The Night of Shooting Stars

by Ben Pastor

  What could have gone wrong? Hitler was famous for changing his schedule. His chief ministers – who would have to be wiped out with him to achieve any real success – might have been absent from the meeting. Bora replied with a mere glance to the head waiter’s welcome, signalling with a gesture that he would not sit down to dinner. Instead, he used the service stairs to climb undetected to Namura’s floor. He put a parallel-text book he’d taken from his grandfather’s flat on the floor outside the lieutenant colonel’s door. It was an exquisite, illustrated edition the Bora Verlag had published before the war, a German translation of the Chushingura, the legend of the Forty-Seven Ronin. The story of the heroic samurai left without their chief, who avenge their lord before committing ritual suicide, had a tanka by Emperor Meiji-Mutsuhito as an epigraph, written during the victorious war Japan had fought against Tsarist Russia forty years earlier. Apparently tangential to the narrative, the short poem fully reflected Franz-August von Bora’s philosophy:

  Fighting for the Fatherland,

  Destroying those who would destroy it

  Do not forget the quality of mercy.

  *

  When Bora returned to the Leipziger Hof, he did not expect to find such a crowd in the lobby. Members and matrons of the German Women’s Association, many of them bespectacled and wearing singularly unattractive masculine shoes, were apparently congregating there to celebrate some event or other.

  Bora had no desire to be among women, or to hear women, especially young ones, talk and laugh. He ordered to have his dinner brought to his room, along with a shot of brandy, in lieu of gin, as a chaser to the quinine.

  He had to close both doors to cushion the room against the squeals of the girls. When the waiter came up to take the empty tray, even though he hadn’t yet drunk his brandy Bora ordered another one. Downstairs, silence had finally come – perhaps they were eating – but occasionally a silvery voice on the stairs announced a latecomer.

  As always, Bora checked the locked door leading to the adjacent room. He then went to sit in the bathroom in order to be able to keep the light on and reread Kugler’s notes. It was true what Grimm had said, he wasn’t much of a notetaker. Photos of the girl, dates of her visits to Niemeyer and a few additional words: everything else he had to figure out on his own. The post-mortem report Olbertz had given him was the next document he took in hand. A decision to omit Niemeyer’s circumcision from the official version – irrelevant to the case – would have been taken at the highest level, perhaps even higher than the Kripo chief’s. Grimm himself was clearly unaware of the detail, as the victim had a towel wrapped around his waist. The original autopsy contained all that was summarized in the second version, plus the shameful detail and the victim’s fall against the small table. Bora remembered the gaudy elephant-shaped brass fixture from the photos of the scene of the crime. Shining the torch on a close-up, he could detect small traces of the victim’s blood on one of the elephant’s tusks – not that a bruise on the face would make a difference to a man who was dead before hitting the floor.

  The second brandy came, which he poured into his toothbrush glass with the first shot, giving back the empty glass. It was too early to go to bed. Taking advantage of the availability of hot water on Saturdays, he took a long shower, shaved and got dressed again, though he didn’t put on his boots or button his tunic. He then filled the tub with water (it took for ever, the tap was only flowing weakly) to make sure that he had enough in the morning, in case the service was suspended overnight.

  Towards eleven thirty, the three wails of the first air-raid warning sounded. At the same time the power went out across the neighbourhood. Waiting for the second alarm, Bora patiently followed the routine, making sure that the windows and doors were open. He still felt feverish, disinclined to leave the room, and resolved not to take alcohol or medication before lying down in his bed. Quinine brought about sweating, and a ringing in the ears, neither of which he looked forward to.

  The frantic triple whine of the second siren (bombers were drawing near) brought about the shuffle and footsteps of the hotel guests descending to the air-raid shelter. They’d recently built one under the hotel, Bora knew, but the safest choice was the monstrosity not far away, across the square on Pallasstrasse. By this time, the German Women should have gone home, unless their celebration had ended after the curfew. In this case, they were still at the Leipziger Hof, and he could imagine a troop of possibly tipsy skirts entering a shelter where men and women huddle together in the dark. Instead of amusing him, the idea made him melancholy.

