He must have felt me thinking about him, because he turned his head. His eyes met mine but were unsmiling. I smiled at him and started around the table toward him. He watched my progress, but seemed uninterested. Anyway, I didn’t make it to his side, because the doorbell rang and in came the Bushmullers and my father and we had to go and greet them.
There was a lot of noise and happy chatter as Christian and I stood side by side in the small entry hall, welcoming the guests.
In a lull, I was about to say something, when he spoke. “I think I’ll go find a drink. What can I bring you?”
Disappointed, I was brusque. “Nothing.” As I was about to go into the sitting room, the doorbell rang again. Lisa’s maid opened the door. It was Heydrich.
I didn’t move, dumbfounded. He smiled at my confusion and stepped into the flat.
“Good evening, Sally,” he said, handing the maid his hat and coat. He was in civilian clothes. “Lina sends her regrets. Paul is ill.” He took my hand and bent over it, touching my knuckles with a brush of his lips.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“He’s a sturdy lad. He’ll be all right.”
“Obergruppenfuhrer.” Lisa Mayr came in. She glanced at me, probably wondering if I had known he was coming.
“Frau Mayr, I can only stay a moment. But I had to come,” he said smoothly, and she led him into the sitting room, while I wondered who had invited him. I followed the general and Lisa into the room, looking for Sydney.
My father cornered me and dryly asked me who the hell had invited our new guest.
“Don’t worry, he’s just staying a minute. And I don’t think anyone asked him.” Heydrich turned and came toward us.
“Ambassador,” he said, holding his hand out.
“General,” replied my father. For the barest moment, he hesitated, as though he were going to ignore Heydrich’s outstretched hand. His inbred manners won out and he reached for the general’s hand and gave it the briefest of shakes. “Sally, would you get me some salad? And one of those hard rolls. I feel a bit peckish.”
My eyes opened wide at that. I had never in my life heard my father use a word like “peckish.”
“Go, on, dear, while I chat with the general here.” His Western accent was growing more pronounced as well. I went before I started laughing, although there really wasn’t anything funny.
In a little while, Heydrich appeared next to me and took the plate from me to hold as I selected food for my father.
“Did you and Daddy have a nice talk?” I asked innocently.
“Your father is not what I expected.”
“You met him before.”
“Yes, I remember. But I did not talk to him. He seems . . . you Americans are a curious people.” He shook his head, as though to clear it of confusing thoughts of my countrymen, and changed the subject. “I understand you are living here.”
“Yes, but we’re going to live with my father. There’s so much room.”
He didn’t answer, except to say, “Ah.” And there’s something you didn’t know, I thought.
“Did you get the recording?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I forgot to thank you.” I spooned some potato salad onto the plate. “I haven’t listened to it yet. We’ve been so busy.” I handed him the plate, forgetting I had meant it for my father. “Thank you. It was very thoughtful of you. Now I must go . . .” I gestured behind me as though someone were waiting for me and then I hurried from the room. I pushed through a door and found myself in the pantry. Damn. I shouldn’t have run away from him.
He opened the door behind me and stepped into the little space.
“I hope you will not give up your playing,” he said.
“No, of course not. I practice nearly every day.” There were clean glasses arranged on trays on the counter, white tea towels under them. I picked up a wineglass.
“Do you practice the Haydn? That we played together? It is very beautiful and you played it very well.”
“Thank you. It is a beautiful piece.”
“Yes.” And he moved toward me, quietly whistling the melody, conducting with small, delicate gestures of his long, thin hands. “I hope you will listen to the recording, and remember our musical friendship.”
I nodded, smiling to cover my nervousness. “I will, General.”
“Please,” he said, holding up one hand gracefully. “Reinhard, please. It hurts me that you never call me by my name.”
“Reinhard. Thank you, Reinhard,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t ever address him so. I just couldn’t.
