The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  “I do. It’s my job, you know. How do you like it?”

  “It is pretty.”

  “Did you like the black-and-white one I wore the other night?”

  “It was very sophisticated. But I liked the one you wore at Christmas. The burgundy one.”

  “I’m surprised you remember.”

  “Of course. The dress you’re wearing now reminds me of the one you wore when we went dancing at the lake.”

  The dress was pale, pale-pink satin, with large organza sleeves and a full, bias-cut skirt. It had a small collar embroidered with pearls and made me look very sweet and innocent. I had chosen it in anger.

  “But,” continued Christian, taking a step closer to me, “the burgundy dress made your hair look very dark and your skin glow. You looked beautiful, which surprised me, because I did not remember you as beautiful. Pretty, yes, but not beautiful. In this dress, you are pretty again.” He smiled at me. “I do not mind, you understand.”

  “I do,” I laughed. “I think.”

  The dress proved to be a good dancing dress too, although Christian teased me about the large sleeves. We danced a great deal. He was a good dancer, much better than the last time we had danced. Now he was taller, stronger, more sure of himself. He must have danced with many women to be so. That was all right too.

  “Christian,” I said, after dancing for a while, “I’ve got to talk to you. I’ve got something to tell you.” Slipping my hand into his, I led him to a small sofa in the wide hall, far enough away from the other dancers to speak privately.

  I told him what Daddy was planning and I told him why, because of the SS, the politics. I had thought it through and I was calm and matter-of-fact. I don’t know what I expected him to do. I didn’t really know this grown-up Christian well enough to know how he would respond.

  He sat forward, his elbows on his knees, so that I couldn’t see his face. I studied the line of silver cord, the black fabric, the white shirt along his neck, below his hairline. His hair was short, but not shaved up the sides, Prussian-style, the way the enlisted SS-men wore it. I liked the way the curve of his hairline looked and had a sudden, almost irresistible urge to put my hand there, to feel the contrast between his skin and hair. I looked away.

  “We’re being parted again,” he said calmly. “It’s too soon, Sally. I didn’t expect this.”

  “It’s business, mostly. Daddy has to talk to the President.”

  “After Italy . . . then will you be back?” he asked, anger starting to surface in his voice.

  “I think so, but my father . . .”

  “What about you? Will you do as he asks?”

  “Yes, Christian.”

  “But you are a grown woman.”

  “What are you asking? That I defy my father? I could harm his career. He’d like me even less than he does.” I heard the hurt in my own voice.

  Christian sat back, one hand on the sofa between us. I looked down at it, at my own hand so close to it, but not daring to touch. “He sends—takes—you away because of me. Because I am SS.”

  “Yes.”

  “But this is not—” he began. I held my hand up to stop him.

  “Please, Christian, don’t,” I said gently. “Daddy is the ambassador. He stands for America and for the President who sent him. He can’t let me see you—because of the SS, but especially the SD.”

  “What do you think about that, my job?”

  I was silent for a moment before I answered him. “It is hard for me to separate what I think. I mean, you are you, aren’t you? In spite of what your job is.”

  An emotion flickered across his face, relief or gratitude or a mixture of them both. “I’m glad, Sally.”

  “But my father likes you, too, Christian. It’s just politics, his position.”

  “Not yours? You don’t believe as he does?”

  “Of course I do, but I don’t know enough. Daddy is a Democrat and I guess I am too. I just don’t know. He’s the ambassador, Christian. It’s the best thing that has happened to him since my mother died. He asked me to come, you see? I can’t. . .” My voice ran down and we sat a moment in silence.

  “I do see. But I think he wouldn’t approve of me regardless of what his job were. His feelings toward the government are well known. Oh, yes, Sally, it’s true. I’ve heard discussions. Everyone knows the American ambassador is a formidable opponent. Just last week—do you know about this?—a man, an American citizen born here, was arrested for something. Your father had to be talked out of going down to the Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse himself to get the fellow out of jail.”

