At the end of the service, Hélène picked up the tiny shovel and scooped a little symbolic earth out of the big mound beside the grave. She took a deep breath and looked stoically down at the gleaming coffin. Then she flicked her wrist awkwardly and the pebbles rained noisily down on the curved mahogany lid and slid off it into the sides of the grave. Quickly she turned away and began to walk to the exit. Jacques fell into step beside her and put his hand under her elbow. Behind her she could hear the Vicomtesse weeping as she threw her shovel of earth. 'Au revoir, mon ami,' she heard her cry thickly.
At the cemetery gate, the Vicomtesse caught up with Hélène. She put a hand on her arm and drew her aside. 'I want to tell you that Stanislaw was very fortunate,' she said, carefully dabbing her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief. 'His last few weeks were the happiest of his life.'
Hélène looked away, her eyes distant. 'No,' she said firmly. 'If he hadn't married me, he'd still be alive.'
The Vicomtesse put a gloved hand on Hélène's chin and twisted her face around. 'Even in grief you have no right to say such a thing,' she said coldly. 'Stanislaw wrote me a letter the day before he died. I received it only yesterday. I've memorized every word. He wrote: 'I only regret that I did not meet her years before. She is strong and sweet, my Hélène, sensual and caring, passionate and maternal. If she had been the mother of my children, I am sure I would have had a close-knit, loving family instead of one that fell apart at the seams.''
Suddenly Hélène's eyes filled with tears. She didn't answer. She gave her a little hug, pulled herself away, and hurried to her waiting Citroen limousine.
That afternoon, in Monsieur Duchamps's stuffy, paneled law office on the Avenue de L'Opera, she found out just how much Stanislaw cared for her. He had made her the sole beneficiary of a single rare Stradivarius violin, a house in the sixteenth arrondissement, all his recording royalties, bank accounts, and stocks and bonds worth in excess of two and a half million dollars. He had left Ada and Herbert with a paltry twenty-five-thousand-dollar a year trust fund each.
10
Hélène sat beside Karl Haberle, the private detective, in the front seat of his battered Opel Rekord. Her posture was tensely erect, her violet eyes keen and hard, her nostrils flaring with anticipation. She ducked down again and looked out the dirty windshield at the plain four-story apartment house. The first part of her long-vowed search had ended here on the Berliner Strasse in a small town in Germany. Not even in her wildest dreams had she considered that it would end anywhere but in some dark, seedy, furtive place. The Hamburg waterfront, perhaps. Even a secluded village on the pampas of Argentina. But Seulberg sprang up from the slopes of the Taunus Mountains just north of Frankfurt. It was a new community being built from scratch. Quiet suburbs like this one were popping up all over. The postwar boom was in its heyday.
Hélène studied the building closely. It looked like a big rectangular box. There was something almost antiseptic about the sharp Bauhaus angles, the immaculate white stucco, the big plate-glass windows with gauze curtains behind them. There was no personality, no grace. No style. Only function, and in postwar Germany, form followed function as B followed A. Only one thing seemed to be more important, and that was C. Cleanliness. Neatness. Order. It was as if after the rubble of the war had been cleared away, neatness was the most strictly enforced requirement of them all. She looked over at Haberle. He was watching her curiously. 'Well?' he asked. 'Are you ready?'
She didn't speak. After having waited so many years for this moment, her body felt somehow leaden. She thought she had been emotionally prepared. Now she knew she was not. Slowly she reached for the door handle, pushed down on it, and swung the door open. When she stood on the sidewalk, she looked up and down the new street. The asphalt gleamed blue-black in the bright sun. On top of the hill, the bulldozers were grading more land. She nodded to herself. The air out here was country air. It smelled fresh and clean. Even the birds swooped happily in the skies above the nearby fields. The recent war was way in the past.
Haberle took her arm and led her along the concrete path to the entrance. When they reached it, she looked at the row of doorbells. Each tiny black button had a small metal slot beside it. In each was a slip of cardboard with a carefully printed name. The third one from the button jumped at her. Schmidt. A shiver of revulsion ran through her.
