“May I help you, Fraulein?” a voice behind me asked.
I turned to find an elderly man in a long black apron peering out at me from the corridor.
I asked him for the fencing hall, and although he shook his head in disbelief, he sent me up to the top floor. I heard him muttering as I carried my gear up the broad, well-worn marble steps. Obviously, he did not approve of my being there, but I was so happy to be returning to the sport that I could dismiss him.
I heard the sound of blades and footfall as I approached a double door on the sixth floor. Panting, I put my bag down for a rest. The climb up had convinced me that I could not waste another day—I had to get back in form. As I stood there catching my breath, the door opened and three young men came out, talking excitedly, and ran into me. For several moments, I was surrounded by them as we all tried to sort ourselves out. Finally, one of them held the door open for me.
“You are a fencer?” he asked. I nodded.
“Good, good. We’ll have a bout sometime,” said another. They all laughed good-naturedly. One of them had picked up my bag.
“I’m sure you are much too advanced for me,” I said, taking my bag. I heard their laughter as they disappeared down the stairs.
The foyer of the fencing salle was a tiny beautiful example of baroque design. The walls were white with delicate powder blue and gold-leaf embellishments on the plaster cupids and curlicues around the doorjambs and windows. A painting on the high ceiling showed a celestial gathering of assorted gods and goddesses. In one corner was a stove, also painted white and covered with blue and pink flowers. In fact, the entire room was so feminine, so unlike what I expected in a fencing hall, that I stopped dead in my tracks. The place was very quiet and nothing moved but the dust motes dancing in the sunlight streaming in from the two windows along the wall to my right.
I took a few tentative steps into the center of the room. To my left, in a shallow alcove, hung a large painting, larger than life size, of a fencer clad in the classic white jacket and knee breeches and a white powdered wig. He stood in a formal salute, his blade held out and angled down. I walked closer.
“That is Prince August Wilhelm,” said a voice behind me. I turned.
Behind me stood a small, wiry old man, clad all in black. He wore a fencing jacket and long pants. His face was heavily lined, almost painfully so, and his hair, although steel-gray, was plentiful and well cut.
“He was our founder, in 1785,” he said, indicating the painting with a small graceful gesture. Then he held out a hand to me. “You must be Fraulein Jackson. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” I answered, shaking his hand, which was like shaking hands with a coiled spring, all cool steel and suppressed energy and strength.
“I am Joaquim von Hohenberg.”
“I am honored, sir. My first fencing master often told us about you, and I am very, very pleased that you have agreed to take me on.”
“I am so glad to have another young lady here,” he said.
“There are other girls?” I asked, eagerly.
“Oh, yes, at present we have three. One young lady, one of our best, recently left for . . . personal reasons. We hope she will return when she is delivered of them, but who can tell what one’s interests may be then, eh?” He laughed delicately. “Now, come let me show you to the changing room. You are prepared to do some exercises today? Yes, I see you are. Good, good.”
We went through a door at the end of the hall and entered a long corridor with a rounded ceiling. The maestro, which was what he was called, pointed out the changing room and showers.
“You can leave your belongings safely there,” he said. “Please join me in the hall when you are ready—through that door there.” He pointed toward a door at the end of the corridor.
The changing room, which was empty of people as well as their belongings, was only slightly more utilitarian than the foyer. A dozen full-sized lockers stood along one wall. They too had been painted white to blend more felicitously with the white walls. Three of the lockers had padlocks on them. I opened a free one.
It felt good to put on my uniform. I slid my foil out of its canvas sheath. I hadn’t handled it for several months and I tried a few fast parries. That felt good too, if a little rusty.
I braided my hair, which was still long and only barely more manageable than it had been in my girlhood, and wound it into a knot at the base of my neck. I covered it with a net and pinned everything securely in place. Picking up my mask, gloves, and foil, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. Good. At least, I looked serious, even if my fencing was not going to measure up.
I was quite nervous about the level of my technique and abilities. Maestro, I remembered, had been an important fencing master for over forty years.
