by Cara Charles
After all these years, Ivan still practiced the ritual of planting pink tulips in the quiet of first light in the places he visited near their apartment in Berlin. When he would visit the next April there they’d be. Waiting for him, spreading their pink joy to others who came upon them, Ivan’s special memorial to Winnie, his first and only true love.
Ivan also visited the Halle family and their descendants in Denmark every April, the brothel now an Inn again, and the school in Reims were he and Herta left German soil together, planting his tulips along the way.
He bought the apartment building where he and Winnie began their lives together, and their pink tulips filled the neighborhood year after year.
Winnie was always with him, still loving him and Ivan still loving her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN -- IVAN’S WAR
IVAN HAD BEEN a bored young Russian soldier/second level, substitute interpreter his officers almost never needed.
“Professor,” they called him, mocking him and his graduate education. Ivan would take off while the other Russian soldiers went from block to block in Berlin shooting old men, and trying not to shoot the little boys in the oversized German uniforms that shot at them. Most of them were following Stalin’s orders to rape the German women, but not Ivan.
He wasn’t a damn dog. Out of boredom, he began looting books from what was left of a block of expensive Berlin apartments. At first, he was only looking for books to read, but he took a knickknack, now and then, nothing more. The fires from the U.S. B-17 bombers had burned nearly everything.
One day, Ivan was tired and looking for a place to rest and make his secret sanctuary. He’d stumbled upon a basement apartment. With great difficulty he pushed open the barricaded door. The smell of soap hit him once he stepped inside. Someone jumped on his back and tried to stab him with a butcher knife.
He reached behind him and grabbed a handful of hair. He flipped his assailant over his back. As she lay on her back, the wind knocked out of her, the light caressed her terrified but beautiful face. This terrified young blond goddess looked right into his eyes, defying him.
Ivan’s heart melted, as she crawled away from him backwards, the knife still in her hand. She jumped to her feet and tried again. He grabbed her wrist and shook the knife loose. She kicked his shins hard and bit his hand. She was too weak to struggle for long.
It was her eyes that stole his heart. She had the most beautiful summer sky blue eyes, framed poetically by her long, ripe wheat colored hair. She backed herself into the corner of the kitchen assessing him, planning her defense with those determined eyes.
“Name Fraulein? Come now. Be civil. My name is Ivan.” He said in perfect German.
Those intensely blue eyes brightened, “Touch me and you die. You don’t need to know the name of your next rape victim, Ivan… the Terrible.”
“Has someone already touched you, Fraulein?”
“No! Not yet! Not ever!”
“I’m not a rapist.”
“Perhaps not today, but soon Terrible Ivan. You will be a Russian rapist like your fellow peasant pigs.” She spat on the ground to make her point.
“No. Not ever, Fraulein. I am not like my fellow pigs.”
Winifred Schmidt muffled a laugh as she measured him. She’d heard girls screaming and crying all over the neighborhood. She hadn’t been out in over a week, terrified of being found by the raping Russian soldiers.
He was handsome, charming, quite tall with thick sandy blond hair, and gray-blue eyes, a chiseled face and strong jaw. Not a flat Slavic face. He could be Scandinavian.
“Let me see your hands,” she demanded.
He showed his hands. They were fine boned, and smooth, not peasant’s hands.
“Never did a bit of manual labor in your life have you, Peasant Ivan? Did you go to university?”
“Yes, I’m a linguist.”
“I was a graduate student before this insanity. Winifred Schmidt,” she held out her hand. Ivan pulled her to her feet as she jerked her hand out from his. Touching him and being inches away from his face had lit a fire in her she hadn’t expected. A blush was blooming on her cheeks and she was embarrassed by it.
Shocked by her strength, Ivan bowed smartly knowing when he looked at her again her pink cheeks would be giving her away. Pink turning into crimson. He smiled. He liked her already.
“A pleasure. Ivan Kimirov. I have something nice for you Winifred Schmidt, fellow intellectual. It’s been a lifetime since I’ve had an intelligent conversation with a pretty grad student.”
