The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  I arrived at the restaurant, a long, cozy narrow room, before Christian and watched him arrive. He wore a black wool uniform topcoat, the shoulders of which were flecked with snow. He took it off and handed it and his cap to the hatcheck girl, then came down the room looking for me.

  He looked so handsome, his face flushed with the cold, his hair slightly mussed above his perfectly tailored uniform. I noticed, and not for the first time, people, men and women both, watching him.

  His face lit up when he saw me and he came quickly to me, kissed me and sat down. The waiter arrived and we ordered.

  “What is it we’re seeing tonight?” he asked.

  “Lohengrin.”

  “Ah, the perfect knight.”

  “You look like what he should look like but won’t.” He made a face at me, rejecting my comment. “You’re so handsome. How did you grow up to be so beautiful?”

  “Men aren’t beautiful.”

  "You are.”

  “So are you.”

  “No,” I said, secretly pleased at the compliment. “I’m pretty. It’s not the same thing at all.”

  The waiter arrived with our food and we didn’t speak for a few minutes. Then Christian, chewing thoughtfully on his lasagna, said, “It’s not so easy, you know. Well, you must know this. But I think it must be easier for a girl to be very good-looking than for a man.”

  I could see it was a difficult subject for him, and I wondered what it was he wanted to tell me.

  “People demand things, expect things—just because of the way one looks.”

  “What things?” I asked tentatively.

  He ignored my question. “It’s taken me a while to realize they are only seeing my looks.”

  “Except for me.”

  He nodded. “Yes. And that’s another reason why I love you. Because you knew me when I was just a short, skinny kid.” He looked up from his plate, his eyes catching the light from the little candle to his right. His hair had started to fall onto his forehead, as it had when he was a kid, and I reached my hand out to push it back when he spoke, freezing my hand in mid-gesture.

  “You knew me when I was young,” he said, paused, then added, “and innocent.” His eyes held mine, daring me to ask what he meant, to say anything, but I dropped my hand to my fork and smiled at him.

  “And the same goes for me,” I said flippantly. He let it go. And so did I.

  During the opera, I was reminded of our conversation when, on their wedding night, Elsa pleads with Lohengrin to tell her his name. In the next scene, he does, in front of the king and court, and then departs, leaving Elsa to die of woe. She was encouraged to ask the question by her enemies, almost dared to.

  As the lights came up for the curtain calls, I glanced at my husband, who was certainly much closer to the embodiment of the perfect German knight than the stocky, middle-aged tenor on the stage.

  What were the questions I should have asked him? What were the answers I was too frightened to hear?

  SEVERAL MORNINGS AFTER the opera, Sophie woke me when she came in with the coffee. Christian was still asleep, his arm over my waist, and I gestured to Sophie to be quiet and put the coffee in the other room.

  I extracted myself, still feeling slightly embarrassed at being found in bed with my husband, and, putting on my robe, went into the bathroom and then into our sitting room.

  “Good morning, Sophie,” I said. “Here, let me take that.” She was juggling both the tray and Christian’s briefcase, which he had left on the table. I took hold of one of the handles and she let go. The case was heavier than I anticipated and the contents of it spilled to the ground, fanning out in front of us.

  “Oh, madam, oh, dear,” exclaimed Sophie, kneeling quickly and grabbing up handfuls of papers.

  “Here, Sophie, let me,” I said, getting down across from her. “You fix the table. I’ll do this. Don’t worry.”

  She got up and did as I asked while I gathered Christian’s stuff together, trying to keep the papers in order. Fortunately, most of them were fastened into their respective file folders, but there were loose pages that I gathered up and put on top. Then I came upon something different: several photographs of varying sizes. I looked at them.

  They were all black and white and all of people’s faces, all but one a man. The pictures were not posed studio shots, but candid and rough. It occurred to me that they were blowups.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I looked up. Christian stood, in his pajamas, his arms akimbo, in the middle of the room. He was furious. Sophie and I froze at the look on his face.

