A Midwinter's Tale

by Andrew M. Greeley

  Dear Rosemarie,

  I’d love to see you here in Bamberg. I could tell everyone that you were my girlfriend, and while that wouldn’t exactly be true, it would earn me a lot of admiration and envy. But let’s postpone the visit for a few weeks. We have some sticky projects going on around here that will keep me busy for the next couple of weeks. I wouldn’t have much time for you till we’ve wrapped up these matters. After that, it would be wonderful. I’d love to show you off, if you don’t mind being shown off.

  Last night, Captain Polly, whom I have written about before, had another of her parties. It was great fun, but I must confess I have a hangover this morning. Since I don’t drink, I concluded that Captain Polly had poisoned me. But she insists that anyone who eats four semisweet chocolate bars, a quarter pound of caviar, and three dishes of Italian chocolate ice cream deserves to get sick.

  I don’t really believe that it was that much caviar—to which I could easily become addicted. I believe it was beluga too, which I gather is the best. The Russkie soldiers, out to make a dishonest ruble, smuggle it over the border and sell it to us. I don’t know whether that’s where the Nettletons got it. Out here we think our black markets are bad—though we’re not able to do much about it. But everyone figures that we don’t break any laws—except Russian laws and they don’t count. Besides, maybe it’s a way to help some Russkies to become capitalist.

  Anyway the party was great fun.

  I then described at great length the party, leaving out the man from the Bureau but leaving in the attractions of the women who were there.

  It will not surprise you to be told that I was asked to sing, accompanied by the beauteous Captain Polly. I did three authentic songs (two Percy French and “The Kerry Dance”) and was then constrained to sing “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” My Bostonian friends think that’s real Irish culture.

  Then for the pure hell of it, I sang “Clancy Lowered the Boom” and had them all singing the choruses. I believe I mentioned to Captain Polly that the Clancy I knew was of the opposite sex.

  Captain Polly, who doesn’t miss much, demanded to know what age this Clancy woman was. I told her, older than the mountains and younger than springtime. I hope you like that as a quick reply. I thought it was pretty good myself. Then when I was leaving, she pried again into the identity of this Clancy person. Would I like her? she demanded.

  To which I replied with full honesty that I supposed so because my mother and sister Peg like her. That did not settle the matter, as you might imagine. The next thing will be that she will want to see your picture. I’ll have to dig deep in my archives and find if I have brought any with me.

  Well, I have an exam in Advanced Accounting tonight, a subject I don’t particularly enjoy, but I think I’ll get an A. So I have to run. My best to all my friends.

  Love,

  Chuck

  There was one lie in the letter. Or, since I don’t normally lie, a bit of an exaggeration. Lies are sinful. There were, a number of pictures of Rosie in the archives. But the one I had put on my desk (in an elegant silver frame I had purchased in Bamberg) was a prom-night picture of Rosemarie in her first prom dress. Let Miss Captain Nosy make what she wanted of it!

  20

  Just as I sealed the letter to Rosemarie and told myself that Rosie was a nice kid and I’d always love her as a sister, Brigitta entered our offices and walked over to my desk. Back from the Bahnhof. She looked especially discouraged, even worried.

  “Anything wrong?” I asked lightly.

  Solemnly she opened her purse and put a dirty, much used #10 manila envelope on my desk.

  “From Herr Albrecht. He knew I would be out at the Bahnhof, waiting for the train. He said to give it to you and tell you he was sorry, but he could not take care of the matter at this time. He added that he was very, very sorry and you were a nice man.”

  I touched the envelope. Small objects inside. Pictures.

  “Did he show you what was inside?”

  “Of course not. I’m sure they’re pictures, however. What else would they be?”

  “He’s a good man, a very good man.”

  “I know.”

  “He realizes he should not make any more false documents.”

  “Oh, yes. Not till there are new men in your CID.”

  “Is there a Frau Albrecht lurking in the back of the store?”

  “She was killed in the raid on Dresden.”

  “I see.”

  So perhaps he was a good man for Brig if her husband did not return. How long would she wait?

  “His work is excellent,” I said, unwrapping the shot of the Me 262. “Color, composition, everything.”

  “What are you getting into, Chuck?” she demanded. “It must be dangerous.”

  “Not really, thanks to Albrecht’s loyalty to a man who gave him twice what he asked for when he bought this picture.”

  “You trying to get someone out of the American zone?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  For a moment I was tempted. Then I knew better. “I don’t think so, Brigie. It would put you at unnecessary risk.”

  “I see. . . . Do they deserve to be saved?”

  “Oh, yes. I wouldn’t be trying to get them the papers unless they did.”

  She nodded. “I trust you, Chucky.”

  “Good. Can you find me another person who does this kind of work?”

  “I have thought of it. He is expensive.”

  “That does not matter.”

  “And very good.”

  “Fine. Where is he?”

  “Nein, I cannot tell you that until I see him and ask if he will do it for you. Perhaps I will know tomorrow. Do not rush me, Chucky. This must be done carefully.”

  “I won’t challenge that.”

