by Warren Adler
"I have watched you grow, Princess Helga. You are a very beautiful woman."
It was a confession of very heavy interest, far beyond her mother's wildest dreams. He had waited for exactly the right moment to pluck the fruit from the vine. The flattery worked its wiles on her younger, vulnerable self and she settled into the soft car seats and observed the landscape from a vantage that she had not experienced before. Things looked especially lovely from there.
"Every time I come home, my sister insists upon throwing me a party." He was talking in a way designed to make himself seem younger, catering to her adolescence. Although she looked innocent, in her mind she was not. She knew what was happening here, what her mother had schemed.
The home of Count Wilhelm von Berghoff and his wife Karla, the Baron's sister, stood on a high knoll with the nearby Rhine as backdrop. The Count was a Wehrmacht general, coincidentally on leave from his Berlin duties.
"Exquisite," the Countess Karla had said upon her introduction, eying the girl with proprietary interest. Actually, she felt no premonitions. It was a peaceful summer day and she knew that she was the centerpiece on display. A little orchestra played discreetly. Glasses tinkled. Conversation buzzed.
"You have outdone yourself, Charles," Count von Berghoff said, bowing to kiss her fingers, his eyes rolling over the hillocks, until she felt them burst into a rosy blush. She enjoyed the heat of it, enjoyed the attention. So this is what mother meant, she thought, looking down the huge expanse of trimmed green lawn, speckled now with the bright colors of women's dresses, and their splashes of rouge and lipstick which made their faces look like painted balloons in a green sky.
"I imagine this must be quite trying," Charles had said, taking her arm in a structured promenade as he paraded her through the gauntlet of stiff standing figures, munching hors d'oeuvres and sipping champagne.
"Not at all, Baron. I am enjoying it." She reveled in the power of herself, the strong impression it made on him. The somber face crinkled into a smile and she imagined she caught a brief glimpse of the boy in the forty-year-old man. She was, after all, searching for his good points.
"The Count's friends are pretty stodgy," Charles had said. He was stodgy himself, but somehow it must have shaved the years to observe it in others. He was desperately trying to bridge the gap of a generation. "They are all busy impressing each other." The hint of rebellion was attractive, although he could not quite cut himself off from the others. They paused in the path and he stooped to cut a pink summer rose in the manured garden. The rose perfume smelled wonderful layered over the gamier smell of earth and offal. He gave it to her and she watched his smile, waiting for what she knew would be a formal compliment.
"It pales at the sight of you," he said and she saw a red blush spread upward from his collar. He was awkward in this role, but he was doing his best, for which she patted his hand in what she had decided was a coquettish response. It was the one powerful memory of the day, her own confidence in her good looks. She had felt beautiful and the eyes of others had confirmed what she had felt. Never since had she felt more beautiful, more desirable, more womanly. Hohenzollern women are horsey and flat chested, her mother had reminded her. The good looks came from the other side. She remembered that and she had thrust out her own ample chest to emphasize the point.
"You're very sweet, Baron," she said demurely. She wondered if she should show him some hint of her as well. But she was empty-headed then. Political things meant nothing. She had brooded and dreamed and read a great deal of romantic novels, imagining herself the fairy princess that her mother had assured her she was, waiting for the Prince's kiss. She had also been filled with the romance of her father's early life, related by him, before his mind became clouded and inert. In his day to be a Hohenzollern was an anointment.
"I love to come back here," Charles mused, breathing deeply. A light breeze moved upward from the Rhine, a river smell, moist with its own perfume.
"You travel often?" It was meant to be a question, although she already knew the answer. The Baron did travel often, returning to Baden-Baden to live in his sister's house. She had no curiosity about what he did, only that it seemed important.
"Very often." He hesitated, looking at her pointedly. "My sister, the Countess, is my only close family."
"No parents?" she had asked stupidly, forgetting the distance between them.
