The Last Innocent Hour

by Margot Abbott

“Listen, it hasn’t stopped. Hear it? You know what it is? Do you know?” He glared at me, gesturing wildly with his gun. “It’s gunfire. My squad’s relief. At the old military academy. And do you know how I know? I was there. I . . . I know.” He rubbed his face with his arm. His voice was harsh, as though he were hoarse from shouting. “It’s been going on since this morning—no, last evening. Since Friday evening—what is today?” He was facing the door, and from where I stood, I could not see his face. “It started last night. Is this Saturday? It’s been a long weekend,” he said, with another barking laugh.

  “It’s Sunday,” I said in a small voice. He paid no attention.

  “You must understand. My squad has been at it all day: we were called in as relief for another squad. Relief.” His voice was soft, reasonable, and I could barely hear him. “This morning, early, they gave us the rifles and told us some of us had live ammunition and some of us had blanks. They thought it would be easier for us if we did not know for sure which of us had done it, which gun the killing bullets came from. That’s supposed to make it easier for us to . . . do this to our comrades. I suppose it makes sense.” He shook himself and pulled his shoulders back.

  “The Obergruppenfuhrer saw to it. The Obergruppenfuhrer thinks of everything. Goddamn him. There were six of us. When it started we piled into a truck and drove out to Wannsee and—you won’t believe this—but we got lost. When was that? Friday? Yesterday? No, the day before. Anyway, we got lost.” He tried to laugh. I remembered with a shudder the truckload of SS men we had seen on our way home from the beach earlier.

  “Hell. It was our first time. In fact, that’s what the fucker said.” He stood straight, with his gun in his hand, to imitate Heydrich. I could recognize the high, light voice. “Men, it’s your first time. You are virgins. This is your first blooding.” Christian shook his head and looked about for the bottle. “The goddamned Obergruppenfuhrer. He told us he wished he could go with us. The bastard. Where’s the fucking bottle?” His foot hit it and he picked it up and drained it.

  “Oh, shit, oh, shit.” He wiped the back of his gun hand across his face again. He was breathing heavily and muttering to himself. “Why did his wife get in front of him? Stupid woman. We have no battle against women and children. Only against . . . against . . .” He turned and looked at me.

  I stood, as I had since the beginning of his incredible speech, absolutely still, my arms wrapped around myself. I was very calm, seeing and hearing him through the thick blue air of the darkening room. He grimaced and, for the first time, looked me in the eyes. He studied me for a long time, searching my face for something.

  I felt as if he were receding down a long corridor, and I heard his whisper slither its way back to me.

  “I swore when I joined the SS to obey; my honor is . . . my honor. Do you understand?” He kept eye contact with me until, unable to nod or say anything, I turned away from him. I guess he lost his balance; I heard him land abruptly on the carpet. He caught his breath, then said, “Nobody understands. You don’t. Father didn’t. My mother tries, but. . . oh, shit. I believed the Chief. Christ, I have to, don’t I?”

  He leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. He stayed that way for several minutes and I thought perhaps he had fallen asleep. I took a few steps, thinking I would sneak away.

  “My boots are so fucking filthy. I’ll never get them clean again. Have to have them spit-shined, fucking boots. That’s what the Scharfuhrer told us. Funny, he never screamed at us, like Kurt told me his did. But they want those boots clean. Brains, blood, shit. It’ll take me forever to get them cleaned.” He bent his head, presumably looking at his boots.

  I turned around. The boots. Those boots on my sofa, oh, God.

  “Go away,” I said, but he didn’t hear me, or, if he did, he ignored me.

  “I swore, Sally. But I didn’t expect . . . I told you. A job. That’s what it is. The fighting . . . I never expected . . . They taught us about tactics, taught us to march. God, we are great marchers. You know how they trot us out at every opportunity, the pretty boys. No fighting, no violence. Just fancy marching. Hans teased me about that. Hans . . .

  “It is natural for boys and men to fight. But I discovered I didn’t have to. I fought . . . you know, how boys fight with each other, games, but I’ve never . . . I’ve never. I’ve never had to fight to get what I wanted. My bloody looks got me whatever . . . pretty boy. Even things I didn’t want.”

