by Warren Court
“Where’s that? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s in that abominable creation they call Czechoslovakia, another edict from you Americans and the other victors in the last war. You really have stuck the knife into us. We barely made it through the twenties… So much turmoil. Now we’re saved, at least for the time being, until the next war.”
“I’ve heard that a lot.” She didn’t add from whom. Both her uncle in America and Hewitt had alluded to a coming conflict more than once in their brief time together. All the more reason to get the information on the new fighter plane without further delay and get out of Germany. If that was possible. She was safe here, for the time being.
“Don’t you worry; the Führer has made more than one speech about reclaiming the Sudetenland. There are ethnic Germans there; they work at Helmut’s factory. But he is worried. If they come under state control, there’s nothing stopping that little Austrian from nationalizing them. And then, all this—pffft,” he said.
“Reinhardt, that is quite enough.”
Aubrey whirled at the sound of the count’s voice, and then winced. Helmut was standing in the doorway. He wore a pair of tan pants that were tucked into brightly polished brown riding boots. He wore a heavy work coat, in contrast to Reinhardt’s simple Bavarian lederhosen and white shirt. Maybe he was out of practice at being comfortable in the cold air.
“Helmut,” Reinhardt scolded him playfully, “you shouldn’t sneak up on an old man like that when he is talking treason. Are you going to turn me in to the authorities?”
“Not for the moment. I’ve come to collect Aubrey. I thought she could use that walk we talked about. There is a small café two miles down the path where we could have a light meal before dinner.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“I have a warm jacket for you.”
“Lead the way.”
The path was steep but, thankfully, strewn with broken pine boughs for traction. The sun’s final rays flitted through the branches overhead. There was the roar of a waterfall somewhere deeper in the woods, and she could smell the oxygenated, misty air filtered by pine and earth surrounding her.
“We can go there tomorrow to see it,” Helmut said, meaning the waterfall. “It’s too late in the day, and besides, I’m hungry for my tea.”
“What have you been doing all day?”
“Working on my automobile.”
“Doesn’t your driver take care of that?”
“I won’t let him touch those beautiful twelve cylinders. Besides, he thinks it is beneath him. To get grease under those fingernails would be dishonourable. Sometimes I have a hard time distinguishing who the person with the title is. But I assure you, he never has that problem. He may not vocalize it, but I know his feelings on the subject.”
Aubrey’s laugh was genuine, and Helmut joined in.
They came out of the woods onto a granite ledge that ran for a mile in either direction. Before them lay the great expanse of the Bavarian Alps, huge beasts of rock and snow that scraped the top of the sky and made the clouds conform around them. Their peaks alternated between startling clarity and misty apparitions in the ever-moving blanket of white.
Aubrey had no words. She had not been able to take in the full majesty of the place from the confines of the Mercedes; during their drive, she had been preoccupied with the steep drop over the unguarded road and the terrible aches in her body. But now, the sheer size of the mountain range demanded her attention. She found she could not take her eyes from it.
On the ledge between the road and the drop-off was a château. There was a patio next to it, and as they descended the last hundred metres of the steep path, beer stein–laden waitresses in long skirts could be seen flitting amongst the tables. They found an empty spot at the far end of the patio next to the drop-off. There was no barrier.
“Don’t people fall over the sides?” Audrey said, peering uneasily over the edge.
“Mountain people, such as myself, grow up with this environment. It’s like any hostile place—the desert, the sea. You learn to conform to it, to live with it and respect it at all times. City dwellers are too scared to go near the edge. They creep along slowly in their cars. There are, of course, those half-breeds, the urban types who seek adventure, try their hand at mountaineering or high alpine skiing. They sometimes plunge to their deaths or get lost in the wilderness. There is a ski patrol that goes out to find them. I am an honorary member.”
“Tell me about Reinhardt.”
“That old codger? He is what we call ein Bergmann, a true mountain man. He was my father’s favourite brother; there were six of them. All gone now, except for Reinhardt. He is the last link I have to a world, a life, that’s gone as well. Gone forever.”
“You mean after the war?”
“Yes. The war was terrible. I fought in it, flew fighter planes against the British Sopwiths and the French SPADs. I shot down twenty-three planes, then got shot down myself over enemy lines.”
“You were captured?”
“I spent the last six months of the war in a prison camp. I was well treated, but I would rather have been killed.”
“Don’t say that, Helmut.”
“It’s true. To watch your country come to an end while you sit in isolation, to read about it, to hear it told to you by your captors while you await repatriation... Words cannot describe that type of anxiety.”