Ivan emptied the satchel onto the table, giving her everything he’d found, a large book on art, small trinkets found in the rubble, and his bundle of food from the mess tent.
“I only want the food and maybe the book. I’m not a scavenger.”
“Take whatever you like.”
She wolfed down the bread and cheese in gulps, like a starving dog.
“Slowly now, Winifred Schmidt. Or else it will all come up.”
“Then I’ll eat it again and taste it a second time.” But she knew he was right so she stopped, hoping to ration it.
He set his canteen on the table and pushed it toward her.
She gulped it down and coughed. It was straight Vodka.
Ivan laughed.
She was skittish again, so she backed herself into the safety of the corner to pick at the crumbs. Her dignity restored, she stood to face him knowing what may be coming next.
“Thank you. That was kind. What was your major then?”
“I’m a Ph.D. student from St. Petersburg. We could be cousins.”
“We could. Cousin Ivan.”
“Come, sit and relax. Do you like coffee? I could bring you coffee next time I visit, instead of Vodka.”
“Next time? I’ll stand right here. Thank you, but no coffee. The smell would bring out everyone. They’d rob me, then kick me out of my sanctuary. We’ve reached the desperate stage in this neighborhood, weeks ago. Tea please if you can find any, would be wonderful. You’ll bring more food next time, and sugar for the tea, perhaps?”
“Yes. Here is your knife. Trust me now? I assure you, I’m not an animal.”
“Just your Russian brothers, ya? I’ve been burgled by an exceptionally learned peasant gentleman.”
“You’re correct. They are peasants. I’m an intellectual. An interpreter.”
“So you do have an intellect. Not using your intellect today, Ivan the interpreter?”
“I’m a backup interpreter they never use. I was looking for treasure. Today, I found you.”
“Charming too. A lifetime ago, I too was an Art History grad student from Heidelberg University, until I was forced out of school to become a secretary because I got caught typing my dissertation at breakneck speed. I worked at the OKW as an executive secretary, until a few weeks ago when it was bombed into rubble and they all fled like the cockroaches they are. Your German is very good. You sound like a native. With an intellect,” Winnie laughed and then looked at his comical expression, which made her laugh hysterically. Laughing eased her pent up tension.
Ivan loved her laugh and laughed with her. “I wanted to be a Professor, who made their students laugh hysterically, too. Now I’m just a junior interpreter.”
“So did I. My first dissertation was about the Cubist Period and their rebellion. I loved it. When it was no longer allowed, I changed my focus with my committee’s permission, and went back to the Dutch Masters to save myself from suspicion and irrelevance and hilarious laughter.”
Ivan laughed, “And I too studied English and French besides German to save myself from suspicion and irrelevance… and hilarious laughter.”
She threw her head back and laughed again, as he arranged his treasures around her apartment as gifts for her and as her intense hypnotic eyes watched him, she eased herself into a chair, and sighed. They talked for hours.
And Ivan fell in love.
Ivan visited Winifred everyday after sundown. She appreciated his kind
ness, the food gifts, novels, useful grooming aides, and art books. And he slept on the floor. Far from her bed to win her trust. Day by day, he won her heart.
Often he couldn’t come and worried. Finally, the American bombers were done with this part of the city and he could visit again.
After the numerous Allied bombings, he feared she’d be dead. Winifred jumped out from behind the door when Ivan entered after his special knock and kissed him, so relieved.
She smelled of the soap he had brought her. Slowly and gently, she removed his shirt, kissing his cheeks and his neck, intertwining her fingers in his blond hair, pulling his firm but soft mouth tightly to hers. She was ready to give herself to him so relieved he was safe.
After bottles of Riesling, celebrating a month together and a good meal she prepared, Winnie spoke of her employer General Wilhelm Keitel, Commander of the OKW.
“Keitel was far from the perfect Nazi. He and his friends had their naughty little secrets. General Keitel had grown to trust me and rewarded me for my silence.”
From a hiding place, Winnie brought Ivan a briefcase. She opened it and shoved it toward him.