  “I’d hadn’t heard that.” I couldn’t imagine my father storming into Gestapo headquarters. “They must be exaggerating.”

  “I heard it from a reliable source.” He stood up. “Want something to drink? Champagne?” I nodded, and as he went to find some, I thought about what he had told me.

  “Christian, what is your job?” I asked when he returned. “That you should hear such things about my father?”

  “I work in intelligence,” he said, sipping the champagne. “I can’t tell you much, Sally.”

  “Are you important?”

  “No. I write reports. I put facts together and write reports.”

  “That sounds important.”

  “No. I work in a big room with four other men. All the same rank.”

  “Obersturmfuhrer,” I said, remembering.

  “Lieutenant,” he translated.

  “Like my brother.”

  “No, navy ranks are different.”

  “You always said you didn’t want a military career.”

  “This isn’t. It is a civil service job. The SS is constructed like the military, but it is more.”

  “Do you question people? I mean”—I shrugged, trying to trivialize what I was asking him—“like police do. Ask criminals questions?”

  “No. I told you. I work with paper.”

  “Do you spy? Are you spying now?”

  “Against the French?”

  “Against me?” I said very softly.

  He smiled, the corners of his mouth curving slowly upward. He leaned forward and brushed my cheek and hair with his smiling mouth. “Yes, of course,” he breathed into my ear, his warm breath making me tremble.

  I shifted away from him. “Well, what does it matter? I’m leaving.” Why did he do that to me? Making me feel like that was useless. I suddenly felt such conflicting emotions: anger at him, pity for us, regret for myself, and disappointment at the lost chance. Here, I suspected, was a great romance. He was not as bright and witty as David, but I liked Christian’s solemnity, his grave expression, the flash in his blue eyes when he was angry, and, especially, the curve of his mouth when he smiled. And I couldn’t bear the idea of leaving him again.

  “Yes, I remember. You’re leaving,” he said. “I accept that there is nothing to be done here.”

  “Yes, there is,” I said, standing up, holding my hand out to him.

  “What?” He looked up at me apprehensively.

  “No, I’m not going to start a revolution. I just want to dance with you.”

  Without a word, he got up and, keeping my hand in his, walked with me back into the ballroom. There weren’t many dancers left and we turned and faced each other. I went into his arms, just as I had all those years ago, in my memories and dreams.

  We danced to a waltz, sweet and romantic, and we didn’t speak again of the future. Then he took me home, where my father left us alone. As soon as Daddy had disappeared up the staircase, Christian put his arms around me and kissed me. The heat of his hands on my back and waist seared through my dress. I thought I would cry and I lowered my face and hid it against his chest. He laid his hand along my cheek, letting me hide.

  “Sally,” he whispered, his mouth moving against my hair. It was a good-bye kiss, just as our first kiss, all those years ago, had been.

  I HAD SO much to do before we were to leave: packing, arranging for the house to be looke
d after, and, finally, letting people know we were going.

  I telephoned David and had a very unsatisfactory conversation with him. I was still embarrassed by my father’s attitude toward David, and by my own reaction, even though David knew nothing of it. I felt there was too much left unsaid between us, but he wished me a happy vacation and rang off.

  Sydney I met for coffee at her flat the day before I left. I had told her some of what had happened between Christian and me and she agreed that my father was right.

  “I wish he weren’t. It’s been so strange, Sydney. Everyone behaving so well. And I don’t know how I feel about Christian, so I don’t know how sad to be.”

  “If you stayed and fell in love with him, then what would you do? Marry an SS officer? You couldn’t, Sally.”

  “He’s not like that.”

  “Doesn’t matter, darling. He wears that uniform, the SD diamond on his sleeve. You just can’t have anything to do with him.”

  “Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. Can’t what? Nothing happened. We saw each other a few times. Nothing happened. We barely talked.”

  “Then count yourself lucky. You’re out of it unscathed.” I looked at her, cool and elegant in a gray sweater and skirt.

