“This is great,” I said, starting on my second beer. “Thank you for bringing me.” The steins were huge and the boys had each drunk two to my one. This beer hall was smaller than the huge one I had been to in Nuremberg, with low ceilings and multi-levels complete with carved railings and screens. A vine, one with pretty shiny leaves, had been trained to snake its way along the ceiling, in and out of the carvings. We sat in an alcove, at a round table with built-in benches, in front of a mullioned window that looked out at the early evening traffic. It seemed as though spring had come early, and the golden light bathed the two young men, one next to me, one opposite, in its friendly glow.
“My pleasure,” said Hans. “Believe me, you must be pretty special to get Mayr into a bar. He wouldn’t come if I asked him. You know why? Because he’s working all the time.”
“He’s gotten to be so serious. He didn’t use to be,” I said, mocking Christian, but meaning it.
“He’s always been, as long as I’ve known him, which has been a couple of years now.”
“We live in serious times,” said Christian, draining his beer stein.
“Are you kidding?” yelled Hans. “These are glorious times. Exciting. On the move. Boy, I’ll tell you. We should be happy—Sally, I keep telling him this, but he won’t listen—we should be happy and privileged to live now. Look at us, I’m a farmer’s kid, no school past eighth grade, no prospects, the old man’s farm gone bust . . .”
“And what are you doing now in the SA, Hans? Playing chauffeur,” Christian said, interrupting. “I keep trying to get him to join us,” he added to me. “The SS is where careers are made. The SA was fine, is fine, for the past, but you’re all a bunch of street bullies, good for nothing but bashing people’s heads.”
“Hey, watch it, sidewalk soldier.”
“That’s all window dressing. And you know I never was in the LAH. The Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler,” he said, turning to me. “The Fuhrer's bodyguard.”
“Yeah, they wouldn’t have you. Probably would get blisters in your pretty boots.”
“Oh, give it a rest, Hans.”
Hans fell quiet, hearing something in Christian’s voice. His eyes flicked to me, and he smiled, a flirtatious, mischievous smile. “So, you live in Berlin?” he asked.
Christian grunted in exasperation and sat back. “I need another beer,” he said and raised his hand. The barmaid, a young, plump redhead covered with freckles, appeared almost instantly.
“Yes, Herr Oberst,” she said, bending to pick up the old steins, allowing the three of us a fair glimpse of her plump, freckled cleavage.
“Another score, Herr Oberst,” teased Hans. “You come with me, Sally. We’ll leave our pal here with his newest conquest.”
“You’ll have to get past me,” said Christian good-naturedly, sitting low on his bottom, his legs stretched out under the table.
“You’d risk dirtying your pretty uniform?” cried Hans. “I abdicate. I’ll take the barmaid, she’s more my type. No offense, Sally.” And he stood up, bending over, grabbed my hand, kissed it and nearly jumped out of the booth.
“He’s crazy,” I said, laughing.
“Yeah,” laughed Christian.
“I like him. He’s fun.”
“He’s a good friend. We even lived together for a time. Before I was sent to Bad Tolz—officer’s training school,” he added when he saw my blank expression.
We fell silent. “Do you want another . . ?” He gestured at my beer stein, which was still not empty.
“No. I’m fine. I should . . .” I raised my arm to look at my wristwatch. “My father will wonder. . .”
“Of course. I’ll take you back.”
In front of the hotel, in the blue dusk, Christian walked me up the steps, under the archways. It had grown colder as the sun set, and felt more like February again.
He said good-bye formally, touching his forefinger to the bill of his cap.
“Wait,” I said. “Will you call me?”
He looked at me with that serious, steady look, then smiled, making my heart jump. “Of course I will. I know where you are, don’t I?” He reached his hand out to me, as though he would touch my face, moving instead to pat my shoulder. “I have to move the car.” I nodded.
“Give my regards to your father. I look forward to seeing him again.” And he was gone, taking the steps two, three at a time with his long legs. I stood and watched the little car pull away.
