The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  “Yes.”

  “Not placing borders or restrictions on your activities. Not asking after you or demanding reports of where you were and with whom. In short, I have trusted you, have I not?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not blame you. I blame myself. For my lack of knowledge about you. I did not realize how inexperienced of the world you are. How innocent of the darker aspects of men’s behavior.”

  “Funny, David Wohl said something like that to me last night.”

  “Did he? He is a bright young man that is obvious. A young man I would have been pleased to have as a student. But, like many of his kind, he is impetuous and politically romantic, espousing radical causes. Added to this is the fact that he is a newspaper reporter from a third-rate New York paper, and I think you can see how he is not a suitable companion for the daughter of the Ambassador of the United States.”

  “Are you telling me not to see him any longer?”

  “No, but I wish you would not see him alone. That you would not single him out for attention. I fear for your reputation.”

  “And you don’t mind if I spend evenings with the Heydrichs?”

  “Yes, I do. I was coming to that. It amazes me that you have taken up with such disparate people. And now young Mayr.”

  “Daddy,” I said, trying to stay calm, knowing emotionalism would make him discount anything I said. “I will not stop seeing David Wohl. You will just have to trust me that I will not run away and marry him or cause a great scandal that will embarrass you and the President.” I stood up.

  “What I would like to know is why you don’t forbid me the company of the Heydrichs.”

  “I would prefer that you not see them.”

  “All right. I won’t. Although I hope you will let me taper off. I don’t want to be rude.”

  He looked at me a long time, then stood and pulled out his pocket watch, opened it, and read the time. “I believe it is time to change.” He snapped the cover of the watch shut. “Very well, my dear, I will trust you this much farther. I think you understand my concern.”

  “Oh, yes, Father, I do,” I said, and left the room.

  I was angry with his strictures, but I thought I might be able to get around them. All I had to do was make sure there were lots of people around when David and I were together. Besides, the fact that Heydrich had not talked to Christian about me when he had said he had, made me distrust him. I would miss the music, but it would not be too distressing to allow that relationship to wither. Still, I felt bleak. Here I had met all of these interesting people and my father was going to force me to spend all my time with the likes of Mrs. Bushmuller. Damn.

  After dinner that evening, Sydney invited me to go with a small group of people, who were taking Ivor Novello—as charming a man as he was handsome—to a new club.

  We were a party of eight and when we were being shown to our table, I dropped my purse. I bent down for it, but a man quickly picked it up for me. When I straightened up, I saw it was an SS officer. He bowed and clicked his heels as he handed me the purse, his eyes frankly appreciating my bare shoulders. I thanked him, and went to take my seat at our table.

  Someone made a joke about him. We all laughed and forgot about the incident. The club was very elegant, although it was done in that ocean-liner style the National Socialists seemed to like. But the scale was small and intimate, the lighting low, and the service efficient.

  Later, I excused myself and made my way through the tables to the ladies’ room. I was thinking about Ivor Novello and how he had played and sung after dinner with such casual ease, most of his attention on us, as though his piano accompaniment were an afterthought. I wished I could be as nonchalant a musician.

  “Sally.”

  I gasped, startled. Christian, in his uniform, stood in the little foyer of the club. “Hello. I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Nor I, you. What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “He’s accompanying me,” said Heydrich, coming up behind Christian. “Good evening, Sally. What a pleasant surprise. Won’t you join us? We’d love to have a pretty girl along, wouldn’t we, Mayr?” Then he reached out and, before I could move, slid his index finger along the rim of the wide collar of my dress, across the top of my breasts. I backed up, shocked and embarrassed.

  “I’m sure Miss Jackson is with a party, sir,” said Christian, his face as unmovable as granite, all hard planes and angles.

  Heydrich, who I realized was drunk, stared at me, perhaps considering whether to argue or not. Fortunately, he straightened up, bowed to me and said, “Of course, Sally, of course. I should have known. Come, Mayr, where’s our table? We’ll have to find some other female companions. Perhaps at Missy’s.”