Haberle turned to her and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
She forced herself to smile. As soon as he wasn't looking, she bit down on her lip. She watched him push on the doorbell with his finger.
A few seconds later, a crackling voice came on over the squawk box. 'Wer ist da?'
He didn't answer, just pushed the button again and again. Finally the door buzzer that released the catch sounded noisily and he pushed on the door. He held it open for her and they found themselves in an anonymous corridor with a staircase in the back. They headed toward it.
'Third floor,' he said.
She nodded as they climbed the stairs. They were clean and spotless. The smell of antiseptic was everywhere in the air.
'It smells like a hospital,' she whispered.
He didn't reply. On the third floor, a door opened and a woman looked out at them just as they reached the landing. 'Wer sind Sie?' she demanded in a shrill Bavarian dialect that echoed hollowly in the stairwell.
Hélène looked at her. She was tired-looking and thickset, her size accentuated by her shapeless gray housecoat. Her mangled grayish-blond hair was in the remains of a long-past permanent and a tired wave hung down over her forehead. She brushed it aside irritably with her hand.
Haberle gave a little bow and stepped forward. 'Verzeihung. Mein Name ist Karl Haberle. Das ist meine Frau. Sind Sie Frau Schmidt?'
The woman looked at him suspiciously, drew back inside, and closed the door a little farther. 'Ja?'
Haberle came right to the point. 'Ich war in der Wehrmacht mit Hans. Ist Er zuhause?'
Hélène knew what he was saying. He had explained his tactics to her in the car. If Schmidt himself didn't answer the door, they would gain access by Haberle posing as an old army buddy.
'Ach so.' Some of the woman's suspicions faded and she smiled tentatively. She opened the door wide and invited them inside. 'Guten Tag,' she told Hélène.
Hélène smiled automatically but kept quiet. Haberle had told her not to open her mouth, her speaking French might create suspicion.
'Mein Mann ist in der Kuche. Kommen Sie.' The woman led the way down a narrow hallway and through a stiffly furnished parlor that looked like it was never used. Hélène looked around with curiosity. The chairs, tables, and wall unit all had long, tapered, blond wood legs. There were no pictures, no flowers, no personal knickknacks of any kind. They went into the kitchen.
Hélène let out a gasp and drew back. Her mouth was suddenly dry. There was no mistaking the man seated at the table. It was Schmidt. The same Schmidt who had been with the white-faced one. The Schmidt who had unbuttoned Marie's little suit and burned her on the belly with a cigarette. Now he was sitting with his back to the wall, contentedly munching on Belegte Brote. A half-full stein of beer was on the table in front of him.
Silently Hélène's eyes traveled up the wall beside the table. She stared at it in morbid fascination. It was covered with memorabilia from the war. There were medals, pictures, photographs; an Iron Cross, ribbons with swastikas. It was a long time since she had seen items such as these. She couldn't believe that anyone had the gall to display them. Then out of the corner of her eye she noticed that the man no longer had legs. She could see the scarred, rounded ends of his fleshy stumps protruding from his shorts. She looked at Haberle with a curious expression. With his eyes he motioned for her to remain silent. She tightened her lips across her teeth and nodded imperceptibly.
The woman leaned down over her husband. 'Hans, Du hast besuch!' she shouted as one does to a person who is hard of hearing.
'Was? Besuch? Wer den?' Schmidt looked up, squinted, and reached for the
thick wire-rimmed glasses on the table. Carefully he looped them over his ears. He frowned as he looked from Haberle to Hélène and then back at his wife. 'Wer sind diese Leute? Ich kenne Niemand.'
The woman frowned and looked at Haberle sharply. 'Soil das ein Witz sein?' she demanded angrily. 'Lassen Sie doch mein Mann in Ruhe!' Protectively she put her thick arms around her husband's shoulders and pulled his head into her bosom.
Haberle turned to Hélène. 'Wait in the parlor,' he told her firmly in French.
