My desire to be alone with Amelia had been so strong leading up to this moment that I even parsed an order from a superior officer to grant myself leave to see her. Yet now that we were finally together after so much time apart, I wondered whether I could put the intense anxiety I was feeling out of my mind enough to be intimate, even with one so beautiful. Given the gut-wrenching secrets I now knew were living in this house, I could have been forgiven for not rising to the occasion, so to speak. But two years of abstinence creates so much pent-up desire in a soldier in love that even the shadow of an SS firing squad cannot suppress it. And so, as Hanna slept deeply in her room and the Krupinskis somehow stayed alive in their clandestine cage above us in the unheated attic, we made love as quietly as we could by the fireside. “Shh. Softly, my love.”
As we lay naked afterwards, she read me poetry, Schiller, Goethe, Eichendorff, while I sat back draining a glass of wine, just waiting for the time when the evening train’s whistle would pull me away from here, out into the cold, and deposit me first to the Führer’s lair and then cast back into the whirlwind.
“Oh, Harmon,” she sighed morosely. “Why were we condemned to live now, in wartime?” Her eyes flitted to the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” I said, kissing her sweat-shined forehead. “It’s God’s will I suppose. Perhaps you were meant to be here, in this place, for them.”
“Harmon,” she said. “You and I are not meant for this world. A world I believe God has abandoned. We’re both of another time and place. Far from my fear of what I’ve let into this house. Far from Johann’s probing eyes. From Hitler and bombs and black notes and hollowed-out survivors hobbling the streets with amputated limbs and dead hearts.”
I poured myself another glass. “This is our world. I don’t know when and where I’m destined to be. But I know it’s with you, Amelia. Come what may.”
She smiled and took a sip from my glass before resting it on the hardwood, and climbed on top of me, pulling the blanket over us. “Come what may.”
Once thoroughly drained and rested, we dressed and I played piano for her, knowing that my audience was not limited to the Engels. Occasionally a distant bump or a sudden shuffle from the planks two floors above would remind me of the unearthly burden Amelia had taken upon herself.
When it was time to leave, I slipped back into my full dress uniform and we strolled through the snowy streets to my house to say goodbye to my parents at their doorstep. My mother gave me a kiss on the cheek and tried to say something but broke down into soft sobs. “I know, Mama.” I tried to comfort her with a hug. “I’ll be careful. I promise.” She quickly disappeared despairingly into the house.
My father’s eyes followed his wife with helpless concern, and then he turned his gaze on me. “I’m going to whip Paul within an inch of his life when I see him. To not bid you farewell. He could have missed one damned Hitler Youth meeting. Especially since you’re off to meet his demigod.”
I shook my head. “Let it go, Papa. His mind is elsewhere these days.”
My father snorted, but I could tell he knew it would make no sense to berate his younger boy. And so he concentrated his feelings upon the Luftwaffe captain standing before him. “Son,” he said in the tone of an order, “you come back to us.”
I gave him a resigned smile. “I’ll try, Papa. That’s all I can ever say.” He pulled me to him and gave me a powerful hug followed by a sharp slap on the back. He kissed Amelia on the cheek. “I’m glad Harmon found you,” he said to her with an uncharacteristically warm smile I figured he’d always kept in storage for the daughter he never had.
“We found each other,” said Amelia. He nodded approvingly and then followed after his sobbing wife, closing the door behind him.
Amelia and I walked arm in arm to the station while my holdall swung from my free hand. Our path wound through the town center, and then we exited through the Rathaus tower archway and down to the bridge spanning the partially frozen Main. Snow was falling heavily now, and we both plodded through the streets avoiding the brown piles of steaming horse manure that sat atop the white powder. She was bundled up against the cold in a woolen jacket, flannel dress, shawl, and hat. I cut a fine figure in my tapered uniform greatcoat, leather gloves, and smart visor cap.
