The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  The memory of smoking with him by the lake came into my mind, but looking at his face, I sensed he wouldn’t welcome the reminder.

  “Christian,” I said softly. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” he said, blowing out smoke. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” I said, and fell silent. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him, he seemed such a stranger. This meeting was so different from what I had imagined. I sighed. It wasn’t his fault. It had been a long time and we weren’t kids any longer. His father had shot himself in the mouth. I moved to banish the image. “Come along,” I said in English, reaching out for his arm. “I’ll bet you’d like a drink.” Much to my surprise he pulled away from me. Firmly, politely, but still, he pulled away.

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I must go. My job . . . I must get up early. I have to go to Munich.” He turned toward the door. I stared after him, hurt by his rudeness, at his rejection of my company. And perplexed.

  “Christian,” I said. He stopped. Why? I wanted to say. Why don’t you want to stay with me? Why aren’t you glad to see me? What have I done? Instead, I tried a smile. “I didn’t even ask you where you live, what you do”—I tried a laugh—“if you’re married.”

  “I live in Berlin. I’ve just moved here,” he said, turning to face me. “I am not married. As for my job—didn’t you know? I work for General Heydrich,” he said flatly. “In the SD. And now I must go.” He turned and left the room. I followed.

  “I knew you were in the SS,” I said. “I saw you in a shop one day. Or, at least, I thought it was you. You were with a prince or count, also in uniform.” Then, a thought: “Your father. . .” My voice petered out as I saw his face.

  “Yes,” he answered, in perfect imitation of his boss. He picked up his overcoat from the banister and put it on.

  “Will you call me?” I said, trying for a flippancy I didn’t feel. “I’d hate to have you disappear from my life again.”

  “I do not think that would be such a good idea.” He pulled on his gloves with short, jerky motions, then picked up his hat.

  “Why?” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

  He carefully put his hat on, pulling down on the brim in front. It dipped over his right eye. He walked past me to the front door.

  “Christian,” I said. “We’ve known each other forever. You’re like my brother. You were my friend, the best friend I ever had. I don’t deserve to be treated like this.”

  He stopped and turned toward me. I was trying very hard not to cry.

  “I’m sorry, Sally,” he said, his voice softer than it had been. “That was all a long time ago. I’ve changed. You’ve certainly changed.” And he almost grinned at me, his eyes flicking down my body. “But I think you know why I just can’t be seen with you.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Is it an SS rule? What’s wrong with me?”

  He almost laughed. “Nothing. Nothing.”

  “Then what?” I beat my fists into my skirt. “Tell me. Please.”

  His hand was on the doorknob, and he stood motionless for a long moment. Then he grinned at me, really grinned, so that, for the first time, I saw the boy I had known. “One thing about you is still the same, you always were impatient and demanding. And I am sorry, Sal,” he said, switching to English again. “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. But Heydrich is my boss. I can’t do anything to jeopardize my job. This is not the best job, but it was difficult to find. I do not want to lose it.” He switched back to German. “You don’t know how it has been here. You can’t know.” He clamped his mouth shut tight, as though he feared he had let me see too much emotion.

  “What on earth do you mean? What’s your job got to do with me?”

  “Sally,” he said, “don’t be so naive.” And he turned and left the house.

  I stared after him, absolutely mystified. Heydrich? Heydrich was his boss and he couldn’t see me because of it? What sense did that make? Then comprehension dawned. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. He thought Heydrich and I . . . how could he? How could he? I could easily set that straight, and I hurried to the door to catch him. If only he had asked me or been clearer or I had been brighter.

  I stood on the front porch and peered through the darkness. A small car was just pulling away from the curb and I ran down the brick path to the gate.

  “Christian, wait,” I called, but the car sped away, its headlights flashing on the snowy trees and fences of the dark suburban street. It was very cold. I looked up at the sky. The stars were clear and crisp, the moon a delicate sliver of silver. It was a beautiful winter night and I started to cry, holding on to the top of the wooden gate.

  I didn’t hear anyone behind me until he spoke. Heydrich had come to see how the reunion was going.

  “What is it?” he said.

  I shook my head. How could I tell him what Christian thought about us? He’d laugh at me.

  “Come along,” he said. “You’d better come in.”

  But I shook my head again. I didn’t want to go back to the party. I wanted to die. Or at least go home.

  “Aren’t you freezing?” he said patiently. I nodded. “Then come in.”

  “I don’t want to. Please, you go. I’ll be along.” He expelled a breath in exasperation. “You really are most irritating.” I wasn’t facing him so I heard rather than saw him unbutton his coat, take it off, and put it over my shoulders. “You can return it to me when you decide to come inside,” he said, and walked away.

  I hugged the coat around me, folding my hands into it. It smelled of the tart, lemony after-shave he used. “Thank you,” I said.

  Then, “General?” I heard his footsteps stop.

  “Yes,” he said. His voice sounded very far away in the silent cold darkness.

  I turned to face him. Away to the left, I could see the warm glow through the curtained windows of the sitting room.

  “Christian doesn’t want to see me. He wasn’t glad to see me at all,” I said in a rush and started to cry again, lowering my face into his coat.