She nodded gratefully and fled the stifling kitchen, the mutilated sadistic man, the evil memorabilia staring down from the wall. She sat on one of the hard upholstered chairs. From the kitchen she could hear voices raised in anger. After a while she got up, went over to the window, and parted the filmy curtains. She looked out thoughtfully. The view was uphill, and she could see bulldozers pushing at mounds of earth. She wondered what the arguing in the kitchen was all about. She thought it peculiar that the Schmidts were so violently defensive. She hadn't expected that. She had expected sincere apologies, begging for forgiveness. Anything but such a noisy battle. Weren't they sorry about what had happened? The answer now came to her. Obviously not. Otherwise, what would all those horrible medals and photographs be doing on the wall?
Ten minutes later, Haberle came out of the kitchen, Frau Schmidt at his heels. Hélène let the curtains fall back in place and slowly turned around. Frau Schmidt's eyes flashed with hatred. When she spoke, it was in badly accented, venomous French. She had obviously learned the language long ago. It was very rusty and grating, the naturally melodious pronunciations curdled by her thick, guttural Bavarian dialect.
'Do you sink ve vant the vor?' she shouted suddenly, flinging her arms around. 'Ve are peaceful citizens! Vhy you come here and accuse my Hans of dese terrible sings?'
Hélène could only stare at her.
The woman made an indignant gesture toward the kitchen. 'Don't my Hans suffer enough? He give his legs, almost his life! Not that he vant to! He vas. . .' She looked questioningly at Haberle.
'Conscripted,' he said quietly.
'Conscripted!' she repeated almost triumphantly, rolling the word on her tongue. 'Do you understand? He has no choice!'
Hélène looked at her steadily. She could no longer remain silent. She was tired of being intimidated, of being made to feel that she was the one who had done something wrong. 'No, I don't understand,' she said quietly.
Frau Schmidt had a challenging look on her face, 'Even I—a vuman— have to vork for Hitler. Not that ve liked him. Ve had no choice! I vas in the Arbeitsdienst. Vorking on a farm to grow foods so that people don't starve. Am I a bad person vor doing this? For growing foods?'
Hélène looked at Haberle. 'Did you find out about the other one?'
He nodded.
'Let's talk in the car.' She shot a contemptuous glance at Frau Schmidt. 'I can't stand the air in here.'
'You. . .you sink you know everysing!' Frau Schmidt screamed. 'How vould you like a man with no legs? I even have to stretch our government stipend by being a Hausmeisterin!'
Hélène looked puzzled.
'Sort of a concierge,' Haberle explained.
Hélène whirled around and glared at the woman. She had taken just about as much of this as she could. 'I had a mother, Frau Schmidt,' she said disgustedly between her teeth. 'She was pregnant. The Nazis punched her in the belly until her baby ran down her legs. My mother ended up in Auschwitz and was burned. My older sister? God only knows what happened to her. Probably gassed and burned. And my baby sister?' She pointed a trembling finger toward the kitchen. 'That husband—that Hans of yours—burned her! A baby! That's right, a baby. Right in the belly. Here.' Hélène yanked her blouse out of her skirt and jabbed at her navel. 'And how do I know this?' She glared at Frau Schmidt. 'Because I saw that monster doing it with my own eyes!' Hélène turned on her heels, marched through the hallway, flung open the front door, and stomped down the stairs. She could hear the venomous tirade coming from the landing above. 'You young vons! You sink you know everysing. You alvays have a quick answer. Sure, you know everysing. How do you know vat it is like? Ve don't like Hitler! Every time the radio says there is a victory, we have to hang flags out the vindows. Do you sink ve like that?'
Haberle rolled down the window of the Opel and lit a cigarette. He inhaled noisily, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. His face was pale and drawn.
Hélène was shaking. Her eyes were expressionless as she stared blankly out the windshield. For a long time they sat in intense silence. Then without turning to him she asked, 'What did they tell you?'
He looked at her. 'Do you want to stop at a Gasthaus? You look like you could use a drink.'
She twisted around in the seat and faced him. 'No!' she said sharply. 'Tell me here.'
