The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  The day was crisp and clear and cold, and I waited, impatiently, for Rick to bring the car around.

  “Come back inside and wait, please. It is too cold,” Vittorio pleaded.

  I laughed at his fussing. “I’ll be fine,” I promised. “You will call my father and tell him?”

  “I’ll go do it immediately,” he said.

  “Good. Good,” I said, bouncing up and down, not minding the cold, not minding anything, sure I was about to see Christian, and that everything was going to be all right.

  MAESTRO WAS AT the end of a lesson. Horst had told me to go on into the fencing hall and I stood for a moment outside the door, watching Maestro and his partner finish a bout. Maestro won, but barely, as the man almost managed a hit.

  Everything looked as it had the last time I was there, over six months ago. Even Maestro’s saber and foil, laid carefully over two chairs, his white towel folded precisely over the back of one, his small brown ceramic jug of water with the cork in the top, in case it was knocked over—were all the same. I missed fencing, and being back in Maestro’s pretty hall made me nostalgic. Maybe later, in the States, after our baby was born, I could start again. I breathed in the air, enjoying the smell, the sound of the blades clashing.

  I pushed the door open and slipped in. Maestro and his student, a dark-haired young man, flushed and smiling, saluted each other and the young man left the hall.

  “Sally,” said Maestro, turning to greet me, transferring his sword, an epee, to his left hand so that he could stretch his right out to me.

  “It is nice to see you, Maestro.”

  “Yes, my dear one. How are you?” He peered at me anxiously.

  “I have been better.”

  “And will be again, I trust. Now, my dear, I must tell you I miss you.” He had not let go of my hand, drawing me close to him. He looked worried.

  “Maestro, you have something to tell me? About my husband?” I spoke softly, the mirrored wall at the end of the long room made it look as though there were people overhearing our conversation. Of course it was only our reflections, Maestro’s and mine.

  “Oh, dear Sally,” he said mournfully, patting my hand against his chest. “The things I have seen.” He shook his head. He was making me very nervous. “I am sorry. This is a terrible thing.” He glanced behind me, then back to my face.

  “Yes. But you called me . . .” I said, my voice sounding high and young. I looked around the hall, at the stacks of gold chairs, the high windows, the gleaming floor. There was no one there, but the white-and-gold plasterwork suddenly seemed sinister. I did not want to stay there any longer.

  “Look, my dear,” he said, his voice more energetic. He stepped back from me and held out the epee. “It is new. Today was the first day I used it.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said perfunctorily, angered at his obvious change of topic. He was stalling.

  “Yes. Look at the line. Here, feel the weight. The way the hilt leans into your palm.” Maestro handed me the blade. I did as he asked; it did, indeed, feel perfect in my hand. “You have training in the epee?”

  “Just a little. Certainly not enough to warrant a blade like this.” I took hold of it in my left hand to grasp the pommel and hand it back to Maestro. I wanted to leave.

  The door to the entry hall of the salle slammed and I turned around to see Heydrich, in his SS uniform, striding across the hall, his boots thumping against the wooden floor. The general was angry, his face almost bloodless, his lips pulled in until they were only a single thin line in his face.

  I glared at Maestro and turned to leave. Heydrich’s voice came after me.

  “Sally. I want to talk to you.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.” I had carefully kept all thoughts of him out of my mind, my imagination. I could not understand, or even remember clearly, the dreams I’d had on Peacock Island. Any fascination I’d had with Heydrich had disappeared on the dance floor of the Blue Parrot.

  “Now,” he barked.

  I stopped and turned. “What about?” I asked, although I had a good idea.

  “I think you know,” he said. “You know very well.”

  “If it’s about Christian,” I said, a lot more bravely than I felt, “then it’s none of your business any longer. I have taken care of that.”

  “Get out!” Heydrich snarled at Maestro.

  “Sir,” said the older man.

  “I said get out. Now.” Heydrich’s face was white with rage. He looked huge in his black uniform.