  After a moment, Heydrich walked forward and put his arms loosely around me, holding me, but keeping us separate. I dropped my head into my hands and it rested against his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m sorry.” He was silent and I pulled back so I could speak more clearly. “He told me he didn’t want to see me because of you. Because you are his boss and it would jeopardize his career and it was so hard to get. And it’s all mixed up with his family and his father’s death. Did you know Professor Mayr shot himself in the mouth? Oh, God, I thought he’d be as happy to see me as I was to see him.” I paused for a moment. “I’ve loved him all my life and he doesn’t want to see me because he thinks there’s something going on between you and me.”

  “Us?” The general’s voice was calm.

  “Yes, isn’t it stupid?” I took a step back from him, out of his arms. “As though that were possible. You’re so much older and married and there’s never even been a hint of anything romantic between us, has there.”

  I looked at his face, although I couldn’t see his features. His white shirt gleamed in the dark, emphasizing his stillness. I wished very much I could see his face so I could understand what he thought about what I had just said. Was he insulted or amused or angry? By his silence, I did not think he was amused. Had I gotten Christian into trouble?

  “You aren’t angry at him, are you?” I said, my voice sounding small and young. “I haven’t gotten him in trouble, have I?”

  “No,” he said, as calmly as before, “you haven’t gotten him into trouble.” He reached out a hand, hesitated, then gently touched my cheek. “Come inside. I’m freezing. I want a drink. We can talk about this . . . misunderstanding. Come.” His hand dropped to my shoulder and I let him lead me back up the walk into the house.

  The fire was going in the dining room in preparation for the next phase of the party. I glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was eleve
n forty-five, much later than I had expected. I walked to the fireplace, stretching my hands out toward the heat. I was very cold.

  The general went to the swinging door, pushed it open and asked someone for brandy. It was brought to him and he carried a glass to me.

  “Here,” I said, holding out his jacket to him. “Thank you.” He inclined his head and, placing his glass on the mantel, put the jacket on, buttoning it, patting the lapels into place, and checking to make sure his cuffs showed the proper amount of white shirt. I carried out my own repairs, taking from my small handbag a comb, a handkerchief, a tiny compact, and a lipstick. I used them all and felt better afterward.

  “So,” he said, sipping his brandy, “your reunion with your childhood friend was not as you expected. I suggest that perhaps you romanticized this meeting.”

  “Perhaps,” I said reluctantly. We stood side by side, our backs to the fire, our brandy glasses in our hands.

  “Nevertheless, I will agree that this idea of his of our love affair needs to be dealt with.” He mocked the words love affair.

  “Although,” he continued with a wry smile, “I do not think it such a ridiculous notion as you seem to. I am not that much older than you.”

  My relief at his little joke must have been quite visible. He turned his face forward and, bringing his brandy glass up, paused before drinking from it. “I ought to feel insulted by your attitude,” he said, and took a sip. “But I don’t. Now, you will agree that I have never shown you the slightest romantic overture. Always treating you as a friend and even acting as a protector.”

  I nodded, and he continued. “I have always been aware of your status as the daughter of the diplomat of a powerful nation, and I have also been aware that you have not had the slightest interest in me other than a sort of . . . fascination, fueled, I am sure, by your knowledge of my position as head of the secret service. Still, I think we may continue to be friends.”

  I ducked my head, studying the bottom of my brandy glass.

  “I know young Mayr well,” he continued. “I recruited him a year ago, straight from the university. He is good at what he does. And no, he does not beat up Jews. He works in an office. He has a secretary. He is not special, although he is very good-looking. And he is from a good German family. I would, if I were your father, much prefer you to take up with him, than Mr. Wohl.

  “Now, before everyone tumbles in here—I shall speak to your young friend, and assure him that my feelings toward you are—what is that wonderful word—avuncular? Yes, avuncular. And that he is dishonoring you by imagining anything more.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little strong?” I said. His tone of voice was disturbing, thin and tight and ironic. “I wouldn’t feel dishonored if I were in love with you.” I hoped to disarm him, though I didn’t appreciate his comment about David Wohl.

  “A nice compliment. Thank you. It is appreciated,” he said and drank the last of his brandy.

  The door to the hall opened and Lina entered, Paul in her arms, followed by the guests. She looked at us but said nothing. Then the waiters entered, laden with trays of food and drink.

  “Darling,” called Lina, “you forgot to light the tree candles.” She caressed her son’s hair with her cheek. Heydrich, saying nothing, smiled at the boy and went to take care of the tree. “Things didn’t go well?” Lina asked, and I shook my head. “Reinhard will take care of it.”

  “So he says.”

  TEA WITH THE CHANCELLOR

  THE NEW YEAR’S season brought another round of parties, which at least kept me—and my father—busy and kept me from brooding about the unsuccessful meeting with Christian. I decided that I would enjoy myself. I was the daughter of the Ambassador of the United States to the Third Reich and I would enjoy myself. I danced and flirted with the men and was polite and well mannered with the women and found myself to be popular. I was invited to all the parties, including a huge, flamboyant New Year’s ball given at the Italian embassy, at which I danced with the general. I hadn’t expected to see him; he hadn’t expected to attend.