"They died in Estonia." His forehead wrinkled revealing his painful thoughts. She watched him searching her face. There was a confidence he wanted to share. She was certain of that. He was obviously debating with himself. It seemed a significant moment.
"We stayed as long as we could," he sighed. She searched her mind for some Estonian reference, but it was beyond her knowledge, a place on a map. Her mother called it Ostland.
"And how long was that?" It was a reflexive response, without logic. But he looked at her with passionate interest, as if she had imparted something of great importance.
"Nearly eight hundred years," he had said, his eyes burning now. So this is what sets him off, she remembered thinking.
"Eight hundred years?"
"With the Crusades. The Teutonic Order, monastic soldiers. The people were ignorant godless peasants, mindless. We brought them civilization." He was lost in himself. It was the first time she had seen it, tunneled in, hidden by some mystical mudslide. Even then she sensed that it was awesome. His fists had knotted and a nerve had begun to palpitate at the jaw point.
"Surely someday you will return there." What was a frilly empty-headed little lady to say at a garden party? Her knowledge of events and geography was minimal. Perhaps it recalled him to the reality of the moment.
"And here I am boring you with family matters."
"No. I was fascinated." She was, of course, although it was all beyond her. The Countess came toward them as they moved back toward the clot of people.
"You two must be famished," his sister said. She was a large woman, like her brother, with the same bone structure and carriage. At first, she had thought they might be twins. Actually, she learned later, the sister was older by three years. She filled their plates herself, a game bird, a salad, some exotic sausages and iced spring wine. They sat at a long table festooned with a white cloth edged in lace. Two liveried servants, a man and a woman, tidied up after them, standing by to remove a finished plate or glass.
"...we will take England in one month," General von Berghoff said. "I can't say I originally agreed with the overall plan," he added with supercilious arrogance.
"They should be going the other way," the Baron whispered, but the air was crisp and his voice carried. His brother-in-law turned and lifted his glass.
"Always they look to the East, he and Karla. What's in the East? Barbarians. We will save them for the last." He turned toward a powdered lady seated beside him in a wide-brimmed hat. "All these Estonian Ostlanders can think of is their lost lands. Don't worry. Hitler will give them back to you." The lady in the wide-brimmed hat laughed, but Helga had seen the nerve palpitate again in the Baron's jaw. Thinking that he was somehow offended, she put her hand on his. It felt cold, reluctant to be touched, but she kept it there. Was she staking a claim, making a decision in the act? Obviously, noting the subtle details, Karla beamed at her and nodded.
In the limousine, after the party, she sat back in the deep seat, feeling a sense of well-being. The wine had made her head light and she knew that she had giggled perhaps a bit too much.
"Will I see you again?" he asked, hesitantly, she remembered, as if he were unsure of his impression on her.
"Of course," she said holding out her hand. He took it, put his lips to it and let them linger.
"Tomorrow?" he asked when he had looked at her again. But she had already acquired the wisdom of the game.
"I'm not sure about tomorrow."
Helga noted a brief curl of the lip, that inadvertent sign of controlled arrogance, which she would later know better than her own face. He was the first to leave the
car after it had stopped at her uncle's house, joining her at the chauffeur-opened door and accompanying her up the path to the entrance. Behind the curtains, she knew, her mother searched their faces. Later, still ebullient from the wine and the experience, she told her mother and uncle of her impressions in a series of disjointed vignettes.
"They are very formal people, very correct. One feels that if they fall down they will break. The sister..." she stood up stiffly, exaggerating her erectness, pouting in the manner she had observed in the woman's face. "...is like a predatory bird. She watches over her brother to an extent that made me very uncomfortable."
"And what of his reaction toward you?" her mother asked.
"I feel his interest," she had answered. It was a less than honest evaluation. She had captured him. Her mother stroked her chin, evaluating.
"Of course," the uncle said, his hands clasped around his huge belly, his puffy eyes half-closed. He was about to say something and since it was his house, his largess under which they lived, they had learned to anticipate and be respectful.