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. 'All right,' he said quietly, 'I'll tell you. But I think the man in the kitchen speaks for himself. He is desperate and beaten.'
'And all that. . . that junk on the wall? What about that?'
Haberle smiled grimly. 'Don't you see? He has nothing left but the past. That is where he now lives. That was where he was a man.'
She laughed. 'A man? What kind of a man tortures a baby?'
'I'm not talking about that,' he said irritably. 'I'm talking about his physical condition.'
'I know that he hasn't got any legs. I could see that for myself. I don't think that should alter anything.'
Haberle laughed softly. 'In the kitchen, the woman had him pull his shorts down. He doesn't have any genitals, either. He stepped on a mine in Russia.'
Hélène closed her eyes. Somehow nothing was turning out the way she'd expected it to. She had imagined herself an avenging angel wielding a swift, clean sword. What kind of a sword could she lift against a legless man who was no longer a man? She shook her head. Nothing was going right. Nothing.
'Tell me about the other one!' she shouted, suddenly slamming her fist down on the dashboard. 'The goddamn albino!'
Haberle took a drag on his cigarette. 'I've got to warn you. You're opening a can of worms with that one. He's in the big leagues.'
Her voice was soft. 'I'm listening.'
'His name is Karl von Eiderfeld and he's a pillar of respectability. About ten years ago he began to deal in oil and shipping. Since then, his company has become a behemoth; it's worth millions. It's called Von Eiderfeld Industrien, G.m.b.H. and it's based in Dusseldorf. I know nothing about von Eiderfeld himself, though. I'm pretty certain I've never come across a photograph or an article about him. Not in Stern or in Der Spiegel.' He frowned thoughtfully. 'Almost all of the industrialists have been written about in terms of the great postwar miracle, but never him. And he's certainly contributed to it. Yes, it is rather peculiar . . .'
Hélène ventured a guess. 'His company was begun just after the war?'
'I'd have to research that, but I believe I can safely say yes.'
'Then he must have had connections from the war. A huge industrial complex like that doesn't just start overnight. He's had help. Or knows things. Perhaps those who have helped him aren't even aware of it. There's got to be a shady beginning somewhere.'
'It's supposed to be a very conservative company.'
'I don't care.' She clapped her hands together as if in prayer and inclined her head. 'I want you to begin a discreet inquiry,' she said slowly. 'Look for anything connected with von Eiderfeld—especially from before the war. Get a dossier together. Include documents, passport photos, anything. Lie in wait for him and snap his picture. I want to see it. But above all, dig for the dirt. I want his whole army career from A to Z. I want enough to charge him with to last five lifetimes. But it's got to stick. Every allegation must be documented. There has to be proof!' She turned to him, her eyes flashing with violent anticipation. She allowed herself a little breath of excitement. Somehow she felt—knew, she corrected herself—that she was now on the right track. Woman's intuition or no, it was a strange feel
ing. He was out there somewhere. Healthy and living it up.
'That's a tall order.'
She allowed herself a smile. 'I'm certain you're capable of it. Even if things haven't turned out well so far, you can't be faulted.'
His expression became serious. 'I have to warn you,' he said gently. 'Von Eiderfeld has more than just money. He has power.'
Suddenly she smiled confidently. 'So? Even Achilles had his weak spot. Von Eiderfeld will have one, too. Start digging!'
Daylight was beginning to fade as the big car finally turned into the poplar-lined drive that led up to Hautecloque. As it rolled through the gate, she caught a glimpse of the familiar crest of the de Légers chiseled into the stone. In the evening shadows, the lion and the salamander looked curiously weary and bored. She sat up straight. There in the distance Chateau Hautecloque-de Léger stood, its haughtiness worn like an implacably elegant mask. Against the velvet purple of the twilight, the lights shone yellow in the elongated windows and the air was very quiet. Somehow Hautecloque looked much smaller and less formidable than that first time she had seen it. For now she recognized the haughty coldness for what it really was. Simply a facade that both inflated the achievements of the early ancestors and hid the decadence of the present generation.
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