  “My boss is better at this,” he told me, referring to the clerkish Reichsminister-SS, Heinrich Himmler. “Usually I get him to go.”

  “Don’t you like company? Being in society?”

  “No.” He looked down at me. “Pretty dress,” he said, almost to himself.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d rather stay behind the scenes.”

  “Not attracting attention.”

  “That’s it,” he said and I realized he was absolutely serious.

  Sydney asked what had happened with Christian, and I had flippantly told her an abridged version of the disastrous reunion. How could I care so much, I asked her, when I hadn’t seen him in years, when he had turned out to be such a prig?

  But to myself, I had to admit finally that I had set great store on seeing my childhood friend again and the tall, cold stranger he had turned into had disappointed me mightily.

  Toward the end of January, I spent another pleasant musical evening at the Heydrich house, playing Strauss. The general was taking Lina and Paul to his parents’ home for a short holiday and the party was a small send-off to their vacation.

  Heydrich’s behavior toward me was as correct as it had always been, and we stayed away from any personal topics. Until, taking advantage of a moment when he was helping me into my coat as I was leaving, he told me that he had talked to Christian.

  “When?” I asked, eagerly, turning to face him. “What did he say?”

  “Last week. Nothing. I can’t order him to see you, Sally.”

  “No, of course not. Well”—I shrugged, covering my disappointment—“I guess that’s it.”

  “Yes,” he said, stepping back from me.

  “Thank you, General, for trying.”

  He nodded and started to turn away, then, noticing he had my music case in his hands, stared down at it. “You never call me by my name. Have you noticed that?”

  “Oh.” It was all I could think of to say.

  “Am I so impersonal?”

  “No. Yes. I’m sorry. You are a formal person. At least to me. It goes with being avuncular,” I said, cocking my head to see his reaction.

  “Yes, of course, I forgot.” And he thrust my music at me. “And there is the boy to be gotten over, I suppose?” His voice was thin and sharp, like the dagger he wore with his dress uniform.

  “Yes, the boy,” I laughed, holding my case in front of me like a shield against his words.

  That might have been it, except for the Chancellor of Germany and a visit I made to Munich.

  I WAS INTRODUCED to Hitler for the first time during the holiday season, when I was presented to him at a huge reception for the diplomatic corps. The Chancellor had bowed over my hand, said something pleasant, and I had moved on.

  Then Daddy and I went to Munich at the end of February, for a holiday. The weather was freezing but clear, and one afternoon, while Daddy was napping in his room, I went out for a walk. I came upon a small crowd of people standing outside a restaurant. I approached the crowd cautiously, not wanting to backtrack around the block, and relaxed when I sensed how happy and excited they were. I learned that they were expecting their Fuhrer on a sentimental visit to a favorite haunt of the old days.

  The motorcade arrived; the SS guards jumped out to hold back the crowd; and the Fuhrer and his companions climbed out. Hitler, in a dumpy brown coat and a brown felt hat, smiled and waved at the crowds. He looked very happy and relaxed.

  Someone in front of me yelled out Hitler’s name. I was on tiptoe, trying to see what was going on, and when Hitler turned around at the sound of the man’s voice, he saw me. And recognized me. He made a small gesture, causing an aide to appear at his shoulder, and, glancing back at me, whispered to him.

  The members of the crowd around me eyed me speculatively, probably wondering who the hell I was. I was wondering if I should quietly back out of the way, although my curiosity held me to the spot.
The Chancellor continued into the restaurant and I turned to go when I found the aide, a young SS man, at my side.

  “Fraulein Sally Jackson,” he said, bowing and clicking his heels. “The Fuhrer presents his compliments and invites you to take tea with him.”

  “Oh,” I said. It surprised me that not only had Hitler recognized me, but that he had remembered my first name. “Thank you,” I said to the handsome young man, who smiled at me and offered his arm. I took it and he led me through the dispersing crowd into the restaurant.

  The Chancellor’s party—about a dozen people—were arranging themselves around two large round tables at one end of the second room. The tables were on a sort of platform set off by a balustrade. Waiters, wearing knee pants under their red aprons, were scurrying around to the orders of a man in a green loden coat, who must have been the owner.

  My escort brought me to the Chancellor’s table, where there seemed to be no seats left. The company was all men, except for a small, pretty blonde who sat at the second table.

  “My Fuhrer,” said my escort, “Fraulein Sally Jackson.”

  The Chancellor stood, causing all the other men at his table to follow suit. “How nice of you to join us, Fraulein,” he said. “Please, have this seat.” He gestured at Hess, who sat next to him, to move. Hess, in turn, motioned a heavyset, balding man out of his chair.

  I said something polite and appropriate as the heavy man, who looked very much like a mean peasant, stood behind me and pushed my chair in for me. He went away, for which I was grateful, and got a chair at the other table, but I noticed he kept an eye on us.

  The Chancellor introduced me to our tablemates, although I can’t remember anyone beside Rudolf Hess, whom I had seen on newsreels, and Heinrich Hoffmann, the photographer.

  “I have enjoyed meeting your esteemed father,” said my host. “He is a learned and well-spoken man.”