  “Nothing, we knocked your case over . . .” I stammered.

  He crossed the room quickly and grabbed the photographs out of my hand. “You have no business touching this. What the hell is she doing in here?” he yelled, turning toward Sophie, who literally cowered in front of him.

  “Christian,” I said, putting my hand on his arm. He shrugged it off. “Christian, Sophie was setting the table.”

  “She’s going through my things.”

  “Oh, no, sir, no,” said poor Sophie, her face turning red. “I would never . . .”

  “Sophie, please go,” I said. “I’ll explain.”

  “I know she was going through them,” he said. “I saw her.”

  “No, please, sir. I would never touch the Hauptsturmfuhrer’s things. Please.” Sophie was sobbing by now, her hands over her face.

  “You stupid girl,” he ground out, and raised his hand to hit her.

  “Christian!” I cried. “Don’t. No.”

  Looking disgusted, Christian wheeled away from Sophie. I moved to her and put my arm around her as I took her to the door.

  “I’m sorry, Sophie, no, of course it’s not your fault. Please don’t cry. You go downstairs, all right?”

  “If there is anything to find out here, I will,” Christian said from across the room. Sophie’s head went up and she stared at him. He raised his arm and pointed at her. “Do you understand, girl?”

  She nodded and lowered her eyes. I could feel her shaking against me. I didn’t blame her, Christian was frightening me as well. I could see he was trying to control himself, his fists clenched, his mouth a tight closed line. He was wearing navy pajamas and an untied robe of navy, dark green, and burgundy paisley fabric, but his informal dress did nothing to dissipate the effect of his anger.

  I ushered the weeping Sophie out the door, then turned to face Christian. He was gathering up the papers and I went to help.

  “Don’t,” he barked. “Just stay away.” I took a step away and he looked up. “These are all secret, Sally. I should not have brought them here. I should have taken them to the office last night when I got back to town, but I was so tired. I never imagined to find you and the maid going through them.”

  “We were not going through them. We dropped the case and were picking them up.”

  “Which is a clever way for someone to get a look at everything.”

  “Sophie? Why would Sophie want to look at those papers? Christian, do you think Sophie is a spy or something?”

  “It is possible.”

  “For whom? Against whom? What an incompetent spy she is, to do it in front of me.”

  “A seemingly innocent ploy.”

  “Ploy? Christian, you can’t be serious,” I exclaimed, trying a laugh.

  “It is not a joke, Sally. Why do you insist on making everything a joke?” He almost shouted, hitting the handful of papers against his knee. “This is not a joke. What I do is not funny. There is nothing even remotely funny about this.” He finished stuffing the papers into his briefcase and stood up.

  “I’m not making a joke. I’m trying to make things better. To get you to calm down. I was the one that knocked your case onto the ground, not Sophie. Honestly, Christian, you are just being paranoid.”

  “Paranoid,” he laughed. “Oh, God, Sally, you are so fucking naive. I can’t believe it. You are amazing.”

  “No, you’re the amazing one, at
tacking the maid and me. Me!” I stood up, facing him. “I think you’re just feeling guilty because you brought the papers home—what are those photographs anyway? I think you’re just afraid of your boss. Well, don’t take it out on me. Okay? Go yell at your colleagues in your damned SD and SS and—”

  He didn’t let me finished, grabbing my shoulders and giving me a hard shake. I gasped.

  “What did you see of them?” he said, his voice low and tight. “The photographs. What did you see of them? Tell me,” he ordered, giving me another shake.

  “Christian, you’re hurting me.” I pulled away, but he moved with me, not letting go of me.

  “Tell me, dammit.”

  “Nothing. I saw nothing.”

  “You looked at them. I know you looked at them. Tell me what you saw.” He pulled me closer to him. “Tell me.”

  I raised my head and met his eyes. For a long moment, I felt as though he were not seeing me, as though he imagined that he had someone else, a stranger, in front of him. The clamp of his fingers around my arms grew tighter. I was frightened by this change in him, and also fascinated by it. He pulled me up, so that I was on my tiptoes. I let him. He looked so steely, so sharp, all the edges of him defined and clear against the gray morning light. He looked into my eyes for that long moment, and then, letting go of me, turned away.

