The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  “I’ll say. But I’d rather be doing it than watching.”

  He laughed and put a hand on my shoulder as we walked to the stairs. “Yes, of course, I knew you would feel that way. We should fence someday.” He moved his hand, caressing my shoulder and my back, but dropped his hand before I could politely move away.

  And truthfully, I don’t know if I wanted to move away from him. I was very impressed by the fierceness of his fencing, as I had been impressed by his playing. I also liked him like this, red-faced and with his hair ruffled. And so I made him laugh again by saying: “Of course. It would be an honor to beat you, General.” And that was how we parted.

  THANKSGIVING IN BERLIN

  ON THANKSGIVING DAY, my father and I hosted a dinner for the American staff of the embassy and for a dozen or so other Americans living or passing through Berlin. We had turkey and cranberry sauce and yams and pumpkin pies, and after a slow start, the younger guests overcame their self-consciousness in the face of my father’s staid manner. When the turkey had been picked clean and the older guests were leaving, several of the younger staff suggested we all go find somewhere to dance.

  We appointed a tall, thin fellow named James, the naval attaché, as a guide. He took us to two nightclubs, both fairly ordinary, although there was a very good pianist in the second, playing Cole Porter and Rodgers and Hart.

  “Come on, James,” Kay, one of the girls, said, “this is deadly. Let’s go somewhere exciting.” She was married to one of the military men with us.

  James, all shiny black hair and elegantly tailored evening suit, raised one eyebrow. “Are you all sure?” And when we confirmed our willingness to be led, he took us on an extraordinary tour of what was left of the fabled decadent nightlife of the Berlin of the twenties. The Nazis were doing their best to rid the capital, which was condemned throughout Germany for its evil ways, of these picturesque spots, but in the last months of 1933, the older, evil ways had yet to be entirely replaced by newer ones—if you knew where to look for them.

  The last place James took us is the one I remember particularly. I think James saved it, working us up to it. It was on the second floor of a nondescript building. The staircase was dimly lit with a green light and the walls were covered with an embossed velvet paper. Green, too, I think, although it was hard to tell in the light. Everything looked green, even our skin. It was hideous, but we all giggled and made silly jokes as we stumbled up the stairs. By that time, we were pretty giddy from drink and the things we had seen.

  “Halt!” said a voice. Before us on the tiny landing stood a large creature, a man, it seemed. It was hard to tell, as he was wearing a nun’s habit.

  Kay, who was in front of me, burst out laughing, and instantly we were all in hysterics. He seemed quite funny looking at first glance, although, when I dared to look again, he actually was more sinister-looking than funny, with manicured nails and rouged cheeks.

  “He looks like Hermann,” whispered one of the men, and he was right. The nun did look like Goring, although of course none of us had ever seen the Reich Air Minister in a nun’s habit.

  We all started giggling again and James rounded on us, shushing us energetically.

  “Shut up, all of you. He won’t let us in.”

  But the nun held the door and we filed past him, controlling our giggles successfully. Once we were in the anteroom, the nun brushed past us to pull a velvet cord.

  The eight of us, five men and three girls, looked around as we waited. The place was decorated in the style of the nineteenth century, with dark-paneled walls, velvet wallpaper, and elaborate wall sconces.

  “It looks like a whorehouse in Tombstone,” said someone in a Western drawl.

  “Yeah,” agreed another. “Where’s Bill Hart when you need him?”

  “Gentlemen—and ladies,” said a voice and we turned. A woman dressed in a beautiful evening gown had entered the room. She was very beautiful, with deep-red hair and huge diamond earrings. Her dress was exquisite, a complicated spiral of silver-and-black beading with a spider web across the back. She spoke German but instantly switched to English when told of our nationality.

  “We welcome Americans. We have entertained your countrymen before, but never, I believe, your countrywomen.” She bowed her head in the direction of us girls. We had instinctually grouped together when she entered, as though the three of us had to defend ourselves against her superior beauty and style. “Now, what may we offer you?” We all looked at her blankly. I glanced at James. He was trying not to smirk too broadly. “Champagne, perhaps, while you look over our offerings?”