She whispered now, conscious of the other customers. They’d turned their heads briefly when they’d heard the two newcomers speaking English, but now were back to eating and drinking their incredibly tall steins of foamy draft. Helmut insisted she try one, and now a waitress with an impossibly big bosom placed a heavy mug of beer in front of her. It was good, as ice-cold as the mountain slopes.
“Your country has certainly changed,” she said. “For the better?”
“It’s complicated. Has the Führer done things for us, brought us out of the doldrums of the Weimar Republic with all its sinful excesses and turmoil? Ja. I have to agree with that.”
“Some would say freedoms, not excesses.”
“Well, regardless of what word you use, he’s brought stability to the country. He has ambition, and we’re caught up in it. It is exhilarating, but...”
“But what?”
“He is a man with ambition. A plan. Have you read his book? No, I don’t suppose you have. It’s required reading here in Germany. Every house must have a copy. There are simple copies for the poor people and more elaborate gold-leaf versions for the likes of me.”
“What’s it called?”
“Mein Kampf— ‘My Struggle,’” Helmut said. “It is a horrible book.” He giggled and lowered his head, then looked around sheepishly. “Most people when they are alone will tell you that. If they are convinced you aren’t an informer, that is.”
“What’s it about? What struggle?”
“It’s the story of a man who sees his destiny laid out before him, and how the beatings and the hardships he had to take made that vision become clearer. And it lays out what he has in store for the future.”
“War.”
“Precisely. Tell me, how would one of your American presidents be received if he basically laid out in print a strategy and desire to conquer the entire world? How would he be received?”
“We’re isolationists. We don’t want to get involved in anybody else’s war, especially Europe’s. And we don’t want to start one, either.”
“Ah, yes. The Atlantic and Pacific Oceans are your buffers from such entanglements, I suppose. But your country has interests elsewhere. And those interests are growing. How long can you remain isolated?”
“Depends. If someone picks a fight with us, don’t worry; we’ll stand up.”
“I know. We picked one, stupidly, and you can see the result.”
Aubrey indicated her mug of beer. “My father always said ‘Never discuss politics or religion while you’re drinking.’”
“A sound policy. I would lov
e to meet your father. He is still alive?”
“Yes.” She felt a sudden pang of guilt; she had meant to write him, if only a postcard from Germany, a place he had helped defeat but had never visited. “He is alive and well.” Again, more guilt; she remembered the revolver she’d snuck away from him. That reminded her: the hotel might become worried if she didn’t show up for a while. They might clean out her room, put her things in storage, strip the bed and find the big heavy American-made pistol lying there.
“Helmut, my things are still at my hotel in Berlin.”
“Yes, I know. Don’t worry, I’ve informed them that you have left the city and that your things should remain where they are. The bill is covered by me.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You have some pull in this country. Reinhardt said your title was in name only, but it doesn’t sound like it.”
“It’s not that. But I do have pull. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Okay. Great beer, by the way.”
“It is. Let’s have another.”
As they were leaving, Aubrey spied a large brass telescope affixed to a post.
Helmut explained, “That’s the Führer scope.”
“What?”
“Come take a look—we might see him.” Helmut took hold of the telescope and moved it back and forth slightly.
“Ahh, there he is. Come see for yourself. Our dear leader is taking his afternoon stroll.”
Aubrey felt a rush of excitement. “Really?” She peered through the scope and saw two tiny figures moving along a path cut into the side of a mountain a mile away.
“That’s Adolf Hitler, right there?”
“Yes. Walking with someone of great importance, no doubt. Two walks a day: one in the morning and one in the afternoon.”
Aubrey pulled away from the scope. There was a line of three people waiting to have a look.
“Have you ever met him?” she asked as they started back towards the lodge.
“Yes, several times. You would like him, Aubrey. He is very charming. He would be most intrigued by your accomplishments.”
Aubrey was flattered and excited by the notion. Then she remembered the snippets of his vitriolic speeches she’d read, translated, in the newspapers. The man was full of hate and venom, and, from what Helmut said, thoughts of war. No, she would not like to meet him or any of these modern-day strong men—Mussolini, Stalin, Franco. No, thanks. She’d take her good old FDR any day. Her father, a Republican through and through, might hate him, but she felt a special kinship with their polio-stricken president. He was a fighter. So was she.
21
Halfway to the lodge, the forest echoed with the warbling sounds of a trumpet.
“What is that?”
“Old Reinhardt, the archetypal mountain man blasting away on his alphorn. Traditional way for men to communicate with each other. He’s going to bring the mountain down on him if he keeps that up. It’s the supper call.”