Then he leaned forward slowly, bending down toward me from his great height, and, holding my face, kissed me, his lips settling on my mouth so lightly that I barely felt them until the tip of his tongue lapped against my lips insistently. A shock of feeling exploded through me. He drew back and I saw the triumph in his cold, intelligent eyes.
“You look so fragile with those big eyes and that pretty little face,” he whispered, still holding my face, his thumbs caressing my cheeks. “I imagine men want to take care of you. Women too. Missy told me she did. But you know what your particular kind of beauty makes me want?” He leaned down to me again, and I felt his lips brush my cheek, my ear. His tongue touched the spiral of my ear.
I jerked my head but he didn’t let go of me, blocking me against the counter. He whispered again, his breath hot on my ear and throat.
“I want to destroy you,” he said. His tongue touched me again. “And do it by making you want it. As you do now.”
Then he let go of me, and left me, trembling, alone in the little pantry, with the wineglass still clasped in my hand.
“No,” I whispered to the air. “No.”
How I hated myself at that moment.
FURTHER DISTURBANCES
CHRISTIAN AND I began a strange time after we moved into my father’s house. We took over two bedrooms, with a bathroom on the second floor, and I changed them to a sitting room and a bedroom for Christian and me. It was comfortable at the house, but Christian was, of course, still working, and he started staying out later in the evening. In a very short time, we developed a routine in which we rarely saw each other. I was very unhappy and I imagine he was too.
One night, after two weeks like that, we had finished dinner with Daddy, and everything was polite and placid on the surface, with Christian and me avoiding each other’s eyes. I went upstairs to write to Eddie, but unable to say anything appropriate, I wandered into my old room and noticed, on my desk, where I had left it, the recording from Heydrich.
My father came into the hall just as I stepped out of the bedroom, the recording in my arms.
“Sally, I have to go out,” he said.
“Has something happened?”
“An American professor was attacked. He’s in the hospital.”
“Why, Daddy?”
“He didn’t raise his arm when some SS went by and some thugs in the crowd took offense. They evidently beat him up badly. The terrible thing, Sally, is that all this was supposed to stop when Hitler destroyed the SA. It makes me sick, I can tell you. Thank God, you and Christian will be gone by the first of the year.” And saying that, he put on his hat and went out.
Eddie was coming to Berlin for Christmas, and the plan was for my father, Christian, and me to leave with him when he returned. Our story would be that we were going to spend New Year’s in London, but we’d just keep on going.
I stood there for several moments after my father had left, forgetting the record in my arms. When I remembered it, I went into our sitting room, and, putting the record on the turntable, sat on the floor to listen.
I knew the piece so well and thought Heydrich and I had played it nicely. But now, played by professional musicians, it was almost unbearably moving. Sometimes my mother’s playing had been like that, and as I listened, leaning my head against the cabinet, I missed her badly. If only she had lived, she could have helped me avoid some of
these mistakes I had made and kept on making.
No, I thought, raising my head. Christian is not a mistake. He cannot be. And I got up to go find him. First, I changed into my nightgown and robe, a pale-blue set, the nightgown silk, the robe thin wool, its cuffs and neck edged in satin. I brushed out my hair and tied a blue ribbon around my head. Nothing, though, could help the sadness in my eyes. Go, I said to myself, stopping to take the needle off the record.
Downstairs, my slippers clattered on the black and white tiles. Christian wasn’t in the sitting room and I went down the hall to look in the music room. He wasn’t there. Daddy’s study was the only place left—unless he had gone out.
He sat in the big leather armchair that faced the sofa, his jacket open, his tie loosened, a glass of clear liquid held on his chest. He held one hand over his eyes. The light from the hall fell across him. He might have been asleep, he sat so still.
The radio played light classical music, romantic, schmaltzy stuff, and it covered my entrance. He didn’t hear me come in and I almost backed out.
But he looked up and saw me, blinking in the light from the hall. He looked away immediately and drank, almost emptying the glass. His absolute disregard frightened me, but I made myself stay. He had a right to be angry, I told myself.
