The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  “Her,” said Paul. “She’s a girl kitten.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “Come, darling,” said Lina, “say good night, it’s late.”

  “Good night, Fraulein,” the little boy said dutifully.

  “Good night, Paul,” I replied, “sweet dreams.” And off he went with his mother. His father came up to me with a glass in his hand, which he handed to me.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” I said, looking at it. It was a martini, if the glass and olive were any indication. Heydrich picked up his own drink, a martini as well. He gestured toward the sofa.

  “Please, sit down,” he said, following his own advice by settling into an easy chair, crossing one leg over the other. He wore shoes, not boots, I noticed. “By the way, Miss Jackson, I am no longer a colonel.”

  “That must mean you’re a general,” I said. He almost smiled. “Congratulations.” We were silent. I sipped my martini. I had never had one before and it surprised me, although I kept from choking. He arched an eyebrow at me.

  “I’m sorry. It’s my first martini. I didn’t expect it to be so strong.”

  “Ah. Perhaps you should try another.”

  When I finished the first one, I accepted another. This time, I found the smoothness of the liquor very pleasant, but took only a small sip.

  We heard the front doorbell ring just as Lina entered the room. “That must be the admiral and Erika,” she said, turning toward the hall. I sat forward and placed my glass on the table in front of the sofa. I could hear the new arrivals talking to the maid and then to Lina.

  “Isn’t it cold out,” a woman was saying as Lina brought the guests into the drawing room. The sofa’s back was to the door, so I had to turn to see them. They were an older couple, the man short with a shock of white hair and black eyebrows, the woman small-boned and delicate, with soft brown, graying curls.

  “This is Fraulein Sally Jackson,” said Lina. “Miss Jackson, Admiral and Frau Canaris.” The admiral, whose name I had heard before, came around to the front of the sofa. He was carrying a violin case.

  “How do you do, Fraulein,” he said, “I have met and admired your father.” We shook hands and then I repeated the process with his wife, who immediately asked me about the house we lived in. It seems a cousin of hers had lived in it before the war and she was interested to hear about its latest inhabitants. She took a moment to greet Heydrich, handing him a violin case.

  “Here, Reinhard,” she said, “put this somewhere safe.” She sat next to me, talking about the garden, and the handsome flagstone terrace behind my house. We settled in. Heydrich and the admiral talked by the drinks table. Lina moved back and forth between us.

  Dinner was called and we rose to file across the hall into the dining room. By the time we came back, we were all comfortable with each other, warm and well fed. I was a little nervous about the piece we were going to play. It was a Mozart, not terribly difficult, but I had not received a copy of the score until that morning and had only had time to read through it twice.

  “Well, shall we?” said the admiral, and we took our places. There were three music stands set up by the piano, and the others began tuning up. They asked me to hit an A on the piano. Lina, her part of the evening essentially completed, settled into the armchair and pulled her knitting from a basket at her side.

  She grinned sheepishly at me as though embarrassed to be caught doing something so domestic. While we were dining, someone had started a fire in the fireplace next to the sofa. The room was very cozy now, with the curtains drawn against the darkness, and Lina’s knitting needles going click-clack.

  “Are you ready for us?” said the admiral. He wore small wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. His jacket—he was not in uniform—was open and his entire appearance was almost elflike, with his strange dark eyebrows. Heydrich, standing in front of a wooden music stand, waited, stiff as usual, buttoned up in his uniform, his violin under his chin.

  Erika Canaris had a viola, and she had set her music on the second wooden stand.

  The admiral, in the center, counted off, “One, two, three,” softly, and I started to play.

  “Well, that was fine,” said Frau Canaris, when we had finished.

  “Well done, my dear,” her husband said to me, his violin still under his chin. “You play well.”

  “Thank you. It was fun.” I looked at Heydrich, who was studying his music.

  “I think this part, the . . . third measure after B, I think it was a little slow.”