  “Champagne,” agreed James.

  The woman turned and left the room, and we were instantly after James to tell us what was going on.

  “It is a whorehouse, isn’t it?” Kay’s husband asked. His wife moved closer to him and he put his arm around her shoulders.

  “My God, man,” exclaimed an attaché who resembled Calvin Coolidge, even to the rimless eyeglasses. “We have women with us.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about us,” Jackie, the third girl, said. “We’ll be all right.”

  Kay and I laughed, agreeing with her, but I am sure we both felt the same deep apprehension.

  “Good girls,” said James. “Don’t worry, we won’t let it go too far. But just think of the stories you can tell your grandchildren.”

  “I’m just worried about the stories we might have to tell Ambassador Jackson,” said Calvin Coolidge.

  “Simmer down, we’ll have some champagne and leave,” Kay’s husband said.

  “Ladies, gentlemen.” A girl, no older than thirteen or fourteen, called from the doorway. She wore a simple sleeveless dress with a pale satin bodice and a skirt of tulle. It looked like a nineteenth-century ballet costume; she reminded me of a Degas dancer. Her brown hair was arranged in a single braid that hung down her back. She was very pretty. With a smile she led us into another room and left.

  This room also was furnished as a nineteenth-century parlor, and on a large table in the center were four bottles of champagne, kept cool in two silver buckets. James did the honors and we all gratefully drank down our first glass and asked for more.

  The young girl returned with a tray of snacks: red and black caviar and toast, salmon, strawberries, bonbons. She set the tray on the table and offered the different plates around.

  Then an extraordinary thing happened. A nun, a real woman this time, rushed into the room and headed straight for the girl, who turned to face her, fear and apprehension on her pretty face.

  “What did I tell you?” the nun snapped in French. “Didn’t I forbid you this room? Didn’t I? Have you disobeyed me again? Answer me, you evil child!” And she hit the girl across her face. Hit her so hard, that the girl spun around and landed against a chair.

  “My God,” exclaimed Calvin, and he and the other men took a step forward.

  “Please, gentlemen,” the nun said, switching to English. “Please, you do not understand. Do not interfere. This child is not as she seems.” She went to the girl and pulled her head up. “She appears to be so good, so pure. A child, untouched and perfect.” She caressed the girl’s face, her thumbs moving gently across the child’s cheeks. “But in reality, she is corrupt and stupid. Oh, don’t waste your pity on her, gentlemen, she is quite undeserving of it.” She dug her fingers into the girl’s face.

  “She is not worthy of the smallest mercy. Isn’t that so?” She shook the girl’s head.

  “Yes, Sister,” whispered the girl, in a small, frightened voice.

  “Madam, please—” said one of the men.

  “Hell,” cried the nun, stopping him in his tracks. “Hell is where this evil creature is going. It is only fear for my own mortal soul that keeps me from sending her.” She had let go of the girl, who immediately jumped away. The sister grabbed the girl’s braid and hauled her back, yanking so hard that tears came to the girl’s eyes.

  I winced and must have made a noise because the nun turned her a
ttention to me.

  “Don’t pity her. Don’t. Look at her,” she said, pushing the girl to face me, ripping her bodice, uncovering the pale small breasts. “She looks innocent, but you know looks are deceiving. She has sinned and she must be punished.” She threw the girl to the floor and, from her robes, pulled a small white, knotted cord. She brought the cord down across the girl’s back and shoulders, raising a welt, a darker pink than the child’s skin.

  One of my companions gasped. I heard them move, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl, bent and whimpering on the floor, the vertebrae showing through the thin skin where her shoulders and neck met. Several strands of brown hair lay across the skin and I almost reached out to stroke them away. Perhaps sensing my attention, she turned her face to me.

