He studied Sydney with great interest, not noticing me at all. She looked stunning, sitting relaxed in her chair, a cigarette in one hand, the smoke rising lazily over her smooth hair, past the little hat. The hat, a fold of black velvet, had a tiny sprig of red holly perched on one side, and she wore red lipstick of the same shade.
“Hello, Colonel,” I said, grinning at him.
He started, which pleased me. I suspected he was a hard man to catch unawares. “Fraulein Jackson.”
His companion was seated, the waiter pushing in her chair, and Heydrich had started to sit.
“Colonel Heydrich, this is Mrs. Stokes,” I said, causing the colonel to pop back up again. Sydney turned and smiled at him.
“Yes. Mrs. Stokes. May I present my wife? Lina, Fraulein Sally Jackson,” he said to her, “whom I have told you about.”
“I'm pleased to meet you, Frau Obersturmbannfuhrer Heydrich,” I said. She was not exactly what I had imagined, but she was blond and blue-eyed. I had assumed he would be married to a well-educated, ambitious, modern woman, but Lina struck me as being very provincial and unsophisticated, dowdy, in fact.
She wore a blue dress with a lace collar and pin. Her hat was plain navy felt with a short dark-green feather curled around the brim. She wore no makeup and her hair was in a knot at the back of her head. Noticing my scrutiny, she smiled at me. It lit up her face and I smiled back. She had that fresh-faced, clean-scrubbed look that fair-skinned people get in the cold air, which makes their cheeks go bright red and their pale eyes shine.
Our two tables were at the end of the restaurant, and we conversed very briefly—in German; Lina didn’t speak any English—before the waiter returned for their order. It seemed that she and Heydrich were searching for a house in Berlin.
“I have never been here,” she said, “but I have read about Horcher’s, of course, and I knew I had to come. I will admit I almost had to blackmail Reini into bringing me. He hates going out to eat. Poor lamb, he doesn’t look at all happy, does he?”
We all dutifully looked at Heydrich, who was sitting up straight in his chair, his elbows on the table, his long fingers laced in front of his face. He gave a little laugh to show he didn’t mind being made fun of. Reini? That’s what she called him?
“Where have you looked for a house?” asked Sydney, and she and Lina started an involved conversation about neighborhoods, shops, schools, and so on.
“Congratulations on your transfer to Berlin,” I said to the colonel, assuming it meant a promotion.
“Thank you,” he said. He unlaced his fingers in order to move a fork into proper alignment.
“I meant to write you,” I said as he swung his pale eyes around to me, “to thank you for recommending me to Maestro von Hohenberg.”
“Ah, so you have gone.”
“Yes, just last Thursday. I’m going again, for my first real lesson, tomorrow morning.”
“Congratulations to you; he does not take everyone,” said Heydrich.
I felt pleased. Perhaps I had, at last, impressed him favorably. “I think he’s only interested in me because I am an American—and a girl,” I said modestly. Heydrich smiled.
Across the space between our tables, Lina had handed Sydney a snapshot of her son. The colonel retreated behind his fingers.
“Let me see,” I said, holding out my hand. Sydney passed me the picture. The boy was a sturdy blond toddler, reaching out his hand, palm forward, to the camera. “He looks just like you,” I said to Frau Heydrich.
“That’s what my mother says,” she said. “Of course, my husband’s says he looks like him.”
“Well, he’s a very handsome boy,” I said, handing the picture back, just as the waiters arrived with the couple’s lunch.
Sydney and I stopped in the ladies’ room before we left. She left first to collect our coats and I repaired my lipstick and gave a quick pat to my hair. Maybe I would cut it. This important decision distracted me so that, when I exited the rest room, I nearly ran into the person leaving the telephone cabinet.
It was the colonel and he calmly asked if I was all right.
“I’m fine, Colonel,” I said in a low voice. “I’m glad to be able to talk to you in private for a moment. Would you know how I would go about finding someone who I think is in the SS?”
