“Well done.”
“My pleasure to hear him eat crow. He’ll get it in writing by next week. I will, as a matter of principle, reject it as not strong enough, then he will redo it. No more of the men in suits will climb the steps to your house.”
“After all she’s been through, Nuala will be glad to hear that.”
“She probably won’t believe it … The United States Attorney for the Northern District also knows about your investigation of the Desmond Doolin matter …”
“He does!”
“He makes no claim that you have no right to look for the young man. He thinks it would be better if you did not, however.”
“Does he now? Does he say why?”
“I don’t think he knows. Someone higher up told him to pass that on.”
“What do you think?”
“You ask me, I think the poor kid is dead and was killed by our side. That’s top probability.”
“What’s second probability?”
“That they have fouled up badly and they want to keep it a secret The kid is still alive and they don’t want him to get out to tell his story till the Iraq mess is over.”
“As the little Archbishop says, ‘fascinating!’”
“Will herself back off?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I told him to tell his bosses not to count on it.”
After all the kids were safely in bed, Nuala joined me in “my” office. I poured her a large goblet of Bailey’s Irish Cream on ice for dessert and recounted my conversation with Cindy.
She sipped slowly on her Bailey’s and thought for a few moments.
“Well, if you ask me what I think, I think that they know a lot more about Des than they’re telling anyone and that your man is up to something pretty interesting.”
“Like?”
“Like something we have to figure out, somehow. In the meantime, we continue to poke around … Did your man tell Cindy that it was dangerous?”
“He did not.”
“Well, then we’ll see what Siobhan has to say next week, won’t we?”
“We will.”
10
The next morning we went riding—Claus, Annalise and I. As befit rural aristocrats, they were both superb horsemen, as good as I was but not better.
“You ride a lot in Ireland, Tim?” Claus asked me. “You certainly seem at ease on a horse.”
“I’d rather ride a motorcar,” I said, “like one of your Benzes or our Rolls. But horses are fun too.”
That wasn’t exactly true, but I was up to my old tricks of making trouble, kicking up shite as the Galway woman would say.
“Herr Ridgewood likes to argue, does he not, Claus?”
“I think it is an Irish trait, Annalise.”
“Everyone learned in the last war,” I continued, “that cavalry is useless in battle.”
“Many countries still have them,” Claus observed. “Even the German army.”
“Only until they build enough Panzers. If you do sign up for your historic Seventeenth Cavalry, you’ll be riding a Panzer into Poland and France.”
“That is not funny, Herr Ridgewood,” Annalise protested.
“You will learn, Annalise, that the Irish change from comic to serious and back in a single sentence … There are brilliant writers, our Heinz Guderian, the Frenchman Charles de Gaulle, the Englishman Liddell Hart who argue that tanks will make wars shorter. I don’t believe that. We won’t kill as many horses and we’ll probably need fewer horses anyway.”
“Do your people listen to Guderian?”
“More than the English listen to Hart, and much more than the French listen to de Gaulle. To fight a war without horses seems almost immoral.”
“And what do you think, Claus?” Annalise asked.
“I think that you may need cavalry to train leaders, but that Timmy is right. The General Staff is intrigued by one of Heinz’s phrases—Blitzkrieg, lightning war.”
“I hope there is never another war,” she said fervently.
The horses came to a stop as Claus reined in his great stallion.
“I hope so, Anna.” He rested his hand on her arm.
“There are many in this country who want to settle scores with France and England. And even with America. Including Herr Hitler and his band of ruffians. I think that many of the officers, however, fear that another bloodbath would indeed lead to a Bolshevik revolution that would succeed this time. If I join the army, I will ally myself with that side. Never another Verdun, liebchen.”
“I certainly hope not,” she said.
We rode on in silence.
We had circled around through the trees and the meadows and were back by the edge of the lake. Again, Claus drew in his reins.
“I’m afraid I must return to the Schloss,” he said with resignation. “There are some delicate negotiations which have to be carried on today before we go into the heart of Holy Week. All hope that a happy announcement can be made after Mass on Saturday when we sing the Gloria and the Alleluia again and Lent ends.”
“Surely, there can be no doubt, Claus, about the outcome?” Annalise said.
“Hardly. Nina and I already pledged ourselves. However,” he said with a shrug, “there are certain dignities that must be honoured, certain formalities maintained, certain symbols respected.”
“Of course,” I said.
He tipped his hat to both of us and cantered off towards the Schloss.
“You have been to my Bamberg, Herr Ridgewood?”
“Certainly. I love the town hall in the middle of the River Regnitz between the Bishop’s town and the Berger’s town and the water pouring around it on all sides.”
“It is a very old town and very important. It really is part of the Secret Germany that Claus speaks about so often.”
“It is quite beautiful,” I said.
“You have been to the cathedral?”
“Naturally.”
“And you remember the statue?”
“Der Ritter? I’m hardly likely to forget it. The perfect embodiment of knighthood.”
