Blood Ties

by Warren Adler

She had consented to save Konrad's life, a wild, stupid, romantic notion, from which the Baron had extracted a legal consent to remove her from her children. Then, when the sense of martyrdom paled, she could only rationalize. The boys were better off with the Baron. What could she provide? Her life had become rudderless, disjointed, dissipated. Besides, there was the ultimate satisfaction in the knowledge that the Baron was raising another man's children. There was revenge for you, knowing all along that she had in her hands the weapon of destruction. When the time was ripe, she would hurl the bomb.

  Helga had actually believed then that her martyrdom would save her lover. Considering what she had traded for his life, she found it inconceivable that the other end of the bargain would not be kept.

  Loneliness did little for her self-esteem and she was quick to grasp at any straw that might promise hope. Takers were everywhere. She paid large sums of money for futile attempts to locate Konrad. Hitler's Germany had spawned a massive subculture which dealt in such currency.

  To have given up one's children for an uncertain promise filled her with a growing sense of despair. By then, too, she had begun to welcome men to her bed. At first they were merely instruments to be used to find pleasure in an otherwise empty and futile existence. That, like the rest of her naive notions, simply underlined her stupidity and she began to barter her emotional needs for physical companionship, another disaster since once men sensed her desperate need, she was fair game for further abuse.

  Still, she clung to the idea of one day being reunited with Konrad. What else was there to sustain her now? Even war's end brought little optimism as the stories of Hitler's horror emerged. By then she was using her monthly stipend to support a series of lovers.

  When she was with Konrad again, life would change. They would find a way to be together, with the children. Such thoughts became fantasies as she moved from lover to lover with regularity, passed around like a skin of wine.

  One such lover had exploited her shamelessly, but in her condition, she had not been able to build any defenses.

  He was vain, petulant and manipulative, using his good looks and sexual proclivities to force her dependence. She lived in a constant state of jealous uncertainty. Lavishing expensive gifts on him kept him reasonably content. Soon all her jewelry had been sold and most of her stipend went to support her infatuation. As her funds diminished, arguments increased. He would break into rages, threaten to leave her, infuriate and abuse her.

  Finally she had, in a jealous rage, confessed her motherhood, censoring her story to protect their legitimacy.

  "So he is paying for the right to keep them?"

  "Yes."

  "How much?"

  She told him. The revelation had, after all, made him loving. He brooded over the story for days.

  "And he is wealthy?"

  "Enormously."

  "Then you could have gotten more," he taunted.

  "Perhaps."

  "Then why didn't you?"

  She would never adequately answer the question to his complete satisfaction, prompting a continuous barrage of recrimination.

  "He gave you a pittance. You must get more."

  She would ignore him and he would attack again.

  "You are a fool. You should go and see him for more."

  "Never."

  "Then you will have to do without me."

  He had by then reduced her to a whimpering animal and every threat of his leaving filled her with such a compelling anguish that she finally relented. Her judgment and confidence were gone.

  Her humiliation had estranged her from her mother and the war had forced her uncle out of business. They had moved to Stuttgart where an air raid had killed them. She had felt remorse at the news, feeling somehow responsible. It was an emotion that slowly dissipated as her life progressed. What was remorse against guilt? She had sacrificed too much to save Konrad. Her lover was right. She had been a fool. Survival was all. She had sold her children too cheap.

  Helga had returned to Baden-Baden in the summer of 1945. The war had not touched it and she went immediately from the train station to the von Berghoff house. But she had not the courage to go in and stood for a long time leaning against a tree at the entrance gate weeping uncontrollably and cursing the state of her life. Was now the time to use her weapon?

  When after an hour she found the courage to proceed, she was shown to the reception room by a strange servant. Sitting in the familiar room, she had listened for the sounds of her children. None came. She wanted to leave. Why was she here? The house was deathly silent except for the ticking of the big clock in the hall. She had, with the help of her young lover, carefully rehearsed the scenario. She would demand her children, threaten legal action, surrendering only after an agreement was reached raising her stipend. The lover, she knew, was interested more in immediate results than in long-term actions.