He brought his head up straight again, regarding me with a speculative, glittering eye. He paused for the briefest moment, then said, “You could give me his name and I will find him for you.” We spoke quietly, like conspirators. I didn’t mean to keep my question secret from anyone, and certainly not from Sydney, but I did. I think, for some reason, I was embarrassed.
“Thank you,” I said, pulling on my red leather gloves. “His name is Christian Robert Mayr.”
“The boy you learned to speak German with,” said the colonel. I looked at him, surprised that he would remember, but pleased. I hadn’t thought he’d been listening to me so carefully. “What a memory you have,” I said. He smiled a tight smile, his thin lips curving upward. He even looked a little smug.
Later, I would discover that his photographic memory was famous, or rather, infamous, among his friends and enemies. And what he did not actively remember, he kept in an ever-growing set of files. It was said that he had files on everyone: even on his boss, Himmler, even on Hitler—the boss of them all. I don’t think that he ever met anyone whom he did not mean to use. That day, I think Heydrich filed both Christian and me away in his memory, keeping us until we might serve a purpose.
“Colonel,” I said, as I turned back to him. “Now, another favor. Sydney—Mrs. Stokes—says I should cut my hair. What do you think?”
I was, I suppose, teasing him, and making fun of myself, although he didn’t know me well enough to know that, and, of course, he didn’t know how I had been thinking about cutting my hair all afternoon. Perhaps it was the assumption of a more intimate relationship, perhaps he had never been asked such a question by a girl, but from his reaction, I suspected that I had caught Reinhard Heydrich unawares again. I felt triumphant, as though I had won something by tripping up, just for a moment, this cold, powerful man.
He took a step toward me, his expression confused. “Miss Jackson?” he said tentatively.
“Oh, my goodness, Colonel,” I laughed. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s nothing. Please.” I touched his arm. “Honesty, it’s nothing. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I am sorry.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then finally spoke. “I see.”
“More American irreverence,” I said and smiled, then turned and walked away.
“Miss Jackson,” he called. I turned back. “Don’t cut it too short. Perhaps to here,” he said, holding his hand level just above his shoulder, at his chin. He was very serious.
“Thank you, Colonel Heydrich. That is a good idea,” I said. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Miss Jackson.”
On the street, Sydney turned and grabbed my arm. “What was that all about?”
“Oh, I just asked him whether I should cut my hair.”
“You did what?” She threw her head back and peals of laughter rang out, causing passers-by to look at her. “Oh, Sally, you are a case,” she said when she had recovered. She tucked her arm through mine. “And what did the good colonel suggest?”
“He said maybe shoulder length.”
MAESTRO STOOD IN the center of the hall, his back toward me as I entered from the dressing rooms. He was speaking to Horst, who saw me and nodded toward me. Maestro turned,
“Good afternoon, Sally,” he said affably. “Shall we do our little drills?” I put my helmet on a chair and advanced into the hall. Maestro’s little drills were strenuous and demanding, but even after only two weeks, I could feel my strength growing. I did not think that my fencing technique was much better, but I was stronger. When we had finished, Maestro saluted me.
“Now for a small bout, yes?” he said.
“Okay,” I said ruefully. I hated these little
bouts of his. I had had six classes with him and had fenced him each class and I had yet to get my blade anywhere near him. I was learning a great deal, but felt inadequate. I realized Maestro was, well, a master, and I’d never get near him, but it still rankled.
I picked up my helmet and put it on. Maestro did the same. Not that he needed to; I never came anywhere near his face, but he stuck to the rules. Helmets to be worn, along with jackets and gauntlets, at all times.
We came to attention, saluted each other and began. Because we were alone in the salle and because of the helmet, it was very silent, except for the slap of our feet and the swish and clatter of the blades. I could hear my breathing, which was not as ragged as it had been two weeks ago, and I could see Maestro through a fuzzy scrim. I liked it; as I always had liked the sensation of being hidden.
