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The Last Innocent Hour

Page 49

by Margot Abbott


  I nodded. “Is there nothing I can do?”

  “I’m afraid not. You might have. Don’t cry. I can’t stand sniveling.” His fingers dug hurtfully into my neck. “Especially for such a hypocritical reason. Because, Sally . . .” He was very close to me, his body against my back and side. He reached across with one hand and cupped my chin. It was a strange gesture, almost paternal. “Because you wanted me. I could feel the effect my kiss had on you. It has really hurt my feelings, you and your stupid . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence, but dropped his hand from my face and stepped back from me.

  “What are you going to do to him?” My voice sounded strident to me. It made my head ache.

  He pursed his lips. “I don’t know. I’ll think of something. Ah, one last thing. I wonder if you would sacrifice everything for him? Your own life, for instance. Of course you would. But what about the child?” he said, putting his hand on my stomach.

  “There’s an idea. I confess to not liking the idea of fucking pregnant women, as handsome as you are now. Lina quite revolts me. But if you got rid of the child, then . . .”

  I didn’t hear any more, but slid down to the ground in a faint, the fear and lack of sleep, his evil whispers, all of it finally allowing me this escape.

  I came to quickly, with Heydrich and his men fussing about me. “Leave me alone,” I demanded, my tongue thick, my mouth full of an unpleasant metallic taste. “I want to go home. I’m all right.” I wouldn’t let any of them touch me, waving them away from me, snatching my handbag from someone’s hands.

  “Webber,” Heydrich ordered of one of his men, “take Fraulein Jackson—I’m sorry, Frau Hauptsturmfuhrer Mayr—home. She doesn’t feel well.” He reached out and someone handed him his cap and he put it on. “Good-bye, Sally,” he said, touching two fingers to the bill of the cap and smiling at me. “Thank you for dropping by.”

  I stood and watched him walk away. Please don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him. The refrain was so loud in my head that I was sure Heydrich could hear it; certainly the man Webber, standing next to me, ready to escort me home, could.

  “Will he kill him?” I said to him.

  “Please?” He cocked his head, as though I were speaking gibberish. Perhaps I was. “Shall we go?” And I let him lead me out of the building.

  What was I going to tell Lisa?

  “IT’S NO USE, Daddy,” I said, my hand on the banister at the foot of the stairs. “The general won’t help. I even went to see his wife, but she wasn’t there.” I had had to invoke my father’s position to convince Webber to take me. Lina hadn’t been home and the maid who answered the door said she and Paul had gone to her parents. I reached up and pulled my hat off, drawing my hair across my face. “I’ve got to sleep.” I climbed the stairs, not waiting for a reply.

  I AWOKE AT four in the morning. It was still dark outside, still dark indoors. I knew I couldn’t sleep anymore, so I got up and drank some cold water and washed my face. I looked as bad as I felt, tired, old, and frightened. I’d have to go back to the Friedrichstrasse today. It was all I could think of to do.

  “Madam? Are you awake?” It was a maid at the outer door. She was knocking excitedly. I dragged a hand towel from the rack and stepped into the bedroom to call to her.

  “Yes, I’m up.”

  She opened the door—it was Sophie—and bounced into the room. “He’s here. The Hauptsturmfuhrer’s back.”

  I didn’t need to hear any more. I dropped the towel and flew down the stairs, barefoot and in my nightgown.

  He stood, still in his dress uniform, flanked by my father and Vittorio, both in dressing gowns and slippers. One of the marine guards from the gate was at the open door. I didn’t pay attention to any of them, but ran straight into Christian’s arms. Never in my life had anything felt so good as my arms around him, his closing around me, warmth and familiarity. I closed my eyes, shutting out everything except the feel and smell of him.

  “I’m sorry to wake you all up,” Christian said, touching my face, his hand moving to my neck.

  “Sir, are you hungry?” asked Vittorio.

  “What can we do for you?” asked my father.

  “I’m very tired. They . . . they wouldn’t let me sleep. I’m afraid I don’t even know what day it is.”

  “Sleep, then,” I said, taking over. I asked Vittorio to have Frau Brenner fix something later, when Christian awoke, and, my arm around his waist, led my husband to the stairs. Daddy patted his shoulder and promised to telephone Lisa Mayr.

  Upstairs, I helped Christian undress and get into his pajama bottoms. The front of his shirt was filthy with dried blood. It seemed an eon ago since he had put it on.

  “I should wash,” he said, dropping the jacket to his pajamas. It just fell from his fingers, as though he didn’t have strength enough to hold on to it. He was nearly asleep on his feet.

  “You can do it later,” I said.

  He sat heavily on the bed, sinking back on top of the blankets, and he was asleep before I could pull the quilt over him. I looked at the bruise on his forehead, but decided it would keep.

  It was a dark November dawn outside; I could hear the wind start up. I lay down carefully next to him, as he slept curled on his side, one hand like a child’s on the pillow next to his face. Never, had I loved him more, or would I treasure him as much as I did that morning. I couldn’t believe that another human being’s presence could make such a difference in my life. That I should need him so much that I felt literally sick without him was a revelation to me.

