The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  “Well,” she said, playing with the loose threads on the arm of the old sofa. “I guess we’re both jealous then.”

  “Good,” he said, picking up her hand and kissing it. “So, anyway, I enlisted when I found out she’d left.”

  “How'd you find out?”

  “Came home from the clinic and she was gone. After med school, we lived in this little town, Salina. I told you about it, the prairie out the back door. Nancy came from Wichita, her folks were still there. Now Wichita’s no metropolis compared to New York or even beat-up Berlin here, but Nancy wanted to live in Wichita. She also wanted someone else. She hated our little house, Salina, and me. She’d waited through med school with me, thought I’d set up a practice somewhere swank. That she’d finally get her reward. Instead, I wanted to go home and live in a small town and raise our boys. That was my dream. Thought hers was the same. It wasn’t. So she left. I should have listened to her, I guess. Paid more attention. I found out later that she had been seeing the guy for almost a year when she was visiting her parents.

  “So she left about a week after Pearl Harbor, and I decided to fix her. I’d go enlist and get myself killed. So I joined up, not telling anyone I was a doctor, and before I knew it, I was on a troop ship on my way to North Africa. Actually, until then, I’d liked being in the army. Never had to think about her or anything else.

  “Well, after we landed, what with one thing and another, it was pretty tough. Tougher than I had imagined. In fact, I discovered I didn’t like fighting at all. Now, some guys did, do. Some revel in it. You know, the adrenaline starts pumping; you do crazy things, great things. But not me. My inclination was to turn and run back into the sea.

  “I didn’t though, I kept on. It wasn’t that I was afraid. I was, but that wasn’t it. It was that I just didn’t like it. Here I was, a doctor, and I was killing people. It didn’t make sense.

  “The thing came to a head when my unit, moving behind Patton’s tanks, captured a German tank crew. They were still next to their tank, which had burned, and one of the guys was lying on the ground. He looked dead. The other guys surrendered. We were taking their guns, trying to talk to them, when the dead guy shot at me. Because I was closest, I imagine. The corporal shot him, but didn’t kill him. I tried to help the guy. He was badly burned. I asked if anyone had any sulfa or morphine or anything.

  “The corporal said to leave him. I said I couldn’t. He ordered me. I refused. We got into an argument. God, it was crazy. I don’t know why I wouldn’t budge. The poor kraut kid was going to die anyway. I don’t know much about burns, but I could see that.

  “So I was arrested for refusing to obey an order. And aiding and abetting the enemy.” He let go of her hand, but she left it lying in his.

  “Why didn’t they hang you as a traitor?” she asked.

  “Colonel Eiger, Major Eiger then, was my CO, and he did a remarkable thing. He actually asked why I’d done what I did. The upshot was he found out I was a doctor. Boy, did he hit the roof then. Said I was criminal, not letting the army use my skills where they would do the most good.”

  “So that’s how you wound up in Hawaii?”

  “Can you imagine a better place to sit out a war? But that’s the whole sorry story of my military career.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad. All you were trying to do was help people.”

  “Don’t make me sound like Albert Schweitzer.” He laughed and raised her face so that he could kiss her. Which he did with great intensity, pushing Sally back so that she lay under him. She let him, moved with him, wanting their passion to clear the past away. He kissed her ear, her throat, her breast, and the feeling made her forget everything except his body against hers.

  They were on the floor when it happened. Tim was above her, his arms straight, holding him up as he moved slowly into her. She watched his face and his eyes met hers and she came in a long, slow explosion of feeling. Reaching for him, she pulled him down on top of her, to hold him close. He moved quickly to his own climax, gasping against her shoulder. She tightened her arms around him, almost overcome with the feelings he engendered, the affection and trust and satisfaction.

  And then, out of all this feeling, her face buried in his shoulder, her mind and heart completely focused on the man she held in her arms, Sally murmured his name.

  Only it wasn’t his name she said, it was Christian’s. She clamped her lips shut, but it was too late. The word was out of her mouth.

  Tim became very still. She could feel his body withdraw from her. Then, with a burst of energy, he was up and away from her, leaving her half-naked, alone.