  Maestro, with an agonized look at me, backed slowly away. He raised his hands in a strange gesture, as though he were stopping traffic, then turned and left.

  Heydrich turned his anger on me. “You bitch,” he said from behind his clenched teeth, as close to completely losing his temper as I had ever seen him. He took a step toward me but Maestro’s epee was in my hand still, and instinctively I held the blade up against him.

  Heydrich stopped, his eyes on the point, which had, of course, a safety tip. His eyes slid from the tip to meet mine. He smiled. Slowly, he reached out to push my blade away with the back of his hand. I didn’t let him touch the blade and he stopped his hand movement.

  He laughed. “Dammit, Sally, you are amusing.”

  “I don’t think you want this to go any further, General Heydrich,” I said. “If you wish to speak to me—”

  “I do indeed,” he said. He relaxed, standing with his hands on his hips. He took his hat off and smoothed his hair back.

  Cautiously, I lowered my blade. He inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said, “it is hard to talk over a blade. I am sorry to have been so precipitate.” He smiled again. His smiling was beginning to make me nervous. He walked over to the spectators’ platform and laid his hat on it. Then he began to undo his belt. He took it off and put it next to his hat. His tunic and tie went next and he turned to face me in his shirt-sleeves.

  “Now,” he said. “I want to talk to you about a certain mistress of a certain powerful man.” As he spoke he walked back across the hall and picked up Maestro’s saber.

  “I think you know to whom I am referring?” he asked. “Of course you do. No, this wouldn’t be sporting,” he said, holding the saber up parallel to his body, then laying it back on the chair and picking up the foil. “There.”

  He walked over to me, stopping several feet away, and smiled again. “It amazes me that you have gone to such lengths to free Mayr. I almost envy him. And I must admit I admire your determination—and imagination. But I cannot allow you women to interfere, no matter who you are. Fraulein Braun I can do nothing about—yet. But you, my dear Sally, I can.” As he spoke he tried several advance-and-retreat movements, then a parry or two in the air. I stood and watched him. Watched him as I would a circling shark.

  “I will admit also that you have consistently surprised me. I thought you to be as malleable as young Mayr. Have you asked him about his father’s death? But, instead—” He suddenly lunged at me. I froze as his point landed gently against my coat, over my heart.

  “Instead,” he continued, “you appear to have a heart of finer stuff than poor Mayr.” He tapped my coat and pulled back out of his lunge. “So, the question is: What am I to do with you?” His hair, which was quite long on top, had fallen over his forehead and he swept it back with the crook of his blade arm. “I truly thought the other evening would be the end of it. And then, there is this babe of yours.” On the last word he waved his blade in a circle in front of my abdomen. I took a step backward.

  “I did not believe you were truly pregnant and I wasn’t going to wait for you to balloon out. Are you sure the kid isn’t the American Jew’s—that reporter’s? You did spend at least one afternoon at his place, rumpled, dirty sheets and all. No, I think there is nothing to do but to ask you, politely, of course, to leave.”

  “Not without Christian.” I ignored what he had said about David. David was safe; Christian was not.

  “Ah,” said Heydrich, pulling into
the attention position, feet in a perpendicular line, his left hand on his hip, his right holding his foil angled to the floor. “There you are then. Salute.”

  “What?”

  “Salute,” he said and brought his sword up, then down, using the formal salute that begins a fencing bout. “Do it,” he growled at me.

  “No,” I said. “This is stupid.” And I began to walk away from him toward the doors. “I’m leaving.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said and lunged, his blade cutting through the air, just inches in front of me. I stopped, turned and tried for another direction, but he was there, cutting off my retreat with his sword.

  I faced him. “This is crazy,” I said. “I can’t fence you.”

  “Why not?” he asked, and lunged, tapping his point against my shoulder. “A hit,” he said.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “Not my fault.” He tapped his blade against mine. “Come on, Sally, get it up.”

  “You’re bigger, with a longer reach than I have.”