  How crazy it was that we should be together, that I should be carrying this child; yet, there it was. We are almost a family. The thought made tears come to my eyes. There was no reason or logic to how I’d ended up married to him. And I knew, more than anything that I wanted to be. I wanted him. Our child. A life together. We will have it, I resolved. We will have it. And with that resolution, I slept.

  I woke several hours later and got up, found a skirt and sweater in the dark room and put them on. Then I went downstairs and telephoned Sydney. When I came, back into our bedroom late in the afternoon, Christian was, I thought, still asleep. I suppose I made a noise, pushing the door open, because he started.

  “It’s me,” I said softly, and walked around the bed to look down at him.

  His eyes were wild and he was trembling. I sat on the bed and felt his forehead. It was cold and clammy.

  “It’s not fever,” he said with a valiant touch of humor. “It’s fear.”

  “Oh, Christian.” I laid my cheek against his shoulder, putting my arms around him. “You’ve nothing to be frightened of now.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking.

  “Shush. It’s a reaction to the shock of what you’ve been through. But you’re safe now.” I pulled the blankets around him, tucking them in on either side of him.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again.”

  “Shhh.” I stroked his face, holding him until he calmed, until he was able to catch his breath. He tried to laugh.

  “God,” he said, turning onto his back. “That was embarrassing.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s only me.” I leaned over to kiss him, but he held his hand up between our lips.

  “Can’t let you kiss me until I’m clean. I smell awful.”

  “I don’t care,” I said, tears filling my eyes. “A bath then; I’ll go run it.” I got up and headed for the bathroom.

  “Sally?” I stopped at the door. “How are you?”

  I smiled at him. “Now? I’m fine.”

  “How’s the baby?”

  I patted my stomach. “She’s doing fine too.”

  I left Christian alone in the bathroom, although I found it hard to be out of sight of him, and sat in front of my dressing table, next to the bathroom door, staring into space. Daddy sent up a drink for Christian, and, glass in hand, I knocked on the door.

  “You want your back washed?”

  WE WENT DOWN to dinner with Daddy,
and afterward Christian went to telephone his mother. When he was out of the dining room, Daddy asked me how he was and I said he seemed all right. But there was something different about him. I had seen it in his eyes—how frightened he had been, how he had curled up instead of sleeping as he normally did, stretched out.

  “Has he told you anything of what happened?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s home. That’s the main thing.”

  “Yes.” I looked down at my plate. There was a pork chop left on it—I hadn’t been able to eat it—and I fought to keep from crying. My fingernails jammed into my palms, I practically suffocated trying to keep my emotions under control. And all the time, I looked down at the damn pork chop. My father reached across the corner of the table toward me.

  “Don’t, Daddy. I can’t. Not yet.”

  “He is home, Sally. Remember that. I think you both ought to leave as soon as possible. Don’t wait for Edward.”

  Christian came back in and sat down again.

  “I’ll bet she was glad to hear from you,” I said.

  “Yes.” He played with his napkin, loosely folded next to his empty plate. He had eaten everything he had been given.

  “Do you want some more?” I asked.

  “No. No, thank you. Sally, would you mind if I spoke to your father without you?”

  “Why?” I looked from him to Daddy and back. I tried a little laugh. “Will you tell me later? I think I ought to know.”

  “Of course,” he said, his eyes not meeting mine.

  IN BED AND nearly asleep when he came upstairs, I listened to him puttering around between the bathroom and bedroom, taking forever to get into his pajamas and turn off the light. Finally he got into bed, but he did not touch me or reach for me. We said good night to each other and lay side by side without touching. It was so strange that I had to say something.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He laughed, not happily, but a short, hurt-filled bark.

  “Can I help?” There was silence, and I raised myself on my elbow to look down on him. I could see the gleam of his eyes in the dark shape of his head against the pillow. “Is it what you told Daddy?”

  “No. I talked to your father about our plans. Sally”—he reached to touch my arm, then let his hand drop— “I want you to be safe. I asked your father to make sure . . . even if . . . I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  “I’m such a coward,” he whispered.

  “What? No. What do you mean?”

  “They say these kinds of experiences help you find out just what sort of man you are. I found out. I’m a weak man, Sally. Not worthy of you. Not worthy of you at all and I’m going to let you down.”

  “Why do you say that? You’re not. What did they do to you?”

  “No, nothing. It’s over.”

  “Can’t you tell me? Let me help.”

  “You’ll hate me.”

  “Never. I promise. I’d never hate you.”

  He grunted and I reached my hand out and touched his head. His clean hair was fluffy and soft and I stroked it, enjoying the feel of it.

  “Please, Sally,” he said and moved his head away from my hand. “Stop. I don’t mean . . . please. I need to sleep.” And he turned over, his back to me.

  “Christian,” I said softly, and put my hand lightly on his back. “I love you. I’ll always love you. I promise.” Slowly, I felt some of the tension in him fade. His breathing slowed until he slept and I let my hand drop.

  I couldn’t imagine what had happened to him, but I felt his pain. And his fear, his fear frightened me and angered me. Heydrich had done this. God, how I hated that man. I wanted to kill him, hurt him as much as he had hurt my husband, as he had hurt me.