“He does that all the time?”
“No, my dear. He is just hamming it up, as James Cagney might say, for your benefit. We don’t get many visitors up here any more, certainly not ones from America.”
“I feel honoured. Don’t get him to stop, please. I love the attention. He’s sweet.”
When they got back to the lodge, Aubrey went to freshen up in the bedroom. On the bed was laid out a ruby-red dress with black up-skirts and fringe around the shoulders. It was simply marvellous, and Aubrey was afraid to touch it. It was elegant yet sturdy, made for mountain weather. She held it up and pressed her face into the folds. There was a trace of perfume.
“Try it on,” Helmut said from the doorway, startling her.
“Whose is this?”
“My wife’s. I still have most of her clothes. Our staff have taken the more sensible items for their own daughters, but the formal wear is still here.”
“Your wife?”
“She died. Several years ago. With our two children.”
“Helmut, I’m sorry. I saw that look on your face when I mentioned children earlier. That was insensitive of me.”
He shook his head. “It is in the past, and you couldn’t have known. They died in an avalanche. I was away at the time. I almost missed the funeral. They are buried not far from here. Go ahead, try it on. Beautiful garments like that should adorn beautiful women.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“I insist.”
“Alright.” She retired to the powder room, then came back out and stood in front of Helmut.
“Let’s see it, please.”
She twirled reluctantly for him, not that she was shy—she knew the significance of the moment for him and didn’t want to seem garish or disrespectful.
“It is beautiful on you, as I knew it would be.”
“It feels wonderful.”
“Then you must have it. Take it back to America with you. You’ll be quite a hit, even more than you already are.”
“I won’t protest—I’d love to.”
There was the sound of a bell jingling from downstairs.
“That’s Reinhardt, calling us to dinner. At least he’s not using his alphorn indoors.”
Reinhardt, with the aid of two women in the kitchen, had put on a feast for the ages.
“I am out of practice at eating like this, Uncle,” Helmut said. “How do you pack all of this away?”
“This is a special occasion, and I work for a living.”
“Uncle Reinhardt is the commander of the local ski patrol,” Helmut said to Aubrey.
Intrigued, she turned to Reinhardt. “Have you had to do any rescues?”
“One last week, as a matter of fact. We were out for two days up into the southern mountains.”
“We stopped at the café and Helmut showed me the Führer scope. I think we saw him.”
“Lucky you,” Reinhardt said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He upended the last of the Chianti into his glass and bellowed over his shoulder towards the kitchen.
“Helga, more wine, woman. You can’t get good help anymore, not up here,” he said to Aubrey.
Helga, whom Aubrey had only caught a glimpse of, came out of the kitchen with a bottle in her hands. She was a rotund woman in a long, swirling grey dress and tight-fitting blouse. She placed the second bottle of Chianti, already opened, in front of Reinhardt, and he filled his glass from it.
“Uncle,” Helmut scolded him, and Reinhardt apologized and filled Aubrey’s glass. She stopped him one inch from the brim. Helga busied herself with removing several dishes, once filled with schnitzel and sausage. She paused next to Reinhardt but addressed the count.
“Anything else, Your Grace?”
“No, Helga, that will be all.”
Aubrey saw Reinhardt raise his hand and place it on Helga’s rump in an affectionate gesture, and the woman retreated to the kitchen. She looked at Helmut and met his gaze with an amused grin; he’d seen it too.
After dinner they retired to the smoking room, and glasses of sherry were brought out. Reinhardt explained it was from his friend’s vineyard in France.
“I think I strafed it in the war,” Helmut joked.
“Very funny. His vineyard is far away from the front.”
“Do you travel much, Reinhardt?” Aubrey asked.
“He never leaves his mountain,” Helmut said. “His stories of friends in France with wineries is bock mist, German for bull…”
“Bahh,” Reinhardt said, and he relit his pipe.
Helga popped her head into the smoking room. “Your Grace, we are done for the evening. If there is nothing else...?”
‘Wait a minute, Helga,” Reinhardt said, and leapt to his feet. He put an arm around the woman and ushered her out.
Aubrey let out a giggle.
“Not very subtle, is he?” Helmut said.
“How long has that been going on?”
“Thirty years.”
“Why don’t they marry?”
“More fun their way,
I suppose. I know he’s left her everything in his will, not that it amounts to much.”
“Sad to think they’ve been playing games all these years, never to live together openly.”
“They went on a trip to the Italian side of the Alps one time; it was supposed to be secret, but I found out about it. What about you? Any secret loves in your life?”