The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  Laughing, we walked back into the reception room. The large room had two fireplaces along one wall and French windows along the other. Women were scattered about standing and sitting.

  “How long do you think you’ll stay?” Sydney asked, after we had gotten our tea.

  “Until I can properly leave.”

  “No,” she said, laughing. “I meant, in Berlin.”

  “Oh, well, I guess as long as my father does,” I said. “And you?”

  “Oh,” she said, her eyes peeping over her teacup, “I’m here for as long as Brian is or until I get preggers. I shall have to scamper home at that point.”

  “Oh,” I said, not quite understanding what she meant. I tried a safe question. “How long have you been married?”

  “Just half a year.” She smiled. “I met Brian in Italy. He’s lovely. Lady H-G, who’s a dear friend of my mother’s, decided she couldn’t do without me, so I’ve kept my job here. We have a sweet little flat. Mummy took one look and told me how sorry she was for me.” We both giggled.

  “We’ll have you round one of these evenings. You’ll have to spend enough time at dos such as this one.”

  “This is my first.” I frowned at my teacup. “And, I’m sorry to say, I don’t like tea.” I looked around at the elegant, formal room. “Imagine that, the walls didn’t fall in on me.”

  Sydney laughed. “Such blasphemy, Sally. Well, I’m glad to meet you. I seldom enjoy these things at all. We can band together and have some fun.” She pushed her hair behind one ear. Her hair was ash blond and she wore it in a smooth pageboy, quite unlike the prevailing fashion, but it suited her high cheekbones and strong jaw. “There are a lot of Americans here, did you know? But if there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know.”

  “Well, there is something you could do for me right now.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Tell me who is this lady advancing on me?”

  “Oh, dear, that’s Magda Goebbels. She’s not too bad, if a mite stiff. At least she dresses well. For a German. Her husband’s the Minister of Propaganda. Perhaps you’ve seen his building? I’ll tell you more about him later.” She held out her hand to Frau Goebbels.

  Sydney was a godsend, filling me in on the gossip, a necessity in the multi-layered society of Nazi Berlin, and helping me keep my sense of humor in spite of dull parties and duller suppers. Not that all of it was boring, but the glamour quickly wore off.

  Perhaps, if I had been at all interested in politics, I would have always found something to fascinate me. But looking back, I see I was a vacuous, if charming girl, and I wonder that Sydney Stokes was interested in being my friend. My true self, lonely and hungry for beauty and love, I kept hidden from everyone.

  Sydney did invite me to her home for dinner, and I spent a very pleasant evening with her and her lively husband, Brian. He had brown curly hair and a nose too large for his face, with boyish freckles scattered across it, and he spoke with a strong Australian accent, although he claimed that it had been tamed by contact with his British wife.

  “That’s how she corrupts me,” he said soulfully.

  He and Sydney seemed an odd match, but it was obvious how much they enjoyed and stimulated each other. They were a delightful couple and entertained me enormously, keeping me laughing and well fed.

  They lived in a two-bedroom flat on the twelfth floor of a brand-new building. The living/dining-room space was large and furnished with modern pieces in blond wood and light fabrics. An absence of clutter and only one large abstract painting on the wall made it as different a space as I could imagine from the traditional furnishings of the British embassy.

  DADDY HAD PLUNGED right into his job, leaving me to handle the housekeeping. Vittorio suggested that we start with the main sitting room and I agreed.

  I had hired, with Vittorio’s welcome advice, a cook, two maids, as well as Rick. All of the staff except Vittorio were German. The two maids lived in the attic rooms, Vittorio had a room tucked away at the rear of the second floor, where there was a back stairs, and the cook, Frau Brenner, lived in a room near the kitchen. Rick lived over the garage. So the house was full to the rafters, in spite of our small family. Of course there were marines assigned to guard us, although Daddy didn’t believe we needed them and felt they would only make the house more obviously important. A small, snug hut was built for them near the front gate, half-hidden behind a section of hedge. They actually lived in a barracks somewhere. I never cared enough to ask.