But I was getting tired of never getting a touch. Maestro, with an elegant parry, touched me lightly on my right shoulder. “Wake up, Sally,” he called, as he regained his guard position. I tried a lunge; he successfully parried and attacked, scoring yet another hit, this time in the middle of my chest.
Then a tactic I had learned from Herr Kempner and had never used leapt into my mind, and without thinking, I used it. Maestro’s blade was heading for my left flank. My blade, with a short move across my body, stopped his, and—and here was the dramatic part—I used my blade, held straight up, to force his down, as I went down on one knee. Then, much faster than it takes to tell, I came up from the floor and, at the same time, lunged and touched him on his right shoulder.
Maestro reacted quickly, but I still touched him, fair and square. A touch, a touch, I sang to myself. I couldn’t see his face, but I guessed he was surprised.
He pulled back into guard position, then stood straight. I did as well. He pulled his helmet off; he was laughing.
“Sally, Sally,” he said, coming toward me. I took my helmet off. “How you surprised me. I haven’t seen anyone attempt that in years. Where did you learn it, my goodness?”
“Years ago,” I said, trying not to sound too pleased with myself. He patted my upper arm.
“Well done, my dear, that was very resourceful. Although you realize it is an uncertain maneuver to use in competition. And, in some cases, you realize your landing on your knee would count against you?”
“I got tired of never getting a touch,” I said happily.
“Of course you did; why else do you think I never let up on you? Now, I let you go early. Go have your shower. You have done well.”
Absolutely pleased with myself, I walked away from him, pulling the net and pins out of my hair and tossing them into my helmet. I had finally had my hair cut, although I still pinned it back for fencing. I was running my fingers through it, fluffing out the curl, when I saw Heydrich, like a shadow, standing at the entrance to the dressing rooms.
I stopped, smiling at him. I couldn’t help it. I felt so triumphant at my accomplishment. He stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest, his cap shadowing his face. He smiled back at me, not much more than a tightening of his cheek muscles, his mouth curving slightly up toward his cheekbones.
“Did you see?” I asked, my pleasure with myself overcoming my surprise at his presence.
“I did,” he said, speaking English to me as he always did. “It was well done, and a complete surprise. In a competition, you would have so surprised your competitor, he would be rattled and possibly make mistakes. An excellent tactical move. You are doing well here,” he added, stating a fact.
I nodded. “Thank you for recommending it to me. And what are you doing here?” I asked, finally thinking about something other than my touch.
“This is my fencing salle, as well,” he said. “You know the SS has fencing clubs?” I didn’t, but I nodded. “We work in another hall, a larger one, a gymnasium.” He chose the word carefully, and continued, “But I like to come here for individual work.”
“You have a lesson now?” I said.
“Yes, and I had better go change.” He turned away, then stopped and came back. “I nearly forgot. I had a reason for seeing you.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a buff-colored envelope. “This is for you. From my wife.”
He smiled. Another one of those tight smiles. “And from me, as well,” he said, handing me the envelope between his index and third finger. “I see you took my advice—your hair. It looks very—”
Just then, Horst came through the door that led to the office. Seeing Heydrich, he immediately stopped and saluted, his arm straight out. Heydrich returned the salute in that less strenuous manner I had seen him use before, a quick bend of the elbow, his palm facing the other man.
“A moment, Obersturmfuhrer,” Heydrich said. “Good day, Sally.” His mouth almost made a smile and then he walked briskly along the corridor, past Horst, who stood holding the door open. I stared after the two of them as the door closed. Horst—what was his last name?—was an SS officer, a lieutenant? It had never occurred to me that Horst might also be in the SS. And the thought led me to wonder if Heydrich had done anything about finding Christian.
Inside the dressing room, I opened the envelope. It was an invitation to a musical evening. Lina Heydrich had written it out by hand, her writing loopy and round. For a moment, the musical part confused me and then I remembered that the colonel played the violin. I wondered if he was any good.