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Now, tell me about your trip to Italy. Brian and I are going this summer as well. We should arrange to meet you. You know, at noon on the twelfth of August, in front of the Fontana di Trevi. I’ll be the one in the big hat.”

  “I’ll be the one with my feet in the fountain,” I said, and we both laughed. I cheered up as we planned a rendezvous. It made me feel I was not cutting myself off from everyone I had met and cared for in Berlin.

  Maestro was not pleased that I would be missing five months of fencing and I could not promise him that I would practice. But I did promise to return, and also to visit a certain shop in Rome. There I would buy an Italian foil. Maestro gave me the address and I left the salle thankful that Daddy had suggested the trip to Italy. It promised to be the salvation of the summer.

  Finally, I telephoned Lina Heydrich. She was sweet and enthusiastic about my travel plans and promised to pass them on to Heydrich, relieving me of the necessity of talking to him.

  I hadn’t spoken to him for almost a month, since our last musical evening. I wondered if he knew about Christian and me, if he knew already that I was leaving.

  DADDY AND I were settling into our compartment on the train, when an SS man on a motorcycle roared up the platform outside our window. I watched him find the conductor, who pointed out our compartment. The SS man quickly entered the train and, after a moment, knocked on our open door.

  “Yes,” said my father, who had not paid attention to the man’s arrival outside.

  “A letter for Fraulein Jackson,” said the man, holding out a plain white envelope.

  “What is it?” said my father, reaching for it.

  “It’s for me, Daddy,” I said, holding out my hand.

  He hesitated, then allowed me to take the envelope. The SS man saluted and left. I put the envelope away. Daddy made no comment only raised his eyebrows. I took it out later that night, when I was alone in my berth.

  I ripped open the envelope and looked at the signature: RH. That surprised me. Up until that moment, I had truly expected the letter to be from Christian. I imagine my father had as well. If he had known from whom it was really, he would never have allowed me to keep it.

  Sally—

  I am glad you let Lina know you are leaving for America and Italy. I understand that you plan to visit your brother; that will be pleasant for you. I trust we can continue our music in the fall.

  RH

  That was it. Nothing I couldn’t have let my father see. But I was upset that Heydrich knew we were visiting Eddie, when I hadn’t mentioned it to Lina. Well, the rate at which rumors traveled in Berlin no longer surprised me, nor did the fact that Heydrich seemed to know everything.

  I folded the letter to put it away and stopped. There was more writing on the back. The spiky writing was hurried, sloppier than that of the body of the note.

  Sally—a quick thought—there comes a point in all our lives when we must reject the constraints put on us by our parents—the future is ours!

  No punctuation, just the fast thought, written in haste before he stuffed the note into its envelope. It was a familiar Nazi slogan: “Awake! The future belongs to us!” It was clever of him to use it in a way that would appeal to me, in a way that would let me know he knew about my father’s disapproval of Christian. I put the note away, turned out the little light next to my head, and pushed up the blinds so I could see the flat plains of Middle Europe rushing by in the moonlight. It was cloudy that night, and I watched the light and shadows alternately reveal and conceal the world. I fell asleep, Heydrich’s words still in my mind.

  DADDY’S PLANS WENT forward as he had arranged. We spent all of April in Washington, although I didn’t see much of him. We took the train up to visit Eddie in Rhode Island in the middle of May. My brother looked happy in his handsome navy whites and well satisfied with his career. He took us all over the ship he was serving on—a small, trim cruiser—and introduced our Father to his captain.

  The beach house Eddie had rented on Newport for us was not far from his base and he came to visit as often as he could. I enjoyed seeing him. Daddy was still busy in Washington, most particularly, with a two-week series of meetings at the War Department. I think it was very difficult for him, as certain factions in both the War Department and the Department of State believed he was nothing more than an alarmist. He came to stay with me for one long weekend and spent all of it writing. At the end of the month, he went to see his old mentor, a professor at the University of Chicago, and came back more determined than ever to tell the story of the new Germany as he saw it. It was his job, he told me. The reason the President had sent him.