  I rubbed my arms, but said nothing. He took the briefcase into the bedroom and in a minute I heard the shower start.

  Sitting down at the table, I tried to pour myself a cup of coffee, but my hands were shaking so badly that I couldn’t. So I stared out at the foggy morning, at the gray mist on the lawn and trees, hiding the gardens from me.

  When Christian finally came out of the bedroom, dressed in his uniform, I didn’t look at him. Keeping my head turned toward the window, I did not speak to him, and he went away without a word.

  THE BLUE PARROT

  CHRISTIAN CAME UP to our rooms as Sophie was pinning a silver net around my hair, making a neat chignon at the nape of my neck. It was the day after he had yelled at her, and she concentrated on her task as he stuck his head around the bedroom door, smiled at me, and disappeared. Sophie’s eyes met mine in the mirror and I could see she was still upset, even frightened of him. I gave her a reassuring look. Christian and I were going out, alone, for dinner and dancing and I had a daring new dress and wanted nothing to spoil the evening.

  “Were you held up?” I called to Christian, turning my head to look at the arrangement of net and hair. Sophie held up the hand mirror so I could see the back.

  “It looks nice, Sophie. You did a good job.”

  “Thank you, madam. I hope the Hauptsturmfuhrer likes it.”

  “He will. Now you’d better go on. Christian?” I walked into the other room. He was sitting in the armchair, a comfortable one I had had covered in flowered blue chintz. His arm was propped on the arms of the chair, his fingers laced in front of his face. He looked up at me, glanced at Sophie as she left, bobbing a curtsey by the door, then he smiled.

  “How pretty you look.”

  “Thank you.” I waited for him to say more. I was still angry about the way he had badgered Sophie and me, but he seemed depressed about something. “Do you still want to go out?”

  “Yes, of course. But could I have a drink first?”

  “All right.” I went to the little cabinet where we kept a few bottles and pulled out a bottle of vodka and one of Scotch. I held them out so Christian could see.

  “Scotch,” he said.

  I poured his drink and carried the glass over to him. He sat forward, his elbows on his knees, his head bent, and sighed. “I talked to Heydrich today about our trip to London. He brought it up. He had my visa application on his desk. Didn’t refer to it, of course. Just put it where I could see it.” He looked up and noticed me standing there, his drink in my hand. “Thanks,” he said, taking the glass and drinking. I walked away, fidgeting, wandering around the room, as he talked. I straightened the edge of the rug with my toe, smoothing out the pale fringe over the parquet.

  “I’ve seen him do the same thing with other people, people he was interrogating, for God’s sake. He asked me when I intended to return from London. I said after the New Year. He asked if you and your father were coming back then. I said you were and then he asked if your brother was too or if he was going straight back to the States and his wedding. God, I’m a lousy liar. I got flustered because he knew about your brother coming and the wedding. How does he know about Eddie’s wedding? Somebody’s talking to him about us.”

  “Oh, that can’t be. How could . . .?”

  “The servants. Perhaps Rick. Or Sophie.”

  “Sophie!”

  “I told you I was suspicious of her. Heydrich knows. He knows everything, the bastard.” Christian drank the rest of his Scotch, then put the glass on the small table next to him.

  “He can’t know for sure. He must just suspect.”

  “That’s enough for him to do something.”

  “Do something? What do you mean?”

  “And you know what was the worst thing this afternoon, as I stood in front of his desk? He has a huge, fancy desk so he’s miles away from you. Makes you feel like a delinquent student in front of the principal. But the worst thing is I wanted to tell him. I wanted it to be over. He’s going to find out, if he doesn’t know already, and I want it to be over.”

  “Christian, he’ll only find out when we don’t come back . . .”

  “Jesus, I’m brave. What a man you’ve married.”