I couldn’t wait for the weather to turn warm so Amelia’s charms as a woman could be released from the prison of her heavy winter garb. The stifling cold was the least of Amelia’s concerns at the moment. I saw she was frightened. Perhaps my little speech had caused the reality of her crime and the full consequences should she—we—be discovered to come crashing down upon her like a pile of stones. As we stumbled through the drifting snow, she occasionally glanced around furtively as if to check if we were being followed. I read her concerns and I addressed them frankly.
“You know, this can’t continue indefinitely,” I said as we neared the far side of the bridge. “Even if you’re obsessively careful, it’s only a matter of time before some event betrays you.”
She stared straight ahead, releasing my hand and hoisting her shawl further over her broad peasant shoulders against the falling snow. “I can’t undo what’s done. Not now. I’d rather be dead.”
I shook my head. “The SS would be happy to arrange that.”
She stopped and turned away from me to stare back at the Rathaus tower looming in the distance like a sinister doorway to a frightening world. So much had Stauffenberg changed in her mind from when she was a girl chasing butterflies in the meadows.
“My God,” she whispered softly.
“What?” I said, looking around with a start. “What is it?”
The snow was collecting on her head and shoulders. I couldn’t see her face. “You’re going back to the killing.”
“Well,” I said, trying to lighten her mood. “The Berghof first.
Then I—”
“Oh to hell with that man!” she said sharply. “You’ll soon be getting shot at again while he’ll still be playing with his damned puppies in his mountain hall.”
I closed my eyes. “Amelia.”
“This may be the last time we ever see each other,” she said, still facing away from me to the tower.
“Yes,” I admitted. I felt as if I was abandoning her to face her dangers alone.
She said nothing more. Tears welled up in her gray eyes. I laid my bag in the snow and pulled her close to me.
“I wish they’d never come to me!” she suddenly confided.
My heart melted. “Hey,” I whispered. “Krup came to you because he knew you would help them even if you didn’t want to. Only fools tempt danger willingly. I tell you, Amelia Engel, I’ve seen men act heroically on the battlefield. They do extraordinary things and are rewarded with shiny medals. But you are the bravest person I’ve ever known.”
“Really?” she said, composing herself.
“Really,” I assured her. I produced a cloth from my breast pocket. She took it and dabbed her swollen eyes. Then she examined the embroidery; “HBN. ”
“You still have this?” she said, handing it back to me.
“I keep it with me always.” Now I felt the welt in my throat. “I do love you. I hope someday you’ll do me the honor of loving me half so much.”
As if on cue, the train whistle sounded. I looked in its direction with dread. I did not want to go back to the fighting. But my uniform made the choice for me.
“Harmon,” she said. “You’ve got to help them.”
“I can’t,” I said firmly. “Come, I’ll miss my train.”
We kept our farewell brief and silent. We’d said all that we could by the time we reached the snow-covered tracks. She gave me one last kiss and, as if trying to indelibly imprint the picture onto my eyes, I took in one last image of her face made pink by the cold. I followed Amelia as she retreated from the platform, gripping herself as if she were shivering.
“Amelia,” I called to her. She turned, and I could see that her eyes were covered in a glaze. “This war can’t last forever.”
She nodded and then turned away once more, back to town and her home. Back to her potential death sentence.
I didn’t notice Keitel’s approach until I heard his shrill voice over the hissing of the idle steam locomotive mixed with the din of passengers chatting as they waited to board the train. I always seemed to hear him before I saw him.
“She’s still quite beautiful.” I whipped around and found him at my side, beneath his death’s head visor cap, tracking Amelia like a hunter as she disappeared down the concrete steps to the street below the platform. “If only she were more practical. What’s she still doing with you, Harmon?”
“What do you want with me, Johann?” I said warily.
It was then that I noticed that he was dressed in the combat fatigues and full kit of the Waffen-SS. His steel helmet strapped to his side. Across the platform about thirty feet was a small band of SS foot soldiers in field dress with rifles or sub-machine guns slung over their youthful shoulders.
