by Warren Adler
"She is not upstairs?"
"She said she would be back. But the time was moving on. I thought perhaps she might have come herself and was assuming that I was resting." There was a whininess about him, like a disturbed child. Karla's presence had also, somehow, protected his heroic image. The Baron's dependency on her was total. They walked slowly toward the rectory, the effort taxing the old man.
"Perhaps she is already here," he said, the sense of panic in him rising. They entered the room, but there was no sign of Karla.
"She is not here," his father whispered.
"I'll find her," Albert murmured. "She has probably taken a little walk and forgot the time."
"It is not like her."
He moved past the sumptuous buffet and deposited his father in a chair at the head of the table. A waiter hovered nearby, pouring wine. By then, Mimi had moved swiftly to her father-in-law's side. Rudi watched her approvingly.
"I'll fix your plate, Father," she said loudly, in her Spanish-accented German, rushing to the buffet table, moving rudely ahead of the diminutive Wilhelm and his tiny wife.
It was certainly not like Karla. She would never leave him to fend for himself. They were inseparable, an arrangement that led many to see incestuous implications. But he had long ceased to speculate on that score.
In the lobby Albert had the operator ring his father's suite. Then he walked to both ends of the corridor, retracing his steps through the forest of armor, peering into the rectory again to see if she had arrived.
Suddenly, Hans, the manager, came into the lobby from the outside. His face was flushed. He was obviously in a state of anguish, and as he got closer Albert saw little beads of sweat on his upper lip. Seeing him, the manager hesitated, began to move backwards, turned, then moved toward him again, like a trapped animal.
"What is it Hans?" Albert asked. Again he saw the hesitation, a quiver of the chin, a sudden attempt to dissimulate.
"Nothing really, Baron." But the manager's defenses were obviously crumbling, and he appeared to be on the verge of fainting. Reaching out, Albert grabbed the man's arm.
"Something terrible has happened," the man gasped. The color had drained from his face.
CHAPTER 13
Growing impatient, Helga huddled in her coat to protect herself from the chill. Although the sun was high now, the breeze had heightened and the banner of the Old Order snapped with increasing energy. Telling her oldest son the truth had taxed her resources. For a moment, too, she had seen the child in the man. But the reality of the adult could not sustain the old love. Absence had taken its toll.
"You have done well," her sister-in-law had said when she visited her after the birth. Later the Baron had arrived, kissing her appreciatively on the forehead.
"May it be the first of many," he had said proudly, filling her with dread. If he knew, he would murder the child, she thought.
She suspected that Siegfried would doubt her story, that her proof might seem inconclusive, at least at first. Sooner or later it must sink in, she decided, although she dared not speculate on anything beyond the revelation. She had learned to live with no other future beyond this. The future was now.
She had long fantasized how the words would be discharged, and the unraveling of scenarios in her mind had provided endless hours of speculation. "There are no von Kassels here," she had cried within herself for years, confronting the Baron in imagination. Would that be the way in which she would tell him? How desperately she needed Konrad now.
The wind whipped her face as it swept along the mountain ridge to the castle parapet on which she stood. It swirled her hair and forced her eyes to close against it. Only then, with the dislodged aroma of the deep forests along the ridge line, the decay of winter's natural death, brushing her nostrils, could she resummon Konrad fully in her mind. Toward the end he had smelled like that, a gardener's perfume of earth.
He was suddenly there, in her field of vision, the sound of his movements perpetually audible as he turned the ground or clipped the errant bud. Observing people had been her only form of amusement. She did not read or sew. The Baron's absences from the household were frequent. She was thankful for that. Karla, whose somber presence provided little company for a young girl, increasingly found other pursuits to keep her busy.
The garden, with its magnificent view of the Rhine and its neatly manicured paths and carefully nurtured flowers, became a frequent environment. Hadn't she once been the little girl twirling on top of the wedding cake here?
Although she observed the gardener at his work, she kept the appropriate emotional distance between servant and master. Whatever fantasies he might have engendered remained outside the orbit of her consciousness. She was, after all, despite the pain of very private tortures, the Baroness von Kassel. At that point she could still take refuge in pride.
"For you." He handed her a bouquet of flowers.
She had seen him coming up the walk, but had not expected the proffered gift.
"How lovely," she said.
"Not as lovely as you." His long fluttering lashes masked what his deep-set eyes might reveal. It did seem a bit more than an obsequious flattery. She remembered she had looked toward the house, perhaps fearful of being observed in a lack of propriety. Although new to the role, she had quickly developed a sense of appearances for a woman of her new station.
That was all he said, "Not as lovely as you." She had actually blushed and turned away and when she had looked back he was gone. Thinking about it later, she wondered perhaps if such gestures might have actually been one of the duties of gardeners. What, after all, were flowers for?
When it happened again a few days later, she felt more courage in her acceptance.
"They're quite beautiful, Konrad."
"Thank you, Miss."
For a moment their eyes had engaged and she was the first to turn away, much to her own annoyance. How dare he, she thought, petulantly.