When I turned to make my way through the revolving door, I felt I had been ambushed by that last smile. I looked down, surprised at my shaking hands.
FATHER SPEAKS UP
“SALLY, TIERCE,” CRIED Maestro, impatiently slapping my blade away. “We stop!” he said, and pulled his helmet off. I could see he was angry and it upset me. He had always been patient with my mistakes.
“Please, Fraulein, you go home. I can see your mind is not on your fencing. You are atrocious today. No timing. No strength. You are staying out too late dancing, no doubt. You have no dedication. No one does today,” he said, turning and stalking out of the hall.
I stood where I was and watched him leave, not really sorry he had called my lesson off. I was tired, and partly for the reason he had said. I was staying out too late, but I was not enjoying myself. Most of the time. Last night, my father and I had had dinner at the Adlon with a group of Americans, including a senator from home, and the men had talked politics the entire time. I had spent the evening trapped by their wives, all of them middle-aged and stiffly corseted, trying to keep my head above the discussions of maids and casserole receipts and how dirty everything was in Europe.
I swished my blade through the air, once, twice. I lunged, imagining I was running some grande dame through. I stayed too long in the lunge and lost the impetus to pull myself out of it. Letting go, I sat down on the floor. It was an extremely clumsy movement, and I laughed at the spectacle I must have made of myself. I held my blade up to be sure I hadn’t bent it, then got up and, my burst of energy over, listlessly wandered out of the hall to the changing room.
I had to admit the maestro was right. I wasn’t concentrating on the fencing because I was thinking about the afternoon ahead, which I planned to spend with Christian, skating. It was our first meeting since Munich and I was excited and a little nervous.
Showered, brushed, and dressed, tiredness gone, I ran down the stairs into the day. It was sunny and windy, with clouds scuttling past high above the city. The air smelled and felt cool and fresh. Spring!
Ilooked at my watch. I had an hour before I was to meet Christian here in front of the salle. So I went to the nearby coffee bar and there, sitting in the sunshine in the big window, reading a two-day-old copy of the Herald-Tribune, his hat on the back of his head, was David.
I knocked on the window next to his head, startling him. He laughed and waved at me to come in. Inside, the bar smelled of coffee and chocolate. I ordered and went to David’s table.
“Hi, there, stranger,” he said, getting up slightly.
I waved him down and sat, pulling off my coat and hat and gloves. “Hello. It has been a long time. Where’ve you been?”
“Here. Where’ve you been?”
“I’ve been spending a lot of time at parties. Went to Munich.” I leaned forward and whispered dramatically, “I met the Fuhrer.”
“No!”
“Shared a pot of chocolate. Wish I had one now,” I said, leaning back, looking around to see how my order was doing. “Today Maestro said I was so bad because I’d been dancing all night. Wish he’d been right. You should have seen the group of our fellow citizens I was with last night. David, they shouldn’t let such people out of the country.”
“Why don’t you ask your dad to let up on you. You’re just a kid.”
“Yes, but I’m also useless, so I feel I ought to do something to justify my existence.”
“And boring parties do?”
“No, but I am working for my board, aren’t I? And it’s not all bori
ng parties.”
“Speaking of which, are you still having your musicales with the cozy chief of the secret police and the cozy head of naval intelligence? Boy, too bad you’re not a spy. Say, that’s not a bad idea. Has anyone approached you?”
“You’re such a jerk. I’m starving. Where’s my order?” I turned again to look and see what the counterman was up to, then turned back to David. “And yes, I have been playing music, but mostly with the general.”
“Herr Obergruppenfuhrer himself. What an honor.”
“Fraulein!” called the counterman, and I got up to get my coffee and bun.
“Are we going to fight? Because if we are,” I said, overriding him, “I’m moving. I feel too good today.” I took a big bite of the bun, which was gooey with jam, and licked my fingers.
David laughed and reached across the table. “Here, you missed a spot.” He wiped my cheek with the little paper napkin.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t you fence on Saturday mornings?”
“I was, but Maestro threw me out. Said I wasn’t concentrating.”