The fencing hall was half the size of an American gym but twenty times more beautiful. I pushed open the door and paused to take in the plasterwork, the tall windows, and the beautiful parquet floor. The room was a long wide rectangle with a high ceiling. The windows ran along one narrow end, there were mirrors along the other. Two risers stood behind a fancy railing along the near wall. In a corner were several stacks of gilt chairs, presumably for the spectators. The wall opposite was hung with paintings, one of which looked to be another of the prince whose portrait dominated the foyer. The whole effect was of light and space and quiet, an elegant place for an elegant sport.
The maestro, neat and small in his black clothes, stood at the far end of the hall. He raised a hand and beckoned to me. “Let me see your foil,” he said, his hand out toward me. As I handed it to him, he grasped the hilt, slashed the air one or two times, then, holding his left hand horizontal to the ground, carefully balanced the foil on it. “It is well-balanced and light,” he said. “A good blade. Have you used it long?” He handed it back to me, hilt first.
“It’s the only one I’ve owned,” I said. “I bought it my first year in college, when I decided to try to get on the fencing team.” Maestro nodded. “I had to replace the blade once, but it has served me well.”
“Perhaps while you remain in Europe, you might consider buying another,” he said, and I nodded. “Good.” He smiled. “You are nervous?” I nodded. “Good. I will, I think, leave you to warm up. I have never met an American fencer before, and I am very interested in seeing what you do. Is this agreeable?” I nodded again. “Good. Well, then, you may begin. I will get out of your way.”
Feeling self-conscious, I put my foil and other gear down near the wall and proceeded to stretch. It took a longer time than usual for me to feel ready, partly because I had not done anything for several months and partly because of my nervousness. But I took solace in my routine and its familiarity.
When I had finished, Maestro, who had been sitting on one of the gilt chairs pulled from the stack in the corner, walked onto the floor. I went to put my gloves on. When I turned back to him, foil and helmet in hand, he smiled.
“You do not need your helmet just yet,” he said. He had a foil in his hand. “Come, we will begin.” And, raising his foil, he saluted me. I followed suit and we began.
Later, after I had followed him through dozens of combinations, he stopped. I was exhausted, although I tried hard not to show it, but he looked as fresh as when we had started. He suggested I take a short break and then we would have a bout or two.
“There is water through that door,” he said, gesturing toward a door to the right of the spectators’ section. When I had returned, he had his own mask in hand, and I got mine.
He won, of course; I didn’t even get close to him. He patted my shoulder. “Not bad, Fraulein,” he said. “You will change and we will talk, all right?”
I nodded glumly, sure that he would tell me I wasn’t good enough. It seemed to me that I was clumsy, slow, and just short of inept. In the changing room, I sat down and untied my shoes, swearing at myself.
After I had showered and changed and packed up my gear, I went out to the foyer. A stranger was waiting there, a
man in a neat pair of gray slacks and navy sweater. He led me through a door nearly invisible in the plasterwork on one wall. He also took my foil and bag. The maestro’s office, too, was all white and blue, with a lovely Oriental rug on the floor. One wall was filled with the maestro’s awards, trophies, and medals. Under a window, on a round table covered with a white cloth, a lunch of tea and little sandwiches had been laid out.
Maestro rose from behind his desk and came toward me. He took my hand, clasping it in both of his.
“You are hungry?” I nodded. “Good, good,” he said, smiling. “You worked very hard. Come, let me get you something.” Keeping hold of my hand, he led me to a chair. “You have met Horst? No? He is my assistant and we must thank him for this delicious tea. Or would you prefer coffee?”
“Tea is fine,” I said, then noticed the coffeepot. “Oh, may I change my mind?”
“Of course, my dear. Lovely young ladies may always change their minds. It is a rule.”