  We all found the spot, and I played the measure lightly through. “It was me. My fingering—there, I think I’ve got it,” I said.

  “Shall we try again?” he said, looking at the three of us. The Canarises raised their bows and I waited for the downbeat.

  “You are the metronome here, Sally,” said Heydrich, looking around at me over his raised bow arm. “You lead.” He smiled slightly. “We will follow.”

  And we played the pretty little piece again. And again. Before I knew it, it was nearly eleven.

  “I must go,” said the admiral. “I have to go to the office. I’m expecting a telephone call.”

  “From England?” Heydrich asked.

  Canaris looked at him sharply, all signs of comradeship gone. He actually stiffened, then, relaxing, laughed. “Yes, Reinhard, yes.” He rapped the younger man lightly on his arm with his bow. “I won’t even begin to ask how you know, but I can see I’ve got some leaks to plug.”

  Heydrich smiled and turned to put away his violin. I leaned forward.

  “May I call for my car?” I asked Lina.

  “Of course,” she said, getting up. Heydrich turned and moved quickly to her.

  “Stay,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder and gently pushing her back into the chair. “I’ll do it. You’ve worked hard enough.” And he quickly left the room.

  The Canarises left in a flurry of good-byes and handshakes. Lina and I stood in the entry hall as I buttoned up my coat and put on my gloves.

  “I hope you weren’t bored,” Lina said. “We are very domestic here.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, meaning it, “I enjoyed the whole evening very much. I liked the family atmosphere. And the music was wonderful. I’ve never played with other instruments before. I enjoyed it.”

  She smiled at me, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and turned to fuss with her hair in the mirror. I wondered what I had done to upset her, if she was indeed upset.

  “Good,” she said, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ears. “I hope you will come back.”

  Heydrich came into the hall. “The car will be here shortly. Perhaps, Miss Jackson,” he said, turning his head toward me, “you would like to attend a fencing competition next Saturday?” Lina, who couldn’t speak English, looked curiously at him. He translated for her, and she smiled with that same controlled smile.

  “Oh, I don’t think I can,” I said, not wanting to offend her, thinking she would not like my accepting her husband’s offer.

  “Oh, yes, Fraulein, it is very exciting,” she said, turning to me. She touched my arm. “Really. The SS teams are very good. I know you would enjoy it.”

  “Will you come too?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said, “I never miss one of Reinhard’s bouts.”

  “Will you be competing?” I asked Heydrich.

  “In saber—for my Munich team. We will be fencing the Berlin team and one or two others—all SS. It will be my last competition with my old teammates.”

  “Thank you, General,” I said, “I would like to come.”

  “Good, I will have someone call you.” Heydrich turned as we heard a car pull up outside. “Your car is here.”

  Heydrich walked me out to the car. His house was in a tree-rich cul-de-sac and there were no streetlights. I could see the outline of the car and Rick, our chauffeur, who jumped out when he saw us coming. It was very cold and I shoved my hands into my pockets, pulling my neck into my coat
collar.

  “You play very well,” said the general, reaching for the gate, allowing me to walk in front of him.

  “Oh, thank you. I had such a good time. It was fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Well, I like to play alone, of course, practicing and all, but it’s more fun to play with people. Don’t you think so?”

  “Mozart fun? It is an interesting idea.” He stood back as Rick opened the door of the car. I stepped toward it, but stopped and turned.

  “General, I wonder if you remember my asking you . . .”

  “About Mayr.”

  “Yes. Were you able to find him?”

  He took hold of my elbow and helped me into the car. “Come along, Miss Jackson, we mustn’t send you home with a cold.” Rick closed the door and hurried around the car to get in the driver’s seat.

  I rolled down the window. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Good night, Miss Jackson,” Heydrich said, bending over to look in the window. “I know. We will discuss it at a more suitable time.”

  “General. . .”

  “Good night, Miss Jackson.” His voice was, as usual, level, with an undercurrent of humor. Again, I got the impression that I was amusing the hell out of him.