“Weren’t you?” He had returned to his paper, sitting sideways to the little table. I couldn’t read the headlines. The NRA and Roosevelt something something.
“No. Doesn’t the States seem far away?” I said to him.
“What? Oh. Yeah. Well, it is.”
“All those people out of work. Do you think Roosevelt can really help?”
“God, I hope so.” He drank some of his coffee, really looking at me for the first time. “You do look happy. You must be in love or something.” He started reading his paper again, and didn’t see me blush.
I picked up my coffee cup, my elbows on the table. “Or something,” I muttered.
“Oh, yeah? Who’s the guy? Anyone I know?”
I didn’t answer. I wanted his full attention, although I wasn’t sure about the wisdom of telling David my news. I wasn’t even sure what the news was. Just that I was happy. I was seeing Christian, who had finally smiled at me with something of the warmth of his old smile, and I was happy.
“You mean it.” David finally lowered the paper. “You are in love.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Who is he?” A horrified expression started to spread across his face. “Not Herr SS-Ober—”
“Oh, David. Honesty. Heydrich’s married. And at least thirty.”
“And a fascist and the head of the secret police.”
“David!”
“What? You don’t want me to mention that? Am I being impolite? Undiplomatic?” He smiled when he spoke, but there was anger in his eyes. Had been ever since I rapped on the window. It took a moment for the truth to sink in: he was angry with me.
“No. You’re not. You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just . . . you’re my friend, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Sure. So, who’s the guy? Go on, torture me.”
“He’s that old friend of mine, the one I’ve known forever. I told you about him. I just met him again, ran into him in Munich. And I’m meeting him in about half an hour to go skating and have tea at the big ice rink in the Tiergarten. That’s why I’m happy. Because it’ll be fun. Not a chore. Now, why are you mad at me?”
“I’m not,” he said, and got up and went to order himself another coffee.
“Yes, you are,” I said, when he came back. He took a long time to answer, putting four sugar cubes into his coffee and a big dollop of cream, stirring it, sipping it, carefully laying the spoon down.
“I’m not mad at you, Sally.” He smiled. “Honest. Tell me about the guy, what’s his name—Christian? See, I remembered. Is he a student? What’s he do? How’d you run into him in Munich? With the Fuhrer?”
“Well, yes. Sort of.” I told him about the tea party and the accident and the blonde in the bathroom, whom, to my disappointment, David had already heard about, and explained how Christian’s car became my limousine. “And so he and I, and his friend, Hans, who is in the SA, but seemed a nice fellow, went and had a beer.”
David looked up from his cup at me, suddenly, his brown eyes intently studying my face. “In the SA? And your friend? Delivering messages—and girls—is he a storm trooper too?”
I froze. Opened my mouth. Closed it. Looked out the window, then back at the table, at the bar. “No-o-o,” I said.
“Sally. Tell me. Your dear, long-lost friend of your childhood bosom is . . . in the navy! The Wehrmacht. Or maybe he’s just an ordinary cop. No? Well, what?”
“Shut up, David. Just shut up,” I whispered, almost hissing at him, leaning across the table. “Yes, he’s in the SS. There, are you happy?”
“No. No, I’m not happy. Not happy at all.” He slouched back, his legs stuck out into the aisle. There weren’t many customers in the little cafe, but a man and woman looked up at us.
“SS. Your friend, your dear pal, the guy you’ve been mooning about all these years, is in the SS? I don’t believe it.”
“I haven’t been mooning,” I said, trying to get a word in. He ignored me.
“I don’t believe you can be so damned stupid. So goddamned naive. Don’t you know anything? Don’t you pay attention? Oh, Jesus, Sally, being cute and pretty is one thing, but it is finally no excuse for being stupid. I thought you were . . . oh, forget it. Just forget it.” And he grabbed his coat and stormed out of the cafe, his yellow-and-red muffler streaming behind him.
I sat, stunned. No, I thought, no! I saw him walking quickly away, and I knew if he got away, he’d be gone from my life and I couldn’t let that happen. I jumped up, grabbed my things, and ran after him.