  "Push him to the wall," he had demanded.

  But when the Baron arrived, stiff and forbidding in his formal manner, the face cruel and unbending, her will disappeared. Nor was she prepared for the Baron's opening gambit.

  "They are gone. The children are gone."

  "Gone?" She was thoroughly confused.

  "I have sent them away."

  "Where?"

  "You will never know. You have no right to know."

  "I have every right," she stammered, but the anger was muted. "Are they safe?"

  "Of course," he said with disdain, quickly changing the subject. "Why have you come?" the Baron demanded, coldly.

  Helga hesitated, gathering her malice.

  "They are my children," she said meekly.

  "And mine. Von Kassels." He had stiffened, his chin jutting, absorbed in his pride. In his implacable face, she saw her defeat.

  So he thinks they are von Kassels, she thought, the irony giving her courage. She had come for money, not for vengeance. Not yet. Now now.

  "I need more money," she stammered, her throat constricting. She watched a thin smile form on his lips. He shook his head.

  "How much?"

  She shrugged. Was it money she was really after? She was confused.

  "How much?" he repeated as if he were haggling with a tradesman.

  "More." She had not set a figure in her mind.

  Threaten him, her lover had insisted. Make him pay. She felt helpless with self-loathing.

  "And Konrad?" she whispered. Had he kept his bargain?

  "The Jew." He did not disguise his contempt.

  "You had agreed..." she began.

  "And you had agreed never to return."

  "Did you save him?"

  For the first time, he seemed to waver. His eyes darted from her face.

  "He was released," he said finally. "I gave you that assurance. I kept our agreement."

  His sarcasm was heavy. But where did he go? Why hadn't he tried to find her? Her legs began to tremble. Maybe he was caught. Many had died. Perhaps he had tried to find her and was disgusted by her life. She resummoned the face of her present lover. Let it lie, she urged herself. What good would it do?

  "And the children?" The sense of her guilt in the abandonment overpowered her.

  "To them you are dead."

  "Dead?"

  If there was ever a time to threaten, it was now. But he had anticipated that as well.

  "It would only do them harm," he said. "I would have to tell them how you betrayed their father."

  "So you would."

  "Nothing must interfere with their future. Nothing." His tone was ominous. Once, she had sacrificed herself for her lover. Perhaps now she might redeem herself by thinking only of her children.

  "You needn't worry," she said. "I only came for money."

  Did she sense a brief flicker of pity in his eyes? If only he knew. She was finding her strength again.

  "I will give you another lump sum and agree to continue the monthly sum as long as you are alive."

  "How generous," she said with contempt, relieved.

/>   "But you must never come back. Never. The children are von Kassels, Barons." The implication was clear. She must learn to forget them, forget everything.

  He went to a desk and wrote out a check. A quick glance showed it was generous. Was he expecting her to be grateful? She put the check in her pocketbook.

  "As long as you are alive," the Baron repeated.

  "I died when I left them with you," Helga said, hiding her face. Tears had begun. She walked toward the door and without looking back, opened it and walked into the street. So they are von Kassels, she mocked, smiling now, the tears drying in the sun.

  She walked swiftly to the train station, a long way, but it gave her time to think. It was time to begin a new life. She never went back to Zurich.

  Remembering brought little pain now. The water of her life had long ago shaped the stone irrevocably. She had gone from the arms of one man to another.

  Had she been searching for Konrad, seeking replication of her one true and tragic love?

  "Before you, I loved only one man." It was the litany she always repeated. Konrad, like the von Kassel legend, had become mythology, reshaped by constant almost nightly tellings to anyone who would listen, usually a male in afterplay, when the body cooled and the mind needed to expunge itself. Sometimes the response was eager, curious, questioning, punctuated by odd intersections which she ignored. Sometimes the listener merely snored, drifted away, or disappeared. It did not matter. The telling was the only importance.