  He stopped and turned to face me as he said this. “You have heard of Missy’s, my dear Sally?”

  I knew at once he was speaking of the place where I had seen him drunk on the stairs on Thanksgiving. “Never, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer. Never.” I don’t know why I used his German title; perhaps to distance myself from him even further than by my courtesy, which I hoped was cold enough to make him go away.

  “Ah, too bad. Perhaps Mayr will . . . no, of course not. He’s too much of a prig, is he not?”

  The word I had used on the telephone to David. I lifted my chin, smiled at the general, and turned and swiftly kissed Christian’s cheek.

  “Yes, he is,” I said, smiling at my old friend. “He’s always been. I don’t mind. It makes it easy to tease him.”

  “Hard to bed him, though. But, there it is. Good evening, Sally.” And he turned and walked away, stopping a few yards away to call out in a low voice: “Mayr.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Christian, taking my hand, as he moved in the direction of the voice. “He’s drinking too much again.” He walked backward so that he could talk to me, our arms stretching out between us.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m his nurse this week. To be sure he doesn’t kill himself. Or someone.”

  “Poor you.”

  “Yes. Nice to see you, though.” Our arms were at full length, our fingers still entwined.

  “Mayr!” came the icy high voice again. Christian grimaced and let go of my hand, turning to follow, and then turning back. “Want to go for a drive tomorrow?”

  I nodded. “Good. I’ll come by around noon. Take you to lunch, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You do look beautiful.” He smiled at me and then turned and was gone. I watched him weave his way through the tables to where Heydrich and the other SS officers were seated, to the right of the little bandstand, behind a column. Poor Christian, having to shepherd Heydrich around town like that. And I wondered if he would have to follow him to Missy’s. I frowned. I didn’t like the idea of my old friend in such a place.

  A CHANGE OF PLANS

  THE NEXT DAY Christian drove me to an old inn, deep in the Grunewald, the huge wild park sprawling through western Berlin and Spandau. He turned up in a little yellow car, a British MG, with the top down.

  “Do you mind?” he asked, and I shook my head. The day was nice, warm for the first time that spring.

  He drove very fast, especially on the roads inside the woods, keeping one hand lightly on the steering wheel, the other resting on the side of the car. He looked very happy piloting his little car, which was old and slightly battered, through the shadows under the trees.

  “Is this yours?” I asked, indicating the car.

  “Bought her from a friend.”

  I asked him a few more questions and he answered me with short, almost curt replies, so I stopped. If he didn’t want to talk, I wouldn’t force him, and I spent the drive watching the scenery pass.

  We stopped at an inn and had a huge delicious lunch—pork chops and apple sauce, with chunks of apple in it, and more apples in the cake afterward. We ate everything and he seemed more relaxed. We talked about our summers at the lake, skirting any mention of his father. He brought up his brother
, Kurt, but carefully avoided any reference to Herr Doktor Mayr. Still, we had fun remembering the old days, our shared childhoods, the icy water and the hot sun.

  During coffee, Christian apologized for Heydrich again.

  “Does he get so drunk very often?” I asked.

  “More now than before.”

  “And you, the men who work for him, you shepherd him around?”

  “He expects us to.”

  “It must be hard.”

  “Yes.” I waited, but he didn’t say anything more. We sat in silence again, this one touched with a sense of anticipation.

  “Missy’s is a funny name for that place,” I said, lifting my coffee cup to my lips. It was a wide cup, of fine, thin china.

  “How do you know about it?” I sensed a tension in him as he asked me the question, as though he were afraid of my answer. Quickly, I told him about my Thanksgiving foray into the Berlin nightclubs. I considered whether I should tell him about catching sight of Heydrich and decided to, omitting, however, my whispered conversation with the woman.