  When he heard a rap on the door, Bora did not catch himself thinking “Gestapo” only because he’d had it in mind for the past three years and was aware that the next knock on the door could be the last one. He readied himself to make an excuse for not going downstairs. Nevertheless, he flicked on the lighter’s flame, because it was his habit to look into the face whoever came into his presence, especially at this hour.

  It was Emmy Pletsch, in uniform. Emmy Pletsch, whom he’d thought of during the day. Emmy Pletsch, who lived far from here, and who suffered from claustrophobia.

  “I can’t go down to the shelter, Colonel. Do you mind if I stay?”

  He remembered he’d given her his room number in the tram, when he’d asked for an interview with Stauffenberg. Was she a member of the German Women’s Association, surprised by the air raid in the hotel? Very likely. Still, she’d come to his room.

  No mistake, no accident. It was night-time; there was only one bed. Nonetheless, Bora said, “Please”, and stepped back to let her into the room. Careful not to show that he understood perfectly, he offered her a chance to think it over and change her mind; that was all.

  Emmy was panting a little, from running up the stairs – or maybe not. Avoiding his eyes, she stepped in and sat on the edge of the bed. Out in the hallway disgruntled and harried people were still hastening past the door, so Bora blew out the flame of his lighter and sat next to her.

  A minute or two went by, during which the building became deadly quiet. Outside, through the open windows, searchlights fingered the dark, their unbending shafts moving like northern lights, or soundless summer lightning.

  Bora had to watch himself, because the girl’s closeness excited him and he was tempted to try a direct approach. When she asked if she could wash, he grew hopeful but kept up the pretence for her sake.

  “Yes, of course. There’s hot water tonight, or there was until half an hour ago. The tub is full.”

  “Thank you.”

  Emmy stood up and moved easily in the dark, accustomed, like most Berliners, to frequent power outages. Bora thought back to his wandering through the house at night as a child, playing a game of dexterity that would become so useful later, during the war.

  Through the open bathroom door, he heard her taking off her clothes. He avidly recognized the nearly imperceptible rustle of the discarded jacket and blouse, the quick whisper of the skirt zip opening. Women undress in a meticulous fashion, thus Bora could make out the progress of her disrobing. The question was, how much would she take off? No other sounds followed, so she was not bathing. She must be simply standing there.

  His mind followed one route, his body another. Prudence met desire head-on. Everything slowed down, became dense, it was like finding himself in a fluid that lazily flowed against him, through which he advanced, mentally numb, while the physical part was anything but asleep. Whatever might follow the air-raid warning, death included, this was here and now. Bora closed and locked both doors to the hallway, pulled the blackout curtains across the windows. Quickly, he removed his uniform down to his underpants, which he habitually slept in. He felt for the condoms in the bedside table drawer, took one out and rested it on the marble top.

  Barefooted, Emmy came back lightly, sure of the few steps between the bathroom door and the bed. She once more sat down next to him. Bora would be able to tell by embracing her whether she still had something on, but he waited for her to move
close enough to graze his thigh. She, too, wanted to know if he was still dressed. All he had to do then was run two fingers around her shoulder and, without hesitating but also without hurrying, down to her hip, to realize that she’d removed her underwear as well.

  How good a girl is she? He circled her waist with his arm and let her rest her head on his chest. They remained that way for perhaps half a minute, during which their breathing accelerated. Is she ready for it? Bora took hold of her by the hollow of the nape – just below her hairline, in the very place, he absurdly thought, where a sudden twist of the neck can kill someone on the spot. They started kissing, and to his surprise Emmy was a good kisser – this at least she’d learned from Leo Franke.

  It went on for maybe a minute more, during which he became increasingly impatient at her simultaneous lack of resistance and reluctance to give in, her shivering and unwillingness to go beyond kissing.

  “Please,” she said at one point, “do you have anything strong to drink?”