  With all of the extra help, we cleaned the entire house before I called in painters and paperhangers. Sydney and I discussed color and patterns and she took me to the man who had made the British embassy’s draperies. She and I spent a wonderful, slightly hysterical time buying furniture, trying to complement what was coming from California—which was not much. We choose modern stuff because it seemed to suit the house better, and I was very pleased with the final effect.

  The sitting room had blue-and-white Chinese carpets and navy draperies over white sheers. The walls were pale blue and the moldings white. Three large boxy sofas were arranged in a square in front of the fireplace. We had them covered in a navy-and-white stripe. To relieve all of the blue and white, there were two pale-green occasional chairs at one end of the room and a dark, forest-green armchair in front of the bookshelves at the other end. I put a mirror over the fireplace and kept a space on the opposite wall for one of Daddy’s California landscapes, which was coming in the shipment from the States.

  The day we finished, Sydney and I stood back happily and surveyed the room. We had to agree: it looked cool and elegant and very modern.

  “Just right for an American home,” said Sydney.

  “C’mon, let’s go upstairs and move some furniture around.”

  Daddy’s study was finished about the same time, with dark-green draperies. The furniture and carpet were all still to come from California, so aside from the painting and draperies, there was nothing else for me to do. We kept the dining room simple and traditional. A long table that could, with leaves, seat twenty-four and a handsome sideboard were the only furniture, and I used pale-green wallpaper, printed with paler fronds of water plants. It too was cool and elegant, especially by candlelight.

  My job as official hostess began, even before the decorating was finished, at a reception in the old living quarters in the embassy. It was a small event, at the cocktail hour, for various people in the German government whom my father needed to meet socially.

  I stood, shaking hands and greeting people with my father, in the embassy entry hall on the second floor, as the first crush of guests arrived. After a time, I went into the sitting room to chat with people and make sure they were provided with drinks. The Adlon had supplied the hors d’oeuvres. It was a cool evening.

  I thought everyone was managing well and then I noticed a very tall, very blond man in an ill-fitting suit standing rather forlornly in the far corner, next to the windows. He was staring out at the dusk and he caught my eye because he seemed to be so out of place. Just then my father came up to me and I asked him who the man was, wondering how he had gotten past me at the door.

  “Reinhard Heydrich,” said my dad, “a major, I believe, in the SS.”

  “SS?” I said.

  “The fellows in the black uniforms. The Chancellor’s bodyguards.” I nodded. I had seen the guards in their handsome black-and-silver outfits. No wonder this poor fellow’s clothing looked so forlorn; he was used to wearing a uniform. “He works with Himmler, the SS Reichsfuhrer, who is based in Munich. Heydrich has been here trying to get in to see various people in the Gestapo. The secret police,” he added, seeing my look. “I really can’t imagine why he’s here, except, perhaps, because of Diels, the Gestapo chief, who, I believe, has not yet arrived.” My father looked around the room.

  "Well, I can at least get the poor man a drink,” I said, and went off to do so.

  He was not at all approachable, did not even turn around as
I came up to him. He stood very still, his hands clasped behind his back, but there was a quality of great, suppressed energy about him. I stopped several feet away, not wanting to disturb him.

  “Good evening,” I said softly. “You’re Major Heydrich?” I held out my hand. “I’m Sally Jackson.”

  He turned his head to look at me, glanced at my outstretched hand as though he had never seen one before. I almost snatched it back. But manners won out, and he uncoiled his hands and held one out. We shook. His hand was very warm, belying his cool appearance.

  “Colonel,” he said, not smiling. I cocked my head. “Colonel Heydrich.”

  “Oh.” I felt more embarrassed than I should have for the slightness of the mistake. “I am sorry. Is it a recent promotion?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  I was standing with my back to the rest of the room and could not look away for help or rescue. “Congratulations,” I said.

  He smiled, almost. “Your father is the ambassador,” he said, and it took several seconds for me to realize that he was speaking English.