  A horrible thought occurred to me. I opened my eyes in the darkness. What if Heydrich had succeeded in destroying Christian’s resolve to leave Germany?

  I wondered what that man would do next, because I knew he wouldn’t leave us alone.

  Later, Christian awoke, needing to talk and let me hold him. “Why don’t you hate me? For what I did to you that day, in the sitting room.”

  “You didn’t mean to hurt me. You were…I wasn’t hurt. And I could have stopped you. Especially after you threw away your gun.” He didn’t laugh at my stupid joke.

  “But the way you shied away from me after we came back from Lake Sebastian…”

  Christian, stop. Don’t say any more. It wasn’t you. It was me. I was being childish. And I am sorry. Oh, my love, I’m sorry for all of this.”

  “It’s not your – “

  “If I hadn’t gotten pregnant…If you haven’t married me…If I hadn’t met Heydrich.”

  “If. If. If. Well, this is it. And it is me. I am not what you think. I don’t know if I’ve ever been who you think I am. You have a picture of me that is false. I’m not some knight.”

  “Please, don’t say that. Christian, a terrible thing happened to you because of me. He wouldn’t have had you arrested and put somewhere like that if I hadn’t . . . oh, I don’t know. I flirted with him. I was nice to him. I played music with him. And the fact is, if I had slept with him during one of those practice sessions, he wouldn’t be interested in me anymore. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” he said after awhile. When he spoke next, I was almost asleep. “Let’s go away,” he said softly.

  “We’re doing that.”

  “I mean, now. Alone. Let’s go hide somewhere for a short time, a day or two.” His voice, coming out of the darkness next to me, sounded strange, hollow, a stranger’s voice.

  “All right. I’ll find a—”

  “I know a place. An old inn on an island in the Havel. You’ll like it. An escape.”

  “How can we go away? Won’t he stop you?”

  “We’ll go on the weekend.

  “You’ve already planned—”

  “An escape,” he repeated. “We’ll go Saturday.”

  PEACOCK ISLAND

  IN THE HAVEL River, near Potsdam, is an island named after the peacocks raised there for the royal owners who came to spend languid summer days fishing and shooting. The Kaiser’s old hunting lodge had been turned into an expensive and very exclusive weekend retreat. Because it was November, we didn’t have any trouble getting a room when Christian called that Saturday morning. Or at least, that was what he told me.

  Rick drove us to the ferry and left us, promising to return Monday morning. Christian hadn’t said anything further about Rick, about whether he might be spying on us. I vaguely wondered why; perhaps it didn’t seem important any longer.

  It was a gray, sullen morning, and the Havel River, although flat, was forbidding. The entire vista was empty of human habitation, and I wondered why Christian had chosen such a place. I would have much preferred a night in luxury at the Adlon, right in the middle of town.

  A man waited on the other side of the river for us, dressed in a green-and-black-striped jacket, a valet’s garb. He carried our two small suitcases up the path through the bare trees. Somewhere a crow cawed.

  “That’s not a peacock,” I joked.

  “No, ma’am,” said the man. “You’ll hear them at night.”

  Christian strode along beside me, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes on the ground. He was still depressed. I put my hand around his arm. He didn’t say anything, but pressed his arm against his side, capturing my hand.

  The hunting lodge had been built in the early sixteen hundreds and renovated at the turn of the century. The manager assured me there was hot and cold running water and electricity. There seemed to be no other guests.

  As Christian signed us in, I looked around at the paintings of dogs, horses, and dead game. The walls were whitewashed and very plain, although the wood floors were inlaid with an intricate, beautiful pattern. Through a broad arch, I could see a reception room with Oriental rugs scattered about and heavy furniture. The effect was spare but comfortable, and very masculine.

/>   Our large room was at the back of the building, facing the Havel. It was on the second floor and had three large windowed doors, heavier than conventional French doors, which opened onto a long, narrow balcony. I walked out onto it, but the cold wind drove me back in quickly. The doors were uncurtained and allowed the gray light to fill the room.

  The bed, canopied with dark-green-and-brown-patterned hangings, was so high off the ground that steps were provided to help one into it. A large dark-green enameled stove stood in the corner, its tiles decorated with running stags being chased by dogs. Christian tipped the man who had carried our bags up and grimaced at me.

  “Picturesque, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll say. Have you been here before?”

  “No. But I’ve heard of it. It seemed a perfect place to hide in. You won’t mind, will you?” He smiled at me, touching my head.

  “No. As long as you’re here.”

  We went out for a long walk, running before the rain on our way back. We had a large, delicious lunch—there were two other guests, both men, eating silently at separate tables. It started to rain hard just as we moved to the big reception room for coffee. We sat in front of the largest fireplace I had ever seen. A huge log as big around as a giant redwood roaring in it, sending sparks flashing up the chimney.

  Christian went to find a newspaper, leaving me contentedly watching the fire, my feet tucked up under my skirt, thinking he had been right about our getting away. Then I fell asleep and I don’t remember much after that.

 

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