She was not able to articulate her loneliness in those days. Or her unhappiness. These were merely conditions of her arrangement, the lot of her life. It was the first lesson of her marriage. A high station in life did not necessarily mean happiness. One must do one's duty, she told herself. Submit. Yet something about Konrad suggested that life could offer more.
She found herself spending more and more time in the garden. It was the only place where she wasn't plagued by ennui and boredom. She could take walks, look at the flowers, and, it came to that, exhibit herself to Konrad. It did not take her long to notice that he watched her continuously. Even if he didn't seem to do so. She felt his eyes on her and it gave her pleasure.
When it rained, she was disappointed and became increasingly edgy, sometimes refusing to come down for dinner.
"What is it, Helga?" Karla would ask.
"I don't feel very well." There was little she cared to share with her sister-in-law. Or with the Baron. Only in the garden did she feel a sense of freedom, a bird out of the cage.
The stone house where Konrad lived was not visible from the high windows of the house, lost in a thicket of trees. Sometimes she would linger near it wondering what it looked like inside. Konrad, like herself, spent most of his time alone. Once, while contemplating the house, he had come up behind her and she had been startled.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Helga said gently when she had recovered herself. Actually, she was happy to see him. He was naked to the waist and his muscles rippled under his tight skin. There was a film of perspiration on his chest, making the forest of hairs glisten.
"I was looking at your house."
His deep eyes watched her and she did not turn hers away.
"It's not much." In his eyes she saw an intelligence she did not expect. He was their gardener, but he did not have the aspect of a gardener. "Would you like to see it?"
The invitation was blatant and her first reaction was a sense of insult. How dare he? Not knowing how to react, she assumed, she hoped, a look of disdain.
"Not today," she said, hoping she had masked her intent. She knew she was engaged now. She could not deny that to herself. Did he suspect her vulnerability?
The Baron's return to the household always increased the tension. He always came laden with gifts, but they never seemed offerings of affection, more like sacrifices, as if she were expected to barter something in return. She offered her body in the same spirit as the gifts.
"Not yet?" he would ask. The question was repelling. Once, she had sneaked off to a doctor in another town and he had pronounced her physically able to bear children.
"Let me see your husband," the doctor had urged. But she dared not tell the Baron. Besides, she had begun to hate him. Yet her hate could not cure her loneliness or her diminishing sense of self-worth. Nor was there anyone to confide in. Even her mother, now that her duty was done, became distant, partly because the war had made her work much harder in the bakery and because of the inherent class wall that her son-in-law's wealth had created.
"You look downcast," Konrad said to her one day as she passed him on the garden path. He had, she realized, become less subtle, more obvious in his interest. As her vulnerability increased, he seemed to be more aggressive.
"How can you tell?" she asked with sarcasm, although she knew she welcomed the inquiry.
"I know flowers." The flattery was like a match to dry tinsel.
"People are different."
"Not at all." He smiled, his teeth showing white against his burnished face. She was shallow and inexperienced, and disturbed by her instincts, but she had come to enjoy the idea of his now obvious intent.
"Well I'm not downcast," she said, more gentle a rebuke than she had wished.
"Maybe just lonely," he said, coming closer. Furtively, she had looked toward the house. The drapes were drawn, but she proceeded to move out of sight anyway. He had, of course, struck the perfect chord. There was something compelling in the way he said it, exciting her.
"I don't know why you said that," she said, flushing.
"Because I know the condition." He was dropping the mask, revealing his intelligence.
"You're being rather forward." Her haughtiness seemed especially hollow. "I can get you fired."
"I know."
"Then why are you risking it?"
The smile had faded and his eyelashes fluttered with a sudden uncertainty. "Sometimes you do things..." The muscles in his arms had tightened. "We're all trapped one way or another."
She felt the intimacy and he must have felt it as well. Moving toward her, he touched her arm. She did not move away, surprised at her acquiescence. Then he gripped her arm and moved toward the stone house.
As the heavy door sprang shut, he gathered her, unresisting, into his arms, the comfort of his closeness palpable, the smell of his sweat commanding in its manliness. His tongue burst into her mouth and it was like setting a match to a short fuse.
It was, she knew, inevitable that they would be discovered. Yet, clinging to each other dispelled the sense of doom, even though he was a mystery. The sense of it heightened whenever she heard the steady pounding of his heartbeat. Why was a man like him a country gardener?
"Don't be too curious," he warned when she could not resist asking questions. It was finally enough that he was there, alive and loving. Considering the danger, having him to love was enough.
Standing in the chill on the castle turret, Helga felt the loss of him with more intensity than ever. That, and the gnawing perpetual guilt that had always plagued her; that she was the instrument of his death.
The discovery of her first conception was a kind of testing ground. She had prevailed. The tension of the house could subside. The Baron had what he wanted.
"It is yours," she told Konrad when the conception was confirmed. He nodded almost as if he had prior knowledge of the event. She remembered her disappointment, expecting another reaction. Perhaps joy.
"He will never know," she promised. "Never."