  “Are these people Germans?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She rose to leave. “I must go home and cook supper. Do you wish to join us?”

  “Love to, but I have my Advanced Accounting exam tonight.”

  “I forgot.”

  “Anything at the Bahnhof today?”

  “One of the men from my husband’s regiment. He has not seen Kurt since before the battle of Kursk.”

  “Doesn’t necessarily prove anything.”

  “I know. I believe he’s still alive. But, somehow, I am less sure.”

  Poor dear woman.

  I picked up the envelope of photos and the envelope with my letter to Rosie and walked over to the exam. I made sure that none of the CID gumshoes were trailing me. My plan was still on track, more or less, but I could not figure out why Carpenter’s men would want to follow me. Maybe it was just an unlucky chance. Maybe they were staking out Albrecht’s place when I happened by.

  But I was still uneasy about Carpenter. What was he up to? Why did he hate me so fiercely? Because I had a role in the law enforcement business that he wanted? Because I was Frau Richter’s confidant and an obstacle to his possession of her? Maybe either or both, but it still didn’t make much sense.

  The exam was a breeze. When I had finished—first one naturally—I put the paper on the teacher’s desk and walked out of the room. At seven o’clock the sun was still high in the sky, and because of the humidity, the world was bathed in mellow gold.

  I walked across the Regens to Untersandstrasse and found Trudi, home from work and clad only in her panties. She was embarrassed but also delighted by my gasp of wonderment.

  “Let’s go take some pictures while the sun is up.”

  “Ja, Karl”—she snuggled in my arms—“we take pictures when it is light and save the dark for other things.”

  She put on sandals, a blouse with three buttons open, and a skirt, and we left the house.

  I loved her so much when I was with her that I could not imagine ever giving her up. In those moments, even when we were not engaged in our sexual games, she was beautiful, fascinating, witty, intelligent. The perfect
woman.

  I take out the dry and cracked prints of the shots I made of her in 1947 and find that she has the same impact on me now as then. She is beautiful and mysterious. Only a child perhaps, but a child who has known the tragedies and sorrows of life. Nor can I believe that the glow in her eyes when she looks at me is bogus. She loved me too. She must have known that she didn’t have to seduce me to earn my help.

  Maybe she was lonely too—and frightened and fragile—and wanted a little bit of warmth in her life.

  So that evening, giggling and laughing all the way, we walked through the streets of Bamberg, she with her treasured Leica (“My father gave it to me for my eleventh birthday,” she would say sadly) and I with my prized Kodak. Sometimes we would change cameras and I would make shots of her and she of me. As I look at prints of that skinny, eighteen-year-old punk, I shake my head in astonishment. What could she have seen in me? Other than documents that would make her and her family free?

  When we had run out of film, we went over to the island upriver from the town hall and my favorite beer garden in the park in front of the Schloss Geyersworth. Against the background of the nineteenth-century Schloss gleaming in the pink and rose light of the setting sun, a small band was playing Strauss waltzes, GIs and their girls were dancing, and waiters were dashing around with trays filled with beer steins and plates of sausage, a frolicsome, Oktoberfest atmosphere. Had there been a war? No one seemed to remember. Young men and women were having fun on a Friday night. Neither the past nor the future mattered much.

  “It is beautiful, is it not?” Trudi asked me, her hand on mine. “Time stands still.”

  “Time never stands still Trudi, but sometimes it is necessary to pretend.”

  We were in no hurry to eat. So we danced while we were waiting for a waiter. I was not much of a dancer despite the praise of the women with whom I had danced. Trudi joined the chorus. “Karl, you dance so well!”

  “Not all that well, but thanks, Trud.” I drew her even closer.

  Her breasts now so familiar but yet always a surprise were clearly visible under the loose blouse and the open buttons. She was so, so beautiful. I was almost overcome with love. Not desire, though that was present too, but love. Or so I thought.

  Mind you, our dance was relatively chaste compared to most of those in the beer garden. Many of the GIs were as close to sexual intercourse with their dates as one could be while still wearing clothes. Soon they will go home to America, I thought, and leave the girls behind without a thought about them and perhaps only the faintest memories. I would be different from the rest of them. Did the girls realize this? Probably, but they could hope it might be different, could they not?

  We went back to our table and a waiter appeared. I ordered a beer for Trudi and “mineral water” for myself and four large sausages.

  “I can eat only one,” she protested mildly.

  “I know. The three are for me.”

  “But you’ll get sick!”

  “Not me. I have an iron stomach.”

  While we were waiting for our food and drink, I put my hand under her skirt and caressed the inside of her solid thigh. She stiffened and bit her lip.

  “You drive me out of my mind, Karl.”

  “That’s the general idea. I’ll stop if you want me to.”

  “Nein, please don’t stop.”

  Then the sausages came and I had to cease my amusements and devote myself to eating.

  “Good,” Trudi said as she munched on her sausage.

  “Very good,” I replied, banishing thoughts of caviar from my head.

  Halfway through the second sausage, I saw Special Agent Clarke on the other side of the garden, at a table by himself, swilling down beer at a rapid rate.