  “Tim?” she said, getting up.

  He stood at the end of the sofa, staring out the window. He was naked, his weight on one leg, his arms folded across his chest. Sally moved tentatively toward him.

  “Tim, I’m sorry. I don’t know—” she said.

  “Stop. Just stop.” He cut her off with a brusque gesture.

  “Tim,” she tried again.

  “Sally, shut up. Don’t say anything. Just shut up. Because if you don’t, I will probably hit you and I have never hit a woman in my life. And I don’t intend to start with you. Although, now that I think of it, maybe that’s what I ought to do. Would you like that?” He turned to look at her, a frightening expression on his face.

  “How could you think that?” she whispered and turned and left.

  In the kitchen, she looked around helplessly. What should she do? What could repair the damage she had done?

  Nothing, she thought, falling onto the closest wooden chair. Nothing. She folded her arms and rocked forward, then back. Nothing. She was hopeless. It was hopeless. The damage could never be repaired. She would only hurt Tim, perhaps even worse than she had done just now. She had already forgiven his reaction, knowing he hadn’t meant it.

  She sat in the chair for a long time, as the kitchen grew dark. She thought she should get dressed and leave, but she did nothing.

  Until she heard music. She raised her head. Someone was playing a clarinet. Tim. The music was low and mournful, then suddenly began to build in pitch and intensity. Sally stood.

  Tim sat on the end of the bed. He’d put on his slacks, but no shirt or shoes. The room was lit only by light spilling out of the open bathroom door. He ignored her, or perhaps he didn’t hear her, lost in his music.

  She stood near the door, listening, her heart aching with the music as it ebbed and throbbed.

  He stopped and lowered the instrument, his fingers still on the keys. “Do you think he’s still alive?” he asked, his voice steady.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “All right. Yes, maybe he is,” she said quietly.

  “You’ve seen him.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No,” she said quickly. Then, softly: “Maybe. Someone like him. A ghost.”

  “And if he’s not a ghost? What then?”

  “If he’s the guy in that photograph, he’ll be arrested.”

  “No, I mean, about us.”

  “Us? Tim, I didn’t—”

  Again, he cut her off with a gesture. “Do you still love him?”

  “You asked me that before,” she accused him.

  “You had an anxiety attack instead of answering.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “So, answer me. Tell me. Be fair to me. Let me know if my competition is some gorgeous blond superman.” He began to take the clarinet apart and fit the sections in the case on the bed next to him.

  “What am I? A game? A battle?”

  “Oh, come, on, Sal. Just answer the question. Do you still love that monster?”

  “No, and don’t call him a monster.”

  “Christ!” He slammed the case shut and stood up. “How can you stand there and say that. You’re not a stupid woman, Sally. You know those photographs are of him. You know it, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Why? I’ll tell you why. Because you still love him, or, at the very leas
t, still want him.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You coulda fooled me, doll.” His voice was full of contempt and anger.

  “Don’t, Tim.”

  “Tell me, did you think I was him all the way along? Were you really screwing him? Was that what you were doing?”

  “Don’t.” She turned away. He moved across the room, grabbing her arms, and shook her.

  “Don’t? Do you know what you did? Do you know?”

  “Yes. Yes. I’m sorry. Please, Tim!” She started crying. “I didn’t mean it. It was a stupid mistake. I didn’t mean it.” With that he let go of her and she leaned against the doorjamb, covering her face with her hands.

  “Why did you say it, Sally? Why did you say his name? There, like that, while I was making love to you? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she cried. “I don’t know where that came from. I don’t know. Stop asking me. You ask me so damn many questions. Stop. Can’t you just stop?”

  “All right.” His voice was low and quiet in the room after her outburst. “I’ll stop. And you’d better go.”

  “Good. All right. If that’s what you want.”

  “It is,” he said, and when she met his eyes she understood that he meant what he said. She got dressed and left his apartment.