  “Sally,” I said briskly, lightly touching his hand, which rested on the window. He held very still, quietly repeated my name, then broke away and rapped on the front window. Rick put the car into gear and I rolled my window back up.

  When the car came to the end of the street, I looked back to see him standing outside his garden gate, black except where the light escaped from his house to touch his pale face and hair.

  “Did you have a pleasant evening, Fraulein?” asked Rick.

  I turned to face forward, slightly embarrassed at being caught staring back at the general.

  “Very nice. Thank you.”

  “I am glad to see you met such a respectable couple.”

  “You are?” I was startled, both by his familiarity and the comment itself.

  “So many foreigners only stay with other foreigners. I know you enjoy the company of the Jewish newspaperman and the British couple, but I am happy for you that you have met such a good German family. You will learn much more about us that way.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “You don’t mind my talking this way do you, Fraulein?”

  “No,” I said, shrugging. “But watch the ice.”

  “Yes, Fraulein. Of course.”

  The rest of the ride was in silence.

  LITTLE PAUL TOOK sick at the last minute, and Lina begged out of the tournament. I went alone, expecting to be able to slip in unobtrusively. I did not want to be there watching Heydrich without his wife, but I was curious and eager to see some good fencing.

  The call I received from the general suggested that I arrive around one o’clock. The field of competitors would be narrowed down by that time; Heydrich, no doubt, would have made the cuts.

  I took my coat off, placing it on the empty seat next to me—Lina’s?—and looked around. It all looked familiar. There were four strips, the measure of ground the fencers had to stay within during their bouts, but only two had pairs in them. Each pair had three men watching them, two judges and a chairman. The table of scorekeepers and additional judges was on my right, and spectators lined the sides of the room, sitting on wooden risers. I saw very few women besides myself, and nearly all of the men in the audience were in uniform. Rectangular black banners, emblazoned with the silver SS lighting flashes, hung at both ends of the gym, with smaller banners, proclaiming the names of the two teams in Gothic script, below them.

  Five or six men in white fencing jackets and long white pants were gathered. They talked to each other, fiddled with their equipment, or stood silently watching the empty playing area. There was Heydrich, standing apart, his helmet in the crook of his left arm, his saber blade hanging down from his right hand. He was concentrating on the judges as they talked to one another.

  One of the judges walked into the center of the gym with a sheet of paper in his hand. It appeared that the results of the last bout had been contested, and now he was reading us the final outcome of the judges’ deliberations. It did not surprise me that General Heydrich was one of the participants of the bout in question.

  I had overheard Maestro and Horst discussing the fact that Heydrich was a poor loser. There had been an incident where he had lost and had shockingly thrown his saber on the ground. I watched him as he was named the winner. He did not smile, but the tension left him and he stood more easily.

  The next two pairs of fencers were called and they advanced to their respective strips. The judges took their places and the fencing began. One fencer of the pair closest to me was particularly exciting, aggressive and as fast as lightning.

  Saber means the target is anything above the waist, the area, in other words, accessible during a cavalry charge. It calls for a heavier blade and, usually, a more aggressive technique than foil fencing does. And if the two opponents are both energetic and powerful, the attacks can be brutal. Twice I had seen men injured during saber bouts in college, even though the blades they used were blunt and had protective tips.

  Maestro always stressed the need for finesse, for not forgetting style and technique in the drive for hits. I could just imagine what he would say about these young men. They fought as though it were real, as though they were true enemies dueling to the finish.

  I had also heard rumors that dueling, outlawed during the Weimar Republic, had been making a secret comeback. Seeing these aggressive, and excellent, fighters, I believed it. These young men were not there for the elegance of the sport; they were fighters.

  The bout lasted about forty-five minutes and the ferocious fellow won, leaving his opponent with a bloody right hand where he had misjudged a parry. He turned and walked to the Berlin end of the hall, as the spectators clapped. With his helmet off, I could see that he was young, probably younger then Heydrich.