  “Excuse me, Trud. I have a little politicking to do.”

  I sauntered across the garden, ducking waiters and dancing couples.

  “My respects, sir,” I said to Agent Clarke.

  “Hi, sport,” he mumbled. “Nice dish you have with you.”

  “Thank you, sir. She is a very intelligent young woman.”

  “More than just intelligent, I’d say.” He winked. “Is she any good in bed?”

  “I am not able to offer a judgment on that, sir.”

  “How’s your search coming?” he asked with sudden sharpness.

  “My team is searching in the town, sir. But it is difficult without the photo and the descriptions which are still in your possession.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he sighed. “I did promise them for tomorrow, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, sir, at fourteen-thirty.”

  “Right, but tomorrow is Saturday, isn’t it, sport?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You guys work on Saturday?”

  “Yes, sir. Till noon.”

  But not many of us showed and practically none of us worked.

  “Silly waste of time. . . . Well, I can’t imagine being up that early. Monday be all right?”

  “That’s up to you, sir. But it will delay the search.”

  “I’m in no rush, sport. See you Monday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Enjoy your dame.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Most people round the Residenz knew that the beer garden on the Geyerworthstrasse was one of my hangouts, my only hangout as a point of fact. Agent Clarke could have found that out, from Carpenter, maybe, and come to check on me. Did he see any resemblance between Trudi and the girl in the picture? Was his lackadaisical manner merely a trick to deceive me?

  I’d have to take my chances that he was as dumb as he seemed to be.

  “Who is that man?” Trudi asked when I had settled down again at her table and began to finish off my second sausage.

  “An American civilian government guy I have to work with. I thought it might be wise not to appear to be ignoring him.”

  “You are so clever, Karl.” She laid her hand on mine.

  “Not really. Just careful.” I switched the third sausage to my other hand and found her thigh again.

  She caught her breath and then sighed contentedly. “He looks evil . . . and dangerous.”

  “He drinks a lot. He may not be all that dangerous.”

  Or then again, he may. Why would Agent Clarke come over to the island for his beer when he could get his gin at the Bambergerhof? To enjoy the lovely evening and watch the young folk at play? Somehow that didn’t seem much like Agent Clarke.

  “He is the man who stays at the Bambergerhof, is he not?”

  “Yeah, and it’s a good idea for you folks to keep away from him, but he’s not worth worrying about. . . . Want another beer?”

  “Of course.”

  I ordered the beer and the mineral water. Then she guided me to the dancing area and leaned against me as though she were giving herself completely over to me in trust and faith, a gesture of generosity and surrender rather than mere sexual invitation.

  Damn it, she did love me!

  The full moon had risen in the eastern sky, orange and huge. A harvest moon, Mom would have called it.

  We drank our beer and mineral water at a leisurely pace, and I continued to amuse myself with her thighs, now both of them.

  When she had finished her second beer, I asked her if she wanted a third.

  “Karl, I want only to go home and make love with you. Now. I want to run home and give myself to you.”

  “Then let’s go home now.”

  Under the full moon we rushed back to her apartment. We didn’t exactly run, but we walked fast.

  “Oh, Karl, my love, hurry!”

  We were barely inside the building when she stripped off her blouse and skirt and handed them to me as we walked up the rickety stairs. As she opened the door of the apartment, she discarded her panties and threw them inside ahead of her. Then she began an assault on my clothes.

  It was a violent night of sexual games, our best night yet. Trudi needed passion and I provided it for her in every method I knew
. Sex, I had discovered, was as important for women as for men but in a different way. I filed that insight for future reference.

  “Tomorrow,” she said when it was time for me to leave, “I will be with my mother and Erika all day. Then on Sunday we go to church together.”

  “Good. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  “You will go to church too?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Good.”

  It might indeed be a good idea. Since I was trying to get back in the good graces of the One in Charge and since I thought we might need His help desperately, I figured it couldn’t hurt.

  Theoretically, we worked at Constabulary HQ on Saturday morning—and men were always on call in case of an emergency. There were few emergencies because Germans are, as I have said, a law-abiding people—until a demon takes over in their society and they turn crazy and kill millions of people, all the while, however, being obedient to what they take as the law, their laws of course.

  My Saturday routine was to drop in for a few minutes to see if there was anything doing and then sneak out, which is more than what most of the officers would do. However today I went to work early with the hope that Brigitta might have news for me.

  That Saturday as I walked into the Residenz, I met General Meade walking out. Off for a game of golf, no doubt.

  “Anything on the FBI case, son?” he asked, barely stopping for an answer.

  “Agent Clarke thinks he might be able to get the documents over to me by Monday afternoon.”

  “Idiot,” he barked as he went out the door.

  It was one more brick in the wall I was building around Agent Clarke, or perhaps around myself for protection against Agent Clarke.

  “Brigie,” I said to that worthy, the only person to be seen in the huge office, “hard at work?”

  She did not look up from her typewriter. “I am German, not American, so I must work when I am told to work.”