I caught him at the end of the block. He was trudging along, his head bent, the battered old felt hat he’d been wearing all along pulled down over his face.
“David,” I said softly. “Slow down, will you.”
He stopped, but didn’t look at me. I didn’t know what to say and we both stood dumbly for several seconds, our hands in our coat pockets, staring in opposite directions down the street at the Saturday shoppers. I touched his sleeve.
“I don’t mean . . . ” I said.
“I know . . . ” he said.
“I’m sorry if I offended you.”
He laughed. “Don’t be stupid. You haven’t offended me. I’m just jealous. And I’m mad at myself because of it.”
“I don’t understand.”
David looked at me for a long time before he answered. “Sally, I’m Jewish.”
“It doesn’t matter. Not to me.”
“Maybe. Maybe. But it does matter to other people. These guys you spend so much time with.”
“Christian’s not anti-Semitic.”
“Sally, he’s in the SS. That’s like saying a . . . a Jesuit doesn’t believe in the Immaculate Conception!”
“But so what if Christian doesn’t like you?”
“It’s not a question of liking me. I don’t care if he—”
“I like you; I’m not—”
“Thank you. But you’re the same way. Believe me, this is something I know about.” He turned away from me, the cold, bright sun hitting his face. He had tears in his eyes. I looked at him in wonder, overwhelmed at the hurt in his face.
“Oh, David, what have I done?”
“Nothing. Not really. Nothing. You’ve tried real hard.”
“David, I don’t believe Jews are less equal or less than human, like the Nazis do. I don’t agree with that. It’s stupid. Human beings should all have a chance.”
He laughed. “You’re a good little democrat, Sally. Well-raised by your broad-minded father, but I will note one thing for you. How come you’ve never asked me to go to one of those fancy dos with you? How come you haven’t introduced me to your father? How come you’ve never invited me back to your house? How come, Sally?”
I stared at him, feeling the truth of what he said go right down to my toes. I felt almost sick. He was right. I raised my head. “You’re right. I didn’t mean—�
��
“Nobody means to, Sally, especially you nice, well-brought-up ones who believe all men are actually equal,” he said, sadly, and walked away.
“You could give me a chance,” I said loudly. I heard him stop. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll introduce you to my father. He isn’t exactly a barrel of monkeys, but you’re right. He should meet my friends, meet you. If you’ll come to dinner on . . .” I thought quickly through the week. “Come on Tuesday. I’ll ask Brian and Sydney too. I haven’t introduced them to him either. He should meet all my friends.”
I walked toward him. “David, will you do something for me?”
“What?” He took a few steps toward me. “What do you mean?”
“Will you meet Christian?”
“Sally.”
“It’s important to me. You’re right about all the politics. I don’t know anyone who is righter than you are. Except maybe my father. You two ought to have a lot in common. But you’re also dismissing a friend of mine because of circumstances.”
“Circumstances? Presumably he chose to be in the SS.”
“Meet him. Just meet him. And,” I added in a small voice, “let him meet you.”
“You really like this guy?”
“I don’t know—yes. I just met him again. I used to be crazy about him. Now, he’s older. Serious. I don’t know.”
“Good-looking, I’ll bet.” I was glad to hear some of David’s sarcastic humor creep back into his voice, but before I could answer, a voice called my name and I turned to find Christian coming up behind us. He wore a charcoal-gray suit over a dark-maroon sweater, his overcoat was a rough black-and-white tweed, and a pale-gray muffler was draped casually around his neck. He looked like a fashion plate.
“Bingo!” said David.
“Christian!” I said, a little too brightly. “Hello. Don’t you look elegant? Where’d you come from? Is it time?”
“I'm early. I was walking to the address, and here you are.”
“Yes. I ran into David. We were just talking. Christian Mayr, this is my friend . . .” I turned toward David, not sure what to expect.
“David Wohl,” he said, putting out his hand.
The Last Innocent Hour Page 28