  He took a breath. “I never fought in the streets as my brother had. Look what happened to him. I never believed that striking out in anger accomplished anything. No, this is wrong, not anger. There was no anger.

  “I felt nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “No anger. Nothing. I was just doing what I was told, do you see? Do you see? Hans Behrens—remember, you met him in Munich? We went to the beer hall.” He let his hands fall uselessly into his lap and stared at them. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper.

  “They brought him out to the courtyard early this morning with four other SA—all junior officers. I hadn’t known he was there, being held. Maybe if I had known, I could have done something. He saw me—his eyes looked straight at me. He was so fucking brave. I wanted him to say something to me—to curse me, or beg, or forgive, but . . . nothing. He looked right at me and raised his arm in salute to the Fuhrer. Until he fell.” Christian stopped, still staring at his hands. “The bullets almost cut him in half. Right across his chest. The blood . . . I’ve never seen . . . he was my friend.

  “Perhaps, if we had been alone for a moment, he might have said something to me, but out there in that yard . . . we were all the same. We didn’t dare look at each other. They were all our comrades that we were killing.

  “We were warned that our sacrifices would be large, but we never imagined . . . I never . . . these were our friends.” His voice rose at the word. “Friends. Hans. Not Communists or Jewish bankers or . . . or enemies. God, Sally, what have I done? What have I done?”

  With a violent jerk, he threw the gun across the room. “Shit, I thought to speak to your father . . . my father . . .” His voice faded away. “I wish my father were here.” And finally, he was silent.

  I looked down the room, toward the door, wishing I were out in the sunshine, away from this room and the words he had let loose in it. I wanted him gone. I turned away and covered my face.

  In the silence behind my hands, I saw him that summer we were fourteen, sick and pale in his narrow bed. I remembered how I had knelt by his bed, focusing all of my energy, hope, and love onto him, that he should not die. And he hadn’t. He had grown healthy and brown, all golden and toast-colored in the sun, his long arms warm around me as he teased me. I remembered how he had talked to me, telling me of his fears of the future. Of the future that was here now. Which had turned out so differently for us, for him.

  I lowered my hands. For the sake of the boy and for the man I had loved, who I knew could never do the things this new, grownup stranger had done, and for my own sake too, knowing I would never forgive myself if I abandoned him when he was in so much pain, I tried calling his name, the boy’s name: “Christian.”

  There was no answer, so perhaps he had left. Just to be sure, I tried once more. “Christian?”

  Still no answer. He was sitting, like a lost child on the floor, with his long legs pulled up against his chest, his arms around his knees, hiding his face in his arms.

  I was tempted to flee the room silently and leave him and his terrible story behind. I could not connect him with what he had told me. That is, I could not connect the boy I had known with what the man had said. I could not believe he had pulled the trigger; that he was capable of pulling the trigger.

  “It can’t be,” I said aloud in English, and I knelt in front of him. “Christian,” I whispered, reaching out to touch his hair. He was warm. Somehow, I had expected him to be cold. Dead. I caressed his head. His bright, golden hair was dull and tarnished.

  “Come, love, come,�
�� I whispered in German. And like a desperate child, he turned to me, his arms going around me so tightly I could barely breathe. He started to cry, holding on to me for dear life. I held him, rocking back and forth as he sobbed against me.

  A man who cried like that, I thought, cannot have done such things. Will not do such things again. Look how it has hurt him. I held him, stroking his back, his head, as though I could make the bad past go away with my touch.

  I felt him grow calmer, relax against my breast, his hold on me slacken. We sat awhile quietly in the blue light of the room as the sun went down. I looked toward the French doors, and as I did, I felt his head move against me, turn to nuzzle, then kiss my breasts through my blouse. His body changed; his hands were touching me, searching under my blouse, his lips hungry against me, licking at me through the cloth. He lowered me to the carpet, supporting my head with his hand, the other fumbling with the waistband of my slacks.