  “Please, Fraulein,” she whispered, her eyes bright with tears. I felt my throat constrict sympathetically, felt contradictory emotions, felt I wanted to stop her stupid tears, her stupid helplessness. Then, with a gesture both graceful and pathetic, she held her hand out to me, palm up. And in that perfect gesture, I knew it was all a charade. That she had been deceiving us all.

  I laughed. As I had at the art gallery, only here, after a turkey dinner, dancing, drinks, and caviar, I threw my head back and laughed out loud.

  “Sally.”

  “Really, for heaven’s sakes.”

  “What the—”

  “Oh, can’t you see, all of you,” I said, collapsing on a chair. “It’s all theater. How absolutely silly.” I leaned down toward the girl, who still crouched on the floor. “Oh, I didn’t mean to insult you. Do you speak English?” I switched to German. “You are a good actress. Both of you. But what a silly play. I think you’ve got us all wrong.”

  The girl got up, arms akimbo, looking quite upset. One of the men handed her a glass of champagne and another gave one to the nun, who had visibly changed character.

  The woman in the silver dress glided into the room. She spoke to James, who shrugged, and seemed to be explaining what had happened. They both turned to look at me, and she came over.

  “Fraulein Jackson, we have amused you?”

  “I am sorry if I spoiled things.”

  “Don’t apologize. We allow our guests nearly every mood and reaction. Even humor.”

  “Thank you. You’re very gracious.”

  She smiled down at me. “May I bring you some more champagne?”

  “Oh, no, thank you, I’m fine.” I felt acutely embarrassed at the idea that this elegant woman should wait on me. She was so cool and composed, every shining hair in place, her makeup discreet and tasteful. She turned to speak to the two actresses and I watched the diamond earring sparkle against her skin, fascinated by the light against her cheek. She turned back toward me and arched an eyebrow, questioning. She did not look as though it was four in the morning. I imagined that I did.

  “Fraulein,” she murmured, “can I help you in any way?”

  “Oh. No. Thank you.” I took a step away from her. She almost smiled.

  “Yes. Is there . . . ?” I stopped. “I would like . . .” I gestured toward my face and hair.

  She understood immediately. “Of course. Come with me.” And she led me from the room.

  I turned back to touch Calvin’s arm. “Don’t you guys leave without me.”

  We went down a short, dimly lit hall, through a curtain of tinkling crystal beads and stopped in front of a door. I glanced around the hall, which was plainer than the one on the other side of the beads, more utilitarian.

  “Fraulein,” said my guide, after opening the door to reveal a thoroughly modern bathroom, gleaming with white porcelain and silver chrome. “If I may say something . . .” She paused and I nodded, curious to hear what she had to say. “It has been my experience that people often laugh when they are not amused, but are nervous, uncomfortable, or frightened. Do you suppose this might be the explanation for your behavior?” She stood very close to me. I could smell her dusting powder and see the texture of her skin, dull and pale, like pale-pink velvet. Her mouth was pale too, as though her lipstick had worn off her large lips. I took a step back, turning slightly, my heart pounding unaccountably.

  “I’ve offended you?” she said. She spoke softly, warmly. “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t know what to say and I smiled halfheartedly and retreated into the bathroom. When I came out, she was gone and I returned to the parlor. We left shortly after that, pausing in the smaller anteroom while James paid the bill, which was exorbitant. The elegant woman handled the practical side as smoothly as the rest of our visit, handing the money to an assistant and engaging James in conversation. At some point, two women came into the room carrying our coats. Two of the men in our party engaged them in conversation. I studied the two girls, wondering if they were actually prostitutes, but decided they weren’t.

  I wandered to the door to the outside hall, where the man/nun had been, and cracked it open. There was another door on the other side of the small landing, and as I watched, two men came out of it and started down the stairs. They were in civilian clothing, with heavy overcoats and soft-brimmed hats on their heads.

  One of the men stumbled and the other one paused to be sure he was all right. While the clumsy man was righting himself, waving the other impatiently away, he turned to face the door and looked right into my face. It was Reinhard Heydrich. And he was very, very drunk. I could see it in his slackened features, the way his heavy eyelids hung over his eyes, the looseness of his posture. I barely recognized him.