“I have heard that Americans prefer coffee, so I asked Horst to be sure to have some on hand.” Maestro sat in the chair opposite me and placed a huge damask napkin across his lap. “Now,” he said, when I had been supplied with coffee, “we will talk about your fencing.” My face must have expressed succinctly my low opinion of my abilities, and Maestro laughed. “No, no, no,” he said, leaning forward and tapping my hand. “This pretty face should not look like this. Things are not so desperate. Not at all. But first, we will talk.”
We did, for over an hour, first about my abilities and what I needed to work on, and then about the sport. He wanted to know all about competing in the States and about my instructors and fellow fencers, but most of all, he wanted to know why I wanted to continue.
“Do you intend to compete?” he asked.
“Oh, no.”
“It is just for the exercise? You do not go dancing enough?” His eyes twinkled as he said this. I laughed.
“Not at all, Maestro.”
“Then why, my dear? Why?”
“I like it,” I said, shrugging. “I just like fencing. It makes me feel…”
“What? What?” He leaned forward, his chin up, peering into my face.
“Strong,” I said. “It makes me feel strong.”
“Ah, good. Good.” And he tapped my knee and leaned back, the interrogation over.
“You are very fast, which, I must confess, surprises me. But you are very sloppy. I think you know this, yes?” His bright eyes flashed at me across the tea table and I sheepishly nodded. “Do not despair! Sloppiness is the fault of your instructors. Perhaps in the United States of America you do not have such traditional fencing masters as me?”
“Nowhere near, Maestro,” I agreed, laughing.
He grabbed my hand and gave it a shake. “Good, you laugh easily. This is good. We will work very small. Very fine. In great detail and I will make you very angry with me, but you will improve one hundred percent. You will be strong. Good?”
“Good.”
“I will tell you a secret. Fencing, the art of the blade, looks . . . elegant, graceful, but it is swift and brutal, yes? You must be strong here,”—he tapped my forehead—“as well as here.” He tapped my chest, above my heart. “Girls, young women, are very strong. They must be for the babies. The blade is an excellent method for them to be swift and brutal without muscles, without looking . . . ugly.” He exploded into laughter and patted my arm. “You know I speak the truth, don’t you?”
“Yes, Maestro.”
We talked briefly then about payment, lower than I imagined, and days and times. I would come three times a week for a month and work with him and then see.
Maestro walked me to the front door and bade me good-bye. Horst had followed with my fencing gear and I offered to take it. “I will carry it downstairs for you,” he said. “Next time, we will have a locker for you, so you can leave it all here.” After he had handed over my things, he started to leave, then turned back.
“Shall you see Colonel Heydrich soon?” he asked softly.
“What?” I said, surprised. “Oh. I don’t think so, although I should phone him to thank him. But I don’t have his number in Munich. Oh, dear. Do you think he’s in the directory?”
This time it was Horst who was surprised and amused. “Yes, of course he is,” he said. “At the Brown House.”
“The Brown House?” I said.
“Yes, Fraulein,” he said, and giving me a brief salute, started back into the building.
“Horst,” I called. He turned. “Do you know Colonel Heydrich?”
He didn’t answer and I wondered if he had heard me. Then he spoke. “Of course, Fraulein. Sometimes, he fences here. You will see.” And he disappeared into the building.
The day had grown colder as well as darker during my lesson. I looked at my watch. It was almost six. I looked up and down the street for a taxi. Seeing one in the distance, I managed to transfer my bag to my other hand and wave. The taxi drove toward me and stopped. Because my foil started to slip out of its bag—I hadn’t fastened it properly—I didn’t notice that the taxi already carried a passenger until I was halfway into it.
“Damn,” I said.
“I was gonna offer you a ride, but if you’re gonna curse at me . . .” It was the young, scruffy-looking man who had shouted at me before I went into the hall.
“I didn’t,” I said, still hanging in and out of the taxi. “I mean, I was, I didn’t mean you. Well, not exactly.”
He leaned forward and took my bag. “I’ll leave you to handle the weapon,” he said. “What the hell is that thing, anyway?” And seeing that I hadn’t moved one way or the other, he said, “Are you coming in or getting out? Make up your mind, this is on my tab.” But still I hesitated, and he added, “I’m harmless, I’m offering you a free ride, and I’m an American. What more do you want?”
