The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  I arched against him, my arms flying to the side, hitting the floor. He kept up his assault, hammering at me, and I rose to confront him, to meet his every charge.

  “No, no, no,” he groaned, moving in long, hard arcs into and through me. I felt him wet and hot in me, as though he were growing, until I could feel him against every part of my inner self. The idea of our feeling each other that entirely so moved me that a smaller rush, an aftershock, rippled through me. And him.

  His straight arms held his face high above me, until, finally, he slowly sank down onto me, heavy, his bulk hindering my breathing, making me feel exhausted and overwhelmed. I put my arms around him, too stunned to move my legs and shift his weight.

  We lay there for a long time, sweaty, in the ruins of our clothing.

  I wondered if he was sleeping, his breathing was so regular and calm. His full weight was on me, pressing me into the floor, his shoulder against my chin, almost throttling me. I tried to roll him off. He resisted moving for a brief moment, then let me push him onto his back. He didn’t move. He just lay there, one arm covering his eyes, his shirt and pants splayed open.

  I got up, nearly toppling over on weak legs, and staggered into the bedroom. I quickly got into bed, our bed, where I fell asleep at once and slept deeply. When I awakened several hours later, my eyes flew open. Something had awakened me and I stared straight up at the ceiling, trying to hear what it might have been. It came from the sitting room and I sat up to listen.

  Christian. It was him. And he was crying. I got out of bed and padded into the sitting room. The light was still on and I covered my eyes until they adjusted. He was still on the floor; I guess he had fallen asleep on his stomach, his head in his arms. He looked so disheveled, so uncomfortable, so miserable, that I knelt down and took him in my arms.

  “Shhh,” I murmured, his head on my shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  He raised his head to look at me. He looked terrible, his eyes red, unshaven, his hair a mess. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  “So am I.” I held him to me tightly. “I’m sorry for everything,” I whispered. “I love you.”

  “Why?” he asked, looking into my face again. “Why do you love me? Nothing is right about it. Look at what I’ve done.”

  “I don’t know. I have to. Shh.” I put my fingers against his lips. “No more tonight. Come to bed. Come to bed with me.”

  I helped him up, walking with my arm around his waist, and seating him on the bed. We got his boots off and I removed the rest of his clothing, as he fell back against the pillows. When I climbed into bed next to him, his hand came across the sheets for me and he turned over to lie close behind me. I covered his hand with mine.

  “I don’t believe what Heydrich said,” he murmured so softly that I didn’t know if he was dreaming or not. Then he was silent. And we slept.

  In the morning, I woke late. He was gone and I felt relieved. I wanted time before I had to look into his eyes and see how he felt about me. Then I heard the shower going and realized that he was only that far away from me.

  I pretended to sleep as he quietly moved around getting dressed. I heard him swear under his breath when he dropped his cuff link, and I almost smiled. But I wanted to hide from him, so I controlled myself.

  He came over to me and stood above me for the longest time, until I was sure he was testing me. He wasn’t. He put his hand gently on my head, caressed me, spoke, and was gone.

  I waited until I heard the door close before I opened my eyes, staring into the dim room, lit by the morning light that crept in around the curtains and blinds.

  “You make it so hard,” he had said. I did. I flipped onto my back. It was my fault. He had done everything perfectly: asking me, in the face of my father’s displeasure, to marry him; making the decision to leave the SS, his job, his friends, his family, his country. He had killed those men, under orders, but he was trying to extricate himself from ever being ordered to do such a thing again. I sat up. It was so clear. He was trying to save himself and I wasn’t doing anything to help him.

  I rang for my coffee, determined to change. I would show him that I could give. That’s what I needed to do, give back to him some of the love and caring he had given to me. And last night . . . well, I wouldn’t think of that, of the way we had been, the feelings.

  I blushed as I thought about it, looking at myself in the mirror over the sink. But I smiled, too, remembering how it had felt to be overwhelmed by him. As I took my nightgown off and turned on the shower, I caught sight of myself again in the mirror. How rosy and fecund I looked. For the first time, I looked pregnant. I stepped closer and saw the welt across the top of my breast. Gingerly, I touched the raw skin and dried blood. I hadn’t noticed it last night. I hadn’t even felt it. I shook my head, not believing the violence of the passion I had experienced.

  A PERFECT GERMAN KNIGHT

  PLAY FOR ME. You never play for me,” said Christian, leaning on the piano, looking across the music stand at me. It was early evening almost a week after our horrible fight and he had just come home. I hadn’t felt well and had slept most of the day, coming down to practice around four. I was in slacks and a sweater, my hair in a ponytail. I usually practiced in the morning, after Daddy and Christian left. I was glad to see him and glad he had stopped to talk to me. He had been very careful with me, very distant and polite, and I had missed his company.

  “You’ve never asked me;” I replied, rippling out a scale.

  “Well, I am asking you now,” he said, coming around close enough to give my ponytail a gentle tug. “I remember your mother. In the summers. She used to play those American songs, jazz and the like.”

  “And the Spanish and Mexican songs. I liked those.” I started to pick out the melody of one. It was a beautiful ballad about a man saying good-bye to his girl before he went off to fight in the revolution.