  We stared at each other for an interminable second, until I jerked out of sight behind the door. I heard the two men continue down the stairs and I hoped fervently that Heydrich had been too drunk to recognize me. But somehow, although I had not known him long, I suspected that he would never get that drunk.

  The elegant hostess came up to me with my coat and held it out for me to slip into. I did so, although it made me very uncomfortable to be so close to her. She let her hands linger on my shoulders. I could smell her perfume and, underneath it, her.

  “Do you know him?” she asked quietly in German.

  I turned my head quickly to meet her eyes. “He comes here often,” she said. I nodded as though I understood everything that was going on. I was still more concerned about the fact that Heydrich had seen me here. What would he think of me?

  “Ready, Sally?” said James, coming up behind me.

  Our party bustled out, more subdued than we had arrived, but generally satisfied with the foray into Berlin’s nightlife. As I left, the hostess stopped me again.

  “Listen,” she said. “You stay away from him. I’ll tell you something and you must promise never to breathe a syllable of this to anyone.” I nodded again. She came closer and said, her mouth almost touching my ear, her breath warm and lush against my face: “It is hard to find a girl who will go with him. Do you understand? He hurts them. No one wants to go with him, no matter how much money he pays.”

  “Why let him?” I whispered.

  “He is very powerful and very, very dangerous. Do you understand? Now, go on, your friends are waiting.”

  I looked around; everyone was gone. I could hear them down the stairs and I hurried after them without saying anything to the woman, frightened by her, frightened by being alone with her, by what she had said, by how I had felt.

  THREE DAYS AFTER the visit to the fancy whorehouse I ran into Lina Heydrich in a hat boutique of the K’damm. I was alone, having a great deal of fun trying to find a hat that would set off my shorter hairstyle.

  I had on a navy felt with a shiny black feather coiled along and over one side that I liked very much. I turned my head from side to side, judging the effect. And saw Lina across the shop.

  She waved energetically at me and I raised my hand. As she started toward me, all I could think of was whether Heydrich “hurt” her. Although I did not know what that actually meant, I could imagine, but I tried not to as I rose to greet her.

  “What a cunning li
ttle hat,” she said. “It suits you, my dear.”

  “Do you think so?” I turned to look at myself in the mirror. Lina leaned down to do the same.

  “Yes, of course. It looks like you, too.” She laughed. “I am being so presumptuous, I know, but there it is. It looks like you.”

  “Well, in that case,” I said, taking off the hat and handing it to the hovering salesgirl.

  “I just came in here to look, you know. Oh, not that Reinhard isn’t generous, but although his job is prestigious and important, he doesn’t get paid very much. Last month we had to borrow money from my parents, and you can imagine how embarrassing that was. I hope you don’t mind my telling you this?”

  “I never suspected,” I said, trying to hide how embarrassed I was. “Your house is so comfortable.”

  “Thank you, my dear. That is encouraging to hear. Now, are you going to look at another hat? Oh, look at that one, isn’t it pretty?”

  I tried on a few more hats, trying to keep the conversation impersonal. I wished she hadn’t told me about their financial situation. I hated knowing it, because it meant that either she was lying to me or he was lying to her. James had told us how expensive that “house” we visited was. And “hurting” girls who didn’t want to go with him must cost Heydrich a great deal, too. I hated all of this.

  I asked the salesgirl to send the hat as I paid for it. While we waited for my change, I told Lina about the fencing tournament, and although she was obviously proud of her husband, she confessed that she really didn’t like watching him fence.

  “Did you know he gets up five every morning and practices for an hour? But he does look dashing in his jacket, doesn’t he?” Without waiting for a reply, she went on. “Dear Sally, I know most wives would be jealous of a friendship between their husbands and a girl like you. You are so . . . so independent. So free.”

  “I’m not really. Not at all.”