  SALLY LAY ON her bed in the dark and smoked. She wondered if she wasn’t the biggest fool who ever lived, and she thought about how to do what she wanted to do. If Christian was alive—and she had a gut feeling that he was—she needed to see him. She needed to see him, because until she did, or until she knew for sure he was dead or beyond her reach, he would stand between her and Tim. He would stand between her and everything–life.

  The next morning, though she’d had no sleep, she went to talk to Colonel Eiger. He didn’t approve of Sally’s idea, nor did he like the personal aspect to it.

  “But this is personal, Colonel,” said Sally, hoping he hadn’t heard anything about her and Tim. “If Christian is the man in the pictures, there is no escaping that fact. Please, Colonel.” She sat forward in her chair, placing both hands on his desk. “Please help me do this.”

  He leaned back in his chair, playing with the ubiquitous pencil, and regarded her. “Lieutenant,” he said. “You got another plan here? A secret revenge or some such?”

  Sally sat back in her chair. “No, sir, of course not,” she said, trying to laugh. Her head hurt like crazy. “Nothing.”

  Colonel Eiger studied her, then grunted. “Okay. If he’s the guy who commanded that ‘special action,’ I wouldn’t mind nailing him.” So Sally’s plan went into effect.

  It was simple.

  All she had to do was convince Annaliese that she wanted to see Christian and that she would be no threat to him.

  CHAPTER 3

  SALLY HEARD THE party sounds as she climbed the stairs to Annaliese’s flat. The laughing and happy conversation evoked a strong pang of shyness in her and she hesitated before knocking. She wished she had not come, already feeling guilty about the lies she would have to tell Annaliese. Annaliese opened the door.

  “Sally! Where have you been?” she cried.

  “Hello,” said Sally, allowing herself to be drawn into the entry hall and divested of her coat and hat. It was warm in the flat after the cold hall and the colder fall afternoon.

  “It’s good to see you,” Annaliese said, adding Sally’s things to a pile of wraps. “What is that?” she asked, nodding toward the bag Sally carried.

  Sally held it up. “Bourbon.”

  “Very good,” said Annaliese. “We don’t have any of that. Lots of vodka, of course. Come in. Let me introduce you to everyone.” Annaliese, her arm around Sally’s waist, took her into the sitting room. “Quiet, everyone,” she called. “Quiet.”

  The room was full of people, sitting on chairs, the sofa, and the floor. To the right, Sally could see others standing around the table, where the remains of a large buffet were spread out. The guests fell silent.

  “This is a dear old friend of mine,” Annaliese announced, her arm still around Sally’s waist. “We’ve known each other since we were little girls . . .”

  “Just last year, Annaliese?” cried a young man with wire-rimmed glasses and curly brown hair.

  “Shut up, Klaus,” said Annaliese, laughing. “Anyway, as I was saying, this is Sally Jackson. And, yes, she is an American, but be nice to her anyway. Look, she brought a big bottle of bourbon.” Annaliese held up Sally’s gift.

  Sally laughed along with the group, who started talking among themselves again. Behind her, she heard a small voice call her name. She looked around and saw Klara running toward her. Happily, Sally knelt and held her arms out to the child.

  “Hello, pumpkin,” she said in English. Klara laughed at the endearment, which Sally had used on an earlier visit.

  “I’m not a pumpkin,” Klara said in German, but using the English word.

  “Of course you are,” Sally said, touching Klara’s nose. “You’re as round and rosy as one.”

  “Klara, come,” called Annaliese.

  “You come too,” said the child, grabbing a handful of Sally’s skirt.

  “I will, but you go before we both get into trouble.”

  “Yes,” said Klara, and turned and whirled off, leaving Sally alone.

  “Hiya, kiddo.” Surprised, Sally looked around so quickly, she almost twisted her neck. She saw a very skinny, very tanned man, who was probably her own age but looked ten years older. He wore steel-rimmed glasses, a yellowed shirt at least a decade old, and he needed a haircut. In each hand he carried a glass, mismatched, of liquor. He grinned at her.

  “Hi,” she said hesitantly.

  “This is for you,” he said, holding a glass out. He was missing his ring finger and the top joints of his middle and little fingers. A soldier. “Down the hatch.”