“We have ridden with him today, have we not? Even to the lovely cleft in his chin?”
“It is uncanny,” I said, shaken by the fact that in appearance and manner, Claus von Stauffenberg was the Rider.
“His family has been in this part of Germany for centuries. It is not unlikely, do you think, that one of his ancestors was the model for the sculptor?”
“Not unlikely at all … Does Nina see the similarity?”
“Naturally … Though I saw it first.”
“You are in love with him, are you not, Annalise?”
She sighed, like the Galway woman sometimes sighs.
“How could I not be, Herr Ridgewood? It is what my colleagues at the school in England would call a ‘schoolgirl crush.’”
“Perhaps not.”
“As a young woman without a family, Herr Ridgewood, I cannot afford to be anything but realistic. Moreover, Nina is a good friend. She protects me from the well-meaning supervision of her parents. She is the kind of strong, loyal woman that the Rider must have as a wife. I am happy for both of them …”
“And unhappy for Annalise?”
“That is my fate. I could never be the Lady that he needs. Herr Ridgewood, he is the last knight of Europe.”
She did not so much weep as permit a few tears to slip down her cheek.
“The last and lingering troubador, to whom the birds have sung that once went singing southward when all the world was young.”
“The last and the best.”
“But, Annalise, you are young. Give yourself a few years and you will be such a woman.”
“Perhaps. But now is the time that the Rider must marry.”
“You think he will survive the war.”
“No,” she said lightly. “He is too good, too generous. He will be swallowed up in the Blitzkrieg … Now, Herr Ridgewood, I thought you were going to row me down the lake?�
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We hitched the horses to a tree and climbed into the boat, both in our riding clothes. I fastened the oars in place, removed the line that tied us to the pier and cast off.
“You are very good at it, Herr Ridgewood. There is a lake near your manor too?”
“A couple of them,” I said, “with rowboats for fishing and a dory for sailing and on the River Bann a sailboat with a motor for going down the river and out on the ocean.”
“The Atlantic Ocean!”
“Sure, one can sail that without any fear, as long as one is careful.”
“I do not think I would like that.”
“I suspect that it is just the sort of reckless thrill that a woman like you would come to love.”
“Perhaps, Herr Ridgewood, perhaps. Yet today I am happy to know that my rower here on the Stauffenbergersee is an accomplished and brave boatsman.”
Stauffenbergersee? Typical German. Both the Nordsee and a tiny lake in the Bavarian mountains were “sees.”
“I’m not sure about the brave part.”
It was a perfect day for youthful romance—a clear blue sky, a smooth mirror of a lake, hills and mountains all around, some with pine trees at the top, and a breathtaking woman lounging gracefully in the stern, a woman who indeed was sad and lonely.
It was also a very warm day, under the springtime sun. I was sweating heavily as we sliced across the waters of the Stauffenbergersee. The worship in Annalise’s eyes made me even warmer.
I resolved solemnly to myself that whatever romance there would be at the other end of the lake, it would not do violence to this brokenhearted and inexperienced girl. I was not the last knight of Europe, but still I was a gentleman and an Irish gentleman at that. Sometime later I would come back to claim Annalise, that I knew with certainty—or at least I thought I did. I wanted her to have only pleasant memories.
We pulled up to a small landing at the far end of the lake. I helped her out of the boat and onto the wooded shore. She continued to cling to my hand as we walked a few yards into the forest and found a small, weathered bench leaning against a big pine tree.
“This was built long ago so lovers could view the full length of the lake,” she said.
“Lovers and anyone else,” I added, putting my arm around her.
“It is not really a very big lake,” she said, leaning against me. Her heart was pounding. Poor kid, scared and not sure about my intentions. I wondered if she still played with dolls.
“Our lakes in Ireland,” I said, “are usually bigger, but not so beautiful. Someday you and I will sail on them and maybe down the Bann in the big sailboat.”
“If you are there, I will not be afraid.”
Her pounding heart calmed down. She trusted me.
“Monday I will go back to Heidelberg and then in the autumn to Ireland, but I promise you, Annalise, I will come back to Germany someday for you.”
“I will wait for you,” she promised.
We remained in our embrace for a long time, silent in the magic of the lake and the forest and the mountains and our own love, whose sweetness permeated my body and promised me long years of happiness.
I knew even then that there would be a terrible war and that it would be a long time before we’d see each other again, if ever. I would probably survive the war because I was Irish and would not enlist in the English army no matter what happened. Her chances of surviving, a young woman with invading armies sweeping back and forth, were more dubious. We both meant our solemn promises at that magical moment on the side of the Stauffenbergersee. I understood that the fulfillment was somewhere in the distant, misty, and mystical future. Did she? At least the promises would console her a little in the hell that the future might bring.
We Irish like to luxuriate in a mix of darkness and light, despair and hope, death and life that created in our souls bittersweet memories before the fact. Caught up in that exquisite blend of gloom and joy, time stood still. I was in temporary eternity, a pure Celtic delight, in the mystical moment. I began to kiss her, gently at first and then passionately. She surrendered to my emotions and then after a time gently eased me away.