“Why is it so dark?” I said, turning to switch on the overhead fight.
“Don’t,” he said abruptly. “Leave it.”
I turned back. He was slouched in the big chair. On the table at his elbow was a half-full bottle of vodka. Slowly he lifted the glass and took a sip, then, returning the glass to the resting spot on his chest, turned his head to look at me.
“Here you are. My bride.” He spoke very slowly and carefully; he was drunk. He took another drink. “What time is it?”
“Nearly ten. I’m sorry I’ve disturbed you.” I did not move from where I stood in front of the door. “Christian?” I said softly. “Are you all right?”
Again, he moved slowly, turning his head to focus on me. “You look very beautiful.” Very carefully he placed his empty glass on the table next to him, then folded his hands on his chest and, with infinite weariness, closed his eyes:
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Wrong?” He sighed, seemed to consider speaking, but didn’t.
“Is it your work?” I said, the thought suddenly scaring me. “Did you have to—did Heydrich ask you to do something?”
“Heydrich. Do you want a drink? I think I will have another.” And he reached for the bottle and his glass. I said nothing and watched as he poured more vodka, clanking the bottle against the glass.
“You’ll feel terrible in the morning.” I walked around the sofa toward him.
“Ah, yes, I will,” he said and drank, nearly emptying the glass. “You know, I’ve been sitting here, wondering what I did to you that makes you find me so repulsive. I was bad to you, getting you pregnant. I will admit that. But, shit, I married you, didn’t I? I thought, at the lake, everything was fine. What did I do? Heydrich . . .
“Heydrich wants to fuck you, did you know that? Of course you did. How do I know? Well, he told me so. God, he told me so. ‘Don’t be so old-fashioned, Mayr,’ he told me. I knew that he was hot for you. I knew that. I’ve watched him often enough go after women.”
“Oh, Christian,” I said, trying to interrupt him, to stop the words, the obscenities. I sat down.
He, in turn, hauled himself up and stood in front of me, towering over me as I sat on the sofa. He put his hands heavily on my shoulders and leaned down to speak into my face. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Have you fucked him already? That’s the real question here.”
“No, of course not,” I said. “Don’t be ridiculous. I told you.”
He pushed on my shoulders, forcing me against the sofa back.
“But you were friends with him, you went to his house,” he said in a harsh whisper.
“We played music. I was friends with Lina and I liked being with her and their son, until she started that Nazi claptrap. But they were both kind to me, recommending the fencing salle, inviting me to play. It was the music.”
“Ah,” he said, kneeling on the sofa so that he was straddling me. “He was ‘kind’ to you. Was he ‘kind’ to you in the pantry at my mother’s? Was that what he was doing? You tell me your version.”
“Get off me,” I said, trying to laugh, trying to defuse his anger. “You’re heavy.”
“Tell me about how kind he was.” He leaned over, crouching above me, his face next to my ear.
“You’re being idiotic,” I said, getting angry, trying to sit up. He pushed me back.
“Did you let him fuck you?”
“How can you ask me that?” I said furiously.
“Answer me.”
“No,” I said defiantly. “No, I won’t answer. If you won’t trust me—”
“Trust?” He laughed. “What does trust have to do with any of this? Jesus, trust—”
“Christian, let me up!”
“So, you wouldn’t sleep with him, and you won’t sleep with me because of what he said. Do you expect me to believe that crap?” He looked down at me and shook his head. “Maybe you are as naive as he said you are. Are you? Are you a sweet, stupid, naive American girl? Who fucked my boss because he gave you a recording? Maybe? Don’t you realize how they were using you? Both of them. Nice. Christ.”
He took another drink from his bottle. I struggled to sit up and he shoved me back again, giving me such a hard push that I bounced against the sofa back. He trailed his hand from my shoulder to my breast.
“Don’t.” I knocked his hand away and he grabbed my hand.