  “Yes, he is,” I answered in German, then switching to English. “You speak English.”

  “Obviously. I have been studying it for many years at school.”

  “Just ‘studied,’” I said unthinkingly. His face, already quite expressionless, froze up several degrees more. “Oh, I am sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Your English is very good, and I find it such a relief to speak it. It is tiring to always speak someone else’s language, isn’t it?” I babbled on, not expecting an answer, hoping someone would come and rescue me from this silent, inexpressive, cold man. “I had a friend as a child, a German boy, and he and I always corrected each other. In fact, it was a contest with us, and we never let the other get away with the tiniest mistake.”

  “Your German seems competent,” said the colonel.

  “Thank you,” I said to the backhanded compliment, “but I think learning another language is awfully difficult, don’t you? Especially if you only learn it in the classroom, and never have native speakers to talk to.”

  “It’s a matter of the ear, I think,” he said. I was encouraged; he was answering me.

  “What do you mean?” I said, wanting him to continue talking.

  “Learning another language is the same as learning music,” he said. “You must be able to hear the language before you can truly speak it. In music, if you play a note mechanically, without hearing it, it will, no doubt, be flat or sharp.” He spoke quickly, with some of that suppressed energy I had noticed in him already. His voice was high and thin and suited his cold demeanor.

  “Yes, of course. Unless it is a modern composer’s music. Are you a musician, Colonel?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I grew up in a musical household. My father is the director of a conservatory.”

  “How lucky you are,” I said. “What instruments do you play?”

  “Violin. And piano. But mostly violin.”

  “Do you play in a group, an orchestra?” I asked.

  “Sometimes. At the moment, I play alone.”

  I nodded, my stock of questions empty. He wasn’t helping at all, with his almost impolite reticence.

  “I admire people who can do several things well, who find the time in their lives to do a job as well as play a sport well or paint. Here, you are, one assumes, fairly successful in your job.” He gave me an interesting look, one I could not interpret, a mixture of irony and amusement and anger. Or contempt? “Well, you’re a colonel and busy doing whatever it is you do and you also play the violin. You must admit the two things are unusual in one person. I don’t do anything. I mean, I don’t have a job, not a real one. All I’ve ever done is go to school, and not with any great success, and the only thing I’ve ever managed to do even moderately well is play the piano . . . and become a decent fencer.”

  For the first time in our lopsided conversation, Heydrich looked at me, really looked at me. It was a penetrating look, with his pale, deep-set blue eyes, that made me actually take a step back, out of its range. As though pleased at my reaction, he smiled slightly.

  “How fascinating,” he said. “I have seen two girl foil fencers at a fencing hall in Hamburg. They were, I believe, Romanians. Are there many girl fencers in America?”

  I shrugged. “About two hundred, nationwide,” I said. “All of us are connected with college teams or programs, but it’s a sport that is becoming more and more popular with girls. I know at my university, our team grew from five of us to thirteen in three years.”

  “How old were you when you started?” he asked, his manner much more relaxed, although his attention was still focused on me like a searchlight.

  “Seventeen,” I said. “The German master at my school in Switzerland had been a famous fencer, and one winter asked in hall if anyone would be interested in learning.”

  “That is interesting. Your weapon is the foil, I assume.”

  “Yes, although I’ve had some training on the epee. Which I liked very much. Colonel,” I said, forestalling his next question. Do you fence too?”

  “Saber and epee,” he said. “Did you compete?”

  “In college.” And I told him about making it into the regionals. We talked a little about competitive fencing and how difficult the physical and psychological aspects of it were. Then he asked me if I had ever fenced against a man.

  I laughed. “Just in fun, in practice bouts, at the regionals,” I said. “I liked it, although I seldom won. Once, though, I was paired with a fellow who was very tall—well, about like you—and trying to keep out of his reach I did the best I think I’ve ever done. I remember how fast I had to think. It was quite an exhilarating experience. Especially, when I finally made the touch.”

