The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

  “You always were crazy about him,” he said. “Even when you were little. Following him around. I think you’ve got some weird fixation on him.”

  “My brother the psychiatrist.”

  "Well, I sympathize. But I gotta tell you that I think Dad’s right. If Christian’s a Nazi, you’re better off without him. Even if he is someone you’ve known forever. Makes it tough, though. But . . .” he fell silent.

  “Go on,” I urged him.

  “Well, you might not like this, but have you ever been in love before?”

  “Just with him.”

  “Yeah. So you’re lucky. If he’s a Nazi, you know he’ll do you dirt. Sal, you’re so young yet. There’ll be another guy.”

  “I know. I know you’re right. Everybody’s right about this. I know Nazis are thugs. I know I’m young. I know there’ll be another guy. But how will I know him, if everyone keeps shielding me like this?”

  “He’ll come, sis. You’re too pretty to be alone. Now that you’ve brushed your hair.”

  I smiled, enjoying his teasing, but there was more I wanted to say. “Eddie, the strange thing is, by taking me away, Daddy has made happen what he was trying to avoid.” I felt my throat close and knew I was going to start crying. I fought it.

  “I’ve been sitting here for days, staring at the sea, missing Christian, thinking about him. How we had to leave each other before. Everyone makes fun of me for my infatuation with him. But it’s not just an infatuation. I know the difference. It feels different.”

  “You’re only a kid.”

  “I’m old enough, Eddie. And now here I am, in love with him, again, in spite of everything. In the same stupid position of being a world apart, and it’s lucky that I’ll probably never see him again. I know I mustn’t be in love with him. I accept that. But now I’ll have to spend all this time getting over him again. It isn’t fair.”

  “Oh, sis, sis,” said Eddie, putting his arm across my shoulders. “It’s tough, but it’ll get better.”

  He stayed until Sunday, and before he left he invited me up to Newport the next week.

  I went to visit Eddie and we had a lot of fun. He found us dates, and we went dancing. His date was Barbara, his future wife. And when the truck returned to haul the old piano away, I felt I was ready to return to Europe. I could face it now, even Berlin.

  I WAS TESTED sooner than I had expected. On the eve of our sailing, Daddy received a notice that he should return to Berlin immediately. There was a crisis brewing, a possible coup by the SA, it was rumored. He wanted me to stay in the States, but I refused.

  “I’m coming with you,” I said. “I want to get back to a decent piano. And, besides, if there is a crisis, you might need me.”

  I could see the thought had never occurred to him, but he agreed, impressed, it seemed, by my newfound good sense.

  A WEEKEND IN JUNE

  WE ARRIVED BACK in Berlin on the last Thursday in June. The house was stuffy, the draperies pulled against the sun. Vittorio was still in the house, but the other servants were on holiday. Daddy went immediately to the embassy and I didn’t see him again to talk to for several days.

  Saturday morning, I woke to a hot summer’s day. I had put off organizing any housework until the rest of the servants returned, and I knew I couldn’t stay in the house all day. I called Sydney, who, surprised to hear that I was back, invited me to a swimming outing the next day. I happily accepted.

  The next morning, Sunday, Sydney, Brian, David, and I drove out to a private beach at Wannsee to swim and sunbathe. I was very happy to see them all, especially David. I kissed his cheek and he grinned at me.

  “You look good, pal,” he said. “Life in the States must agree with you.”

  “I had a good time. I spent a month sitting on an island, staring at the Atlantic. Played the piano a lot. I feel just fine.” I smiled at Sydney, knowing she understood what I meant.

  It was a hot, clear, breezy summer’s day and on the drive back into town, Sydney and I fell asleep amid the damp towels and paraphernalia of the backseat. The last thing I remember before dozing off was David’s voice. He and Brian were talking about the rumors going around about Röhm and the tension surrounding his SA.

  “He is a fag, and an embarrassment despite the fact that he’s Hitler’s oldest friend. Friend. Ha!”