He grinned coldly with his hands behind his back. “Captain Becker, I want nothing but to see you leave Stauffenberg.”
“Well, as you can see I’m leaving. So you’ve done your duty.”
He fixed his black eyes on me before finishing his thought. They never seemed to move. “Don’t worry, Harmon. I don’t have time for old rivalries. Not today at least.”
A heavy silence fell over us. I could feel my heart beating faster. “You’re off to the front?” I finally asked. “Russia again?”
He shook his head no. “You’d like that, I bet. No, we’re taking the other train heading west. My field unit’s stationed in France now. In preparation for an expected invasion. But there’s no rest for my squad. We go to the back country where the resistance makes its home in the dirt. One of my functions is to oversee the pacification of certain French regions.”
“Pacification?” I asked innocently.
“Never mind. It’s something a pilot couldn’t possibly understand. But I’ll still be in Stauffenberg most of the time. You just never know who to watch these days.”
He gripped my wrist as I moved away from him.
“Becker. I offer you a warning.”
“What are you doing?” I said, suppressing the chill in my veins.
“You’ve indeed fought bravely. Even I’m forced to admit that. But it doesn’t make you immune to my reach. I’ll be watching you. I sense something about you. Something that makes me wonder.”
I pushed his arm away. “You say this to me as I’m about to report to the Führer for a decoration? You might order around my brother if you wish while you concoct petty schemes to win back a woman you never had in the first place. I have more serious matters to attend to. I’m going back to do battle with Thunderbolts and Boeings so that your precious factory keeps your daddy in his big house on the hill as men die!”
His face grew flustered. “The SS does more for the greater good of Germany than you know. Someday you’ll realize this. Or you will not. In such a case, I shudder for your fate. And that little Bolshevik tart of yours.”
Once again my temper was getting ahead of my senses. What was it about this sot? “Amelia a Bolshevik?” I chuckled. “That’s the best you can do?”
“That charge alone is enough to end up before a firing squad.”
I sneered. “You should know.” Then something occurred to me. “Although Johann, when you think of it, the Führer claims that there are no more Bolsheviks left in Germany. Are you calling him a liar? Or have you failed in your duties?” I leaned in, jabbing my finger at his shoulder. “Either way, you may want to be careful that it’s not I who ends up reporting you.”
He stammered. I relished the moment, even if I was just making myself more of a target in his eyes.
Before he could respond, the train pulled up to the station, huffing as it groaned and hissed to a stop. The conductor called “all aboard” and I gripped my holdall. I fell in line behind a small band of mostly military passengers who emerged from the warmth of the station waiting room. They all stepped into the first car. “Auf Wiedersehen, Johann,” I said. “Let your wounds heal.”
I climbed aboard, leaving him to mull this over. I was glad my train was headed in the opposite direction of Keitel and his goons. Once again, my temper, my great betrayer, had made me foolish, and I silently cursed myself for my insult to Keitel while he had such a reach in my loved one’s backyard.
Once onboard, I sidled up to a window, pressing my sweaty cheek against the cool, moist glass. No one sat in the empty four-passenger compartment, which gratified me, as I wasn’t in a chatting mood. I contemplated my steamy breath on the glass as the train lurched with a jolt out of the station and sounded its high-pitched whistle announcing that the sons of the Third Reich were once again bound for war.
I left Stauffenberg behind, but not the smells, the sounds, and the faces. The faces especially stayed with me, for I saw a commonality among them all. The people of my town tried so hard to go about their usual routines as if the war beyond the hills were somehow not real. But written on all their faces was distracted unease, as if they were trying to remember if they’d left the boilers on their stoves lighted, which no cheery mask could erase.