“You’re a New Yorker,” I said.
“Yeah, well, you can’t win ’em all,” he said, working the toothpick in his mouth.
“Are you a reporter?” I asked, climbing into the car, settling the foil against my shoulder.
“Yeah,” he said, “how’d you guess?”
“The toothpick,” I said, gesturing at it. “I saw it in some movie.”
He took the toothpick out of his mouth and regarded it. “Too much, huh?” I nodded. “Just to show you how much I trust your judgment, on such short acquaintance, I’m gonna toss it. Drop it from my persona.” And he wound down the window and threw the thing away. “Now,” he said, “where do you wanna go?”
“San Francisco?” I said hopefully.
“Well, sure you do,” he said. “But how about someplace we can go by cab?”
“Home, I guess,” I said.
“Really? Do you have to? Why don’t you come have dinner with me? Steak. Beer. At this steak house I know. You can meet all the rest of the glamorous newspapermen that hang around there till all hours. How about it? I’ll even pay for you.” He held up his hand. “Wait, I’d better check.” He reached into his jacket front and pulled his worn leather wallet out of his pocket. He counted his money. By this time, the driver had turned around and was unabashedly watching the proceedings.
“Sorry,” the young man said. “Unless you pay for the taxi?”
I laughed. “It’s a deal,” I said.
“Luigi’s,” he said, with no attempt at a German pronunciation. “And step on it. I’m starving. Would you believe the best dive in town is called Luigi’s?” He leaned back as the car started, and pulling out a beat-up pack of cigarettes, offered it to me.
I shook my head. “I don’t smoke,” I said.
“Mind if I do?” I shook my head again and he lit up. With the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he put out his hand.
“David Wohl,” he said. “And I know who you are. I figured it out, and where I last saw you. You’re Sally Jackson, aren’t you? The new ambassador’s kid.” I nodded, enjoying him. “And I saw you at that do the night at that museum, so-ca
lled, looking at those pictures, so-called. Weren’t they the worst?” He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out in a good solid stream. “So, why were you with Heydrich?”
I laughed. “How do you know all that? You know, everyone I’ve met here knows more about me than I do.”
“Yeah, well, Berlin’s that kind of town.”
“Maybe you can tell me about the colonel. Nobody’ll talk about him.”
“Sweetie, kid,” he said, leaning away from me dramatically. “You really are an innocent. That guy’s the head of the SS’s secret police.”
“But he’s in Munich,” I said, remembering what Horst had said. “Mr. Wohl, what’s the Brown House?”
“Phew, what’s this Mr. Wohl stuff? David, please.” He looked out the front window. “Hey, c’mon, we’re here. Now, were you supposed to get this or was I?”
“Me,” I said, opening my purse.
“Great,” he said and got out of the cab on his side, leaving me to wrestle my fencing stuff out by myself. “What the hell is that thing, anyway?”
“A foil,” I said. “I’m a fencer. I was at a class.”
“I’m impressed,” David said, leading the way into the restaurant. “I didn’t know dames did that.”
“I doubt if they do,” I muttered. '
We checked my gear with a surprised hatcheck girl and I made a stop in the ladies’ room, and called home to let them know I wouldn’t be home for dinner. I was enjoying myself. When I rejoined him, David was talking to a man at the entrance to the bar. He did not introduce me, but abruptly broke off his conversation, put his hand on my back, and almost shoved me into the bar.
“Do I have the plague?” I asked him sweetly.
“Huh?” he said. “Oh, you mean why did I whisk you away. Listen, that guy you don’t wanna know. Forget it. A real crumb.”
“Then why are you talking to him?”
“Oh, kid, we reporters have to talk to all kinds of people, good guys and bad guys.” We sat down at a round table. David looked around for a waiter. “Boy, am I starved.”
The Last Innocent Hour Page 20