  “Have you been there?” I asked, and, to my surprise, Christian blushed. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—” I stopped and considered. “Well, yes, I do. Have you? Tell me.”

  “Yes.” He set his coffee cup carefully into its saucer. “Following the general around. Sally, it’s not a subject for conversation. And besides, it is too private.”

  “You have, haven’t you?”

  “There. You see, you do not want to know the truth. Come, on, let’s take a short walk,” he said, reaching across the table for my hand.

  After he paid the bill, we walked outside to a flagstone path until we came to a low wall. We stopped and, without a word, sat side by side on the wall, turning our faces to the sun. He did not touch me, his hands in his pockets, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. And, as before, he was silent.

  It was all right. His company was enough and I sensed he felt the same about me. It was restful to sit in silence, in the sun, with Christian next to me. I yawned and stretched my arms.

  “Perfect time for a nap. I wish I were a cat and could curl up right here.” He nodded lethargically.

  “We’d better get back,” he said after a while.

  In the lobby of the inn, the innkeeper asked if we were staying.

  “No, we are not,” Christian said firmly, a faint expression of disapproval on his face.

  MY FATHER CAME out of his study as I entered the house with Christian behind me.

  “Hello, Daddy,” I said cheerily. “Good. I wanted you two to meet again. Christian, you remember my father, Lowell Jackson. Daddy, it’s Christian Mayr.”

  The men shook hands and seemed genuinely pleased to see each other. I could see Daddy’s cold politeness warm into pleasure.

  “My boy,” he said, “Sally told me of your encounter. I am glad to see you again myself.”

  “Is it time for tea?” I asked. “Or cocktails?”

  “Dinner, I think,” said my father.

  “Oh, my goodness, you’re right. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  “Frau Brenner was concerned.”

  “It was my fault, sir,” said Christian. “I took Sally to lunch at an inn in the Grunewald.” And he named the place, letting my father know all was open and honest between us. “I am sorry. It took longer than I expected to get back. The traffic.”

  “Of course. Well, no harm done. Why don’t you stay and have dinner with us.”

  “Thank you. I would like that.” Christian smiled at my father, then at me.

  At dinner, and after, we talked of the past. The safe, happy, rosy past, adroitly avoiding present politics, the deaths in both our families, all the unhappy subjects. I was pleased that my father and Christian seemed to be enjoying each other’s company.

  “I do hope we will see you again, my boy,” said my father, as the three of us walked to the front door where Vittorio stood with Christian’s coat and hat.

  “Thank you, sir. Good night, Sally.” Christian kissed my cheek, and took his hat and coat from Vittorio.

  “You understand, sir,” he said seriously. “I am very interested in your daughter.”

  My father, surprised by the blunt statement, merely nodded, a bemused expression on his face. Just as surprised, I just stared at Christian stupidly.

  “Good,” continued Christian, looking at me. “I just wanted to be clear about that.” Then he grinned at me, put on his coat and hat, and was gone before I could say a word.

  “How long has this been going on?” asked my father mildly.

  “He just made it up. Nothing’s been going on. He’s got a swelled head, thinking I would just—there’s nothing going on, Daddy.”

  “I see,” he said, and without another word, went off to his study.

  The next morning, we met at breakfast. We were going to a reception and dance at the French embassy that evening and I had an appointment with the hairdresser.

  “I liked young Mayr,” said my father.

  I nodded. I had decided that Christian needed a good talking to. He needed to be told that some girls just wouldn’t fall into his arms when he snapped his fingers and bought them lunch. I guessed that because he was so damned handsome, he was used to girls’ doing that, but I had decided that this girl wasn’t going to.

  Still, and I wouldn’t have admitted this to anyone, I was very pleased at his forthright announcement. I was glad that he was interested in me, after the coldness of our first meeting. In short, I thought about Christian as a normal boyfriend, as though we lived in the States and he were simply a friend of Eddie’s or the boy next door.