31
The lumbering overnight train from the Oberfranken rolled on across the Berchtesgadener Land district and then pulled into the town station itself at midmorning. A shiny black Mercedes sedan driven by an SS-Rottenführer (corporal) was waiting to whisk me to the rendezvous of other Ritterkreuzers before making our way to the Führer’s villa perched high in the mountains. I was one of a group of six who were to be decorated; we were divided up evenly among two pilots, two tank commanders, and two infantrymen. Having either ridden trains or flown in from various points of conflict, we all met at an airfield outside of town, where a small fleet of yet more black cars patiently waited. Each of us had our own chauffeured vehicle. I kept the one that picked me up at the station, but now I was accompanied by a heavily armed SS-Untersharführer (sergeant), who sat beside me in the back seat. The soldier remained stone-faced throughout the entire awkward last leg of my trek.
We sped across the rolling terrain through the picturesque village of Berchtesgaden, nestled in a remote corner of the Bavarian Alps. From there a winding roadway snaked higher and higher to the Obersalzberg plateau on the mist-shrouded mountain. After passing through the stone and mortar SS guardhouse gate at the base of the hill, from which we could see the Führer’s chalet towering above us, the driver took us in a series of climbing twists and turns and, after a sharp right, eventually pulled to a halt in front of the main steps to the Berghof. News footage often showed a smiling Hitler descending to warmly greet his guests and escort them back up the stairs and through the arches that led into the Great Hall. But today there was no one there except more SS guards, who instructed me to follow them.
The Berghof, or Mountain Court, was Hitler’s private hilltop villa and conference center. It was originally called Haus Wachenfeld. Built by a German businessman in 1916, it became Hitler’s favorite retreat, which he rented for several years. After becoming chancellor in 1933, the Führer purchased the villa with proceeds from his bestselling Mein Kampf, renamed it Berghof, and began expansion and renovation two years later.
The entrance hall was lined with an odd display of potted cactus plants, which seemed quite out of place high in the Bavarian Alps. The color scheme throughout this airy chalet was jade green. In the outside rooms, the sun-parlor chairs were made of white, woven cane. Soft linen curtains in light hues framed high windows that peered out into the sprawling valley below. The cheerfulness of the home was accented more so by the trilling of Harz Roller mountain canaries, which sang from gilded cages that hung or stood in some of the rooms. I took particular interest
in the curious little watercolors of Viennese street life no wider than eight inches that adorned many of the mahogany walls. The signature “A. Hitler” was scratched into the bottom corners. They served as a reminder of his humble beginnings as a penniless Viennese artist, which made my Führer’s rise to mastery of all of Europe even more astonishing. The Great Hall was furnished with expensive Teutonic furniture, as well as featuring a red marble fireplace mantel and a large globe. Expensive artworks, including paintings by Panini and enormous Gobelins tapestries, adorned the walls, abundantly lit in the evening by two chandeliers hung from the wood-beamed ceiling. I was, of course, drawn to the Bechstein grand piano, on which sat a bust of Richard Wagner. But the most striking feature was an enormous picture window made from ninety individual panes of glass; at one hundred square feet it offered a stunning view of the Untersberg mountain in Austria, his home country.
My first impression being up so high was that the war didn’t seem to be hindering the Führer’s comfort at all. I tried to imagine him indifferently reading casualty reports from Russia while sipping tea by a warm fire to keep out the cold that was laying waste to his armies a thousand miles to the east.
A uniformed staff offered us our choice of beverages and invited us to take them on the stone terrace over the garage. Cigars and cigarettes were available in abundance—even though Hitler himself never smoked and rarely drank alcohol.
We stepped outside into the crisp December air and let out a collective gasp at the stunning view below us over the stone rail. You really did feel on top of the world gazing down upon the little alpine hamlets below, tucked away in emerald-green mountain folds and capped by snow-covered peaks that jutted into a rich blue sky. One could envision Hitler and his young, mercurial lover, Eva Braun, strolling a secluded path even higher up on the mountain to take sanctuary at the little secluded tearoom, or “Eagle’s Nest,” perched at the very edge of the summit. It must have been grand days in the first phase of the war, when victory after victory lay before the Führer like the misty blue mountain folds that stretched out below him.
Of Another Time and Place Page 15