“Your kisses are wonderful, Herr Ridgewood,” she gasped, “but they take my breath away.”
“That’s what they’re supposed to do, Annalise.”
I told myself that I would permit one more such exchange and that would be that.
“I love you, Annalise,” I murmured.
“I love you too, Herr Ridgewood.”
We had said the sacramental words, we had plighted our troth, just as much as Nina and Claus were doing back at the Schloss.
I would never forget, I told myself, this glowing moment, no matter how long I lived.
Thus thinks the Irish romantic who substitutes daydreams for action.
We embraced and kissed again, this time pushing the job as far as I thought we safely could. I touched her breast through the protective armour of blouse and brassiere. She sighed contentedly.
“We had better return to the Schloss,” I said. “Claus will worry about us.”
“Perhaps,” she said, standing up and brushing dust off her riding clothes. “And perhaps not. I believe all his thoughts will be on Nina.”
I shivered at the grim anticipation that Nina would be a young widow before the war was over.
Please, God, NO!
“Did we sin, Herr Ridgewood?” she asked, as I helped her into the boat.
“Surely not, Annalise. Perhaps we were tempted, but God understands love between young people.”
“You also are un chevalier parfait, Herr Ridgewood.”
“And you are a perfect lady for such a knight,” I said.
I was not a knight at all, but on that day on the Stauffenbergersee, I felt like one.
“It is all arranged,” Claus said to us as we entered the Schloss, “but do not tell anyone. It is a secret till after the Mass on Saturday.”
“A secret that everyone knows,” Annalise said. “Therefore, I will not congratulate you till Lent is over. You look very happy and I am very happy for you. Now you must excuse me. It was very hot on the lake and I must bathe before dinner.”
“So you fell in love with her, Timmy,” he said to me later, “just as I foretold.”
“Enough in love so that I would not take her away now, as appealing as that prospect might be. I did promise her that I would return someday.”
“Such a promise might be difficult to honour … So much could happen.”
“That must be left in God’s hands, Claus.”
“Naturally … I had hoped you would carry her away. However, that would have been an error for both of you.”
“She promised to wait for me.”
“In the terrible days ahead that might be an impossible promise …”
“Again, Claus, that hope must rest in God’s hands.”
At the melancholy Tenebrae services that evening, I spoke to God about these matters.
How does one know what one is to do? Should I have cast my caution aside and taken her as my betrothed today? Everyone here would be delighted at a second engagement on Saturday. Would you be? Or would you think that I was an unfeeling brute? Or would you not care much either way?
I do love her, and I do want her. I fantasized about joining her in the bath when she left us. But it is the desire of a hungry young man. Is it really better for both of us to wait? That is my explanation, my excuse, my confession of cowardice. Will I hate myself for the rest of my life for my loss of nerve? Or will our joy be greater because of my restraint? The Galway woman would blame me for my English prudence. My Old Fella would shrug. He always believed in careful calculations with his linen mill, but he was surely heedless when it came to love.
The situation is different.
Isn’t it?
I could still change my mind. I could speak to her during the darkness after Tenebrae tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night after and ask her to come back with me to Ireland.
/> I made up my mind that I would do just that.
But the next morning, in the bright light of the Bavarian spring, I changed my mind. Each time I saw Annalise, she wrapped me in her radiant smile and I changed my mind again.
Holy Saturday morning came too quickly. I did not invite her to come for a sail on the Bann. We did not announce a second engagement. We still had the Pasch to rejoice over the Lord’s return and to rejoice at a new, young, and perhaps reckless love. I let that chance slip through my fingers.
On Monday morning, a rapturously happy Nina and a quiet Annalise accompanied us to the railroad station. Claus and Nina would marry at harvest time in August. For both of them the months seemed like years. As I kissed Annalise and promised that someday I would return, the years looked like months.
The rest of my time on the bank of the Neckar River was empty. I worried about all my friends from Jettingen. Claus would eventually do battle with Hitler and, I thought, lose. Nina would be a very young widow. My beloved was probably doomed and it would be my fault. I was a fool.
Claus left in June to join his regiment. Before he left he invited me to his wedding in Bamberg. I declined with the excuse that the Ministry for External Affairs wanted me back in Dublin to train me for my first assignment—Vice Consul in Chicago. He understood the stern demands of bureaucracy. He didn’t realize that the Ministry was in no hurry, Irish bureaucracies being much more relaxed than Germanic ones.
At Ridgeland, the Galway woman immediately caught my Weltschmerz.
“Some bitch of a young woman broke your heart, didn’t she, lad?”
“No. I fear I might have broken her heart.”
“And left her without a word?” she frowned darkly at me.
“We left each other with promises.”
“Which you don’t intend to keep?”
“I certainly do.”
“And herself?”
“She will if she’s still alive.”
“Why would she die? Is she sick?”
Irish Linen Page 12