  My father brought me back to reality.

  “He’s in the SS.” Overnight, somehow, Daddy had done his research on Christian.

  “Yes.”

  “You knew that.”

  “Yes,” I answered, on the defensive. Daddy buttered his toast, the sound of his knife across the dry toast almost deafening in the sudden silence of the dining room.

  “He seems to work in an office, in intelligence. For General Heydrich.” Carefully, my father put the knife down and, after a small pause, the toast. He picked up his napkin and wiped his fingers, then sat back in his chair. He was going to tell me not to see Christian.

  I folded my hands together in my lap, and met my father’s gaze. I had won the fight over David; I could win this one.

  “I think,” he said, “you ought to ask him to accompany you to the reception this evening. And then, I think, you ought to tell him that you are going away for a while.”

  “Going away? Going away where?”

  “The States. I need to go to Washington. Edward will be in Newport during May and we can see him. Maybe take a house nearby for the summer.”

  “When?”

  “We’ll leave in two weeks—actually, ten days. I’ve asked Bancroft to make the arrangements. We can sail from Le Havre. You will want to do some shopping in Paris before that.”

  “Then, later? After the States?”

  “A well-deserved holiday. We’ll go to Italy, as I mentioned before.” Maybe he had. I didn’t remember. “And I would like to go to Prague and Budapest, cities I’ve always wanted to visit. I’ve heard they are quite unique. Beautiful.”

  It was a bribe. The shopping, the chance to see Eddie, a house on the beach, Paris, Budapest, Italy. I frowned. “Daddy,” I began, wanting to argue, but I looked into his eyes and fell silent.

  I saw how much he wanted me to accept this plan and I saw something else. That he was afraid I would fight him and let this develop into something ugly.

  I bent my head. Maybe he was right. Maybe it would be better to stop before I really fell in love with Christian. I hadn’t thought through the consequences, and it occurred to me, with a flash of sadness, that my father had.

  “Do you really have to go to the States?” I asked. “Or is this an excuse?”

  “I do. I have written to the President about this new government. Ho
w I have been having conversations with men from various countries, sounding them out, trying to see how the rest of Europe feels about the new Germany—which side they will be on when Hitler leads them all into war. But it is delicate information to send through even our most secure methods. I need to see FDR in person. It is important that he fully understands what I believe this government is doing. Last night, I actually spoke to him by telephone and he agrees. And, while I am there, I will also be meeting with other men in the government, the military, and so on. And, of course, the Secretary.

  “My dear, this is important and I would go regardless of personal circumstances, but I would probably not leave until June in order to appear to be merely spending our well-deserved holiday time. But I will also tell you that, however much I like this young man, I cannot allow you to become involved with him. I can only hope that you will understand.”

  “I do understand, Daddy. All right. I’ll do as you ask. I’d like to see Eddie. And be in the States for a while. When would we be back? Can you stay away that long?”

  “I would only be gone a month or two. But you might also rent a house in Italy in July and August, if you like, or even on Lake Sebastian. During the warm months. At any rate, you would be gone until September. I would come and go as I saw the need.”

  September. It was the first of April now. I’d be gone six months. Time enough to forget. September. Well, it wasn’t the first time I had left a place I liked, friends. Christian.

  “All right, Daddy. It sounds fine. Just fine. I’d better go now. I have plans to make. Telephone calls.” I hurried from the dining room.

  I CAME DOWN the stairs that evening to find Christian, in his silver-and-black dress uniform, waiting for me. He wore slacks and dress shoes, not jodhpurs and boots.

  “Thanks for making it on such short notice,” I said, holding out my hand.

  He took it and leaned toward me to kiss my cheek. I moved my head out of his range and removed my hand from his.

  “You take a lot for granted, Christian.”

  His face went blank and he nodded once, but he recovered quickly and smiled at me. “You have a closet of these ball gowns?” he asked, teasing, back on our old terms.