  The car stopped and I awoke to hear Brian say, “Now what’s going on?”

  The car upholstery was unpleasantly scratchy against my sunburned arms and legs. I pulled my sunsuit as far down under my legs as it would go to protect myself. Sydney, still asleep beside me, had wisely spread a towel under herself.

  Looking through the front window, I saw we had stopped at the end of a line of cars approaching an intersection. There were uniformed men checking each car before allowing it to pass. As we watched, a driver was pulled out of a sports car and roughly taken out of our sight behind a large truck. A soldier got into his car and drove it out of the line.

  “Those are SS,” said Brian, inching the car forward.

  “What the hell is going on?” said David. He patted his sport-shirt pocket, pulling out a battered pack of cigarettes.

  “Sydney?” said Brian.

  “She’s still asleep,” I said.

  “Why don’t you wake her up,” Brian said quietly.

  I shook Sydney gently. “We’re coming to a roadblock,” I said. She sat up, running both hands through her hair. She said nothing, but leaned forward, putting her hand on Brian’s shoulder. I reached down in my big blue-and-white-striped beach bag to find my comb and tried making sense of my hair.

  “Where are my dark glasses?” Sydney asked, and I pulled them out of my bag and handed them to her.

  “Don’t know how they got in there,” I said, not taking my eyes off the activity in front of us.

  The car reached the roadblock. There were half a dozen SS enlisted men spread across the road, while an officer checked papers. The men all held guns across their chests. Brian pulled the registration papers out of the glove compartment, as the officer walked to the front and studied the license plates.

  Just then two troop carriers, loaded with men, some of whom were carrying machine guns, roared through the intersection.

  “Jesus,” swore Brian softly.

  “Who’s declared war?” I said, only half-joking.

  “I’ve got to get to a phone.” David was drumming his fingers against the dash, nearly quivering with suppressed energy.

  The officer, dressed in a well-fitted black tunic, bent very slightly from the waist and asked Brian politely for our passports. We passed them to Brian, who added his own and handed them out the window to the SS-man. He compared each photograph with each passenger carefully before returning the passports and waving us on.

  Brian drove quickly through the almost empty streets. “I’ll take Sally home first,” he said.

  “Stop. Stop here!” shouted David. “I can take the S-Bahn. It’ll be faster. Shit—sorry girls—this is a big one. I can feel it.” He jumped out of the car before it had fully stopped. “Bye, kids,” he cried and disappeared into the subway station. I didn’t like losing sight of him. I wanted us all to stay together.

  As we drove up to my house, I was surprised and frightened to see two marines outside the wrought-iron gates, which, for the first time, were closed.

  “Is it all right if I leave you out here?” said Brian, impatient himself to get to his office.

  “Sure,” I said. “Sydney, do you want to stay with me?” I asked as I quickly gathered my things together, hoping she would say yes.

  “Thanks, love, but I’d better get on to our embassy. Lady Harcourt-Greves will need me, I imagine.”

  I kissed her cheek. “Telephone me, please?” I said and left the car. I called to the marines through the bars of the gate. “I’m Sally Jackson, the ambassador’s daughter.”

  “Yes, miss. I know. Pleased to meet you, miss,” he said and touched his index finger to his cap before he pul
led the gate open far enough for me to slip through.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “Can’t say, miss,” he answered in a soft drawl.

  Inside, I handed Vittorio my beach gear. “Is my father around?” I asked, not expecting that he would be. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “No, signorina,” he answered. “His Excellency left word that you should telephone him at the embassy directly you came in. I’m very glad to see you.”

  “Thanks, Vittorio.” I headed for Daddy’s study, to use the telephone on his desk. The one in the little cabinet under the stairs was uncomfortable in the heat.

  Sitting on the edge of the big desk, I asked the operator for the embassy. Told that I must wait a few minutes for the connection to be made, I hung up. It was very quiet in the room, in the whole house. I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling a sudden chill against my sunburn. The draperies were drawn and the room was gloomy.