I didn’t really know if I wanted to get any closer to him or to his wife, but I couldn’t deny that he interested me a great deal and I found his attention very flattering. Flattering and a little frightening.
I’d accept their invitation, out of curiosity if nothing else. At least, I’d get a chance to ask him about Christian.
OUTSIDE, DAVID WOHL was waiting with a taxi, as he had the weeks before. We went to Luigi’s. It had become our usual practice, and the headwaiter, Luigi’s brother Mario, recognized us and gave us the same table under a really bad mural of the Roman Forum. I sat back in the chair while David placed our orders, which were always the same, beer and steaks, and thought how lucky I was to have met two such different, interesting men. David was more comfortable, but, I thought, smiling, perhaps more dangerous. He turned and saw my smile.
“What’s that about?” he asked.
I shook my head, embarrassed at being caught with such thoughts in my mind. I would have liked to talk to David about them, about Heydrich too, but I sensed that I couldn’t.
I was twenty years old and I had never had a real boyfriend. Most of the girls I’d known in college were engaged, and many of them had been going steady with boys for at least a year. That didn’t mean they were no longer virgins, but in midnight conversations in the kitchen of the sorority house, hints had been dropped about this and that. The consensus seemed to be that the boys wanted it badly and would take whatever they could get, but once they got it, they never look at you again.
When I thought about my future, I imagined I would marry, although I did not view the prospect with any real excitement. But what else would I do? At least I knew that before I took that step I wanted something else. A great love affair, some drama, I wanted to be swept away. I wanted to feel passion, even to be hurt, and then I’d settle down to a nice, quiet life somewhere in the States.
An affair with a married man would, of course, fulfill all those requirements, but even in twenty-year-old naiveté, I realized Heydrich was not a proper prospect. David, on the other hand, was a boy to marry, although I wasn’t sure my father would agree. I looked at David across the table and wondered if he would kiss me again and if his kiss would stir me.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, “you look pretty tonight. What gives?” I laughed at him. “Thanks a lot, fellow,” I said and told him about my touch. I did not tell him about Heydrich’s invitation.
I had to tell my father, though, at breakfast the next morning. He studied the invitation, read it, then turned it over as though there might be an additional message on the back. His eyes met mine across the breakfast tab
le. He looked tired to me, although he was as neat and well groomed as ever.
“The Heydrichs,” he said. He was silent for a moment, thinking, then looked at me. “What do you think, Sally? Do you want to go?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Daddy. They aren’t really the kind of people I’d like to be friends with. I have nothing in common with them. Except for fencing, of course. Maybe Frau Heydrich feels she ought to have me over because of that. I think it would be interesting to go. I certainly don’t think it will be fun.”
“He is an important man,” he said, and handing me back the invitation, picked up his day-old copy of the London Times. “And will be more so. Since we are guests in his country, I suppose it wouldn’t do to insult him, but I wouldn’t become too friendly.”
I attacked my grapefruit, flattered again that my father was willing to trust me. I did feel just a bit sorry that he hadn’t refused me permission. I really didn’t want to spend an evening with Lina Heydrich, and I had no interest in listening to amateur violin music. The violin had never been my favorite instrument. Well, now that you’re a grownup, I told myself, you should do things to broaden yourself.
The invitation reminded me of my own music, neglected for so long, and after breakfast I went into the morning room and opened the little grand piano I had rented. I had never played it before, but I was pleased with it and had a good practice session.
A MUSICAL EVENING AT HOME
DO YOU LIKE the kitten, Fraulein?” asked Paul. He was three years old, a sturdy, towheaded, solemn boy. He had been brought into the Heydrichs’ drawing room to meet me before being taken off to bed. The kitten in question, a little ball of black-and-white fluff, filled the child’s arms.
“He’s very nice,” I said, going down to their level. “May I pet him?
The Last Innocent Hour Page 22