  I moved my hands to stop him, suddenly frightened, but he moaned, “Please, oh, please,” and I let him. He took me then, quickly, more quickly than I thought possible. I felt almost nothing, my mind taking in this shock as one more in an afternoon of shocks. From outside my body, I somehow watched him roughly pull my clothes out of his way, fumble with his own clothing, and raise my legs so that he could more easily enter me.

  He paid no more attention to me than he would have if I were a stranger he was raping. He was fast and brutal, holding my shoulders as he pumped himself against and into me. It was not pleasant, but I let him do it, not looking into his wild glazed eyes. It did not take long. I was glad when he was finished.

  He lay heavily on me, a deadweight, making it difficult for me to breathe. I said his name, and when he didn’t answer, I realized he was asleep. I pushed at him but he was too heavy and I panicked, my legs quivering with the strain, the middle of my body feeling split and raw. I managed to roll him off me and scrambled out from under him, crawling across the carpet, until I could stand on my shaky legs and straighten my clothes.

  I walked out onto the terrace. The sun was nearly down and I glanced at my watch, surprised to discover it was nearly seven thirty. Daddy might be home soon and I had to change. There was no time for regrets or emotion and I quickly turned and went back into the house.

  Christian was still asleep on the floor. His face was the same. He did not look different. He seemed to be who I had thought he was. And I had let him.

  All right, I thought. I will not cry. I will ignore my shaking and I will not cry.

  I knelt next to him. “Come on, Christian. Christian,” I called softly. He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. “Let’s get you upstairs into bed. You can sleep as long as you like. You’ll feel better with some sleep.” And keeping up a continuous litany of maternal patter, I hauled him onto his feet.

  “I’m all right,” he said groggily and, noticing that his pants were undone, managed to close some of the buttons, to pull down his tunic. He didn’t look at me. “I got to go. Where’s my hat?”

  “You’re not going anywhere. You have to sleep. Sleep first.” I didn’t want him leaving there like that, thinking it would be best for my father and me, and for Christian, if no one were to see him in this condition.

  “All right,” he said and let me support him out to the hall. We were in the foyer, at the foot of the steps, when Vittorio came around the corner. Where had he been?

  “Signorina!” he exclaimed softly. “I did not hear the door.”

  “He came in through the back, Vittorio. He is in trouble.”

  “And perhaps a little drunk.”

  “Yes. Very drunk. He needs to sleep.”

  “Of course, let me.” And he led Christian up the stairs. I went back to the sitting room to retrieve Christian’s cap and the ugly gun, and toss the bottle out. I turned on the lamps and plumped up the cushions on the couch. Standing in front of the fireplace, I looked around, the gun in one hand, the cap in the other. Everything looked as it should; but everything had changed.

  And there was no time for me to think about it. I went up to my own room, where I put the gun on the small, overstuffed chair in the corner, hiding it under his cap. I was exhausted but I felt filthy and I ached all over. I took a fast shower, and could barely stay awake long enough to pull on my robe and make it to my bed. I lay on my side, my knees pulled up, my hands clasped palm to palm between them, and fell asleep.

  I was awakened by a gentle knock on my door. Across the room, the death’s-head emblem on Christian’s cap stared at me. I got up quickly and went to the door. It was Vittorio, warning me that my father was home and dinner would be served in thirty minutes.

  “Dinner?”

  “Don’t worry, I have taken care of it.”

  “Thank you, Vittorio. I’m sorry I left it all to you.”

  “It is all right, signorina. Oh,” he added, “Obersturmfuhrer Mayr is still asleep. I have cleaned his jacket and boots. Should I awaken him?”

  “His boots?”

  “I was in the army, signorina,” he said, and made one of those expressive Italian shrugs that can mean everything and nothing.

  “I see. Well, we’ll leave him. Bring his things up for when he awakens. And perhaps you could keep some food warm for him?”

  I put a dress on and brushed my hair. Then I picked up the cap and gun and went to Christian’s room. I heard my father cross the hall below and go into his study. I wanted to talk to Christian and see what he would make of what had happened between us. I knocked softly, and when I received no answer, opened the door.