  "I was living in this cage and every night this monster would come into the cage and abuse me. There was simply no place to run. He would arrive, prepare himself, then plunge this tiny dagger into my heart, hoping that I would be the instrument of his multiplication. Do you understand what I am saying? No. Of course not. Only a woman could possibly understand. He wanted me to die or make some replication of himself for his trouble. Still confusing? Well then. Here is the heart of a woman." She would place the male hand over the center of her, feeling the stir again. "It is the entrance to the palace of the Hohenzollerns, but the brave Knight could not ever span the moat. He could not even feel the cold stones of the wall. There was no escape from the river of his slime, which filled me with its endless torrent of emptiness. Am I confusing you? Pretty little princesses are not allowed to be more explicit.... "Her voice lowered by octaves. "But inside the princess another something stirred, watching the monster, using up all that energy for nothing. For nothing. There was not a single iota of humanity in it." She reached over and felt the flaccid organ, moving toward it, her tongue flickering. "I never forgave him for not having a sword like this. He must have known it. I began to hate him with a passion more intense than anything I have ever felt, more durable. Even more durable than Konrad, who brought me out of the cage. You should learn to hate. It has the power to prolong life. Hate is marvelous. Without hate, I might not have known Konrad. I understood nothing of it, only that he had a fine gentle face, deepset brooding eyes, with heavy lashes that fluttered. I can still feel them fluttering against my face. Do you have heavy fluttering lashes?" She moved upward, her hand still on his balls, while she tested his lashes. "And lips that trembled. Trembling lips. Because he was frightened, you see. I longed to kiss them. Like this.

  And put my tongue against his. Like this. Nor did I know that he was a Jew. Not until it was too late. Count von Berghoff knew how to handle the Jews. He was the first on the line with the dagger and the whip. Can you envision coming to this man, seeing him almost daily, after those nightly stabbings? Before Konrad, I would hear them whispering. 'Nothing yet. She is like Emma.' Emma. You know the story of Emma. She was the Baron's first victim. They said she drowned, a terrible tragedy. Drowned?" She would laugh, a long low chuckle. "Now there is a fairy tale. Not yet. Like Emma. Even a shallow, stupid adolescent fool of a princess could sense the meaning of all this. Did they think I was beyond intelligence? That I knew nothing of self-preservation?" Her hand jiggled the male organs. "The tiny bags were empty. Now there's poetic justice, the great progenitor with his empty balls." She bent down to kiss them. "Not like these. I can hear them bubbling with life, the juices stirring to make life happen. Then I found Konrad. We were together in his little stone house, our oasis. Our refuge. 'And how was your day, Helga?' Karla would ask. 'Wonderful,' I said. And it was. We needed each other. I could not believe what had happened to me. Again only a woman could understand. I did love. But I hated more. Imagine. Betraying the great Teutonic survivors. It was delicious. We hungered for each other. But for different reasons. I think he knew mine. I did love him. I want you to understand that. He loved me. Although he never quite said it in the way I would understand then. I understand now." Her tongue would flicker up the shaft of the listener's hard organ, fingers caressing the balls, feeling the veins under the tight skin pulse with urgency. "How wonderful, how marvelous. To a woman this is a miracle, a miracle. I told Konrad that and he was so proud of his exhibit.

  When I discovered I was pregnant, we celebrated by tying a little red ribbon right here. On the tip. And I covered the head with lipstick. The Baron and his sister were overjoyed. Having imagined that he had done his duty, he went off to go about his business. I have not yet told you about his business. No. I won't. It is not relevant. Feeling Konrad's child growing in me only increased my thirst for him.