  Meanwhile another bout was coming to the finish across the gym, and as I turned my attention to it, one fencer lost his footing and went down. I stood up, along with everyone else. The downed man’s opponent stood over him, with his blade to the man’s throat. Though the blade had a tip on it, and the beaten man’s throat was somewhat protected by the bottom of his helmet, all that seemed to be incidental for a long, long moment. There were just the two men, one with the sword at the other’s throat. We all stood motionless, as we waited for the winner to move.

  Finally, he did, tapping the beaten man’s chest lightly and backing away, a proper hit scored, and we all sat down in relief. I glanced down at the Munich team to find Heydrich’s eyes on me. I smiled at him, shaking my head to show how impressed I was by what had just happened. He nodded slightly, then looked away.

  By the time Heydrich walked out to the strip for his bout with the young fencer from Berlin, the overall scores were nearly even for each team, and the atmosphere in the hall was almost unbearably tense.

  The Berliner scored an almost immediate hit on the general. Heydrich was the underdog. His opponent was younger and faster and seemed inspired by his previous wins. But after that first hit, the Berliner never scored another one.

  Heydrich attacked from the start, never backing off, nor did he let the younger man’s speed overwhelm him. Pressing the advantage of his longer reach and longer legs, he soon managed a hit with a simple and elegant glissé, slipping under the other man’s parry easily. The Munich team and their partisans in the stands cheered.

  The hit seemed to give the general confidence, and throughout the rest of the bout he acquitted himself well, finally winning, much to the crowd’s confusion. The bout had been a grueling one, and I looked at my watch to discover it was after five o’clock.

  I had to leave, and I gathered up my coat and took advantage of the pause to climb out of the bleachers. Heydrich must have seen me, for he met me by the door. He had a white towel around his neck. His face was red and his
hair mussed, but he looked pleased. Almost, I might say, happy.

  “General,” I said, putting out my hand. “Congratulations. That was a terrific bout.”

  “Thank you, Sally,” he said, shaking my hand, then wiping his face with the towel. “He was good, wasn’t he? Tough. I liked that. Made me work.” On the last word, he made a fist, grabbing hold of his excitement. “Did you see that last hit? So smooth. Perfect.” He laughed and I laughed with him, caught up in his boyish excitement. It was the loosest, the freest I was ever to see him. “Do you have to go?” he said, pushing his hair off his face.

  “Yes. I wish I didn’t. I have to meet my father. We’ve got a reception this evening.”

  “With the Italians. I know. Don’t bother. They’re useless,” he remarked casually, briskly, turning to look toward the arena as another set of bouts began. “What did you think of the other bouts?” I was about to answer when a cheer went up from the crowd. We both moved forward to try and see what had happened, craning our necks to see over the crowd. He, with his great height, had no problem, but all I could do was stand on tiptoe and catch a glimpse of a white blur of action, as one fighter forced his opponent off the strip. I tried to follow and almost toppled over except, naturally, by instinct, I grabbed Heydrich’s shoulder, steadying myself against him.

  He let me. He didn’t move, either away from me or toward me. I think he barely noticed me until the bout was finally stopped and things calmed down. I stood flat on the ground and he turned to look down at me, a strange expression on his face: surprise, excitement, suspicion, all mixed together.

  We were very close to each other, hemmed in by the tall crowd of young men.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, sure he was angry, insulted. “I couldn’t see.” He moved closer to me, a hand on each end of the towel around his neck. I could smell him, soap and clean sweat and the canvas of his fencing jacket. “No matter.” He looked down at me for a long moment. “No matter,” he repeated, then surprised me by laughing.

  “What?” I said, now absolutely confused by this man.

  “Nothing. Nothing. Come, I’ll walk you out.” And he put his arm around me, lightly, to lead me out. “It is fun, isn’t it?” he said, reaching in front of me to push the doors open.