  “Yes,” said Heydrich thoughtfully, “I can see how interesting an experience that would be. There are so few times when a woman can be in such a situation.” He looked at me speculatively, then asked, “And do you plan to continue?”

  “I brought my equipment with me,” I said, “but I’m setting up our house and it’s kept me so busy . . .” I heard someone come up to my right, and turned to find my father with a tall, dark man in an elegant suit. He had a scar across his cheek, a smaller one on his chin. I glanced at the colonel, but he had turned his intense interest to the newcomer.

  “Father,” I said, remembering my manners, “have you met Colonel Heydrich? We’ve been discussing fencing.”

  The colonel leaned forward from his waist and shook hands with my father. “Excellency,” he said, every inch the soldier. His eyes, though, strayed back to the stranger. Evidently he had the social skills; he just chose when to use them.

  “I believe you know this gentleman,” my father said, indicating the dark man. “Rudolf Diels.”

  Heydrich and Diels shook hands, both of them behaving impeccably. It wasn’t until later that I learned that they knew each other very well and were deadly rivals. Heydrich’s boss, Heinrich Himmler, the Reichsfuhrer-SS, was in direct competition for the control of the police of Germany with Diels’s boss, Hermann Goring, the head of the State of Prussia. Within three years, Himmler and Heydrich and the SS would oust Diels and take over his Gestapo. The most amazing part of the entire story is that Rudolf Diels would survive not only the SS and the Gestapo, but the war.

  Someone came up behind me and asked me how I liked Berlin, and I turned to answer, my duty done with the colonel. It was a relief to be free of him, but as I moved away I had to admit he interested me. I had never met anyone so fiercely determined to ignore the social niceties. Of course, his behavior had changed when my father and Herr Diels appeared. I realized that Heydrich had decided at once that I was a nobody and had only barely put up with me, until I brought up a subject that interested him.

  Toward the end of the reception, a guest I was saying goodbye to urged me to visit her hairdresser. The best in the city, she claimed.

  “Please, my dear,” she said, and held
out a gloved hand, “would you button this?” As I began fastening the tiny jet-black buttons, I felt someone watching me, and looking up, over the woman’s shoulder, I saw the colonel’s eyes boring into me from across the room. The lady with the buttons noticed and turned to see.

  “What an extraordinary young man,” she said in a delighted whisper. She put a hand on my arm. “My dear, I believe you have made a conquest. How handsome he is. Very Aryan.”

  I did not believe I had made anything of the kind. I knew what it felt like to have a fellow stare at me from across the room when his intentions were romantic. It had happened to me once or twice. But the colonel’s interest was different. He came over to me.

  “I will telephone you tomorrow. I am only in Berlin a short time,” he said and, seeing my expression, added quickly, “and I know of a fencing hall where you might practice.”

  “Oh, thank you, Colonel,” I said, embarrassed by what I had imagined he was going to suggest. “I would really appreciate it.”

  “Good evening, Miss Jackson,” he said, and taking my hand, bowed and clicked his heels in the best officer-class manner. He had decided I was worth knowing after all.

  And that was how I met Reinhard Heydrich.

  PARTY DAY AT NUREMBERG

  THERE SEEMED TO be continuous marching going on in the streets, boys, girls, soldiers, and civilians. Almost every time I went anywhere, I had to wait to let a parade, large or small, pass. Martial music filled the air and men broke into song at the slightest provocation. They sang very well, and Sydney Stokes and I made jokes about SS choir practice. It seemed as though the Nazi takeover was nothing more than a continual musical comedy being performed in the streets. I guess that’s what I wanted to see.

  There were signs on the Jewish stores urging good Germans not to buy, and signs on some restaurants forbidding Jews to enter. They were disturbing, but I listened to the rest of the foreign diplomatic community who dismissed these displays as the excesses of the more radical members of the party. Or, as one blustering, superior Englishman put it, “those people” needed to be taken down a peg, don’t you know.