  "There were other joys as well. Karla's two sons were killed in action. You think I am being beastly. I already told you about hate. Hate is marvelous. Any death in their line was just. And he was so proud that it was a boy. I mean the Baron. We called the little one Siegfried and he was a Baron. 'You have made me a Teutonic Baron, Konrad.' He was a positively awful gardener. It was a scary business, sneaking about, but that is the mother of invention. I suddenly developed a profound interest in horticulture. And Konrad could see his son. We were quite a contented little menage. It wasn't long before we made another little Baron. They are only fourteen months apart. Rudi. I often wonder what might have happened to me if I had not found Konrad. Providential, don't you think? Who would think after what the Baron had done that I would be capable of such fertility? It was quite obvious that the Baron was sterile. No, he would never submit to any tests. How could he ever have faced that reality?"

  Somewhere around this part a poignant moment might ensue. Helga would look into the man's eyes. "Have you any children?" If the nod was affirmative, she would continue swiftly, "So you know the power of procreation. After all, what is the purpose of it? Merely pleasure. God provided that pleasure for a reason." If the answer was negative, she would pause, perhaps sigh. "By design." Actually, it was a confusing interrogation, since it never mattered whether the men were single or married, widowed or divorced. She would urge the man to continue now, guiding his mounting of her, as if conception was the necessary result, rotating her body to summon from both him and her a long lingering climax. Resting again, the myth would take a strange turn in the telling. She would lay flat now, not touching, watching the ceiling, talking upward. "A third little Baron came in early 1944. By now, we had acquired a regular brood. Naturally, the Baron had imagined his duty had been done. There were brief submissions, a kind of backdating. But we had been so successful in our subterfuge that it must have made us reckless. Somebody, a servant perhaps, might have seen me enter the gardener's hut. You never know how such a thing occurs. Finally we were caught in the act and Konrad was taken away. It was all so pedestrian in the end. And he was taken so quickly, there was hardly any discussion. Was I supposed to tell the Baron? I have always wondered about that. Someday perhaps. At the right moment. Everything in life awaits the right moment, don't you think?"

  The myth always ended with a closing door, sometimes gently shut, sometimes slammed. She had by then obliterated her real name. There were broad hints, of course, but the men were, after all, here for other purposes than investigation. Perhaps she had become known as the odd creature who needed this confessional to spur her sexuality. What she had left out was any characterizati
on of Konrad, the real Konrad, the gentle dreamer, from whom sweetness poured like syrup from a maple tree. That was hers to covet. But even that memory had grown static against the relentless power of her hate.

  The telling of the myth sustained her for half a decade, but by then she had become a kind of amusement park diversion, a roller coaster ride, perhaps, good for thrills the first time out, even a little illusion of danger, a charge or two of excitement and fini. "It's an experience," they might snicker behind her back, she suspected. "You'll get your jollies but you'll have to listen to the whole bloody mess." "But is it worth it?" "At first, but it has a diminishing return."

  So one day, fed up with the ikons of the Old Order, the transient lovers who passed her flesh around like a bouncing ball, and the diminishing interest in her myth, she packed it up and emigrated to the United States. There had always been that, the escape valve. When all else failed, there was always the United States to wash you clean of the old filth. The stipend was, she found, easily transferrable, although, like the myth, it was diminishing in value rapidly.

  She moved around the States, ever westward, further from the geography of her past. The money continued to follow her, but by the time she reached Fargo, North Dakota, in the early fifties, it was badly in need of supplementing. Men would anchor her briefly. She could no longer remember their faces. They would move her around in their cars from place to place, motel to motel, bed to bed. To them, she knew, she was an illusion, a reflection in a shattered mirror. They were welcome to do anything with her body. I am everywoman with a thousand faces, she would tell herself. And she carried with her that marvelous secret, her private treasure. It was comforting to note that she held that much power over the von Kassels, a name she had long discarded, although she still clung to her old Nazi passport, well hidden among her meager portable possessions. It was, after all, the only tangible proof of her real identity.

  She was Hilda Kent by the time she reached Fargo, the bed and drinking companion of a ladies underwear salesman who used her for a model as they moved from town to seedy town along the Great Plains. She had met the man in a Chicago bar.