"They want her for a brood mare," he said. It was, of course, the absolute truth.
The courtship, which lasted a proper four months, was mostly pampering by the Baron, his sister and their friends, all of whom she had already met at the garden party. Baden-Baden was an insular society, a catch-all of old titles, old wealth and a smattering, for appearances' sake, of Nazi party officialdom. The town was not a hotbed of Nazi zeal. It had seen too many leaders come and go. She could never recall that time in terms of chronology. It was simply a jumble of gifts and parties, briefly interrupted by the movement of Hitler's armies deeper into Russia, which excited the Baron.
"So he has chosen the right direction. That is where our destiny is. A little Slavic blood will do wonders for the soil."
"It was stupid," his brother-in-law argued.
"Only if he is not in Moscow soon. The defense has always been the same—winter."
"Perhaps he should have moved earlier," Karla observed. The Baron had watched her face. They were always searching each other for silent signals. It made little difference to Helga. She recalled herself as floating in a charmed space, like a little pink lady who revolved on top of a music box. Somebody was always winding it up and the music never stopped.
She seemed always to be trying on "things," standing in front of the glass before her mother's admiring eyes, showing off new dresses, necklaces, bracelets, brooches. The Baron was lavish in his interest. What did it matter if he was a shade too somber and reflective or that he brooded and conversed on subjects that were totally without meaning to her? Estonia? It was a remote wasteland, holding little interest for her. Teutonic Knights? He was forever trying to impose a history lesson about some band of crusaders. Once he had given her a brooch in the shape of an ancient shield with odd markings on it.
"The insignia of the Order," he had explained, carefully pointing to each feature and offering a long explanation. "You will not have to take any crumbs from another person's table," her mother would say, the reference clear considering her position. The daughter understood.
They were married in the Lutheran Church in a fine display of pomp. The von Berghoffs were ancient nobles of the area and their rank demanded it.
The details of the wedding were carefully preserved in her mind. Perhaps that was the moment when the music box trilled the loudest and the little pink lady was dizzy with the speed of movement. They had even managed to clean up her father for the occasion. He had only to walk his daughter down the aisle, nod and smile in acknowledgment and keep his dignity reasonably intact. The entire von Berghoff clan had gathered, including Karla's two sons, who had managed a leave from the Eastern front. Her portrait of them was vague since they were extinguished less than thirty days later, within a week of each other.
Helga could remember her mother's tears at the ceremony. But she was too busy being beautiful and excited and eighteen to notice anything but her own reflection wherever she could find it and hear only her own sweet music. If there was the slightest hint of pain, it was in the sight of her mother, in a quiet corner of the von Berghoffs' reception room, standing beside her uncle, his grossness amplified by the food and drink he had consumed. At least I will not ever have to see that again, she had thought. It might have been her first really lucid moment.
They spent their honeymoon in a rented villa on a picturesque lake just a few miles from the castle in which she now waited, rummaging through her warehouse of resentments.
"How pretty?" she had remarked rushing into the house to prod her curls into place and repair her makeup. When she turned from the mirror, he was behind her, erect, towering over her. It had then occurred to her that he had kissed her only once and that was part of the ritual of the wedding. His lips were cold. Now she lifted her face to his, touching his chin, which he dutifully lowered for her to find his lips again. She had to place her arms around him. She was confused. Wasn't she the one that was supposed to be shy? It was another item of living to which she had given little thought. He had, after all, been married before, a fact that was merely noted but little discussed during their courtship. Nor was she curious. Actually, she was curious about nothing. Even then, in the prelude to their marriage consummation, she wasn't curious, expecting that she would perform her duty with obedience and vigor, like her mother.
There was one servant in the house who had prepared their evening meal and poured their wine, which made her giggly and lightheaded. Charles had watched her closely throughout the meal, smiling less often than before, his look more an inspection than simple observation. She was too lightheaded to feel discomfited.
