings, artifacts … anything they could grab without hauling a cart. Some hoisted plaque cards on broom handles with hand-painted lettering: “Juden Verrecken! Jews die!”
Driven by their excitement, a few banged into the cab as they pushed by and peered in at Lee and Grace in the back seat. A storm trooper tapped the driver’s window.
“Where did you pick up these ladies?” he asked once the driver lowered it.
“The International Press Club.”
&nb
sp; “Where are you going?”
“The American Embassy.”
With cold detachment, the storm trooper studied Lee and Grace in the back seat. His eyes narrowed. Lee hoped their Aryan appearance would protect them. He bent his head down to the driver’s level.
“Show me your papers, please.”
The driver handed him his papers.
“Your passengers too.”
Both women rummaged inside their evening purses, pulled out their passports and passed them over the back of the driver to the storm trooper. He studied them intensely. A few times he checked the photos against their faces before he handed them back.
“You should not be in this area tonight,” he said disapprovingly. “Go down Tiergartenstrasse to Wilhelmstrasse. The shopping plazas in the west and southwest districts and along the Kurfurstendamm are off limits. If you do take them, you do so at your own risk.” He clicked his heels and saluted. “Heil, Hitler.”
Lee and Grace nodded solemnly. The driver rolled up his window again and pressed the accelerator cautiously. He steered the cab through the thinning mob at crawl speed, but as he cornered the next block, another, more frightening pack of hardened Hitler Youth descended on them. Lee pointed to the SS boots gleaming beneath some of their pant legs. The SS was orchestrating this ruthless plunder, using diehard storm troopers who carried lead pipes, ax handles and crowbars. Grace’s expression grew more alarmed as the sheer pressure of their frenzied bodies rubbing against the cab rocked it.
Lee clasped Grace’s hand. “Don’t show your fear,” she whispered. “They’ll think we’re Jews.”
Noisy hooting ruptured the air.
“Over here!” someone called. “Another Jew house.”
The horde wildly cheered and rushed toward the new object of their vindictive fury. “Tor auf! Open the gate,” they chanted.
The first few scrambled over the railing gate with iron letters spelling Singer Haus scrolled across the top. The gate led to a late Renaissance villa on the west side of the block. The hinges of the gate creaked under their collective weight. Some of the civilian-dressed storm troopers chipped at the lock with their crowbars until the gate gave way for the rest to flood the groomed courtyard beyond. They raced up the front steps of the grand portico two at a time and banged on the front door.