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the glass.

  “Cute kid, ain’t she?” he said.

  “Yes,” agreed Sally, trying not to cough after a sip from the glass. It tasted like first-run vodka and she was sure it had stripped her vocal cords.

  “Christ,” he said, seeing her reaction. “That shit too strong for you?”

  Sally shook her head, then nodded. “I mean, yes,” she said, wiping her eyes. She looked at the glass. “What is it?”

  “You know, homemade hooch. You gotta drink a couple o’ glasses before it goes down easy.”

  “Right,” Sally said and took another sip. “Where’d you learn your English?” she asked.

  “I was a POW,” he said. “In New Mexico. Out in the middle of the fucking desert. My name’s Kurt.” He pronounced his name as an American would: Kirt.

  “Hello, Kurt,” said Sally, shaking hands with him. “My name's Sally. Have you been back long?”

  “Two fucking days,” he said.

  “You must be glad to be home.”

  “Glad? Glad? Shit. This dump’s a fucking morgue. Thank God I don’t live in the Reds’ sector, but Christ, I can’t wait to get the hell out of here. No, this country’s had it; I’m going back to the U.S. of A.”

  Over his shoulder, Sally saw Annaliese, in the door of the kitchen, gesturing to her. “Our hostess,” she murmured and slipped past him, wondering how some snotty American sub-consul would react to Kurt’s peculiar English.

  The people she passed on her way to the kitchen parted before her and she realized that it was the first time she had been alone in a group of Germans since she had returned to Berlin. Alone with the enemy, even though the shooting was over. A man and a woman were deep in conversation, blocking the door to the kitchen.

  “Pardon me,” said Sally, and was dismayed by the venomous looks they gave her as they moved quickly away. She thought of the cigarettes in her bag, her leather shoes and bag, her camel’s hair coat, all valuable commodities on the black market. She chided herself for her paranoia, but was glad she hadn’t worn her uniform.

  “How did you like Kurt’s American English?” Annal
iese asked. “He’s very proud of it.” She handed Klara a slice of bread and jam. “Here, sweet; now be good.”

  “Sally, would you come play with me?” Klara asked, her mouth full of bread.

  “Not now, sweetie, I have to talk to your mama. Maybe later. Okay?” Sally blew a kiss at Klara, who sent one back. Then she giggled and ran from the kitchen. Sally turned to Annaliese. “Kurt’s English is very idiomatic,” she said, dryly. “I take it he learned it from GIs?” She searched in her bag for her cigarettes. “Want one?” she asked, holding out the pack to Annaliese.

  “Thanks,” Annaliese said, and held a match out for Sally before she lit her own cigarette. “Sally, wait here,” she whispered. “I’ve got someone who said he knows where my brother is.”

  She walked to the door and came back in a moment with a tall man, whom she introduced to Sally as Gunther. Like Kurt, he was very thin, and dressed in pre-war clothing, but his dark hair was cut and neatly combed and he wore his old clothes with an air of sophistication. His skin was pale, almost white against his black hair and eyebrows.

  He smoothly bowed over Sally’s hand. “Fraulein,” he said. “You were interested in news of Annaliese’s brother? May I ask why?”

  Sally studied him for a moment, then looked past him to Annaliese, who stood at the sink with her back to them. Sally gestured at the cigarette pack she had left on the table.

  “Thank you,” he said, and took one out of the pack.

  Annaliese turned with a bottle in her hand to pour them each a drink. “Here you are. Now I had better go see if my guests have robbed me yet.” And she left them alone.

  There were no chairs in the kitchen—they had probably been commandeered for the sitting room—so Sally leaned against the table.

  “I knew Annaliese’s brother before the war,” said Sally. “In the early thirties.” Silence. “Did you?” she asked.

  Gunther took a long pull on the cigarette, releasing the smoke through his nose. “Yes,” he said.

  “I see,” said Sally, remembering Heydrich’s habit of monosyllabic answers. She smiled grimly. Gunther said nothing but raised one eyebrow, questioning. “You remind me of someone,” she said.