  Bora knew exactly where he’d placed the brandy on the bedside table, and stretching out his hand he found it nearly at once. Their hands touched when he gave her the glass. He heard her anxiously gulp down the liquor, like someone unused to alcohol. He tasted the woody aroma on her tongue when he kissed her again.

  All Emmy did was snuggle up to him. Wasn’t she a proper girl, and he a decent man? Bora felt far less well behaved than usual, but knew that women – except for Dikta – often did not like to be rushed; so he timed himself according to her breathing. Gently, he laid her on her back, and leaned over her to keep kissing her.

  The all-clear sounded, but he did not hear it. The room was hot. Both were sweaty – Bora feverish – but perspiration can be apt and even pleasant, at certain times. Emmy was awkward, all knees (Bora thought he must have been like her at fifteen), and lay there with her ankles tightly crossed. Rather than presume that she was ready, he judiciously let his hand slip down her body to ensure that, physically at least, she’d gone past her mental reservations. He was by now eager enough not to want to think beyond tonight. His underpants were the last to go. He felt the first moisture, and it was time to wear a prophylactic. He hadn’t used one since losing his left hand, but this, too, he had practised. With his teeth, he carefully tore the package of the Blausiegel army condom, which was dry and felt dusty and only slipped into place without effort because he was already damp with excitement.

  Unpredictably, as soon as he entered her she had an orgasm, so he had to start her all over again, mindful that he had to hold back in order not to turn aggressive. She tasted like sweet almonds when he kissed her, when he ran his tongue down her neck.

  He recognized a girl untaught by her lover beyond kissing, perhaps on purpose. Emmy was submissive and clumsy, as some female students he’d made love to in his university days. It was possible she had never had anyone before or since Leo Franke, before tonight. Well, what a surprise: she was a good girl. Bora kept it simple and was patient, which was a change from Dikta and unexpectedly pleasant; rewarding, even. He heard himself telling her, “Easy, easy. Just let me,” as one would with a skittish mare before a hurdle. When, after a while, she grew more adventurous, he could afford some vigorous insistence without scaring her. I am not corrupting her, I am teaching her. Perhaps Dikta thought the same when she spoke to our sister-in-law.

  If he thought of the immense, deadly trouble he’d got himself into, the best thing he could do was lie without love alongside this appreciative girl. Without love, it was still gratifying. That she wanted a man was reason enough for her, and for him it was a release of tension after his drunken binge in Rome, when he’d taken – to this day he didn’t know whom – into his hotel bed. What a consolation to lie here and simply do it because both parties needed it. I must not think of how accomplished it was with Dikta, it’s over. That lovemaking is over. But Emmy smelled and tasted like sweet almonds, a pleasant scent and such a lovely flavour.

  Was she thinking of Leo? She whispered “my love” a few times, but in the throaty, careless way women do when they’re in bed, even with a stranger. Bora certainly didn’t. Dikta was the only one he’d called “love”, in or out of bed. It’d take more than an hour or a night together for him to use the word with another.

  Energy, experience and a good dose of frustration made him perform well, and the dark helped. Not just because of the hand, as Lattmann had imagined – the rest of him more than made up for it, and German women would have to confront their men’s wounds as a fact from now on. No. It was because in the dark you can make the kind of physical love that doesn’t encourage looking at each other. Dikta and he had made love looking into each other’s eyes, loving each other first with their eyes, as they’d done from the beginning. The warning in the gospel, that looking “on a woman to lust after her” was already adultery, had surely been true of Dikta and himself. If it ever happens again, Bora thought while this naive young woman clung to him, I’ll know I’m over Dikta. Until then I will make love in the dark, or not look them in the eye.

  *

  Afterwards, she fell asleep next to him. For her, too, this must be the epilogue of many sleepless nights. Bora left the bed. Reserving the tubful of water for Emmy, he washed himself thoroughly (he’d learned how to wash well with little water), and disposed of the used prophylactic. Dustbins in Berlin must be full of Aryan sperm these days, whatever the Führer preached. It seemed as fitting a commentary as any on their collapsing world. Everything made sense around him – it was once more this place, this night, and in between there had been a sexual encounter that had done him a lot of good. Something like a veil had fallen off his ability to concentrate.