  “I remember that one,” exclaimed Christian, swinging around to sit next to me.

  I found the melody and added some chords and Christian, as he remembered the words, sang softly. I smiled to hear his tentative tenor. I hadn’t heard him sing since we were kids. We leaned against each other, playing and singing the song about love and death. When we came to the end of the song we sat in silence, listening to the last overtones of the piano fade away. I let my hands drop from the keyboard.

  “This is nice—with you,” I said.

  “I like hearing you play. Play me something else.” He put his hand around me, touching my neck. I turned my head to face him and he kissed me, holding me close and warm against him. He rubbed his cheek against mine, then quickly straightened up.

  “God,” he said, “look at the time. Are you going to be ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Sally, you forgot.” He moved away from me. “The dinner.”

  “The dinner? Oh, no—I did forget!” I dropped my hands into my lap. “Do I have. . .?” I saw his face. “I’ll make it. Don’t worry.” I jumped up and hurried to the door. “When do we leave?”

  “Half past or so.”

  “I’ll do it. Just watch me.” I returned to him and kissed him. “I promise. Absolutely,” I said, and left the room.

  The Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler was hosting a banquet for the officers of the SD to show his appreciation for the work they, and their chief, had done for the Reich. I did not look forward to it, but I had promised myself to do my best to support Christian. It was hard for him to continue, knowing he would be leaving.

  I opened my wardrobe, wondering what one wore to such an affair. Sophie was turning back the bed and I asked for her opinion. We settled on a new dress, one I’d bought during the summer in Paris, a black watered silk with sleeves puffed high at the shoulders, tapering to tight columns with ten tiny jet buttons at each wrist. It was otherwise plain, with a full skirt. Sophie took it off for a
pressing and I hopped into the shower.

  “Right on time,” said Christian as I climbed into the back of the car. The window was up, separating us from Rick, and Christian kissed my gloved hand. “And you look perfect.”

  “Thank you.” I checked my reflection in the window. I’d put my hair up in a smooth coil on top of my head and I did look elegant and collected.

  The banquet was in a huge gilded hall at the Adlon. There were nearly one hundred men there from the SD, most with their wives. It was a very special occasion, as women were usually excluded from SS activities.

  Christian and I sat at a large round table with six other couples. He was seated across from me, and the huge, hideous centerpiece—black and silver roses, which probably cost a fortune—effectively cut us off from each other. I did manage a friendly conversation with the man to my left, a major with a high forehead and glasses and an educated interest in music.

  After the dinner, which was good, if too rich, there were speeches. Heydrich got up to introduce his boss. There was a microphone and his voice sounded very high coming through it.

  “I’m not very good at these events,” he said with disarming modesty. “Usually, when I’m asked to come, I say: ‘Send the boss. He’s much better at it than I am.’” Everyone laughed and Heydrich waited for his audience to quiet down. “I’m happier at work, I like to be working. Well, most of you know that.” This comment was received with rueful laughter. “So I will now stop talking and leave the field to Reichsfuhrer-SS Himmler. He is better at this than I.” He stepped back from the podium, holding his hand out toward the Reichsfuhrer, then joining in the applause before returning to his seat. I had already noticed Lina, in a royal-blue velvet dress, a spray of flowers in her hair. We had seen each other and smiled across the large expanse of the crowded room.

  I had never actually met Heinrich Himmler, although I had seen him at a reception the air ministry gave one New Year’s. He was not an impressive figure for such a powerful man. Small and insignificant in his fancy black-and-silver uniform, he looked like a skinny kid dressing up or a clerk on his way to a costume party, hoping to impress someone. I don’t remember much about his speech, except that it was long and mostly about the hard work the SS had in front of them, making Germany healthy again. He read from notes, the light catching his round glasses every time he looked up. But finally he was finished and smiled smugly at the tremendous applause he received.

  Dessert was served with the coffee, and as we were eating, Himmler, followed by Heydrich and a few aides, made the rounds of the room. Himmler didn’t stop to talk or meet every person, but as he passed, each table stood to receive him.

  So it was with ours. Heydrich introduced him to Christian and they all came around toward me.

  “Frau Hauptsturmfuhrer Mayr,” said Heydrich, smiling at me over his shorter boss.

  “Ah, yes, the American,” said Himmler, holding out his hand.

  I shook hands with him, saying nothing. His hand was very damp and flaccid, rather unpleasant to touch. I almost giggled, but held it in, behaving impeccably. I remembered a story I’d heard from Sydney, who had heard it from one of the German secretaries at the British embassy, whose sister worked for the SS. Himmler was known for his damp handshakes, for his boring conversation, and for his bad breath. Unlike, for instance, Joseph Goebbels, who, though as unattractive physically, exerted a strong charismatic attraction on most women who came into contact with him.

  “Heini arrives at the office with such fanfare and salutes,” the secretary’s sister told her, “and nobody goes to look, but when the Doctor arrives at his ministry, all the girls rush to the outside windows to see him.”