“Inside, my brave and heroic darling Ivan, is our ticket to America. While at the OKW, I made duplicate carbons to put aside to bring to the Allies at war’s end. I have extraordinary documents Ivan, transcribed from interrogations as Keitel’s stenographer. I played the perfect Nazi when General Keitel asked me what I thought of the interrogation of the two people the S.S. had brought back from Libya I said, ‘their statements sound like a fairytale.’ With the war going badly, I had to acquire something of strategic importance to defect. The statements of these Libyan prisoners gained the highest priority. My hope is the Allies will offer us amnesty and asylum in America, for the extraordinary Rommel information I have. It could change history Ivan, if it could be proven scientifically. I, Winifred Maria Schmidt, as Executive Secretary to Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel, the Commander in Chief of the OKW Oberkommando der Wehrmact, was the only stenographer Keitel used when he interrogated Rommel on 7 August, 1944.”
She continued…
“Keitel had convinced the Fuhrer, Rommel had to be part of Hitler’s assassination attempt because he was a much beloved leader. I was the only stenographer who took the statement from Hitler’s favorite General, the Desert Fox Erwin Rommel. This extraordinary knowledge regarding his time in Africa has changed my life and has given me purpose again, dearest Ivan. I hope you’ll feel the same way. Being a romantic, I am hoping for the impossible, that before war’s end, I could somehow rescue my friend Herta, one of the prisoners from Libya. Herta is the African female assistant to the resource archaeologist Rommel used for the successful Afrika Corps campaigns. Herta and Dr. Marino Castellucci were brought back from Libya under arrest together. Long before meeting her, I’d heard the rumors from other support staff, the story of a legendary woman the Germans colonists of Africa had been searching for, by listening to Keitel speak on the phone to Ravensbruck about Hitler’s health concerns. When I met her Ivan, I knew the rumors were true. Herta looks like an African Queen, carries herself like a Queen. She has to be royalty. She is a very special person, Ivan. We became friends before they took her away to Keitel’s secret hostel at The Lakes Inn, outside Ravensbruck.”
Ivan had fallen asleep so she didn’t know how much he’d heard, if anything.
As they lay together later that night, legs wrapped around each other, Ivan stroking her, together they were humming “Begin the Beguine.” Ivan pulled her to her feet and they danced to their song while softly singing it to each other.
Winded with passion, Winnie pulled him back to bed. She laid on top of him, stroking his hair and kissing his cheek, then listened to his heartbeat. Winfred decided Ivan must be included in her dream. She loved him now and trusted him completely.
Ivan closed his eyes, lost in her touch.
“Ivan? Listen to me closely, my hero.”
“I’m listening, darling.” Ivan kissed her serious face and the hollow of her neck.
She rolled on her back. She took his head and pressed it to her chest and stroked his cheek as she spoke. Her body burned for him, and it made her breathless, but she’d held back the complete story for far too long, risking losing him everyday. One day their luck may run out, so it was time to tell him… He was kissing her all over now, but she had to keep his attention… so she stopped him.
“Patience, my Love. First the story… Please? It’s so important.”
Ivan laid his head on her chest and nodded. She continued…
“One day not too long ago, the famous Erwin Rommel walked in to our office, leaning heavily on his cane, his head in bandages, his eyes black and blue. I smiled at him, his power as a man was tired, hurt, but not gone. His eyes brightened. He smiled. And that smile grew and grew as if he’d awakened and found himself in a beautiful dream. Everyday I think of this, I realize he was so pleased to see a kind face, in me. When I smiled back equally happy to see Rommel, Keitel frowned. But my expression told Keitel, ‘I will give this dedicated hero the respect he has earned.’ Keitel understood me, and helped Rommel sit down. Rommel was injured in a strafing attack last July. In his delirium from his head fractures he kept calling for “Herta.” The S.S. then snuck in to Libya and found a beautiful African woman named Herta and arrested her, and her companion, an elderly Italian archeology professor, those people I mentioned that had brought those dogs so much interest. When the Allies defeated Rommel and his Afrika Corps, Herta escaped with Dr. Castellucci, but the dear old thing had a heart attack. She wouldn’t leave him. Spiegel, Rommel’s assistant was part of the assassination plot. He lied saying Rommel was involved in the plot, to save himself.”