  “Yes,” he said, lunging at me again. I ducked out of the way of his blade. “You’re cheating,” he said.

  “You’ll beat me just because of your size and strength.”

  “Yes,” he said, slicing the air near my right ear. I flinched.

  “Stop it!” I cried, dropping my sword and raising my hands as though I could bat away his blade like I would a pesky bee. “It’s not fair.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But then, what is? By the way, those other Jews? The family you got Mayr involved with?” He put his tip under the hilt of my sword and flicked it up, causing it to fly through the air.

  “Get it!” he ordered. I grabbed the epee by the blade, almost without thinking. “Good girl,” Heydrich cheered. “See, you have good reflexes.”

  “What about those people? What about them?” I let the tip of my blade fall to the ground.

  “They didn’t make it to Switzerland. Did you expect them to? Up, up,” he said, waving his blade at mine.

  “What did you do to them?”

  “Got rid of them. Put your blade up, Sally.”

  “Got rid of them? You mean, you . . . you killed them? What do you mean? Annie—the little girl too? Why?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. They were nothing. Who cares? Put your blade up. Now.” He put so much venom into his order that I complied.

  “You will do well. And remember what you are fighting for.”

  “What?” I said, transferring the epee to my right hand, grasping the hilt, getting a good grip with my red leather glove. The sword, at least, felt familiar and right.

  “Young Mayr—and the child,” he said, again lunging at me, but this time aiming for my abdomen. And again, on reflex, I parried his attack, successfully driving his blade away to my right.

  “See, I knew you’d do well,” he said. “People do when they are fighting for something important.”

  “And what are you fighting for, General?” I asked. I stood with my right flank, the hand holding the sword, toward him, presenting as narrow a target as I could. It’s just fencing, I told myself. The blade is different, the man is terrifying, but it’s just fencing. The thought calmed me.

  “A good question, little Jackson,” he said and thought for a moment. “Power? Because I can?” He shrugged. “Because I want to,” he said, and smiled at me. “Enough talk. Whoever scores three hits, wins. You lose and you will meddle no longer in affairs that do not concern you. You will leave the country, first withdrawing your request of Hitler’s whore.”

  “And if I win?” I asked.

  “You will get what you want. A docile husband for your kid and safe passage to wherever,” he said. “Unless, of course, there is an accident.”

  He smiled at me, a rapacious smile that froze my blood. Sun burst through the windows at the near end of the hall, throwing our shadows onto the parquet floor in front of us. But I felt no warmth from it on my back, so cold had I become with the knowledge that this man meant to kill me. An accident. It happened. I had even seen it happen, hadn’t I? And had accepted it as a tragedy, but an accident.

  My mind began to work again. I had to save myself to save my baby. He was right, people will fight when they have something important to fight for and what I had was the most important of all. First, I would try and stay out of his reach. Second, I would try and get near a door. Third, I would . . . what? I hoped someone would come.

  He attacked ferociously, as I had seen him do in the fencing tournament. I was at a terrible disadvantage because his reach was so much longer than mine. I was also very pregnant and in street clothes. I managed to kick my shoes off and shrugged off my coat, letting it fall to the ground. My advantages were that I was faster and younger, but, most of all, I had so much more to lose.

  My reflexes were swift and for several minutes kept me out of danger. I could do nothing but react to his powerful lunges, his flurry of sword play. Once his blade caught mine and circled to the inside, aiming for my chest. I managed to disengage the contact and dodge the lunge, the sound of the blades lingering in the silent, sunlit room.

  “Well done,” he said. His encouragement of my fencing was beginning to distract me. Which, I realized, he meant it to do. Ignore him, Sally. He let me know he knew about David and me, and he told me about Marlene’s family to distract me. Forget them. Forget them all, even Christian.

  I attacked, catching him unawares. It was a sloppy movement, my blade slapping against his sword arm. But it was a hit. “A hit!” I cried, and backed up as quickly as I could.