  Himmler’s next comment to me did nothing to dispel my belief in the truth of Sydney’s story. He stared right at my stomach and asked me if I was expecting.

  The rudeness of the question surprised me, but I smiled and simply said that I was.

  “I am pleased,” he said, lifting his chin. “I can tell you that at first I was not pleased with Hauptsturmfuhrer Mayr’s choice of a bride, although the report of your antecedents was impeccable. But one hears such things about American women, doesn’t one, Heydrich?” Himmler leaned his head slightly toward his subordinate, but did not turn to look at him.

  “One can scarcely believe,” murmured Heydrich.

  “But now you have proved that my faith in our man was well- founded. I hope your child is a boy, a fine boy. You must let me know immediately. And, of course, if there is anything I can do for you.” He took my hand and covered it with his, patting away at me.

  I smiled at him and thanked him and finally he let go of me.

  “Good. Good. That is fine,” he said as he moved on. Heydrich followed, his energy checked, his dominant personality under wraps, like a racehorse pulling a plow. He smiled at me as he passed.

  “You were splendid,” whispered Christian.

  “What did he mean about my antecedents? Did someone do research on me?” I whispered back at him.

  “Of course they did. I told you. When we got married.”

  “What’d they find out? Anything interesting?”

  “Sally. Not now.” I opened my mouth. “Please,” he said and I was silent.

  As we all returned to our seats, Christian and I received covetous looks from the others at our table for the attention given us by the Reichsfuhrer. I kept on smiling, trying to behave, trying to remember where I was.

  But if I wasn’t already aware of it, after dessert when the company stood and sang, I was forced to see the reality. Their rendition was not as lusty as the men in the beer hall, nor did they sing of spilling Jewish blood or bashing Communist heads. They sang of the future, of their quest, of being destiny’s men. Himmler quieted them after the song.

  He had a surprise for them and held up a yellow telegram. It was from the Fuhrer himself and Himmler read it. It was simple, wishing the company goodwill in their struggle and thanking them for the work they had done, the sacrifices they had made, promising them the brightness that would be theirs in the continuing years of the Thousand-Year Reich.

  “You are the best our nation has,” read the telegram. “The shock troops, the vanguard, the knights of the Third Reich.”

  Then they raised their arms and heiled their Fuhrer. Again with dignity and control, unlike the emotional, sloppy practices of their defeated, dishonored, and murdered brethren, the SA.

  The men in this room believed they were the best their country could offer, the best-educated, the brightest minds, the finest bodies, the most ambitious, idealistic, and loyal—the elite. They were sure they were exactly what their country needed at that moment in its history: they were the hope of the future, whom all young Germans looked up to.

  And my husband was one of them, singing and saluting with the same quiet fervor. I didn’t watch him. I sat and stood when the other women did, and hoped I had a rapt expression on my face, but I didn’t look at him. I didn’t want to see how well he fit in.

  I wished there were someone I could share my true feelings with, someone like David. We could have made funny jokes about the singing and saluting, about Himmler’s glasses and limp handshake, and I would have felt less frightened, less alone. On the other hand, I thought, looking at the straight black-sleeved arms of the men in front of me, maybe this wasn’t something to make jokes about. It really wasn’t funny.

  I HAD TO remember that we were going to leave, that all three of us would be safe and that Christian’s intentions were honorable, that he was not a loyal SS man. But still, I didn’t want to know what he did during these last weeks. I wanted to see him, and not his uniform.

  It wasn’t so hard, since I never asked him about what he did and he never told me. He wrote reports; that sounded innocuous enough.

  I tried to ignore everything that would threaten us, but it was becoming more and more difficult. Christian himself seemed to be changing in subtle ways I couldn’t really put my finger on. He sometimes was gone fo
r several days at a time. Never without telling me, but when he returned he was distracted and distant. He was drinking more than was normal for him and not eating well.

  Once I came home from a long, boring dinner at the Soviet embassy and found him standing in the sitting room, a drink in his hand, staring out the windows of the French doors. He had turned on one table lamp, which is why I had opened the door, wondering why the light was on.

  He turned his head toward me when he heard the door open and smiled at me. Then he drank. I walked to him and ran my hand across his back. He put his arm around me and pulled me against his side, holding on to me, still without a word.

  “Did you just get in?” I asked him after a moment. He nodded and drank again.

  “It’s very clear tonight, isn’t it?” he said.

  I looked outside; it was.

  “Have you eaten recently?” I asked him as he lifted the glass to his lips. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Come on. I had dinner with the Soviets and you know what they know about food.” I took his hand and led him from the sitting room, telling him about the terrible dinner I’d had, making him laugh.

  I could always distract him, it seemed, and maybe that was my most important role in his life at that time. He never said so, but I could see him slowly relax, slowly become more like the man I knew and less like the tall, silent stranger I sometimes felt I was mysteriously married to.

  We made love that night and he fell asleep almost immediately after. I held him for a long time, wondering what would happen to us.

  A few nights later, we went to a small Italian restaurant for supper before going to the opera. I don’t like to eat heavy food before the theater, but the opera was Lohengrin and I thought we’d better eat before Wagner.