The Baron, of course, was ecstatic and the birth of Siegfried was an event to be celebrated. The Baden-Baden house was filled with the good burghers of the town rushing to pay their respects and for weeks the Baron paraded around like a bantam rooster.
After the birth, Konrad seemed nervous, restless.
"Are you tired of me?" she would nag. They had resumed their affair, although their couplings were more frantic and less frequent. But when the Baron returned to his travels, Konrad relaxed.
"See. It will be exactly as before."
With the birth of Rudi, then Albert, her fecundity seemed to have evolved into a regular pattern. And the children began to demand more of her time, interfering with the logistics of their affair.
Occasionally there were bouts of despair, and sometimes the stress would spill over and she would vent her anger on Konrad.
"Doesn't it bother you to have another man claim your children?"
He would look at her and shrug. "It is only temporary."
"I don't understand."
"After the war. When Hitler is gone."
"Would that really make a difference to us?"
He would sink into a brooding silence, from which he would not emerge for days. Yet she feared to press him further. It had become instinctive with them to maintain a surface calm, to avoid any emotional conflagrations that might create suspicions.
"I love you, Konrad. If anything happened to you I would die."
"Then you mustn't love me so much." Perhaps he was right.
It was a miracle that they had not been discovered. They had, of course, been careful. Clever they thought. Then suddenly the miracle was over. Nor was there the slightest hope of denial. The moment had been well timed. It was twilight. She could never quite forget the color of the setting sun on their flesh, reddening, blood red. They had deliberately waited for the coupling, until the tell-tale sounds began, the movement of the bed. The Baron was supposed to have been away, but there he was standing over them, the covers removed, and beside him the two bullnecked uniformed men. She had not screamed and Konrad had, therefore, continued to hold her, conjoined. When he finally realized what was happening the bullnecked men kicked him there, in his still distended phallus. Then they beat him with a truncheon until his face turned purple. He had cried at first, but they quickly had stuck a gag in his mouth. She clung to the blanket, eyes wide with disbelief and terror.
"Jew bastard," one of the men screamed as they beat him.
Jew. Even in her terror the idea of it was tangible. She had no illusions about his fate now.
"Take him outside," the Baron had ordered. They dragged him out the door.
She remembered, too, the white face of her husband which even the redness of the twilight could not tinge. He stood over her, watching her, the humiliation so palpable that she almost felt pity for him.
"Please. Don't harm him," she had cried. "It is not his fault. Let him live."
She had wanted to tell the truth then, but even in her highly charged state she knew that it would mean their death. All of them.
"I'll do anything, Charles. Don't hurt him please. It is my fault as well."
The Baron had come toward her, his eyes blazing with hatred and humiliation. His white knuckled fists seemed like giant claws as he swung back and struck her. The pain exploded in her head and she felt the salt taste of warm blood. But she did not cry out. Perhaps it was the absence of this acknowledgment of her pain that made him stop before she lost consciousness. Despite the beating, she was surprisingly lucid.
"You have disgraced the children."
The children. It had always been the children. She was, after all, nothing more than a conduit, a brood mare. A glimmer of hope emerged.
"Spare him, Charles. I'll do anything you ask." She was, she knew, operating out of instinct. To pit herself against the guile and cleverness of the von Kassel mind was, she always knew, beyond her meager talents. Young, inexperienced, helpless, she could barely understand her own actions. To survive. To save her
children. To save Konrad. Life meant hope. She would always remember the terrible irony of that moment.
"You can have the children."
She had said the words calmly, as if she had spent years preparing for this moment. "For Konrad's life."
"For him. You would give them up for that Jew."
It was not enough merely to catch them. The von Kassel mind had to concoct a perfectly legal method of disposal.
"Save him Charles. You can save him."
He was, she knew, observing her as if she were a fly caught in his web.
"I will go away. I will give up the children." She felt the gnawing terror begin. It had never left her.
"You are disgusting," he had said with contempt.
But her mind was alert to the bargain. "Save him, Charles. For the children," she pleaded.
Helga saw the rage begin again in him, but he had turned away.
"For the children, Charles," she begged.
"Only if you leave tonight." He started to go, then turned. "You must not see the children again. Never!"
She could not respond.
"Well?"
Finally she had nodded her consent.
"That is one promise I will buy."
When he had gone, it took her a long time to find the strength to leave her bed. Only then, when she had risen, did she scream.
Absorbed in the pain of the memory, she had not heard the footsteps approach. Turning quickly, she found herself confronting the face of her sister-in-law, the lines of her skin deeply etched in the strong sunlight. She looked beyond her, observing only the emptiness of the walkway.
"Where is he?" she demanded.
"I will take you to him. He is too frail to come."
"Then why didn't you take me to him in the first place?" It was odd that her own words, after so much pain, could be so reasonable.
"Helga," Karla began, hesitating briefly, faltering. She had never seen the woman falter before, and she enjoyed observing this sign of weakness. "It is all so pointless now."
"Not to me."
"It's over. His life is over."
"Mine was over years ago." She was ready to believe that, as if the intervening years had never happened, the life between merely a dull dream.