  Heydrich’s head turned from looking, in surprise, at his arm where my blade had been, to me, and from his expression I knew he wouldn’t be falsely cheering me on any longer. His eyes glittered with pleasure, with hunger.

  He attacked, not letting up, chasing me, his blade flashing in front of me. I did the best I could, but I knew it was only a matter of time until he reached me. He pressed his attack, perhaps sensing my acceptance of the inevitable. Suddenly, his point flew toward my face, utterly surprising me. I was so used to fighting with a foil, where the face is not a target—and, at any rate, helmets were always used—that to be attacked there disarmed me. I didn’t have the technique to parry such an attack. I felt a swift burning on my left cheek, just below my eye, and put up my hand. There was blood on my glove. Blood.

  I was breathing heavily and my wound frightened me. If I hadn’t moved, he would have hit my eye. My nerve was nearly gone and I knew I couldn’t last much longer.

  I parried another swift attack, and then another, acutely feeling the months away from the salle, the extra weight of my pregnancy. I was so aware of the child. It slowed me down, but it also inspired me.

  My book-learned parry. Heydrich had never actually seen me do it. I ran a few feet away from him and turned to face him. He lunged and I parried, then dropped one knee to the ground, scoring a sound, hard hit against his chest. My tip was not bare, but it hurt him, as he was only wearing a shirt. He backed up, rubbing the spot.

  “I’d forgotten that,” he said. “Shit, this is fun.”

  We were at one end of the spectators’ platform and I jumped up on it, running along the railing. He laughed and ran to head me off at the center, ducking under the banister, his boots thumping noisily on the hollow platforms. I backed up, managing to deflect an attack. I backed up farther, trying to judge without looking how far I was from the door to the dressing rooms. He advanced, lunged, and I dodged his attack.

  I didn’t even think then, but threw my epee at him, using it, hilt first, like a javelin. It surprised him enough to make him flinch and raise his hands to bat it out of the way. I didn’t stop to watch. I turned and ran, slamming into the dressing-room doors and racing down the hall toward the door that led to the outside.

  It was locked. I turned. I could hear him at the door at the other end of the hall. Where was Maestro? I was panting, and my side hurt, but I couldn’t give up. I couldn’t let him hurt my baby. I started for th
e dressing-room door, the men’s, to my right. The door to the hall swung open, banging into the wall.

  Heydrich stood there, silhouetted against the light. That’s all I registered, that and the fact that whatever he had in his hand wasn’t a sword. I leapt for the door, grabbing and turning the knob. It opened and I fell into the room, as a terrific bang exploded in the corridor. It took me a moment to realize what it was, echoing through the walls.

  A gunshot. He had a gun. Where was Maestro? Horst? I scrambled to my feet and ran around the lockers. The men’s room was larger than the women’s, with four rows of lockers and a large shower room, rather than stalls.

  It had something in common with the women’s room, though. Something I realized as I stood helplessly with my palms flat against the white tile of the shower room. There wasn’t another way out. I leaned my face against the tile, the cold porcelain felt good on the cut on my cheek. I started crying in frustration. I had almost done it. I beat once against the tiles, hurting my hands.

  I heard Heydrich’s heavy tread behind me and I turned to face him. If I was going to die, I was going to face my baby’s murderer.

  He was very close to me, breathing heavily, and he grabbed my neck, under my jaw, pushing me back against the wall. His long fingers almost circled my neck, cutting off the air, digging into my throat. His other hand held his gun and he held it against my temple.

  “There?” he asked. “Or there?” And he moved the gun to my abdomen. Instinctually, I reached down to brush it away. He laughed. He moved his hand so that the weapon was pointing away from me, toward the ground, and I began to hope.

  “I do admire the way you fought me. And you’re only a girl. And a pregnant girl, at that. I suppose that’s why you fought so hard. And so cleverly. Of course, it wouldn’t do for you to beat me. I have my pride.”

  “You could let me go,” I said, trying to get my voice past his hand on my throat.