  I stood across the room, next to the record player, and I nervously picked up a record and returned it to its jacket. It was Brahms, one of the symphonies. It frightened me that he was frightened and I didn’t want him to know that.

  “My, that’s a sexy dress. It must be new, because I would certainly remember you in it.” His voice was very soft, very gentle.

  “Do you like it?” Responding to the tone of his voice, I put the record down and turned, showing off the dress, which was very sexy, and very bare, a mere slip of heavy silver beading. It was cut very cleverly so that it seemed to swirl around me, rather than hang straight. I walked closer to him and turned sideways, running my hand down my stomach. “Do I look too fat in it? Is it too bare? I feel like it barely covers me and I look too pregnant. Not that I shouldn’t.”

  Christian reached out and took my hand, drawing me toward him. “You look luscious. All rosy, round, and fertile.”

  “Fat, you mean.”

  “No, luscious.” He pulled me in front of him, between his knees, his hands on my hips. “I’ll bet if you bent over, I could see right down the front.”

  “That’s so immature of you,” I said, batting him lightly on his shoulder, glad that his sad mood had gone.

  “What do you have on underneath? There’s barely room for anything.”

  I had one hand on his shoulder and he carefully traced the edge of the dress under my arm up along the curve to my neck. Then he leaned forward and kissed the bare skin exposed by the plunging neckline. I shivered, swaying toward him.

  “I just did my hair,” I said, my voice husky with my feeble protest.

  “I don’t want to touch your hair. I promise.” He continued to kiss and lick me while he gathered up the skirt until he could reach under it. I hadn’t put my stockings on yet and he pushed down my panties, then leaned back to undo his buckle, the buttons on his pants.

  “Is there room here?” I asked, turning my head to be sure the door to the hall was closed.

  “We’ll make room,” he said, pulling me toward him. I stepped out of my underpants and sat on his lap, folding my legs on either side of him. I wasn’t quite able to fit myself to him, and he put his hands under my skirt, touching me, making me ready to receive him.

  My long silver dress flowed down over us, covering our nakedness and what we were doing. He brought his hands out from under the dress, touching my arms, my waist, laughing at my expression. I bent my head to his
shoulder, feeling him inside me. I gasped.

  “You like that, don’t you?” he whispered.

  “No—I’m—mad—at—you.” Up and down, I spoke with my breath.

  “Why?” His voice broke. I held still, my hands on his shoulders.

  “Yesterday.”

  “Oh. Don’t stop. I’m sorry. Don’t stop. God, you’re a witch. Don’t stop.” He tried bucking me back into movement, but I grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

  He laughed at me, and dropped his hands from my waist. “Okay. I give up. Whatever you want. I’ll do it.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. Yes, now, please, before it’s too late.”

  “All right.” And I experimented, moving this way and that.

  “Oh, God,” he sighed, leaning his head back against the chair. “What do you want? What can I give you, my dearest, sexy witch?”

  I didn’t answer, concentrating on moving, amazed by the feeling of him. “Do you feel that? How does it feel?”

  “Wonderful. The best feeling in the world.” His head was still back and he closed his eyes. I watched his face, gauging his reactions. Somehow, I had never really understood my effect on him. Sex had, so far, been something he had done to me. I was excited by the turnabout and I watched the tension rise in him as I moved faster and faster until, finally, his eyes flew open, his head came up, and his hands grabbed my waist, pushing me down onto him, pushing him farther into me, in one long shuddering movement. He laughed weakly, dropping his hands over the side of the chair, letting his head fall back against it.

  Still feeling my power, I leaned forward very slowly and kissed him, feeling his lips with my tongue, as he had done to me earlier.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Our heads flew up at the same time, turning instantly toward the sound.

  “Sally?” It was my father and I started to get up, but Christian held me still. I looked at him in a panic. He grinned naughtily.

  “I’m dressing, Daddy,” I called. Christian, still with that naughty look on his face, pushed the straps of my dress off my shoulders and leaned forward to kiss my breast. I tried to brush him away, but he kept on kissing me.