“You know what I think now? I think that you were fucking him and that is why you married me. So you let me fuck you two, three times and then you couldn’t bear it any longer. I will give you that, you couldn’t keep up the pretense of wanting me. Was it good on the train with him? Is he good?”
“That’s disgusting. Stop this, let me up.”
“About this baby,” he said, putting his hands against my abdomen. “I’ve heard it is very unusual to knock somebody up on the first time.”
“Christian, listen to me.”
“Do you know what I think?” he whispered. “I think maybe this baby is not mine at all, but my boss’s. What do you think of that?” His hand pressed and kneaded my abdomen, as though he hated what was there. It didn’t hurt, but it might, and the threat inherent in his strength frightened me.
I had to get away and I shoved at him with all my might. What he was saying was so obscene that I couldn’t have his hands on me a moment longer. The violence of my attempt must have surprised him because he fell back and I found myself on my hands and knees on the floor. I scrambled to my feet and ran around the sofa, heading for the door.
He came after me without a word, out of the study, across the hall, catching me on the stairs. I slugged him as hard as I could. He almost tumbled down the stairs, falling against the railing, catching himself on it. I ran up the rest of the stairs, down the hall to our room. In the room, I closed the door, but he was there; pushing against it. There was no key and I gave up, running to the other side of the room.
He stood in the open door, panting, his hair in his eyes, an ugly expression on his face. Seeing him like that, I felt cold, strangely calm. My head cleared as though the fear blanked out everything that would hinder my survival.
Or rather, the baby’s, because for the first time I felt truly aware of it, of how small and helpless it was. I turned and ran into the bedroom, heading for the door.
He caught me, grabbing my wrist, yanking me back into the sitting room. Crying with frustration, anger, and pain, I kicked him, hurting myself because, in the flight upstairs, I had lost one of my slippers. He swore but I don’t think I could have hurt him since he was wearing those damned boots.
Suddenly, he lifted me off the ground. The move surprised me so that I stopped struggling. And, after a moment, he lowe
red me until my feet touched the floor.
He loosened his hold on me, perhaps because I was crying. I immediately tried to jerk away and he let go of one of my hands, although his arm across my chest still held me fast. He pushed his hand against my head and, for one horrible moment, I thought he meant to break my neck.
“You’re crazy,” I whispered, trembling.
He didn’t say anything, as he hadn’t since we started this incredible fight. Instead, his hand slid down my neck, over my nightgown, to my breast. I struggled again to free myself, but he held tightly to me. Except for that one hand, moving on my breast. He cocked a leg, so that his thigh ran under mine, almost supporting me. I could feel his erection.
Suddenly, perversely, I felt an overwhelming rush of desire for him. There was nothing in me but want, as though the desire was so strong that all other feelings were wiped away. I slumped against him, my head back against his shoulder.
“Oh, Christian,” I said, moving against him, feeling his body respond to me. I was more than hungry for him, I was ravenous, and I turned in his arms to kiss him, practically knocking him over. His hands were fire even through my nightclothes, and when he touched my breasts, skin to skin, I moaned in relief. I tore at his shirt buttons as he fumbled with my nightgown and robe. We fell onto the floor, Christian scrabbling with his pants buttons, not bothering to take off any of his other clothing.
Never have I wanted anyone, anything, so much. And I did so instinctively, not thinking, not talking, not doing anything but feeling. And wanting. All of me seemed to be focused in that secret place where, when he entered me, fast and hard, he drove for my center.
The floor was hard but I didn’t feel it. His uniform buttons, before he sat up and wrenched his jacket off, gouged me, but I didn’t feel them. There was no kissing, no sweet caresses, just the pounding. I wrapped my legs high around him, helping him go deeper, holding him closer. This position meant I couldn’t help anchor us, and the force of his drives into me moved us across the floor until he put his hands on my shoulders, to hold me still so he could reach deeper, as he had done that June afternoon, but now it was different. So different.
The Last Innocent Hour Page 44