  Bora went back to bed. He slept little but well, and when he awoke at dawn Emmy was still slumbering. In the twilight of the room, she lay on her side with her left hand between her thighs, in a protective pose, or – on the contrary – as she’d fallen asleep on many nights, perhaps, fondling herself to calm down.

  LEIPZIGER HOF, SUNDAY, 16 JULY, 6:20 A.M.

  Decency required that he went downstairs before her, giving her time to get ready and follow discreetly. Bora noiselessly unlocked both doors and left the key for her on the bedside table.

  He did not expect to find, at this unsociable hour, Benno von Salomon standing outside his door in a dressing gown.

  “May I come in?” The same urgent tone, midway between an order and an appeal. Relieved as he was to see him at last, Bora found the intrusion unacceptable.

  “You may not, Colonel.”

  “Is someone there with you?” Bora’s face indicated that he would not say, so Salomon grew demanding.

  “Why, is there someone in your room? Are you meeting with someone? Who is it? Let me in.”

  Bora interposed his full height, pulling the inner door closed behind his back. Imagine if he were to find a girl in my room who he might have seen, of all places, at Bendlerstrasse …

  “I prefer not to, Colonel.”

  Suspicious and agitated, Salomon might make a scene; Bora swerved him in the direction of the stairs. “I assume you booked a room here, sir: let’s go to your quarters.”

  For a moment, Salomon baulked.

  “If we must. My room is down the hall. Follow me.”

  Bora followed him closely, to keep him from raising his voice and allowing them to be overheard. The colonel’s room – windows closed, curtains pulled across them – was still dark. Salomon switched on the screened bedside light. “They think I’m gone from Berlin, but I’ve been hunting everywhere for you for days.”

  “You have? I was under the impression that you were making yourself unavailable.”

  “Look, there’s no time for recriminations. Time is awfully short and I absolutely need to get out. Out of Berlin, out of Germany. I need to do it today.” He stood there with his short, greying hair uncombed, spiked by sleep and sweat, like dog fur. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll find a way to get me out.”

  Any appe
al for help rightly belonged with the plotters. Did Salomon fear that they would silence him for good? Bora knew he’d have to act on it soon, one way or another. What was intolerable was the arrogance of his demand. It insulted him. “Are you still in the regular employ of the German army, Colonel? Because if you are, to speak in these terms is treason.”

  “Oh, do me a favour, leave these lexical idiocies alone!”

  “It was you who asked me whether I knew the meaning of terms like loyalty, and so on. I will not help you defect, Colonel von Salomon.”

  Salomon must have anticipated these formal objections.

  “Yours is a family with diplomatic ties,” he pressured him. “The embassy of a neutral country will do, a foreign legation … Must I spell it out for you? If I do not leave German soil, no one can depend on my keeping silent.”

  Frowning, Bora faced him, caught between egotism and a crushing sense of duty. The unwelcome meeting threatened to mar his euphoria after the night with Emmy. She would soon wake up and go down for breakfast, and he wanted to be there. Christ, he hadn’t felt so well in many months, and this tormented man had shoved reality in his face. Far from feeling anything that resembled pity, for a remorseless moment he contemplated the feasibility of shooting Salomon there and then. Expedient and definitive, yes, but highly impracticable. It could not be done.

  Yet he could not risk losing track of him again.

  “I trust you.” Salomon held his ground with an energy born of despair. Pacing at the foot of a bed identical to the one Bora had just risen from, he repeated, “I trust you. Should anything go wrong with the scheme … should they miss their target … the pressure is unbearable. I’m in your hands.”

  Bora squared his shoulders. “Very well,” he said, after a pause that seemed what it was not – a prelude to acquiescence. “Meet me tonight at eleven at the corner of Lutherstrasse and Augsburger Strasse, in front of Horcher’s.” As he gave him the restaurant’s address, Bora had no clear plan as yet; or rather, he only had one, chilling in itself. “Come in civvies, alone.”