  When the phone rang, it startled me so much I knocked the receiver out of the holder. Retrieving it, I put it to my ear. It wasn’t my father, but his secretary, Bancroft, who told me the ambassador would be glad to know I was home and that I should stay there. “What has happened?” I asked. “Has war been declared?”

  “No, a putsch, it seems.”

  “Röhm?”

  “So the Nazis say. We suggest that you stay inside until further notice.”

  I hung up and sat for a moment, rubbing my hands over my chilled arms. I wished Daddy were here or, at least, that I had been able to speak to him. I got off the desk and crossed the room to the window, pushing aside the heavy draperies to look outside. The two marines stood, guns slung over their backs, looking through the wrought-iron bars of the gate down the street. I let the draperies fall and went upstairs to take a shower. Perhaps it would cool my prickly skin.

  After my shower, I changed into slacks and a white shirt and decided to go on the terrace to dry my hair. As I went down the stairs, I almost tiptoed, the house felt so empty. I wondered where Vittorio was and went to the music room, where I stood at the side of the closed piano for a moment, stroking the glossy wood. Outside, I could see the long, smooth lawn running down to the trees that bordered our property.

  As I turned to go, I heard a distant sound—a crack, like a car backfiring. I stood listening for more, but there was only silence and I left the room.

  The entry hall was silent and cool, the flowers under the mirror drooping in the still, hot air. I pulled a dead blossom out of the arrangement and fussed with the leftovers. It looked tired. Leaving the flowers, I wandered to the sitting room. When I opened the doors, I saw that the curtains were all drawn.

  Because of the color of the draperies, the room was dim with a melancholy blue light. The sheer curtains on the far French door to the terrace moved gently and I stopped, frightened. The French doors were open. I listened carefully, but could detect nothing. Perhaps Vittorio had left them open.

  Slowly, I walked through the shadowy room, past the square of sofas, to the door and moved the curtains aside just enough to see out. There was no one on the terrace, so I went out. I immediately felt better, outside in the sunshine.

  There was that sound again. I turned toward it, searching the trees, but saw nothing. I heard several pops—uneven cracks. Then I knew what it was, although I had never heard it before, except in movies. It was gunfire. I walked to the stone balustrade that edged the flagstone terrace. The noise was coming from beyond the trees, from the deserted military academy. Perhaps someone was chasing rabbits or shooting bottles. Then the pops stopped and I let out my breath, which I suddenly realized I had been holding.

  I turned my back on the lawn and the trees and the noise and felt my hair. It was still damp and I pulled my comb out of my trouser pocket and sat cross-legged on the broad stone balustrade. Bending my head forward, I combed my hair off my neck. The sun felt good, not too hot.

  The gunfire started again. I raised my head and faced it. I felt a chill and climbed down off the wall. For the first time, I wondered where Christian was. The noises I could hear coming from the academy, the absence of the servants, and the beauty of the day—Fuhrer weather, Goebbels’s papers called it—frightened me. There was something dangerous out there beyond the trees, under the clear blue summer sky.

  I slapped my comb against my leg and waited for another shot. I wished Daddy were home. I wished I knew what was going on. If there had been a coup and I was left here alone in this big house, helpless and forgotten, what would happen to me? What if someone came over the fence behind the trees, carrying a gun?

  Hurrying back to the French doors, I forced myself not to run. Maybe it was silly, but I knew the noise was gunfire and I was scared. I pulled the doors toward me, and was attacked by the silky curtains billowing in the breeze. They enveloped me and I panicked, fighting the thin, moving fabric as though it were a living creature.

  I almost fell into the dark room, momentarily blinded by the contrast with the bright outdoors, my heart hammering, my breathing jagged.

  A harsh voice came out of the dark room, barking at me in German: “Halt!”

  I froze, clutching my comb in both hands, barely feeling the tines dig into my fingers.

  “Move. Turn around. And get your hands in sight. C’mon. Move it.”