  At any rate, I was mostly alone in the house on the beach, and I welcomed Eddie’s company.

  He came up unexpectedly one Friday evening, riding in the cab of a huge, noisy truck. I was sitting on the front porch of the house, watching the ocean change color as the sun set, drinking a gin and tonic.

  Eddie yelled at me and leapt down from the cab. He was wearing khaki and was very excited about something. My birthday was coming up and I had been feeling sorry for myself. Eddie hopped up the steps and hugged me.

  “What the hell are you wearing? You look terrible.”

  “I’m on vacation,” I protested, my hand automatically going to my hair, which was curlier than usual in the damp air. “I went swimming and—where are you taking me?” He dragged me down the steps toward the truck.

  “I brought you something—for your birthday,” he cried, hauling me around to the rear of the truck. He pushed aside the canvas tarp to reveal a piano.

  “Eddie, you’re crazy.”

  “Didn’t buy it, don’t worry. Rented it. This fine fellow”—he waved toward the driver, who was watching the two of us from the front—“will return in three weeks to take it away. Right?”

  “Right,” said the man, smiling. He obviously thought my brother was nuts.

  “What do you say, sister?”

  “You’re nuts,” I said affectionately. “But thank you, thank you very much. Now, how do we get it into the house?”

  “No sweat. We’ve got it all figured out. Here, you carry the bench. Bet you thought I’d forgotten it.”

  The men took care of it, waving me out of the way. They turned the truck around and, using heavy boards as a ramp and a couple of dollies, they manhandled the little upright into the dining room. I wanted it there because the room faced the sea and I liked the idea of looking up from the keyboard and seeing the ocean. Well, looking over from the keyboard, the piano was too tall to see over.

  Eddie paid the driver and went out with him. I sat at the piano and opened it, trying a few tentative chords. I hoped it wasn’t too badly out of tune; it wasn’
t, although there were a few keys that made me cringe. Still, it was better than no piano.

  “Okay?” said Eddie.

  “Very okay,” I replied. He came to stand next to me, and his hand lightly caressed my shoulder.

  “I could use a drink. Got any? I’ll fix us both up. Meet you on the veranda and you can tell me about him.”

  “Eddie,” I said, stopping him in the doorway. “How do you know it’s a him?”

  “Instincts. And Dad told me. A little.”

  “Oh,” was all I answered and let him go fix us drinks. I sat for a moment, feeling tired, but better, lighter. I put my hands on the keyboard. My fingers felt stiff, but I tried the first few measures of the Haydn concerto I had played with Heydrich. I was rusty, but felt good, and didn’t stop. The tone of the little piano was nothing like the Heydrichs’ Bechstein, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything for the minutes I played, not even the mistakes I made, nor the darkening room, nor the wide, empty, dark world outside.

  When I finished, I heard applause. Eddie. I turned on the seat and bowed.

  “Here, you deserve this. Might be a little watery by now,” he said, holding out a gin and tonic.

  “Thank you.” I rose to take it.

  “You’re really good,” he said. “Even on that old clunker.”

  I flushed at the compliment. “Let’s go outside and fight the mosquitoes for a while. Then we’ll go get changed and hike into town for dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  It was good to be with him. We hadn’t ever been alone together as adults and we were getting to know each other and discovering that we liked each other. It was very good.

  He complimented my piano playing again. I thanked him again for his thoughtfulness. We talked about Daddy and I told him what I knew of Daddy’s conferences with FDR and the Secretary. We did not talk about Berlin or “the guy.”

  Later, after a long, messy meal of lobster, French bread, and beer, we tottered back along the sand dunes to our house. Finally, sitting down in the sand to watch the moon and the dark ocean, I told Eddie a little about Christian, warning him before I did that there was really little to tell.