Ivan got up on his elbow to intently listen. Winnie smiled, pushing the hair off his forehead.
“In her statement Herta said, ‘every night after dinner as long as the brandy lasted Dr. Castellucci told old stories, from his decades of discovery in the Deserts of the Middle East. One was the old legend of the African Mother of the Earth, Nana Bubu.’ Dr. Castellucci jokingly called Herta, “Nana” the name in the Ethiopian legend. When I heard that, I looked right into Rommel’s eyes. We connected and he smiled. Ivan, it was Rommel’s butler and assistant Hans Heinz who was the one who forwarded this Mother Earth legend information to Keitel. And that Herta was Rommel’s mistress. Rommel said he had given her the name Herta because her real name was too silly for him to say. Herta is from our German folklore. It means “of the Earth.”
“We made eye contact, many times. Keitel asked him about the rumor of an African folktale about Nana Bubu, a woman who was a living legend. As Rommel answered Keitel’s questions, the indignation and the futility of his circumstances melted away. Wonderment filled his eyes as he was transported to a better time with her, as he began to tell the African part of his story directly to me. Keitel paced, bored and irritated, his hands behind his back, his boots making sharp notes on the floor, his footfall harmonizing with his accusing words. Keitel stomped right up into Rommel’s face.”
“Damn it! Erwin! Were you and this Herta, lovers?”
“Rommel wouldn’t answer him immediately. By the distant look in his eyes, he was with her in another time, in a beautiful place. That is what he had been trying to tell me.”
“Keitel stopped to look Rommel in the eye, and shouted,” “Erwin? Was she your lover?”
“Rommel kept his smiling eyes on me and answered,” “No, Keitel. I love my wife. But Herta is exotically, breathtakingly beautiful and incredibly well educated in our contemporary world, as well as in the ancient world. The Doctor taught her well. I loved her intellect. I loved her beauty, as you would admire a living Mona Lisa. I loved all she knew about kingdoms that have come and gone. She is brilliant for having so little formal education. The Doctor and Herta played greatly in my success, knowing the Desert and those ancient battles so well. You should respect them instead of mistreating them.”
“Keitel laughed, m
ocking him.” “I can see you loved nearly everything about her. A shame to have wasted such beauty, I would not have wasted knowing all of her.”
“She was a wonderful dinner companion, an oasis of relief from men and war. For that, I do love her as I would love a trusted colleague.” “Rommel said never once looking at Keitel. But kept looking intently into my eyes.”
“Do you believe she is a living legend, Erwin?” “Keitel shouted, then he put his hands on his hips in his annoying way.”
“Rommel laughed,” “I believed in fairytales once Keitel, but I grew out of that. I suggest you do the same before you look even more foolish.”
“You’re right Erwin, but we all know the ancient world holds many secrets.”
“Perhaps when this war is over, you and I will take a trip. Perhaps the Doctor and Herta can be our guides,” “Rommel said with a sigh.”
“Perhaps, Erwin. Perhaps.”
“Keitel mocked him and I hated him for it. You could feel a shift in the energy in the room. Fatigue descended upon Keitel. He already knew Rommel’s fate. He paced now while he went through the list of questions, all merely a formality.”
“Rommel cleared his throat. I looked up. Rommel was staring at me. His eyes telling me ‘to pay attention.’ I watched Keitel pacing back and forth, relishing Rommel’s situation. When Keitel's back was turned, I looked right into his eyes and nodded. He smiled and relaxed. What ever mission had been on his mind to involve me was now accomplished. His interrogation about Hitler’s assassination attempt went on for hours. Keitel and those behind the scenes conducting the investigation were jealous of Rommel, Hitler’s favorite general. They kept him talking with strong coffee and sugary pastries. He was in a lot of pain. He would rub his head, his hand trembling. I’d heard his headaches made him scream. But here with me, he held tightly to his dignity, determined to get me on his side. Then, Keitel caught me massaging my wrist.”
“Keitel called out,” “Mueller get Frieda. Winifred is done.”