  The room was dark, but light from the hall spilled across him. He was lying on the bed, still fully dressed except for his jacket and boots, his back to the door. I tiptoed over to him. He turned quickly.

  “Hello,” I said, putting his cap and gun on the bureau. The room still smelled of new furniture.

  “Sally?” He raised himself onto his elbows. “I couldn’t figure out where I was.” His voice was still hoarse, but soft, friendly. He was himself again.

  “You’re here,” I said, waving my arm in the air.

  “Why?”

  “You were exhausted.”

  “Yes. Yes, I was. I have a headache too.”

  “That must be the bourbon. I’ll get you an aspirin.” I did so, bringing the tablets and a glass of water back from the bathroom. I turned on the lamp next to the bed and shook out two pills into Christian’s hand. He took them and the water I gave him, drinking down the entire glass. I had not met his eyes, had not even looked at him once I knew he was awake.

  Suddenly, I felt very shy, and I started talking to cover it. “Are you hungry? We’re having dinner. Well, almost immediately. But we could wait for you. Daddy’s home, too. I don’t know what we’re having. Usually I do. But Frau Brenner is very good. Oh, I forgot. She’s gone.” I laughed at myself. “I wonder what Vittorio has arranged. I’d better go check.” I stopped as he put his hand around my wrist.

  I took a step away, but he didn’t let go of me. Still I didn’t look at him, could barely look at his hand on me, remembering what it had done to me that afternoon.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was serious.

  “Me? Why shouldn’t I be? I’m fine,” I said, looking everywhere but at him.

  He let go of me and sat up. I moved toward the door. “Vittorio took your boots and jacket. He’s bringing them. If you like, you don’t have to get up, you know. In fact, you could stay here overnight if you like.”

  “Thank you. But I’m all right now. And I’d like to come down to dinner, if I may.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” I had my hand on the doorknob. It was a narrow wave of brass, brand new and slick under my touch.

  “Sally,” he said. I stopped. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” I couldn’t turn to face him, sure he would mention, at last, what had happened between us.

  “For taking me in. I don’t remember everything. I was pretty done in. I don’t know what I told you.
And I apologize for it, if it upset you.” He waited for me to say something, but I was silent. “It’s been . . . I didn’t even realize you were back from America. I knew your father was and I just wanted to talk to him.”

  “Well, now you can,” I said and left the room quickly.

  He didn’t remember. He did not remember that he had done that to me. I leaned on the wall outside his room, trying to control my shaking, trying not to cry—or laugh.

  He didn’t remember. That tremendous, brutal thing had happened between us and he didn’t remember. I covered my mouth, sure I was about to make a great deal of noise, then saw Vittorio coming down the hall with Christian’s tunic and boots.

  I told him our guest was awake and I’d go down to tell my father that Lieutenant Mayr would be joining us for dinner. I could not imagine how I would be able to sit through a meal with him. But I did, of course.

  He sat opposite me, looking pale and tired, his face drawn and grave. His manner was subdued and he and Daddy talked about what was happening to Röhm’s men. I watched Christian, looking for the change in him, but saw nothing. He was neat, well groomed again, if his uniform was not quite up to his usual standards. He spoke intelligently in his customary deliberate manner. My father, of course, accepted him, and was obviously impressed with Christian’s assessment of the events, of his calm distress over the violence.

  They were both so calm that I couldn’t stand it. Finally, I interrupted them.

  “Are you going to quit?” I said, leaning into the table, finally meeting Christian’s eyes.

  “What?” he said, a polite, confused smile on his face.

  “Leave the SS? After what’s happened. Aren’t you going to quit?”

  He looked from me to my father and I think we both saw that the thought had never occurred to him. Christian looked down at his dessert, a slim, rich piece of torte. He lay down his fork.

  “I don’t think I can. It would not be honorable,” he said slowly.

  “Honorable!” I snorted. “And what about Hans? Whom you killed?”

  “Sally.” My father was shocked. Christian hadn’t told him about Hans or the executions.