  I obeyed, turning slowly toward the sofa, and saw a gun. Nothing but a gun pointed at me, ready to kill me. I stared at it, at the evil, black-blue sheen, too frightened even to swallow. It wavered, the black hole shifting, filling my vision. In an instant, it had become my entire world.

  “Oh, my God.” The gun lowered and I saw it was Christian. He had leveled the gun at me over the back of the sofa. “Sally, I couldn’t see who it was.”

  I didn’t move. “What are you doing?” I whispered in English, afraid to speak too loudly and risk startling the gun into life.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at me. “I fell asleep and could not see . . . with the light behind you.” He wiped his face with both hands, but did not let go of the gun. “I thought you were someone else.”

  I nodded, not understanding his words. I could translate the German, but the meaning was beyond my comprehension. Near the French doors there was a straight-backed chair and I sat carefully on it, the comb still in my hands. I needed something to hang on to.

  Christian swung his legs onto the floor and dully I realized that he had been stretched out on the sofa. I had walked right past him. Now he leaned back and closed his eyes. I looked away, still frightened by the confrontation with a gun.

  For several minutes, we sat in silence. Slowly, I felt my sense of reality return, and I began to think and look again. And, looking at Christian, I was shocked.

  He looked exhausted, his skin pale, with dark shadows under his eyes. His hair hung lank over his eyes and he was unshaven. His black uniform was a mess: stained and rumpled, buttons undone. Even his boots, were dirty and caked with mud. I hated the idea of those dirty boots on my sitting-room sofa. I hated the way he looked, so strange and unlike himself.

  An image of how he had looked the last time I’d seen him, at the French embassy dance, flashed through my mind and I wondered irrelevantly if he had several sets of that black uniform.

  “What has happened?” I asked. “You look so . . . how did you get in? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, of course.” He answered me in English. “I fell asleep.” He opened his eyes. “Can I have a drink? Have you got something in here?” He looked around the room vaguely.

  He watched me as I got up and crossed to the cabinet against the wall. “Will this do?” I asked, holding up the first bottle I put my hand on, a half-empty bottle of Daddy’s I. W. Harper.

  “Yeah. Anything.”

  I poured him a shot of bourbon, then handed him the glass across the back of the sofa. He gulped it down. I could see how dirty his hands and fingernails were. I watched him warily as he got up and walked past me to the cabinet. Pouring himself another sh
ot, he knocked it back as quickly as the first, then stood leaning his hands on the cabinet, his arms straight, his full weight on his arms, his gun still in his left hand. He looked at the end of his rope, in spite of the gun.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked. “Can I do anything?”

  “Listen,” he said in German, not turning around. “Who else is here, in the house?”

  “Well, Vittorio. The other servants are on vacation.” I answered in German.

  “Where is your father?”

  “At the embassy.” I remembered the marines at the front gate. “Oh, there are the two men at the gate. Christian, how did you get in past them?”

  He dismissed my question and the marines with a wave of his gun hand. Taking hold of the bottle, he carried it to the French doors. He drank from it, wiping his mouth on the back of his gun hand. There was another distant crack and his head jerked up.

  “Listen,” he said. He took another long drink. “When is your father coming home? Soon?”

  “Is that gunfire? Please, tell me what it’s about. I’ve been so frightened.”

  He looked at me, ignoring my question again. “Your father?”

  “I don’t know,” I said abruptly. “I don’t know when he’ll be home. I mean, he didn’t tell me. I didn’t even talk to him. Nobody tells me anything. And I’m left alone.” I heard myself and stopped. Taking a deep breath, I said, “There seems to be . . . trouble.”

  He laughed a short, ugly laugh. Taking another swig of bourbon, he waved his arm toward the window. “Do you hear that?” He tipped his head back to drink and, overbalancing, began to fall. I started around the sofa for him, but he righted himself, dropping the bottle, which bounced gently on the carpet.

  He did not drop his gun.

  Christian stared for a moment at the open French doors, where the soft breeze pushed the curtains to and fro. He started toward them.