Helga preceded him upstairs, bathed in a big tub, powdered and perfumed herself, particularly that part of herself which she knew would be of special importance. She inspected her naked body in the mirror, the high plump breasts, the softly contoured belly over which a thin down began its southward trail between her legs. She imagined, judging from what she had seen of her mother and uncle, that some new pleasure was to be anticipated, but it was all vague in her mind.
He was sitting in a corner of the bedroom when she came into it, sipping a brandy and brooding, his eyes narrowed in self-contemplation. In the center of the room was the high feather bed to which her eyes darted, wondering why he had not yet prepared himself for it. Have I made him angry? she had wondered, the lightness receding. Don't I please him? She let her eyes find the mirror which caught her shiny brushed hair and the pink skin glowing beneath the silk nightgown which sheathed her figure. Even the warm sweet smell of her perfumed skin assured her that she was still the twirling pink lady. Only the brooding face of her new husband confused the image.
"What is it, darling?" She had not yet found anything ominous to suggest his displeasure. He looked into the brandy snifter and sucked up the remaining liquid, smacking his lips, watching her. She started to move toward the bed, with a beckoning shake of her head.
"Not yet," he said, his voice cracked, the nerve in the jaw palpitating again. He had crossed his legs, as if he was merely here to listen to some supplicant's complaint.
"Take your nightgown off," he said. She was confused. The voice was sharp, commanding, different in tone than he had ever used before. She smiled at him, expecting the humor of it to surface, sure it would dispel the sudden confusion.
"Off," he said. She shrugged. It is a joke, she decided, determined to go along with it, to please him. She felt the hot blush begin at her cheeks as she removed the nightgown, secretly pleasured at exhibiting herself to him.
The room was warm and her feet sunk into a heavy bearskin that lay on the floor before him.
"Am I beautiful?" she asked, anticipating further pleasure in the expected response. But he ignored her.
"Lay down," he commanded again.
She looked around her.
"Here?"
"There," he pointed to the rug.
"Really darling," she protested. But there was no hum
or in his response. The arrogant curl of his lip had begun again. The music was fading swiftly. She had stopped twirling. What is this? she wondered, sinking to the bearskin, watching his narrow eyes. She was on her knees. A tiny sob flashed in her throat. What is happening?
"On your back and spread your legs," he said, his voice rising as he watched her, the command implicit. She had no will of her own now. She would do as she was told. It was not that his commands were cruel, she had decided. Underneath the patina of authority, she detected a sense of fear, as if the assumed sense of command carried little conviction. It was, she found out later, instinctive. Perhaps this is why she obeyed him willingly then, lying down on the rug, spreading her legs. The room was well lit, the mystery of herself was no mystery at all. He stared down at her and finally she lay back and closed her eyes. She hadn't thought about what to expect. Why not this?
When she heard movements, she opened her eyes again and he was unbuttoning his trousers, his eyes still glued to the center of her body. Now she was finding her own sense of curiosity. She felt no sense of terror, even her initial sense of humiliation was dissipating under the loss of her modesty. He kicked himself free of his pants and she saw his body. He was still looking at her but his fingers were moving between his thighs under a tiny fringe of dark hair. At first she had trouble distinguishing his penis from his fingers. She had expected something on the order of her uncle's blunt glistening muscular organ with the pendant sacks hanging beneath it. Not that she had dwelled on the idea of it, merely considering it as part of her expectations. She was not completely ignorant of the male anatomy, having seen young children naked and boys peeing in the street.
What Helga had not expected was its size. Small. No bigger than his index finger, hence the confusion at first. And under it, two tiny bags like ancient leather coin sacks. In her mind, she somehow related what she had been commanded to do with the size of his organ. Now she understood the terror behind the arrogance; she reached out to touch his thigh. His eyes moved to hers now, softening. She lifted one arm and he took it, continuing to caress his organ, distinguished from his fingers by the redness and the tiny spot of moisture on its tip. She pulled his hand and drew him down over her, reaching out instinctively for him, finding what nature had created for its sheath and inserted it.
